FYI

I lied.

I'm 15 weeks along.

I wanted to keep my mouth shut about it longer, but my charming sister threatened me. She said she would tell if I didn't.

And I don't even have any cute plans for a nursery.

Cherries

When I was very little, there used to live in my parents' kitchen cupboard a very large beer glass. It was imprinted in large black letters with the phrase, "Life is the Pits."

As it happens, no one in my family drinks. So my parents used the glass to hold all their spare change. This means it was half full with pennies and very few nickels. (How's that for pit-iness?)

The pits happen to the best of us.There are all sorts of reasons aren't there? Weather, living circumstances, money, small disappointments, giant tragedies.

Occasionally--rarely--there arrives a chance to ditch the pits. And maybe perhaps it comes in the form of a crazy last minute trip to Disneyland in sunny California with dear family and friends.

And maybe that means two days of driving--each way--in a small sedan for the pleasure of six sweet days of sun.








It was so worth it. Take that, life.

What can yours do?

There is a large water table at our local Science Center. That fact probably explains why there was a three year-old boy running around Kidspace with his shirt off. I'm sure as he pushed those plastic boats in the over-chlorinated water, his sleeves had settled and soaked until the moisture crept past his elbows and up toward his shoulders. His exasperated mother peeled off his top layer to allow more playtime.

My children did not play at the water table. We have drenched ourselves there before, and apparently, girls without shirts are not socially acceptable.

Instead, they built themselves an obstacle course with giant foam blocks, cylinders, stairs, and wedges. They must have appeared to be having great fun because they were joined by several other children, shirtless boy included.

Brad had been watching the action. I was away. Doing something that I don't remember. I returned, sat on a bench next to Brad, reviewed the well-planned project and asked in awe, "Grace and Claire, did you build this?"

Young shirtless had been racing to and fro on the course like a happy hamster. He had heard me. He stopped just in front of me, standing on a squishy ramp. He addressed me with pride, his shoulders thrown back.

"No, I built it. With my nipples." And like a great showman, gesticulated toward his superhuman specimens.

You should have seen the look of shock on Brad's face. We were crying before we could stop laughing.

Where am I?

I'm at the mall playground. Yes. We come here a lot.

It's Monday. Afternoon. There are about 10 kids here. 7 adults. Including me. I am one of only two women. The rest appear to either be dads or mannies. Yes. I said mannies.

Weird. Good weird, but... Weird.

I'm sure this happens lots of other places. But not in Lubbock.

Can't Win.

I've been tired lately.

Since about August, in fact. And, no. This is not an announcement regarding my uterus. My goodness, people.

August is when Claire became an insomniac. At least, according to this definition.

She wakes up in the middle of the night about 4 times a week. She usually wakes up between 2 and 4am. Sometimes she asks to watch a movie. Usually "Baby Signing Time." (She's addicted.) Sometimes she wants cereal.

I used to give in to her midnight demands because after getting her what she wanted, sometimes she'd go back to sleep. And then I got to go back to sleep.

But then sometimes she wouldn't. And I wouldn't. And then we'd be up all day. Tired. And grumpy.

Very grumpy.

The thing is, I have sleeping issues already. Even without catering to an infant insomniac. Perhaps you remember this. Or this? Or maybe this.

I need sleep.

So this week I started not giving in. Because giving in doesn't appear to be solving the problem.

The other night she came into our room (as usual), climbed on our bed and said, "Sump-ing to EEEeat, Mommy."

I tried my new tactic. "Claire, sweetie. See out the window? See how it's dark outside? We have to wait for morning when the sun comes up."

For good measure, I signed "sun," wrapped her in my arms, and closed my eyes bidding sleep to return.

"No, Mommy, no!" She whimpered. "EEEEeat!" More whimpering. I tried to quiet her to keep her from waking Daddy. She finally succumbed to a blissful silence.

A blissful silence of five or ten minutes.

Then we repeated our dialogue.

In fact, we repeated it every ten minutes for two hours.

Last night I got an extra bonus when Claire whined long enough to partially rouse Brad. He started reciting math equations. Something about derivatives. And x. And exponents.

I'm so tired.

Wish I could recover like she does.

But I can't. Because while I sleep the monsters come, possess my children's bodies, and trash the house.

Also, yes. That is a TV screen against her face. I realize it is possibly causing irreparable damage to her brain. I turned it off. Promise.

Tact.

Hypothetically speaking, let's say you're sitting with your children at a mall food court. It's one of those places where the tables are spaced at a barely comfortable two feet apart.

And let's say that a family comes and sits at a table next to you. And your child looks at them curiously, intently.

And let's say that she observes--innocently, honestly--that "Some people have dark brown skin. And some people have light skin."

And let's say that she was not so quiet saying it.

And then let's say--hypothetically of course--that she immediately points to the large family on the other side of you. With an arm that's fully extended.

And let's say she remarks (also quite loudly), "Mom, those people are not speaking English."

Would you blush? Hang your head? Give your child evil eyes? Make some weak comment about not pointing?

Or would you do something more socially appropriate? And... what would that be, exactly?

A more productive day.

Today, I didn't sleep during Claire's nap. (Although if you had a two-foot tall insomniac living at your house, you'd be begging for sleep too.)

Instead, Grace and I played math. She likes it. I promise.

We use toothpicks bound in tens for manipulatives. Because manipulatives are expensive. And I am cheap. And toothpicks are just as fun.