Eviction Notice

Dear Ms. Pocket;

It is with very little regret that I inform you: It is time for you to move on. I have no more room in my heart than I do in my home for you and your inane and plastic minded 'existence', with your insatiable demands for more more, and still more material C+R+A+P. Not that you and your gang weren't a colorful bunch in the early days (and I don't mean culturally, iykwim, haha!), but that was before you had locked your tiny and surprisingly sharp grip on my young daughter's way-too-malleable mind.
I even remember when you first came into our lives, on Supergirl's third birthday when a friend introduced us - remember? You wore a very cute peasant dress (great for a first impression for the next family, by the way) and brought with you an adorable puppy. Everyone loved you that day - well, all the little girls at least! I was a little suspicious, the way you didn't even touch the cake and bore a slight resemblance to Nicole Richie, but hey - at least proportionally, you didn't look like that other chick who moved into the neighborhood recently, Barbi something or other? Whoa - you want to talk some crazy plastic surgery? Don't get me started on her and her valium-fixed stare!
I digress.
So, what was that - July? Well, as you well know, by January there were more than sixteen of you and your buddies, setting up some sort of twisted commune in my daughter's bedroom. And by count today, there are at least twice that! (Come on, what was that when your 'new friends' all showed up and crashed Supergirl's party when I had clearly said beforehand NO MORE!? that was just so not cool). I don't care how long you have known Lea, Lila, Rick, Rack ,whatever - just get them packed up now.
At first I thought perhaps we could co-exist. Really, you aren't that big, you eat nothing, and even the whole commune thing seemed do-able in the beginning. I am all for peace love and understanding, communal living - sure it seems like a great idea, almost never works, but hey - you made it seem like maybe it would be possible, to do it in a quiet way. But then, without warning, you put up a mall. Really, did you think I just wouldn't notice? And before any of us could blink an eye, our home was filled with ho-clothes. Seriously, if I wanted my daughter to dress like Britney, I'd buy her a Britney doll.
Back to you and your clothes-horse friends. Oh. My. God. What were you thinking with the bluish-tinged clear vinyl pantsuit? And the black 'leather' with sparkles, cool in an 'off-the shoulder' kind of way? Not. And don't get me started on the massive collection of shoes that would make a sunset boulevard hooker into a porn star overnight. Stilettos with a bathing suit? Really, Polly?
If you have your way, my daughter and millions more will be prancing around in replicas of your slutty-ass clothes before their breasts even consider a growth spurt!
So take your mall full of harlot & whores fashion, your posse of pathetic friends (also bimbos), take your sucky fashion-conscious scooters, your manipulative mermaid buddy, your pathetic boyfriends (hello? they are SO gay. just look at them in the sleigh together. WAKE UP!), and everything else you have stashed under my little girl's bed. Get it out now. Take it off to craigslist or ebay, take it to the dump; I don't care, but I have had enough of your tart-fest.
OUT!



















In sincerity and exasperation;
Supergirl's Mama

First day of school: Painless!

We made it on time. From the looks of the parking lot and surrounding quiet street-turned parking lot, I am more than glad that we are able to walk. The classrooms are amazing; I have an issue with pre-schools and kindergartens that are too academically focused. Children learn great skills for learning later in life if they are allowed to learn through play during those first years of school. So of course I am as thrilled at Supergirl and her friends who squeal when they see there is a basket in the 'house' area that is CHOCK FULL of high heels, and on the other side of the kitchen there is a giant block land - blocks of every shape and size, all of the nice wooden chunky variety. And what better to complement block land but a stellar collection of colorful animals? Moving on down to the math manipulatives center, the giant U-shaped window seat covered with pillows and reserved for reading and quiet activities, the thick array of books, the tables for seatwork, and the piece de resistance, the virtual kid magnet, The Office. The Office is actually an L-shaped table area, supplied with letter sorters, paper of every variety, envelopes, cards, pens and pencils, tape, scissors, etc one large mailbox, and little tiny mailboxes labeled with every child's name in the kindergarten. And I haven't even mentioned the outdoor play area that is surrounded by redwood fairy circles. Have I?
I am still slightly disturbed about the crying thing. I didn't. It all happened so fast - I went to say goodbye and she had already blown me a kiss and was out the door to the playground. I went down to the library to join the other mommies for the welcome-back-to-school coffee and overheard two of what I would consider my 'tougher' friends sniffling and recalling their own emotional goodbyes. Surprised by their unexpected display of tears, I felt like such a crappy mama for not crying that then I shed a few myself. Ah, that was better.
There are twenty little ones in her class, which is connected to the K-1 class, which has another eight kindergartners and twelve first graders. Actually, I should not call them little ones, as it seems there are some budding runway models in her class- more than a handful of these extremely tall five year olds, all of whom have a fondness for Mrs. K's old shoe collection. The green velvet pair are in high demand, I can tell you that. And apparently, they learn through blocks, books, microscopes, math centers and coveted high heels - and I am fine with that.
For now.
I would like to point out though, that after selecting her white (!) beaded (!) dress to wear on her first day, she also insisted on those sensible, black docmarten-type high tops.

By the way, the rose that Supergirl is holding was given to her at breakfast. She decided to share the love and pass it along to her teacher. What a wise little girl!

another letting go

This is a picture of Supergirl being touched by a butterfly at the fabulous zoo in Seattle, where she did not get eaten by a bear, but that is another story. Right now it's this one:

So tomorrow is The Kindergarten Orientation. It's a lot like preschool graduation, in that, nobody really cares about it but for the parents of the kinder involved. But OH! We care, we genuinely do. We are fortunate enough to be part of a tiny unified elementary school in our own little mountain district, which we are stark raving crazy lucky to live a 1/4 mile level walk away. And Supergirl is on her way to public education on Monday. Yesterday, about half of the incoming kindergarten families met at a nearby beach for the first welcome gathering.
So, tomorrow we have a little lunch, lovingly prepared by the parents' club in welcome of the incoming students and their families. And then we find out the teacher and room to which our child is assigned, and we go spend a little time hanging out in there, much like we did in our visit last spring. I have met both teachers, and either one seems like a great teacher with a great environment going for her as well. We are all very excited here, albeit a bit nervous as well.
I expect I may get a bit weepy at the sight of leaving her there on Monday, but right now I am more nervous about getting Supergirl up and out the door and walking her the five minutes down the dusty street, navigating her around the poison oak, and into her classroom by 8:30AM! OY! This is not going to be easy, since the collective rousing seems to be around 8:25 lately.
Don't get me wrong, she has been doing her part for sure - pretending to be all down with kindergarten, no problem man, it's cool, and then she turns on us and the nastiest sounds pour forth from her little mouth. Followed by sharp reprimands and time outs on hard stools. Followed by cuddles in lap and melting and the not-so-random casual posing of, "I'll be fine once I get used to kindergarten, right Mama?" which melted her mama right into herself.
Oh please let this be painless.

Showered with too much attention

My shower today went just like this:
Supergirl: Mama. Can I have a gumball vitamin?
Gwendomama: SHHHH! I just got your brother asleep! No you may not have a gumball vitamin. Eat some food.
SG: Mama -puh-leeeeease can I have a gumball vitamin? (curses to costco samples!) Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease? I just WANT one!
GM: Oh. Well that changes absolutely nothing. No. Stop asking me. Let me take a shower in peace, please! And please be quiet! The baby is asleep!
11 seconds later
SG: Mama? Can I have a cookie?
GM: (hissing loudly) NO! NO COOKIES OR GUMBALLS OR SUGAR! EAT SOME REAL FOOD AND STOP BUGGING ME! PLEASE!
SG: (yelling loudly) I JUST WANT ONE COOKIE! PLEASE! YOU NEVER LET ME HAVE COOKIES EVER! (totally not true)
GM: Listen to me! Get OUT of the bathroom. NOW. Or I will throw away the whole pack of cookies when I get out of this shower!
SG: But Ma-
GM: Do you think I am kidding? I mean it!
GO!
AWAY!
(CRASH!)
SG: Mama! I put the cookies away! (up on the counter where the crash came from)
( No fool, I rinsed quickly)
SG: MAMA! The baby's awake!

What's not fair today?

I wanted to have a cookie and mama wouldn't let me just because she was in the shower!

How did the SNAKES get ON A PLANE?

Okay, I am going to run off course here, a huge divergence from my usual mundane commentary as an ever boring mommyblogger, and take a leap into commenting about a film. This is not cinema commentary or movie review, just a bothersome observation that has been brought to my attention by he who shares in my compelling need for accuracy, Dh.

I couldn't watch the trailer because formerlyPacbellthenSbcnowAtt sucks donkeydick and I am not sure why we pay monthly for DSL, but I am going to comment on what appears to be a major flaw in the plot. Sure, who cares? It's a movie about mofo snakes on a mofo plane, beyond that morsel, what more would you need to know or care? Well I care. I am a virgo, doomed to forever feel compelled to point out the details. The Details. I will refer to this review as my summary of details. I especially liked that the first paragraph made me laugh so much, as I flew 3 days ago and before I could get through security, I had to dispose of: hand cleaner, H2O for nursingmama, cocoa butter lotion, baby motrin for teethingbaby, and a small bottle of bailey's for teethingbaby's nursingmama.
So, back to the snakes. They're smuggled onto the Hawaii-to-L.A. flight.
That's all I really needed to hear. Does anyone else get this?
There are no snakes in Hawaii.
Oh - apparently there is one type of land snake - but it looks like a worm.
Has any of these people ever even been to Hawaii or paid any attention to Hawaii or read a book about Hawaii to know this?
Hollywood?
HELLLLLOOOOO???

What's not fair today?

What's not fair today:
I lost the lid to my pink nail polish and now Daddy is going to hide it.
(yesterday)I wanted to eat two cupcakes but you said I got too jacked up on one and I was not jacked up - come and see my show, wanna see my show? Watch me do my show! WATCH MAMA, WATCH!! ARE YOU WATCHING???

Did I mention about the crawling?

Hard to believe he would earn a nickname like 'the mangler', isn't it?

Would you call this child abuse?

So I am dealing with a new parenting issue for me. I live with a sweet, smiling, adoring, drooling, utterly dependent, pre-inappropriately obsessive infant mangler wolf-child. Shredder. Hmmm...that last part? I don't like it. No. Not so much.
My feral monster is so deceptively packaged, I don't even want to send him back out into the wild. Rather, tame him to live here with us civilized hugging folk, with the ones who bear (and bare!) breasts laden full of milk and allow merciless beard-tuggings. In a family bed, dude. Do you realize how lucky you are here? Do you want to mess with this? Seriously.
He is so friggin cute he is still with us, miraculously not having been swatted into submission by his fed up and bloodied boobalicious mama.

I think we have a child abuse issue on our hands here.

My child is abusing me.

He suddenly seems to need all this extra stimuli to get to sleep (in addition to his devoted draining of the mammaries). So, while trying to stage what should be a relaxing and bonding bedtime, his little razor-sharp nails have found that scooping up tiny little reggiano-type threads out of my chest and abdominal area are the most soothing way for him to fall into slumber.
What I am trying oh-so-delicately to say here is:
THE LITTLE MANGLER WILL NOT STOP PINCHING AND SCRATCHING ME!
Seriously, I am almost driven to buy something like this because I cannot stand to be maimed so generously and he is not willing to put himself to sleep by other methods so peacefully.

I do not know what is up with the little man. He has always been an easily agitated nurser; too easily distracted and very demanding with the right mood for a good bedtime meal (for instance, a restaurant where nobody else at all minds but the kid tearing at the blanket being lovingly tucked around his chin and his mama's breast will NOT do), but this latest is bordering on insanity. For me.
For a while it was grabbing the skin around my breast closest to his mouth - which would also be as close to my nips as his hungry snortling would allow him. I soon put a stop to that with my screams and refusal to give him any more milk right now.
Then he moved down, pretending to clumsily unhook a bra that isn't even there. He pinched. I flinched. He grabbed. I grabbed. He woke up from his half-sleep and screamed until I sacrificed another breast for the sake of some sleep for him and a feww goddamned minutes of blogging (or Deadwood) for me. He latched on and within seconds resumed his rhythmic attempts to maim me, which have now gone from pinching to scratching. The scratching for some reason seems to have become part of his ritual for falling asleep. I do not like this ritual and I resist this. My breasts have gotten the message as well.
This has gone on and on to mean that, while nursing, I have one hand to grab at least one of his two determined hellbent for blood razor-wielding hands and restrain it in my own. He does not like this at all - it appears to break up his rhythm that takes him into slumberland. This is immensely frustrating for me, as it is a vicious circle. Every time I interrupt him, it means more minutes until sleep actually comes, since he and I are fighting each other with a little thumbkin battle under the covers.


My very wise British neighbor who recently vbac'd her fourth kid into our neighborhood commented thusly, "Ohfuck that sounds just like Nico (her 2nd). He went from Buddha to this growling sort of testosterone possessed animal. What you've got on your hands is a scorpio male."
(jesus she is right)

What to do with the little mangler?!

Someone should really do that

My friend and I were talking this morning about random kid things, and as usual, the conversation somehow steered itself towards sex. Oh I remember now. We were talking about how tired we feel after the kids go to bed and when on earth there is ever time to have it. And is anybody we know getting any.
Her Brilliant Scheme:
"There should be a babysitter up here that works on Saturdays and Sundays in two-hour increments. She could work only weekends, charge a nice price and just do the circuit. Someone should really do that."
"Yeah, but she would really need to advertise that was what she was up to, you know? Some people I don't know might be afraid to admit they have sex. She would have to make a big stink about coming in the house only to stock up on snacks, then leaving and not coming back with the kids for two whole hours and all that," was my wise reply.
We are always thinking up great ideas for someone else to help make our lives better, easier. Make no mistake, we will pay them. But we want them to deliver the goods. Maybe we need to put an ad in our local tattle and services rag.
I only know one friend who outright tells her sitter that she and her husband are going to have sex and so could she (the sitter, or, childcare provider if you need for this to be PC as I once was when I once was one) 'please keep Bushki busy for the duration and without interruption if you don't mind' (what sitter would after that?). She doesn't say 'napping' or' gettin busy' or 'umm, taking some personal time' or 'relationship building' or even discreetly suggest they go elsewhere. She just makes it perfectly clear.
She never, ever gets interrupted.
By the sitter (provider) or Bushki.
So I say kudos to the attentive entrepreneur in our community who figures out this little goldmine. But here's a tip: Give your business cards out to the daddies. Market to the daddies. I promise you, they will hire you and word will travel ohsofast. And believe me, they will call. Because my friend-who-shall-remain-nameless (who thought up this great idea) AND I agree, that if we (as in, the mamas) were the ones to call for a sitter who billed herself as a 2 hour emergency sort of respite step-in caregiver, it would probably be to take our kids to urgent care, OR perhaps to replenish the withering pantry with fresh eggs and wine from TJ's say, because the kid was sick with chicken pox or monkey pox or coxsackie and we couldn't take her with us. I mean, if I'm going to pay someone to do it, it's going to be a real emergency. I'm just sayin.
But if Dh was the one to arrange it all, if he actually went to the trouble to call, arrange, hire and pay...well, I would be so touched that he would probably need far less than two hours to get what he was after.

Oh yeah!
What's not fair today:
Seattle is too far away and I miss Frankie.
Also, I wanted more candy on the plane and I ate the whole candy necklace while we were waiting by the gate, and mama wouldn't give me more.

What's the nap worth to you?

So when I was trying to pack for the trip, I found myself rifling through piles of laundry to pack for three people only 4 hours before needing to leave for the airport. Supergirl had finally been sent off on a desperation playdate and I had already spent 90 minutes trying to put Bubbles/the dragon down for a nap, unsuccessfully.
Dh came in to run a bit of interference and managed to get the little squaller (squalor?) asleep. He swaggered down the steps pretty damn proud of himself and proceeded to ogle 'the girls'. I thought that was pretty funny, since I had to leave FOR THE AIRPORT and still pack.
He made what I am sure he thought was a tempting offer, come on babe - 15 minutes and then I'll watch the kids later so you can pack.
A note to any man who (very unlikely) may be reading this: '15 minutes' is not a romantic or even appealing come on. You can thank me later.
Well, needless to say I managed to cough up a refusal and I did get packed just in the nick of time, and yes, I did have to live with my decision.
So, while I have been here in Seattle, dearsweetJulia has been over the top in her parenting expertise and has even managed to get the little Bubbles to sleep for a nap. I am typing this quickly, because any minute Julia will come down the stairs, nod that he is indeed asleep, and demand her share of sexual favors. Sigh.




What's not fair today: FrankieDoodle fell asleep before dinner and I wanted to sit next to him at dinner.

The Boss Of Seattle (I know her)

So here we are in the land of...well, Seattle. I don't know any of the local nicknames for the city. But I am fortunate enough to be staying with the most knowledgeable Boss Of Seattle. How do I know this? Well, I have known Julia a very long time (if I said we were old college friends and that we have been buds for 20 years that would probably be saying too much.) and I can tell you that she is very knowledgeable AND very bossy. So I was not surprised when Supergirl and FrankieDoodle (Julia's youngest of her 3 gorgeous boys, FrankieDoodle turned 4 yesterday at a very cool Seattle Beach party. yes. beach.) were swinging the day after we got here and I overheard their conversation:
Supergirl: Well, your mom might be the boss of you but she is not the boss of everything.
FrankieDoodle: She is too.
SG: Well maybe she is the boss of everything, but she is not the boss of me.
FD: Yes she is too.
SG: Well maybe she is but she is not the boss of Seattle.
FrankieDoodle let a good 30 seconds pass before delivering his thoughtful response:
Well, actually, she is.

Thank goodness we are staying with an expert! It's sure to be a fun adventure (considering the number of empty wine bottles thus far!).


And now for my new regular segment about Supergirl's life...
What's not fair today (yesterday):
FrankieDoodle was all excited about having a sleepover in the bunkbeds and now he's not.

What's not fair today (today):
I had to carry my scooter up the hill from the playground and you helped FrankieDoodle with his tractor.

Weaning! Just around the corner?

Ohferchrissakes! I have been trying to write (blog) about my tell-all BlogHer experiences, but the little dragon that has posessed my baby has another agenda. Tell THAT to Alaska Air, who hath issued my tickets to Seattle- where I am trying to go on a trip with just the babes to visit lovely old college debauchery mate for TEN whole freaking days. (whoo-hooo!)
And tell THAT to the family van, which betrayed me by stranding me 30 miles from home in a Tarjay parking lot (yes, this is the distance I suffer to shop smart) for hours with said babes (of the young vs. hot variety) until I was rescued by kind friends who kept and fed me until Dh got the message (FOUR HOURS LATER).
And tell that to the fresh open tooth wound under my left nipple (right to you, left to me) caused by afore-mentioned teething dragon. OW!
OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW!!

As you can plainly see, I am in no mood for gossiping, waxing OR waning.
All I have to say is OW. Fucking OW.
Okay, and penis. Since I promised.