Here Come The Sobs

OH. MY GOD. YOU GUYS.

I know it's been like two weeks, and I have so much to talk about! I could tell you all about school -- which, BTW, I should probably have written the last part of that last sentence as "... I have so much about which to talk," but whatever -- or I could tell you about work or I could tell you about my very recent truly traumatic experience at kindergarten (!!!) orientation (???) or I could tell you about how my neighbors' approximately 178 kittens have been hanging out on my porch making me pretty much The Simpsons' Crazy Cat Lady.

But.

Instead let me tell you about how a quick, spur-of-the-moment decision to play dress-up with my kid just about gave me a nervous breakdown. How about that, instead?

You may remember that approximately 142½ years ago -- okay, it was 2½ years ago, but it FEELS like it was very very long ago -- Shae was the flower girl in my sister's wedding. She wore a love white dress that was about eleventy sizes too big because she was two years old then, and the dress was a size 4T, because that was the best we could do. Shae's just about a month shy of five years old, and she's LITERALLY four feet tall now, and she wears a size 6 or a 7 because we need everything to be long enough to cover her ankles and her belly button, but I was looking for something in her armoire at bedtime -- don't ask me what, because I can't remember -- and I caught a glimpse of Ye Olde Flowere Girle Dresse out of the corner of my eye, and I know, "What the heck? Let's see if it still fits!"

  

And lo and behold,whaddaya know? It still does! It's significantly shorter than it used to be -- way back when, it went almost down to the floor, and now it's above the knees, and it looks kind of like some kind of empire-waisted babydoll thingy, and it's definitely tight in the armpits because Shae's shoulders are broader than they used to be -- but we could zip it up fine. She had room in it, even. And while she was twirling around her room and putting on her white Easter shoes from last year (the ones that definitely DON'T fit any more, and can I just tell you how much I HATE buying white shoes every Easter?), I got what I thought was a brilliant idea.

  

I got out my veil, from my wedding ensemble, which we played with before. And I don't know how it happened, I must have stopped paying attention for a second, or I blinked, or something, but when I looked again ...

  

 ... my little girl was standing there ...

  

 ... with chocolate still on her face from an ice cream sandwich she had eaten earlier ...

 

... and she was about to get married. And I needed to lie down for a while.

  

WHAT IS HAPPENING? HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN AWAY?

Going Full Griswold

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS. My new next-door neighbors -- the ones on the detached side, not the other half of our double -- have PUT UP THEIR CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ALREADY.

Seriously, I am not making this up. They only moved in three weeks ago or so. (That house has had more residents than Spinal Tap has had drummers, for serious.) We don't know their names yet. They have not introduced themselves. Clearly they don't understand the way the on-street parking works on our block, because they keep parking next to that one telephone pole that everybody knows is supposed to be my spot. And then I come home from work last night, more than a week before Thanksgiving, and I see this:

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT MESS? I have nothing against Christmas lights, of course. I mean, we don't really decorate the outside of our house, primarily because I am a lazy-ass, but also because our house is kind of a pit and what's the point? You can't really polish a turd, you know? We don't live in the worst house on the street -- that honor is reserved for the house at the other end of the block that is totally dodgy -- but we definitely have a leaky front porch and a water pressure problem that makes it difficult to power-wash the moss off the steps, and so inadequate lighting is beneficial. Kind of like smearing Vaseline on the lens for an aging actress. But in theory, I don't mind when other people decorate.

How does anybody even know where their Christmas decorations are already? My husband puts our boxes of lights and ornaments away, and I have zero idea where they are. A couple of Longaberger baskets have been on the mantle for the seven years we've lived in that house. And I just won a tinsel snowman at a bitch bingo. But if I got challenged to some kind of decorating slap-fight right now, the only things I'd be able to pull together are the Lionel train and some random assorted tchotchkes that never got put away last year, like so:

Okay wait, the colored glitter balls are new. I got them at Target a couple weeks ago, because they were in the $1 section, and I was trying to decide if I wanted to go with colored ornaments this year or not. (We are. I think. But not too many, because I really like my classy elegant understated Martha-Stewart-style tree with the silver, gold, white, and clear color scheme, and I can't just jump headfirst into all these crazy colors because what if I don't actually like them? And what if they aren't trendy next year, and I can't replace them? Then what? I am telling you RIGHT NOW, I am NOT doing a black-silver-and-white tree, ever, because I am STILL bitter about the 1981 Super Bowl.)

Plus, WHAT THE HECK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS HALLOWEEN PUMPKIN? We still have it, in its original unadorned form, from when we went apple picking. Wasn't that 100 years ago, already?

Anyway ... now I am wondering if My Anonymous Neighbors have just thrown down the gauntlet and challenged me to a decorating contest. They already have a LOT of lights up, and they keep adding. My only defense is going to be to go Full Griswold on them, and I don't want to do that if I don't have to, because my very favorite outdoor decoration is my lighted Moravian star (mine is not pictured, BTW), which pretty much sets the world standard for simple and classic holiday decorations. I love my Moravian star, and I don't want to see it sullied. But you BETTER BELIEVE that I will throw down if I have to.

Oh, be quiet, you.

The Frontyardigans in "The Snow Dorks"

Sorry, really bad and punny title, but we are watching an episode of The Backyardigans right now -- "The Snow Fort" -- and let me tell you that for me, the absolute worst part of being snowed in for-potentially-ever isn't the fear that we're eventually going to run out of food (that's why we have cats) but the terrifying prospect of never watching a TV show targeted at adults again. I mean, I don't mind The Backyardigans at all -- it's kind of cute, really -- but are there only 5 episodes, or what? Because I find myself singing this "Snowball Duty" song to myself and I really kind of want to stab myself in the brain.

ANYWAY.

I think we've gotten over a foot of snow already and it's still snowing, and at some point we're going outside to play and shovel. Hypothetically, anyway -- I don't really know how much playing we're going to be able to do with the snow up to our knees and all. I figured as much (never trust car salesmen or weathermen, I always say) so last night before it got bad Shae and I went outside for a few minutes to check everything out.

And you know, when they're calling for up to 24" of accumulation and I want to get a head start on keeping the sidewalk clean, the very first thing I say to myself is, "Self, you better get your little plastic rake!" (LIES -- the first thing I say is not to myself, it's to my husband, and it's, "Babe, set the shovel and get work and while you're on your way out can you please get me the Jaegermeister out of the freezer?")

So. Anyway. If you like snow, then enjoy your snow day. Go outside, get some air, have some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, but whatever you do, STAY AWAY FROM NICK JR. Trust me on this one.

Brusha, Brusha, Brusha

I know I've been super-boring lately, and I'm really sorry -- and I'm also afraid this post isn't going to help much. I feel like this is the longest week that ever was: too much going on, too many things to do, too little sleep. Plus we're battening down the hatches to prepare for the coming SNOWPOCALYPSE NOW! again, which is supposed to start later today.

Which, by the way, screw the eggs and bread and milk. If I'm going to be snowed in like the Donner Party, I am not going to be making French toast. I want Fritos and that bright orange "cheez" popcorn and grape soda and Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs. Junk food. Frozen burritos and Hot Pockets and lunch meat and Screaming Yellow Zonkers, which they don't even make any more.

So. Anyway. I am really looking forward to the end of next week, because on Thursday and Friday we're going on our "winter vacation" and then I have a company holiday the following Monday for Presidents' Day, so I will have five whole days off from work and believe me, I am looking forward to it in ways I can't possibly describe in English. Perhaps I can do an interpretive dance? Perhaps if you plied me with alcohol first? I like my vodka tonics with wedges of lime and lemon.

Hopefully over the weekend I'll be able to get some cute pictures of Shae in the snow, but in the meantime, I hope this little video will do.

And now I will sing for you a little song that will undoubtedly get stuck in your head forever and ever, amen:

Brusha, brusha, brusha
Get the new Ipana
With the brand new flavor
It's dandy for your teeth!

Hey -- just be glad I didn't start singing "It's Fun to Brush Your Teeth!" all Plex-style.

Dye My Eyes and Call Me Pretty

This is Owen. He's our man-child boy-cat. Earlier today he stole a slab of stromboli right off my plate, so he spent part of the evening on punishment.

We found the bib in the couch -- it is one of Shae's, from about a hundred million years ago. It says "Thank Heaven for Little Girls." We went with this particular punishment because we don't have any ballerina outfits for Shae's Cabbage Patch doll (yet).

{ Incidentally: I have absolutely no idea what we did with the adoption papers for Shae's doll. So I don't know what her doll's name is. However, I do remember the name of my first Cabbage Patch Kid: Bobbette Janet. What does this say about me, as an adoptive parent? Anything? (It was a first birthday present, which feels like it was a completely different lifetime ago.) }

A House Is Not A Home

Way back when, I promised pictures of Shae's bedroom once I was done redecorating it to accommodate the big girl bed. Um, looks like I never did that, so I guess now that we have a new wardrobe and hanging lamp from Ikea, it might be a good time to give you the grand tour.

Here is what the bed looks like these days (L-R, mostly): Little Nutbrown Hare, a dalmatian Beanie Baby, Bedtime Bear, Cheer Bear, Gentle Heart Lamb (a Care Bear Cousin), Grumpy Bear, a stuffed cat, Linny from Wonder Pets!, a Cabbage Patch doll that Shae got for her 1st birthday but whose name we can't remember so she is called "Baby,"* a sock monkey that Shae calls "Monkeyhat," a stuffed crocodile, one of G's old Garfield toys, the stuffed bear that I got at my baby shower at work, and a stuffed dog that G gave me while we were still dating.

Yes, she actually sleeps in this bed.

Under all that mess are the "polka dot fairy princess flower butterfly" sheets (that's what she calls them), and at the foot of the bed is a "Nannie Hallman blanket." Shae can't say "Haldaman" yet. In these pictures I can tell how badly we need a dust ruffle -- I'll have to work on that tomorrow.

Probably the girliest stuff in the room are the things hanging over her bed -- a couple of tchochkes from her Easter basket, some ribbons from a bouquet of flowers that she got from my mother-in-law on Adoption Day, and her bouquet from my sister's wedding. We also have kite tails hanging in her room.

The night stand. You've seen the switchplate before. She knows most of those books by heart already. And that's our "travel monster," there on the right -- we take him with us when we go anywhere, because he fits in the side pocket of the diaper bag or, in a pinch, a jeans pocket.

Shae's name, in "lights." This is probably her favorite thing in the room, because she knows what it says. My mom picked these letters up for cheap at a yard sale or something -- they're some kind of foam that I painted and then coated with glitter paint.

The dressers. These were (one of?) my sisters'. A bed and at least one dresser to match are in my parents' house -- they've made up a room for Shae for when she sleeps over. I wanted to give Shae my old bedroom furniture, but that suite has a double bed, so it's probably going to end up in a guest room at some point in the future when we buy a house that isn't so damned small.

Here's the new wardrobe and lamp in action, next to the bookcase full of books that I won't let Shae touch yet. I know, I know, I'm a terrible mother -- but I have complete sets of Harry Potter, Artemis Fowl, Unfortunate Events, and Septimus Heap novels, which are out of her age range, and I don't want them destroyed. (She's not really interested in them yet, anyway, since most of "my" books have minimal pictures.) Someday she's going to have the best damn kid's library ever.

Shae really likes her new room, even though it's the same room with the dirt just moved around. (Yeah, that last picture is completely gratuitous.)

* = And you'll notice that even in a toddler room, nobody puts Baby in the corner. RIP, Johnny Castle.

Sidewalk Café

My parents came down last weekend, not just to bring the "big girl bed," but also to do the (mostly) annual weeding. It's my birthday present every year, because while I am pretty good in the yard when it comes to vegetables and roses and stuff I actually started from seed myself, everything else is a potential crime scene. Like, I know I have bee balm and spiderwort and coneflowers in my garden beds, but until they are actively flowering, I don't always know what is what, and I run the risk of accidentally pulling out something that isn't really a weed. (Except morning glories: those I recognize on sight, and I pull those shoots right out and then set them on fire.)

While my parents were assembling furniture and pruning the lilacs, Shae dined al fresco. She and her bologna sandwich went everywhere my mom did all day long.

And it occurs to me, just now, that fully 75% of the pictures I have of my kid are either of her swimming, or eating. Easily that many. If you include the random naked and bathtub pictures, it's 90%. I'm not sure if that makes me a weirdo, or what, or just a typical parent. I hope we're not giving her a complex.

Now that we've mastered "Twinkle Star" and "You Are My Sunshine" and "Que Sera, Sera" and "Rehab" (Shae sings the "NO NO NO!" part, and she's very good at it), I think the next songs we're going to have to learn are some of the more traditional childhood classics: "Oh, I Wish I Were An Oscar Mayer Wiener" and "The Armour Hot Dog Song" and of course everyone's favorite, "My Bologna Has A First Name."

'Cause Oscar Mayer has a way with Mommy's pretty little Shae.

Operation: Renovation

We had to pick my car up at the dealer's tonight, and on the way home we stopped at Babies R Us (for a longer safety rail for the side of the bed), and it so happens that in the same shopping center is one of my favorite stores on Earth: Marshall's. The materials for our extreme home makeover are pictured below.


Once we're done washing and arranging and etc., I'll show you the finished product. Assuming it isn't a sucky embarrassment (which, let's face it -- the odds are better than even money that it will be, since I'm in charge.)

Big Girls Don't Cry

What do you get when you have a toddler who is ready for a "big girl" bed, but parents who aren't? You get a bed that ends up looking something like this:

Totally mismatched, stuffed animals everywhere, with a pillow that up until an hour ago was mine. I knew the bed was coming, and I knew my parents were coming down here, but somehow I just never put together that the bed was coming with them today.

So we will be going bed-in-a-bag shopping, because as much as I have no qualms about "recycling" linens and things -- I mean, seriously, the sheets were my parents and both the Garfield (TM) comforter and the matching plush that is as big as my head were my husband's once -- exactly nothing matches the Lily-Pulitzer-esque pink-and-green color palette of the rest of the room.

And while Shae is clearly ready to move on up to the East Side:

Mommy? Won't get a wink of sleep until everything matches just so. Freak.

PS -- No, not pinkeye, just a weird trick of the camera.
PPS -- She doesn't even know who Garfield is; he's just a cat to her.

Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)

"Good night, Shae."
"Goo-nat, Mommy."
"I love you, Shae."
"Ah la-loo, Mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Shae."
"No problem, Mommy."
"I -- what?"
{giggles}

Say Cheese

It's really, really hard to get a toddler to sit still for pictures when there is cheese on the table in front of her. Like, really hard. Biblically hard. Like, I almost had to staple gun her butt into the high chair hard. It was almost easier to get her to let me do her hair, is what I am saying. And that is saying something, because ... I don't do hair.

HG Friggin' TV

Now listen: we got a rug and a switchplate for the baby's room, so I do not wish to hear any more shit from you people about it, OK? Just gnosh on this for a while.