Curls in motion

It's insanely windy, so I had a chance to make a movie of Mireya's first hair cut. I mean I could have done laundry, or cleaned out my closet.

But I'm way too accomplished a procrastinator.

As you know if you've spent any time here in crib note land, Mireya has crazy curly hair.

No, seriously. Like INSANELY curly.

So I was nervous to get her hair cut, because everyone with curly hair says it's impossible to cut. As a result she had these long bits, short bits, and wild bits everywhere.

It was time.

It was past time, actually. Probably by 3 years.

Did I mention I am an accomplished procrastinator? I mean, I've got my black belt in delay tactics. Well, actually it's in the laundry.


Anywho, here's the video.

Last of the bats

Well, here are the final photos of Hallow in Washington, and on the way home.
We stopped by to pay our respects to the newest occupants of the white house.





Hallow flew in for a closer look, but was spooked by the secret service.





We stopped at the natural history museum on our way to see art.
Big elephant!






Quick dive into the flowers in the art museum's foyer.
Here's where I saw a really weird painting and
other incredibly beautiful ones.
I love the national gallery.





But we were headed to the pompei exhibit. So we walked and walked.
But it ended up like a tour through liberace's living room.



So we left.



Off for my favorite monument.


Lincoln.





There we were tempted.


Failed to resist temptation.





Flew out of town just in time.


Bats will eat fries at the airport.


Ah, one last shot - memories of cab rides in washington. It sure is nice to be home.

Science, kids!

Science Marches Forward.

When I was a kid I thought I was headed for a career in the sciences. I was making new discoveries every single day.

Unfortunately, discovering the melting point of crayons didn’t lead to a cure for the common cold, or a renewable energy source to power Barbie’s dream house appliances. Of course, just because I opted out of the sciences as a career doesn’t mean I don’t still dabble as an amateur.
For example, I’ve discovered two fundamental laws governing socks. First, socks are extremely resistant to pairing. The repulsive force is particularly strong in the morning before school. I believe the repulsive force is derived from a combination of laundry detergent and water.

Second, socks are edible. At least, that’s my theory as to why they continue to disappear at such an alarming rate. Someone, or something, is eating them. And apparently only one of the pair is actually edible, explaining the huge bag of inedible orphan socks in the closet.

I’ve also learned something absolutely fascinating about schoolwork that comes home for admiration. It’s ALIVE!

Consider the evidence. Reams and reams of paper with adorable drawings, attempts at cursive, and math drills overwhelm all attempts to contain them. Boxes quickly overflow and any attempt to cull the pile will set off internal alarms with the child involved who will rush over, protesting wildly that their work should be retained until they complete their doctorate in multiplication tables. Clearly those pieces of paper have the power to send out some sort of distress signal. That’s a sign of life in my book. (I’m proposing the scientific term ‘paperous swampous’ for this new life form .)

These days Mireya has taken on the mantle of science officer. We were off on a trip when she explained to me how magnetism works.

“There’s this bar in the middle of the earth, Mommy.”

“A bar? Like a chocolate bar?”

“No!” she laughed at her poor Mommy, who had seemed so much smarter before she herself started first grade and learned everything. “It’s like a ruler. It’s made of metal.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And it has this big letter ‘N’ on it. And that’s how we know which way is North. Just look for the N.”

Next she’ll be working on cold fusion. We’ll get Barbie’s refrigerator running in no time.

Bats in congressional offices

Buddy (who I let think he's my boss. lol) would kill me if he knew I talked these two staffers to hold the bat. But weirdness is part of my charm.

Thanks to the folks in Congressman Hinojosa's office.

And here's my CEO, proving he has a sense of style - and humor.

And me with the bat, before dinner...

Tomorrow, a few more photos. But I'm beat. Off to bed

Broken Bit

Digging for memories.

This weekend I satisfied my inner archeologist. With spring slipping through the door someone left open in winter, it was the perfect day to go out into the yard and begin the dig.

Of course it never starts out as an archaeological dig. It starts out as a "let's pick up the yard" thing. A "let's cut back all those weedy, dead plants" thing. A "they're going to rezone our house as a junk yard if we don't get this under control" thing.

Sierra was on hand to help, since she's always eager to earn some cash by picking up endless numbers of plastic items so she can then go out and buy additional plastic items. I've finally come to accept this as an endless cycle.

Someday, when we are long gone, actual archaeologists may dig in our yard and try to figure out if all these brightly colored items are toys or religious cult icons. I'd say in some cases the line is blurred, especially when I try to get them in the trashcan. You've never seen someone move so fast until you try to toss an orphaned doll shoe into the trashcan.

I never knew Mireya's shoes would smoke like that.

So this weekend, I was a jr. archeologist, uncovering our brief family history. I found, under leaves and branches, a worn watercolor paintbrush, and next to it a jar still stained with blue paint.

This was from the day we painted the dogs various colors, turning them into something between pop art and doggie warriors.

Or was it from the day we painted outlines of ourselves on old blueprint paper?

Or maybe it was the day Sierra painted her entire arm blue, which remained lightly blue even after a bath.

Next I find a broken bit of plastic from a bucket of gum. This was from my uncle, who is particularly fond of this brand of chewing gum. We'd taken the empty bucket and turned it into a carrier for all kinds of things - rocks, dog food, plastic toys.

I find a tiny teal bookcase, at least I think it's a bookcase, belonging to Barbie, or Polly, or Little Miss Knock-off from the Dollar Store.

Part of me resists tossing these broken, misplaced bits. Even the empty jar is loaded with memories, crammed with these days of children, messy yards, and blue dogs.

But it is a mess, so away they go. Instead I resolve to go inside and write it all down.

Lest I forget.

Do I know you?

Are you my mommy?

These days we worry incessantly about our children being taken by strangers, and for good reason. But I have a less sinister, if still disconcerting, worry.

My children don't know what I look like.

It started when we were at the library. Apparently, when you're just under four foot tall, any woman in the sweater with dark hair pulled into a pony tail is a dead ringer for me.

I heard Mireya, four years old and well versed in where all the best videos are in the library, talking in her earnest negotiation mode -- with someone else.

"If I get the Beauty and the Beast video can I get the Dora one too? I want to get that one too."

I looked up from the table in the children's area and saw my daughter walking behind a woman, holding the video box in her little hand. The woman, trying to catch up to her own children, looked down at my curly haired daughter with a smile and said, "Um, well…"

And then the look of horror swept across Mireya's face like a flash flood. I could just see the words appear in a thought bubble over her head.

You are NOT my mommy!

She whirled around and spotted me a few feet away. She ran over to the table, slightly pale.

"I want to sit on your lap," she said, still stunned. I understood what she was going through.
When I was four, I didn't know what my mom looked like either. Really any relatively similar sized woman seemed to fit the bill.

We'd be out shopping and before you'd know it I'd be hanging out with a woman who had probably negotiated a couple of hours away from her kids, only to have me following her around the clearance racks, thinking she was my mom.

Sometimes I never even realized I had the wrong mom until I heard myself being paged over the store speakers. Even then I had to do a double take.

This is precisely why you never test kids with those family reunion photos. The only one they'll get right is the dog.

As we finally checked out our books and videos at the library desk, my eldest daughter, Sierra saw the woman who Mireya had been talking to.

"Wow. That lady looks just like you."

The other mom and I smiled at each other. She looked about as much like me as Conan O'Brien looks like David Letterman.

But then again, it's been a while since I was under ten. According to my kids, she may have been my long lost identical twin. I'll have to check with mom about that.

If I can find her.

Bats in Washington DC

Mireya gave me her bat Hallow to be my companion in Washington while I'm here on business. He's enjoyed his first full days...

Hallow likes the hotel room. It's got a chaisse lounge which is really cool.

Then it was time to head over to the convention center for the meetings. Hallow rode with Jim, since it was too cold to fly.

At the convention center Hallow had to register with Joann and look over the briefing documents.

Then it was time for lunch. Luckily, Hallow's a fruit bat. Really. No biting anything other than mangos. Buddy was trying to get Hallow to wear a napkin. Hallow says bats are very neat eaters.

Sleepy Hallow is worn out from a full day. Tomorrow's a big day! A bunch more meetings, maybe another cab ride and, if we're lucky, a dinner!

Gone for a week (almost)

I'm going to be on the road in Washington DC until Friday. I'm going to post pictures here of Hallow, Mireya's bat, who she requested be our special guest.

I'm having trouble uploading, hopefully I'll get that resolved tomorrow.

In the meantime, check out this completely wonderful subversive song for your kids to live by. Get out your trumpets!

Bag, Man...

Dearest bagger,

At this time it seems necessary to explain to you what your goal is when packing my groceries into bags. I say this because clearly something has gone terribly wrong with the training you’ve received thus far. Remember this lesson – always blame management. It’ll take you far in this world.
Number one: You are not my personal trainer. It is not your mission to provide me with a weight training program by packing items into bags so they reach a weight of 75 pounds. It defeats the whole “bagging” thing when I have to remove things from the bag in order to carry the bag. Trust me, you are not developing my triceps.

Number two: This is not Sesame Street. The goal is not to place all similar things together. Think about it. These are groceries. All of these things all ready go together. This is particularly true if it will result in the aforementioned 75 pound bag. I cite specifically your obsession with canned goods.

Number three: This is not one giant Tetris game. The goal is not to maximize spatial relationships. Believe it or not, packing things tightly together actually does not result in safer transport. I cite my punctured carton of milk as the most recent example.

Number four: Appreciate the miracle that I remembered my bags from the trunk of my car. Please fight that primal bagger urge to put at least one thing in a plastic bag. Particularly when I have 20 bags of assorted shapes and sizes for you to work with. I’ve tried to put some variety and spice in this for you, surely there’s a bag there you can use for that candy bar.

Number five: Milk is heavy. Adhere to the two half gallon cartons per bag limit. Do not, under any circumstances consider that a waste of a bag. Just because there are only two items in the bag doesn’t mean you must add other items to the bag, particularly sharp, pointed items in a tight bag (see number three).

Number six: Marshmallows. They are not the grocery store equivalent of packing peanuts. Trust me, the taste loses something under extreme compression.

I hope these six guidelines help. Remember, baggers of the world, your job, thankless as it can be, is the final lap in the grocery run relay.

Don’t drop the baton on the bananas.

Rock, Paper, - LOOK OUT!!!

What Beats Everything?

Don’t ever play Rock Paper Scissors with my kids.


It started innocently enough, like so many things around here.

It was a lazy Saturday morning and we decided to eat out for breakfast. We were at a local restaurant which normally serves food up pretty fast, but they were apparently having to round up the cows for milking and were still negotiating the contract for eggs with the newly organized chickens.

As a result the wait for our food was getting a little long. The kids, having already gotten bored with sugar packet stacking, sugar packet table top football, sugar packet tick tack toe, and guess what hand has the sugar packet, were about to launch a full scale rebellion along with about half the customers in the place.

So we started a game of Rock Paper Scissors. We figured it might even come in handy if someone had to run to the car and to try to scramble for some random crayons and paper.

After explaining how to play, we paired off, me with Sierra and Daddy with Mireya. We figured you can play a whole lot of Rock Paper Scissors and before the fun wears off.

But talks must have broken down with the chickens, because food was nowhere in sight.

Then Sierra, who at ten is intensely competitive, invented a new element to Rock Paper Scissors. Just a little something to give herself an edge.

“One, two, three, CLAW!” she growled, extending what did look like a pretty fierce claw.

“Claw?” I asked. “What does claw beat?”

“Paper and scissors!” she said triumphantly, shredding my now defenseless paper. “It’s a tiger claw,” she clarified.

“Cool!” said Mireya who had stopped in mid game to watch me get shredded. I could guess what her next move would be when she played with Daddy. As usual I underestimated her.

Mireya turned to her opponent. “Ready, Daddy?”

Daddy loosened his shoulders like a boxer preparing for the final round. He cracked his knuckles. He looked like a man that was ready to be mauled by the dreaded claw.

“One, two, three...” they chanted.

“Tornado!” shouted Mireya, whirling her hand around, utterly obliterating Daddy’s scissors.

“What? Wait a minute! Tornado?” said a perplexed Daddy.

“Tornado beats everything,” said Mireya.

Tough to argue with that.

I'm baaack.

check it out here