I swear it should be right... HERE!

Seek and ye shall find.


We spent the first day of 2009 doing something completely new. Something that tied into my sorta resolution - do more outside.

We found a letterbox.

Now we did try geocaching and frankly, we suck at it. I mean we were trying to find the ones rated for village idiots and couldn't find them. And these were in our neighborhood. And we were using my mom's GPS which kept saying "Hello. You're here already. STOP ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS."

But letterboxing has gone marketedly better. No GPS, just old fashion directions. The "walk to the sign" kind of directions.

Weird, right? Apparently if you involve a satellite, I have no clue. But give me paces and my inner pirate kicks into overdrive.

Here's the site we used to find our first Letter box.

And here's where we went.





Sierra was resistant to having a purpose for running around, but Adam and I thrive on goal oriented activities. We've never been good hikers. We like to get to the place we can rock climb, but hiking is just another word for schlepping.

Ironically, I schlepped most of my childhood since my dad loved to... schlep.

Mireya is good with the goal thing too, as long as it's not too far and if she can engage in a leaf fight somewhere along the way.

I plan on trying to have a full fledged Letter box outing once a month. After which we'll watch Sierra run all over - which is what she wants to do. Then everybody's happy.

Which is, of course, the goal.

From Thongs to Peace Pipes

A very odd thing has happened in Austin. In the past few years the infamous Leslie has moved out of his usual place at 6th and Austin.


For those of you who have not been in Austin and ... met Leslie, he (yes, he) is a cross dressing semi-homeless man who often could be found most days wearing a thong.

Yes. Leave nothing to your imagination.

He had a uber shopping cart with signs protesting the general state of things.

Then he was in an ad campaign. The man has his own wikipedia page (proving once again that wikipedia is way better than your dad's old encyclopedia). And a my space page too (the picture is from there - warning - the one I've posted is by FAR the cleanest one. You have been warned).

Hey, it's Austin.

Anyway, I was driving down Congress and there, at the corner of 6th and Congress was a new guy. Dressed like a native american and holding a carved pipe with feathers over his head, he seemed poised to say something.

Then my light turned green.

Hope he sticks around. Downtown is getting way too normal for me. But I hope he doesn't opt for a thong. Not a whole lot of people can carry that off, you know?

Wow.

Nothing more need be said:

Take my child, PLEASE

On Sale in the Produce Aisle…

The other day at the grocery store, a man offered me his child.

And I completely understood.

It was one of those moments when you size up what's been going on between a parent and child in .05 seconds and think, thank goodness I left mine at home.

I'd walked into the store without my children, for once. And like every time I'm without them, I get this silly, almost nostalgic attitude toward all other children. Children I never even notice since I'm usually busy trying to keep mine from knocking over the huge soda display or tossing six toys into the cart and covering them with the bread so I won't see them until we're in the checkout.

There she was, with the cutest pair of ponytails sticking straight up. She was maybe two years old, and was not sitting in her seat in the cart, but slightly above it, her father keeping her safe.
"She's so adorable," I said as I headed toward the broccoli.

He took one look at me, lifted her up, and pretended to hand her over. That's when I saw it. This child had just completed a full-blown melt down.

She had all the classic post melt down signs. Glistening eyes. Ruddy cheeks. Calm behavior.
And he had the classic survivor signs. Stiff back. Throbbing temple. Expressionless face.

I wanted to say, I have so been there, Mister. I feel your pain.

Instead, I just laughed as he cracked a slight, weary smile.

Yes, I've been to melt down land, to that moment when you wonder about not only your child but the entire human race. Is this any way to populate a planet? Fill it with crazed people who at any given moment will have a total cow in the grocery store and refuse to sit in the cart with their seatbelt as is CLEARLY indicated on the illustrations?


Frankly my children modeled for the illustrations of what NOT to do on the grocery cart.(That's Mireya in the last circle)

So I turned down the little girl with the ponytails that day. Cute or not, I know now what I'd be getting into.

Plus I finally got mine to sit down!

Okay, just for a minute, but, hey, it's progress.

I fixed my @#$# titles!

At last! Now there will be titles to my posts! WEEEEE.

I've also set up an old computer for my use when the kids are surfing faster sites. Because blogging is so old school and low band width, that I can do it from a Commodore.

Ah. It's a good day.

PLUS I found out the kids don't have MLK day off, and while I wish they were a bit more enlightened about holidays at CISD, this means I have my OWN day off!

My own day off!

!!

I've already got enough plans to put a White House Chief of Staff to shame.

I wonder, could complete an entire novel in a day to myself?

Could I paint the bedroom some sassy color that will haunt my nightmares for years to come?

Is it possible to put 83,467 photos in albums in one day?

Stay tuned.

Christmas Leftover

Christmas Leftover...

This is why it's tough to be a pet in our house...

Van-ity

Van-ity…

I recently discovered something disconcerting about myself. Something that has been steadily eating away at me for a few years, and only recently has risen to the surface.

I want a mini-van.

Now, for most rationale adults, this desire is not at all disconcerting. Minivans are nice vehicles, perfectly suited for family life; even more ideal for lives lived on the road as anyone living in this area does to a large extent. They are perfectly practical. Then there are all those really cool things in them now.

DVD players. Thirty-two cup holders. Doors that open when you walk up to them with a squirming child in your arms and a hairbrush in your teeth.

What's not to like?

I've driven my mother-in-law's minivan, ridden in grand style in my aunt's, and waved at my children in my friend's. And I think, there, but for a misplaced sense of car ego, go I.

I inherited from my father a deep-seated belief that you are what you drive. I have, in my driving career owned a 66 Mustang, an old MG Midget, a Datsun Z-28 and various SUVs. I've even had a couple of motorcycles. So when I had to give up my VW bug when child number two was on the way (the baby car seat wouldn't fit), I was looking for a stylish alternative with four doors.

I ended up with a car that was featured in ads filled with camping gear, surfboards, musicians and very jazzy music. Not a diaper bag in sight. I was relieved that I had found a four door car with a hatchback that was somehow still hip. I COULD be cool and practical.

Then, two years later, I got my registration renewal and there it was. I had bought a station wagon.

A STATION WAGON!

How did this happen? I was despondent, quickly paid my renewal and tried to forget about it. I tried to imagine the surfboard, the jazzy music and the very cool people I was going to hang out with right after I got the playdoh out from under my nails. But the State of Texas Department of Transportation has no such illusions.

They know I'm going from soccer to piano lessons to school.

But one of these days I'm getting that surfboard.

When Christmas Lingers Too ... Widely

There are many things that seem to escape containment after Christmas. There’s always an ornament that slipped under the couch which you find in February. A card with a smiling baby in a Santa hat is uncovered in a stack of unopened junk mail. A tangle of tinsel sticks on your black pants which you only notice after you’ve met with about 40 people at a “dress for success” workshop. Which you're leading.

But there is one part of Christmas that is lingering a bit too prominently.

For years now I’ve been in hiding. Seriously hiding. Of course, I can share this with you because I know you won’t tell anyone.

As we all know, the first step is admitting you have a problem. I’m GREAT at the first step. I’m a confessional type, always ready to toss myself on the mercy of the court. But saying it out loud to a large group of people… well, perhaps it’ll be cleansing.

I’m speaking, of course of my egg nog “issue.”

Yes, my seasonal egg nog addiction got a wee bit out of control. You know it’s bad when you have to make sure you’ve got a candy cane in your pocket so your breath won’t give away that you’ve snuck into the kitchen for your 4th glass of egg nog. In the last hour.

So, needless to say, I’ve got a bit of an egg nog belly. I’m back in sweats and baggy sweaters, waiting for this week to go by, the final week where the grocery store will pull the last 5 million calories off their shelves. In fact I’m forbidding myself to come within 50 feet of the dairy aisle.

It’s the only thing that saves me every year – The Egg Nog Law. The fact that they don’t sell real egg nog beyond mid January. Apparently it’s actually illegal to sell egg nog unless it’s in a can after January 15th.

Fortunately I’m never even tempted by the canned stuff. No, for me it’s got to be the full bodied, cows in Santa hats, red and green label, thick and creamy with a hint of …

I better stop myself. If I can just hold out for a few more weeks, I might stave off further … expansion.

Then again, it does only come once a year… And baggy sweaters are in, right?

Take me to Kid Town

Here's a few more facts about Kid Town...

There's a Vet and Hospital in the same building... Which is interesting.


And a restaurant that sells all the grass you can eat.




And a cute Sheriff...

Hmm. Looks like a good place to move to!

Welcome to Kid Town

The kids had a blast during the last gasp of Christmas break creating Kid Town.


Here's my tour guide. It's a pretty big town and you really shouldn't go without a guide.



First you have to come in to the town. There's the sign that tell you that you've arrived.



Here's the mayor in her office. That's the town dog she adopted but graciously shares with the residents.



There's a fitness center. Those... things that look like wood sticks are weights (spelled whates in Kid Town)



There's a supply store...


And a post office... It was closed when I got there. Isn't that always the way?




Here's a photo I got of one of the museum's exhibits. "Old Pail" I believe...



I liked it so much after my tour, was hooked up with a real estate agent who sold me this nice little spot to call my own...


More pictures tomorrow. I'm also proud to say Kid Town has a credit union. That's my girls.

Tell you what, I'll take a sharpie, pieces of wood and a pile of rocks over a Wii any day.

And fortunately, so will the kids.

Near death for TF

The Tooth Fairy Lives - Barely

(Photo: The tooth fairy gets tough)

Mireya lost her first tooth and has been pretty skeptical about this whole Tooth Fairy thing. I blame the Splinter Fairy.

The Splinter Fairy is the fairy who, when small children get splinters, comes in the middle of the night while they are sound asleep and pulls out splinters, thus avoiding all the drama of a daytime extraction.

The Splinter Fairy was born when Mireya was practically hysterical about how her splinter would be removed since she was unwilling to have anyone look at it let alone remove it.

After a few nighttime Splinter Fairy extractions she asked the question I was dreading:

“Mommy, are YOU the Splinter Fairy?”

“Well, er, I… I give her a hand when she needs it.”

That’s vague, right? Within the bounds, surely. Well, that was the confession that began undermining everything. Even Santa has been called into question, for goodness sake. As a result I’ve been a bit nervous about the fate of the weakest mythical beings in the chain - the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.

Then, disaster struck. After loosing her tooth, Mireya decided to save it for a few days.

Memo to self: Never let them save their tooth, because they will place it under their pillow without informing you despite explicit instructions that you MUST BE INFORMED IMMEDIATELY.

It was 6 am and we were still sound asleep, dreaming of the day our kids would sleep late. The dream was split open by a shout.

“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!” she sobbed from downstairs.

I’d tell you what my husband said at that moment, but this is a family blog.

Disappointment moved to anger as she stomped upstairs and confronted me with her tooth in hand.

“YOU’RE the Tooth Fairy!”

I really thought we’d be into molars before this came up. I mean come on, this is her FIRST BABY TOOTH. But I wasn’t giving up the Tooth Fairy without a fight.

“Mireya, you have to tell me when you put your tooth under your pillow.”

“Because YOU’RE the Tooth Fairy!”

“Honey, it’s for the Tooth Fairy’s protection. She’s afraid of dogs and won’t come over unless I tell the dogs to behave.”

(Photo: the scary dogs that would otherwise eat the tooth fairy, were they not prepared in advance)

Forgive me, Lord.

Thankfully this seemed reasonable to Mireya.

Together we spoke with the dogs about the Tooth Fairy, agreed to try again. Tooth Fairy arrived in full glory, bestowing bucks and a “Nice Tooth!” note.

Who knows how I’m going to rescue the Easter Bunny…

Quiet


My house is asleep. Children, husband, dogs, cat, mice and hamster.

Sound asleep. I walk around in the stillness and wonder at it. This is the sound that will be here when they are gone - off to school, work, off to chase birds and wander the yard. Tiny clicks of clocks, the sound of water slipping through a hose somewhere, the deep hum in my ear of blood making it's way all around my mind.

I like the quiet, but I know someday I'll have far too much of it. Someday it won't be just the silence of sleep, but the silence of absence.

I will long for these crazy days, when I can't keep up and feel time slipping through my fingers. I will long for the laughter, the shouts, the squeak of springs on the trampoline, the calls for Mommy over and over.

But still, I won't wake them tonight, demand they bring back to life this house. There will be time. There always is.

Terrible Threes

Neither of my daughters went through the terrible twos. They were both delightful toddlers, with just the typical curiosity-driven behaviors of dialing foreign countries on my cell phone and hiding food under the bed so it could be discovered later when my mother-in-law was visiting ("What is that smell?").

So as my eldest blew out the candles on her third birthday, I thought I was the only parent in the world who had dodged the terrible twos. Clearly I had an exceptional child who was just not terrible. Better yet, I was obviously a skilled parent who managed my young child's outbursts calmly and rationally.

You can stop laughing now.

By the time my youngest hit three years and 5 seconds old, I was no longer under this ridiculous delusion that I had escaped.

Because in our family, apparently it's all about the terrible THREEs. Did I say terrible? Hah. Global warming is terrible. Wildfires are terrible. I spent some time with the thesaurus and frankly, there isn't a word that even comes close to the horror that was suddenly an every day occurrence.

I'm talking the crazed monsters that took possession of my daughters' hormonal systems and in one year wreaked more havoc than a heavy metal band on tour.

All cuteness and loveableness evaporated in the blink of an eye as even a simple explanation of the laws of nature, laws that had always been no big deal, were easily enforced and well respected ("No, you are not allowed to eat crackers in bed"), suddenly were up for grabs in a Mad Max fight to the death. Death of me, that is.

"Who the heck are you?" I asked my screeching child. "There is no way you came out of my body." I found myself wandering through the house rethinking my decision even to have children. For this I gave up Shiner and ice tea for nine months? Then I decided to stay home so I could wrestle with a loud, rude, and completely irrational human being? Yesh. I could have kept my other job for that and at least gotten dental insurance in the deal.

I'd stare at this screaming, insane banshee at my feet, who was demanding that I make her baby shoes fit her again or bring back the toy she shattered in last week's tantrum and longed to look her straight in the eye and say those two little words.

"Day care."


Now that our oldest is 10 I'm staring ever so closer into the nightmare that I've been warned about over and over - teenage years. I know now that the 'terrible' threes are just rehearsal for teenagers. At which point I'll have two other little words I'll be fighting to keep from saying.

"Boarding school."