Halloween Musings (aka the FLASH! post)

John brought the camera along on the trick-or-treat excursion tonight, the way any decent, self-respecting photographer dad would. I didn't think about the fact that the professional grade flash on his camera would EXPLODE IN OUR EYES LIKE THE LIGHT OF A THOUSAND SUNS, burning our retinas and permanently imprinting a huge purple blot right in the middle of our line of vision. Sorry about the blindness, kids - but, MAN! We got some great halloween pictures, right?! Right?!

The whole adventure was like an assault on my senses. There was the whole flash problem for my eyes, of course. Also, as soon as I walked in the door from work, Bryce started bouncing around like a frog on speed, talking so fast he was interrupting himself: "Momdoyouknowwhattonightis?It'shalloweenIlovethisnightoftheyearit'sSOCOOLI'mgoingtobe
amedeivalknightandQuinn'sgoingtobeaprinceandwegettogotrick-or-treatingIcan'twait!!!!We'regoingtogetcandyareyougoingtogetcandyIcan'twaittohavecandy
lookatthecandywegot,it'ssittingonourbanisterfortheothertrick-or-treaters,andweGETTOHAVECANDY!!!!!"

Quinn was repeating every other word Bryce said with his typical question-mark-talking, as I call it. "Candy? Trick or treating? Houses? Bag? Knight? Candy?" Once we got outside, Bryce's speed talking only got worse: "There'sahousewithalighton,let'sgotothatone.Seeitmom?It'srightthere,let'sgolet'sgolet'sgo!!!Theyhavetheirlighton, see?Canwegotheretogetcandy?Canwecanwecanwecanwecanwecanwecanwe???Iwanttogothere,Iwanttogetmorecandy!" As soon as Bryce got up to a door, he'd immediately start yelling, "Trick or Treat!" whether someone was at the door or not. Poor Quinn, who always lags behind, would come up and say, "Trick or Treating??" He couldn't just say "treat" for some reason - it was always "trick or treating". The second they turned around to leave a house, Bryce started in again: "Iwannagotoanotherhouse!Ican'twaittogettothenexthouse!I'mgoingtogetmorecandy!I'maknightsoIdecidewhereweallgo!We'regoingtothenexthousetoGETMORECANDY!"

I think I said, "Bryce, CALM DOWN!" and, "where do you think we're going, Bryce? I promise you'll get plenty of candy!" a million times. I would normally worry about being too harsh, but he was talking way too fast and way too loudly to hear anything his stupid old mom was saying. Plus, my nagging attention was divided between Bryce's speed yelling and John's every-other-second-flash-in-my-face game. FLASH! two steps FLASH! "John, that's blinding me." four steps, I can see again FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! Where's Quinn? Where's Bryce? Where are my hands?

Good times.

When we got home, Bryce was like some sort of obsessed candy cat burglar with the sneaky, quiet way he managed to open and consume way more candy than I intended for him to have right before bed. This came back to bite us (pardon the pun) when John helped him brush his teeth. From Quinn's room all the way down the hall, I could hear the screams of terror. MMM, toothpaste in your mouth after eating more sugar than you've ever consumed at one time in your life is a lovely feeling - especially for a kid who freaks out if you try to trick him by putting a new brand of canned green bean on his plate without warning him first. (Yes, apparently the stupid canned green bean brands actually taste different from each other. I believe him. He's uncanny in his ability to distinguish these things. Little freaky kid!) A few minutes later, he came into his room and sat down on his chair with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. "What's wrong, Bryce?" *Sniffle* "The toothpaste tasted BAAAAAADDDD!!!"

Witches? Goblins? Devils? Demons? Nope, the scariest thing about halloween is, apparently, toothpaste. And camera flashes.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

If your two-year-old refers to himself as a magistrate, you're in trouble.

When I was in the hospital having Bryce, one of the labor and delivery nurses said something I'll never forget. My pregnancy had been uneventful other than the outrageous weight gain and swelling from the summer heat, but the labor really caught the doctors' and nurses' attention. For some still unidentified reason, by the time we got to the pushing stage, Bryce's heart rate went down with every push, and took too long to come back up. I don't know about you, but when a doctor is "worried" about something, I'm terrified - I mean, they do this for a living and know the ups and downs of most scenarios - if something worries THEM, it must be pretty bad. During the three hours of pushing, then waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, then pushing, then waiting, then pushing, then almost having a heart attack wondering what was going on, the nurse at my side said, "Oh, he's going to be ONE OF THOSE kids."

I shot a half curious/half offended look at her, and she said, "You know, really touchy, has to have everything a certain specified way, always in control...? Some of them just come out that way." At that time, I was in the process of being prepped for a last minute decision c-section, so I was really in no frame of mind to ask for more details. As it turns out, I wouldn't need them. Nothing she could have told me would have possibly prepared me for Bryce. Besides, what little she did say, I just brushed off. "She's just jaded, she's been doing this for too long. The cord is probably wrapped around his neck. MY kid isn't going to be a touchy, intense, control freak. Who does she think she is, anyway?"

Bryce's early infancy was frought with challenges. He screamed at nap times, didn't want to be held or rocked, but didn't want to be left in his crib. He didn't latch properly, so the only way I could continue to nurse him was to pump after every single feeding - I spent half of my day hooked up to the pump or to him (I finally gave up right before returning to work after maternity leave, knowing it would be impossible to continue that way). We couldn't take him out in the early days because he would scream inconsolably if his routine was off by a smidgeon (and let's face it, no matter how much you love your kid, it's freakin' embarassing when you're in the middle of a mall holding a shrieking banshee with a confused, terrified look on your face...that was us). He smiled only at certain people, and it took a lot to make him laugh - he always seemed to be analyzing everyone - and he was so wide-eyed, we actually referred to him as the crazy-eyed baby. No matter what the situation, if it was new, he seemed to take in every single detail, and then get overwhelmed and start the screaming again. When it came time to introduce solids into his diet, he gagged like we were trying to poison him. It took visits to speech and occupational therapists to get him to eat plain cheerios. We spent a year beside ourselves with confusion - what is wrong with this kid?

When he started walking, he never "toddled". He went from crawling to running with no stumbles or trips - it was odd. He would constantly do comparisons - if he saw an elephant on TV, he would disappear, then show up in a few minutes with whatever toy elephant he could find, show it to us, then look back at the TV. We were stupid and didn't realize it at the time, but he was trying so hard to communicate with us: "Hey you big people, look! I know what an elephant is, see?! See!?" Our replies were always "Oh, what have you got there? A toy? Why do you keep pointing to the TV? And back at the toy in....your....hand......Oh." Every time we'd run into someone at the grocery store who thought he was cute, he tried in vain to communicate something about himself; the nice old ladies would say, "Hi, cutie. How old are you?" and instead of holding up one finger like most parents teach their kids to do, Bryce would say, "Buzwtcheer!!" which was his one-year-old version of "I like Buzz Lightyear." The old ladies would look confused, pat him on the head, and move on. He was thinking, "When I can talk, I'm going to make all of you wish I couldn't, you morons."

Right after Quinn was born, he was playing with some alphabet refrigerator magnets at my mom's house. He had always just stacked them up, put them on her fridge, taken them back off and put them in a bowl, etc. So when he triumphantly called out "W!" and held up the W, we were perplexed, but thought it was a fluke. I asked him if he could find the A, and he did. Then the B. Then X, Z, Q...he was able to identify 16 of the 26 letters that night. We didn't know how he did it, and still have to assume he'd picked it up from Sesame Street or some such programming. We certainly didn't teach it to him, because we didn't even know it was possible to do that with an 18-month-old. By the next week, after I identified the 10 letters he didn't know off the top of his head, he could point out all of them at random. I started looking in all the baby and toddler books I could find, but there was nothing about letter or number recognition. In the two- or three-year stage there would be mention of basic shapes, but nothing about this. We started thinking this was another weird aspect of Bryce's nature, along with the infancy and baby issues we'd been through with him.

By his second birthday, he was starting to freak us out. His vocabulary had exploded around the same time we made the alphabet discovery, and he was speaking in full sentences, counting, identifying upper and lower case letters, numbers, shapes (such as pentagon and oval), and colors (like white, brown, and gray). He had also re-discovered the power of the scream, a scream that could break glass for miles around. He was speaking well, but could never seem to communicate the complexity of whatever it was he was trying to say - especially if it involved feelings of frustration...and so he would scream a scream I've never heard re-created anywhere else: mouth wide open, head trembling from the force, face purple from exertion, eardrums bleeding for miles around, dogs from the surrounding tri-state area running towards him. It's amazing his head didn't explode that year. Luckily his vocabulary continued to grow exponentially, and once he could say words like "frustrated", the screaming dissipated. This was the time period where he put a construction paper crown on his head, walked up to me, and said, "Mom, I am a magistrate." His pediatrician recommended full-time school at his second year check up, but we didn't think we could afford it, so we put it out of our minds.

By his third birthday, he was memorizing movie scenes and re-creating them - complete with foreign accents, costume changes, and frighteningly accurate dance moves. He required constant interaction and would take most of John's attention during the day asking questions that ranged from, "Does that lady have dogs because she doesn't have any children?" to "Where is God?" You can't just ignore him; he's persistent the way tornadoes are windy - he has no problem repeating himself to infinity. At his third year checkup, the pediatrician again recommended more schooling, specifically a school geared towards gifted kids. This time we took her a little more seriously and found a school that is used to high-maintenance, intense, challenging, controlling, and infinitely entertaining kids like Bryce. They told us they not only expected, but appreciated kids like this. This was a huge relief to us after Bryce's part-time pre-school teachers had given us what felt suspiciously like a reprimand when they told us he didn't play with the other kids, and was constantly wanting to talk to the teachers. (Oh, what a pain! A kid who wants to TALK TO US. Tell his parents!)

Right after he turned four, he started attending this new school, and has been thrust into his first real intellectual challenges ever. I felt a little guilty putting him there at first. He's only four years old, and he's basically in a kindergarten (first grade?) class - all day, every day, writing, math, science, music, art, Spanish, etc. But John had to get some work done, people!! We had to do it! Four years of answering questions and keeping intensity at bay with chocolate milk and cartoons is more than any sane person can take. Besides, these teachers allow Bryce to talk to them, and the other kids play with him because they are just as quirky and intense as he is. And I feel a certain kinship to the other parents knowing that they probably went through a a freakish few years at home with their kid, too.

When I think about what we've gone through so far with Bryce, it's hard to believe how right that labor and delivery nurse was. Oh, and the cord wasn't wrapped around his neck after all. They have no idea what the problem was. Well, the nurse knows, I think.

Indeed. He is one of those. And we love our little magistrate.

Instinct Exists for a Reason

My mother-in-law lives two miles away from us, but rarely sees the kids. She is chronically busy. So busy no mortal could ever begin to comprehend the busy, busy level of her busy-ness. I'm not completely being sarcastic - she IS always on the run. There's her prayer group, her charity meetings, her part-time job as a church receptionist, her chauffering of her mentally disabled daughter to various events including special olympics meets and social functions. Having grandkids over is always on her list, but a person can only do so much, and she's the type of person who will either do something perfectly or not at all.

In light of the fact that she suddenly realized that she's never had Bryce and Quinn spend the night at her house, she decided to orchestrate something she termed "Nana Camp". She invited all of her grandkids over for a blowout bash - carnival games, movies, cookie-baking, halloween stories, everyone sleeping in one huge lovely cousin bed, waffles for breakfast and home to the parents with a bag of goodies. She spent weeks planning the event, had t-shirts made, re-arranged her house to accomodate the number of kids and the activities, mailed formal invitations to each child, and wrote "Camp Rules" to review upon the campers' arrival. See what I mean? When she does something, she takes it to complete perfection. Everything was perfect except for one thing: my reaction.

It's a nice idea, I guess - Nana Camp. Any other mom would have been chomping at the bit for a chance to have a night out while the kids get entertained for free. But, I am spoiled with a mom who keeps my kids at her house on a regular basis so John and I can go out, AND I had a few issues with the idea anyway. For one thing, Quinn still sleeps in a crib and doesn't do well in new sleep situations. John's mom has never kept him over night and is therefore not privy to this - plus she'd have four OTHER kids to deal with. Not a good scenario. I predicted Quinn wouldn't go to sleep, which would mean he'd be delirious and cranky. And for another, Bryce is anal and routine-dependent. He can be flexible and is moreso than he used to be, but a situation involving sugar, a late night, cousins he's not used to being around, and a new sleeping arrangement would be too much for him. I predicted some sort of meltdown, or at the very least, an uncomfortable, maybe even scared, kid. I didn't like that.

John agreed with my concerns, but in the end he convinced me they would be fine. It's just one night, after all. No big deal. I went against my better judgment and let the whole thing go. When we got there with the kids, the cousins were running around playing carnival games with a dazed, over-stimulated look on their faces. Bryce and Quinn stood there like stunned animals, and then joined in. We stayed for about 15 minutes and then said our goodbyes. When we got in the car, I said to John, "Bryce is not comfortable in there." I was thinking John would blow me off and say I was reading too much into things, but he said, "Yeah, I know. He is really different in those situations - he even walks differently." At Quinn's bedtime, I made John call his mom to check in. She told him Quinn was asleep and Bryce was peacefully watching a movie with the other kids, and we both breathed a sigh of relief, thinking his mom was as amazing as she seemed, and had everything so under control that Quinn didn't terrorize the whole group and Bryce didn't go into a pre-schooler depression the way I'd predicted. We went to a movie and I thought, "Huh, maybe I've been wrong about this. I am really a control freak. I'm glad she proved me wrong and the kids are fine."

When we picked them up the next morning, we got some new information. Huh!...It actually turns out that Quinn didn't go to sleep at all when they'd tried to put him down (Hannah and John's sister were there as "Nana Camp counselors" ), and in fact had...wait for it...wait for it...SCREAMED HIS BLOODY HEAD OFF and refused to sleep! Oh! How strange and unexpected! We had apparently called during the 15 minutes when he'd fooled everyone into thinking he was going right to sleep in this strange bed, in this strange house, with all sorts of fun noises coming from the room with the other kids in it. Let's see, what else did we learn? Oh, that's right - Bryce started crying 15 minutes after we left, saying he wanted his mom and he wanted to go home. Wow, really?? Bryce was upset in a chaotic and unfamiliar situation?

The kids were like some sort of unstable compound when we got them home; it was all I could do to keep them from spontaneously combusting until nap time. They were so exhausted that every little interaction and feeling became magnified by millions. The usual, "Mom, will you read me a book?" turned into a sobfest: "I want to read this book, mom! No, not that one, this one! Mom, mom, MOOOHOOOOHOOOHOOOOMMMMMM!"

John's mom came by a little later to drop Hannah off, and when she came through the door looking so haggard and exhausted, and with that, "I pulled it off, but I'm glad it's over" look in her eye, I realized that there was a pretty good reason she'd waited so long to have them over. My predictions had indeed come true - Quinn didn't sleep, Bryce freaked out. Having raised four children in her life, and having played a big role in John's older kids' lives during his divorce and an era when he worked ridiculous hours, she's not at all unfamiliar with kids, and I'm sure she expected the same level of chaos that I had. I appreciate what she wanted to do, but I wish the kids' experience didn't have to be dotted with points of fear and sadness, and I think if it hadn't been such a huge, overstimulating event, it would have been different for them.

What is it they say about good intentions? The road to hell is paved with them, right? Yes, but whose hell, exactly?? The owner of the good intentions, or the recipients of whatever supposedly selfless deed was done? SHE with the good intentions got to go home and take a nap. I got left with a couple of the earth's most volatile compounds. And the poor kids...they're walking around with post-traumatic stress disorder. Luckily they're young enough that a nap still heals all. Nonetheless, next time I'm going with my gut.

In Love and War

I've been frustrated ever since I can remember. It's like there is a clenched fist of unease and disgruntlement wrapped around the neck of my psyche, choking the life out of any potential long-term contentment with whatever my situation may be at any given time. I have a heightened sense of...well, everything - sound, smell, touch, taste, sight. This serves, and has served me well in certain areas of my life, like my job, where I am paid to notice mistakes as small as they may be; in certain aspects of parenting, allowing me to ward off tantrums and maybe even illness because I notice a minute change in behavior or body language and can act accordingly; and in school where I was able to put my occasionally photographic memory to good use. But in other areas of life, this hyper-awareness can be a cause of much - you guessed it - frustration. I pick up "vibes" in conversations with people that result in my compulsive analysis and re-analysis of what was being discussed, what 10 possibilities exist for said "vibe" to represent, and why I should even care about it in the first place; I take in too much information in crowded situations and hit sensory overload like a toddler, lashing out at those around me until things are more to my nit-picky liking; and I set up unrealistic expectations for my loud, intense, life-loving, and sometimes wild kids - wanting them to stick to a routine that won't overwhelm me and will give my psyche enough space to breathe through the impeding hold around its neck.

Shortly after the kids were born, I started a War on Frustration that carries on to this day. The war consists of my constant self-reminders to:

a.) let them live in the world without passing down my chronic agitation and apprehension or drawing too much attention to my own struggle with it, and

b.) LET THINGS GO.

Every morning while I'm trying to get ready, Bryce is in and out of our tiny bathroom, standing behind me and talking to me in the mirror, hopping around while I'm trying to dry my hair or put my contacts in, usually causing me to trip over him or drop something in the process. For years I've tried to get up earlier so I'll be done before he's awake, but my attempts have failed. The part of me that is winning the War on Frustration thinks, "I should appreciate this era while he still wants to spend time with me instead of doing something much cooler, like sleeping or drowning in teen angst behind his 'keep out' sign-covered bedroom door." The part of me that is still choking under the magnificent strength of the fist thinks, "ARGH! I just want to get ready in peace! Why can't he stand still? Why is he so loud?? And what's with the seizure-like dancing??"

Last night as John was putting Bryce to bed, he said, "I want you to sleep until 7:00 tomorrow, okay? You've been getting up too early and you need the rest." Bryce said, without an argumentative or challenging tone, and at a normal human voice volume level (which is always a surprise with him), "I can't, because then I'd miss mom." There were a few days last month when I left for work earlier than Bryce woke up, and John had told me Bryce had been upset about this, but the subject never really came up again. When I heard his tentative, vulnerable four-year-old voice over the monitor, that vice-like grip of frustration loosened by enough that I think I could physically feel it.

Of course, that victorious step in the War was followed by a wave of fresh guilt and shame that was rivaled only by what I felt when I was drying my hair this morning and I heard a soft knock at the door behind me. Bryce stuck his head in, smiled, and said, "Mom, I just wanted to tell you that we named the pumpkins Batman and Happy Face, because one has batman on it, and the other has a happy face on it. That's all I wanted to tell you." Then he closed the door and left me in my empty, lonely bathroom to get ready without tripping over the kid who loves me so much he doesn't want to sleep. Ouch.

Bryce inherited my hyperawareness and my chronic frustration, and his manifests itself in so many strange and intense ways. But, ironically, rather than strengthening the fist's hold, this little four-year-old ball of intensity has single-handedly dealt the most victorious blows in my War on Frustration. Sure, the fist still tightens when he's screaming "I SAID I DON'T LIKE BIG BITES!" after I innocently offer him one half of a macaroni noodle from the end of a fork. And when he's purposely "singing" (read: shouting) and running in circles while I'm on the phone, just to get to me. And when he feigns such intense interest in whatever Quinn is playing with that he has to snatch it out of his hand RIGHT THEN, just to get to him. But when I catch glimpses into his motivations that remind me how little and vulnerable he actually still is, and I feel that grip loosen so substantially, I think, "we're gonna win this thing."

And then I'm going to need decades of therapy to deal with my guilt.

The Donut Dance

6:45 AM. There is a strange silence in the house and I just can't put my finger on what is missing. Bryce is awake, and has been since 6:30. From the kithcen I hear Kristen's hairdryer through two closed doors. The micorwave hums as Bryce's oatmeal cooks. The dog, Truman, scratches at the sliding glass door wanting back in from his torturous 2 minutes outside.

Setting Bryce's bowl of oatmeal in front of him, I encourage him to to eat more than his usual 3 teeny, tiny bites and then announcing his tummy is full by saying "Wow, look at that yummy oatmeal. I wonder how many bites it would take to empty the bowl? How many bites do you think it would take? Can you count them to see? Maybe we could estimate how many and then compare our estimate to how many it actually takes?" Bryce responds by saying "I don't like big bites." "You don't have to take big bites, just count the bites you do take!"

Then it hits me. The missing morning sound. Hannah! She's not up! She's going to miss the bus and I'm going to have to take her to school! Running through the changes I will have to make to the morning routine in my head, I head up the stairs to wake her. Opening her bedroom door, I cheerfully say "YOU OVERSLEPT! GET UP! HURRY!" and head back downstairs.

Suh-Weet! Taking Hannah to school will add an extra 20 minutes or more to my current 50 minute "scream drive" with my two-year-old. Bryce only suffers half this time, as he gets to exit after the good half of the drive. And funny enough, Quinn usually is rather fun on the the way TO school. Once his brother jumps out, though, he turns into the Can Only Say One Thing Over and Over Cause I Know You Can't Hear Me Kid: "ready to go home, dad. ready to go home, dad. go home, dad go home dad go home dad GO HOME DAD.......GO ......HOME......DAD!" And that's in the first blcok pulling away from the school.

7:45 AM. With a little rushing, we load into the van and head out. Getting Hannah to school is fine, traffic not too bad, kids talkative and happy. We don't have enough time to go home, then leave again to take Bryce to school, so I decide to take an alternate route to add a few extra minutes to the drive so we don't have to park and wait at the school. I choose the Riverside drive. Fewer stop lights, nice scenic view of the river, no commerce - only residential property and parks.

8:15 AM. Then I hear "I have to poop" from the depths of the van. "Can you hold it until we get to school?" I ask with hope. "I really have to go!" is the reply. What was I thinking taking Riverside? The only place to go to the bathroom along this route is a public park bathroom.....uh, no thanks. Not only will I not ever use one, there is no way I would take my kid in one. Thinking fast, I headed to the nearest Quick Trip, thankfully only one backtracking mile away.

8:25 AM. We pile out, go into QT, and do our business. We almost don't make it because Bryce at first insists that he go in the stall alone. As I am telling him all the reasons why I need to go in and help him, Quinn wanders over to investigate the white porcelain "water drinker" on the wall. Grabbing him just before he sticks his face into the urinal, I drag him and Bryce into the toilet stall, yank B's pants down, sit him on the toilet and tell him to go. After a few too many forced grunts for effects after the "plop" is heard, we wash up and exit. Weaving our way through the morning QT coffee crowd, we pass by the donut case. "Can I have a donut?" Bryce asks. In a brief moment of weakness, I say sure. After all, he ate 78 bites of oatmeal for breakfast so what's the harm?

8:33 AM. "I can?" he asks with disbelief, and then immediately breaks out into a ritualistic tribal dance, waving his hands in the air, jumping and writhing as though possesed while singing "I get a do - nut! I get a do - nut" A large burly guy walks by and looks down at Bryce while he is singing and doing the Donut Dance. Bryce stops momentarily, looks him in the eye, and proclaims "I get a DONUT!" and immediatley breaks back into his Donut Dance and song.

8:45 AM. Back in the van, belted in, and in donut heaven (not just any donut heaven, but a cake donut with icing and halloween orange and chocolate sprinkles donut heaven) we make the final leg of our trip to school. Bryce jumps out of the van, waves goodbye, and shuts the door.

8:46 AM. "Ready to go home, dad. Ready to go home, dad. Ready to go home dad. Ready to go home dad. go home dad. gohomedad.GOHOMEDAD!GOHOMEGOHOMEGOHOME........."

Hello, My Name is Kristen, and I Have a Moth Problem.

Yes, it's true. I've been hiding it for weeks, but now I must come clean. Literally. COME CLEAN.

About a month ago, John and I started noticing the occasional tiny moth flapping around our pantry doors. We didn't really think much about it - for several reasons, including:

1.) We have two pre-schoolers, a teenager, and a 70-pound dog living with us, so there are plenty of bugs, dust bunnies, dead leaves, mud clumps, and other foreign objects (dead and alive) that would usually be found outside - or at least wouldn't be welcome in a remotely clean house. The only ones I notice anymore are the ones that John and I have an ongoing argument about - I say they're roaches, he swears they're not, but has no clue what they actually might be (and I think the only reason I notice them is because every time I see them is another opportunity for me to try to prove my completely unimportant - and, admittedly wrong - point about them being roaches).

2.) Anytime we're getting into the pantry, there is usually a small child latched onto one of our legs, starving, begging for food - a mere crumb will do, sir - so most of our attention is completely focused on ENDING THE NOISE by shoving the first cracker we can find into the opening from which all the noise is emanating. A teeny little moth goes almost completely unnoticed.

3.) Between the stress of teenage depression, four-year-old non-stop intensity manifested in food neurosis, two-year-old tantrums, John's harried photography schedule, and my own dissatisfaction with a "career path" leading nowhere, not to mention the never-ending demands of owning a house (the ridiculous list of what we've had to do to the house in the past 12 months alone will be left for another day, but suffice it to say.....now the heater is broken!) we choose to be in denial over a little moth here or there, rather than add that straw to the camel's back.

Stupid camel's back. I think mine is defective.

Over the weekend John had an out-of-town wedding, so I had more "quiet" time in the house with the kids. Yeah, quiet. Quiet like a train wreck. Anyway, during an attempt to get lunch ready for the kids, I noticed that the moths were getting out of control, flying all around the pantry doors, and I decided to come out of denial and investigate the dark, unknown depths of our apparently filthy food storage area. I poked around and pulled a few things out, but everything looked fine, so I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my happy denial place.

The next morning I decided to be a festive, fall-loving, domestic mom and make some pumpkin bread for my kids. I opened the spice cabinet and practically fell over from the force of the DISGUST I felt when about 12 moths flew out at me. GROSS! The moths are in there??!! The spice cabinet is like the nether regions of our house - I have no idea what's up there because I NEVER BAKE. I tried with all my might to push my brain back into happy denial land, and started getting everything out for the pumpkin bread, but alas - the flour was no good, the sugar was no good - GREAT. Now I actually have to address this moth situation. NO! NO! Pumpkin bread! FOCUS ON THE PUMPKIN BREAD. There is a simple answer - just go to the store and get more flour and sugar. Oh yeah, I could do that. I closed the spice cabinet and went to the store for the ingredients and we had our festive pumpkin bread that very afternoon. That evening, just to be safe, I cleaned out the entire pantry. Notice I said "pantry", not spice cabinet, because you see, I was still in my happy denial place.

It was not until today that I was yanked out of that place and into the disgusting reality of my moth-infested spice cabinet. It had become ridiculously difficult to pretend there were no moths - every few steps I'd notice one fly past. Hannah was pointing them out constantly, too - talking nonstop about the one subject I didn't want her to be open about. A few had even made their way upstairs. I couldn't figure out where they could possibly be coming from in the spice cabinet, which is one reason I'd stayed in denial for so long, so I decided to take everything out like I had done with the pantry. I immediately found the source of the moths (an old bag of pecans stuffed behind bottles of soy sauce and olive oil), and then thought, "who can I blame for this? and how can I get John to clean this up?" But, after my long battle with this shameful problem, I knew the best therapy was to face it directly. I cleaned everything off the shelf except for the bag of pecans (it was so disgusting it didn't even look like pecans - I just assumed it had once been pecans because of the label on the bag), and then proceeded to stand there and have a staredown with it. Bryce was on the floor below my chair, hopping around wanting a brownie for dessert. "I can't get it right now, Bryce, I'm afraid to touch this bag of pecans." "Why, mom? Just pick it up!" I tried to verbalize what could possibly be scaring me about the bag. It was completely illogical, and even if it were logical, would it have been that scary to have several moths fly at me when I picked up the bag? What a wuss!

In a very anti-climactic end to my moth condition, I used two plastic grocery sacks (a double layer of ultra-protective cheap plastic) to cover my hands as I prepared to pick up the pecan bag, and as the horror movie soundtrack roared to a crescendo, I slowly reached my hand into the cabinet, steadying myself on the counter top, telling Bryce to stand back ("save yourself! don't worry about me!") and then, and then, AND THEN.....

No moths flew out. There was a horrific amount of moth dust under and around the pecan bag, but no actual moths. I cleaned out the entire cabinet, had John and Hannah sign affidavits swearing they would never again place an open bag of nuts into the dark nether regions of the kitchen, re-organized my now sparse spice collection, and released my soul's burden of carrying around this shame for so long.

A clean spice cabinet, a moth-free house. Ah, redemption!

Fall Break(down)

What could be better than two full weekdays at home with the whole family? Well, let's see - um, there's getting my hair ripped out one strand at a time, walking over hot coals, sleeping on a bed of nails, or the classic standby, being forced to drag my own fingernails down a chalkboard for all eternity.

Where did "fall break" even come from? I thought Christmas Break and Spring Break were the only breaks - and bracing for those is hard enough. Why do they need a break after being in school for a month? I don't get that. Didn't they just have a three-month-long free-for-all summer vacation??? Yes, I'm one of the "I used to walk uphill both ways in the snow" parents. I never had a "fall break" - why do they need a "fall break"?...please don't send them home for fall break!!!! I'm begging you! Fall Break is really cruel and sneaky, too - you just get used to the lovely, peaceful school-day routine of having at least one kid out of the house for several hours, and then there's very little warning, just a side note on a school newsletter that says "parent teacher conferences," so you don't think anything of it and innocently set said newsletter aside. After looking at it a few times you start to get a little suspicious: "wait a minute, if the parent-teacher conferences are scheduled all day on Thursday and Friday then that means.....HEEEYYYY!!!"

Usually fall break only affects Hannah, John's 15-year-old daughter, and since she's basically our built-in yard laborer when she's at home during normal school days, she probably hates fall break more than we ever could. But now that Bryce is in school, fall break has a whole new, horrific dimension for us (somehow John talked me into taking these two days off work - have I LOST MY MIND???). I think the fall break gods are smiting us for all the years of leaf raking, gutter cleaning, sidewalk sweeping, and car washing we've used to build Hannah's character (or as Hannah would say, to "torture her and ruin her life" - hey, it's all semantics). To quote my brother Jonathan: "Touche, life. Touche."

We tried to approach the long weekend like a great opportunity to be productive (so - yes, I have lost my mind - only the ramblings of a madwoman would contain the word "productive" in a story involving pre-schoolers). Despite the chronic arguing, whining, pushing, food-throwing, and basic misery caused by two kids who aren't used to being each other's all day partners in the making-of-insane-parents-complete-with-involuntary-twitches, we did manage to clean out the garage (ah, yes, Hannah loves her life), and then John had a great vision for a fun family activity: "let's get bikes and bike seats, and all go for a bike ride." Simple and fun. Fun and simple. Wholesome, healthy, and FUN FUN FUN! What could possibly go wrong? What kid wouldn't like a trip to a huge discount chain full of toys and food to be forced to stay in one aisle to pick out bikes and bike accessories, then come home, wait an hour for their dad to put everything together while their mom pulls her hair out from their bored whining and constant "is it time yet? now is it time? how about now?" questions, then get smashed under the weight of their dad while they cram themselves into the bike seat meant for a 9-month-old, and have their baby-fine hair pulled out by the roots when the cheap bike helmets are taken off their heads??? That's FUN!! FUN FUN! If "fun" means "kind of like the 7th circle of HELL," then yes, it was a fun autumn activity to be enjoyed by all. Hannah got a new bike out of the deal; I am liking my "vengeful fall break gods" theory more and more all the time (and it makes sense that the fall break gods would be on the side of the teenagers, who in theory benefit most from this event). It's either that, or Hannah invested in some fall break voodoo dolls in retribution for years of yard work.

The next day we took everyone to Oktoberfest. The kids got to go on carnival rides, dance with the Chicken and the Beermeister, and wear yellow-feathered chicken masks; John got to drink German beer and take thousands of pictures; Hannah got the batman symbol temporarily tattooed on her arm (teenagers are weird); and I got to drown my fall break sorrows in candied pecans and German cheesecake. We got sweatshirts that say "Oktoberfest 2005," but I think I'll always read them as "I Survived Fall Break Even Though My Stepdaughter's Character Building Torture Came Back to Smite Us All."

You people who think tobacco companies are marketing to children are obviously WRONG.

I mean, why would kids be interested in colorful, animated, lively pages with BIG, BIG letters on them? Uh, wait...



Yeah, they looked at this ad for about five minutes...which is about THREE HOURS in adult time. Apparently we can't leave "news" publications sitting around anymore. News, cigarette ads...same thing.

Phythithian'th Athithtant to the Anethethiologitht

My mom had her thyroid removed yesterday, so I went to visit her in the hospital. It must have been the morphine talking, but she was full of quips. And I guess everything she said seemed a lot funnier because she was lying in a hospital bed looking pretty frail, so I wasn't expecting any humerous conversation. She was also very groggy, asleep, then awake, then asleep. A couple of times I'd be talking to my stepdad about something work- or kid-related, and out of the blue from under 38 blankets and tangled in IV and bed control cords, she'd mumble something random like, "three. that's just beautiful" and we would just look at each other first with confusion, then with rolled eyes, then some awkward chuckles. During one of her more awake moments she said, "Oh! Did I tell you about the anesthesiolgy pre-op information? The PA had a severe lisp! 'Hello, I'm the Physician's Assistant to the Anesthesiologist'!! Geez, lady, why don't you pick a career with a few less "s"s in it??!! And she didn't even say 'PA,' she said 'Physician's Assistant'!!"

A few minutes later she was telling me that on top of her other random, mysterious health problems, she thinks that she now has vertigo (I foresee many jokes coming from this unfortunate condition). She said she'd done some research and talked to her dr. about it, and "apparently there are these...little calcium crystals? That break off and kind of float around in your inner ear?" I asked her what could be done about the random dizzy spells, and she said her doctor told her there was a medication if the spells became more frequent, and that in severe cases, there is a treatment where you are put in a machine that holds you upside down for hours. My mom was incredulous: "That is like a form of medieval torture! Why can't they just LASER the calcium crystals or something??!!"

I've never had a more entertaining visit to someone recovering from surgery. Maybe they'll give her some of that morphine to take home.

A Mona Lisa Interpretation by Bryce

From Kristen: We only know it's the Mona Lisa because that's what he told us. If I had a gun held to my head and had to venture a guess, I'd say it looks more like something Van Gogh would do. Oh, and Quinn refers to this masterpiece as "Mr. Potato Head?" The question mark is there because he never says it with confidence...like he's constantly trying to figure out what it really is.

Quinnisms: Tragicomedy At Its Best

Quinn is the "baby" of the house. I have "baby" in quotes because in my head I realize that at 2 1/2 years old, he is no longer technically in that category, but since he carries on baby-like dialogue, has chubby toddler cheeks and silky thin hair, and still wears diapers, I will cling to the "baby" title as long as humanly possible without completely losing my last shred of dignity. (The kids were 18.5 months apart, so their true "baby" days went by in a blur; let me enjoy what little is left!) From the beginning, Quinn has fit the Baby Mold - he walked later, talked later, hit all the difficult stages later than average and later than Bryce had. He was termed The Easy One (sorry Bryce, but there's no getting around this one - you were definitely The High Maintenance One) from the very earliest days of his existence, and until the horrible reality of his second year gave us the rudest awakening of our lives, he was pretty consistent with his content, laid back, happy, easy-going nature.

The "terrible twos" with Quinn have really been more like the "bipolar twos" - he can't completely let go of that sweet, wonderful underlying puppy-like personality, but he also can't control the Rage of a Thousand Demons that seems to come spewing out at the most inoppurtune moments - in the middle of a quiet section in the grocery store or restaurant, for instance, or during a phone call from a client while, idiot that I am, I attempt to give directions to a photo shoot location for John after I, idiot that I am, make the idiotic decision to be an idiot and pick up the phone with a two-year-old in the room. IDIOT! Bryce ALWAYS picks those times to take whatever Quinn is interested in, seeing as how he's bigger, stronger, and faster than Quinn, whose only defense is to unleash his fury on the world by taking a deep breath, first trembling in preparation, then tightening his entire body and letting out a blood-curdling SHRIEK while simultaneously pointing both fingers straight out in front of him as if to say, "I condemn you all to HELL, you treacherous fiends!!!!" Whoah. And you should see his bad side.

Then there are the moments that Quinn cracks up entire rooms full of people (and in these times I can hardly remember the demon-Quinn who will terrorize us all if we keep him up too late, even by ONE SINGLE MINUTE). The other night at dinner things were a little dicey - the boys are always both on edge and we teeter between threatening to send them to their rooms and just throwing in the towel and giving them permission to destroy the entire house, just so we don't have to worry about things breaking anymore. But sometimes Quinn really saves us all with his hilarity, and the other night was one of those times. After several admonishments for spreading cold, sticky noodles around on the table, dropping bread chunks into his water glass, smashing black beans into paste, and loudly interrupting everyone at one point or another, Quinn got out of his chair, which was about to be the final straw for my patience level. I told him to get back into his chair and he turned around and in a very Eeyore-like, fake deep voice said, "O-KAY.. M o m m y..," which made us all giggle. Then he realized he had an audience and said, "Watch THIS!" and proceeded to mouth what looked like gibberish, with a completely straight face. We were laughing with the silent, can't breathe kind of laughter that really could have caused us to choke since we were eating at the time. We realized after a few minutes (this went on and on) that he was actually doing his famous "roll call", only without sound, because then he started pointing while he was doing it. It got difficult for him to keep up, so he started whispering rather than mouthing, and we heard this little two-year-old whispery voice pointing out everything at the table: "That's soup, that's cornbread, that's milk, that's Bryce, that's butter, that's a spoon, that's mommy, that's daddy, that's Quinn..."

Because Bryce talks SO MUCH, Quinn started out having a difficult time getting a word in edgewise, which is probably why he was a late talker. And now that he's perfected the art of Getting the Attention of Those Around Him, he won't let it go without a fight - hence, the notorious roll call mentioned earlier. If he doesn't have anything in particular to say, but feels left out of a conversation, he will do this sort of stream-of-consciousness talking that gradually increases in speed and volume until he's sure that 100% of the available listening audience is tuned in - this usually starts out with him repeating the last part of the most recent conversation, then pointing out everyone present in the room or car, and by the time he has your attention, it seems to turn into some kind of weird, fast-forwarded version of a reprimand for something completely random. It ends up going something like this: "It's a big slide for older kids. We're not going on it today because it's late, we're going home to bed, and there's Happy Donald's (a morph of Happy Meal and McDonald's, I think), french fries chicken nuggets milk there's Brycethere'sdaddythere'smommythere'sQuinnthere'sBryce. [now he has our attention due to speed and volume] No, Mommy, don't say that!! Don't say that, Bryce! Daddy, don't say that. DON'T SAY THAT!!!" We're all dazed and confused by the end of these exchanges, but Quinn thinks they are quite amusing. And he gets exactly what he wanted out of it - an audience.

I think these performances are as much for his entertainment as they are for ours, though. This puppy-like creature has used his baby status to achieve complete and total manipulation. Hey, if his bipolar two-year-old self gets some satisfaction from making us all squirm between delight and terror, let him have it. He deserves something for the challenges he faces as the final of four time- and attention-consuming individuals. No, I'm not biased towards the baby. Not at all. But isn't he adorable?

No Kissing, No Secrets, No Gum

"What's that smell I smell?" Bryce asked from the first row of the back seat on our way to school this morning. Not knowing for sure if he was referring to the 3 months accumulation of moldy food remnants on the floor of the van or the stale, acidic aroma from the coffee cup I had forgotten to take in the house from 3 days ago, I said "What smell?"

"That smell I smell" he replied. "Is it gum?"

"Yes, it's gum", realizing I had just popped a stick of spearmint gum in my mouth.

"Can I have some?"

"No, no gum. You're not old enough to chew gum yet."

"When will I be old enough?"

"When you're seven years old"

"OK"

The drive to Bryce's school is 8.3 miles one way, has 13 stop lights, is on one of the busier streets in town, has mostly commercial businesses and strip shopping centers on both sides of the street, and it takes 26 minutes to get there if I hit all 13 red lights (which is usually the case.) The drive is bad enough with all the cars pulling in and out, turning left and right, cars weaving in and out of traffic but to add two kids who don't like sitting still for 30 seconds can be very dangerous.

To keep the boys' interest (and prevent yelling and fights), I try to make up games to play along the way, or get them to sing along with me to made up songs, or make up stories about the people in the cars next to us at stop lights. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. This morning I was singing "The William Tell overture". Well, not really singing, more like "ba da bum, ba da bum, ba da bum bum bum." I would do it very softly at first, then loudly at the "ba da bummmmm, (slight pause for effect) ba da bum bum bum!" The boys would wait with anticipation as I built up to the thunderous crescendo, and "ba da bum bum bum" right along with me, breaking into fits of laughter.

As we were getting closer to the school, Bryce announces to me "You have to take your gum out of your mouth."

"No, I don't. I am going to keep it for while longer."

"Dad, my school has three rules"

"Three rules?"

"Yes Dad, three rules. The rules are: no kissing, no secrets, and no gum. So you have to take the gum out before we get to my school."

"Those are the three rules at your school? No kissing, no secrets, and no gum?"

"Yes Dad, those are the three rules."

"So I can't give you a kiss goodbye before you get out of the van?"

"No, no, no, no. You can kiss me, that's OK, we just aren't allowed to kiss other kids. And no secrets, and no gum."

I decided to take the gum out of my mouth, to show him that rules are rules, and everyone must abide whether we like them or not, so I took the gum out of my mouth and wrapped it in the foil.

"Is it out?" he asked.

"Yes, it's out. I wrapped it up in the wrapper."

"Thanks, Dad" he said as we pulled up to the curb. I helped him unbuckle his carseat harness and handed him his backpack. "Have a great day!" I told him, and gave him a kiss. He jumped out of the van and headed down the sidewalk to the school entrance.

We attempt to minimize the amount of violence the kids see. We don't have any toy guns, power ranger / GI Joe videos or toys, or the like. Since this is also something the school endorses, the 3 rules consisting of no kissing, no secrets, and no gum is as great a place as any to start with 4 year olds. Just another reason Kristen and I really like Bryce's school.

O, Conference Room, Companion to My Solitude

Have I mentioned that I work with male engineers? And that I'm female, with the word "marketing" in my title? That combination spells disaster - at least for a college educated, angst-filled individual like me. I only mention the college educated part because here, I am treated like an uneducated, disposable (although we're ALL disposable in the corporate world, no matter what our education level), and actually clueless maid, or copy girl, or envelope sealer, or bagel acquirer - I could go on, but I think I've made my point. The fact that I might have the ability to analyze each situation and create my own ideas from new criteria would NEVER enter these people's minds. Not that it really matters, since what I do is basically fill-in-the-blank-with-the-same-old-crap every single time anyway. But, the potential exists for me to do something new and innovative, and that potential is completely wasted here.

Today there was some excitement brewing. TWO WHOLE new projects came in, and I had TWO WHOLE meetings scheduled. WHOOOO!!!!! You should have seen my Protestant Work Ethic kick right in. Files were made, research was done, documents were printed out and lovingly stapled together for the most organized kick-off meeting preparation these male engineers ever would see. Fifteen minutes before the start of the meetings, I made sure I'd covered all my bases, had all my VERY important files with me, and headed to the conference room. I moved the speaker phone into the most optimum location and waited for the engineers to join me so we could call our "leader". When the meeting time came around, none of the in-office attendees were there. "No problem," I thought. "These engineers, they are so, so busy; I'm sure they're finishing up whatever they're working on and are headed over here momentarily. I'll go ahead and call the 'leader' and we can get started. Hmm, no answer from the 'leader'. Well, I'll wait a few minutes. They'll be here soon. These quirky engineers! Ha Ha!"

I'm sure you can tell where this is going. No one showed up, no one called. When my "leader" did finally call, he said, "how are you?" and in my wounded voice (which to my "leader" sounds exactly like my bitchy, crossing-the-line voice) I said, "I've been better." Did I get an apology, or even a re-scheduled meeting? No, I did not. But here's the beauty about my "hurry up and wait" job - when they're scrambling for ME to finish something for a deadline that will actually affect THEM, I get to use that really cheesy, yet somehow deeply satisfying phrase: "A failure to plan on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine."

Yes, it's the little things in life that bring the most pleasure. I'm patient. I can wait for my moment of triumph, SUCKAS!

Noir's Story

To know Bryce is to know Noir. If you saw her, you might think that Noir was a tattered, faded light blue thermal blanket, but you would be WRONG. Dead wrong. She is Bryce's cat, and she cannot be left alone, because she becomes very lonely. She accompanies us on car rides and has to sleep in Bryce's bed with him. Sometimes she pretends to be a hat, an elephant trunk, or a cape; she is quite talented. Bryce named Noir when he was two years old; we thought it was a phase. But now she is a bona fide member of our family.

One time when Bryce was three, some foolish pre-school teacher accidentally sent her home with a classmate, and much drama ensued. In fact, I personally cried some tears over that one, thinking that we'd lost her forever and I was going to have to figure out a way to discuss the grieving process with my pre-schooler. As it was, John and I had to do some major thinking. After literally calling the parent of every kid in his class, leaving frantic messages on their machines explaining that Bryce had never slept a night without this precious item, we had not located her. Bedtime was approaching, and I was about to die of heartache every time Bryce looked at me with those hopeful, tear-filled eyes and said, "did Riley have her? Did you talk to his mom?"

In a flash of brilliance that can only be described as a Festivus miracle!, John remembered that Noir originally (as in when Bryce was still sleeping in a crib) had an accompanying blanket partner, one which was still folded neatly in his drawer. He introduced it as "Noir's Sister" and we asked Bryce if she would be acceptable until the next day, when we would continue our search in earnest. For those of you who think we could have "tricked" Bryce by telling him we found Noir and presenting him with this imposter cat-blanket, well, you don't know Bryce very well. That kid can walk into the house after being gone all day and spot the most miniscule, inconsequential change to a room: "Who moved this carpet?" "You mean by half an inch when I swept the wood floor earlier??". The word "perceptive" doesn't even begin to describe him.

Noir's sister didn't really cut it, but we also offered Noir's Dad and Noir's Grandmother (Noir's Mom happens to live with my mom). We all made it through the night and the next day she was FOUND! with a classmate who had recently moved, so we hadn't had the right phone number for him when we'd been calling parents the day before. Luckily Bryce's school took our missing cat report seriously enough to help us find her - we all know if you don't find a missing cat-blanket within 24 hours, it's very unlikely that she'll ever turn up at all.

We might be misfits, but at least we're not them.

I photograph people, primarily girls in white dresses , but I also do a fair amount of families and children. During this breif but intense time with a family, I always find myself comparing what I think their life is to mine, how they parent their kids to how we parent, how smart their kids are to mine. I generally come away feeling good about myself in comparison, but today I really did.

I had agreed to a do a family session today, and had booked it through my youngest son's preschool as part of their overall photography fundraiser (I had already taken school pictures of 175 preschool aged kids.) I dropped my normal price in half for these preschool family sessions, and my last family scheduled for today had 6 members.

The family I was to take pictures of arrived in two minivans. Out of one van poured Mom, Dad, grandma and three kids (triplets, 17 months old). out from the other van came another child, another grandma, a grandpa, and a great grandma with an obvious replacement knee pushing a wheeled walker. It took them 15 minutes to gather themselves and make it 20 yards from the parking lot to where I was going to start clicking the shutter. There was bickering, arguing, and the triplets running everywhere.

After spending 20 minutes placing them where I wanted them and taking a few pictures, the triplets became bored and began running off. The dad started screaming and threatening them (like that ever does any good.) The mom started yelling at the dad about his yelling at the kids, and her mom was at her ear saying she was right, he shouldn't yell at the kids that way. It also soon became apparent that certain members of the "family" really didn't want to be there in the first place.

This went on and on. Chaos every 7 minutes. I am usually pretty good at controlling the situation with families, but this became too much for me right from the outset. I had planned on this session taking about 35 minutes, but it turned out lasting over an hour.

I sometimes lose it with my kids too, but we are usually good at setting our expectations at a reasonable level when we endevour a family outing, even if the outing is just to the store. Never have I witnessed such tension and obvious dislike (for each other and what was being attempted) from a group before. I came away mentally tired, but satisfied and happy that even with all the stuff we go through, at least we're not them.

This is why I shouldn't be allowed to have candles in my home.

And all I wanted to accomplish today was a phone call to my brother.

Why do I bemoan the fact that we have no social life? I seem to forget that every time we're invited to any sort of party, by the time the actual day arrives, I look for any reason not to go: "Was that a sniffle? Does the dog look like he's limping? Good God, did you forget to clean the curtains???? Obviously I'll never make it to this birthday party now!" And once I do force myself to go, I'm never comfortable: "Where am I supposed to sit? Have I been talking to this person for too long? I'm probably droning on and on and now she's trying to think of ways to end the conversation - shut up, shut up, STOP TALKING. No, can't do that, awkward silences are painfully worse than my blabbing...at least for me."

But, in my attempt to be a decent mother, I was determined to take Bryce to the birthday party of a classmate. Right after the birthday party, my friend was having an open house to show off his new backyard play set and fancy landscaping, and I'd committed to that, too (note to self: don't attempt two events in one day with a four-year-old who refuses to nap). I should have known the day was doomed when Bryce came up to me after having cake, while all of his classmates were running off their sugar highs, clutching his party favor bag in one hand and yanking on my arm with the other, saying he was ready to leave. The party was at the aquarium, and the whole reason he wanted to go was to "see the pets", which we hadn't even done yet. I packed him up and headed out, but halfway to the car he says, "Mom, I need to poop." Oh geez. Back inside for that, more cordial goodbyes to the mother of the birthday boy, back to the car.

Why, oh why didn't I listen to my very intelligent inner voice at that time? The voice that was S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G at me to go straight to my mom's to pick up Quinn and forget the other party? We got to my friend's house, more awkwardness with my fellow party guests ensued, and after the obligatory 30 minutes, I told Bryce it was time to go. He was in the playset, which is up HIGH, and a very small space. I'm claustrophobic. He was exhausted and delirious. I was trying to save my dignity. He refused to come out. I hissed. He giggled and backed away. I caved and gave in. If only that were the end of the story for me and my stupid, stupid attempt at a social life.

Bryce and I went to get Quinn from my mom's house, and then we all spent an hour deciding what exotic choice we would make for dinner. "Why did you have to eat there?", you may ask. And I wouldn't have an answer for you. Uh, because I'm lazy? Our final, genius decision was to order pizza, which then meant we had to wait for it, and by the time it got there the kids were so hungry that I spent the entire meal getting up to get them seconds of this or that. By the time I finally finished eating, Bryce was demanding to go home, and both of them were ticking time bombs. Under mounds of leftovers, Bryce's party favors, various blankets and other necessary items to take home, I was trying to strap both kids in and keep some semblance of sanity through the surround sound whining, when my very helpful mom pointed out that my left rear tire was flat. "You really need to fix that before you go. It's really, really low." CRAP.

My stepdad followed us to the nearest gas station - their air machine was out of order. Another mile down the road we found another one, but I had no tire gauge, and his was some high-tech gadget that gave us a completely different reading every time - .05, 13.5, 20.5, 6.5...huh??? Besides, it looked like after we filled it all the way up and I walked around to my door, it had already visibly leaked again. Brent assured me I'd make it home, and I sped off, completely paranoid and with visions of blowouts and sparks flying, a huge spinout, and an ultimate plummet to our deaths off the turnpike. After 5 minutes, I realized something. None of these neighborhoods looked familiar. None of these streets looked familiar. Oh. My. God. I WENT THE WRONG WAY. And all the roads were people's gravel driveways, no place to easily turn around. Crap, crap, crap, crap. Suddenly, my cell phone rang. It was my mom. Know what she said??? "You're going the wrong way." AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! So, so helpful. Such good intentions she has. I said, "I know, I'm looking for a place to turn around, bye." I finally picked a driveway and prayed an SUV wouldn't bash into me as I backed into the road. I found my way back to the highway, but not before Bryce said, "why are we going this way? I have an idea. Let's FLY home." And not before my mom called my cell phone again: "Did you know you also have a headlight out?" Kill me now.

Through the flat tire and being lost crises, the boys figured out I was pretty stressed, so they'd put a hiatus on their bickering and tandem demands. But once we were on the familiar highway, Quinn started in: "I wanna hear hahaha. I wanna hear hahaha." I told him no music, I had to listen to the car. By this time I was so paranoid that I literally thought the car felt like it was leaning to the left. Quinn saw the sun setting. "The sun's comin' up, mommy." "No, Quinn, it's actually going down - that's the sunset. Isn't it pretty?" "NO. Not pretty." "Yes it is, it's beautiful, see it?" "No, it's not pretty! I'm picking my nose." Huh. What do I even say to that?

We managed to make it home without a blowout on the highway, and without getting pulled over for my missing headlight. I struggled inside trying to corale the kids like the wild animals they are while holding the biggest pile of leftovers and clothes you can imaine between my outstretched arms and my chin, unlocked the door, got inside and herded them up for baths and bed. The only advantage to all of this is that they were so tired that bedtime was the easiest part of the entire day. (Huh, and interestingly, the only part of the day not involving other people and other places!)

John and I constantly say that we need to have more couple/family friends, ostensibly so we can DO more things and GO to more social functions. But every time we have the opportunity, it turns out pretty much like today did. I'd like to think it's because of the ages of our kids, but I think maybe it's just us.

And now for the kicker: we have another birthday party tomorrow.

Bryce and Quinn - evil rulers of the universe.

Quinn doing what he does best - Y E L L I N G








Bryce is always intensely busy finalizing his plan for world domination.

Typical Conversation with our Atypical Four-Year-Old

Bryce is our first son, John's third child. Just to introduce the exertion it takes to get through a day interacting with him, here is the conversation that took place after he came home from school today.

Me: Do you want a snack?

Bryce: I want some water.

Me: You've been sick, and you haven't eaten very much today, why don't you have a snack so you'll feel a little better?

Bryce: Okay, I want a snack.

John: Do you want an apple?

Bryce: No.

John: Do you want some juice?

Bryce: No.

John: Do you want -

Kristen: Uh, no, dad... Bryce, listen. We're not your short-order cooks. You will get two choices, and if you don't want either option, then you just won't have a snack. Okay?

Bryce: Okay.

John: So, do you want juice or do you want an apple?

Bryce: Water.

Right. Right.

You're in control, we just briefly forgot, stupid mortals that we are.

Friday Night Freedom

We should clarify that we've both ingested three margaritas at the creation of this first...uh, monumental post. Also, there will be two individuals contributing to this blog on a regular basis - and when we contribute simultaneously, as we are tonight, we will use different font colors and a written warning to delineate between our entries. When we post individually, we'll state our identities upfront. Hopefully this won't be too confusing. If it is, well, then...welcome to our freakin' world.

Quick background (although this may be somewhat difficult to understand given our mildly intoxicated and distracted state, since we are posting from a hip "cafe bar" which we've NEVER been to before this night, and we should at least attempt to fit in by stopping to, say, talk to the waiter, given our chronic state on the fringes of society...hence the name of this blog):

I am Kristen, the chronically frustrated mom/stepmom listed in the blog subtitle above. I was chronically frustrated before I was ever married or had stepkids or biological kids, so don't get the wrong idea - I love the fam, even with all the ridiculous chaos they bring into my life. The out-of-place aspect of my personality was ALWAYS present. I currently work for an engineering firm writing/designing proposals...but that just means I deal with toddlers at work just as I deal with them at home (the engineers I work with are a lot like toddlers, especially "gifted" toddlers...which I know a lot about, as you'll learn here). But I digress.

And this is John (as promised, different color text):

Even though I have a sense of self, I am nothing without my wife, I am nothing without my children, and I am nothing without a camera in front of my face.

*I just told John he was being too sappy. Watch his attempt to lighten things up now.*

At least it feels that way. Because those three components (wife, kids, pics) constitute 99.9% of my waking hours. This blog was my idea. Mine and mine alone. Remember that always. Unless Kristen gets dooced for this blog, in which case, it was all HER idea. Okay, on to introductions...

The whole "May-December" thing: Well, I'm not really December. I'm more like...late September/early October. You know, the first smell of fall is in the air, the tips of the leaves are beginning to turn red and yellow, the oppressive heat of summer has been lifted, this is PRIME TIME, people! December implies an end, one foot in the grave. Sorry - that's not me. However, our 17-year age difference heavily contributes to our Fringe Factor.

Kids: I brought two from a previous marriage. (LOL - just wait for future posts on these two.) And we have two together. This advantageous position of having two children earlier in my life and two children later in my life allows me some unique perspectives. Perspective #1: Nature vs. Nurture - Nature Kicks Nurture's BUTT Every Time. Perspective #2: The feelings of love, joy, pain, and anger are unlimited at all stages of your children's lives. Perspective #3: There will always be crap to deal with. The crap is more tangible and smells worse when they're younger (ironically, it's also easier to dispose of).

Photography: I'm finally doing something that I WANT to do, like to do, am good at doing, and it's more work than I've ever done in my life. My entrance into this field will be chronicled at a later date, but I only wish I'd pursued this sooner.

I'm turning this over to Kristen to wrap up for the night:

The pressure is always on me to wrap things up - including all birthday presents for all family members. SIGH.

I don't know where this blog will go or who will read it, but considering we've been bemoaning our pathetic lack of experience records other than photographs (of which we probably have way too many), this is at least a start. Our lives have truly been a roller coaster of unknown proportions, and we thought this would be a good method of keeping track of some of it, if we ever reach a point where things calm down enough to actually go back and look at it all. This blog will chronicle our unique, almost freakish experience on the edge of chaos, madness, society, normalcy, acceptedness, and...life. Welcome to The Fringe.