Trip Log, or Lack Thereof

Memorial Day Trip Log: Friday Night

Our three-hour trek to Oklahoma’s wilderness -- I mean forest harvesting areas that look suspiciously like wilderness -- went remarkably well. The kids quietly watched movies in the car the whole way, and Truman panted peacefully as he looked out the large back window of our Honda Pilot, happy not to have been sold on the black market despite the two half-digested, bile-covered socks he left for us on the rug this morning. In an amazing potty training feat, we only had to stop once for the kids to go to the bathroom, but unfortunately that was on the side of the road because when Bryce says he has to go, it means RIGHT NOW BECAUSE I FAILED TO MENTION THIS PRESSING URGE 20 MINUTES AGO WHEN IT STARTED. John tried to take Bryce behind a tree that was about half the width of Bryce’s tiny waist, in attempt to leave us all with some dignity and also avoid a citation for indecent exposure, or child molestation. In addition to its insufficiency, that small tree also happened to be among a grove of chigger-infested tall grass, so I frantically opened the door and put a stop to that nonsense, and then John and I had a minor argument over where the appropriate location would be for our child to expose himself to the highway traffic. We decided on a position utilizing the car as a shield on one side, and John on the other. After he was finished, I breathed a sigh of relief, like, “Phew! We didn’t get caught!” and then John opened the door to put Bryce back in his seat and said, “Quinn, do you need to go potty now?” even though I was frantically waving my arms and sending LOUD ESP signals telling him “IXNAY on the OTTYPAY, let‘s just drive the 20 miles to the next town because my heart can‘t take the stress of all this public peeing.” It turned out to be a wise decision to let Quinn out, though, as I learned when John returned to put Quinn in his seat and proudly said, “this is Mr. Niagara Falls, right here!”

Neither kid took a nap today, so by the time we ate dinner at the cabin tonight, Quinn was especially touchy. At one point, he was playing some sort of game with my step-dad when it occurred to us that it had been a while since we’d checked the status of his bladder. “Quinn,” I said, “Do you need to go potty?” Before the entire sentence was even out of my mouth, and without turning to look at me, in his complete annoyance and irritation that I had dared to interrupt his concentration-demanding tickle game and remind him that I exist with my nagging burden of a voice said, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” with a flourishing double-clenched-fist-throw down and a look to my step-dad that implied, “God, she is SUCH a drag, with her constant insistence on TAKING CARE OF ME.”

Shortly after that, we attempted to let the kids sleep in a big bed together in our cabin, knowing they would probably play and giggle, and being perfectly okay with that. Really; perfectly okay. Well, except for the fact that the giggling was so very loud, and it also involved kicking pillows off the bed, loud hiccup sounds, tongue-clicking, and clapping. It sounded like a primitive tribal language lesson in there. After 30 minutes and as many trips in and out of the room, 12 extra glasses of water each, a few empty threats of losing music and blanket privileges (yeah, right - then they scream and cry; and who really wins that battle?), we did something we weren’t really intending to do, and that was to separate them by putting each of them into one of the two bedrooms in our cabin, leaving us with the twin beds in the living room. Nice.

Fortunately, after that step, they were both asleep within five minutes, which left me some time to realize that something was missing in my day. Food? Drinks? Laptop? Blog! The blog, that’s it! We weren’t expecting to have wi-fi, so we were prepared to deal with dial-up in this remote location. Where’s that phone jack, anyway?

No phone jack.

A strange, shaky feeling came over me. I hadn’t thought through this crazy trip. What exactly does one do without an internet connection? What kind of primitive establishment is this, anyway? We’re paying money to be here, cut off from communication with the world?

To while away the non-technology-filled time, we watched the dog chase a fly, and now you can too.

Memorial Day Trip Log: Monday Afternoon

Well, so much for the log. I'll try to sum up the rest of the trip from memory. First of all, we played a lovely game of Musical Beds on Friday night, which taught us that for Saturday and Sunday nights, we would each be sleeping with one kid to avoid all the night time shuffling, as much fun and excitement as it had been to sleep-walk to a crying pre-schooler in an unfamiliar, pitch black cabin in the woods. The next day, even though the kids should have been really tired, they insisted on going for nature walks and looking for things to do. What's up with that?

On the first walk, Bryce spotted this lovely animal skull, and declared that it was a dinosaur skeleton, "because I know everything; I'm an expert. Experts know everything and I'm an expert." (He's into repetition. That's why we're all on the brink of insanity over here. Not to mention humility...MAN is that kid humble! )

Me: "Well, actually, an expert doesn't know everything; they know a lot about certain things. Like a dinosaur expert would know a lot about dinosaurs."

John: "Wouldn't that be a paleontologist?"

Me: "Well, he doesn't know what that is, and besides, a paleontologist would still be a dinosaur expert."

Bryce: "Yes! It's a paleontologist!"

Me: "Do you even know what that means? What is a paleontologist?"

Bryce: "It's someone who digs up dead dinosaur bones."

As I walked along in my shamed silence, wondering how he'd found time to learn about paleontologists when he couldn't even manage to figure out how to take a bite of an entire ravioli without choking, I heard him come running up behind me, "I saw a snake skin back there, but it was slimy and it scared me so I put it down." When he saw my horrified look, he offered to show me the snake skin, which turned out to be a fishing lure, "in the shape of a tap dancing cane." Not a "J" or a "hook"; a tap-dancing cane.

After so much enlightenment, I don't know what would have compelled us to look for the nature center we'd heard so much about. But rather than actually looking at a map or a brochure, we just started driving down the highway that cuts through the national forest area and assumed the first place that had the word "museum" in its title would be the right place. We expected it to be small and quaint, but we didn't expect it to have a taxidermy studio next door. You would think when we saw that it DID, in fact, have a taxidermy studio next door, we would have said to our city-dwelling selves, "Hmm. This probably isn't the right place. Let's keep looking." But, no. We did not say that. We got out of the car and paid $20 to walk through the taxidermy studio's display of its finest specimens. We saw things like this, while our kids went back and forth between being scared (like I was) and running down the single hallway screaming (like I wanted to be).

After we all recovered from THAT trauma, we saw a unique sight on the volunteer firefighter's headquarters on our way back to the cabin: a hand-written sign that read "BAKE YARD SALE." We looked at each other, incredulous. Could it be?? Had some risk-loving entrepeneurial volunteer forest fire fighter conjured up the genius scheme of combining a yard sale and a bake sale into one blowout event?! Yes, indeed. And they had some real treasures:

After this admittedly disappointing outing, the kids were pretty bored, and were either climbing on the furniture or trying to escape at all times.

To make up for our failure, we made sure to fill the rest of the time with plenty of traditional tourist-in-the-woods activities, like train rides and marshmallow roasts.

And, oh yes...there was one other outing of which I unfortunately can't post pictures, because John is paranoid and refuses to bring his "expensive equipment" to places where there tends to be lots of "splashing" and chances for it to be "ruined." I don't know, something or other about not wanting to threaten his "livelihood." In any case, my mom and step-dad rented a boat and we all went for a chest-tightening spin around a large body of water none of us had any clue how to navigate, but since my step-dad had extensive boating experience, we put the entire trip in his hands, which seemed to make sense until we all noticed as we approached a certain lake island that we could see these brown and tan sharp objects just beneath the surface and then BA-LA-LALALAM! discovered what that extremely knowledgeable 14-year-old had meant when he'd told us to stay a certain distance from shore. After that, when Bryce wasn't asking me what "that bumpy water was called" (later he said, "oh yeah, it's called 'shallow water'! Now I remember!"), and when Quinn wasn't pushing the emergency "horn" at my step-dad's secret encouragement and potentially throwing the entire lake into cardiac arrest, both kids (and John) were giving their very best pirate "ARRRGGGH, matey! Ahoy there!"s at random intervals, and Bryce was insistent that we stop at all the two foot by two foot "islands" to search for treasure. Bryce also kept confusing the lake with oceans and rivers, so John explained how the lake got there through the use of a dam, after which Bryce started saying, "Wow, I see a WHOLE LOT OF DAM WATER!"

On our way back, we noticed what seemed to be a friendly couple on a suspiciously still Sea Doo, waving at everyone that passed by. "These lake goers sure do like to socialize," I thought, as I scanned the horizon for the next island so as to warn my step-dad not to crash us into it. Then John said, "Uh, I don't think they're waving to say hello. I think they're stuck." He was right. The poor saps had been blowing their little emergency whistle and waving with the international sign for GET OVER HERE AND HELP US for 45 minutes before anybody bothered to do something other than lift a beer from their boat, smile, and speed away (and if it hadn't been for John, I have to admit, we would have done the same. We're stupid. That's all there is to it. John just married into the wrong family, is all). After an agonizing and slightly embarrassing 20 minutes of capsizing their machine when we anchored our line to the wrong part of the Sea Doo (Note to self: Do not attempt to wrap the line around the handle bars, no matter how much it seems like this might work. It does NOT work.), we got them back to the marina and all was well. It was only later that night that John and I both admitted that as soon as we'd pulled up to the stranded couple, we thought, "wouldn't it be horribly, ironically tragic if they ended up being lake pirates?"

Memorial Day Trip to Insanity

Last year, I had a last minute lapse in judgment opportunity to accompany my mom and stepdad on their annual Memorial Day trip to a cabin at a lake about three hours from where we live. Let me re-cap the experience for you:

Quinn: Age 2, sleeping in a crib, wearing diapers, not talking well.
Bryce: Age 3 1/2, routine-dependent, manipulative, competitive with brother.
Kristen: Physical Age late 20's, Mental Age 98 (thus demented), impatient, sleep-deprived, unprepared.
Beds: Two bunk beds and one hide-a-bed in community area for me and the boys.
Liquor: Major shortage.
Head traumas: At least one (Quinn, repeatedly slamming his head on the bottom rails of the top bunk while in exhausted hysterics).

After it was over, since she is insane is a glutton for punishment found it all so enjoyable, and our presence so peaceful, my mom invited us back this year. I've taken several steps to improve the experience. First and foremost, John is coming with us against his will. We also have a separate cabin this year so my mom won't hear the threats of violence, the kids are a year older and both basically potty trained*, and we should be stocked with plenty of recently purchased Oregonian wine to dull the roars in our heads make everything seem more festive. However, we're also bringing our crazy epileptic dog, so that might even the score--we wouldn't want things to seem too peaceful or relaxing, you know. Unfortunately, unlike our snazzy hotel in Portland, these cabins don't exactly have free wi-fi, or any wi-fi whatsoever. So you might not hear from us this weekend, but I'm sure we'll have some horrifying entertaining stories and photos for you to thank your lucky stars you're not us admire upon our return.

*"Basically potty trained" refers to Quinn, who will require constant monitoring and sniffing, which I'm not actually sure is going to be less work than changing diapers on a cabin floor.

Two Good Causes

I normally don't link to lots of other blogs in my posts, and haven't used this site as a forum for links to the latest news, celebrity gossip, or causes. But there are two "causes" that I'm going to mention today specifically because the more traffic these blogs get, the better the situations will be.

1.) People are talking about a seven-year-old girl named Nadine who has cancer and after having a tumor removed is now entering a round of chemo. A blogging friend of Nadine's, Homestead, has acquired a PO Box where she is hoping a lot of people will send cards (preferably involving Princesses, because that's what Nadine is into) to her and her family. The information is all here. As I said in a recent comment to someone about this, I hope this kid gets a zillion princess cards. Send her one if you can.

2.) Recently, Chag urged his readers to check out a blog called Pygmalion's Wife. His description of the level of concern he'd felt for this blogger compelled me to read her entire site in great detail. I have since added her link over there in the right column, hoping to send more traffic her way -- not because she is a great writer with a compelling story (which she is) -- but because she is a person who needs help, and the only real "help" I, as a stranger, can offer her is some attempt to help her increase her traffic to a level where she can make money off of her site and ultimately escape the very dangerous and abusive situation in which she currently finds herself and her three young children trapped. She has taken great pains (unfortunately that is a literal statement) to keep herself anonymous due to the volatile conditions she is currently enduring, so I don't want to write a lot of specific detail; just go there and read.

Making the Grade

We received Bryce's report card in mail yesterday. His overall GPA for the year was a 3.5. (It was obvious he was coasting the last quarter. Slacker.) Okay, he didn't really get a 3.5 but if they were handing out letter grades he would have.

He was graded in 10 categories and received 5 "Nearly Always" and 5 "Usually". (My favorite category is "Can control body during group time." I'm glad he got the sit still genes from Kristen because I still have trouble with this one. Can anyone say armpit farts and other audible body emissions?)

His favorite subject was cooking. (4 years old and they're teaching the little guy to cook. I love that school! I suggested to the school director they also include other life lessons in addition to the weekly cooking class like how to change a tire or give a good foot massage. I'm sure I would have the backing of the other parents.)

It doesn't actually say this on his report card, but I think his hardest challenge was "Plays and works well in a group." When the future ruler of a small planet requests something to be done a certain way, it better be done. Or else. But putting him with 20 other equally qualified planet rulers has actually taught him to be more flexible, and that there are other ways of doing things and playing games that are equally as fun. Maybe his planet will be ruled by a democracy instead of a dictatorship after all.

island stimuli (by John)

According to Mrs. Fortune, there is no better way to while away the time while breastfeeding than to think of what 3 audio, written, visual, and people diversions you would bring to a deserted island. When kristen was breasfeeding all I heard was "OWE! That hurts!" She tagged Chag and Chag tagged us. Some of these came easily, but others not so much.

Movies

1. Cool Hand Luke

All I ever hear is how tough Jack Bauer is from the show 24. Well, Cool Hand Luke would wipe his ass with Jack Bauer and Jack Bauer would thank him . Could Jack Bauer eat 50 hard boiled eggs? I don't think so. This was the first movie I ever purchased (back in the VHS vs. Beta days) and I shelled out $90 in 1982 dollars to own a copy. I watched it so many times that even my closest friends stopped coming over because it was all I ever had on the TV. "What we have here, is a failure to communicate."

2. The Usual Suspects. This movie sets the bar for the twisty whodunnit genre. The first time through you watch in awe as the story unfolds and are (at least I was) surprised at the end. The second and subsequent viewings allow you to watch for the all the subtle clues on how Bryan Singer misguides you with his slight of hand. Every scene, every cut, and all the dialogue is purposeful. A great movie that can be seen over and over. And no one fakes a gimp better than Kevin Spacey.

3. Reservoir dogs - Mr. Tarantino's directorial debut. No one was ready for what he brought to the screen. I love this movie. If you haven't seen it and are squeemish about blood (lots of blood) here is a 90 second version performed by bunnies. http://www.angryalien.com/0406/reservoirbuns.asp


Music

1. The Rolling Stones, Exile on Main Street

Let it Bleed came in a very close second but it is just a little too polished. The glimmer twins at their best.

2. Lee Michaels, Lee Michaels

Recorded live in the studio. The only request I have is that I am allowed to have a set of drums so I can play along. Big bad blues.

3. Talking Heads, Popular Favorites 1976-1992/Sand In the Vaseline

Don't make fun of me because I am choosing a greatest hits compilation. David Byrne has skills. Anyone got a match?

Books
Yeah, like I have time to read something other than the cooking directions off the frozen waffle box. This was the hardest list to compile because when I do read for pleasure, it's usually non-fiction or science fiction. I let Kristen read the heady stuff and just tell me what the author was saying.

1. Thirty Seconds over Tokyo, Capt. Ted Lawson

A first hand account of the Doolittle Raid on Tokyo. This was the first real book I ever read. My third grade teacher gave us a book report assignment and we were allowed to pick any book from the school library. After nosing around I chose this one because it had a really cool cover, and the inside flap said Capt Lawson lost his leg in the raid. How freaking cool is that to an 8 year old? I couldn't put it down once I got started. I'm sure it was nothing but WWII propaganda, but the description of him being in the gunnery window shooting at the zeros that were buzzing around him was riveting. I think I got a B on my report because I spent a little too much time talking about his severed leg.

2. Stranger in a Strange Land, Robert Heinlein

I borrowed this from my dad. I'm bringing it because it reminds me of him and his love of science fiction books.

3. A People's History of the United States, Howard Zinn

Not what you get from the history books in school. A mindful look at the dark side of the white man's conquering of a continent.



People

Damn, this was hard. I decided to stick with folks that are currently alive. I thought if I go too far in the past it would take too long to get them up to speed on what has happened since their demise. And I figure the island gig would get boring after a while so we would eventually find a way off (when these three disappear someone will come looking) so that's why their aren't any females invited.

1. Samuel Jackson

If I get bored, I'll just ask him to recite some of his more memorable lines. I never tire of his voice. And I can't wait for Snakes on a Plane to be released.

2. Quentin Tarantino.

This guy flushes good ideas down the toilet. And with Samuel, they could stage out new stuff all the time.

3. MetroDad

I only know him from his blog, but he sounds like a fun, cool guy to have along for an island party. What the heck, right?

On a Comfortably Equipped Island (by Kristen)*

Chag tagged both John and me for this one, and John insists that we do ours separately, so it won't be confusing (and his answers are forthcoming, Chag). Mrs. Fortune created this meme, even though she had a baby three weeks ago, which just makes me feel like even more of a slug than I did before I beat myself up for having so much trouble coming up with good answers to these questions -- these questions being, "which three books, movies, CDs, and people would you take along on a desert island?" The problem I'm having is that I can barely remember when I read a book, listened to music, or watched an entire movie ALL OF MY OWN ACCORD. I found many of my answers were items I read/listenedto/watched during high school or college. I'm sure you'll see what I mean.

B O O K S

Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett

Seems like the perfect thing to read while stranded somewhere, right? I mean, it was honestly the first thing that popped into my head. Of course, if you're already prone to depression and nihilism, which I am, this may not be the best decision. Unless you're a masochist, which I also am. Good times.

East of Eden, by John Steinbeck

Hey, a book I actually read while not in a class! This was a book I bought shortly before graduating from college, determined to stay intellectual even while working for THE MAN in the midwest, which I knew I'd be doing (and still am! woohoo!). Sadly, I also bought some Virginia Woolf at the same time, and in eight years, haven't managed to find time to read that. East of Eden is a reminder that I actually accomplished part of my goal. Plus it's a damned good book. I've read it at least twice in the last eight years...and believe me, that says a lot. Do you KNOW what I've gone through in eight years? Sure you do. If not, read the archives.

A History of God, by Karen Armstrong

I haven't been able to finish this book, and I really want to. It's a really fascinating historical account of human concepts of God from earliest recorded history to present day, with a focus on the three major monotheistic religions that have taken hold in most parts of the "civilized" world. I started it on our recent vacation, during the four-hour flights from Dallas to Portland and back, and I haven't had a four-hour chunk of time to devote to it since then. At the rate I'm currently going, I might finish the book by the time the kids are 30 and 31. So hopefully this little island jaunt takes place before then.

Runner up (I'm probably breaking the rules, but I couldn't resist):

Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat: A Calvin and Hobbes Collection, by Bill Watterson

Must. Have. Calvin & Hobbes. My brother had quite an impressive collection of Calvin & Hobbes texts when we were growing up, and we whiled away many a wintery Chicago day reading those pages. I wish people would have stopped pirating the C&H images so Bill Watterson would have continued his work.

M O V I E S

The Princess Bride

--You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

--Have you the wing?

--If we only had a wheelbarrow! THAT would be something.

Growing up, we considered this a classic. We still do. Actually, I quote this movie on a fairly regular basis.

Pulp Fiction

I actually haven't seen this in over 10 years, but it made enough of an impact on me that I wrote a paper on it for my AP English Literature class in high school. It was a comparative paper wherein (much like this meme) we were required to use a book, a movie, and a piece of music and string them together with some sort of self-defined "theme". My theme was self-deification, and I used this movie, the song Wrapped Around Your Finger by the Police (hmm, also on my list, see??), and Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Um, nobody else did that. To say the least. I think I scared my teacher. But it was that accomplishment that convinced me I was capable of going to the school that up until that point I thought would kick me out upon arrival.

Un long dimanche de fiançailles (A Very Long Engagement)

We hardly get to see any foreign films in the theater, but amazingly, this one actually came to our city and it was showing on a night when we didn't have the kids. I know I like a foreign film when reading the subtitles becomes unnoticeable.

M U S I C

My brother will probably disown me for all of these...

The Refreshments, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

I'll need something upbeat and mind-numbing after reading Waiting for Godot. This reminds me of days when I really had nothing to do, but thought I was insanely busy. Work! Papers to write! Oh my god! How will I ever get it all done??? Wow, I wish my life were like that now. (Sort of.)

The Police, Every Breath You Take

I grew up in a college dorm, and every summer my parents had the responsibility / privelege of going through abandoned wares left in the students' rooms. One summer, my dad brought this album home and soon taught me that when you find a CD you like, you play it very loudly 29,000 times. I was bound to start liking it eventually. Now I can't imagine living without it.

10,000 Maniacs, MTV Unplugged

I need a female voice in there, and Natalie Merchant has one I never get tired of. Plus, her lyrics are particularly unique and thought-provoking. This album is a live version, so I'll feel like I'm actually there. Or something.

P E O P L E

Noam Chomsky

I'm not sure if I'd actually grasp anything coming out of his mouth, but between his linguistics genius and his social views, and enough time for my monkey brain to catch on, we could have quite a conversation. All I know is every time I read anything he writes, I want to be able to pick up the phone and ask him specific questions. Hopefully on this desert island he wouldn't have access to any guns, because he would probably be ready to shoot himself after an hour of my incessant rambling.

Stephen Colbert

With his team of writers offsite, of course, feeding him daily scripts via a snazzy wireless headset. Plus, I figure, anybody who's brave enough to roast Bush in the midst of deafening, unapproving republican silence is brave enough to help me fend off whatever island dangers I encounter.

Adam Felber

I really wanted to bring along a fellow female, but this guy in the same place with Noam Chomsky and Stephen Colbert? It's too perfect to pass up. I probably wouldn't even need books, movies, or music if I had these three to keep me entertained and interested.

*I'm assuming this island has running water, air conditioning, and gourmet vegetarian Mexican restaurants with excellent margaritas. Because if it doesn't, my answers will be changing drastically. Also, I'm assuming I'll only be stranded for around two to three weeks. If it's going to be longer, I'm going to need think a lot more deeply about which books to bring along.

Random? I think not.

After dinner the other night, I was putting the dishes in the dishwasher and John was upstairs giving Quinn a bath while Bryce was still sitting at the table eating his bowtie pasta in half-millimeter segments at at time. He had just spent the past hour wailing and gnashing his teeth over the injustice of the fact that John and I wouldn't give him any candy or ice cream until he actually ate the dinner he had been served (and here's the kicker) EVEN THOUGH DINNER WAS SOMETHING OTHER THAN FRENCH FRIES (honestly! It's amazing DHS hasn't come knocking on our door yet). I was focusing on cleaning up dinner and was trying to ignore all the feelings of frustration and pent-up anger I start to feel over Bryce's manipulative dinner time behavior when it comes to exactly WHAT he'll eat, in what increments, at what times, and for what in return. If I focus on something other than a conversation with him, I can manage these feelings without giving myself away to him, and thus losing yet another battle in our constant power struggle. Out of the blue, and in a cheerful voice full of wonder and pride, Bryce got up from the table, came into the kitchen and said, "Mom! There is a sarcophagus outside the computer room at school. A sarcophagus is a box that mummies go in. Mummies are dead people all wrapped up, from ancient Egypt!"

John and I often forget what we are dealing with when it comes to Bryce. We assume that his behavior is not age appropriate and that his intellect IS, even though reality is the opposite. However, there are times when it hits me as if I'm not in the middle of all of this, taking it for granted. Much like the time two-year-old Bryce donned a crown and quite clearly and accurately called himself a "magistrate," I do occasionally snap back to reality and have a clear understanding that a four-year-old talking about a sarcophagus is, um, not really in the realm of "normal" (of course, neither is the sincere inability to put an entire baby spoon, or even half a baby spoon into one's mouth 3 1/2 years past the physical capability to do so without choking - so we've got the whole quirky kid package over here, don't worry). But because the whole talk of sarcophagi kind of threw me, I was distracted enough in my attempt at discreetly bringing it to John's attention that the kid got away without finishing his dinner.

Today was Bryce's last day of school, and it entailed a school-wide picnic and outdoor activities in which the whole family was welcome to partake. When I arrived there on my lunch hour, John was following Bryce around, trying to take his picture with all of his classmates; I caught his eye and he had that "Bryce is acting weird" look. And, yeah. He was. It was like his brain couldn't handle the stimulation of his home world clashing with his school world. Mom and Dad and Mrs. F and my friends all in one location. How can this be? Even though Bryce has accomplished more this year than we thought possible, I found myself thinking, "just act normal for once! SIGH!" When it was time to leave, even though Bryce had basically withdrawn into his I'm-going-to-act-like-I-don't-know-how-to-interact-and-make-my-parents-look-like-nagging-perfectionist-worrywarts-while-they-keep-repeating-themselves-because-they're-assuming-I-just-don't-hear-them-since-when-I'm-at-home-all-ever-DO-is-interact zone, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving before the rest of his friends. The friends he hadn't been talking to the entire time. The friends he'd acted like he hadn't known when John tried to take his picture with them. John and I decided to let him stay, since, oh look! Now he's wanting to be social again! And we are clueless minions of his highness! Later I realized, if he'd just been acting "normal" the whole time we'd been there, we would have insisted that he leave when we told him the first time. His "weird" behavior ended up rewarding him.

Tonight on our way home from dinner, Bryce and I had just finished another confrontational interaction wherein he lost his dessert priveleges for some or other infraction after fair warning. The entire ride home had been full of conversation like, "but I really want dessert!" and "I'm sure you do, and I bet next time you'll make a different choice." and "but you don't understand. I really. WANT. dessert!" and "I speak English, Bryce, and I heard you. I know you want dessert, and I'm sure you're upset that you're not getting any. I'm sorry you made the choice you did. Next time I'm sure you'll remember." Just as we were pulling into our neighborhood, Bryce's voice, still tense and full of implications of injustice, piped up from the back seat: "Mom, I'm going to tell you something strange about me. Something strange about myself." Oh, for the love of god. I braced myself for what was surely about to be an hour-long speech on why his body would wilt and die if I didn't make this one exception and pretend he was perfectly deserving of a pile of M&Ms the minute we stepped foot into our house. This time I wasn't going to be manipulated. No way, no how. I was holding firm. Then he said, "Sometimes? I just don't LIKE people. But then? I start liking them again; it's just so strange! Like my buddy A. at school, I didn't really like him today. But then I started liking him again! It's strange that I'm like that, isn't it?"

I felt like my heart was being ripped out as my ENTIRE LIFE flashed before my eyes, all the experiences and relationships that had rushed at me in innocence and hope and then receded in disappointment as I learned very slowly and naively that people are never what they seem at first, and that friendship and acceptance, while good and necessary, are also often painful and difficult and ultimately have the potential to leave you vulnerably raw and exposed. Nobody had ever actually expressed so simply, accurately, and truthfully what I've felt so many times in my life (and when I told John about Bryce's comment later, he looked at me and said, "who does THAT sound like?"). I pulled the car into the garage, turned around and said, "Bryce, you know what?" He looked at me expecting me to return to our previous conversation and say, "when you go inside, I don't want to hear one more word about dessert" and he had that kind of guarded, near-defeated but still slightly hopeful look on his face and said, "yeah?" I looked at him squarely: "I'M LIKE THAT TOO." His tension melted, the stress in his shoulders released, he smiled and had a look of utter relief on his face that one can only have upon the discovery that there is another human in the world who understands. "You are?!" He giggled in the sheer relief of it all. He wasn't strange after all! Or if he was strange, at least his mom was too!

And, uh...when we got inside, I totally gave him ice cream.

Hey, if he's THAT good a manipulator, he deserved it. And if not, if it was all genuine, which, based on the kids' behavior around other people, I think it was, then he deserved it too. No four-year-old should have to identify and articulate the complexities of human interaction for his dolt of a mother. I mean, really. In fact, I think I should go out and buy him that trampoline he's been asking for.

Uh...wait. What?

Come on in, we just got our vacation pictures back!

You know the friends or relatives you hate to visit too soon after they get back from vacation because you will be forced to flip through a photo album of 7000 pictures, or suffer through a slideshow of overexposed, washed out, out of focus, heads cut off photos while wondering how to escape with your sanity?

We are those friends and relatives. And now that your here (and the door is locked), come on in and have a seat! It will take me just a minute to get set up. Something to drink while you’re waiting? Ok, we're set. Comfortable? Good.

I'm sure you know by now that we dumped the kids with Kristen's mom (thanks again MegaMa) and took our annual anniversary trip last weekend to Portland, Oregon. We had a blast, and crammed more into 3 days than a human body theoretically can withstand. We started day one with a drive down the coast. Unbelievably gorgeous. When you live in a flat landlocked state like we do, driving down the Pacific coast is a thrill like no other. We stopped in a couple of towns along the way, walked the beach, and ended up back in Portland for dinner later that evening.

Wait, where are you going?! I really won’t take much more of your time. Another beverage perhaps? I promise it will be worth it.

Day two was exploring all that Portland has to offer. We went to Market and I had a nice encounter with a displaced hurricane Katrina victim showing off his pets. We visited Chinatown, the Pearl district, the Japanese Gardens, and immersed ourselves in Portland food, fun and culture.

Day three we drove through wine country and stopped at several vineyards and wineries for a taste of Pinot nirvana, then visited the Columbia River Gorge and stopped at all the waterfalls along the way. Every aspect of our trip (except the final leg of our journey) was simply remarkable. The people were friendly, the sites were fantastic, and of course, my travel companion was stunning.

So without further ado, I give you my visual interpretation of our trip: Portland.

The slideshow will open in a new window. Find and click the play button and the slideshow will load and play. When the slideshow is over, you will see the gallery view which will allow you to view the photos individually. If you are on dialup, be patient.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

Holy time warp, batman! It's already Wednesday?! I am so behind. This week is crazy. It's the kids' last week of school, work is finally picking up for me, John's busy season has kicked in with weddings and bookings of all kinds, and we have all sorts of extra evening events like baby showers and end-of-the-year school performances to attend, not to mention things like GROCERY SHOPPING so our kids can eat (since nobody bothered to do our shopping for us during our vacation, those lazy bums). Headless chickens, we are.

We were even MORE like headless chickens on Monday night as we tried desperately to return home from our amazing vacation. I knew everything had gone way too smoothly, but I thought for once that fortune was smiling on us. Besides, there was that under-the-fingernail paper cut I got on our way out of town (ever had one of those? John thought I'd been possessed by a demon as I writhed and kicked and shouted obscenities while the blood gushed from under the very fingernail I use to help me floss my bracket-covered high-maintenance teeth), and those watered down margaritas we broke the bank for while waiting for our first flight out - I thought maybe those were going to be the worst things about the trip. But, no. I failed to account for the fact that we would be going through the airport from hell on the airline from hell on our way home.

First of all, after getting on the skylink going the wrong way and after John listened to me complain about how RIDICULOUS it was that the signs weren't more clearly posted and how STUPID the entire layout of the airport was, and how LUDICROUS it was that passengers were FORCED to ride the skylink and couldn't simply WALK to their terminal, and for the love of god, WHY was the airport designed this way, IT IS JUST SO RIDICULOUSLY STUPID AND LUDICROUS, the agonizing (for John) 20 minutes ended and we were deposited at our fateful terminal. There, we discovered, via one of those nifty big screens with all the helpful flight information, that our flight home had been delayed, with no gate identified.

I checked in at the original gate (and that is important, so remember it), and confirmed that the flight was delayed and the gate would not change. I asked why it was delayed and was told, "I don't know." Okay, great. THAT makes me feel secure. John and I walked to the closest restaurant (about 30 feet away) and ate dinner, then returned to the gate 40 minutes before the new departure time. I checked in again, because the flight number wasn't displayed at the gate; a different flight number was. I talked to the same airline representative, who looked at me strangely when I gave her my flight number and said, "what was your last name?" and after I told her, pushed her nifty computer buttons and said, "that flight's closed. It left on time."

Wait. WHAT? I HAD JUST CHECKED IN WITH HER 40 MINUTES BEFORE THIS, PEOPLE! I'm pretty sure their fancy expensive systems tell them if all the passengers are on board when they decide NOT to delay a flight 20 minutes after telling someone it's been delayed. A pilot was standing right next to her and said, "usually they make a PA announcement and they check the system to make sure everyone is on." Well, not this time!! As the volcano in my head exploded onto the wide-eyed airline representative, she stuttered, "I'm sorry, you can talk to my team lead" several times, and I moved my demon wrath over in her direction while John pretended they had let me out of the asylum too early and started the process of getting us on the next flight. While she was doing that, someone came and whispered something to her, and she looked at us and said, "the plane you were going to be on is de-boarding now because something is wrong with it, so you're probably getting out of here sooner than you would have if you'd gotten on!" Oh, okay, then. Cheery-oh! About two minutes later, the poor saps who had just boarded our original flight started shuffling off, miserable.

We ran back to the hated skylink and got to our terminal about 20 minutes before boarding our new flight. While we were standing there, a horrible revelation hit me: "Nobody mentioned our luggage." I fretted about it for the entire flight: I had to be at work the next morning, all of my toiletries were packed in our checked bags, nobody was going to be delivering any luggage to our stupid house at stupid midnight in our stupid town, and that was IF our stupid luggage wasn't completely lost or sabotaged by the airline representative I'd exploded on, etc. John thought since some of the other people from our original flight had managed to make it to our new one in time, that maybe the airline had been on top of their game and had managed to get our luggage on our new flight. Damn him for getting my hopes up. We got home and the throngs of happy people grabbing their appropriately located belongings cleared out of my line of vision just as that final harbinger of doom rolled onto the luggage claim area: the empty, upside-down black tupperware-looking container that says, "that's all the bags we could find on this here plane." We filled out all the necessary forms and drove home while John again listened to my tirade about my most hated airline and my most hated airport and how I'll NEVER use them again, I don't care HOW I have to get around it, IT WILL NOT HAPPEN.

Because of all the delays, the kids were exhausted when we got home, but that didn't stop both of them from uncharacteristically running up to us and smothering us in hugs and kisses, smiles, "Happy Mother's Day!"s and "Did you bring us presents?"s. I picked Quinn up to hug him after we all got inside, and he laid his head on my shoulder and said, "I want to go to bed." So much for quality time with the kids after getting home, like I had originally planned. The rest of the night was spent cleaning and fretting about our luggage, until John finally decided to go back to the airport so I would stop my incessant nagging already. An hour later, he was home with our luggage.

So I guess in this case, all's well that ends well. I didn't show up in sweats and with unkempt hair at work the next day, the kids went down peacefully, and I even had time to vacuum the dog hair that had somehow been multiplying in hordes during our (and the dog's!) absence before going to bed that night.

Oh - and John is working on the pictures from our trip. They're coming later this week.

Wish You Were Here

Managing to keep a daily log when you wake up, shower, drive, see all the things in the pictures included here, drive some more, eat, drink, drive some more, return to the hotel and crash in exhaustion and wake up and start all over again has proven much more challenging than I expected. Plus, 0ur wireless connection is spotty at best. So between lack of time, lack of energy, and lack of reliable internet connectivity, all I can manage to pull together is a sampling of some of the results of our incessant driving. Trust me, this is only the tip of the iceberg. And we promise to divulge much more upon our return to the Fringe.

Until then, enjoy this postcard, Internet.

Oregon: They like their trees here.

And their vineyards.

Because vineyards result in this yummy magic.

But it's not all nature here. See? They have buildings in their cities, too.

Of course, they're surrounded by what? Trees. Always with the trees and the nature and the "good for the environment" - Oregonians think they're better than us? Well, they're totally right.

Tsunami Zone

I've never understood why people would knowingly risk their lives to live in a place where, without warning, an undersea earthquake could cause a wave massive enough to effortlessly wash away thousands of people, homes, and livelihoods. It just couldn't be worth it.

Okay, so now I understand.

As John and I walked down to one of the beaches, I said, "so, if a tsunami hit RIGHT NOW, we would die." (And I wonder where Bryce gets his morbid outlook.) John looked at me, unconcerned and deliriously calm from hours of driving through such intense and seemingly neverending beauty and said, "yeah. Because it would be too late." We looked at each other for another few seconds, looked back at the vastness that we'd spent the past day and a half getting to, and the past six months planning to get to, and walked toward the dangerously gorgeous hypnosis that is the Pacific Ocean.

A correction and an update

John pointed out that my Saturday Night Live knowledge, along with actually ALL of my knowledge since giving birth to Bryce almost five years ago, is severely compromised. I attributed the "I'm just keeeeeding" phrase to the wrong person. It does not belong to a Horatio Sanz character. It belongs to a Fred Armisen character. My apologies to ardent Fred Armisen fans. Hey, I had a few things on my mind when I wrote that last post. And right now my body thinks it's 1:00 in the morning despite the adamant claims by Portland residents that it is, in fact, only 11:00 p.m., which would cause small amounts of delirium for me anyway (plus I'm drunk and exhausted from hours of travel). So, this won't really be my most coherent post.

Pay no attention to the crazy delirious drunk lady! Look at these pictures instead!


But what does it mean?? It means John and Kristen made the fatal mistake of paying airport prices for watered down margaritas. As John put it, "'Top Shelf' means they took the cheap tequila off of the HIGHEST shelf in the bar."



Here was MY view from the plane - nice, huh? And these clouds aren't even as cotton-candy-fluffy as the ones we saw over Oregon as we descended.


Here was John's view. He never gets the window seats, thanks to me.


Our second leg of the flight was four hours. By the time he took this picture, he'd read every page of camera manual at least twice, had read Time Magazine cover to cover, and had just completed the airplane magazine, including all of the Soduku Puzzles and MENSA quizzes. I don't know how he would survive on an international flight.

Tomorrow, on John and Kristen's Vacation Without Kids: The Oregon Coast, Phone Call Check-Ins, and Whatever Else Comes to Kristen's No Longer Sleep-Deprived Mind.

The universe likes to mess with us.

Events that have occurred since Sunday that could have thwarted our efforts at having a stress-free vacation:

1.) Bryce came down with a sudden high fever on Sunday night. (It was gone by Monday.)

2.) We forgot to rent a car. (John remembered at the last minute, so we won't be hitchhiking along the Oregon coast tomorrow. You can all breathe a sigh of relief.)

3.) We didn't plan any activities and as a result I had a panic attack on Monday night, convinced that we would end up sitting in our hotel lobby looking confused and frustrated, or driving in circles in the hotel parking lot. (John plowed me with wine and printed maps and tour guides to give me the illusion that everything was under control.)

4.) John decided it was time to get a new vet. (We found one, he's great, and Truman's medication will be ready by the time we return.)

5.) Quinn came down with a sudden high fever last night, the night before we get on a plane to leave for five days. (It seems to be gone now, although he isn't eating and is walking around whispering to himself -but that's not necessarily a bad sign for him, you know.)

6.) It has been storming for a week, and we all know how people in this state react to bad weather. (Today it's sunny and clear, so I guess the airport will be open.)

The universe isn't so much out to get us as it is constantly saying "I'm just keeeeding!" a la Horatio Sanz.

Our hotel in Portland has wi-fi, and because I am dedicated (and have no life, apparently), I am lugging my laptop with me so as to document our undoubtedly thrilling long weekend in the Pacific Northwest. Stay tuned for lots of pictures of wine and rocks.

For now, we have to get to the airport before something else potentially-stressful-but-at-the-last-minute-just-fine happens.

Vacation, all I ever wanted.

Yesterday marked our seventh wedding anniversary. Every year since we've been married except for the year after Quinn was born (because he was six weeks old and we were, like, one dollar per week above the poverty line), we go on a trip without kids. Luckily, we have my awesome mom who always agrees to forego sleep and sanity for four to five days so we don't have to worry about our kids' safety. And the kids like this too, because it means we don't lock them in the basement with a week's supply of macaroni and water while we pretend to be jet setters. Each year, we try to go some place we've never visited before. Last year it was Vegas. This year it's Portland.

We always manage to stress ourselves out as the vacation approaches. I end up thinking, "God, is this WORTH IT??" as I pull out clumps of hair while making thousands of lists for all of the people involved in making sure our house and our dog and our kids aren't neglected while we, gluttonous pigs that we are, spend days eating and being tourists and pretending we haven't a care in the world. And just when I think I've covered everything - BAM! My memory shocks me awake like a bolt of lightening with the thought, "Holy crap, what about the stupid dog?!" or "Did I remember to tell mom about Quinn's ritualistic fingernail clipping bedtime routine? Holy hell, HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN?"

Speaking of the dog, you all know what makes him high maintenance enough to live on the Fringe, right? He's epileptic. We still don't have his phenobarbital dosage figured out, and we're running out of medication. Since we roped my poor mom into keeping him AND the boys, we wanted to make sure we had plenty of his meds to get her through the weekend, but when John called our vet and tried to set up the necessary blood draw appointment for the dog, he had the audacity to become annoyed when the receptionist asked him for his name and what he wanted NO LESS THAN THREE TIMES. And then! When he took the dog and Quinn IN to the vet (after making an afternoon appointment) before picking Bryce up from school, he had his expectations set so unrealistically high that when the receptionist at the vet's office ignored him for 20 minutes and answered 8-10 phone calls without actually acknowledging the pissed off man, hyperactive 70-pound dog, and terrorist-in-training three-year-old who was knocking over 50-pound bags of dog food in the waiting area, HE GOT ANGRY! So incensed was he that he decided to use THIS VERY MOMENT as the moment he would stand up and fight for The Principle Of The Thing. "That's it! You just lost a patient!" he said to the receptionist as she finally decided to look in his direction and maybe, uh, TAKE THE DOG from him. "I find it ridiculous and unacceptable that you would sit here and continue to answer and resolve phone calls when you have a client and patient standing right here in your waiting room! Go get one of the doctors RIGHT NOW." When the vet came out, to John's intense dismay and absolute disgust, she defended the receptionist and seemed downright uninterested: "It's her job to answer the phones, you know." John told me that right at that moment, he was expecting to hear a laugh track and see cameras peek out from behind the bulk size bags of kitty litter: Ha, ha, ha! You're on candid veterinarian camera! We've never had someone wait as long as YOU did to be acknowledged! Here's your million dollar prize! Ha, ha, ha!

Shortly after this heart-poundingly infuriating incident, he called me at work and said, "We need a new vet."

Oh, good. That's great, John. Because we didn't really have ANYTHING AT ALL going on right now anyway. Bags to pack? Laundry to finish? Lists to write? Rental cars to book? School officials to inform about the non-kidnapping grandmothers who will be picking up our kids during our absence? No problem. I'm sure a new vet will have no problem writing us a prescription for A CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE for an animal s/he's never seen in his/her life who exhibits absolutely no signs of seizures and for whom we have no medical records. This should only end up taking...say, another day or two of our time. Oh, what's that? We're leaving in 30 hours? La la la la la la la la!! I can't HEAR you!

In his defense, I am usually the one to make rash decisions when standing up for The Principle Of The Thing. Technically he could blame his crazy behavior on seven years of living with me. And he's not the only one acting crazy this week, anyway. I apparently have not learned the art of keeping my mouth shut when discussing anything up for debate in front of the kids, and I chose to say tonight, as we were all outside being entertained by Quinn's completely random yelling sprees from our driveway to our front porch ("AAAAA!! The roly poly is going to get me! RUN AWAY!!"), "maybe we should just eat out tonight." There was no turning back after that. We ended up at our usual Mexican joint, torturing all of the patrons who didn't realize that gibbon swallowers were still allowed in restaurants in this state. Oh, the crying and the shrieking when Quinn decided after one grain of rice that he was done, and I, in my cruel, cruel treatment of his highness, didn't let him run all the way across the long bench of the booth that spanned four tables. THE SHEER AND UTTER HUMANITY! Doesn't that count as child abuse? Please, someone, remove him from my evil clutches. In the meantime, Bryce couldn't stand not being at the center of attention, and so every two minutes he was either face down on the booth, pushing with his feet against the wall and his head against John's knees, OR he was literally trying to put a quarter in John's ear.

Thank God we had margaritas in which to temporarily drown our humiliation. Portland has lots of breweries and wineries and nice eating establishments that will feel so peaceful without our bundles of joy that I'm sure we won't even begin to recognize the experiences as any sort of form of reality. We'll get home next week and, travel-weary, fall into bed, and then without notice, we'll trip over our hyper demanding dog as we bolt up the stairs in a pre-dawn haze when we hear Bryce yell out, "are you going to tell me when it's 7:00?! You said you'd tell me when it's seven! IS IT SEVEN YET!?" and assume it was all some sort of crazy margarita-induced dream.

The Letter I Wanted To Send (aka, "why John fakes amnesia whenever I interact with people")

Dear School Director,

Thank you for your letter telling us that you would greatly appreciate a small donation to your 6th major fundraiser this year. We hadn't caught on yet that what you were asking for was a Donation For A Fundraiser, a Fundraiser Donation, or More Money For Your School That Already Sucks Us Dry. We are stupid, see, and that's why we hadn't caught on. But you knew of our idiotic status as Pathetically Sub-Par Morons, didn't you? Because you were nice enough to send us an e-mail directly, addressing us by our first names, and oh-so-subtly mentioning our son's attendance at your school being "appreciated" just to make sure we would know exactly who you were (because we're idiots, and your name and e-mail address wouldn't have been obvious enough - PLUS, the mention of our child gave a lovely Godfatherish twist to the whole thing, didn't it? I mean, what could be more brilliant? Demanding money, instilling shame, and then throwing in the name of a loved one in your care every day, as if to say, "I hope you make the right decision. It would be awful if anything happened to your precious little boy.")

Gosh, if you hadn't sent that e-mail, I might have continued to be under the VERY FALSE IMPRESSION that contributing to this fundraiser was "voluntary." (I know. See? Idiots. We really are!) I mean, just because the cost of tuition already exceeds 10% of our income does not mean that we should be greedy, lazy parents who just IGNORE the additional needs of the school. Those needs obviously aren't being met yet, otherwise, why would you have the fundraiser? I see now. I don't know why I didn't catch on when the fundraiser was discussed at EVERY SINGLE school association meeting, in EVERY SINGLE school newsletter, in official-looking letters on expensive stationery being sent to our home -- oh wait. I do know why I didn't catch on! It's the whole "we're stupid" thing again, isn't it? Well, either way. Regardless of how many garage sales we have to have and extra kids around the house that we could clearly sell on the black market, for the love of god, we are committed to finding a way to give you what you so clearly need because NOW WE UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WANT MORE MONEY FROM US. We may be brainless, but damn if we're going to let a little thing like an empty bank account get in the way of a very important school fundraiser.

Besides, we don't want you to knock off our kid. You'll get your check tomorrow when we drop him off -- if we can figure out how to circumvent our mental retardation and drive to your establishment, that is.

Sincerely,
Kristen and John
P.S. Please don't leave a bloody horse head on our doorstep.

Simple Truth

Last night after I put the kids to bed, I was folding one of the dozens of loads of laundry that I like to use in my guilt arsenal towards John on the weekends, when Bryce quietly peered around my bedroom door. And honestly, it took every last ounce of strength I had not to jump out of my skin when he did that, because, MAN! THAT KID IS SNEAKY. He must have inherited my CIA genes.

After I composed myself without letting on to him that he almost caused my pre-mature death by heart attack among a pile of John's clean white undershirts, I asked him what he needed and got up to head back upstairs with him. "I just really miss Daddy," he said. We walked up the stairs, and his voice started to crack the way only an adult voice cracks when that adult is trying to keep from crying in front of his/her peers: "I miss him so much that I'm about to cry." I forgot about it all for a second: this complicated blended family, the new job, the braces; I said, "because you just love your Dad so much?" He said, in his still cracking voice, "Yeah." "Oh," I said, "and you always have such a great time with Dad!" And he said, brightening, "Yeah. I do. I love BOTH of you so much. I like being with both of you. And I wish you could stay home instead of going to work all the time."

Gulp.

"But you have such a great time at home with Dad, right? So that's good."

"Well, sometimes I do. But I like being with you sometimes, too. And I wish you could just be at home every day."

"Me too. But I do get to spend lots of time with you on the weekends. And that's a lot of fun. And during the week, you get to hang out with Dad."

"Yeah." *yawning, pulling up the covers* "I love you both so much."

I'm not really sure who he wanted when he originally came downstairs, and I'm not sure he was, either. Normally I would analyze this to death, but I think in this case, it's very, very simple.

And I can only hope they both still see things so simply in another 15 years. God, I hope I don't screw them up by then.

By the way, you're welcome.

Neither of us write much here about the older kids in this family, because there isn't much that we can pull out of the situation that's humorous or light-hearted, and just like we do in our real world interactions, we avoid discussing the things about our family that we know VERY few people understand, can relate to, or can empathize with. And frankly, it's just damn depressing. The only people I see writing about their stepkids or writing about life as a blended family write things that are funny, and write about experiences that seem to suggest that maybe the Brady Bunch dynamic wasn't so far-fetched, after all. And let me be the first to tell you: there is no Brady Bunch dynamic in this household; never has been, never will be. That's not to say that we're any more "dysfunctional" than any other family today; it IS to say that blended family life is very hard, and very different, and what's worse is that society pretends it's taboo to admit this, and so the very families that need additional resources and attention just don't get it. Let's not call them different, they might get offended...oh, they're falling apart as they try to fit into the family mold? That can't be! They're just like all families! The majority of second marriages end in divorce (THE MAJORITY, not the 50% divorce rate of first marriages); I believe this is because most second marriages involve the blended family dynamic ("your" kids vs. "our" kids - whether spoken or unspoken), which is given very little if any additional attention or concern from most of society, including the blended families themselves, who subscribe to the same notion that they SHOULD be expected to fit into the "normal" family niche, because "not normal" means "bad" or "wrong".

All of my frustration and angst about this issue is in the back of my mind when I sit down to write an update about either of John's older kids. As a stepmom to them, I feel alone, resentful, and helpless in many respects (moreso even than about the challenges with my own two biological children). And as a stepmom in a society that pretends stepmoms and moms are THE EXACT SAME THING, I can't really say much about it.

With that as a back drop, though, I am going to attempt to simultaneously provide a brief update about Hannah AND portray some of the day-to-day frustration I feel in dealing with her. After months of "logical parenting" and "natural consequences," Hannah got a job at a grocery store near our house. I believe the final "natural consequence" that hit home for her was when John said, "If you want to see any more movies or buy any more candy bars, you'll probably need to get a job: as of today, this well's run dry" because making subtle suggestions and offering to help her find something to give her extra income wasn't working NINE MONTHS into the attempt.

Tonight, Hannah has to work, but John, who normally drives her to and from her shifts, is at a wedding all evening. Nobody made transportation arrangements for her, which we realized about an hour before John had to leave for the afternoon. When she came home from school, I told her I'd be giving her a ride there, and John's mom would be picking her up tonight since the kids would be in bed and I wouldn't be able to leave. Then I told her that in the future, she needs to take the responsibility to make sure she has a ride, not just to assume one of us will drop everything to take her. She gave me her typical blank stare and said she'd shown John her schedule, and didn't know he had a wedding. I said, "that's fine, but it's not HIS job to tell you his schedule. You are the one who needs a ride. It's YOUR job to determine if that ride is going to be available each time you need it. It's great that you showed him your schedule, but next time you specifically need to make sure he's going to be able to give you rides when you need them." She mumbled an "okay" and shuffled upstairs. Fifteen minutes before her shift (which was only about 25 minutes later), I started getting the kids into the car and called up to her room to see if she was ready. That's when my blood started to boil. She had gone upstairs and taken a nap, setting her alarm for 3:40, which is when we would need to be LEAVING the house. When she got to the car, she was sulky, and still putting her shoes on. Cue a big lecture from me on consideration for the people she's relying on, not taking a nap after school, being responsible, listening to me when I talk because for the love of god, before she took her nap I'd gone into a big discussion about thinking ahead and communicating with the people she relies on for rides, what would make her decide taking a 20-minute nap sounded like the logical step?!, etc. Right before she got out of the car, I said, "I just need you to act like an adult. Be a kid during other times, but when you have to work, be an adult, STAY AWAKE, and take care of the things you need to take care of, like getting a ride and giving people NOTICE that you'll need a ride." She looked at me with her uninterested, uncaring eyes, opened the door, said "Okay." and walked at her depressing snail's pace towards the door of the grocery store.

As I drove home, in a very mature, adult display to the two biological kids sitting in the back seat, I yelled, "YOU'RE WELCOME!!!" She just doesn't GET IT, and it drives me insane. Even my four-year-old says "thank you" when someone does something for him. She is 16. And was just listening to me talk about maturity and consideration. COME ON.

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A few notes:
1.) Hannah has been diagnosed with clinical depression and is already on anti-depressants and in counseling. We aren't that stupid; we're aware there's more going on than laziness here. That doesn't make it any less frustrating or worrisome, though.

2.) I don't really expect her to BE an adult. I expect her to act her age. She typically acts about four years younger than her age, so to tell her to act like an adult translates to "act your age".

3.) There have been improvements in the past year, but again, the improvements have only brought us to THIS point, where there are still major problems, and while I can recognize the need to be grateful for progress, it's also so hard to stay positive when bust-your-ass progress only brings you from the ninth to the eighth circle of hell.

Mom, as you can see, some things NEVER change.

For the first time in a long time, a case of writer's block almost took over and ruined my chances at producing a decent Mother's Day tribute. When Kara first alerted some fellow bloggers about her idea, I was all, "Oh yeah! Count me in! Mother's Day tribute, here I come!" and then Kara got busy organizing all the blogunteers and I was in the *gulp* first group. The gulp in that last sentence was me swallowing my wine, which I use to dull the nightly cacophony of my kids' howls and growls during each failed attempt at a peaceful dinner -- and also it was me feeling some irrational, unexplained pressure to publish something outrageously outstanding. I even roped my poor brother into trying to work with me on the Mother's Day blog collaboration project, and the guy really stuck with me to the bitter, near-unproductive, anti-climactic end. Dealing with anyone else so flighty and insecure, Jonathan would have bid good riddance two sentences into the dialogue. But my brother is loyal and dedicated, and relishes any chance to flex his irony muscles (and also to ridicule his sister), so he endured my indecision and self-criticism for days during the most painful and almost barren creative process either of us had ever experienced. "How about we interview mom?" "How about we have mom interview us?" "How about we publish a series of e-mails discussing how to go about producing a tribute?" "Hey, I know! Let's use some of the ACTUAL e-mails we've written about this very thing!" "Wait, new idea. Let's act like Johnson and Boswell and write 18th century letters back and forth to each other, complete with period-sensitive spelling and phrases!" You think I'm exaggerating about that last part, don't you? Clearly, you don't know Jonathan and me very well. (And that draft will never be published. So spare yourself the pain: don't ask, unless you have millions of dollars you'd be willing to pay to read such contrived crap.) You can, however, read some snippets of all of those related chats and e-mails below, along with some fun facts and endearing traits about our Mom, who we love dearly, and who will probably be rolling her eyes at our apparent inability to grow up, already.*

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April 28, 2006 [chat]
Kristen: I agreed to be part of this mother's day blogger collaboration thing, and I'm one of the first in the lineup to write, which means I need to write something by May 3rd (which is next week, argh)...and I realized after I agreed to this that I apparently have nothing to say. LOL.

Jonathan: hahaaha- want a ghostwriter?

Kristen: maybe you could just help me brainstorm...there are no hard and fast rules, it is supposed to be an internet-wide "tribute" but it could funny, "snarky", deep, etc
I just had a thought
what if you and I did like an interview-style thing about mom
we could both post it it could be pretty funny

Jonathan: i'm down. are we interviewing each other, or mom?

Kristen: really? heh heh. this is much better than what I originally thought I'd end up with.

Jonathan: let's make mom interview us! hahhahaha

Kristen: oh wow! we should totally interview mom! maybe we should ask mom things like, name a time Jonathan totally embarrassed you. hahaha...that would get her talking! name a time Kristen made you want to pull your hair out due to her anal tendencies

Jonathan: hahhaaa- that's good. i'll work on questions, you do the same, and we'll trade off tomorrow..

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April 28, 2006
To: Jonathan
From: Kristen

Jonathan - how about these for questions?

1.) Remember that time you tried to sell Jonathan on the black market? Tell us a little more about that.
2.) Name a time Jonathan embarrassed you to the point of pretending he was someone else's kid.
3.) You know how Kristen was always so helpful and obedient? Talk a little about that.
4.) No, seriously. Kristen was always having to get Jonathan out of trouble, wasn't she?
5.) All the sibling rivalry was completely Jonathan's fault. Right?

Hahahahaha!

Since this IS a tribute, I guess we should make it less about us (imagine that! Narcissists talking about someone other than themselves!) and make sure we mention all the things we love about MOM, like how she has the classic "mom's house," fully stocked with all the foods we love, at all times, an open kitchen, day or night, how sociable and funny is - she pretty much gets along with everybody and puts up with all sorts of freaky characters we bring into her life. (Can we say "in-laws"? Hello.)

Make sure you get your questions/comments to me as soon as possible - this is due by May 3, you know, and I don't want to be late.


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April 29, 2006
To: Kristen
From: Jonathan

May 3- got it. I remember that from the first time we talked, too. Don't worry so much about it- we've still got like five days or so to work this all out. As you know, my "office" is a car, and so I don't really have all that much downtime to write emails and post blogs like you clearly do, hahaha! Ooh, but you just wait until self-driving cars come out. I'll be outblogging you in no time.

A thought: I'm sure we could get Mom to let us dredge up all the embarrassing/funny things out of her that she never talks about, like the time Cheyenne literally dragged her across Lake Shore Drive in the early morning snow, while we stared out of my bedroom window on the fifth floor and just laughed and laughed! Hahahahaha!

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April 30, 2006
To: Jonathan
From: Kristen

Oh! Thanks so much for rubbing it in my face about my "downtime" at work. Like I'm not already flogging myself for going through the pain and misery of changing jobs just to end up in another prison of boredom. Well, we can't all be as free to run the roads as you are, Jonathan. Some of us adults have what they call "responsiblities," even if they're not all that pleasant...now I know that "responsibility" is a dirty word to you, so I won't use it more than once, I mean I'll try to be RESPONSIBLE enough to avoid it. But the point is, I was setting a deadline as a reminder to you because I made a commitment, and I have...

RESPONSIBILITIES!

Oops. How'd that get in there? Sorry about that.

Now, back to something else we should somehow include in the tribute: Mom always appreciates the humor in a situation, even if she's distressed or disturbed about something. She can completely disagree with our philosophical stance and yet crack up at whatever irreverent joke you just made. Or at herself, as in the case of getting dragged face-first through the snow by a galumping, squirrel-crazy golden retriever.

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May 1, 2006
To: Kristen
From: Jonathan

Geez, I was just kidding about the not working thing, calm down! There's no reason to get so jumpy- I'm just trying to help. I have had no problems in my life, thusfar, in keeping up with "deadlines," (yeah, this mother's day collaboration sure is a big deal- much more important than my car payment and my real life. get a grip...) so I'm pretty sure I can handle this one, too. You know, this is not at all unlike the time we were at the beach in Florida with the church group when I had a broken arm. You got so mad when I didn't obey you about not getting in the ocean- not because you were concerned for my safety, but that you just wanted to control everything! I'm sure if it were up to you, Mom never would have given me that butterknife to shove down into my cast when it became so itchy (from... all the moisture- it's very humid in Florida!) because the DOCTOR said not to scratch it. You would do that, huh? Make a child with a broken arm suffer with horrendous itchiness just to prove a point! Wow. That's pretty intense.

You know, I just remembered that I wrote and recorded a song for Mom on Mother's Day four or five years ago- I'm not sure when, exactly. I don't even know what it sounded like. The only thing I remember about it is that the last line of the song was "And let us never speak of this again." And she never did. That's how she is. Respectful. And kind. Hmm... how very odd. Just makes me wonder about genetics, is all. No reason in particular.

Jonathan
P.S. I hope this communique falls into your highly structured "Response Time Regimen," or "RTR" as I call it. Quick, write back- now! There are only two days left! OH MY GOD!!

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May 1, 2006
To: Jonathan
From: Kristen

Oh, give me a break about the Florida trip!! You KNEW if Mom had been there, she wouldn't have let you get in the water, which is why you TOTALLY IGNORED ME with your little makeshift waterproof cover (i.e., a trash bag and some masking tape) when I tried to get you to stop. Nice try, but no. I was right, you were wrong. And I bet Mom would back me up, SO THERE. Also: some people (like Mom, for instance) like how structured I am, even if YOU don't.

Speaking of Mom, can we focus on the actual TRIBUTE for a second (since it IS due in two days, and apparently it will no longer be an interview with Mom but more of an interview with each other)?? I was thinking we should also talk about how Mom always did cool things like put authentic looking notes from the tooth fairy under our pillows every time we lost a tooth. I think we never questioned the tooth fairy's reality because those notes were so believable - and our tooth fairy even had a name! To this day, when I hear "tooth fairy," I think of "Gilderoy's" signature written in Mom's flowy, fancy hand-writing on those rectangular yellow slips of paper - folded neatly with our tooth money, of course. And the notes were always so long and personalized. I hope I'm not expected to live up to that standard. My kids will be lucky if I even tell them about the concept of the tooth fairy: "Tooth fairy? Who told you about that? Well, you can put your tooth under the pillow, but I'm pretty sure the tooth fairy is WAY TOO BUSY to make it to ALL the kids' houses with EVERY SINGLE TOOTH, I mean come on!. The population has really exploded, you know."

Yes, I'm sure I just gave you more ammunition for your Kristen attack with that one. Enjoy.

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May 2, 2006
From: Jonathan
To: Kristen

Who needs ammuniton?! Looks like you've already sunk your own ship with your own loose lips! No need to drag me into this... Besides, I'm not trying to formulate a "Kristen Attack," as you say. I'm trying to help you put together a fitting tribute to the woman that spent the last 30 or so years raising and supporting us, remember?! Or have you forgotten that this "tribute" is due TOMORROW? I hope you have a great time compiling all these happy memories and nostalgic reminiscences for this blog project- by yourself. Clearly, I am not up to par with the sheer professionalism that you direct your working and personal life with. I'll just send Mom a card and call her. See you at Christmas.

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May 3, 2006
From: Kristen
To: Jonathan

Geez, is this some sort of profound statement about adult siblings? We might as well be back in our yellow room with our matching farmyard quilts, fighting over who gets to be the clerk behind the desk (and by desk I mean dirty clothes hamper in our bedroom doorway) during our afternoon game of "store." As you once said, everybody's a child. I guess we've proven it.

It's a good thing we have Mom there to fill us up with chips and cookies and be nice to our freaky friends while we figure everything out.

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Happy Mother's Day, Mom. We have no idea how you survived our childhood. We really don't.

(At least not Kristen's. Love you, Mom! -Jonathan (the one whose blog you knew about...))

*No sibling relationships were harmed in the making of this completely (and painfully) fabricated exchange. And Mom? Seriously: Jonathan caused all the fights growing up, didn't he? That's what I thought. Little trouble-maker.