We had Karis’s third birthday party yesterday.

We had originally scheduled it for the beginning of the month, but due to weather, measles and swine flu we decided to postpone it till yesterday. This meant that instead of 30 people descending upon our house, we would host a few little girls from Karis’s class. It was such a small group that I decided to turn it in to a Princess Spa Day, and arranged for Karis and her two girl friends to get mani – pedi’s at a local salon.

The girls were very excited by this. Karis sat mesmerized with a zombie-like expression on her face. She chose a dark purple for her nails.

After the adventure at the salon we all trekked back to the house for pizza and cake. Karis wanted a “Princess Beauty” cake. (Sleeping Beauty) I was originally going to make one of those stand up doll cakes in Aurora’s likeness, but I figured I could make one of those any year, and why not make a cool bed while I had the chance. So I made this bed:

And put a sleeping beauty doll with fairies on top of it:

All in all it was a big hit.

After the girls were sufficiently hopped up on sugar they played and ran around as is legally required at third birthday parties.

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Around this time last year we got invited to go to the MTV movie awards in Los Angeles. They offered to put us up in a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so even though I was 47 months pregnant I jumped at the opportunity.

We were picked up from the airport in a tricked out Escalade complete with refreshments and candy bribes for the shortest of us. Upon arrival at the hotel I was offered a prenatal massage – yes, please  and thank you – then Karis, refreshed after a cat nap, took up residence in the pool.

That night we had to go to a cocktail hour and dinner at a trendy place down the strip. Jesse was being schmoozed by MTV’s new business guy so we had to participate in all of the planned schmooze enabling events. The next morning we had a few free hours so we went over to visit Miss Ella Beans. I was so excited to see the lovely people I consider my LA family. About 10 minutes in to the visit I started getting very uncomfortable. I was experiencing incredibly painful stomach cramps – so painful that I actually TURNED DOWN my planned lunch of In-N-Out. THAT’S how painful it was. I left the Beans family, apologizing profusely for being such a groaning lump. (I’m usually a very low maintenance pregnant woman) We made it back to the hotel just in time for me to stagger my way to the salon to get my hair and make up done.

The hotel salon was a joke. It was full of excited mid-westerners fluttering around in amazement at having their hair and make up done by professionals. I didn’t have the heart to point out that all of the true professionals in the area were being employed by the celebrities that would be attending the event. Instead I sat in a chair trying to hide my inner agony and praying I wasn’t going in to labor.

The stylist warred with my hair for a few moments before proclaiming, “Well, this is the best I can do with this.” “This” being my overly pregnant, hormone laden hair. I smiled a thankyou that probably looked more like a wince due to my continued pain. I was then sent off to the make up lady. She furiously applied shadow to my eyelids and rushed me out the door, her station remaining a well oiled make up applying machine.

I ducked in to a quiet bathroom on my way back to my room. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and let  myself indulge in an emotional hormone moment. I looked like a prom goer circa 1987. I had the raccoon eyes and the Bon Jovi tribute hair. I was a mess. I waddled over to a fainting bench and plopped my swollen body down. A few minutes in to my pity party I realized my cramping had subsided. I jumped up. wiped off approximately half of my raccoon mask and returned to my room to get dressed and see about calming the wrath that was my hair.

Dani was going to stay with Chi chi while we were at the award show, so she was there to witness and appreciate the talents of the salon professionals. She took this picture of us in the hallway before we left.

We were bussed to the theater which was at Universal Studios. There was currently a fire on one of the stages so most of the roads were blocked off. We had a quick thinking bus driver who lied to the road block cops, claiming we were guests at the hotel around the corner – we got through.

Once we arrived Jesse, myself and our host John, made our way to the edge of the crowd that was waiting in the smokey heat. When we were fully surrounded by other attendees the security guards started announcing that cameras were not allowed beyond this point. Crap. I had a camera on me and no where to stash it. I started nudging past people, going against the flow of traffic in an attempt to buy myself some time to figure out how to handle the camera situation because Kristy is *NOT* a rule breaker. This only succeeded in drawing more attention to myself and a security guard that could easily get employed as a body double for Michael Clark Duncan came over to see what was going on. Smooth as silk our host John – who seriously missed his calling as a used car salesman – grabbed my elbow in a show of support and proclaimed, “I’ve got a pregnant lady here! She’s not doing well in the heat. I think she’s going to pass out!”

Everyone within ear shot immediately looked our way. John’s story was only made more believable by my instant nuclear blush. The security guys went into crisis aversion mode and bulldozed us through the throngs of impatient people. The crowd rushed by in a blur but I could hear snide comments and a few abrasive women saying, “I’M pregnant too. Where’s MY escort?”

Michael Clark Duncan did a quick scan of my purse and solved the camera crises by simply taking my battery. (Incidentally he left me with my Flip – courtesy of my MTV swag bag – I guess he assumed nobody would bother with two forms of documentation equipment.)

The show was pretty much what you would expect. Tom Cruise is eerily good looking in person. Johnny Depp was painfully awkward and refused to sit in the audience. The Pussy Cat Dolls are truly skanky and I swear I saw the crew spraying lysol on the stage after their number.

When the show was over we all headed out to the after party. MTV had a large area set up outside with food and cabanas. To get to the party area you had to go through a set of doors that were being manned by security guards. They weren’t letting anyone through yet. A grey haired man was in front of me and I could hear him saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know who I am?” The guards still wouldn’t let him in and in a self important huff he jerked back to storm over to another set of doors. In the process he knocked full in to me and my belly. It was Jon Voight. He was an ass. He didn’t have the common decency to make sure the person (me) he just plowed in to was ok. (But didn’t we all really already know that about him? Point Angelina.)

The party was pretty low key. Paris Hilton held court in a cabana with a camera crew – always a wall flower, that one. Rainn Wilson was charming and delightful. Rumer Willis was covering it as a story for some entertainment show… The real excitement of the evening was watching just how big my feet managed to swell! I was wearing kitten heels and by the time we had grazed through the catered tables and were preparing to head back to our hotel, my feet were TWICE their normal size and couldn’t fit into my shoes.

As a nice end all to the evening, car salesman John even managed to get my battery back from Michael Clark Duncan!

*     *     *     *     *

The next morning as we waited for our ride to the airport I watched the other MTV schmoozee’s board their shuttle bus and I was selfishly pleased that we needed a private car due to our car seat requirement. When our driver arrived he turned out to be a stiff, elder, Asian man. Our first driver had been fun and energetic, but this guy was like a scary teacher in charge of detention. I saw my carefully constructed plan to get the driver to stop at In-N-Out wavering before my eyes.

Me: (Knowing full well there was)”Um, excuse me sir. Is there an In-N-Out on the way to the airport?”

Angry Driver: “Yes.”

Me: “Uh… Would it be ok if we popped through the drive thru?”

Angry Driver: “No. I’m not supposed to veer off course. I have a strict schedule.”

Me: “Are you sure? It’s on the street to the airport – not even an extra turn.” (So much for me not knowing the answer to my first question, huh?)

Angry Driver: “I really can’t veer-” Just then his eyes met mine through the rear view mirror. He must have seen the crushing despair on my face and the tears welling in my eyes as I fought to keep my composure. Here I was, IN California, passing within 10 FEET of the mecca that is In-N-Out, and I wasn’t going to be allowed to pleasure my pregnant tastebuds with the manna of a #2 with onion! “Uh, ok.”

Me: [GASP] “Really?!”

Angry Driver With A Heart Of Gold:”Yeah. ok. We can stop.”

Me: “Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!”

And so ended our mini vaca to the MTV Movie Awards.

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Today was Karis’s third birthday. It started out at six o’clock this morning when she came in to my bedroom and performed her usual angry rant about how the sun is out, and she doesn’t want to go back to bed, and she doesn’t want to be quiet – she wants to go DOWNSTAIRS. Each of these exclaimations are punctuated with open handed slaps to my body and head. I usually whisper furiously at her to be quiet, and that if she can’t be quiet she needs to leave the room or she’ll wake the baby. Her answer is almost always an even louder outburst about not wanting to be quiet and not wanting to leave. Today was no exception.

Jesse called her over to his side of the bed and tossed her up between us. Her grumbles slowly subsided and she dosed back to sleep.

Around seven o’clock she started ranting again. I looked over at her and she was still sound asleep. SHE WAS RANTING IN HER SLEEP. LOUDLY. She even smacked at the air a time or two, no doubt aiming at dream mommy. So charming, this daughter of mine.

Both Brecken and Karis stayed sleeping. I snuck out of bed at 8 to get a head start on the day before they woke up. They slept until 9! I couldn’t believe it.

The second time she woke up she was in a decidedly better mood. She wanted to know where daddy was. I knew if I told her he had already gone to work she would have a melt down, so I said, “I don’t know, let’s go look for him.”

She ran downstairs calling out, “Daddy. Daddy?” in her little cartoon voice. Then she called back up to me, “Mommy, he’s not here or there. He is working.”

The rest of the morning was a delight. We didn’t have to rush to school. I let her get there late.

I went back at 3 o’clock with birthday cupcakes for the class and got some great shots of her classmates. (I wont post them here because they are other people’s children and I don’t have permission.) I also got a few shots around the classroom, like this one:

You know your child is in a beautifully diverse school when all the dolls are dark skinned.

I also liked this shot:

So much attitude in shoes.

We came home, fielded birthday calls from the grandparents, (during which Karis insisted she wasn’t 3 until her party with the cake. I didn’t know that was an option. If I didn’t eat cake on my 30th birthday does that mean I’m still 29? I may be on to something here…) goofed around, made a late dinner and stalled stalled stalled for daddy to get home. He had a business dinner and I knew he would be home late but I was really hoping he would be able to see Karis on her special day. I finally gave up and let her open two presents before bath time.

Jesse called. He had played basket ball after the dinner (in his new, stiff dress shoes) and ripped giant gouges of skin out from the balls of both feet.

I told him it was karma for not coming straight home on his daughter’s birthday.

When he did finally get home I had to run to the drug store for gauze and ointment. It was 9 o’clock. Both kids were still up and screaming…

Now here I sit. It is 11 o’clock. I am supposed to be making pastillage for Karis’s  birthday cake because it takes a long time to dry. My kitchen is covered in cereal puffs, drying rice pasta and chunks of tofu that were artfully launched from Brecken’s highchair. There is wrapping paper littering the livingroom in addition to the usual million toys scattered about. Dirty laundry is crawling up the stairs from the basement, no doubt planning a coup while we sleep. Tomorrow is garbage day and the storms of yesterday blew my garbage can down the hill. Now that Jesse is out of commission I will have the joy of tracking it down and bringing it home. *sigh* The pastillage will just have to wait till tomorrow.

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While making cupcakes for Karis to take to school tomorrow I ate no less than a quarter of the raw batter.

This should come as no real surprise to anyone that has ever seen me baking anything chocolate.

For all you readers that just read this post and thought, “Well, YEAH. Of course raw batter was eaten.” I raise my beater in your honor.

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Is this not the cutest little widget? All of the hamsters I have known in my life have been anti-social little devils. Rats, on the other hand, are more often than not very pleasant little creatures. And smart. Boy do I have smart rat stories…

I am excited for my kids to be old enough for a pet. When we buy our next house we will make sure that it has a dog-friendly yard. In the meantime I doubt I’ll ever be able to convince my husband to agree to getting a pet rat.

My love affair with rodents began when I was nine years old. My mom agreed to let my sisters and me have pet mice. This was after weeks of me pestering her. She finally relented with one stipulation. “They have to be white mice.” She insisted. In her mind white mice were cleaner. Of course, we are talking about a woman that chose white everything when designing her house – white walls, carpets, tiles, appliances, EVERYTHING. In case any of you are wondering about the validity of her argument, even white mice poop little brown pellets.

My dad took me to the pet store to buy the mice. I can’t remember why my sisters weren’t with us, but I was definitely alone, proudly accepting the task of picking out a mouse for each of us. I chose a large white mouse for my older sister, a small white mouse for my younger sister, and a medium sized brown mouse for me. In my nine year old mind I had chosen myself a boy. (Yes, in my nine-year-old mind being brown was the equivalent of being male… I have no idea why. I guess if white mice can be clean than brown mice can be male.)

That night the two white mice had loud, squeaky mouse sex. I was very confused by this, not having been exposed to lesbianism in my sheltered, mostly Mormon town. Regardless, this was not loud, squeaky, lesbian mouse sex. It was loud, squeaky, heterosexual mouse sex. (And thereby sanctioned by God)

My dad showed me the correct way to determine the sex of a mouse. It is VERY obvious for anyone who cares to take a peek. Male mice have large scrotums hanging by the base of their tails.  We dubbed the large white female mouse “Mama Mouse” due to her impending motherhood. I named my little brown mouse “Squeaky” ’cause I was cool like that. And I can’t remember what we called the male.

Once I accepted the fact that my brown mouse was a female I got excited by the idea of her having little mouse babies. Sadly, the male mouse didn’t seem to find Squeaky the least bit alluring. I would spend hours watching them, trying to analyze each mouse glance, every mouse sniffle. Nothing. No action for Squeaky.

Weeks went by and Mama Mouse got bigger and bigger. We gave her cotton balls and cardboard bits and little wooden climbing structures with which to build a nest. Every morning we would check the aquarium, hoping to see babies. I can remember the day we finally did. We ran in to see if there were babies, and babies there were! But they weren’t Mama Mouse’s babies – they were Squeaky’s! She had been knocked up all along. Our little male mouse didn’t have a type after all. He just couldn’t see the point in having sex for purposes other than procreation (He was a Mormon mouse after all)

What followed were years of rodent breeding. I must have had 15 aquariums full of mice at one point. I would breed them and sell them back to pet stores. My love of biology ran rampant as I bred different colored mice together to see the resulting phenotypes. I eventually graduated to rats, and to this day I am a hard fast rat advocate. They are smart, sweet, clean, gentle creatures. Anyone who has ever taken the time to get to know one would agree.

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When I was in the first grade my teachers (plural – they team taught – not that it matters for this story) decided to teach us about the 5 senses. They thought up a bunch of clever ways to demonstrate hearing, sight etc. When it came time to teach us taste, they explained how different parts of the tongue tasted different things. Sweet was the front, salt was the sides I think…. anyway, not important. To demonstrate, they set up a table with different foods on it. I can remember a lemon wedge, and a block of Hershey’s baking chocolate. I can’t remember what else was on the damn table – but the important thing was the chocolate.
You see, at the tender age of 6 one doesn’t understand baking chocolate. Any dark bar with “Hershey’s” pressed into the top of it is free game for chocolate lovers! (I started young) So they set you in front of the lemon and said, “how do you think this will taste?” And you answer, “Sour!” and they give you a wedge to test your hypothesis – and sure enough it’s just what you expected – sour. Well, eventually you work your way down to the chocolate. “How do you think this will taste?” “SWEET!!!” Except this time it’s not what you expected. It’s the most awful, bitter taste your fragile tongue has ever had the misfortune to come across. And the whole experience is made worse because now you can never trust a Hershey’s chocolate bar again!
If they had said, “this is bitter.” would I have believed them? No. It was a Hershey bar. If they had disguised the fact that it was chocolate and said, “this is bitter.” would I have believed them. Yes. And it wouldn’t have tasted as shocking, because I would have known what to expect.
I was also told by an old teachers aide that smelled of urine and alcohol that if you color all in one direction your picture looks nicer. On one level I’ll agree. But it also makes it look flat.

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I was a better nanny than I am a mother.

It’s true. Kids worshiped me. I had a bag of tricks for every melt-down situation. I had energy, made up games, sang goofy songs, turned chores in to fun things… I made Mary Poppins look like a slacker.

Now that I’m a full time mom I seem to have forgotten how to make my mundane daily schedule fun. Actually, I remember how, I just can’t find the energy.

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