We are back from our California adventure. I learned many things during our little trip. Mainly, it is completely impossible to enjoy a meal if Brecken is within a 47 foot radius of the table, and traveling with a 4 year old and a 23 month old sucks – except for the rare times when it doesn’t, but mostly it does.

Ok, that’s not really fair. Karis was pretty good for a majority of the traveling. She spent her time in the airport diligently coloring in a pony book… in the middle of the terminal hallway.

I don’t know where she gets it.

Brecken spent his time determinedly pushing every reachable button on the near by security control panel, and scavenging fries from compassionate travelers.

My son, after the kind, fry dispensing traveler wouldn’t let him eat dirty fries off the floor.

Brecken’s inability to handle being told “no”, no matter how gently it may be said, borders on comical. He’s not even upset about not getting what he wants – he’s upset that he has displeased someone in such a way as to make them feel the need to say that awful N-word.

Much like the seagulls in Finding Nemo – you know, the ones that say, “Mine? Mine? Mine. Mine?”- my children wandered the airport terminal, getting uncomfortably close to anyone with food in any form. Before I could pull them away and beat them properly, the incredible force of their giant puppy dog eyes would have already worked its magic, and the unsuspecting food bearer would have gladly offered up portions of their meal. While it’s comforting to know that should we ever fall on hard times, we have only to go to the airport to fill our children’s bellies, I find this wanton begging for food to be in poor taste. (Pun intended – I just couldn’t help it.)

I promise, I DO in fact feed my children! Don’t believe me? Just ask my therapist. That’s right, I need a therapist to help me work through the PTSD I suffer from taking my brood to a restaurant.

Again, Karis is pretty good at restaurants, if you can overlook the occasional spilling of full glasses of water all down her front. Little Brecks, on the other hand, has just entered into that magical time in childhood where he feels it is his sole responsibility to reap Karmic vengeance upon you for anything you have ever done wrong in your life to this point. He suffers from a very special case of Toddler Tourettes, which seems to be exacerbated by the restaurant atmosphere. The nicer the restaurant, the worse the Toddler Tourettes.

Maybe his aversion to fine dining stems from a traumatic past life experience. With that theory in mind, I let him soothe himself when the need arises. During our lunch in Venice, I let him drown his sorrows in half & half creamers. Whether it helped with the past life stuff or not, I think downing an entire dish of creamer is a rite of passage for every kid.

Line ‘em up. Keep ‘em comming.

Our attempt at a sushi dinner was met with Brecken’s usual culinary enthusiasm. A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll just leave you with this:

A: Apple Josh. (He doesn’t have any kids yet – can you tell?)

B: A dirty chop stick Karis found on the ground. (Isn’t she helpful the way she’s stirring her daddy’s drink?)

C: A very patient man. (Thanks to the bottle of Saki, no doubt.)

D: Brecken in full Toddler Tourettes form. (Hell hath no fury like a little boy subjected to edamame and sweet pumpkin!)

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What does jet lag feel like? It sucks.

What does jet lag feel like when you have two jet lagged kids? It sucks worse.

I can’t complain though. They were 98% angelic on the very long plane ride. So much so, that they captured the interest of a sweet, elderly gentleman. As we were boarding our connecting flight, he stopped us from his seat as we were mid-aisle:

Sweet old man: “You have such beautiful children.”

Me: “Why, thank you.”

Sweet old man: “I mean it. I’m not just saying that. They are just charming.”

Me: *smile and nod*

We stare at each other for a minute while waiting for the passengers in front of us to move down the aisle. He looks me dead in the eye, and full on ups the creepy factor of our conversation from 1 to ELEVEN.

Sweet Creepy old man: “You know, you could definitely get a million bucks a piece for them. Easy.”

Me: *Confused, blank stare*

As we continued on our way, Jesse said, “What do you think? Would you sell one of our kids for a million bucks?”

I just sighed heavily, and answered, “It doesn’t matter – Their market value will plummet once Brecken starts shrieking.” And just like that, as if on cue, Brecken started shrieking – ruining all of my plans for an early retirement.

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This is what my living room looks like right now:

Can you find the child in this picture?

I didn’t bother to take a picture of the car before clearing it out, but it looked much the same as the living room.

Tomorrow we are leaving to California for a week. I have a mild OCD quirk where I can’t leave a mess behind when I travel. My entire house looks like a tornado just rolled through, having just passed through a Toys R Us, sucking up every toy imaginable, only to deposit it in my living room. There is also a sour smell coming from the garbage. I don’t think anything has died in there, but it sure smells like CSI should drop in for a look around.

I still have to scour the fridge, clean the entire house, sweep and mop, finish up the laundry, and PACK all of the clothes for myself and the kids. This is my list as of right now – 4:30PM. I have already cleaned the hedgehog, dropped her off at her babysitter’s house (Hi Laurel!) returned one of Jesse’s shirts to the ghetto mall, attended my core class at the gym, went to the grocery store for last minute plane snacks, fed the kids lunch, played restaurant with Karis, cleaned out the car, and washed several loads of laundry. I have also been denying that my kids feel a little warm, and look a little peaked. So help me God they will not be sick for this trip!!!

So that’s what’s going on around here today. For those of you asking about the cake pics – they are coming! But no promises as to when.

I’ll try to post tomorrow before we leave. (Did I mention I’m a solo parent for today and tomorrow? Jesse will be meeting us at the airport.)

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Danielle, Shout, Twist, Marina & Kiki

I have mentioned Karis’s obsession with the Fresh Beat Band before. I am even going so far as to create Kiki’s guitar out of cake for her birthday this year.

Danielle was sweet enough to send us this little pic today from set. Karis hasn’t seen it yet, and I’m excited to see her face when she sees the pic tomorrow. (She can read her own name, but I don’t know if the point of the photo will fully gel within her brain.)

I almost hesitate to show her the picture for two reasons: 1. I know it will spawn a whole new episode of “Are we going to see The Fresh Beat Band today?” “Are we going to California today?”…, and 2. God forbid they change the shoot schedule at the last minute, and we don’t get to meet them. Geeze – we will go down as the biggest ass-holes in the history of 4th birthday ruiners.

Still, the photo is the sweetest thing. Thanks aunt Dani! (Huns, Em – ya’ll better step up your game!)

We love that you’re thinking of us. I was immediately reminded of another long-distance birthday photo:

Now hurry up and get a gig on Modern Family or Cougar Town, so you can send me pictures of my favorite shows!!

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Hot damn, but I make a delicious cookie.

I made these little suckers out of left over dough from the guitar monstrosity. They remind me of Chessmen® cookies – ONLY BETTER.

eat me.

For those of you wondering what the hell I’m talking about  when I say “guitar monstrosity”, have a go at this:

My first attempt at recreating Kiki’s guitar

That is one big-ass cookie. Here’s a pic for size reference.

Karis is a little taller than the average 4 year old, but I think it’s fair to say this cookie was roughly the size of a toddler.

Was I happy with it? No.

I sent it to work with Jesse to be eaten by the new interns.

I will now begin thinking about creating Kiki’s guitar in cake form. Maybe I’ll bake it a little amp too. An amp that goes up to ELEVEN!

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Okay, it wasn’t technically drugs, but he did serve as a vehicle in which to transport illegal information from one party to another.

There are several ladies that work at the childcare center at my gym. Two of them are always there. We’ll call them Ms. Melody and Ms. Temple. Ms. Melody and Ms. Temple are a sweet, grandmotherly pair, that love to talk. And talk. And talk. Karis and Brecken adore them. They see them almost every day, and have become quite comfortable with them. I was delighted when Ms. Melody approached me one day and slipped me her number.

“Here’s my number if you ever need a babysitter. Keep this on the DL.”

It’s not stated anywhere that I’ve seen that a gym employee can’t offer babysitting services, so I don’t know what the big deal is. I tucked the number away, planning to use it should Jesse ever agree to a date night. (I  figured our biannual date was coming due.)

If you could see my desk, it would come as no surprise to you that I promptly lost Ms. Melody’s number.

Fast forward to a few weeks later. It is just Ms. Melody and Ms. Temple in the childcare area. I assumed (remember what happens when we assume, kids!) that Ms. Temple was in on the secret babysitting racket. Like an ass, I asked them if they could please give me their numbers again. Oops.

An incredibly awkward silence descended upon the room. Ms. Melody’s eyes bugged out of her head, and Ms. Temple became very still.

“Oh,” said Ms. Temple in a cold, flat voice. “You must mean Ms. Melody.”

“No!” Said Ms. Melody, shaking her head fiercely. “I don’t do that anymore. Sorry.”

I’m not dense. I realized immediately the faux pas I had committed. As I left the room, Ms. Temple staring me down as I went, I hoped fervently that I hadn’t gotten Ms. Melody into any serious trouble.

That all took place several weeks ago.

Today, as I was heading to the workout area, Ms. Melody ran into the childcare vestibule to stop me.

“Brecken’s mom! I’m so sorry about the number mix up. Do you still need a sitter? You MUST not let Ms. Temple know!”

I smiled at her apologetically.

“I’m so sorry! I thought Ms. Temple was a sitter too. I hope I didn’t get you in to any trouble.”

“It’s fine. Just know that Ms. Temple can not know!”

“Okay. I lost your number, so can you slip it to me again?”

She gave a curt nod, and slipped back into the childcare room.

When I came back to pick Brecken up, Ms. Temple was sitting front and center. I knew better than to attempt to get Ms. Melody’s number this day! I signed Brecken out, and scooped him into my arms.

“No jacket today?” Asked Ms. Melody, as she came over and patted Brecken on the leg. We locked gazes. She gave the slightest nod.

“Not today. We’ll see you guys tomorrow!” I nodded back to let her know I understood. I patted Brecken’s  little pocket and smiled a “Goodbye”.

As soon as I had him tucked into his car seat, I opened the little pocket on his cargo pants. Sure enough, there was Ms. Melody’s number, scrawled across a folded paper towel. I immediately plugged the info into my ipod.

I hesitate to call her though, because Karis is guaranteed to mention seeing Ms. Melody outside of the childcare center. How will we explain that to Ms. Temple?

On a positive note, if any military black ops divisions need a SAHM to work as a spy, I’ve seen every episode of Alias, and I obviously have mad skills at the whole smuggling thing.

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No, not the boy band – though I don’t fault you for thinking of them. (The eighties were an embarrassing time for us all.)

The new kids I’m referring to are of the cute and fluffy variety.

A few weeks ago, six severely malnourished and abandoned goats were rescued by Farm Sanctuary, including five pregnant moms-to-be.

Since then, Lulu, Juno and Olivia have all successfully delivered their kids. Lulu had a baby girl, Olivia a boy and Juno twins — one boy and one girl! And, as I write, they anxiously await the arrival of at least two more babies.

Farm Sanctuary depends on donations from compassionate people to help keep their farm operating. Check out their site, and consider donating a few bucks towards a good cause. Maybe even suggest a name for a new baby!

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Karis has recently become very interested in skin color.

We live in a diverse neighborhood, and I purposefully enrolled her in a preschool that has kids from many different cultures. She never really seemed to notice differences in skin color until the last few weeks. The other day she was watching our neighbor’s twin daughters getting out of their car. “They have matching dresses on.” She said. “Matching dresses, and matching brown faces.”

That was an accurate observation, so I agreed with her. Then she asked, “Why do they have matching dresses?” and I answered, “I think their mom likes to dress them the same because they are twins.” Next Karis asked, “Why do they have matching brown faces?” and I answered, “Because they are identical twins. That means they look very much alike.”

Obviously her next question was, “But why are they brown?”

I explained that people come in all different shapes and colors. She is at a very literal age, and I didn’t realize what her imagination had done with my explanation until a few days later, when she asked why she never sees rainbow people.

*sigh*

I don’t think her questioning has anything to do with understanding the concept of race. She seems more interested in forming an accurate picture of a person in her mind. A while ago I had mentioned to her that I saw a lady bump her car into the wall at the post office. Karis likes to bring up this story from time to time, and ask about different details – the color of the car, was the lady mad… Well, yesterday she asked me what color was the lady’s skin.

Beige.

What color was her hair?

Grey.

GREY?

Yes, grey, uh, white, like a grandma.

Mugga doesn’t have white hair.

Not all grandma’s have white hair.

Why?

I would have answered her, but I was too busy beating my head against the steering wheel.

Parenting a pre-schooler is like playing chess with fate. I find myself analyzing each answer I give, wondering how it may shape her perception of the world. It’s exhausting.

Anyway, I better get off this computer and go spend some quality time with my children. They’ve already watched an hour of t.v. today – isn’t that how serial killers are made?

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I’ve been trying to clean up my hard drive in all my spare time. (I try to squeeze in 5 minutes here and there between watching my stories, and being massaged by my cabana boy.)

What I have been finding are many little videos I’ve thrown together and never posted. I’m going to make an effort to share them more regularly. Maybe I’ll think up a catchy little name for it – I’ve seen blogs that do the ol’ Wordless Wednesday. Maybe I’ll do Flip Friday. Anybody over at Flip wanna hook me up with a new Flip camera? Mine broke.

Most of the videos featured will have been shot on my Flip. Except this one. This was shot on a borrowed camera, because like I said – my Flip broke.

Pitter Patter from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

(This was shot in Dec, 2009 for a Nikon competition with “A day in the life” as a theme.)

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Karis’s preschool posts little notices by the classroom door should any child within be diagnosed with a contagious disease. Very rare is the day that there is no paper posted. Sometimes on the days there is no notice, it’s not there because some kid probably ate it, rather than all children present are healthy.

Usually these notices warn parents that a child in the classroom was diagnosed with regular kid stuff – strep throat, foot and mouth disease, chicken pox, leprosy… I just take it all in stride, and remind Karis not to lick the door knobs.

Yesterday was the first time the posted notice struck dread into my cold, shriveled heart. One word, people: Lice.

There have been four documented cases of lice in Karis’s preschool, one of which was in her classroom. (Excuse me a moment while I run shrieking into traffic, while clawing at my eyes.) Lice in and of itself is not so bad. It’s just that it’s such a PAIN IN THE ASS to get rid of. I know this because I had the pleasure of being infested with lice when I was in the first grade. Let me take you back to that magical time:

It was a parent/teacher open house night at my school. My older sister, Ginger, was a bit of a hellion, so my parents enrolled her in a special, new agey school for hippies and future serial killers. Naturally, I was also enrolled in this school, because, in my mother’s words, It was a hell of a lot easier to drop you guys off at the same school, and I figured you were only in the first grade, so how badly could they screw you up?

I wasn’t complaining! That school was great. For one thing, they didn’t have actual classrooms. With the exception of The Math Room (an enclosed room where the older grades would take turns staring at numbers, and carving their names into the desks) the school was basically a giant warehouse with a jungle gym, and art supplies.

A small amount of effort was put forth to corral kids into appropriate age groups, but honestly, I spent the majority of my time hanging out with a sweet sixth grader named Chastity. In a weird coincidence, we would eventually end up two hospital rooms away from each other – me recovering from a tonsillectomy, her from a nasty cat attack. Seriously. But that’s a story for another time. Let’s get back to the lice, shall we?

Ginger and I were running around the giant warehouse school, hopped up on candy and the excitement that comes from being at school at night! We noticed a friend of ours that had been absent for a few days, so we rushed over to say hi.

US: Where have you been?!

HER: I have lice, so my parents kept me home.

Her answer spawned an immediate response within the primordial recesses of my amigdala. Keep in mind I was raised by a woman that used to tell me to keep my fingernails short, or worm eggs would hatch in the dirt that collected under them. (An excellent point that I like to remind my own children of to this day!)

She must be lying! No way would her mother let her out IN PUBLIC if she had lice!

Ginger and I both said we didn’t believe her, and to prove just how much we didn’t believe her, we immediately rubbed heads with her. Our heads that happened to be home to our waist length hair.

After rubbing heads with The Host, we found our mother talking to The Host’s mother. We stared at each other bug-eyed as we simultaneously realized they were talking about The Host having lice, and the hassle of having to bomb their house and move to another country. Naturally we did not mention a word to our mother about our little game of Lice Swap.

The next morning I woke up to sounds of chaos. I could hear Ginger complaining about an itchy head. My mother was cursing the heavens in her no-nonsense nurse tone. Kristy! Does your head itch? Why, yes. Yes it does.

The rest of the story is pretty standard stuff. Shampoos, laundry, goat sacrifices… you know, the usual.

So now, here I sit on the other side of the parent/child relationship, clutching a lice deity and praying to any God that will listen, to please let Karis avoid the lice infestation. I do NOT have the time to sacrifice any goats this week.

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