I met up with my mom’s group to tour a firehouse today. Who doesn’t love a firehouse? It has big trucks and loud sirens for the kids, and firemen for the moms. After all, everyone knows that fire departments are staffed entirely of guys like this:

Ours is no exception. Our tour was lead by firefighter Stewie.

Firefighter Stewie

Though he may not be your cliche calendar model that moonlights doing gay porn, he is what I imagine a love child between Dax Shephard and Barney Fife would look like. Call me crazy – but that’s sexy! Firefighter Stewie was a wonderful tour guide. He was patient with the kids, knowledgeable about his profession, and as this particular squad deals with search and rescue rather than putting out flames, this man goes into burning buildings to save people. So, thank you, firefighter Stewie, for doing what you do.

Brecken thoroughly enjoyed himself at the station. He saw fire trucks!

He ate fire station themed cookies!

And he found a bug!

He also watched firefighter Mike put on all of his gear, and breathe like Darth Vader in the 90º heat. I tried to get a picture of Brecken with firefighter Mike, but that was a no go. Brecken looked at me like, “You want me to go near that thing? Are you nuts?!”

At one point, a little boy gave firefighter Mike a flower. It was so sweet. Rather than toss the flower back into the bushes, he tucked it into his jacket. It was adorable.

A flower for f.f. Mike

I believe this is f.f. Mike, f.f. Stewie, and f.f. Mike – I’m pretty sure every firefighter there except Stewie was named Mike.

Brecken and f.f. Stewie

Thank you so much to all of the wonderful men and women of the Bethesda Chevy Chase Rescue Squad, for sharing your time with us today.

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We celebrated Brecken’s 2nd birthday this weekend. Due to an outlandish number of broken bones in our family (seriously – is this the new go-to excuse?) we kept the head count small. Mugga, Vanessa and Andrew came down. Uncle John had his hip replaced, and Aunt Angela threw herself down a steep flight of stairs, shattered her wrist, and possibly blacked out for a bit, before ending up in the hospital. (The lengths that woman will go to to avoid a party!) So they missed out on all the fun. As did their daughter Jennie. She didn’t break anything (this time) but she was legally obligated to take care of her parents. I don’t blame her – they’re technically cyborgs now, so you’re gonna want to do as they say.

What? That’s not enough broken bones for you? Fine. My mom also called to let me know that she fell down while walking her dog, and broke her wrist.

I haven’t been a ray of sunshine lately. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that the inner workings of my mind have resembled a Steinbeck novel on a loop. In my fantasy house, I have amazing guest quarters, and can play a perfect hostess to any number of guests. In my actual house, I have zero guest quarters to match my zero patience for serving as a hostess. Allow me to take this time to publicly apologize to my house guests for being a level nine bitch during your brief stay. I would also like to take this time to pat myself on the back for not committing homicide. Homicide is never the answer. Plus, I would never be able to get blood out of the new carpet. Such a hassle!

By now we should all be familiar with my obsession with traditions. I don’t expect much from a birthday party, but by God I will make the cake, and get a picture of the birthday child wearing their custom party hat. Unfortunately, the whole party hat thing tends to be hit or miss. Last year he LOVED wearing that stupid hat. This year? Not so much.

The cake was a success. I even got a picture of it this year! Brecken lit up when he saw it. He said, “Car! Car! Vroom!” Over and over again. Based on his current interests, he will grow up to be a car salesman, a mechanic, or a Formula 1 racer. Aim High, Brecks. Aim high!

The car cake…

…complete with vanity plates.

I’ll try to post a little video snippet of the candle blowing. It was a cute moment. For those of you wondering who the random kids are in the background, no, you’re not seeing double, they are identical twins. They are our neighbors, and they’ve taken to inviting Karis over for extended play dates, and showing up at our house, unannounced, and saying, “Sorry we’re late!”

They are two of the most polite little girls I have ever met. What’s a polite way to say, “Please stop inviting my daughter over to your house at inconvenient times because the screaming fits are soooooooooo not charming.”? Jesse and I are anti-social hermits. While we appreciate the need to socialize our children, we do NOT like being forced to socialize. I need to figure out a delicate way to put the kibosh on the constant play date demands. I feel like an ass-hole every time I have to say, “No you may not take my daughter to the fountain with your family, as I’m sure you’re nice and all, but I don’t actually KNOW you.”

We have these awesome neighbors that have a daughter in the same class as Karis. The girls are very close friends. Every time either family walks by the others house, the girls will demand to have a play date. We parents have a system down now. If our front door is open, come on in for a play session. If the door is closed, we are probably performing ritual sacrifices in our basements, so let’s take a rain check on that play session. It works pretty great. How can I get my immediate neighbors to respect our ritual sacrificing time? Oh, the dilemmas of being a heathen hermit.

So, we all survived Brecken’s 2nd birthday party. Barely.

Oh, and for you sick-os that were only interested in the insect sex part, here you go:

Mosquito eaters making sweet love by the screen door. I think this is even better luck than rain on your wedding day!

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Karis couldn’t find her Barbie’s shoe last night at bed time, and she was distraught. I heard her door creak open after lights-out, and called up the stairs, “Get back in bed!”

Jesse went up to investigate, and when  he came down he told me he wished he’d brought the Flip with him, because Karis was very talkative. She told him, “I don’t like Mommy because she never shares her paints and markers with me, and she’s mean, and she always yells.”

I haven’t painted in front of Karis in several months. The fact that she still holds bitterly to the memory of not being allowed to touch my paint supplies speaks volumes to me. I went upstairs to sort out the Barbie shoe drama, and while I was up there I asked Karis about her feelings.

“Doesn’t Mommy share her stickers with you?” I pointed out. “When I say you can’t touch my markers it’s because they’re for grown-ups only. That’s why I give you your own kid markers. It’s not that Mommy doesn’t want to share with you.”

She seemed okay with that explanation. Then I asked her why she thought I yelled all the time.

“Does Mommy yell the first time I ask you to do something?” I asked.

She thought for a second. “No.”

“Does Mommy yell the second time I ask you to do something?” I asked.

She thought for another second. “No.”

“Mommy usually yells the third or fourth time I ask you to do something, right?”

She half laughed, “Yes.”

“I know I shouldn’t yell at all. Mommy gets very frustrated when she has to say things over and over again. I’ll try not to yell so much, and you try to listen the first time, okay?”

Throughout this entire conversation I was searching fruitlessly for that damn Barbie shoe. Finally I walked over, picked up the doll, and said, “Barbie, you crazy girl! Why are you wearing a shoe in bed?!” Then I took off the shoe and put it on the dresser.

“We’ll look for her other shoe tomorrow.”

Karis had calmed down by this point, and agreed that there was no need for shoes in bed, but she refused to let me kiss her goodnight again.

*sigh*

I really really hate that my kids are destined to remember me as the bad guy. I do make a point of doing fun things with them, but they only seem to remember the angry battles that take place when the fun thing must come to an end.

Take today for example. When asked about their day, do they tell Daddy about all the fun they had when Mommy took them to the pool? No. They tell Daddy how Brecken cried and kicked because Mommy made him get out of the pool. (I know Brecken doesn’t understand the concept of getting Karis to school on time. He just understands that Mommy is mean.)

Did they tell Daddy about the special movie tent we set up in the living room with pillows and blankets and their favorite DVD? No. They tell Daddy how mean Mommy was because she wouldn’t let them play Frisbee with the DVDs.

I’m at a loss here, folks.

I don’t have the patience to be all lollipops and sunshine 24 hours a day. Sometimes you just have to get your ass in the car BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TOBELATEHOWMANYTIMESDOIHAVETOSAYIT????

So I guess eleven years from now, when Karis is a moody, promiscuous goth chick, we can look back at what a mean, beast of a mother she grew up with, and be more understanding to her plight. When I pick her up from the police station where she’s being held for spray painting graffiti, I’ll say to the officer, “Hey, go easy on her will ya? I never shared my art supplies with her when she was little.”

Karis, if you’re reading this, and you’re 15, and angry, let me just say three things:

1. I love you.

2. That is a beautiful shade of black. It really brings out the deep purple of your lipstick.

3. I know you think I’m mean, and lame, and don’t understand what you’re going through because I’ve always been scary like the wicked witch, but cut me some slack, huh? When you have kids of your own one day, you’ll understand just how much I love you, and just how badly I want you to listen the FIRST TIME.

Love, Mom.

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Dr. Sonnet Ehlers shows a spiked female condom, whose hooks she says stick on a man during rape.

This is a female condom with spikes inside that stick on an unwelcome penis. It doesn’t break the skin, but it does get tighter if tampered with, and can only be removed by a medical professional.

You can read the full article about it here.

I think this is an interesting little invention. On the one hand, I think it’s great that women have an option to “arm” themselves in a way. Sadly, it doesn’t stop them from being raped in the first place. On the other hand, I worry about the violence a device such as this will encourage the rapist to inflict upon the victim out of anger.

I also wonder about it’s practicality. If you are going somewhere you feel you need to prepare for by inserting an anti-rape device, maybe you should stay home and rent a movie instead. How many women actually have the thought, “I might get raped tonight. Hmmm, better put on the ol’ Rape-aXe!” No one plans to get raped. That narrows the market down to terrified women that must live in constant fear of horrible things, and man-hating fem-Nazis that would love a chance to try one of these bad boys out. (I’m kidding about the man-hating fem-Nazi thing – please, angry man-hating fem-Nazis, don’t flood my inbox with your indignation.)

I can see how something like this might help a woman feel empowered or pro-active. I hope it doesn’t give them a false sense of security. I like that it requires a professional to remove it. I can only imagine the number of mystery penile injuries that will flood emergency rooms if this thing catches on, because you know rapists are going to try to take them off themselves.

If there were some way to monitor its location, it may work as a nifty little chastity belt. Though wouldn’t it be easier to openly communicate with your daughter about sex in the first place? The types of parents that would be interested in a chastity belt are usually too squeamish to talk openly with their teens about sex – let alone enforce the wearing of a female condom.

Well, Dr. Ehlers, I like the way you think. Let’s hope the mere fact that this device exists will encourage would-be rapists to think twice before forcing themselves on someone. After all, you never know who’s wearing one…

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Yesterday was Father’s Day. It was also Brecken’s second birthday.

I have been getting really sentimental the past few days about Brecken’s birth. I don’t remember feeling this way around Karis’s second birthday, but that’s probably because I was bursting at the seams with an unborn Brecken.

A few days ago I stumbled upon footage from my Flip that was taken during Brecken’s labor and delivery. It’s really quite boring for anyone that wasn’t directly involved, but I may get motivated enough to make a little montage out of the clips. It’s bittersweet for me to watch it.

Little Karis is just 2 years old. Her voice is that of a cartoon chipmunk. I am swollen and lumbering. Little Brecken had difficulty breathing at first, so they took him away for a few hours. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my mom filmed them telling me they were taking him away. Both of my babies were born very fast, and both of them had their cords wrapped twice around their necks, and both of them had difficulty breathing at first. If I have a third baby, I wonder if their cord will be wrapped around their neck.

Watching that footage makes me realize how much Karis has grown. When she was 2 she still had those delicious toddler thighs, and ruby, chubby cheeks. I miss her toddler body. I have been soaking up the cherubic beauty of little Brecken’s toddler body – when he lets me. He still has that milky, silky skin. He is still rounded and soft everywhere. His hair is curly and sloppy, and falls just so over his furrowed brow.

Happy birthday to my sweet, gentle boy. Mama loves you so very much.

After re-watching Brecken’s birth footage, I’ve decided to keep it private. You know I love you, Internet, but a lady must maintain an air of mystery surrounding her lady parts. That was the first lesson I learned in finishing school! I will however, share with you Karis meeting Brecken. It’s quite adorable, and I dare you not to ovulate at the cuteness.

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After working out today, in the tiny back studio at the Y, with the old guy that insisted on listening to NPR while secretly trying to keep up with my awesome arm curling, I went in to the locker room and took a shower, and when I got out and dried myself off, I realized I had forgotten to pack a clean shirt, so I was forced to wear the damp, sweaty one I had just tossed onto the dusty locker floor, or I would have been arrested for indecent exposure, because my post-child, saggy breasts are nothing if not indecent, and I couldn’t go straight home, I had to stop at the grocery store first, and the saddest part of this whole incident is that if I had run into anyone I knew while shopping in my damp, over sized, nasty gym shirt, they probably wouldn’t have even noticed because I always seem to be wearing ugly, over sized t-shirts, in fact even though I have been home for several hours now, I never bothered to change into a clean one.

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…remind me again how this man became governor.



I’ve been considering running for public office once my kids are grown. I guess I should start working on a sex tape now. It is always better to be prepared!

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Babes in Toyland. That was one serious bonnet. That sucker weighed over 5 pounds. (I left the red vampire eyes on me and the Queen of Hearts because vampires are so “in” right now. Ok, because I’m lazy.)

I am a thespian. A theater nerd. It’s in my blood, and much like hepatitis or HIV, there is no cure for it. You just have to live with it. Even now, I catch myself itching to spell “theater” t-h-e-a-t-r-e. With proper treatment, those of us with theater in our blood can expect to live relatively normal lives. That is, of course, if we can manage to avoid travesties of the stage.

Karis had her first dance recital on Sunday. I should have known it would cause a nasty theater-lust flare up. All the signs were there: At the dress rehearsal on Tuesday I caught myself tearing up while watching the little tutu clad girls stumble around on stage. Tearing up – and my kid wasn’t even out there yet!

I was remembering my days as a theater tech, running the light board in high school. My days as a stage manager. My days performing with my college drama department and local city theater companies. I’m not saying the shows I was involved with were Tony worthy or anything, but they instilled in me a great snobbery, and appreciation for a show well done. Karis’s show? Not well done. It was actually painful to watch.

It wasn’t the dancers! The little dancers were a delight. They were cute, and excited, and everything else you would expect of little girls at a ballet recital. The fault lay with the overall production quality. Oh my God, somebody stop me – here comes a review of a no budget, YMCA child ballet performance. This can’t end well.

Ok. I’m not going to give in to the torrent of things I want to say, as if writing a review for the entertainment section of my local free paper. What I will allow myself to say, is that the costumes were disappointing at best. COME ON! It was Alice in freakin’ WONDERLAND. Would it kill you to have a little color in your costumes? Tweetle Dee and Tweetle Dum were in black and white prison garb for God sakes.

For the last two days I have caught myself mentally sketching costume ideas for my own production of Alice in Wonderland. Too bad you guys can’t see it. It’s a feast for the eyes. Colors, sparkle, fun… I’ve even designed a back drop or two, instead of the plain cyc screen we were subjected to.

More Babes in Toyland – note the SPARKLES and RUFFLES even though we were wearing white.

Maybe this is my calling. Maybe I am destined to be a theater teacher. One of those obsessive types that demands perfection from her cast and crew as if their very lives depended upon it. I used to pity those types. Oh, hark, looking glass, thou cruel mistress.

Here is a video of my darling little fairy in her dancing debut. I took the liberty of shortening it (you’re welcome) so you can’t see that she was actually more mentally present than the SIX year olds, but she does have an unfair advantage – she’s related to me. Just kidding. Well, she is related to me, but that only serves to limit her athleticism. She did well because her daddy practiced with her every night before bed time. I would include the most adorable video footage of that EVER, but my husband would kill me in my sleep. Rest assured it is damn cute footage.

The actual dancing doesn’t start until 1:40, and after she finishes, if you wait a second, you can see a dark silhouette of Brecken eating bunny crackers off the theater floor. It kept him relatively quiet, and strengthened his immune system. I finally cut the footage on Karis yawning. That sums it up perfectly.

I’ll leave you with one last photo. No, not a picture of Karis in her fairy costume – I haven’t uploaded them yet. I’m leaving you with a picture of ME  from MY first dance recital, because we wouldn’t want this post to actually focus on my sweet little girl and the amazing job she did, now would we.

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Click here to view data from the Fish & Wildlife Collection Report.

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