Change of address

{crickets chirping}

No one is here.

Nope: I'm over at my brand-new blog, with my very own domain!

Go here. Now. http://www.onthreekids.com/ It's very cool. Same me (funny, sexy, insightful, enlightening, empathetic, glamorous... fill in whatever flattering adjectives you'd like), new address.

That's where I'll be posting from now on. Update your subscriptions, your bookmarks, however you find me. Tell your friends. Tell your mom. I've moved, starting now.

So go. http://www.onthreekids.com/

What are you still doing here? Go. Now. You'll like it. See ya over there.

{chirp}

Through a child's eyes and other cliches

Evan drew this picture at preschool yesterday. "It's our family in our van, driving home the other night." "The other night" was the night it was 10:30 pm and we were barreling down the interstate approximately faster than the speed of light and Caleb was crying really hard and then threw up and everyone was unhappy. Anyway. Apparently Evan remembers it a little differently. Here's the art:

And here's my deconstruction, courtesy Child Psychiatry 101:

Legend:

1. This is me. I'm smiling. And I have Crazy Eyes, which is alarming. And, also, accurate.

2. This is Evan. Silly me. I thought this was Jeff in the passenger seat. Emphatic no. It's Evan and he's the same size as I am and he's enormously happy to be next to me.

3. This is Jeff. He's tiny. And sticking his tongue out. And below me.

4. This is Jensen. Inexplicably, he has no hair and bears a striking resemblance to Ike from South Park*. He also lacks much by way of facial features. Hm.

5. This is Caleb, sitting in the way back and crying what appear to be tears of blood. Which is also rather accurate at this particular point in our trip.

6. Our mysterious sixth passenger. I quote the artist here: "I really don't know who that is, Mom." It's unclear whether he really thought there was an invisible person in the van with us that night, or whether this person just showed up in the drawing. Interesting.

Evan's world is a very interesting place. Also straight out of a textbook.

_____________

* In the interest of responsible parenting I feel like I should clarify: Evan has never seen South Park. (Even though it is, perhaps, my favorite tv show.) Therefore, any similarities to Ike must be purely coincidental, which makes it a bit more eerie.

Kitchen Utensils and Marital Stability

The following is an example of why I know, in my heart, that Jeff and I will never get divorced. This discussion took place during dinner preparation the other night.

Me: Man, I really hate this potato masher.
Jeff: Me too. It sucks.
Me: I think we should commit to addressing this problem.
Jeff: Yeah.
Jeff: I'm really glad we had this talk.
Me: throws potato masher in trash can

Seriously, with communication like that, what could ever go wrong?

Never mind the fact that we will probably forget to buy a new potato masher. Never mind the fact that sometime next month one of us will be looking for the potato masher and will snark at the other, "What the hell did you do with the potato masher?!" and the other will respond, "Me? Why is it always me? I didn't do anything with it. What did you do with it?" And the other will mutter under his/her breath, "Whatever. Screw you." Never mind the fact that this scenario is a very real possibility.

Okay. But here's how I really know we'll never get divorced: that argument won't matter a bit. We'll forget to buy a new potato masher for the next 14 months, and we'll bicker about it. And it won't matter at all.

People like us, we could put Dr. Phil out of work. Maybe.

Distracted

Where is Teresa? Why isn't she keeping us up-to-date on the thrilling! and fascinating! details of her week? Has she abandoned us?!

It certainly has been a thrilling and fascinating week here. And I would love nothing more than to tell you about our enthralling trip to Iowa to visit grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins; or the exciting story of doing laundry when we got home; or how great it is to have Jeff home on vacation and the boys home on spring break, and how I only want to strangle them a little bit and kind of can't wait for them to get the hell out of the house; or what a great day-trip we had on Wednesday visiting more aunts and uncles and cousins and how awesome it was when Caleb cried so hard he threw up in the van on the way home at 10:30 that night; or how (after making it known how much I dislike her) I decided to devote myself to cooking only Rachael Ray's recipes this week and how much my entire family has loved every single meal so I guess I'm retracting my complaints about her; or how Caleb has decided having his diaper changed is entirely undignified so he rolls around and tries to flop off the changing table and how he manages to get poop everywhere now; or how I finally decided to quit whining and get physical therapy for my knees and the therapist broke my heart but gave me exercises that have made my butt so sore I can hardly walk, much less sit down to pee....

I'd love to tell you about all these things. But I can't.

See, I'm busy acquiring my credentials to be a Certified Computer Geek.

I am venturing into the deep, dark world of self-hosting this little blog. Which is great. (!) But it requires a bit of education on my part. My computer time right now is being spent delving the underworld of the interwebs.

Sadly, then, I don't have time to tell you all the things I just told you about.

Back to learning about FTP. Or whatever it's called. Next thing you know I'll being playing World of Warcraft. Or hacking Gymboree. Or Pottery Barn. It's a slippery slope, this computer business.

In our own backyard

I'm so proud of Jensen. He's growing up, and he's reached a new developmental milestone: he's completely embarrassed by me. I'm an outcast. Awesome.

When I visit his classroom, I can see the excitement in his eyes. But he plays it cool, keeping his distance. He definitely doesn't want anyone else to know he's happy to see his mother. And public displays of affection have been completely outlawed. Yeah, it hurts, but it's okay; it's normal. And it gives me some power over him. When he gets a little uppity, I can put him in his place by whispering, "I love you." He immediately panics and dies a little inside and looks around to make sure none of his friends heard me.

In the confines of our home, though, he still lets himself be a little boy sometimes. Still needs hugs. Still wants to hold my hand. But only sometimes. We caught some of these increasingly-rare moments on film last week, but I had to promise not to show these photos to any of his friends. He's safe, as long as no eight-year-old boys read my blog (which would be very weird).

This kid-formerly-known-as-cuddly, he makes my heart sing.

In which I alienate half of my family

So there we were last weekend, watching basketball. Lots of basketball. Too much basketball. Perhaps everyone got a little tired of basketball.

Maybe because we were bored, we had a drink. Or two. Or three. The conversation started to get a little strange. Before I knew it, in an odd convergence of pop-cultural references, we were discussing basketball, Twitter, Howie Long, "On Golden Pond," and Rosie O'Donnell.

But that wasn't the strange part. The strange part was when my brother-in-law Dustin felt compelled to share (out of the clear blue sky): "You know, I think Stephen Colbert is my man-crush."



It immediately got stranger when my husband added, "I'd have to say that, from an avuncular* standpoint, Warren Buffet is my mine."

All I can say is that I love it when people hand me blog posts on a silver platter.

_________
*Avuncular meaning "like an uncle." Truly, I don't want to know why my husband associates "uncle-like" with bromance. Do not think for a minute that this doesn't disturb me.

Oh, and my sincerest apologies to Stephen Colbert, Warren Buffet, and Photoshop.

Oh, and: Truce?

Death by Five Iron

Last night I had the opportunity to play Wii Golf. Most people wouldn't guess that I was on the golf team in high school. Nor would they guess that I was a bit of a cheerleader. But I was both. And I'll tell you what: that Wii Golf is a (frighteningly) realistic game.

In tenth grade, for reasons even I don't understand, I joined the golf team. I lived in a tiny, nine-hole-course-in-the-middle-of-a-cornfield kind of town. You didn't have to try out for the team, although I'm guessing they re-thought that policy after I left.

I had never even teed off, much less played nine holes, much less eighteen. My parents weren't small-town country club people, so I hadn't even golfed casually. But I'm a quick study and I was determined, so I got myself a cheap set of clubs and hit the links.

It. Sucked.

It was boring. God, was it boring. (The only thing more mind-numbing than watching golf on television is actually playing golf.) It took hours of my time after school every night. Because it was Iowa in the spring, it was freezing. We had fluorescent golf balls because sometimes it snowed. The coach was 27 different kinds of mean. And most of all, I was the worst golfer who ever golfed.

I'm not just saying that for effect or to be modest. If memory serves me correctly, my career best score on a podunk nine-hole course was 97. (Which may also be my career best bowling score. Coincidence? I think not.)

But I wasn't a quitter. I stuck with it.

For a while.

Until The Meet Which Shall Remain Nameless, in a town about an hour away. I was assigned to golf with three girls from the other school, which for a 16-year-old girl is a fate worse than death. I hit divot after divot, lost ball after ball. I got so mad that I threw my club, which the coach conveniently witnessed. (He yelled at me.) It was 45 degrees and I was miserable.

I was down to my very last ball. And I hit it. Into the creek.

There was no choice but to retrieve it. So I climbed down the muddy banks of the creek, reached over to get my ball... and fell into the water.

Immediately I decided I didn't really need that ball. Because right then and there, I realized my brief but storied golf career was over. I climbed out of the water, grabbed my clubs, and turned my back on a life of pseudo-elite ugly shoes and stupid little skirts and sun visors. I walked quietly back to the bus and that's where I sat until it was time for the long ride home.

So back to Wii Golf, last night. We played for a while, and I finished 14 over par. After two holes.

Like I said: realistic.