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Today's cuteness

lovingly brought to you by croooked little toddler toes crossing their ankles,

crooked little toddler toes in cuffed jeans,

and irresistably soft, snuggly guinea piggies hiding within the safe, comforting arms of a child in a multicolored sweater.

You're welcome.

Holidays with my family are

sometimes unusual, sometimes exceptional, but never ordinary. Easter 2008 had no cause to any different.

The day began with the typical drive. We’re on our way, we’re on our way, on our way to Grandma’s house. We’re on our way, we’re on our way, on our way through an icy tunnel of 27 foot high snow banks and windy, white-out road conditions.

Instead of noshing on the customary ham and sweet potatoes, we ate a giant cheese ball so delicious that I could have smeared it on my bare chest and died happily smelling of old cheese and chives, beef stew (although I’m not sure it wasn’t muskrat stew because my step-dad had that “I just killed something” look on his face), green salad and sinfully cream cheesy carrot cake (I swear my little sister makes such wicked desserts so she can forever keep me in her fat pants).

Plus nobody was drunk this year. So there was that.

And instead of a rousing hunt for cheap baskets ladled with high fructose corn syrup candy and more plastic crap trinkets we’ll never use, there was an icicle light saber sword battle (straight outta Star Wars I tell you) and a free-for-all snowball fight – whose casualties included a stinging wrist (Grampy’s fastball), a broken pair of sunglasses and four pair of little-kid jeans in the dryer.

I never realized how truly cutthroat my family is when it comes to hitting my butt the target with a snowball. One moment my Husband’s on my side and the next he’s conspiring with my mother to take me out in a furious pelting of white. Good thing my mother throws like a girl and my Husband knew who’d be going to bed with him tonight and took it easy.

Our truck made for great protection from the onslaught and a lucky place to strategize on how best to make your mother run crying into the house.

Eggs. There were eggs. Pretty, multicolored eggs that made my Toddler’s knees shake with anticipation. Touch! Grab! Drop! Squish! All proper techniques for the flawlessly dyed egg of course. The ever-more patient Other Parent was left with Toddler duty for this one. I was seeing far too many flashes of white and lime green to focus on the experience instead of the mess.

I kept the camera pointed at my Biggies as they created, marveled and stayed little. Or at least not so big.

Happy freakin' Easter

from Mr. Bigglesworth the disgruntled, one-eyed bunny. Although certainly not the fluffy, playful Easter Bunny I was expecting to show up at my house, I had a chance to chat with him and it didn’t take long for him to spill his guts. I think he just really needed to somebody to listen. Long story short, he had one too many cherry martinis at his 17th, twice-removed cousin’s bachelor party and got himself into a pickle of a predicament two years ago (involving an over-protective hen and a drunken game of truth or dare with the wild rabbits – you could tell the whole incident was just eating him up inside and the painful memories were still so fresh). Apparently the only egg-hiding contracts he can now get are at the farthest corners of New England during record-breaking snowfalls. He barely made it up I-95 without skidding into the pine trees. (Lack of depth perception and icy highways should be an avoided combination at all times – but try telling that to a broke rabbit with 47 babies at home to feed.)

Doesn’t he look thrilled to be here?

Mr. Bigglesworth had dreams. Big dreams. He was going to make it to the top someday. He had everything going for him and it wasn’t until that fateful night of careless drinking games did he realize his life was a mere shadow of what it could have been. Nowadays most of the fluffier, well-paid Bunnies talk behind his back and place bets as to when he’ll finally lose his last few marbles and nose-dive off the deep end.

Towards the end of our conversation I had to hold his ears back for him while he bunny-puked and listen to him go on and on about how much he loved me and how I was such a good friend. You know this rabbit is just one chocolate-covered, sugar-rushed toddler shy of a trip to rehab and a life condemned to standing on street corners yelling obscenities at pedestrians.

I'm fragile - go easy.

I’m about to show you the real me. The braless, un-bathed, un-powdered, un-caffeinated me. Please refrain from running in circles with your hair on fire. As I said – I’m fragile and might cry for hours if you poke fun of the dark circles or hair so greasy it could be wrung out and used for a fish fry.

There. That wasn’t so traumatic now was it? I feel liberated already. This is what a woman, a tired Mama of three, a human waking from sleep looks like. How do you like me now internets?

Sweetney has a challenge for us. Show us your boobs. No wait, that was last week. Show us yourself - your morning self. The beautiful woman you are as you gently swing your delicate feet over the bed in the morning. The graceful, exquisite creature your husband opens his eyes to each morning. The fresh-faced Mama who greets the clamor of her energetic children with smiles and composure.

Hah. Who am I kidding? I’m not even a fully-functioning biped until my second cup of coffee. (My husband will attest to watching me crawl to the coffee maker on occasion.)

So let me see your pretty face.

March - in like a lion

out like a lamb giant, flesh-eating ogre with a penchant for playing nasty pranks.

It’s not as though I don’t appreciate the replenishing of our water reservoirs and rivers for the coming summer months. It’s not like I’m completely hopeless about spring’s eventual arrival. It’s not even that I don’t enjoy the extra sledding and snowshoeing we can enjoy because the extended stay of the snow banks.

It’s just that it’s the end of March already and I’d like to see signs – any signs – that melting might possibly commence at some point. I’d even welcome mud and brown lawns covered in floating dog poop.

I’m hankering to get back on my bike like it’s made of fudge-dipped chocolate. I’m ready for the fake-tanned legs and cute capri’s. I’m having sweet dreams of blistered palms from over-doing it with the rake.

Easter’s virtually here and there’s not a sign of bunny footprints to be found.

During which I talk about my Toddler.

Because, really, you didn’t know I had one did you?

Let me preface my impending grievance simply by stating that I Love Him. Beyond human comprehension. (I realize that’s a complete hyperbole because most parents I know love their spawn with a kind of painful love that overtakes their entire body and transforms them into mere shells of their kid-free selves.) But still. I was completely unprepared for the giant sense of worship I felt the moment I held his tiny body to my breast. He latched on and I was no longer me. I was his mother. His presence has glued all the pieces of our blended family together with such an irreversible energy and strength. From his show-tunesque performances of Twinkle Twinkle to his mighty-willed tantrums of pure ferocity, I’m forever his.

I just wish he would fall into his pillow without the constant objections and wailing protests. I can’t figure out whether it’s the time change (damn you spring forward fall back!) or the foreboding transition from two years old to three years old. It almost feels like the tip of the proverbial iceberg is slowly surfacing from the icy waters of the Terrible Two’s, threatening to drag me into a dingy unequipped with oars. It feels suspiciously similar to the evolution from little kid to tween that I’m currently experiencing twice over. And yet I’m somehow skeptical that training bras and an occasional pimple will even compare to what this small, short-tempered human has in store for me.

I wish he would actually eat the food I place on his plate just like his biggies do. I wish he wouldn’t threaten provisional moratoriums on the act of eating unless I accommodate his palate with peanut butter sandwiches and mandarin oranges. I wish he wouldn’t leave me justifying his limited food repertoire by saying things like “Well at least he won’t get scurvy.”

Self-reliance. Independence. Autonomy. All qualities my Toddler suddenly strives for. All qualities that will someday make an incredibly emotive young man out of him. All qualities that make raising him through the daily, ordinary tasks somewhat harrowing for his mother. And it’s not like I don’t get on well with small people either; I can trick, tease and play them into doing most things that need to get done. But he tests my maternal capacities with abiding determination. He lifts his delicious brown eyes to mine and furrows his brow with the task at hand. He contemplates his options and expects all aspects to be within his control. And I suppose I can’t blame him because I spend most of my day doing the same thing. But I’m trying to raise him damnit! Just be a good little boy and stop forcing me into creative comas! I’m running out of material.

A most nutritious nom

It’s been unexpectedly enjoyable adding two fur babies to our family. The moment I was able to get past the whole ‘rodent’ aspect of guinea pigs, I found them absolutely wonderful to have around. They squeak on command, slightly potty-train themselves, give wet kisses when they’re hankering for a plate of veggies, and don’t bark. The not barking thing was one of my non-negotiable provisos when considering another pet. We had a little doggie once and on any given day his name was Frodo Baggins, Frody-Dody, Frodo the Flying Falcor, Frodely-Dodely-Doo, and Frodo-Shut-Up! Frodo was a most unique blend of lhasa-apso and poodle, otherwise known as lhasa-poo. He barked at the door. Barked at the birds. Barked at the wind. Barked at the furnace. Barked when we laughed. Barked when he farted.

It was during my third trimester of blissful gestation bloated torment that I came to the decision that either a) I would eventually strangle the dog with one of my super-sexy, knee-high, diabetic-friendly, circulation-promoting maternity socks. Or b) I would drive deep into the woods and leave him there for the witch from Hansel and Gretel to find and eat.

So I gave him to my sister.

Now we have two guinea pigs named Melissa and Charlotte and we don’t have a dog named Frodo.

Are they not adorable?!

Melissa’s got a perma-frown due to a silly wee tuft of forehead hair that won’t lay flat. Charlotte’s so chubby we mistakenly thought she was pregnant when we first brought her home. Turns out she’s just a greedy little piggie who doesn’t care about a girlish figure.

My Girl usually stuffs a pig into her sweater while doing long division and I often find my Boy engrossed in his dragon books while a pig sleeps in his hair. And naturally we all keep a constant vigil on the Toddler – who thinks stuffing a pig into his fire truck and howling WEEEOOO-WEEEOOO while zooming it around the house is a really great idea.

Me? I like to cradle a piggie in my arms and rock her as she nibbles at my hair and rumbles. It helps curb the ‘I think I want another baby’ feeling that often accompanies ovulation. Sigh.

Sunbathing:

sun·bathe / Pronunciation[suhn-beyth]
–verb (used without object), -bathed, -bath·ing. To bathe in the sun.


Sunbathing in New England: to bask in the glory of temperatures soaring above 32°F. One can sunbathe in New England while wearing as little as one layer of clothing. One may even sunbathe from the comfort of their livingroom as the glare of the sun reflects against the four-foot tall snowbanks. When one is sunbathing in New England, they may not need sunblock because their pants, hat, gloves, boots, and jacket will completely thwart harmful sun rays.

See example:

It's what sets us apart from the rest of the country.

A boy and his ball

aren't easily torn apart. For throwing, catching and snuggling with, a ball is your friend.

Yeah, because THAT would've been scary.

I don't wish him ill, but the mere thought of Mike Huckabee winning the republican nomination makes all the cells in my body spontaneously combust and turn to grape jelly.

It's not as if there was any real question that it wouldn't be McCain. But PHEW. I'm just relieved to say buh-bye to the evangelical nutjobs.

Religion + Government = Bad.