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Lord Almighty, I Feel My Temperature Rising

Do you know that I got FORTY comments on my Special Needs post? That’s like twenty more than I usually receive. Who knew that I would be such a hit being all serious and stuff…

So I thought that it was only right to follow up such a triumph (which it is for those of us with only about 20 regular readers), with something just as thought provoking. Something that really speaks to the reader. Something close to everyone’s heart: tattoos and piercings.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m a little bit of a prude. Not a self righteous prude of course – but more of a “hoping no one will notice when I cringe every time they reference their unusual sexual preferences” kind of prude. And because I’m so hopelessly prissy, I tend to be a magnet for innuendo and embarrassing conversations with semi strangers.

Maybe it’s a primal kind of thing. Like predators sensing fear, these uninhibited types sense my prudishness and go right for the jugular. Not through malice of course – but like magnets, they are inevitably attracted to my utterly opposite nature.

Probably the best example of this was an experience I had at a wedding almost five years ago. The wedding was that of my husband’s friend from work. A very funny and intelligent guy who took great pride in his blue collar roots. He rode motorcycles and abhorred ties. His bride was a lovely girl who called herself “frou frou” and her own background “country.” She was a doll and we liked them both immensely.

And along with this colorful combination of lovebirds, came a just as colorful group of friends and family to fill the seats at the party. The party itself was planned to exclude all of the formality so common to many weddings. This was the bride’s second marriage and she claimed that as long as she got to wear a pretty white dress, her only concern was that everyone relax and just be themselves. And be themselves, they did. At least in my corner of the room.

There were uncounted tattoos peeking out of shirt collars and sleeves, jackets and ties were quickly tossed onto chairs, and Uncle Joe’s long black hair fell out of its braid and into flowing waves down his shoulders as the night progressed. As the music played and drinks were poured, the various gatherings of friends began to scatter and mingle.

Work friends with preppy haircuts talked microbrews with pony tailed biker types. And most of the women crowded onto the dance floor to join the bride as she boogied to the ubiquitous reception music play list. I’m sorry – but no matter how much of a music snob a girl claims to be (which I don’t), they all flock together when the DJ plays I Will Survive. Especially when there’s an open bar.

The event truly peaked when the 90s boy band song faded into something a little more techno though. Or at least it sounded techno at first. As the dancing women slowed their steps and glanced at each other with confusion, we all realized that the new music seemed to be the theme from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Now the DJ did look a little weird, and the suppressed laughter so obvious in his expression made this even more likely. But suddenly the tempo changed and Elvis’ Burnin’ Love blasted through the room. And then two Elvis impersonators burst through the doors, gold capes flashing as they charged onto the dance floor.

They gyrated their way through a full set of Elvis’ best loved Vegas performance numbers and ended the show to thunderous applause. There may have even been an encore. I’m not entirely sure since I think I may have passed out from laughing so hard. They weren’t the best Elvis impersonators – one was a little too tall and skinny, one was a little too short and plump – but they made up for this with enthusiasm. Oh yeah – and the best part? They were the mother and father of the the bride.

I apologize for derailing a bit and losing track of my original topic, tattoos and piercings. But I find it impossible not to talk about that night without referencing the Elvis impersonators. It was quite possibly my favorite wedding moment. Ever. As much as I’m very traditional in my own life, I thoroughly enjoy the pageantry of someone else’s wedding Elvis impersonators..

But back to the point of this scene that I’ve painted… There were a lot of characters at this event and it was fated for me to find myself in unlikely conversations with several of them.

Chris already knew many of the guests from a barbecue that he attended in the recent past, and made sure to introduce me to all of them. Chris is what many people like to refer to as, “The Mayor.” He just has to meet and greet, and is genuinely interested in everyone. So of course he’s a big hit wherever he goes. He is not a prude.

One woman we talked to for a long time had a giant scar on her chest in the shape of a snowflake. I had never seen anything like this before, and she explained that it was a kind of body art much like a tattoo. Without the ink, it appeared to be white. So really, the snowflake theme was a good choice – I mean as far as scarification goes.

Then I found myself in another long conversation with a couple. Initially, they appeared fairly conservative, him in his suit and her in her old school Laura Ashley floral. But then they started talking about their many tattoos and piercings. And I’m not kidding when I say “many.” Just like the typical tattooless person usually does, I inquired about the pain that is involved and exclaimed over how much one would have to endure for “a sleeve.” Apparently, they were willing to suffer for their body art.

It wasn’t lost on me that they were just as amused by me as I was by them. Putting myself in their shoes, I imagine that it must have been very much like talking to a sweet little old lady: “And now how many tattoos do you have dear? Gracious! You’re practically covered in flowers. It’s like a little garden on your back – how lovely.”

So we enjoyed each other’s differences as we enjoyed our fifth drink, and then the subject turned to piercings. As her husband left us to retrieve round number six, the flower covered lady leaned in conspiratorially. “Once I got bored with ink, I started experimenting with piercing,” she said. I shuddered internally as, of course, I remarked upon the pain involved in that. She claimed that it was completely worth it. Especially the one she got “down there.” She laughed, “I mean, I love my husband, but now I really love my husband…”

As I felt my entire head light up in flames, the much loved husband returned with the much needed drinks. Once he was caught up on our current topic of discussion, he admitted that he did not have much interest in piercings for himself, but was very happy with his wife’s experiments. I scrounged for something that I could contribute to this, but only came up with, “well that’s very interesting. And what is that kind of piercing called again?” [I vaguely knew it had something to do with royalty.] In unison, they responded “clitoral.”

“OH!” I sputtered, “it’s called what it is. For some reason I thought it was called something else.”

“You’re thinking of the male version – the Prince Albert,” he said.

And then I fainted dead away from mortification and had to be revived with smelling salts.

Just kidding. It was at that point that Chris walked up and asked what we were all talking about.

“Oh – we’re just corrupting your wife,” she said. And then we all laughed and then I went to get another drink.

So what was my point again? Oh yeah – I’m a prude and people like to talk to me about clitoral piercings and I might have to become an alcoholic to survive this. But I do enjoy the odd Elvis impersonator.

Special Needs

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I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before – but my three year old son, Oliver is weird.

This is at least partly due to something called SPD (sensory processing disorder) that causes him to engage in activities that “feed” his need for a lot of sensory input. His teacher explained this to me by saying, “remember that kid in your class who just couldn’t stay in his chair? The one who would fidget so much that he’d actually fall out of it sometimes?” Well yes actually – I do.

I remember several kids like that. They were the ones who ate paste in kindergarten, fell into the pond on the second grade field trip and consistently got in trouble for “touching people” in more or less every grade through middle school. And now, as it turns out, I’ve given birth to one.

This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise since we speculate that my father was like this as a boy, AND after reading up on the subject, my husband says that he was definitely a sensory seeking SPD child. Thanks guys – you’re the best. The inability to walk past a puddle without lying down in it was one of the qualities I prayed for every night when I was pregnant with Oliver. Right up there with ten fingers, ten toes and the immediate ability to sleep through the night. (I’m just kidding about that last one of course. No first time pregnant woman worries about something as silly as their child sleeping through the night. They’re too busy obsessing over baby names, nursery themes, and important registry items like educational mobiles.)

Oliver also has very delayed speech, and adds a lot of jargoning (the official word for jibber jabber) to his special needs quirkiness. So yes – I have one very odd little duck as my first born. I have of yet to meet any almost four year old like him. And the truth is – I love him for every single bizarre behavior he throws my way.

I don’t just think he’s “special” – I think he’s FABULOUS. No one – and I mean no one – shows enthusiasm for preferred activities like Oliver. He doesn’t just hug you – he flings himself at you. He doesn’t just watch DVDs – he acts out the stories. He doesn’t just finger paint – he body paints. He doesn’t just say “please” – he proclaims PLEASE! He loves to be tickled and will beg you to keep going until even you can’t stand it anymore.

His exuberance makes me smile, then laugh, then cry from laughing so hard. And I think my heart might break when I worry about the people who won’t understand him or appreciate him. The people who will hurt him or bully him. Or make him feel any less than the very sweet little soul than he is. Because that will happen.

Instead of wasting my time on worries though, I prefer to plan for tomorrow, next week and next year. I work with his teacher on figuring out where this speech delay originates and strategize about how to correct it in the short and long term. We have more or less ruled out autism with a pediatric neurologist and are on to having his ultra-waxy ears cleaned out for a hearing test so that he can be assessed by a developmental pediatrician. As Miss Erin (or as Oliver calls her, “Miss Smerin”) likes to say, he is a bit of a puzzle. There seem to be several issues at play and all are fairly elusive…

But I really don’t spend too much time thinking about the problems and the boy that he was “supposed to be.” I’m far too busy enjoying the boy that he is. I recently spoke with a close childhood friend who has an autistic son and we agreed that not only is this better for them, it’s better for us. In describing her own son, she said, “every day, he makes us laugh. He’s just his own little person. While the other boys are in time outs for fighting over what to watch on TV, he’s busy figuring out the remote controls.”

This makes me happy just thinking about it – the fact that it’s okay like our kids for being different. Who got to decide that there is only one way to be anyway?

But the hard reality is that there is a standard for “normal.” That’s the reason that there is a special needs label. And it is our job to take our special needs children and try to teach them how to navigate a world that wasn’t set up with them in mind. It’s hard. And it’s scary. For all of us. But it’s not impossible.

I could so easily fall into despair over the “what ifs” associated with Oliver’s future – but what good does that do either of us? He deserves better than that. I’m the grownup and I set the tone for our house. If I am an emotional wreck over the things I can’t control, then everyone suffers for it. And at the end of the day, he’s not responsible for my feelings – but I am responsible for his.

So if he finds a ball of yarn entertaining, and wants to spend his quiet time unraveling it and then lashing all of the furniture together…fine. I’ll clean it up later (but only after he’s gone to bed since its disappearance could usher in “the end of the world”). If he wants to bring 12 straws to bed with him – or possibly all of the kid toothbrushes we own – who am I to judge? Perhaps this is soothing to him. Maybe he likes the way they feel in his hand – or just the fact that he can hold “all” of something in that one hand. He jargons reasons to me and I just say “fine.” I may do a little struggling first, but in the end, I let him decide. No one ever died from bringing straws to bed.

And every day I see progress – and his beautiful smile. And I know that it will be okay. Even though I understand that he’ll never be the easy going child that glides effortlessly through life. Or…maybe he eventually will. I’ll never know if I don’t do everything I can to help cultivate his self confidence. And his confidence in my own unwavering support.

My son is the greatest gift that I have ever been given. All of my children are. And I refuse to squander any of this fleeting time with them on anger or ingratitude.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but I consider each one of my children to be miraculous. And their current challenges and oddities just make them all the more unique and special. I need all of them as much as I need food and water. I need them to be safe and I need them to be happy. I need them to grow and laugh and love and know that there is nothing more important in this world to me than their existence. And if they have their own special needs – then I will meet them. I will be there from the time that they are unaware of these challenges to the time that their own personal demons emerge. I will always be there for them. Because in the end, I need them far more than they could ever need me.

How Mama Got Her Prude Back

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After a woman gives birth, there is great emphasis placed on “getting her body back.” People always want to know about stretch marks and broken capillaries. They speculate on whether ribs will ever go back to their original position (in my experience, the answer to this would be “no”). They even have the nerve to ask about how long it takes for an episiotomy to heal and make jokes about “the daddy stitch” (FYI – still not laughing).

But what people don’t realize – people who have never given birth, that is – is that whether we ever get that bikini-worthy body back or not (good luck with that by the way) is really of very little concern during those first few months. There are far more immediate issues at hand such as sleep and… Well truthfully – that’s the only big one. But other minor personal concerns may include the shock of how painful breastfeeding is, anxiety over letting shower water hit the more battered areas on your body, and the complete terror of attempting that first bowel movement.

You hear a lot about the “beauty” or the “miracle” of childbirth, but aside from any of the emotions involved (which you can read about elsewhere since I’m not writing about that), birth is physical. It’s messy and invasive and there is very little privacy left to a woman who does it. There is also blood. A lot of blood. And even guts if you have a c-section. So it’s inevitable that any woman who has experienced this beautiful and miraculous carnage will tend to become a bit less prissy when it comes to discussing bodily functions.

I should know, because I was quite possibly the biggest prude on the planet.

I have never found potty humor funny. I know – it’s not a popular quality, but I’m willing to admit to it. I just don’t enjoy fart jokes. I didn’t when I was in grade school and I don’t now. When I was in eighth grade, sassy little Cassie Coleman nicknamed me “Miss Sophisticated” since I apparently wandered through recess like it was a Junior League tea party.

I also don’t tend to appreciate innuendo humor. You would think that my husband would catch on to this and stop telling jokes that make me look around for the frat boy to whom he MUST be speaking…

It’s not so surprising then, that I’ve also never felt particularly comfortable with open discussion regarding sex or body parts, OR using the more graphic anatomical terminology. I would cringe over any conversation bordering on Our Bodies Ourselves related topics. I couldn’t help it – my knee jerk reaction would always be: “eeewww!” But at least I wasn’t annoying about it. I find myself drawn to strong personalities, people who speak their mind….and ultimately people who may be a little off color in their sense of humor. Generally, my potty mouthed friends thought I was cute, and tended to get a kick out of my reactions.

I should qualify the description above by mentioning that I’ve also had plenty of friends who don’t swear like sailors. But there is just something about me that screams, “I’m prissy! Torment me with dirty talk!” Or people go in the opposite direction and treat me like I might shatter if they use a four letter word.

While I can’t say that much has changed about my inability genuinely laugh at dirty jokes, I did at least for a little while, drop my aversion to what I once considered to be other unsavory topics.

Anyone who has ever gone through pregnancy and given birth – or even anyone who has just gone through fertility treatments – will admit to losing a significant amount of modesty. It’s impossible not to. Typically, we are only poked at by the gynecologist once every 365 days. But I found that pregnancy involves increasingly frequent examinations and tests – many conducted by complete strangers. The end result is that by the time we give birth, we wouldn’t bat an eye if the janitor asked if he could check our dilation.

Along with this comes the shedding of any recent squeamishness regarding icky anatomy-related words. About three weeks after my first son was born, I found myself having a rather loud conversation on my cell about my ravaged, post-delivery body. In the supermarket check out line. And the words “nipples” and “vaginal” figured prominently. While listening to myself, a small voice screamed, “who are you and why are you embarrassing me like this?!” But my post pregnancy self just shrugged and said, “whatever grandma.”

So – new ability to say “vaginal” without cringing? Check! Now what about gross out stories? OOOHHH – I’ve got some good ones!

If I had to name a few subjects that every mother can talk about at length, they would be birth stories, potty training and vomit (and I assume that adoptive parents would substitute their adoption story for that first subject).

I have given birth to all of my children, and I’m fairly certain that there will never be a time that I won’t be ready, willing and able to tell both of my birth stories – in detail, with commentary and tangents. This topic just never gets boring. Considering how unpleasant or at least how uncomfortable most of it was, even I am confounded by this phenomena. But I suspect it has something to do with “living to tell the tale.”

Then of course, I can talk about poopy diapers and potty training at length. I named “potty training” in my list since my children are past the age of exploding diapers. But really – it’s all the same thing. Every parent has their poop-related war stories. Hell – I just had one last week. I could go on and on about this – but that’s kind of my point.

Vomit is a somewhat specialized area in which some parents are experts, others have limited but memorable experience and the rest could be categorized as “the uninitiated.” These stories tend to revolve around the flu or that annoying phase in which toddlers like to jam their fingers down their throats. I think I fall somewhere between the first two levels – but I can tell you this: you haven’t lived until you’ve cleaned puke out of your child’s ears.

I like to think that much of what we do as we prepare for the arrival of our children also prepares us for this loss in modesty. I can only speak from my own experience as someone who gave birth to all of my children in the hospital. And I lost a huge percentage of my modesty during labor and delivery.

Probably the most embarrassing example from my first birth would be a conversation that I had with one of the nurses when it was time to push. Like any well seasoned priss, I was having a hard time with some of the grosser logistics involved. Once we were all on the same page regarding my disinterest in having a mirror held up so that I could view the birth (I told them that I felt I had a bit too much on my plate at that moment, thank you very much), I began to have concerns about potential issues related to the pushing. The instructions that I was given dictated that the muscles you used to push were pretty much the same ones that you would use when sitting on the toilet. So of course I had to ask, “but what if …you know…something else comes out?” Without missing a beat, the nurse said, “don’t worry honey – that just means that we’ll know you’re doing it right.” And with that, she snuffed out any remaining vestige of decorum to which I was still clinging, just like the last candle left flickering after a dinner party. The party was officially over as far as any of my personal boundaries were concerned.

For several years now (as of March 30, it will be four), I have been far less of a prude when it comes to frank discussion on “women’s issues.” If my friends want to talk about their cracked nipples, I don’t feel the need to escape their company. It just doesn’t bother me anymore. Until lately that is…

You see, I’ve recently started to feel the twitches of tight lipped expressions and the twinges of internal cringing. Stories about toddlers waking up screaming because their diaper has leaked all over the the crib evoke fewer reactions of “ooooh – poor baby!” and more of “eeewww – poor mommy!” So I think that I may just be gettin‘ my prude back on.

And I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. I mean – it’s a comfortable old role, but I’ve kind of enjoyed my freedom to say nipple without any internal struggle.

Maybe I’ll never really go back to my old way of life. Maybe I passed a point of no return. I may turn a little red when people want to provide me with lurid details about their sex lives – but I will never again turn green during a birth story. So it seems a middle ground has been offered, and I think I’ll take it.

Truth be told, I welcome my old squeamishness. It’s a part of who I am. And you know what they say, you can take the girl out of eighth grade – but you can’t take eighth grade out of the girl. At least in my case.

Home Alone: Day Four

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Day Four…and so far, no one has been voted off the island. Actually – the kids have been really good. I mean for them. So if you think that acting like something out of a Stephen King novel only 50% of the time is “really good,” then we are practically sharing a brain.

This morning George woke up at 4:30 with what I think was a nightmare, so I brought him to bed with me. It’s a guilty pleasure, having one of my tiny toddlers to cuddle in bed. Two of them is another story of course, but Eleanor didn’t follow him (for once). The big downside is that when the toddler in bed with you wakes up, there is no pretending that you can’t hear them. The direct eye contact makes that rather tricky to pull off. George opened his eyes at 6:45 and let me doze for about 15 more minutes though – so I can’t complain.

I just hope that he doesn’t start making this a habit. He is already driving me crazy with his insistence upon me holding him all the time. In fact, George’s attachment to me has now reached a level that begs the question, “is it normal for a two year old to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom?” I would guess, “no.” But hey – it’s his future on the psychiatric couch, not mine.

Eleanor and Oliver woke up shortly after we did, and before I knew it two hours had transpired. How is it possible that time can pass so quickly when you are literally doing nothing? This was great since I had plans to bring them back to the At Play Cafe at 10 a.m. and hoped to make it back home in time to watch the 11:30 swearing in ceremony.

In the meantime, I could watch the events on the large flat screen TV while my kids played. In fact, I would have been happy enough to just stay there through the presidential address. But I had no illusions about everyone lasting that long. Eleanor was already acting like she needed a nap.

The kids found a soulmate in a two year old boy named Max who seems destined to break several spines on the football field. He was little – but he was unstoppable. While they wrestled with Max, I caught up with my neighborhood friend, Tricia (also known as Reston Mom). A good time was had by all.

Soon enough Eleanor made it clear that she was done with the At Play Cafe, and I realized that it was already 11:30! So typical that I would spend a great moment in history engrossed in c-section comparison stories… But when I looked at the TV, I saw that we still had some time. Five minutes, two tantrums, one coatless child and a rousing game of musical stroller seats later, we arrived at our car. I had Eleanor under one arm, screaming something about wanting to walk and George was busily trying to unbuckle his seat belt. Only Oliver was content to be still – and happily contributed his 55+ lbs to my one handed double stroller pushing. I’m SO ready to retake that grade school presidential physical fitness test…

The minute we arrived home, I threw something in front of them that resembled lunch and then flew down to the basement in time to see the swearing in. Seriously – it was timed perfectly. I even got to hear the very beginning of Obama’s speech without interruption. Unfortunately George and Eleanor came down to look for me and I spent the rest of the speech with my ear against the television as they fired unintelligible questions at me. I think I caught about 60% of the speech. I’ll have to read it online later tonight to fill in the gaps.

I gave up at that point and switched the channel back to Noggin. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit smug about seeing ANY of the inauguration. Sad really…

Like I said, Eleanor was really tired and went down for her nap without protest. George? Not so much. But at least he didn’t try to escape. Oliver and I took advantage of the quiet (aside from George’s blood curdling screams, that is) to watch Mary Poppins for the 50th time this week. I also thought this would be a great time to whip up some cupcakes.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I have very little interest in cooking. At some point I did, but since my free time has now decreased by about 99.9%, I’ve decided that I’d rather spend it outside of my hideous, tiny galley kitchen. Baking is another story though. I’m perfectly content with box cake mixes, and what’s a few minutes of mixing compared to the fun of eating two dozen cupcakes as a snack? Oliver concurred.

Now, I don’t generally keep much junk food in the house, and my kids don’t actually eat a lot of dessert beyond store bought cookies now and then. But I do tend to fall back on doling out the treats when left to my own devices. In fact, I have a long history of overfeeding small children when I’m at a loss for anything else to do. I tend to think, “hmm – what do I feel like doing right now?” The answer usually involves ice cream.

Once when I was in my early twenties, I took care of my five year old cousin, Emmett for a week while his parents were in Europe. Emmett was one of those kids who was a little on the chubby side. This all changed when he hit puberty and grew 24 inches. But when he was five, he was pretty stout. I’m sure that I got some directions about limiting his fat and caloric intake, but after a day or two of playing with action figures, I lost my mind. I won’t get into the particulars of our many visits to pizza and ice cream parlors – but it would be safe to say that by the time his parents returned, Emmett had gained 5 lbs.

I’m not sure if my kids will gain any weight this week. But I’m fairly certain I will.

Aside from eating too much, I’ve also seriously let myself go appearance-wise. Today is the first time since Chris left that I’ve even washed my hair. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Since the winter air is so incredibly dry, one would never know that I should have been a complete grease ball by now.

While I’ve enjoyed a week of fabulous hair days, my poor daughter has not fared quite as well. I’ve written before about her fine blond hair and how it has taken two years to even look like she has actual hair on her head. And in spite of it being so obviously there now, static electricity has taken it’s toll on her wisps. Her hair is now perpetually plastered to the sides of her face. The look is similar to Taylor Momson’s awful new hairstyle (that would be Jenny from Gossip Girl’s Joan Jett ‘do).

The boys’ hair isn’t as affected by the dry weather – but they are both long overdue for a trim. Right now their hair is so long that with a little styling mousse they could give Uncle Jesse from Full House a run for his money. Now that I think of it…THAT could be a fun activity (for me). My children should thank their lucky stars that I go back to work tomorrow.

Oh – so many other things to report today… From a disastrous outing to pick up pizzas for dinner to the discovery that Oliver is running a raging fever (great timing since he’s having testing done tomorrow…) But I’m not writing a diary here – and honestly, the past three days of “chronicling” have worn me out. I’m not great with blow by blow accounts. I’m far too long winded for that.

So this will be the final installment “Home Alone.” Even though it’s looking likely that I WON’T be going to work tomorrow (since daycare has that ridiculous “no fevers” rule), I’m considering today the finale of my long weekend with the kids. Chris gets back Saturday night, and while I’ll be SO glad to see him, I’ve kind of enjoyed this trial by fire. I’ve actually learned some things about my parenting (and coping) skills: It’s always best to remain calm, a little patience goes a long way, and when in doubt, indulge in an early happy hour (either wine or cupcakes – pick your poison).

Home Alone: Day Three

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This morning, while unremarkable, seemed to fly by at record speed. My office was closed today with the understanding that everyone would work from home. So I planned to work on some projects while the children watched too much TV and pushed each other down the stairs. I’m kidding of course – at least about the stairs – but I really did need to stay plugged in and couldn’t take a full vacation day. I decided that if it looked like I wouldn’t get anything done, I’d just have to officially take the day off, but sneak in work when I could.

Miraculously – the children were happy to just play with each other, and spent a good hour “marching” around the first floor in a parade that seemed to have something to do with the Sister Suffragette song from Mary Poppins. And string. I’m still not sure what the string had to do with anything.

I had planned to take them out to lunch so they’d have at least one activity outside of the house. But it was snowing and I didn’t know what that would mean for the roads.

Nothing, apparently – but the upshot of all of this independent indoor playtime was that I didn’t get to tire them out as I had planned. And when nap time for the twins rolled around, they were none too thrilled.

I tried reading them books (our usual wind down activity), but no one wanted to sit still. So I gave up and just put them in their cribs with the expectation that they’d do some screaming before they actually fell asleep. This isn’t so unusual, but of course, they picked today to learn that they have the ability to escape.

George has known how to climb out of his crib for a while now. I discovered this one night when I rolled over in bed to find him standing there looking at me. But it didn’t happen again, and I hoped that he would be like Oliver and lose interest in the activity almost immediately (seriously, it was great – even though Oliver knew how to climb out, he NEVER did).

Today was the day though… And not only did George climb out of his bed, he showed Eleanor how to do it as well. Within a few minutes of settling down with Oliver, the Little Einsteins and my computer, the twins wandered into the room. As if it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding – one we would never speak of again.

Nice try! I tossed them right back in and said “too bad, so sad – go to sleep.” I didn’t actually say that, but my tone was very clear.

As soon as I arrived back downstairs, I heard the unmistakable sound of two little pairs of feet hitting the floor. I went upstairs, met them at their door as they were exiting, and calmly escorted them back to bed (which is code for threw their little asses back in the clinker).

I’ve been through this with Oliver on vacation before (he had no compunction with escaping from the pack n’ play) and knew that they would continue to defy me. So I decided that I would allow it as long as they played quietly in their room. I couldn’t make them sleep – but I could make them have quiet time.

After listening to the pitter patter of little feet for about 15 minutes, I decided my plan sucked and that I’d better go put them back into their cribs. They really do need naps and I didn’t want to face an evening alone with them if they were going to be sleep deprived monsters.

I arrived to find them happily pulling apart the blinds. Eleanor, whom we tend to think of as the brains in the operation could tell I was serious about what George obviously considered “all this nap malarkey,” and submitted willingly to the inevitable. George on the other hand was outraged that I would put him back into the cage that he had already rejected twice. He even threw a leg over the railing and screamed the equivalent of toddler obscenities at me. We then engaged in a silent face off – his rage vs. my parental authority – for a minute or two. This could have gone on indefinitely if I didn’t hear Oliver sound the alarm downstairs: “UH OH -PEE PEE!“

I should probably explain that even though Oliver is fast approaching age four, and has been potty trained since last summer, he still wants me to help him pull down his pants. For the most part, I attribute this to habit. But it should also be noted that he is not particularly slim through the hips and if hard pressed for time, may have trouble getting his pants down before it’s too late. And he does tend to put things off until the last minute, so it’s understood in my house that when Oliver yells “uh oh – pee pee!” that means “run, do not walk – this is not a drill – I repeat this is not a drill! “

I narrowed my eyes, repositioned George inside the crib railing and firmly admonished him to stay put. I flew down the stairs and arrived in the powder room to find that I was too late. Said pee pee was entirely outside of the toilet.

Oliver is generally very good about not having accidents, so we don’t give him a hard time about it. I responded to his defeated “uh oh – pee pee” with my usual pat on the head and promise that “we’ll fix it, it’s okay.“

Once Oliver and the powder room were put to rights, I took a quick peek up the stairs to make sure I didn’t see toddlers dismantling the linen closet. No sign of activity – but I did hear a fair bit of wailing. One voice only, and high pitched enough for me to easily identify as George. Thankfully, it was muffled, indicating a face firmly (and irately) pressed into the crib mattress. So he seemed to be resigned to his fate.

Ultimately, they did sleep. But George was up again in 45 minutes, crying for me. At least Eleanor had a normal nap. Regardless – everyone went to bed an hour early tonight. Since they have no concept of telling time yet, I can usually trick them into this on the days they stay at home.

A few random things about today:

George has been talking about skoppa ball for a while, and I just realized that he’s saying “basketball.”

Eleanor has decided that she’s from Minnesota and now says “oh ya!” whenever an affirmative is required.

Oliver only wore pants for a cumulative ten minutes today.

“Renesmee” is the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard in my life (you have to be at least halfway through the fourth Twilight book to understand this).

I opened a wine bottle at 5:30 p.m.

Home Alone: Day Two

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Did I say that I had hubris? Strike that. I have mad parenting SKILLZ. Or at least I really lowered the bar regarding my expectations for this weekend. Of course, it’s only the second day… But I have to say – this really isn’t that bad. SO much easier than last year when Oliver was two and the twins were one.

Now they all play together and I can actually leave them unsupervised for short periods of time while I get things done around the house. Whether I should be leaving them unsupervised or not is a completely different story – but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And this girl has to do some cleaning.

We started the day around 7:00 a.m. when Eleanor wouldn’t stop yelling “Mommy where are you?” for five minutes straight. When she takes a breather or two I choose to pretend I can’t hear her – but with that solid block I knew that she meant business. Please don’t think I’m a neglectful parent. I’m just encouraging her to problem solve and learn to get out of her crib without my help. It’s more of a teaching tool – this neglect. And a rather short sighted one since I don’t particularly want them to know how to escape their cages.

George doesn’t demand my attention the minute he wakes up, but he does require that I hold him in my arms at all times. You see, George and I are madly in love. We cannot be separated. Such a breach would only result in earth shattering screams that rupture all canine eardrums within a mile radius of our house. Of course that is a slight exaggeration (very slight) so I do have my hands-free moments throughout the day.

Sometimes I try to remember if Oliver was like this too. He is also quite pathological in his need for my attention. But I suspect that my enormous stomach (full of the twins) when he was a year old helped to reduce the amount time he spent attached to my body. Which is a good thing since he was twice as heavy as George when he was two (George just barely clears 25 lbs. – he’s such a pee wee!) Oliver didn’t require as much babying as George does, but he was prone to impromptu leaping into my arms from counter tops or the top of the staircase. Who am I kidding? He still does that. Those boys would hang on me all day if they didn’t take breaks to climb on furniture and torture their sister.

I don’t have a lot to report on our morning at home. Too much TV was watched (by them), too much diet coke was consumed (by me), too much rough housing around sharp corners took place (obviously them)… I was able to clean the kitchen and make some headway in the fourth Twilight book, so I felt it was a win-win.

We did not go to the At Play Cafe as I had planned since I saw that they open at noon on Sundays. We needed a morning outing, so I had to come up with another destination that offered shelter from the winter wind, a pleasant atmosphere, and bright shiny objects to keep us entertained. So off to Target we went!

One challenge I faced was how to transport them around the store. When Chris is with me, we put the twins in their stroller and Oliver sits in the shopping cart seat. But pushing both a double stroller and the cart would be impossible. And I couldn’t just forgo the cart and have Oliver walk with me. I would have no way of making him stay with me or walk in the direction I preferred (this whole “will of their own” thing leaves a lot to be desired). So here was my solution:

Luckily we didn’t have to buy anything in bulk. Just a few odds and ends – some staples like Little Einstein DVDs and some Play Doh. This ate up a good hour of time – which was my main concern. As the Einsteins like to say, “Mission completion!”

The only part of our outing that caused me a little bit of a headache was the drama of Eleanor trying to decide which car seat she would take. At one time, we had an assigned seating arrangement, but lately, Eleanor has decided that she wants options. Luckily – George could give a crap which seat is his, but I could do without the fun of getting her buckled into one only to find that she has buyer’s remorse and simply MUST move to the other one. Particularly when it’s freezing outside and we’re all anxious to get the car started so we can crank up the heat. Girls.

After some lunch and about 372 laps around the house, the twins were willing to take their nap and Oliver and I spent some quality time watching TV. Actually – I did a little reading. Damn those Twilight books and their inexplicable power to take precedence over more important activities like child rearing.

Oliver did get a little bored at one point and put on his coat, claiming that it was time to go out for pizza. Thankfully, I was able to distract him with another activity after explaining that we had just eaten lunch, that the twins were sleeping upstairs and that it was far too cold to go outside in nothing but Kung Fu Panda underwear and a coat.

The evening brought more of the same, and this little report is a bit longer than I had intended. So I’ll just leave you with a couple of pictures I took at bath time.

Be sure to check back tomorrow for further tedious details of our day!

Home Alone: Day One

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Chris is away until a week from Saturday night (a nine-day business trip to Las Vegas and a three-hour time difference). He has requested daily updates on The Big Piece of Cake. Probably because every conversation we have goes like this:

Kate: Hello?

Chris: Hi – how’s it going?

Kate: What?! I’m sorry – George is screaming.

Chris: I just wanted to say hi and check in.

Kate: Oh hi! Everything’s fine except for Oliver almost decapitating Eleanor with the cabinet door. But other than that, everything’s been great.

Chris: I miss you guys.

Kate: What?! I’m sorry – George is still screaming.

George: [screams like a baby girl]

Kate: Eleanor do you want to say hi to Daddy?

Eleanor: NO!

Kate: Say “no THANK YOU.”

Eleanor: [sullenly] No tank you.

Kate: Oliver, do you want to day hi to Daddy?

Oliver: HI DADDY!

Chris: Hi buddy! I miss you. What are you doing?

Kate: Yeah – it’s me again, he’s busy watching Blues Clues.

Chris: Okay – I just wanted to say hi and tell you I miss you.

Kate: George! Stop it! What? I’m sorry – George is still screaming because Eleanor took his Matchbox car.

Chris: I’ll let you go I just…

Kate: OLIVER! Get off the counter!

Chris: …wanted to check in.

Kate: Okaybye!

So. Here are some highlights for Chris:

I woke up at around 7 a.m. and heard the twins awake but talking to each other and playing. Then I was able to doze in bed for another 45 minutes (Dream. Come. True.) until I heard Eleanor calling, “Mommy! Where are you?” Oliver wandered in around 7:50 and I had to get up.

The rest of the day was a blur with the exception of the following:

We went to the At Play Cafe around the corner for the first time since it opened months ago.

Everyone loved it. And they played happily with only periodic visits to tell me that they bumped their head, wanted to say hi or just wondered where I was (our theme song is “Mommy! Where are you?”).

We will be there every day until they go back to daycare on Wednesday.

We came home for lunch and I made some “break and bake” Valentine cookies as a treat. Oliver still calls hearts “I wuv yous” (swoon).

George and Eleanor took crazy long (three hour) afternoon naps. Thank you At Play Cafe!

Oliver and I watched the Mary Poppins chimney sweeps scene twelve times.

Eleanor insists on dragging me to see everything she does, “C’mon Mommy – I show you!” And George clings to me like a baby koala bear, no matter what I’m doing (letting Eleanor “show me” things, washing dishes, going to the bathroom…)

All three kids played in the basement while I cleaned up the mess that grows weekly (as Chris continues to tell me that he’ll pick up while he’s watching TV…never happens).

Everyone refused to take a bath. I said, “fine.”

Everyone ate far too many snacks. I said, “fine.”

Everyone was content to play while I read Us Weekly. Unprecedented!

All in all – it was a long day, but a good day. That’s a red letter day when it comes to Hood family weekends.

Oh – and I watched I Am Legend after the kids went to bed, and it was kind of horrifying. I really hope that nothing like that actually happens. Because even if I was immune to the virus, I know nothing about artillery and have no idea how one goes about installing those iron shutters on windows. At the very least, I would hope that Chris wouldn’t be out of town when it happened. He has far better survival skills. And at the very least, he’d figure out how to shoot a deer for dinner before locking the zombies out for the night.

Guest Post from Kate Coveny, Age Nine

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*Don’t forget to enter my jewelry giveaway from Lisa Leonard Designs! Click here for details.

My friend Jozette of Regardez Moi was supposed to guest post this week, but she had to postpone due to a busy weekend and an unexpected business trip (translation: she was too drunk/hung over this weekend and is using a business trip excuse to give her vague “too busy” plea a bit more credibility). Hi Jozette!

So you will have to wait a couple more weeks to hear from her. But it will be worth the wait. Aside from her obvious lack of priorities (I guess she didn’t get the “Kate is #1” memo), she’s a doll and I’m looking forward to seeing what she sends me.

Since Kate Coveny Hood isn’t feeling all that inspired… I thought I’d ask someone else to do a last minute guest post for me. Welcome to Kate Coveny, the nine year old I used to be. As I’m typing this I have no idea what she is going to say, but I’m fairly certain that it will be incredibly embarrassing for Kate Coveny Hood. Because you know – I was odd.

(Weird sepia tinted effect courtesy of the scanner at my office.)

Hello! Kate Coveny here. Before I tell you a little bit about myself, I’d like mention that I’m being translated into “thirty-six year old woman.” We felt that this would be more appropriate for the given audience. Plus – at nine years old, my vocabulary is limited and my spelling is atrocious.

That out of the way, I will now attempt to write a “blog post.” I have no idea what a blog is of course, but it sounds like the pen pal letters that we sometimes write in school. You tell me a little bit about you, I tell you a little bit about me…that kind of thing. I’m hoping that you don’t decide to tell me anything about [whispers] s-e-x because I just found out about that in the recent past and I’m still recovering from the shock. Please – there are some things that nine year old girls just don’t like to think about.

What I DO like to think about includes my dolls (yes – I still play with dolls, what of it?), art projects, cute small animals, and my favorite books. I love to read, and at the moment I particularly like anything written about “the olden days.” This would include All of a Kind Family, Betsy-Tacy, Little Women, anything illustrated by Tasha Tudor, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder “Little House” books. There are so many more – but these are at the top of my list right now. I found most of these books during “Library” at school while the boys were looking up dirty words in the dictionary (they are gross – feel free to talk to them about s-e-x).

At the moment, I have two best friends. I met both of them at my school, Annunciation. My first friend at Annunciation was Sheridan. Sheridan’s mom and my mom met at a school function shortly after we moved to DC last year. They set up a play date for us which is great for me since I’m really shy. Sheridan doesn’t like to play with dolls, but she does like cute small animals. Actually, her favorite animals are not small. Sheridan rides for the Rock Creek Park show team and knows EVERYTHING about horses. She is teaching all of this to me. Sometimes at recess, she quizzes me on horse anatomy and riding terminology. She is a strict teacher – but she says that I’m learning very quickly. Then we play horses using a jump rope for “reigns.” She likes to be the horse, which is fine with me because in my head I pretend that I’m Laura Ingalls Wilder. We play other things too, but right now, horses figure prominently in our friendship. We decided that we were best friends right away – even though I have a lot to learn about horses.

The next best friend I made at Annunciation was Madeline. She was new this year, and Sheridan is in a different classroom. When Madeline’s mother saw that I lived a few blocks away, she invited me over for a play date. Madeline is not interested in horses. Which is a nice change of pace. I think that one horse-crazy friend is enough. Madeline likes to play with dolls (like me!) She has two older sisters and two younger brothers and they all eat dinner at 5:00. This is REALLY EARLY! But Sister (the housekeeper – as in “keeper of all things in the house, including children”), is very strict about this rule. Sometimes, I am invited to stay, but sometimes I have to go home since she has enough to deal with already. Madeline’s sisters are teenagers and they’re both really, really pretty. They have lots of boyfriends and get dressed up to go out every weekend. Sometimes when they don’t go out, they put make up on Madeline and me. They say that Madeline will be the most beautiful of all of the sisters. Truth be told, this makes me a little jealous. I want to be the most beautiful of three sisters, but I just have one brother – and he doesn’t talk about which one of us will be the most beautiful.

I am not beautiful. But I have a lot of imagination. Madeline likes to play games with me because I am very good at pretending. At the moment, our favorite game is to pretend that we are The Borrowers, and that we are tiny. There is one tree that we like to climb and pretend it is a flower. Another game that we like to play is that we are orphans looking for our parents. As I write this, I realize that it doesn’t make any sense – but that’s the game. In the game, we both wear lockets that have pictures of our parents so that we will recognize them if we find them. I think that we may have gotten this idea from Annie, but I’m not sure. Sheridan doesn’t have much patience for these games, but she does like to play other pretend games like “School.” Guess who gets to be the teacher?

I like having two different best friends because they are fun in different ways. Someday I hope they like each other more, because it’s hard to have best friends that don’t like each other as much as they like me.*

(sepia tint with new and improved “lipstick” effect – again compliments of the scanner at work.
But I think I would have liked it at age nine – very “old fashioned” no?)

Well, I think that’s enough from nine year old Kate Coveny for now. As you can see she doesn’t really know how wrap it up (not that Kate Coveny Hood is much better). When I started this stream of consciousness inspired exercise, I didn’t plan to focus childhood friends. But it’s a topic that’s still very relevant to me. I have always believed that your friends say a lot about you as a person. I placed a great deal of value on my friendships as a child, and I still do. Instead of getting caught up in the group politics so common to young girls, I preferred to spend more time with individuals and focus on those friendships. The associated groups of friends were simply a byproduct.

I like to think that I had fun back then, but at the end of the day, I was a fairly serious girl. I gave a lot of thought to my choices, and generally chose to surround myself with interesting and amusing people. I’m happy to say that this is something that hasn’t changed. My current daydreams are less fanciful (I can promise you that I’m not wearing a bonnet or a tippet in any of them), but I still have them. And I choose to spend my time with people who help to inspire them. Hi there friends that are reading this! Just want to say that I love you.

*This was an unfounded concern of mine when I was nine. Once we were all in fifth grade together, Sheridan and Madeline became best friends. While I may have lamented my downgraded status at the time, I had some other best friends to fill the void. Relationships are complicated when you’re a nine year old girl. Almost thirty years later, these two women are still very dear to me. I don’t see them often, but they are like the sisters that I never had as a little girl. Those short paragraphs only provide a few details about their own little nine year old lives. I could easily write a book about either of them.

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?

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As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:

If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling. But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

Why I Hate Halloween

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Hate is a very strong word – especially since it’s only one half of my bipolar feelings for Halloween. So to pre-empt any self righteous indignation on behalf of this annual dress up party, I’ll first state some of the things that I LOVE about Halloween.

I love candy. I love little boys and girls in pirate costumes. I love little boys and girls in princess costumes. [Okay – so the little boys dressed as princesses are just hypothetical since their fathers won’t allow it. But those that settle for being princesses in their hearts will eventually have their day in Key West.] I love chilly nights with glowing, grinning pumpkins. I love the sound of a neighborhood party and the sight of men unafraid to wear tights in public (even some of the aforementioned censorious fathers). I love the idea that for one night you can put on a costume and pretend to be someone else. Because don’t we all entertain the idea of being someone else every once in a while? Even just for a minute?

So with that out of the way… This Friday Confession is that I hate Halloween (at least 50% of the time). Why? Um – because it’s scary. I have mentioned previously that I do not enjoy horror movies. The Ring did not give me thrills and goosebumps. It made me want to throw my TV out the window screaming, “never, never, NEVER do that do me again! How am I supposed to sleep at night now that I’ve seen that?!” I’ll stick with Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin thank you very much.

But how can you avoid the truly scary stuff in these October weeks? I live in fear of channel surfing in the evening. You may be clicking through, looking for something entertaining – perhaps a Will & Grace rerun, or maybe one of those Danielle Steele movies on Lifetime – and out of nowhere you are confronted with Linda Blair screaming obscenities and spewing green slime. That is just not something I’d like to see. Especially as a surprise. I don’t particularly like nice surprises, let alone those of the demonic variety.

Another thing I don’t like about Halloween: the undead. The whole premise of this day is that the dead come back to visit, and my very least favorite droppers by are the ones that don’t know how to stay dead. At it’s very core, the idea of the dead coming back to life is decidedly NOT fun. Yet every year, people strap on their fake gore and find each others’ missing heads and terminal wounds delightfully amusing. Exactly when and how did the undead become festive?

But then there is this whole other world of candy corn and superhero costumes. It makes me feel so conflicted… Especially when I find myself talking to people who are entirely against Halloween. One coworker told me that her kids passed out candy, but did not dress up like their friends. The reason being that their grandmother felt very strongly about Halloween and called it the “devil’s day.” My response was that “it’s not if you go as a fairy princess.” But given my own aversions to Satan and the undead, I can see her point.

In the end – I do not ban Halloween, and OF COURSE I encourage my children to dress up and have fun. But there will always be that part of me that says, “wait – why are we doing this again?” No need to give me a history lesson – I know the background. But I kind of think that the Hallmark corporations of the world have made us forget about those very serious superstitions and instead, turned the day into a Disney themed party where both lovely and horrifying creatures coexist with only theoretical bloodshed. My own unreasonable fears and phobias will never allow me to fully buy in though; and I’ll be more likely to avoid the dark basement at night than to gleefully festoon my front lawn with fake corpses. I think I’ll just stay home and pass out candy to three year old ladybugs. And I’ll stick to Netflix movies until November first.