Tag Archives: That Man of Mine

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

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Have you ever been in a foreign country and found yourself wondering if your cab driver might be kidnapping you? Well – this did happen to me once. And I suspect that it’s not all that uncommon (the suspicion as opposed to the actual kidnapping). I mean, with language barriers, unfamiliar scenery and standard issue paranoia – it seems like this could happen to the best of us.

Or – maybe it’s just me. Either way, here’s my story.

In September of 2000, Chris and I got married and then flew to Spain for a two week honeymoon in Andalusia. We stayed in Malaga, Marbella/Puerto Banus and Seville. And while we were in Puerto Banus, we decided to make a quick trip to Great Britain.

Yes – you read that right – we left the sunny beaches of the Costa del Sol so that we could enjoy an cool, overcast day in the city of Gibraltar. This British territory shares a border with Spain, and was just an hour drive from our hotel.

Our hotel was beautiful, but after a few days relaxing by the pool with a book, I got at little bored with my sedentary pursuits. Not the kind of bored that made me want to fly home and leave the fun filled vacation of suntanning and tapas bar hopping of course. But the kind that made me feel the need for a day trip.

So that morning at breakfast, I pulled out our trusty Andalusia book and said, “I’m tired of looking at topless German supermodels at the pool – I have to have an activity today.” And while Chris probably didn’t quite agree about the topless German girls, he was happy enough to leave the hotel to have a little adventure.

One of the reasons that we selected Gibraltar was that we would get to enjoy a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful day and the hour long cab ride felt more like minutes as we took in breathtaking views of sun sparking on sea.

Then we saw “the rock.” It’s almost shocking to see Gibraltar looming on the horizon. It is literally a giant rock under an ominous looking cloud. We immediately dubbed it, “Danger Island.”


While it’s not technically an island, it does kind of look like one as you’re driving down the coast.

I won’t go into detail about our arrival at Danger Island (where we brushed elbows with armed soldiers), or the time we spent there (purchasing hand stitched lace pillow cases and hearing jokes about Monica Lewinsky from the locals). But I will say that my only regret is that we didn’t take the cable car up to the top of the rock for a view of Africa. Oh well – maybe next time.

When departed Gibraltar later that afternoon, I was very ready to put my shopping bags at my feet and close my eyes. Between the walking and the overcast sky I was feeling rather sleepy, and within minutes of entering the cab, I had dozed off.

At some point I felt sun on my face, and peered out from under my sunglasses to see that we were in fact, back in Spain proper. But the expected view of sun sparkling on sea had inexplicably been replaced by green hillside vistas.

While groggily trying to make sense of this new scenery, I realized that my husband was engaged in an animated conversation with our cab driver. This was no surprise since he feels the need to “chat” with pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius. But the fact that we were so obviously NOT driving back up the coast, made me extremely curious. I thought that if I could hear what they were saying, I would surely be clued into where the hell we were going.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak Spanish – so I was going to have to ask Chris to translate. Right before I sat up and announced my confusion though, the city girl in me held out a cautionary hand. Something wasn’t right. I mean, we were being chauffeured by the Spanish equivalent of a gypsy cab driver, and we were obviously not taking the familiar route back.

My first thought was that it might be a short cut. But in researching our day trip, we did look at a map which clearly showed the coastal road was the most direct route. I may be map-challenged, but Chris is practically a human GPS system. So he would be aware that we were taking the long way.

I had to conclude that we weren’t going back to the hotel – or at least not directly. And the fact that Chris and the cab driver were now BFFs indicated that they had made a decision to…well, I wouldn’t know would I? Because I was asleep when said decision was made.

At this point City Girl started fuming. What the hell was Chris thinking? This stranger could be a criminal for all we knew. To let him drive us into the hills of Spanish no man’s land and to not even consult with me about it was inexcusable. I would NEVER agree to this. What if he planned to take our credit cards and passports and then leave us miles from civilization. He could be a serial killer. He could be planning to sell me into white slavery. We didn’t know anything about this guy! City Girl was irate. I was a little frightened.

So I decided to feign sleep while I worked out what could possibly be going on. And soon enough we seemed to have reached our destination. The cab pulled up to a small group of buildings and parked in what could only be described as a rural ally.

I sat up an started to ask Chris, “exactly what the hell is going on?” But I never had a chance. Within seconds, my companions were out of the car and too busy talking and laughing to give me any explanation. Chris barely glanced over his shoulder as he said something about coming in with them and that we would “only be a minute.” Whatever that meant.

City girl and I huffed as we picked up every bag in the cab and dragged them over to the big wooden gate through which the two men had disappeared. There was no way I was leaving all of my beautiful lace napkins and pillowcases in an unlocked cab with open windows.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when I followed them in, but I couldn’t make any sense of the scene that I encountered. I seemed to have entered a courtyard. To my right were rows of kennels and cages. Dogs barked and birds squawked at our intrusion, and flies buzzed around my head. The general effect was something like a barnyard pet store. Directly in front of me was a paddock with a huge brown horse – apparently, the source of all the flies. On the left was what looked to be the side wall of a house.

Our host had opened a door to the house and gestured for us to stay where we were, saying something that seemed to indicate that he’d be right back. Again, there wasn’t time to interrogate Chris about where we were, let alone why we were there. Before I could open my my mouth (which was already agape), the man was back, now holding a box.

He looked at me and asked Chris something in rapid fire Spanish. Chris looked in my direction, and then with a smile shook his head. He laughingly held up his hands and said something that involved the words “no” and “gracias.” I couldn’t imagine what he thought I didn’t want – but I was happy to finally hear Chris say “no.”

Then it suddenly came to me. It was so obvious what was going on, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t figure it out earlier. I gasped internally as I silently articulated to myself, “oh my god – he’s trying to sell us drugs.“

But before I could begin to puzzle out why Chris would have even agreed to this detour trip, I was being ushered back to the cab. In a cloud of unintelligible banter and every fly previously stationed on the horse’s butt, I followed.

Safely back in the car and surrounded by my shopping bags, my anxiety began to fade. City Girl was back and mapping out the tirade the Chris would hear as soon as we were alone. At this point, I was certain that we were in fact, on our way back to the hotel. And I let out the last vestige of the breath that I was holding when that sparking sea came back into view.

We finally arrived in Puerto Banus, and the minute the cab pulled away I rounded on a happily waving Chris. “What on earth were you thinking? WHY did you let him take us to that, that…whatever that place was? Did he try to sell us drugs?“

Chris just stared at me in utter bafflement and said, “What?“

Exasperated, I replied, “that weird farm-like place! What were we doing there? He came out with a box and asked you something. Then you said, ‘no.’ Was he asking you if we wanted to buy drugs?!“

Still dazed, Chris said. “He asked if you wanted a ride on his horse. And we stopped there because his radio had died and he needed to pick up another one. That’s what was in the box. I figured that you were sleeping and we weren’t in a big rush to get back, so it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t charge us for the extra time or anything.“

Oh.

Well – that didn’t sound quite so bad, the way he explained it. I may have overreacted just a little bit. But I’m still a city girl at heart, and don’t assume that I’m safe with a stranger – no matter how nice they may seem.

I doubt we would encounter a situation like this again – and now that we have kids, Chris would be far more likely to take a conservative view of friendly strangers with cars. But either way, I like to think that he would remember my feelings on the subject, and at least give me a vote the next time we’re encountered with the unknown.

We were newlyweds – and with every year of marriage, you get to know each other better. I now know that Chris is a good judge of character, and would never have put us in a situation that seemed like it could be dangerous. And Chris now knows that I prefer to be be informed of what’s going on – AND to be asked for my opinion before it is assumed.

But Chris did get one thing right all those years ago… You couldn’t have paid me enough money to sit on that fly-covered horse. Especially if it meant that I’d have to abandon my shopping bags.

Lord Almighty, I Feel My Temperature Rising

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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.

Weekend Sound Byte: Polygamy as a Feasible Solution

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On Sunday, we all had lunch at a local kid friendly restaurant. We spent most of that hour simultaneously keeping an eye on all three children as they ricocheted around the room in separate directions, encouraging them to actually ingest the grilled cheese sandwiches we ordered for them and moving all condiments as far away from the twins as possible (Eleanor seems to think that ketchup is a delicious “dip” that can be enjoyed as a meal on it own).

As we tried to eat our mediocre food, Chris and I had the following conversation:

Chris: Remember – I once suggested that we take on another wife to help out. So you have only yourself to blame.

Kate: What are you talking about? I told you that I was totally on board with that after I had the twins.

Chris: It would definitely simplify our lives… And hey – I can be fair. We don’t have to get another wife for me. We could consider getting another husband for you…

Kate: What?! Two husbands would just double my workload and nothing would ever get done. I’ll take the sister wife thank you very much.

Chris: Gotcha.

Epilogue: That night we watched the pilot for Swingtown and concluded that we’d have to make due with our two parent set up.

Morning Sound Byte

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An excerpt from our morning as I got myself ready for work, got the kids ready for daycare and talked to my husband, Chris about what he would do with his day at home:

Kate: Since you won’t be going anywhere – you could work on cleaning out your closet. You keep saying that you’ll do that – and now you have a whole day!

Chris: Mmm hmm.

Kate: I bet you’ll find all kinds of things that you thought you lost…

Chris: Mmmm.

Eleanor: [drops yellow magic marker on the floor] Daddy – help!

Chris: Did you drop your pen? You can pick it up yourself – you don’t need me to do it for you.

Eleanor: No! Help!

Chris: You know – you shouldn’t get into the habit of relying on men to do things for you. They’ll never follow through, and even if they try to, they’ll only do a half assed* job of it.

Kate: Are you talking about your closet…?

Chris: Mmm hmm.

*Chris is trying to clean up his language around the kids – but things do slip through.

Hope all of my readers are having a great Friday. I haven’t been writing as much as I would have liked this week due to many sick children, snow days, and the fact that I was literally iced into my house for 24 hours (Obama really has a point regarding what wimps DC residents are about “bad weather”).

I may not get to my weekly Friday Confession today. But I promise that I’ll do it this weekend. Now I just have to think about what it will be…possibly barricading my husband in his closet until he cleans his way out of it.

Sleeping in Beauty

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There isn’t much that I miss about my life before marriage. I’m content to just reminisce, and feel no need to revisit those days of staying out until dawn and wondering “if he’s going to call.” But there is one thing that I do long for with great nostalgia. One sigh-inducing memory that I will most likely carry with me for the rest of my life…the girl bedroom.

You see, I ALWAYS had a pretty bedroom. From the time I was old enough to have my own big girl bed to my years as a twenty-something, too poor to afford more than a closet that accommodated a twin-size mattress – my room was girly. I grew up with a love of delicately patterned textiles and soft colors. And I like nothing better than to sink into a cloud of down pillows. In fact, if I had to pick the one room of a house in which decor is of the utmost importance, I would choose the bedroom. And of course, my current bedroom is the ONE room in my house that ISN’T painted, ISN’T decorated, and IS generally a big mess.

It isn’t painted because we ran out of time before the twins were born (we moved into this house just three weeks before they arrived). It isn’t decorated beyond a few paintings on the walls because I don’t see the point until we actually paint the walls. And it is generally a big mess due to my husband’s inability to put his things away or get out of bed in time for me to make it in the mornings. But I won’t go into a big story about what a slob my husband is. I’ve already done that.

And not having a girl bedroom really goes beyond the decor. It’s the overall atmosphere. Now that I share a room with my husband, guy stuff can be found on every surface area and piles of newspapers and sports magazines languish in corners (until I can’t take it anymore and throw them out). When I retire for the night, I slip into bed, carefully lifting the corner of the sheets. My roommate prefers to rip the sheets out of their neatly tucked corners and kick off the bedding because it’s “too hot.” When Chris is away for work, I wake up in a bed almost as tidy as it was when I fell asleep. When he’s home, I wake up in a nest. And let’s be honest. I miss waking up in a room that smells the same as it did when I turned in for the night.

So yes – I do yearn a bit for the pretty girl rooms of my past, and I do a little drooling when I page through catalogs and magazines featuring pretty bedrooms with pretty colors and pretty objets strategically placed on the pretty dressers and side tables. But mostly I lust after pretty bedding since it’s really the cornerstone of the girl bedroom. So this week’s Materialistic Monday is devoted to images of princess worthy beds. Here are some of my current favorites:

from Anthropologie

from Pincone Hill

from Serena & Lily

from Anthropologie

from Pincone Hill

from Serena & Lily

And here is a bonus picture of the crib that I would want if I was a baby:

Okay – so one more bed-related story. Once on a business trip to Beijing (this was rare so don’t be too impressed), I had the MOST disappointing bed experience of my life. I can honestly say that I LOVE hotel beds, and most of the hotels I patronized at that time, were competing with each other for status of “best bed.” I had become accustomed to Heavenly Beds, Suite Sleepers, and the like.

After 24 hours of travel time and an arrival at what felt like 6 a.m. EST, my colleague and I were pooped. We arrived at our fabulous luxury hotel (I know – dream trip) ready to fall into bed and sleep for as long as possible. And when I walked into my bedroom, I saw exactly what I was hoping for: a big white marshmallow of a duvet with about 87 fluffy white pillows. Like a little girl, I took a running leap into the cloud-like arrangement. Only to hit what felt like a park bench. What the hell?! It was the hardest bed I’ve ever encountered in my life. I emotionally deflate just thinking about it. What a let down. And to add insult to injury, I found a listing for BED BOARDS in the hotel services brochure. I don’t think a sidewalk could be firmer than that mattress from hell. It just goes to show that there are different cultural expectations for sleeping comfort everywhere you go… Here at Chez Hood, the beds may not be girly – but they’re definitely softer than concrete.

Is Nothing Sacred?

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In a word? No.

I have entered a phase of motherhood that can only be described as a complete breakdown in reason, order and sanity. I really do feel like I live with three asylum escapees sometimes. And I saw it coming the minute I found out that I was pregnant with twins. It was right about that time that my oldest son turned one. He became a toddler, and apparently a crazy person.

And that’s exactly what I said to Chris: “it’s like living with a crazy person.” The tantrums over nothing – the mood swings – the manic activity. It was exhausting. And then we found out I was pregnant again. And then we found out that I was having twins. And then I realized that within just a couple of years, there would be three crazy people in my house. Actually five since Chris and I would undoubtedly be insane by then.

But of course, like all mothers, I adapted fairly quickly and found much of this unhinged behavior adorable. I readily admit that I do tend to find bad behavior amusing, and I often have a hard time addressing it appropriately (i.e. not laughing and saying “do it again! do it again!”). This would explain a lot about my children.

I don’t want to give the impression that I have bad kids. Absolutely not. They are very sweet and considerate demon spawn. And not one of them has a mean bone in their little bodies. Their daycare provider is raising them right! Just kidding about that last part of course (sort of). But my point is that they are just being their ages (three and two). And that involves a level of chaos that not even a team of Navy SEALs could suppress. And this translates into losing time that was once spent on personal priorities like reading, exercising, showering, picking socks up off the floor…

If you have toddlers, I suspect that I am describing your current home life. If you had toddlers a long time ago, you are laughing at me and saying, “just wait until they are teenagers.” If you don’t have children, you are thinking that you may just want to get a dog instead. Either way, I’m too busy fishing poop out of the bathtub to be affected by your validation, condescension or horror.

The way I see it is like this. You have a baby. You bring that baby home. And after a few weeks or months of feeling like you have entered a never-ending twister in the tornado of new parent hell, you miraculously wake up in Munchkinland. You marvel at how the world suddenly became technicolor and can’t wait to see what lies ahead as you continue down this sparkling yellow brick road. Little did you know that it would be flying monkeys.

Once you get used to being a parent to a baby and really start to enjoy it, you see your baby like this:


Then your baby becomes a toddler – and they become this:


And I don’t mean that they become hideously ugly. Quite the opposite. They become even more mogwai-like in their cuteness. It’s just that they can’t help but wreak havoc in your life as a matter of course. It’s programmed into a toddler’s DNA to be a little gremlin in the house. And when you have multiple toddlers, you have multiple gremlins (thank god throwing them into a bathtub doesn’t create more).

How many times have I left a neat and orderly room for five minutes, only to return to what looks like a war zone? Um – pretty much every time I leave the room. Chris thinks we should just give up and never put things away. But guess what? I’ve tried that, and they manage to make an even bigger mess out of the original one. How does one manage to take a room that is completely ripped apart and make it worse? I have no answer for this, you’ll have to ask a toddler.

A perfect example of a simple daily activity that they manage to turn into a circus is going somewhere in the car. The car was once a zen-like refuge for me. I would quietly sip a coffee from Starbucks and listen to music or a recorded book. Traffic never bothered me because I could just tune it out and enjoy a little time to myself. No work e-mails to answer, no laundry to be done. Just a little peace and quiet. This no longer exists. Now I have an entourage.

Every weekday, I commute with my children. I drop them off at daycare on my way to work. Just getting them to ENTER the car is the first challenge. Inevitably, I find myself chasing them in circles. Then once I finally get them in the car, I have to drag them out of the driver’s seat, the “way back” (we have an SUV) and the space under the seats. I have to rip unidentifiable scraps of old food (at least I hope it’s food) out of their hands before they manage to reach their mouths. I have to force rigid abs of steel back into car seats so that I can buckle harnesses. I have to yell, cajole, tickle and spank them into submission (consistency is my middle name). Then I spend the majority of the drive time answering all 500 of my daughter’s questions, climbing into the back seat to re-buckle my oldest son’s seat belt at stoplights and moving the passenger seat forward so that my youngest son can’t kick the pause button on the DVD player. Once we arrive at our destination I have to replace socks and shoes that have been flung off and retrieve sippy cups from wherever they have been launched. I arrived at work completely exhausted.

Another previously sacred time was my daily shower. I am perpetually cold and like nothing better than to lose that chill in a nice hot shower. It doesn’t even have to be a long one – just five minutes of total warmth. But now the bathroom door is open, and two or three sets of eyes observe me rush through my morning ablutions. A ritual that now involves keeping one foot ready to nudge someone out if they decide to climb in with me (an activity often followed by the task of re-dressing them in dry clothing). The one positive thing about my shower experience is that it’s possibly the only time that I do something without at least one child attached to my body. It is no longer “daily.”

Evenings used to offer some nice, relaxing me-time. I’d have a little dinner, do some reading, maybe even watch some prime time television. Now I’m lucky if I can change out of my work clothes before it’s time to go to turn in for the night. If I do run upstairs to change, I have to answer to a chorus of “Mommy! Where are you?” or keep an eye on them as they open every drawer in the room while I’m pulling on my sweat pants. If they don’t follow me upstairs and I don’t hear any concern for my whereabouts, then I know I’m in trouble. I’ve already related the incident of the black and orange Halloween clings stuck to the playroom ceiling. But there are unlimited others that involve “working together” to create some kind of mess or mayhem. Recently I came downstairs to see my three year old son hand a full, OPEN gallon milk jug to my two year old daughter. Eleanor, who is lucky if she weighs 25 lbs soaking wet, immediately began to fall backward, and I only just made it there in time to grab her before she was taken down by the jug of milk.

So no – none of that is sacred anymore. Not my personal time. Not my personal possessions. Not my personal space. But in spite of all of that, I can’t really complain. I have something far more sacred now: their time – this time. Someday I will have time to read and go to the movies and have leisurely dinners out with Chris. Someday I will go on vacations and actually sleep on the plane. Someday I’ll be able to just get in the car and go without any concerns about forgotten lunch bags or lost blankies. Someday I’ll have alone time again.

But I’ll never again have two little bodies cuddled in my lap as I smell their freshly washed hair and read them Go Dogs Go. I’ll never again have a little boy say, “I wuv you mommy,” as I tuck him in at night. I’ll never again watch three little people dance with wild abandon around the house pretending to be the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins. So if I have to put up with some mess and chaos and drastically lowered expectations for personal time and appearance? I’ll take it. Because this fleeting moment in my life as a mother is worth it. This time is more precious and sacred than any other I could imagine.

Chain of Fools

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This week’s Friday confession will be a story. But first, I need to provide a little background information (which in itself is somewhat of a confession). I have a bit of an aversion to big chain restaurants. Don’t get me wrong – I love P.F. Chang’s and Maggiano’s as much as the next person. But when I think of a really special night out, I prefer the idea of a restaurant that you can’t find in all major metropolitan areas. Or at least one that you can’t find at your local shopping mall.

This snooty little quirk of mine comes directly from my father who refused to eat at chain restaurants while I was growing up. If we went out for a casual meal, we’d go to a Chinese food place or maybe Mexican. But we never went anywhere like T.G.I. Friday’s. My brother and I didn’t think much about it – but now looking back, it’s very clear. We never went to chains.

Of course I now eat at family friendly chain restaurants all the time with my kids. But I can’t avoid that obnoxious little voice deep down inside mocking me about it. My husband revels in our patronage of these restaurants simply because he knows all about my secret snobbery. But enough about that – onto my story.

A year or two before the kids came along, we took what was to be our last real vacation together. I had accrued a good number American Airlines miles and hotel points through work travel, and we decided to use some of that for a long weekend in London. Since the dollar was pretty bad – this was never meant to be a luxury trip. We talked about it and agreed that we’d be real tourists and keep everything casual with sightseeing as the priority. Thanks to my freebies we had business class seats on the flight and a room at a great hotel in Trafalgar Square – so that would cover any of our needs for “fancy.” All of our dining would be on the cheap (or cheap-er) and we’d try to find dinner spots with character and atmosphere if not world class chefs.

I could write about so many things we did on that trip, but this isn’t a travelogue. It’s a confession. The confession part doesn’t come in until the Sunday after we arrived though. We arrived on a Friday, and with the exception of a little jet lag, we filled our time with sightseeing and walking. No shopping – but window shopping was allowed. Everything went according to plan until it was time to find a dinner spot. We failed to consider the fact that it was Valentines Day, and that it would be next to impossible to find a table somewhere.

We spent at least an hour wandering around the theater district and beyond, leaving our names at various places and wondering if we should just give up and head over to Piccadilly Circus where one of the tourist traps would surely be cranking out the tables. But that just wasn’t what we had in mind. We didn’t need expensive, but we did want a little atmosphere. So we persevered and finally lucked out when a tiny table became available at a little French place called Cafe Rouge.

It was in fact, exactly what we were looking for. It was casual, but had great food (we both had the beef bourguignon on that freezing cold night) and we were even able to find a good AND inexpensive bottle of wine. Mission accomplished! It was by far the most fun night out we had that weekend. The restaurant was quaint and cozy, and while the wait staff was pleasant enough, they left us alone and let us linger over our coffee as long as we liked. We planned to tell anyone we knew going to London about our find.

I think we went out for Indian food the next night – which was another score. Possibly the best Indian food I ever had. But during the day we tried to just grab quick meals and weren’t too particular. In keeping with our lunch time counter service dining, I wanted to check out the food court at Harrods. I had only been to Harrods once before right after college and didn’t remember it being much more than a big department store, but the guide books raved about the selection of cuisines at the food court. So Sunday, we decided to wander over. One thing we didn’t do was to check Harrods hours. But seriously – what American would ever guess that a major department store would be closed on a Sunday? Typical.

So we were disappointed to find that the food court which had been gaining mythical status as our hunger increased, was not to be on option. And of course there didn’t seem to be all that much else around. In desperation, we circled Harrods in hopes of finding at least one restaurant in close proximity. And we found it! And it was open! And it actually looked rather good. A little French bistro….called Cafe Rouge. Which was funny, because that is the same name of that great little French restaurant we went to the other ni… Oh. It’s chain.

SO we basically had a very special Valentines Day dinner in London at La Madeleine (if La Madeleine had a full bar).

After a few seconds of sheepish side glances at each other, we laughed over what fools we were. Then we raced inside to enjoy another wonderful meal with all of the character and atmosphere we could ask for. And then we vowed to never tell anyone about that wonderful little restaurant, Cafe Rouge – ever. Until now.

Mormons Are Pretty

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Shortly after I started my blog last June, I wrote a post titled, Mormons are Funny. The point of it was to make fun of myself for being “surprised” by the very funny Mormon writers I encountered in my blog surfing. I won’t elaborate since most of my current readers have seen that one – but if you haven’t, I suggest you read what I wrote before commenting on how offensive and closed minded I am (I fully addressed that at the time).

I like to think of my husband Chris as an armchair expert on Mormons (stop cringing Chris – this won’t be TOO embarrassing). He grew up in a part of Phoenix, AZ that had a large Mormon population and was one of the few non-Mormon kids in his elementary school. While his own experience has been limited to – well, his own experience, I’ve found that most of his insights have been backed up by my new online Mormon friends (expect for his speculation that Kacy is a Jack Mormon – he was dead wrong about that!)

One thing that I’ve found to be a theme throughout the various Mormon blogs that I’ve seen is that these people are by and large REALLY attractive. I mentioned this to Chris at some point and he verified that I was definitely on target. In his experience, Mormon girls are known for being pretty. Of course this is a generalization (what isn’t?!), but as a group, they are known for above average looks. I’m sure that a fugly Mormon slips into the mix here and there – but they’re also known for being kind and accepting people. So it’s all good.

As if to prove my point, I recently came across a blog showcasing people who could easily win a pageant for the most beautiful family, if such a thing existed (I bet it does – I should forward them an application). And what a surprise – they’re Mormon!

I would love to include a picture – but that would be inappropriate. I mean – they have a public blog, but I think you do kind of need permission to post pictures of SOMEONE ELSE’S FAMILY. Even talking about it is borderline creepy.

Speaking of creepy – this isn’t the first time that I’ve written about them. I also made mention of this family on Tuesday. I was annoyed because I lost track of the blog address and wrote everything above before realizing that I couldn’t prove that they existed. While I still think it would be crossing a line to steal pictures of someone’s family from their blog, I have no problem featuring a link. It’s done all the time with memes and whatnot – right? Besides, that blog once linked to my Mormons Are Funny post – so I consider it quid pro quo.

Luckily for me, I have helpful friends. One of them suggested that I check my web history. Of course this never occurred to me at the time because I’m whiny enough to complain about losing the link, but lazy enough to not actually do anything about it. So this little kick in the pants gave me the motivation to try (particularly since I knew it would take about two minutes and I could accomplish the task while watching television).

And luckily for you – I was successful! So here it is. The (two day) long anticipated link to the most beautiful family that I’ve ever seen. And even the name says it all: It’s a Wonderful Life. I’m not surprised.

To prove my allegation above about joint linking, here is the post I was referencing: Why Blog? I’m “and this one also.”

Now before you go traipsing over there to judge – just remember that my glowing reviews might tend to raise expectations. And of course there is that whole “to each his own” thing that makes for differing opinions on such matters. So I don’t want to see any unnecessary criticisms in my comments section. Remember that while they’re beautiful, they also have feelings – and they didn’t ask to be in the spotlight. Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful.

In all seriousness, I think I like reading that blog because it’s just really happy. Sure, they’re scandalously good looking – but they also seem like a nice group of people. Every post features a smile, a giggle or a tender moment. And what could be more fun than a big family of girls? They remind me of the books I loved when I was a girl (Little Women, All of a Kind Family, etc.) And ultimately, that’s what this whole blogging thing is about anyway – having a window into someone else’s life. Or maybe that’s what being a blog lurker is all about… Either way – the intentions are good.

I usually have good intentions – so please don’t read anything into any of this. I’m not saying that Mormons are all the same. I’m not saying that beauty is the most important thing about a person. I’m not saying that families of girls are more fun than families of boys. I’m simply saying that this is one pretty family – and from what I can tell they hold true to the saying “pretty is as pretty does.”

That said, I’m now off to find a new beautiful Mormon family blog to stalk – I mean lurk. I expect to receive my restraining order from the It’s a Wonderful Life clan within the week. Please feel free to propose candidates in my comments section.

"I just want to say that we’re not ‘Spirit Bunnies’ anymore."

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“We always hated that name.”

If you are between the ages of 30 and 50 and don’t recognize that quote, crawl out from under your rock and rent Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Even if you don’t love the sophomoric humor of this movie (which even I do), it’s a fun trip down both the good and bad sides of memory lane.

I’m using this famous cheerleader’s words to introduce my Friday Confession because it illustrates exactly how I feel when it comes to managing all holiday, birthday and event planning responsibilities for my family. For some reason, there is this predetermined expectation for me to be the “Booster Club” of the Reston, VA Hoods. It’s up to me to make sure that we’re on track for sending birthday cards, responding to invitations, buying gifts and decorating the house. It doesn’t matter that I have a full time job, children to feed and bathe, mountains of laundry to fold and a time consuming blog. As the woman and wife, I’m in charge.

How many times have I heard my husband tell someone on the phone, “I don’t know – you’ll have to ask the boss.” That’s right – I also rule our social calendar. It is literally my domain. This has its benefits of course, but having the final word on our RSVPs comes with its own set of responsibilities. Sometimes it’s not so “good to be the King” [an allusion to a more obscure quote – dedicated to my father who has jokingly used it on many an occasion]. I have been known to lose track of our engagements from time to time, and I’m notorious for enthusiastically over committing. I used to think that I was an organized person. But if you keyed into my house while I’m not there to hide clutter and close bedroom doors, you would see how very false that is. All of this housework, child rearing and paycheck earning has seriously impacted my interest level in the more festive aspects of keeping house.

Where is the confession in all of this? Well, it’s twofold. First – I’m bored with it and would like to outsource. Second – I’m not very good at it anymore and feel like I’d need a personal assistant to actually get anything done, and done well. Since both involve hiring staff, I’m assuredly not getting relief anytime soon. Though it must be admitted that shortly after bringing the twins home from the hospital and changing our grownup per baby ratio from 2:1 to 2:3, Chris did propose a time management solution. Using Big Love as an example, he suggested that we bring in another wife to help out. I can honestly say that I looked right into his eyes and responded without a hint of irony, “at this point, I’d seriously consider it.” I can hear John and Kate Plus Eight guffawing over how easy I have it…but I can only work with what I know. And I know that I’m tired and right now I don’t have the energy to even consider buying a single birthday card.

Once my friend Michelle and I joked about how many hours we spend on the activity of buying birthday cards, signing them and mailing them. I think we came up with approximately 24 hours per year. That doesn’t sound like a lot – but it IS a full day with no sleep. And that’s just birthday cards. I’m not even scratching the surface of the card buying genre if you consider baby showers, wedding showers, weddings, sympathy, graduation, congratulations….etc. Do you know how many cards of any kind my husband has purchased in the past year? [Insert stony silence here.]

Obviously, greeting card coordination is only one line item to check on this Julie McCoy’s activity clip board. But instead of calculating how many hours I spend making sure that everyone has appropriate holiday attire and whipping up the dessert for a get together with friends – I’ll just skip to the end and say that it all translates into a full time job that no one really has time to do.

Is it me, or is everyone else’s team spirit flagging. This Spirit Bunny needs a break. I give up. I’m relinquishing my command and looking for a replacement. Thirty-six sounds like an early age for retirement (and a bit premature considering that my children aren’t even out of pre-school), but what other options do I have?

One would be to channel John Belushi from Animal House and yell “Who’s with me?” as a prelude to running off without a single look back. But that really wouldn’t work since – you know, I kind of have to come back to make dinner for the kids. So escape is out…

The only feasible direction to take – now that I’ve established that we can’t afford staff and have decided against polygamy – would be to shift this role to my husband, Chris. Yeah – let Chris do it for a while. He can take time off of work to drive Oliver to his pre-school grocery store field trip. He can remember that my grandmother’s birthday is next week, and set aside time to inscribe a thoughtful message in her card. He can RSVP for any future birthday parties, play dates and neighborhood gatherings. Let him be the King of the calendar for a while.

But then I recall how Chris can barely remember his own birthday – let alone anyone else’s. He takes a year to get around to making even a dentist appointment. And once while discussing the complications of having an 18 month old Oliver around breakable Christmas tree ornaments, his proposed solution was to just not have a tree that year. Do I really trust him to make sure Eleanor has the right shoes to go with her party dress? Create an attractive floral display for our Thanksgiving table? No?

Look for my next post complaining about how I can’t get my children to pose for a holiday card. I guess it’s not quite time to hang up those pom poms… I wouldn’t mind dragging them around if there was just a little more enthusiasm from the team. Maybe I need to organize a pep rally…We Spirit Bunnies secretly enjoy our role, if not the title. We’re just looking for a little appreciation.

“We just want the crowd to participate and we want spirit from every little person in this entire school. Allll-Riiiight?”

They’re Writing Memes of Love But Not for Me

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Anyone that has a blog has heard the term “bloggy love.” And I am absolutely on the list of people who like to talk about the other sites I love. I ask people to guest post, I have a list of blogs on my sidebar (one that I try to keep managable so visitors will actually click on the links), and I’ve even participated in a “virtual dinner party” providing links for some of my favorite bloggers.

But the truth is – I generally don’t like memes and awards. That is my Friday Confession – and it’s a big one for someone with a blog. It’s like telling other mothers in your play group that you really don’t like children that much. I may be banned from Blogger for admitting this – but I just don’t care for memes, awards, and most things that could be labeled bloggy love.

I even find words like “bloggy” annoying. I’ve never been one for the cutesy stuff, and anything that ends in a “y” tends to fall into that category. It kinds of reminds me of high school when all of my friends said “awesome” (a lot) and I just couldn’t. It made me feel like I was trying too hard. And this has come full circle since you may have noticed that most people with blogs use the word awesome ALL THE TIME.

Now I’m not saying that I have opinions about other people who love to participate in memes and hand out awards (or overuse the word awesome – without a hint of irony). It’s just not for me. Probably the biggest reason is that I hate making people feel left out. Of course that’s never the point of these things – but it’s an inevitable byproduct.

When I put together my list for the virtual dinner party I made a point of including parameters that would exclude a lot of the people who might expect to be invited. You were supposed to list 10 blogs and I decided to limit it to blogs that I thought wouldn’t be on anyone else’s list (because they were “blogs that may not be read by the people who are participating in the dinner party planning OR blogs that are still somewhat undiscovered”). I included Anastasia from The Gift, Anna from An Inch of Gray, Kacy from Every Day I Write the Book, Jozette from Regardez Moi, Winona from Daddy Likey, Suzie from Up the Hill Backwards, Amy from Doobleh-Vay, and Heather from Dooce (oh yes I did – but you’ll have to visit the original post for an explanation). Then I couldn’t think of anyone else that would fit my “profile” so I left two spots open for crashers.

I did like the idea of directing my readers to other sites that I really enjoy (there you go: bloggy love), but I could only do it if I knew that I wouldn’t offend anyone. In fact, one of my favorite comments ever was made on that post by Melissa, who said, “I’m having trouble with this, too. I don’t want to make either of my two readers upset if I don’t include them.” Exactly! I don’t want to alienate people who actually take time to read my mediocre attempts at writing. That would just be wrong.

So when I see a meme or an award on another blog and I’m not included in the recipient list, I just breathe a sigh of relief. It’s too much pressure to pick a limited number of “favorites.”

And I’ve had some lovely people honor me with an award. First Renee of But Why Mommy gave me the “Brillante Web Blog – Premio 2008” award (oh yeah – and awards seem to always have very bizarre and slightly foreign names). Then Melissa gave me the Premio Arte y Pico award (seriously – is “premio” a word in ANY language?) Finally, Tiffaney gave me an “Este Blog Investe e acredita na…PROMXIMIDADE.” No idea what this is supposed to mean.

These three women are wonderful people whom I’ve enjoyed getting to know online. I took their acknowdlegement in the spirit in which it was offered. But I haven’t always reciprocated. It’s not that I don’t want to – I just find it very hard to do.

I am a little embarrassed about not posting my awards with a list of other blog friends that I like. But it’s kind of a catch 22. If I just never aknowledge them I feel like my community membership may prematurely expire, and when I do join in the fun, I worry about seeming silly and frivolous (because – you know, I usally write about hard hitting topics such as potty training and giving my children candy for breakfast).

But have you noticed the abundnce of links that I’ve included? This is my compromise. It’s also a cop out. I just won’t pick and choose favorites from the many blogs I love. It’s too difficult and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I think this is better though – since I can include several links without actually listing a “top 10.” It’s the perfect solution for me and my paranoia. And you know what we bloggers like to say when we’ve come up with a geat solution to a problem….awesome.