ZOMBIES -the sequel

Peanuts,
I know I have much better and more important things to talk about.  (I said more important- it's all relative right?)  But do you want to know what it on my mind right now?  What is the all consuming concern in my frenetic brain at the moment? 
It's this guy:

and his friends and family. 
I THOUGHT I DEFEATED YOU IN FLORIDA!!!!
No. 
They are back.  As in, They're baaa-aaaaaaack! Between the roaches and the mosquitoes here in Virginia, I'm starting to be very glad I don't have any first-born sons.  There is like some biblical plague business going on around here. This can't be normal. 
As I've explained to Little One, Cockroaches are just part of nature.  They can't harm us, they don't bite.  They just come in looking for food, or whatever.  I know this; I even managed to explain it in a calm. tone.of.voice.  and look placid (or creepily like someone trying too hard to look placid, but hopefully the former).  
But seriously.  EEW EWW YUCK ICKY YUCK YUCK EEEEEWWWW!!!!
They are the size of like, elephants people.  practically.  And they keep popping up. And today.
Today there were TWO skittering about downstairs within five minutes, just as Little Miss began whining "Nap! Nap-nap! Milk! Naaaap!" 
So I capped those suckers under plastic cups and put Miss to bed.  I gathered up my composure, I steeled myself for the double-ick, and I slid cardboard under cup #1.  I buried him at sea, said a little "sorry to kill an animal, bless the poor thing" prayer with a shudder, and moved on to cup #2. Sitting exactly where I left it, undisturbed.  Slid the cardboard under, carried it gingerly to the ....sea.  Dumped it.  NOTHING.  NOTHING in there guys! HOW.  How did it escape?! Without moving the cup?!  And, more importantly, WHERE IS IT now?!?  
Wandering around my house, spawning more zombies, that's where. 
So now, every time I see a little shadow or a speck on the floor, I jump like a mile.  I hope no one is peeking through the windows, or I might see a big white van pull up to the curb with a couple brawny orderlies pretty soon. 
Deployment is a humbling experience.  It reveals weaknesses and fears that I would otherwise not be forced to admit to.  Hopefully, in the end, it will make me stronger because of that. 
When J gets home, he's quite likely to see me with a bandana around my forehead, wearing combat boots and a studded tool belt stocked with Raid.  I'll probably have a steely glare and some leather accessories.  I'll be a time-worn, battle-hardened roach-zombie warrior. 
I'm looking into theme songs. 

....Hello?

....Peanuts?  Anyone still here?  Remember me?  Ya me either.  But here I am. 
We all made it safe and sound to our new home. There was much chaos and confusion, and plenty of hopping as the US Navy screamed, "DANCE, MONKEY, DANCE!" and it all swirled around in a giant tornado of unanswered questions and packing paper and phone calls and remembering to breathe, and then somehow or other, it all settled out.  And so.  The Littles and I are here; we are Sorting Things Out.  J is on a boat, bobbing about in a big ocean somewhere in the world, and the doggies think they have ascended into doggie heaven in the enormous back yard.
I'm a bit shell-shocked.
I have stories for you Peanuts, I mean I have things to tell you people!  But I'm also really trying to get into early bedtimes, since Little Miss has an almost eerie, uncannily precise internal clock and is up hollering "milk!" at exactly 5:50am rain or shine.
But in the meantime.  Here are a few random thoughts since our last chat:

-It is really, really fun to explore a new place.  There is tons of cool stuff here! It's so exciting!
-It is really, really nice to have a good friend here.  It makes life at the moment feel a bit like riding a runaway elevator.  It still feels like falling, but at least there is a floor beneath my feet.
-I miss my friends in Florida.  They rock.
-There is a lot of support in a military community.  Especially during a deployment.  I have had random strangers practically falling all over themselves to give me their liver,  if ever I should need it.
-There is nothing like sisters.  Mine are the best, and that's a whole post of its own.
-The trash does not take itself to the curb.  This has been a really disappointing discovery.
-I am both proud and slightly disturbed by how good I am getting at dealing with cockroaches.
-My kids are the most fun, amazing, fantastic, incredible little people ever. If I had to be stranded on a deserted island (or, less hypothetically, in a foreign suburban jungle) with anyone, I would pick them.
- There's not much sweeter than witnessing the tangible potency of your child's love for Her family.
-There's not too much harder than seeing your child sad and hurting and missing.
-Thank the high heavens for email.
-A good way to cheer up small children is to take them to the park.  And stand on an ant hill. In skinny jeans.  Turns out ants-in-your-pants actually is as funny as it sounds.  If it's your mom's pants, of course. 
-I miss J.
-I can live on not too much, not too fancy.  But coffee is a must.
-"I'll just paint it!" is NEVER as simple as it sounds.
-"I'll do it on my own" is never as scary as it sounds.

Well it's time to get to that early bedtime.  I hope you haven't given up checking in here, because your words and keeping in touch and saying hello mean a lot all the time, but especially now.  It's good to have friends no matter how far-flung they may be; it's good to have a Peanut Gallery to hear from, too.

Update From The Wire

Holy cow people.  The countdown is on. 
Less than a week to go and things are a bit crazy around here.
After averaging 13 hours a day of driving around and stalking rental properties, for four days, I finally decided on the first one I saw.  A rigorous comparison study showed it to be the best, and now of course I love it, and have already succumbed to my type A-ness and sketched a scale floorplan of it and penciled in all my furniture.  Unfortunately, the property manager is some kind of a sadist, and refuses to actually send me a lease to sign, despite my continual phone calls ("b-but, you've been saying 'tomorrow' for over a week!") and desperate email in which I begged her not to cause my little family to be homeless when we arrive NEXT WEEK. NEXT WEEK!  Hello, woman, I have no legal place of residence for my children NEXT WEEK and if you think I am crazy by email, wait and see what happens when I am there in person.  NEXT WEEK. 
Ahem. 
But.  Other than that. And the fact that Missy has a 104 degree fever and is (TMI alert) squirting poo on everything, the complete chaos of a partially-packed house and the tangible impending-deployment tension between me and J, other than that. Everything is peachy. 
Since (clearly) we have nothing else going on, we threw a backyard farewell party for a cozy 50 people last weekend which was completely fun and worth the dishes (pictures coming... someday).  I was surprised by a fabulous goodbye brunch from the incredible friends I will be leaving here (sappy emotional post coming...someday).  A talented, generous friend took some precious family photos (coming someday), another is taking us into her home and under her wing for a few days after the movers come. I got to see Little One singing Her sweet heart out with Her class, and Her first ever ballet recital is coming up (photo/sappy post combo...someday). We get to see J get his wings tomorrow, we just had a lovely visit from his parents, and my mom arrives today. 
So you see.  The scariness and the stress and the preemptive missing begins to crash my sanity level to the floor- but just then the sweetness of life and the goodness of friends and family weighs on the other side of my heart-scale.  Balance. 
Life always offers it.  It feels like walking a tightrope at times; even balance can be scary.  But it's a malleable kind of scary; the kind that morphs into and out of excitement by the step.  It's sort of a teetering balance walk- scary, exciting! scary. exciting! and sometimes it's sort of exhausting.  But in my own personal opinion (you might say I belong here in the circus) it's a whole lot better than sitting still. 

Not Sure What Was More Painful

A couple of days ago, I pulled something in my neck.  It was probably from the bar fight I got into.  Probably the part where I was cracking a chair over this biker dude and screaming, "what now?! WHAT?!"
Ok.
Ok fine.  It was from pushing my kids on a swing.
Which is even more embarrassing than a bar fight, right? Pathetic.
But anyways, it probably could have been more embarrassing.
So I hobbled around- to preschool, to ballet lessons, to the store, the post office, like a toy soldier- ramrod straight, turning my whole body rather than my head (try checking your blind spot like that. It's pretty silly). And occasionally wincing and involuntarily yelping like a tourettes patient. For two days. 
But even so. It wasn't all that embarrassing. So.
My amazing, incredibly generous friend did this amazing, incredibly generous thing and bought me a massage.  "It's non-refundable and it's already done, " she said, "So you can't say no. Go today."
I mean, wow. I have had one massage before; a gift from my mom right before my wedding.  So I was all giddy like any lottery winner, and I showed up early and changed and then it all started.
There was this very peaceful, calming music playing. I think it was a harp or something.  But then at the same time, there was some Amy Winehouse. Some Adele.  Not super relaxing, but, you know, I was like, "hey, I like Adele!" Sort of interesting music taste for a ponytailed man with biceps the size of my head, but you never can tell about people.  Sort of odd to be playing it along with a soundtrack of tinkling water and wind chimes, but maybe that's like his thing. I don't know.  I just went with it.  I don't know how these things go people! It was my second massage ever!
So this goes on for at least 20 minutes. It starts to get kind of annoying. I mean it's just so loud. At which point the guy finally "ahem"s and goes, "um...is that your phone? Are you...expecting a call?...or something?"
I was all confused for a sec and then I realize he's talking about his weird music.
"No! I thought that was yours?!" 
"No, no. It's definitely coming from your purse."
And it was.
Apparently, when I had gone to turn my ringer off- because, you know, having the phone ring during a massage would be really embarrassing and rude- instead I had somehow, somehow turned on Pandora.  Which, honestly, I didn't even know I had on my phone.
How did I do that?!  How am I really that special a person that I can manage to mess up laying still.
I do not know, Peanuts. I do not know.
And really. Did I have to do it while I was in my skivvies with a perfect stranger? Come on now. 
On the upside, I feel about a million times better- I can even shake my head at myself in shame! And besides, it clearly filled my embarrassment quota. At least for the day.  

4-29 and other numbers

3 job changes for him, 3 job changes for me. 3+3.

4 countries and 2 trips across the world and back. 4+2.

5 houses and 1 mortgage. 5+1.

2 dogs. 2 kids. 2 many moves and trips. 2+2+2.

It all equals 6 -years. 

Happy anniversary to us J!

 

6 years ago we had no idea we'd be celebrating with 2 Littles at 5 am, when they woke up early and wanted to snuggle before breakfast.  

But I'm pretty sure we'd have approved.  

Friday 13

After a 14 hour road trip (due in large part to timing our arrival into the ONLY big city we passed EXACTLY at rush hour, and choosing the highway that happens to be getting repaved EXACTLY at the time we arrived at its closed lanes), all of us having been sick all week, we finally rolled into our driveway at 1am, Friday.
By then of course, J was in a sleep no high-school band parade could put asunder. So I unlocked the door.  Then carefully, awkwardly, somehow pulled two sleeping children from their car seats- at the same time- and carried them both into the house.
I tip-toed down the hall.  I crept into the bathroom.  Miss began to wake (choking on the snot of Her sinus infection) and burrow Her whiney, boogered self into my shoulder.  I "ssshhh"-ed Her as I tried to one-arm wrangle Little One onto the potty.  In the precise middle of this complex procedure, Little One's eyes popped open into an alarming expression.  She said: "Uh oh."
Uh oh.
Isn't it amazing, the psychic link between siblings?  Magical.
Miss blew a booger bomb into my hair and began to howl.  At the same instant that Little One looked into the open toilet, and then turned around, faced me, and vomited Her guts out.
And then.  She called me stinky. And began to cry. 
By the time all of us were bathed and in bed it was two, Little Miss woke ready to (angrily, sobbingly, don't-you-dare-put-me-down-or-I-will-shatter-your-infected-eardrums) meet the day before six, and I spent the day with a raging fever and headache cleaning up after boogers and poo and explaining for the 500th time that no.  No Little One, I love you, but NO I do not want to be the dragon or the princess or the witch or the teacher. No I am not going to the playground. Or playing drums or Jenga.  No J, I am not meeting you for lunch, I am not dressed even at 2pm. 
At least tomorrow is Saturday!  Except, what's that? Oh, J has to work tomorrow? The one Saturday all year he has had to work and it's tomorrow?!
Well.  Hi there Friday the 13th.  You don't mess around much, do ya.  

Celebrating 30

On my first solo vacation in over four years, I expected it to be relaxing.
And it was! Sitting in an airport and having nothing else to do but sit there was pretty amazing, not to mention sitting in front of a fire with a glass of champagne! 
I expected it to be glamorous.
And sitting at the airport bar with my veggie burger and my Guinness (working with practically no interruptions whatsoever, leaving no extra tip out of guilt for floor debris around my spot) was glamorous.  Then we went out to fancy dinner, we went wine tasting...  woo hoo, Peanuts!
Like trying on a ballgown at a designer store I could never afford, I put on this un-mom lifestyle and turned this way and that way, feeling how light the fabric was, admiring the sparkle.
I expected it to the freeing. At 7am when I was still snug in bed, at 7pm when I didn't have to feed or bathe anybody, at the pool where I wasn't the slightest bit concerned that anyone might drown, I might as well have had actual wings.

Birthday Candles

Getting together with the girls I have shared over a decade of ups and downs and hysterical laughter with, I expected it to be fun.  I expected the joy and the gratitude for knowing such amazing people.
I was not disappointed.
But there were a few surprises.  The champagne and sweet note waiting for us in the room, sent by my thoughtful sister was a good one.  Being told by the "yoga" teacher to "grab onto our stomach flab, shake it like jelly, and laugh like this: 'ha-ha-ha-hee-hee-hee'" was certainly not expected.  Nor was finding myself locked into a "family" restroom, pumping milk at the Dallas airport.  (Well I didn't want to overdose on the glamor guys.  There must be balance, right?) 
But the thing that surprised me most about this trip was that while of course I also expected to miss my little family, I could never have guessed that I would miss them SO. Much.
It's Something, I think, that even though I truly had the most wonderful trip and birthday celebration possibly imaginable, I still missed my babies, my J, and my mom (at my house helping with the Littles) so very, very much.  So sharply, constantly much.
The truth is that traveling without the Littles is hugely easier and less exhausting. But airports and airplanes without them are so....boring.  For months I had looked forward to my three-hour layover on the way home from California.  I spent all of those three hours wishing I had my kids with me.
I need trips like this sometimes.  I need to break out of my routine, shake it free, dust off those little corners of Me shoved into storage 99% of the time.  A good spring cleaning.  Try on something new and different just to shake things up a little.
And also to remind me that while it's fun to try on the fancy-free ballgown sometimes, well it just doesn't suit me as well as the sundress with the spots of magic marker and babyfood at the hem.
To reiterate our collective birthday toast to ourselves: Here is to turning 30.  A happy day, a great day.  Because we all happen to be exactly who and where in life we want to be.  Can't beat that. 

 

If The Shoes Fit...

You know how parents always have Those Stories? About like, the time you stuck something up your nose or whatever?  Something you did that made no sense and drove them nuts?
I blessed my mother with plenty of Those Stories.  One of them would be how even though we lived in the mountains, where it would freeze and snow all winter, I adamantly refused to go to school wearing anything but my patent-leather maryjanes.
Through most of high school, believe it or not, I made my own purses to match each pair of (sky-high-heeled platform) shoes, and I painted my finger and toe nails to match my outfit- every. day.
In college I did my fair share of velour pants and flip-flops- when in Rome, I guess- but I still spent most of those Arizona days in heels and sundresses.
I wore a grey and pink pinstriped, satin-lined business suit and heels to my job interview to be a nanny.  For an infant.  I dressed up for most of my jobs; from director to diaper-changer.
And then I became a mom.
I stopped working and stayed home.  Barely sleeping, rarely leaving the house or interacting with other humans, and spending most of the day handling various body fluids and cleaning agents.  Some strange hormonal imbalance due to childbirth drove me with inexplicable force to chop off my hair (This is an epidemic among new mothers. The CDC should check it out). I wore ballet flats on a fancy day.  
Like Canadian Geese just KNOW which way is south, I intuitively sensed that heels were no longer allowed.  That in my new station in life yoga-pants, T-Shirts, and ponytail was the required uniform.  I wasn't a complete mess (most of the time); I had a washed ponytail, I wore clean ugly sweatpants- I just knew that getting all fancy only to be spit-up on 11 times was silly.  SILLY guys.
But here's the thing.  When I got pregnant with Little Miss it really hit me.
I'm grown up.
I'm not just doing this for now, I'm not doing it on the side.  Someone asked me at a party when I was about six months along, what I "do".  I pointed to my round belly and laughed.  "This is it."
This is it. 
I started thinking about what that means.  I started thinking about what I wanted to "Be" when I grew up. I realized that while the occupation might have varied over the arc of my youth- from ballerina to nurse to professor and so on- what I wanted to Be was more of a feeling; the way I wanted to conduct myself and feel about myself, in any role.  While there are dozens of things I've wanted (and still want) to do when I grow up, you know what I really always wanted to be?  Myself.
Happy with My Self.
And here I am, all grown up. Really.  So if I'm ever going to be what I want to be when I grow up...now is the time.  And so for starters I started waking up in the morning and instead of wearing the "uniform", I started getting dressed like Me.
I was happy to find out how much better I felt from day to day, how much more I felt like I was in the right line of work because I felt more comfortable in my own skin. 
But what really surprised me was the reaction I got from my "colleagues".
Since moving here, where my daughter goes to school with children who all have these dazzlingly pretty moms, for Pete's sake, I have received SO much attention over my SHOES.  I tell you I have had literally dozens of comments- at least one from almost every mom I have met, as well as all of Little One's teachers and several of J's coworkers- about my shoes.  
 People seem to be as shocked by a stay-at-home mom in heels as if I showed up for preschool drop-off wearing a leather cat-woman suit and a couple of writhing-snake medusa heads. 
"You wear those to clean the floors?" "
You can carry a baby around in those?"  
"Is there some reason you wear those all the time?"
In not particularly mean-spirited tones (but still interestingly, I think) I have been called Betty Crocker.  I have been called a Stepford wife.  Partly I guess because I like to bake and do art projects with my kid, but honestly I think it's mostly about the shoes.
I've met some amazing moms here. We've had some great conversations about, among other things, the various complexities of raising girls in today's America.  About the Pink Princess culture and the messages of objectification, materialism, and over-sexualization that batter them from all angles.  Issues I am plenty concerned about.  But when these issues come up, they tend to circle around...to my shoes.  Not in a nasty way, but a "why do you feel the need to thwart my message of feminism by parading about in those contraptions all the time?" kind of way.  A dumbfounded way.  A why on earth would you? kind of way.
Recently during a conversation like this, I was asked what kind of message I think I'm sending to my daughter. By wearing, you know.  THOSE.  All the time.
So I thought about it.
In case you've seen me walking to school in THOSE and you are wondering also, here is the answer:
I don't know.
Little One once overheard Her friend's mother (who is going through a divorce) talk about how the friend's daddy didn't live in her house because her parents weren't married anymore. And for a week She cried every time J left for work because She thought that if he wasn't at home we ceased to be married. And you remember the Say Cheese episode? Not to mention Her interpretation of what I do all day.
Which is simply to say that my child is three and some things are lost in translation.  That She extrapolates what She will from any given circumstance and I have very little control over the way Her brain processes things, when it comes down to it, even when I try.  So I don't know what message my child gets from the elevation of my footwear.
But I can tell you what I hope.
IF my shoes are sending messages to my little girl, I hope they are saying this:

1) Take yourself seriously
You might be the CEO. Or the President! You might not.  Whatever you do, take it seriously.  I don't care if you are a senator or a businessperson or a teacher or a janitor or an artist or a stay-at-home-mom.  Never put "just" before your job-description; not when you say it, not when you think it.  If it's your job, treat it like it matters.  Show up in whatever outfit and attitude help you do that.

2) Get up in the morning and take on the world
Wake up. Today day may bring a jet to France! The day may bring 8 hours of collating papers. It might be seven loads of laundry.  But the point is, go for it. Get up like you are ready to take it on, whatever it is. Take it on! And remember that anything can happen. So get ready for it.


3) Glamor comes from inside
 No, you don't need fancy shoes to be fancy. You don't need to be a princess or a ballerina or a supermodel.  You don't need perfect hair or the perfect figure, or expensive clothes or anybody's permission. Glamorous is about feeling as fancy as you want to be.  Go ahead and wear your party dress to the grocery store.  Wear lipstick when no one else will see it.  Or just be confident and use good manners. Smile. We all have a little princess, a little diva in us. Express yours any way you want to, whenever you want to, as much as you want to.  For you.

4) Have fun with life
Even if you were a princess, life would get mundane at times.  We all have to go through routines and get our chores done.  It's not all five-star hotels and roller-coasters.  Not literally. But day-to-day life is fun- as fun as you make it.  That's why we have sudden dance parties in the kitchen. It's why we jump in puddles. It's why we play dress-up.  Find what's fun for you, then sprinkle it like spices into a pan, all over your life.

5) Don't buy into stereotypes, and don't be afraid of them.
Girls don't all like princesses.  Boys don't all like sports.  Stay-home moms don't all wear sweat pants. Powerful people don't all wear suits. Sometimes the innocuous-looking person is dangerous, sometimes the scary-looking person is sweet.  Wearing glasses doesn't make you a nerd, or smart. Being a cheerleader doesn't make you shallow, or cool. Sometimes tough guys cry. Sometimes little girls in pink tutus are feisty and tough.  Sometimes the mom baking cupcakes in heels is a graduate-degree holding feminist who has worked as both a butt-wiper and construction worker. 
You seriously never know.
So resist the temptation to label others. And, more importantly, resist the tendency to label yourself. If you like glasses, wear them. Don't think whether it will make you "seem" too smart or too nerdy. If you like tackle football, play.  If you like rap, or country, or heavy metal, or showtunes, listen and Rock Out! Never let someone elses idea of of "should" dictate you.


 6) Be Yourself
Which brings me to the Main Thing.  If my shoes are talking and they say nothing else, I hope they say this: Be You.
Don't be what is expected. Don't be what you think is 'normal'. Don't be what doesn't rock the boat.  Be You.
My Nana, in her 90's, still wears splashy colors and gaudy jewelry.  If someone were to call her tacky, she'd say "hell yes I'm tacky! Ha!" But mostly people just call her awesome.  Because she rocks those three-inch hoop earrings. She looks amazing because she is the right kind of coordinated- her outsides match her insides.
Does everyone belong in 3-inch hoops or 3-inch heels?  No. Do I give a flying rat-squirrel if you don't like my style and you prefer air jordans or converse sneakers or tivos or CVS flip-flops? No! Will I be some kind of disappointed if my girls grow up and wear the same pair of scuffed-up hiking boots every single day? Hell NO! Will I be some kind of disappointed if they don't? No. In the much-overused (but I think very wise) words of my sister's ex-boyfriend:  
Girl. You do you, and I'll do me.
Me.
I happen, by whatever concoction of nature, nurture, DNA, MTV, or heavenly mandate, to be a girly girl.  I am not a baggy-jeans T-shirt kind of girl.  I'm a "oooh, can we bedazzle that?!" kind of girl.
I am not a sit-on-the sidelines, follow-the-leader kind of girl.  I'm a walk-tall kind of girl. A maryjanes in the snow girl.   I retain the right to change my Self and my style whenever and however I want to. Because my feet and my Self belong to ME and I can do whatever the heck I want to with them.  But for now, myself has a few pairs of shoes.  They have heels.  And at the moment they fit me.  So I'm going to wear them.

Job Description

Today at school all the children were asked "What does your mom do when you come to school?"
Such an interesting question.
You know, here I am, blogging all the day long about Little One and Little Miss, but have I ever really told you Peanuts what I do? What I do?  Well no! And I bet you are all dying to know. I bet you wish you could hire a paparazzo to document my typical day for you, to quench your curiosity. 
I bet you've been wondering and imagining all the many amazing things I accomplish on a given day.
Wait. No. Longer.
Little One has you covered.
Today I got the little note (and a giggle) from Her teacher after school.  According to the resident insider, the expert observer of my life, here is what I do all day while Little One is at school:

"She does nothing; she just sits in the chair all day. Sometimes she mops the floor, that's all. I clean the house and dada cooks."

So there you have it. 
The charmed life.  My minions slave away for me, and I kick back in my throne.  Nice.

You know. I'm not sure whether to be really amused by this alternate reality, really disturbed that this is what She thinks, or to just take it for what it is.  A really good idea!  Thank you Little One.  Your childish innocence is filled with the glorious ability to see the world for what it should be.  Now.  Let's take that lovely dream, and make it happen!  Minor revision, though?  That mopping part.  Got to go.

New Top of The List of Things I Never Thought I'd Say

Today we went to the farmers market. I needed eggs. So we bought some. Never mind that they cost enough that they should perhaps have been golden eggs from Beanstalk Jack or something. They were farm eggs! How very organic and local of me right? I know!
I needed them for a chiffon cake, for Nikki's birthday tonight. Chiffon cakes require quite a lot of eggs of course so there I am, happily cracking and separating away, when I crack one egg and in the little fissure, there are vessels. Vessels, guys.
I peeped in a bit more, and the thing looked like a bloodshot eye. Oh my ew. My egg has been doing drugs. A bad sign. A smart person would have stopped there, but not me. I kept pulling it apart like I would turn it into a regular egg just by embarrassing it into sobriety with my disgusted expression. And let me just say that number one: My brief chicken-eating days are O.V.E.R. And veganism is looking rather tempting.
Number two: in the case I do not turn vegan, hook me up with the store-bought, pasteurized, trucked in from Malawi or wherever eggs. The farm is too fresh for me.
And three: I very much hope that I in no way, shape, or form have this conversation EVER ever again:

C: "J?! I'm sorry,Love, but could you please help me with something I do not want to handle? Literally or figuratively."

J: "um, ok...what would that be?"

C: "Oh, there are some fetuses in the kitchen sink."

Moving On Day 3-The Stinging Beach

After Kitty Hawk, the girls and I met J for our second night of camping.  He had picked out a gorgeous spot right on the beach of the Outer Banks.  He had picked up fresh local fish to grill.  We were excited!
But it did not go as planned.
J forgot the tent poles in my car, so camp was not set up when we got there.  He had been waiting for us outside. When we pulled up to this man- on the beach in lovely weather, sunset just beginning- you'd think we'd find a relaxed, happy sort of fellow, despite the lack of tent poles.  Right?
Uh, nope.  He did NOT look happy.  He looked....bumpy.
And he was.  Because it turns out that this particular beach had mosquitoes.  THOUSANDS of them.  They had to compete with biting sand flies for your flesh, but they seemed to be winning out, overall.  There were thick clouds of them.  They were everywhere.  They were hungry.
So were we, but there was no way we could let the babies be devoured while we cooked.  So I took them out to the water while J got those blasted tent poles out and made a refuge.  The water was just a quick walk across the dunes.  Just a hot, sweaty, mine-field of CACTUS, carrying two unhappy children while trudging through sand up and down hills and being EATEN ALIVE along the way, stroll to the water.
Once we got there, the ocean breeze blew away the clouds of biting bugs and Miss gasped and giggled in the salty wind.  Little One splashed into the surf in Her sun dress screaming "This is so much fun! This is so so FUN!"  She got soaked, I cooled my bites in the water, we watched the sky get pink.  It was the eye in the histamine hurricane. Then we headed back. 
This beach hates people.  It must. There were:

mosquitoes
biting sand flies
stinging nettles
cactus all over
Stickers and goat-head thorns

Our idyllic spot wasn't working out.
The kids were miserable; little cacti and stickers kept getting lodged in toes, and the welts on both girls were swollen and angry looking.
The dogs were miserable- their freshly-shaved coats did little to protect them, and they were rolling and scratching as they were covered in bites too. They ran away and came back limping, with cactus chunks in their paws.
We were miserable.  Because all our babies were miserable. 
It had been a hot, sticky day, so we decided to brave the "rustic" showers, even though the mosquitoes were worst there, with all the water pooling on the ground.
It was a special shower.  A wooden stall on a little hill, with a spigot at the top. You had to hold this metal bar above your head to keep the water on.  The cold water.  Which gave you one hand for washing and swatting mosquitoes.  There were no lights.  Which meant you had to do it more or less in the dark, which was just as well.  That way I didn't realize until I opened the door and the moonlight came in that I had been showering all cozy-like with an enormous spider.  TMI alert.  But please imagine- not in too much detail- but for your amusement, the idea of standing starkers in a wooden shack, in the dark, with one hand stuck above your head, soap in your eyes, hopping around like a complete loon because you are a a slicked-up smorgasbord for dozens of biting insects.  Hopping around in the icy water slapping yourself all over and laughing like a nut because seriously. Is this really happening.
Now.  Imagine jumping wet into your PJs and tearing down the hill holding your pants up with one hand and flying back to your campsite, followed by a cloud of demonic insects.  Imagine us all- dogs included because we couldn't leave them out in that mess- fleeing into the safety of the tent in the early darkness.
Whew.  Safe.
And then. Flicking on the lantern.  Looking up.  At the ceiling of the tent.  Black. Moving. 
Realizing that in the moments it took to open the door and go in, DOZENS of mosquitoes had swarmed in with us.  How cozy!  Forget bedbugs, people.  Can you imagine sleeping like a sitting target with dozens of mosquitoes in close quarters?  We'd be sucked dry by morning!
So now picture J and I.  Again, like total lunatics, hopping around.  With flapping, flailing arms.  Swatting at tiny black flying flecks in the shadowy lantern light until we had smashed every. last. one.   I'm telling you- many dozens and we squashed them one. by. one.  It was disgusting. Our babies and dogs watched us with awe, unsure whether to be impressed, amused, or concerned.
After the swatting frenzy J and I settled in, worn out, and finally went to sleep in the hot, thick air.
J pulled up the blanket. "This is sooo fun." 

New York Part Two

But we weren't in town just to see the City. We were there to celebrate a very important birthday. 
Of course we had to take the Subway to get there.  
Now. Little One doesn't get that New Yorkers have a responsibility to their collective reputation not to be friendly.  On the Subway, She smiles and flirts shamelessly until She gets someone to break the code of Unfriendly and adore Her.
On the night we were headed to Jaju's birthday dinner, all dressed up, She found a guy on the train to chitchat with.  Of course, She had to show him Her baby doll.  "This mine Baby!" She held it up proudly.
"Uh oh!", the man played along, "She's crying!"
Oh did you think you were teasing Her, Subway Man?  Think you were going to get Her flustered or worried about Baby? Ha.  You don't know Little One.  Little One handles Her business, Man.  Just cause She's not a New Yorker doesn't mean She's not savvy!
Totally unphased, She turned that baby around and made it look Her right in the eye.
"Baby!" She said.  "Baby you cryin'?  Ok baby."
She took Her little right hand, and put in across Her heart.  (what is She, going to solemnly swear Baby to sleep?)
She hooked Her little thumb under Her dress strap. (uh...wait just a....)
She slid the strap from Her shoulder (oh my. I see now)
Yanked it down to Her elbow, exposing a triangle-swath of toddler skin.  (Little One! Wait-)
Oriented Baby just so (Oh too late now)
And jammed its face onto Her nipple.
"Baby, you hungry.  There go."

In New York, Peanuts, as on all mass public transportation, there is an air of slightly grumpy solemnity.  Everyone is coming off a long day at work.  They are crowded next to strangers and everyone stinks a little. The subway car is s a tin can of a slightly dejected stoicism, and New Yorkers have seen it all.  But I tell you.
When Little One popped that baby on Her bare little chest like that, so matter of fact, it was like dropping a stone into still water.
Little ripples emanated from Her, pulsing through the railcar washing back brow wrinkles and cracking set jaws, until laughter went rolling and splashing around the plastic orange seats.
Little One (whom we know has a thing for anything in the applause family) was highly amused by Her sudden stardom, and worked it a little.
Subway Man had tears in his eyes he laughed so hard, "Well hey! Wow! Where didja learn that?"
A dozen eyes fell on Little Miss, in my arms.  And on me, slightly pinker than usual.
Plink.
Splash.
Another ripple went out and the laughter soaked into the floor and went dripping out the cracks in the door.

With our glamor only slightly tarnished, we arrived uptown to celebrate at a fancy-shmancy restaurant.
The guest of honor got lots of love.

Little One had a great time with Her oh-so-cool older cousins.

And Miss loved all the attention from the grown ups.

 Of course, it was so schmancy in there, that I brought a bottle in case Miss got hungry.  And of course She decided that no way in heck was She going to have anything to do with it, because hasn't She been clear that She will only take a bottle from J? And was J with us on that trip? Nnoooooo.  So (TMI ALERT) part of the party was me in the fancy bathroom with my lovely, HIGH NECK dress up around my not-so-fancy-now shoulders, nursing my stubborn baby.  But hey.  We still had a great time.
Thus is life as a mommy.  You can dress up with your sparkly earrings and your high, high heels.  You can go out and eat things you could never pronounce.  But you have to be flexible.
You have to hike up the occasional cocktail dress.  Or maybe walk out of your Manhattan dinner and skip the after-party.  To strap a baby carrier over that cocktail dress, reach down past the heels to grab your toddlers hand, and take them on the subway looking like this:

 Back to your Brooklyn hotel room. For bedtime.

New York, New York!

Little Miss's first real trip anywhere, first train ride, and first all kinds of things took place in high style- NYC style!  In honor of my step-dad's big 5-0 birthday, we met up with him in his home town.

 While he worked for the first few days, my mom and I took the girls out on the town and saw some sights.

I even took my little singing/dancing queen to Her first ever, real Broadway show! Jazz hands!

We went to see Mary Poppins. When I sat down with my two year old, the people next to me seriously, visibly winced.  The looked at each other like, "Oooh great.  We get the seats by the toddler. Fuggetaboutit!"  But I was not worried, because I knew what would happen, and it did.  Little One sat through about 3 hours of musical without making so much as a peep, other than the occasional whispered "wow!".  She sat straight up, wide eyed and enraptured the whole time, occasionally swaying or bopping a little to the music.  To say that She enjoyed it is like saying I would "enjoy" having my own personal chocolate factory in the garage.  She was enchanted, and She went around copying the dance numbers (step-in-time was her fave) and talking about "Mrs Puffins" for weeks.  Months.  I liked the show, too.  It was great.  But I loved watching Her watch the show, more than anything.

Another of Little One's favorite things about The City was the subway.  She adored the subway.  Because in New York, the Subway is a venue.  Local people are crawling all over the stations with their portable sound systems, their instruments, their voices.  People get on the cars and belt out tunes for change.  As far as Little One is concerned, this is how life should be.  The filthy NY subway system is Her utopia.  Here is a perfect example:
We are waiting on the platform.  No one is making eye contact, no one is paying any attention to the 40th random guy playing drums they have seen that day.  Except Little One.  He started playing, he started singing, and you all know what happened next, doncha Peanuts?!  She started dancing.  She danced Her heart out, She laughed and giggled.  She begged Her grandparents to "Dance wif me! Dance wif me guys!"  They couldn't resist.  Soon the three of them were spinning and boogying on the platform, and people are forming a circle.  They are whooping.  They are clapping in time.  They are laughing, they are joining in!  Forget going to Broadway again.  Little One is making the wide world into a musical.  People spontaniously burst into song and dance! Everyone cheers!  Then the train came. We tipped the musician. But by the look on his face and the "bless you"s he called out to us as we pulled away from the station, I think Little One's enthusiasm was more appreciated than the bills She put in his box.

The music is always Her highlight.  But She had a great time seeing other sights too.  She loved the "Statue O'liverty." She liked how she stands with her arm in the air like that.  She likes how much room there is to run on the island.  She likes that just because She called it "adorable" in a reverent tone, Her mother bought Her a bracelet charm in the gift shop.  Sucker.

We all liked the ferry ride.  

 We also visited Ellis Island.  A moving place, and a great museum. 

We couldn't help but notice that some things don't change much over time. (check out the picture in the background)

Central park was a big hit also.  Little One especially loved the boat pond, the statue of Alice in Wonderland, and the fact that there are dozens of playgrounds (and Jaju never gets tired of pushing Her on the swings).

 I'm convinced She would have liked the Met if She hadn't slept through the whole visit.  But I LOVED it.  There was an entire Egyptian tomb in there! 

I feel you, ancient chick.  Some things never change.

We packed in as much as we could, and I can honestly saw that Little One had a blast and Little Miss was a very good sport.  Most of the time She was in Her Happy Place- the baby carrier- so She had no complaints at all.  I had my mom and a city to explore... I guess sometimes you actually can please everyone at once.