Huskepups

Well, That's Just Logic.

2012-02-12T20:19:00.000-08:00

"Mommy! Mommy. I have something to tell you. It's a really funny joke."

I love jokes! What is it?

"Okay, it's really REALLY funny. Ready? Why do chickens sit on the eggs in their nest?"

Hmm, why?

"Because they don't have chairs!" [explosive giggle fit]

This Is How I Am With Ice Cream

2012-02-09T23:38:00.000-08:00

I know, it's like a week old, which is like 40 dog years in internet meme time. But it still makes me laugh.

Bonus round: they auto-tuned it. Also funny, though they could've edited it down a little.

Newsletter: January 2012

2012-02-09T23:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

Whew! We made it through January. It got dicey there for a while and I wasn't quite sure we would. In fact, January was so tough, I'm writing about it in February. I don't want to touch January with a 10-foot pole. We started the year off with individual servings of the stomach flu, then the snow hit along with some sleep-disrupting teeth, a ruptured ear drum, a heaping dose of strep throat for me, and a partridge in a pear tree. I figured January's just a mulligan and the real start to our year should be Chinese New Year. So I cleaned extra thoroughly and followed some of the new year feng shui superstitions and since then, our luck has improved. Go year of the dragon, go! Hopefully all that abstaining from washing my hair will pay off, because EW, Mama does not rock a good greasy ponytail.

It hasn't all been bad, though. Not by any means. Your forty-second and tenth month had more than a pocket full of wonderfulness. Micah, you officially graduated to big boy underwear. This is HUGE! Although you've been out of diapers for months, we were still using Pull-Ups at night. You've been asking to wear underwear to bed for awhile, and we decided Christmas would be the first night to try it (partly because of our surprising luck with the Christmas Binky Surrender of 2010). So you woke up the day after Christmas soooo proud that you did it, and have been doing so wonderfully ever since. Yay buddy, you did it and we are so proud! Next challenge: let's work on that toilet aim. You are not a human sprinkler.

Another cause for celebration is that we seem to have a better grip on your sensitivity and moodiness. I'm sure part of that is due to your age, part of it is due to our parenting style to this point, part of it is due to your DNA (it's fine, I can admit I'm moody. Keep the freezer stocked with ice cream and no one gets hurt.), and part of it is you are a Cancer and Cancers are lovely, wonderful, creative people who can just be so very very sensitive. I was talking to some co-workers who have sons a few years older than you, and when I was asking them for advice, they clucked their tongues and said "that's just being boys being three." But we seemed to have turned a corner lately. A switch flipped, a time out worked, a threat of no snacks, who knows, but whatever it is, we've moved beyond the meltdowns and are in calmer waters. No more tantrums, no more death grips and tears when I drop you off at school, just reasonable conversations, smiles and kisses and tight hugs. Please God, let this last!

And Logan, you've been hitting some big milestones yourself. I can't believe that just three months ago you were barely crawling. You're nonstop, crawling like quicksilver, a chubby little pinball just tearing through the house. We've got baby gates up to our eyeballs trying to cordon you off in certain parts of the house because we're pretty sure if we didn't contain you, we'd lose you. You're *this close* to walking and you turn everything and anything into a walker to help you get around. Mickey Mouse ride-on airplane, footstool, heck even a pile of legos, whatever, you don't care what it is, you just want to get behind it and push it around. Most of the time, you want to push whatever Micah's playing with. The hilarious brotherly battles continue.

This month has been about more finger food than baby food, pushing your long hair out of your face, making sure you don't get locked in when you're opening and closing all the doors for hours on end, slobbery kisses, and endless fun with your brother playing in your crib together. Your personality is really starting to show, as Miss Brenda says, you're "just sooooo easygoing and sweet, but there's a mischievous little twinkle in those eyes." And one of the sweetest things you've started to do is when we're putting you down for a nap or for the night: while we rock you a little and pat your back, you pat ours. And if we stop, you pat even harder like, "Hey! Come on! This is our thing: pat pat pat. Let's go. Altogether now: pat pat pat." Sometimes you're still slightly awake when I lay you down, and you pat pat pat your crib mattress for a bit until you nod off once and for all.

When we were snowed in a few weeks ago, Aunty Megan and I were joking that daycare being closed was forcing us to spend an unhealthy amount of quality time with our kids. Coming off MLK Jr weekend, we literally spent only three hours away from you before they shut the schools down and stayed closed for 4 more days. And since our street was an ice cube, we literally couldn't go anywhere to escape our boredom or stircraziness. Since Daddy and I still had to work, it was tough to coordinate all of that with keeping you occupied and happy. I got anxious and twitchy trying to keep it all in balance and by the end of the week, my stress had piled up higher than the snow outside. But then there'd you'd be, happily playing together, hunkered down at home watching cartoons, eating pancakes, hugging each other on the orange sled through our backyard, reminding me that although I'm not built to be a stay at home mom, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I got the hang of it. I'll keep patting your back if you keep patting mine.

Love,

Mommy

Zen (for Dad).

2012-01-27T23:09:00.000-08:00

As if you couldn't tell, I have a hard time relaxing. I hate yoga because I can't quiet the mind. I'm too revved up to ever properly take a nap. I can't shop in Nordstrom Rack very long because the mess makes me so crazy that all I want to do is hang fallen clothes back up and space the hangers out on the racks.

I couldn't even enjoy my night of aloneness last weekend because the house was too quiet without the boys and with the howling windstorm outside, I was convinced it was the perfect opportunity and weather for someone to break in and murder me. I'm not kidding. I tried to take a relaxing bath (thanks for the idea, Rel!), and the minute I slipped into the water, all I could think about was that scene in What Lies Beneath. Fastest bath of all time (Kanye West). Seriously, I couldn't relax at all that night, because I was on guard for the burglar, trying to find the best weapon to keep next to the bed for when he inevitably broke in.

[Dave said, "If that's the case, that's the last time I try to do you a favor by leaving you a quiet house. Jeez, crank it down a couple of notches!]

All this to say, I'm high-strung and a little anxious. This is a Graulty thing, evidence that I'm my father's daughter. We like to put order to the chaos. I think that's partly why I do the job that I do. Dad used to walk down the soup aisle at our neighborhood Safeway and as he passed the soups, would turn all the labels so they'd face out. In fact, when my parents finally moved to a different neighborhood, the store manager gave Dad a parting hug and whined, "But who's gonna take care of my soup aisle now!?"

I color code all my files at work, the sugar packets at a restaurant table, and everything hanging in my closet. Order to the chaos. Ahhhh, it calms me. In fact, I wonder if sometimes we Graultys create chaos just so we can try to save the day with the solution.

Enter Things Organized Neatly, a tumblr that recently featured some ombre pancakes that my friend Pam made ("pamcakes", duh). But then I started clicking around the blog, and the entire thing is, you guessed it, pictures of things, organized neatly. Hundreds of submissions like these:

Three pages in and I felt a curious sense of happiness and calm. It's the online equivalent to walking into a perfectly merchandised Nordstrom Rack, not a hanger akimbo, no clothes dripping from the racks to the ground. Ahhhh. The next time I have the house to myself, I'm just going to stare at this until it lulls me to sleep.

Dad, this one's for you:

Snowmageddon. Snowpocalypse. Tsnonami.

2012-01-21T15:13:00.000-08:00

Well, there's good news and bad news.

The good news is that it snowed. A lot. The bad news is that it snowed. A LOT. (Your news is directly proportional to how much you enjoy snow).

The good news is that snow days mean hot chocolate, vegging on the couch watching movies, playing Scrabble, and sledding instead of going to school.

The bad news is that we played no Scrabble, Micah wasn't interested in watching Moneyball, hot chocolate is a little too much sugar for one little boy, and work wasn't closed, even though school was.

So that was interesting.

But wait, there's more.

The bad news is that the week started off with sunshine and blue skies, then Micah ruptured an ear drum, then Logan's sixth tooth started to give him grief, then I got strep throat/the flu.

I felt like this:

This is my very favorite picture of Gwenyth Paltrow. Ever.

The good news is that the snow has melted, we're back to blue skies and sunshine, and everyone's properly medicated according to their ailment.

The better news is that I'm on the couch, vegging out and watching movies while my sweet husband took the boys to his parents' house so that I could get some much-needed rest. No Scrabble, though. I'm still contagious.

For All My Fellow Parents. Can I Get An Amen?

2012-01-18T20:43:00.000-08:00

This article came at a perfect time today, when my stretch of Everest was particularly steep, treacherous, and exhausting. I know I'm a better person having parented, and hopefully my boys will grow up to tell Dave and me that the job was not only done, but very well done.

This place is where I capture the Kairos. And thank God for the internet for making it possible. And thank you, whoever stops by to read, for reassuring me that we are not alone in the battle, the climb. Carry on, warriors.

From Huffington Post

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen:

An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."

Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I've heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they've heard there's magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it's hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers -- "ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN'T!" TRUST US!! IT'LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!" -- those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

Now. I'm not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: "Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast."

At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn't find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you."

That's not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, "No. but I love having written." What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't mean you love having parented?"

I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I'm being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times -- G, if you can't handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?

That one always stings, and I don't think it's quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. It's a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don't ever feel the need to suggest that he's not doing it right, or that he's negative for noticing that it's hard, or that maybe he shouldn't even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he's ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: "This career stuff...it goes by so fast...ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!"

My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn't enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn't in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn't MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I'd wake up and the kids would be gone, and I'd be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here's what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

"It's helluva hard, isn't it? You're a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She's my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime." And hopefully, every once in a while, I'll add -- "Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up -- I'll have them bring your groceries out."

Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

Here's what does work for me:

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos.

Like when I'm stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I'm haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I'm transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I'll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world's mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don't remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.

New Header, New Year, New Attitude

2012-01-11T20:46:00.000-08:00

Well look-a here! What's this? A proper blog header!? It's true! I've wanted to standardize the look here ever since I first started blogging about my pregnancy with Micah. No no, not Logan, Micah. First person who can remember what the first background was gets a free hot fudge sundae!

And then I was all busy being all pregnant, and then life happened, and then I got pregnant AGAIN, and then there was more life happening, and all along the way I was trying to find a template that felt more me. Remember the robots? Some of you HATED the robots. Thank you for suffering through them.

Anyway, thanks to my amazing brother-in-law, Scott, who is officially the busiest person on the planet, our suffering has ended. My template tinkering has ended. Cue the angel choir, it only took four years but we have an official header! Perfect timing with all the newness the new year's bringing. We cleaned our house top to bottom, a carry-over local Hawaiian/ Japanese custom from my island days, I rearranged all the furniture in my office to de-clutter and re-feng shui, and I made two resolutions (eat more salad and monotask. Not multi-task, monotask). I've got a new attitude! Quick, let's tell Patti LaBelle!!

Aside: Every time I hear someone say "I've got a new attitude"*, I sing that song in my head, and I think of second grade. For some reason, our entire school had to learn a dance to that song and perform it during Fitness Day (or something). I remember being really excited that I had my new lavender LA Gear sneakers with the side twists in time for Fitness Day (or whatever it was called). Celebrate with me, children of the '80s! You know who you are.

Question: not that dancing isn't fitness, but why didn't we just play a school-wide game of dodgeball or run around the playground or do something/anything sporty on Fitness Day (or whatever)? Why was dorky dancing and lip synching about feeling good from our head to our shoes the way to go? I did feel good from my head to my lavender shoes, though, and dorky dancing and lip synching happens to be my forté much more than sports, so I'll shut up and we'll call it a WIN.

*no one ever says that except me. y'all need new attitudes.

Quitting Time

2012-01-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

Our office looks out over Elliott Bay and toward West Seattle. Not a bad place to catch the days getting longer.

Although, it snowed some wet, sloppy rain/snow this morning on the way in. What the heck is up with that!? More of these sunsets and less of that shave ice plopping all over my windshield, please.

Five Little Cookies

2012-01-08T17:57:00.001-08:00

It's been awhile since Micah's taught us a new song. Here's one about one of my favorite subjects, cookies. You know, the kind with the sugar and the sprinkles on top.

Swedes Can Do More Than Make Cool Furniture

2012-01-05T14:44:00.000-08:00

I have a very large soft spot in my heart for a cappella singing -- no hiding behind autotune or a backing track! you gotta SING! -- and an equally large soft spot for things that are simple and quirky. And also a huge soft spot for pop music.

Oh my, I think I have a very large, squishy heart.

Anyway, I love this. Although I'm really confused by it. How/Where/ When/ Why did the empty cream cheese containers come into the mix? It's totally weird but you have to admit this wouldn't be as cool without them.

Unplugged

2012-01-03T22:38:00.000-08:00

So much for disconnecting at the cabin - no phone, no TV, no heat!, and yet, the boys can't get off their phones.

Happy-ish New Year!

2012-01-03T22:32:00.000-08:00

It's unseasonably warm-ish and sunny-ish right now in Seattle, which is exactly why we headed to the mountains to ring in the new year. Happy New Year!

This was about 6 hours before the Stomach Bug From Hell hit us all and wiped us out until today. Ah well, at least we don't have to worry about those silly new year's diets.

Newsletter: December 2011

2011-12-31T20:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

Here we are, it's the last day of your forty-first and nine months, the ultimate day in a monumentally busy year. We escaped to the cabin at Packwood for a few days, and we have no heat. I'm blogging by candlelight, in fact.

No, I'm not. But I feel like I'm the dark ages. Daddy's making a fire in the wood-burning stove, thank God for the wood burning stove!!, and we're bundled up like a family of Michelin men until we can get the warmth going. I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry for a minute. It's cold and this is not the winter wonderland I imagined we'd be enjoying. You know what they say about best laid plans, though.

It's been a festive month. As soon as we got back from Thanksgiving, we kicked right into Christmas gear. Micah, you were so excited to help us decorate our tree, carefully selecting each ornament and declaring, "This one is very special!" or "You have to be careful because this one is very, very fragile!". We visited Santa while we were in Hawaii, and the terror zone associated with the Big Guy has finally subsided. Hooray! Micah and Santa are officially buddies. And while the jury's still out for you, Lo, you didn't seem to mind one way or the other, always your easygoing self.

We hosted our first Christmas at our house, and it was so nice to have everyone from Olympia cozy up in our house to share Christmas Eve and Christmas with us. Santa was good to all of us; Logan, you got to experience the magic of having fresh, new toys to call your own instead of hand-me-downs, and Micah, Santa had the elves work double OT to make you an orange scooter and helmet, two toys rarer than the Hope Diamond. But you had your heart firmly set on those and only those, and since you were a good boy this year, Santa had no other option than to make it happen.

We've cocoa'd like crazy, found all the houses in our neighborhood with the good Christmas lights, and burned ourselves out on Christmas music (if there is such a thing). We were festive, dammit! And loved every minute.

And you guys keep growing and changing faster than I can keep up with. Logan's favorite thing to do is to climb onto something and to try to push it over, playing King of the Hill all by yourself. Dad and I are convinced you're going to be a bruiser when you get bigger, you're solid and tough but at the same time such a sweetheart. You've started flirting for food - an interesting new tactic! - whenever we're feeding you in your highchair, you lean way over and tilt your head with a huge smile. Maybe that's why you're so chubs. Who could resist that face? You're pretty solid on your feet and starting to cruise. Looks like we may have another early walker on our hands. Hoo boy.

And Micah, this has been a month full of firsts for you: first movie at the theater, first water taxi ride, first play. So many "big brother adventures" as we call them, and it's hard to know which you loved more, although sneaking in cheeseburgers to the theater and sharing popcorn is hard to beat. Playing with Lo is also at the top of your list - you guys crack each other up and laugh and this is all before words, although I'm sure there's an unspoken brother language from the looks you give each other. The bedtime battles have turned a corner (Santa's present to Mom and Dad!), and some nights you even tuck your book under your pillow and just lay down without a peep. It's a Christmas miracle!

What a month, what a year. As we sit here in the cold cabin, it's a good reminder for me that all we truly need is each other, and we'll be fine. I have my boys, you have each other, and as long as Daddy keeps making those fires, we'll be fine.

Love,

Mommy

Like A Lightbulb!

2011-12-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

Type A Mompetition

2011-12-20T16:04:00.000-08:00

I make fun of my Type A-ness a lot but you ain't seen nothing until you've met Gigi. Mom puts the "A" in my DNA so I thank her and blame her for all of my hyper-organization and control freakiness.

Mom has the mind of an engineer, always thinking about ways to streamline, and do things the most efficient way possible. She has three hundred half-baked new business ideas jotted down on napkins or envelopes tucked into some giant Pampers box in the garage, all about sensing some need that her business would fulfill or riffing on something she's seen on the Mainland that would make babillions in Hawaii. One of my favorite double-edged traits of hers is that she's a major perfectionist and extremely detailed. You've seen the pirate ship cake, right? In fact, sometimes when Erinn or I are getting extra excited about (over)planning something or putting some finishing touches on something that only we'd notice, we joke that the other sister is being Gigi Junior.

One of my favorite examples of Gigi Being Gigi is how she planned our nightly dinners when we were growing up:

a) Gigi no likey to cook in the kitchen

b) Thank God for Yaya Cion, our live-in nanny/housekeeper (yaya for those of you non-Filipinos following along at home), our beloved Mary Poppins, if Mary was a plump and more than slightly acerbic elder Filipina in her 50s who made up for her lack of cleaning skills with extra love for Erinn and me. She loved action movies, Sarcasm was her first language, and she taught me the art of The Eyeroll and Heavy Sigh. A gift that just keeps on giving!

[cue eyeroll]

There I go again with the digressing.

Back to the dinners: so although Mom had help in the kitchen, she and Yaya still had to figure out the weekly menu and shopping lists. Enter the 100 Day Dinner Menu. Yep, that's right, rather than oh, planning out the week, or even two weeks or a month, good ol' Gigi just went for broke and outlined ONE HUNDRED days of dinner. (Mom: was this in calendar format? On a list? Please confirm or better yet, scan it in and post it. I know you have it framed somewhere.) See? The BEST DINNER CALENDAR EVER. The valedictorian of dinner plans. Dinner cum laude. Winner, Winner, Dinner, Dinner. Should I continue?

It was supposedly an even rotation between different proteins and ethnic backgrounds, she even factored in what would make good leftovers or turn-into-something-else-overs and made sure we had a night off for takeout or pizza once a week. One Hundred Days Of Dinner. When the boys get older and a little more adventurous with food, I am totally following this calendar. Right after I learn how to cook.

Anyway, I hate to break it to you, Mom, but you have some competition. I got an email from one of my daily link sites singing the praises of this enterprising Mom with a mind for What People Really Need: The Six O'Clock Scramble provides you with a healthy weekly dinner menu plan and companion shopping list for a small membership fee. All you were missing from your brilliance 25 years ago was the internet and the step to start charging people for your calendar. I think you should challenge her to a Mom- Off. You could totally take this lady on. Gigi Junior and I will back you up!

click to go to The Scramble

Now Here's A Fresh* Holiday Sweater

2011-12-16T14:44:00.000-08:00

I passed by this boutique on my way to grab lunch and had to share. How much do you wanna bet it's called the "Baby It's Cold Outside" sweater on the tag?

*fresh. Get it? Ha! Like, 'getting fresh'? HA HA!

Bring On 2012

2011-12-09T23:35:00.001-08:00

The avalanche of year-end recaps is already starting, and I thought this one was pretty damn cool. So cool, in fact, I don't think I'll explore many others cuz this one just about sums it up.

Earning His Pinoy Badge

2011-12-02T23:09:00.000-08:00

Logan's been making this face all week:

It's probably just teething, but I like to think he's pointing things out like a Pilipino. Ssssssst! Hooy!

Speaking of Pilipinos, 'tis the season for this:

I think I can still sing every word to every Frank DeLima comedy album. It might not be cool to say this out loud, but Frank DeLima is a huge part of my childhood. HUGE. And he's partially to blame for my sense of humor, if you can call it that. I will always love him, even if none of his jokes are relevant anymore. (Mainlanders: Frank DeLima is like Weird Al Yankovic, plus local Hawaiian jokes and a terrifyingly accurate Imelda Marcos impersonation. See? Not relevant. But funny. Promise).

Newsletter: November 2011

2011-11-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

This month, amidst all the Grammying and Pappying, playdates, fall season colds, moving, shaking and general brother-ing, you managed to turn eight and forty months old. Eight months?! Logan, that means you've rounded the corner and are practically one. Which means you're practically a kid. Which means you'll be dating and driving soon and applying for colleges and Wah! Leaving us! Already!!

Maybe one of the things that make it seem like you suddenly went from infant to giant kid is your appetite. (The other thing: your hair. Hello, Elvis.) Apparently my insatiable pregnancy hunger got hardwired into your bloodstream because you've been pounding food like a NFL linebacker. If we don't have food ready for you the minute we click you into your high chair, you read us the riot act. I'm pretty sure your first words will be "GET IN MY BELLY!"

It's a good thing you finally have teeth to go along with that appetite. You were teething for like, six months before the first one cut through. And then they all popped up like a game of whack-a-mole. Since we've been in Hawaii this week, you had two come in. By the time I finish writing this letter, I fully expect your last molars to be sliding into place. It's been miserable for you and miserable for us, mostly because teething wakes you up at night and that's just not something we're used to with you. We all like teeth, honey, but we like our sleep more. So let's get them all in during one fell swoop and be done with it. Make it happen.

Last weekend you went from army crawling to full on crawling. It was an intense week between the crawling, the teeth and the ear infections! And a perfect time to take a miserable, wiggly baby on a tiny airplane and beg them to stay still-ish for about six hours. Flight fail. Actually, to be honest, you weren't bad at all, but I was a wreck. Sorry about the tears. Who do I have to talk to around here so I can upgrade to first class? Alone?

It's been a fun month with you, Lo, with so many changes. Not only are you fully mobile, you've started to communicate back to us, squawking and chirping, or heaving and twisting your body toward someone or something, you let us know what you like, when you like it, and what you want to do. You're still calm, but clear. Two of my favorite personality traits, and ones I don't have myself. You've kind of lost interest in your baby toys and would rather just get into and under and around various non-toy things around the house like your high chair or the swing at school, or you want to play with whatever Micah's playing with, much to his supreme annoyance.

Like last weekend, Micah was happily and busily setting up this elaborate train/tow system, and you beelined your way straight to him to try to grab hold of part of that train. Daddy and I watched in amusement as Micah whined and tried to escape your laser-focused grabs while you just crawled faster and grabbed harder trying to get that train. Around the corner he went, complaining all the way. Around the corner you went, with a huge smirk on your face that said "MUA-hahahahahahaha!" And so it begins.

This picture is exactly what your relationship is like right now.

But then again, so is this.

Oh Micah, next time just give him the least interesting part of the train and run like hell, buddy. You'll learn. There's lots of time to master your older brotherness. It was so funny for Daddy and me to get a taste of the future with you and Logan fighting over the same part of that train (as much as a baby who can't talk can fight). It reminds me of when Aunty Erinn outgrew her sticker collection but instead of just tossing them in the trash or being generous and kind with her dear, adorable little sister, she went through her sticker book and priced each and every sticker so that I had to buy the ones I wanted. And obedient, sweet, little sister that I was, I pored over the pages carefully, saw what my measly piggy bank could afford, and actually bought them. She knew I loved the rainbow oily ones in cool shapes and priced accordingly. I think I actually paid $1.25 for the saturn one. Yes, she was very enterprising. Yes, it was a good budgeting lesson for me. Was she mean to charge or was I a fool to pay? DON'T ANSWER THAT.

You're a funny little guy, buddy. Full of so much personality and so many observations about the world that you want to share with us. We're trying to teach you not to be such an interrupter (sorry, that's my fault, one of the personality traits I hate and have in spades). But now you just interrupt us by repeating, "Excuse me, I have something to say." It's words words words, constant words, talking through your favorite cartoons, entire car rides, even plane rides. What's That, Who's That, I've Never Done That Before, Why, Why, Whytimesinfinity. You were WHY-ing for about 20 nonstop minutes as our plane taxied for takeoff to Hawaii, and I finally got to break in a word and asked you, "Honey, now it's my turn to ask something: why do you ask so many questions?" and you said, very excitedly, "Because! I have to!" Ain't that the truth. I could feel the row in front of us shake with laughter when they heard your very honest answer.

The incessant talking is actually really enjoyable (most of the time) because of what you're saying. "Mommy, Daddy! Look at that!" you shouted from the backseat on the way to school. "At what, buddy?" "Look at the Puget Sound. It's so gorgeous." Dad and I laughed but you were right, it was a gorgeous morning. And I'm so glad you noticed, between happy bites of your apple cereal bar. We pulled into the driveway one night and as we were walking up the path to the house you gasped and pointed at the quarter moon in the night sky. "La luna! It's broken!!"

It's been a jam-packed month, Grammy and/or Pappy were here for four consecutive weekends and you had so much fun hanging out with them, making slime, playing hooky from school to go to the museum, and generally getting spoiled rotten. All that activity means you were staying up late or skipping naps, and that's when the Dark Side of Being Three comes out and you turn into an unreasonable and emotional wildebeest. You're so tired, you don't know what you want, so you flip flop between wanting things, then not wanting them, then re-wanting them and Dad and I have learned to let you go through the crazy motions of 'I NEED THAT THING, BUT HOW DARE YOU BRING THAT THING TO ME BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT IT, BUT WHERE IS THAT THING WHICH I HAVE ASKED FOR AND WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG TO BRING IT TO ME?' all by your tired self until the dust finally settles. I imagine it's a lot like living with a woman with PMS, minus the salty snackstravaganzas.

Since I stopped nursing Logan, Daddy and I have gone back to taking turns reading you bedtime stories and you and I had this sweet new routine where I'd ask you what your favorite part of the day was while I laid down in bed next to you for a minute. You'd tell me about playing with London or making airplanes with Gabe and would drift off to sleep as I patted your back, and I really loved it until our new habit mutated into an elaborate back-patting and lay-next-to-me meltdown. "I need someone to lay next to me!" you'd whine, and then you'd escalate it, trying to appeal to different parts of our sympathy until something stuck. "But I'm scared!…"But I'm gonna be sad!"…and here's the kicker when we knew we had a smart cookie on our hands: "But I just love you guys so, so much!" Nice move, Peanut. And I would've fallen for it, but the look on Daddy's face cautioned that if I walked back into your room, I'd be patting your back until you're 38 years old.

What a fun, fall, boys. We live our lives at a crazy pace but we're really starting to get the hang of this family of four thing. November has been an awesome period of growth for both your own personalities and your friendship. And I like where it's going, so many great moments stacking up like Logan standing up in your crib ready to greet us with a smile and a wave when we wake up, and Micah pointing out everyday things that are gorgeous. You are the favorite parts of my day.

Love,

Mommy

Not Your Typical Teen

2011-11-29T22:05:00.000-08:00

Much to my disbelief, Bailee turned 13 earlier this month, and to properly inaugurate her into the teen years, she got braces today. They text instead of pass notes, they don't learn cursive, at least there's still some good old fashioned awkward orthodontia! Here, here!

After her morning appointment, she took the rest of the day to hang out with us at home and get used to her new look and the feeling of the train tracks. How'd she deal with the pain and the awkwardness of trying to close her lips over the braces? She smiled. All day. She smiled and smiled at us because then her lips wouldn't get scraped up. She cut her Subway into bite-size pieces and giggled about having to be delicate about it and smiled and laughed and smiled.

And if that doesn't sum Bailee up in a nutshell, nothing does.

High Impact

2011-11-27T14:05:00.001-08:00

In case you've been frozen in anticipation on the edge of your seat dying to know if I survived Jazzercise two weekends ago, fear not. Marie and I went and grapevined and chacéd our brains out alongside some very sweet and very sweaty women at the neighborhood Community Center. Average age: 64. Not kidding.

At first we kinda giggled about being in there with the senior class, but I think it helped kick us into high gear. We couldn't let the grandmas shame us by out-mamba-ing us, so we were extra jazzy and extra exercisey. Which meant we were extra sore the next few days.

Has it come to this? Being so ultra-competitive that I have to injure myself high-kicking just to say I beat the Grandmas in Jazzercise? Alas, it has. DON'T JUDGE ME!

That's okay, the extra calories burnt allowed for some extra servings of Thanksgiving food. That's how it's supposed to work, right?

Quadruple Whammy

2011-11-27T13:52:00.001-08:00

Guess who's got a double ear infection, pinkeye in both eyes, one of his top front teeth making his gums throb like a 1970's discotheque and explosive, blistering heat rash covering every inch of his lower body?

Nope, not David. The other one.

Despite that, we're thankful to be in Hawaii for ten days, thankful for the sun, thankful to be with friends and family, and really thankful that neverending plane ride is over.

And By Lots I Mean LOTS

2011-11-14T11:40:00.000-08:00

One of the things that sold me on our not-so-new house was the backyard. It's an awesome back yard. It's a lot of yard. Lots of space for the kids to play, lots of grass, lots of trees. And lots of trees equals lots of leaves. And what's better than lots and lots of leaves on a crisp fall day?

Nothing.

On Angels and Devil Dogs

2011-11-10T21:27:00.001-08:00

I can't decide if this is reassuring or horrifying, but a small part of me enjoys how much this Victoria's Secret model has to suffer in order to well, look like a Victoria's Secret model. Pull up a bag of Oreos and join me in going between disgust with our society for making Adriana Lima an example of beauty, and relief in knowing that she doesn't naturally look like that. [Click here to read it]

First, there's the crippling workout.

Lima, 30, has been working out every day with a personal trainer since August. For the last three weeks, she's been working out twice a day.

Then, there's the insane diet, which actually doesn't involve food. So we should probably just call it a methodical starvation.

She sees a nutritionist, who has measured her body's muscle mass, fat ratio and levels of water retention. He prescribes protein shakes, vitamins and supplements to keep Lima's energy levels up during this training period. Lima drinks a gallon of water a day. For nine days before the show, she will drink only protein shakes - "no solids". The concoctions include powdered egg. Two days before the show, she will abstain from the daily gallon of water, and "just drink normally". Then, 12 hours before the show, she will stop drinking entirely.

"No liquids at all so you dry out, sometimes you can lose up to eight pounds just from that," she says.

"It's like they're training for a marathon," says Sophia Neophitou, the British fashion editor who is chief stylist for this year's show.

Except it's not a marathon. IT'S A FASHION SHOW. I repeat: a! fashion! show!

And then she makes millions of dollars and lives happily and hungrily ever after.

I am so glad we're raising boys.

Also, speaking of me and Oreos, Jazzercise is now a thing. Rather, Jazzercise is back as a thing (thanks for that, Zumba). And they're offering classes at our neighborhood community center. And seeing as I'm still doing the rubberband trick with my jeans, I'm dragging some buddies to jazz-investigate with me. Will report back if I make it out of there alive. It's been awhile since I've grapevined. Like, four years*.

*Not kidding.

Does "Never Shutting Up" Count?

2011-11-03T14:28:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a hobby. Or a creative skill. Something I could do on the side and spend a little time doing so that when someone asks me what I've been up to, I have a better answer than "eating my weight in Oreos."

Something fun, like my friend Jess, who started her own sketch comedy group and is producing and directing their first show in New York. A place where other sketch comedians go to sketch comedy shows, and then they tell their one friend who knows a guy who's a friend of someone's, and then BOOM, Jess suddenly writes for and stars on SNL or the Daily Show, and we can all come back to this moment of We Knew Her When (you heard it here first, friends. I'm 82% sure this is in Jess' future if she wants it to be. Hi, Jess!).

NY Friends! Click here to buy tickets to the show!

Or something like this impossibly charming side project a Pixar illustrator made and published on his own, The Little Book of Hindu Deities: From the Goddess of Wealth to the Sacred Cow. It's an illustrated almanac of gods and goddesses from Indian mythology and I can't stop swooning.

Don't you want him to do a version for every culture? I can see the Pixar'ed version of Pele and Hi'iaka now. I want to Pixarify the world. Everything's better in wide-eyed cartoons! Bonus points if it's a musical!

(aside confession: I saw The Little Mermaid eight times in the movie theater. All of those times with Susanne Hayashida. We sang all the songs and said all the dialogue out loud. This was after she called my eyes "doo doo brown" in the cafeteria and Mrs. Masuda had to separate us and make us sit on opposite ends of the stage because of arguing. Glad we made up after that and that we could roller-skate around the school while we waited for our moms to finish their lesson plans in the afternoons).

Speaking of Pixar, how funny is this little boy's UP costume my cousin Michelle posted on Facebook? Genius.

Heh. Would you look at that, as it turns out, I do have a hobby: telling disconnected rambling stories.

Punkins

2011-10-31T17:46:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween, internet! I hope you've had a festive Fall so far. I love this season. The trees seem to be torching our streets, the air is crisp, the sun is out. We're all still blissed-out from the summer weather, and the impending daylight savings doom of darkness isn't an issue. Yet. We'll start complaining about that tomorrow.

I love Fall. But I do not love pumpkin spice lattes (liquid pie in a cup. Plus coffee? EW). And I do not love scary movies. While I like the adrenaline of the surprise factor and screaming "don't go in there!" to the stupid babysitters running into basements, I think I was traumatized by our neighborhood babysitters who made Erinn and me watch Children of the Corn and The Exorcist when we were younger. Young, like six. This was babysitting?! I hope you didn't pay them, Mom. I'd have nightmares for weeks every time Lily was in charge of watching us.

So, let's recap: anti-scary movies, anti-pumpkin spice lattes (don't try to convince me, Arielle). I am, however, pro costume, pro being someone else for a day, and definitely pro candy. Duh.

And I'm pro pumpkins. This year we went up north to the hilariously generic "Bob's Pumpkin Patch" in Snohomish with Megan, Cormac and their sweet Rory, and paid way too much for our big fat gourds. Bob's had it all: hay rides, a country market, a John Deere trike racing track, pony rides, and a corn cannon (!) which was unfortunately out of commission while we were there. We were looking forward to spending a buck an ear to load up the air compressor gun and firing them deep into the fields. We'll get you next year, corn cannon! And we'll get you at Safeway next year, pumpkins! Although you do make for some beautiful props for easily art directed photos. Double bonus points for all being Orange, Micah's Favorite Color. He was beyond happy at Bob's among the fiery pumpkins, and I think he was going to explode from happiness when Grammy helped him turn his pumpkin into an Ichiro jack-o'Lantern.

October is my friend Nicole's month. She and Brad fill their Netflix queue with scary movies, they go ghost hunting in haunted corn mazes, have a huge trunk of costumes for the lame at heart (like yours truly. Sorry. Too busy to be creative and I just can't half ass anything. It's the Gigi in me). So we're headed to Nicole and Brad's tonight to celebrate their favorite holiday, dodge their scary neighbor's haunted garage, and do some laps around their neighborhood collecting candy. Hope you get some good full-sized candy bars out there. Have a super night. We sure will! (wink wink)

Last Call, A Boob Haiku

2011-10-26T10:32:00.000-07:00

The Girls are retired

firehose down to a trickle

it was a good run

Talk About Scary

2011-10-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

The description on the website lists this costume as "Billion-Dollar Baby".

I just...I can't... Why!?! Why would someone want to dress their baby up as a bag of cash? In what world does this make any kind of sense?

Also, there's this:

I hate people.

Newsletter: September and October 2011

2011-10-16T23:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

Whoops, I did it again. I swore last month was the only time I'd let myself skip a monthly letter, and here I am, feeling horrible about letting September blow by me (and most of October, too). It's completely maddening that the months keep snowballing over me but I'll try to spend less time coping with stress with my emotional eating and more time keeping up with you two. As frustrated as I am with myself, though, I have one small victory: dooce bailed on her monthly letters to her girls almost as soon as her second daughter was born. And since she's kind of the definitive "mommy blogger" (I hate that title, ugh), and sort of my hero, I am finally better than she is. BOOM, in your face, Heather!

But this letter isn't about me or my guilt or my emotional eating (Hun, stop buying Oreos. Love, Steph's Hips). It's about you, my seven month old nugget, and you, my thirty-seven month old preschooler.

September and October have been big months for you, Logan. You started daycare as soon as we got back from Suncadia, and are settling into our new routine really well. Your teachers call you The Baby Maker because everyone who spends time with you instantly wants more kids because you're such a great baby. And it's true (not for me! For them. Look away, ovaries, nothing to see here) - you're smiley, happy, mellow, and so so easy. We can plop you pretty much anywhere and you play with whatever's around or roll and inchworm your way to something that's caught your eye. You are determined and focused, zeroing in on something with such concentration until you've grabbed hold of it. It's like the Karate Kid catching flies with his chopsticks - practice, practice. I turn on my best old Japanese man accent to encourage you, "Focus, Logan-san," as you stare at your target, and we celebrate together when you've conquered your challenge for the moment.

You've also started eating solid foods this month, and boy has baby food come a long way in three years. They have all these crazy combos of fruits and veggies mixed together (spinach, apple, rutabaga, are you kidding me?!), and they're in these brightly-colored squeeze pouches instead of glass jars. I feel like I'm on a different baby food planet! Daddy and I were going to make our own baby food but somehow steamed green beans feels pretty flat in comparison to butternut squash apple puree, which you LOVE. Thankfully, you don't seem to care how it's packaged or even what's in it as long as it goes in your mouth. You're a great eater and don't like being left out at mealtime. Whenever you see us eating dinner you chirp and bark and complain and reach for our food until we feed you right alongside the rest of us. Already a true younger child, making sure we don't forget about you. As if.

As must as we resist it, it's hard not to compare you and your brother, for the simple fact that my and Dad's memories are shorter than a goldfish's and we can't remember how to parent a tiny child. When were we supposed to start you on baby food? What if you don't have teeth yet, can you gum some of that stuff? Micah had two teeth and was eating three meals a day at seven months, but that seems like a lot of food. How much do we give you? When? Who's the president?! Thank God for daycare; we just follow their leads and when Miss Brenda tells us you need to start doing something, we just let her boss us around. And, thank God for this blog. I've been digging in the archives once or twice just to see what we were doing with your brother so we don't forget to do it for you. That's what reminded us about the jumperoo, which is your new favorite thing.

And thank God for ice cream. That's all. Just wanted to mention.

As for you, Micah Peanut, these two months have been full of activity, strong opinions, and lots of declarations. You're really into rules and Things We Do. You're constantly making statements or checking the authenticity of your thoughts against our likes and dislikes and general family rules "We don't swing the bat inside, right, Mama?" "I really like steak, do you like steak, Daddy?". One day you came home and declared orange your favorite color, and since then whenever you see something orange you point it out excitedly, "Orange, my favorite color!!!!!" Those two thoughts are a packaged deal, never one mentioned without the other, which makes me laugh because by this point we are all well aware what orange is but you are no less excited. It cracks me up every time, just like after knowing Pete for 15 years I know who his family friend Joanne is, but she is never referred to as just Joanne or anything but Our Family Friend Joanne. And so goes, Orange, My Favorite Color!

Another funny thing you've started to do is organize thoughts into good ideas and bad ideas. I was totally impressed by your judgement (as you were mostly right: cookies for snack, good idea. Jumping on bed, bad idea. Peeing in yard, bad idea. Unless you ask Dad, who thinks it's a really funny idea). And then one morning as I was signing you in at school, you asked Mr. Zeca to find some stickers and he excitedly said, "Stickers!? Yes, I think dis is a good idea! A very good idea!" in his sweet Brazilian accent, and I knew what the source of all the idea scrutiny was. It's been a hilarious and helpful tool for us, helping you understand what makes things better ideas than others.

And the best idea you've had these months, by far? Potty training. Dis is a good idea! We tried everything to get you to poop in the potty: bribes with treats, watching cartoons, big boy underwear, Mariners tickets, you name it. It would work at first but you'd go once and abort potty mission. Not interested. And then something clicked: you saw a Curious George shirt I bought you at Target and hadn't yet washed, and I told you if you went, you could wear it. You grabbed your tiny toilet from the bathroom, plunked it in your room (whatever! I'm not gonna fight potty placement, as long as you're pooping in it), and the rest is history. Praise Baby Jesus! We never thought this day would come. You are so into your newfound skill, in fact, you've been inspiring your buddies at school to follow your lead. Proof that peer pressure works wonders.

Along with the potty talk, though, comes the traditional bathroom humor: everything is poop and butt and pee and doo doo and for awhile our names were Mommy Poo Poo Head and Daddy Doo Doo. As a matter of fact, you and London were so into identifying your peeing and pooping body parts that you dropped your pants right there on the playground at school and flashed one of the girls in the fours class to show her what you pee with (for the record: bad idea). Oh, buddy. It's alright to be a dude but don't be a mini felon, ok?

It's been a crazy couple of months, boys. As sweet and good as you both are, there are some days that Dad and I are barely surviving. We start the day at a full-out sprint, and collapse soon after you go to bed. We're dangerously low on gas in the emotional tank, running on vapors. But then we get one of your full-face smiles, Lo, or hear all about Orange, Your Favorite Color, and just like that, we're reenergized, revving our engines for another day.

Love,

Mommy Poo Poo Head

Super Baby

2011-10-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhlaska

2011-10-11T09:07:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lapse in posting, guys. We've been shooting a spot up in Alaska. It's jaw-droppingly incredible up there. If God exists, I'm sure he lives in Alaska.

Track and Field and A Really Long Nap

2011-10-02T20:31:00.000-07:00

Micah noticed a track in our neighborhood lately, and he's had nonstop questions ever since. "Can we go there? What do people do there? It's for running? I can run super fast! When can we go there?" For weeks, maybe even months, he practically begged to go to the track. Finally, I found myself with both boys and a few hours to kill while David was at his annual Fantasy Football draft. It was hot and sunny, and Micah had to get some wiggles out.

"Hey buddy, wanna go to that track?" "YEAH!!!!!!" Logan fell asleep in the car on the way there, so I plopped him in the stroller once we got to the track and off we went. Micah took off like a shot. There was a handful of random guys there, some just out for a quick workout, one guy with a traech tube doing slow, intentional laps, two huge guys warming up with a mile run and doing plyometrics all over the football field. And one, very excited, very little boy.

The guys all lapped us as we raced each other to the arrows and numbered starts, three of his strides for every one of theirs. The heat didn't faze him, sweaty hair plastered to his head, running and running and running around. He had lots of questions, and wanted to explore every inch of that track and field. Lo woke up and needed to eat, so we went to the shady bleachers, Micah pretending he was at a football game and cheering for all of the guys as they ran past us. "Gooooo West Seattle! Go team! Yay football! Gooooooo West Seattle!!" Little boy with a big voice. They couldn't help but smile as he cheered them on one by one.

"Mama, let's keep going!" Round and round we went again. We pretended we were long jumping and shot putting, hurdling, and playing football with one of Logan's stroller toys. The two huge guys complimented him on his athleticism and invited him over to try out their exercise resistance bands tied to the bleachers. Shy at first, then proud that he could do what the big guys were doing.

We probably did three laps, plus all that crisscrossing on the field. A long way to go on those little legs. We were there almost two hours, playing and running and exploring the track. It's the most exercise I've had in four years. Drenched in sweat and ill-prepared for a diaper change, I finally convinced him to leave, but only after promising we'd be back. With soccer balls and footballs and better running shoes (not to mention a sports bra for Mama). But, yes, we'd be back.

GO West Seattle!

Doin' The Puyallup

2011-09-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

It's been years since I've gone to a fair. David said it had been like twenty years (!!) since he went to one, and I think I'm somewhere in the almost 10 year zone. I have lots of memories of fairs when we were little, of course the yearly Punahou Carnival, the Farm Fair, the 50th State Fair, we seemed to go to them all when I was growing up (why were there so many!? DId we really need five annual fairs in the land of aloha and sunshine?)

I love the rides, the junk food, and the hum of the crowd. And of course memories like when Mom, Erinn and I were riding the Skyline, up above the tent tops, slow-poking our way around high above the fair, when one of Mom's black rubber slippers slipped off her foot. Plonk! Right onto one of the game tents below. We laughed and laughed the entire rest of the ride while Dad tried to chase down which exact tent her slipper had disappeared to. We eventually found it while Mom lopsidedly hobbled through the mud, a poor man's Cinderella.

I thought Micah would be old enough to enjoy some of the rides and games, and honestly I was getting a little tired of playing baseball, so we headed to the Puyallup Fair last weekend to check it out with the boys. The marketing folks call it "Doing the Puyallup", and since I'm a marketing folk, we readily obeyed, and Did the Fair.

We rode a handful of rides, even though poor Peanut's just barely tall enough for the You Must Be This Tall arrow. And by barely I mean if he was one centimeter shorter, they wouldn't let him ride.

We pigged out on deliciously gross fair food.

Lo did this the whole time. Seriously, the.whole.time.

Dave introduced Micah to the thrill of winning ratty stuffed animals at classic fair games.

And Micah taught us that there is no escaping a ridiculously overpriced souvenir.

And it was great, something fun to do on a random summer Saturday. Full bellies, empty wallets, and no lost slippahs. And I'm sure we'll Do it again.

Funcadia in SUNcadia

2011-09-27T17:03:00.000-07:00

Summer in Seattle kind of didn't exist this year. We had a weekend here, a day or two there, but for the most part it never got hot and sunny. Enter Labor Day: the last weekend of summer. We had to salvage it somehow, and I was determined to have one sunny weekend, even if we had to leave Seattle to get it.

Trick is, it couldn't be very expensive (ie, not Hawaii), which meant it had to be drivable. And it couldn't be very far, because I'm not good on road trips. I blame it in on my childhood in Hawaii: it only takes two hours to drive around Oahu so anything longer than that and I'm wiggly, whiny baby that needs a constant stream of snacks and activities.

I know, right: wah, poor me, I grew up in paradise and I don't like road trips! Waah! First world people problems! Wah!

Luckily, a friend of a friend of a friend's friend has a condo in Suncadia, a resort just over the mountains about 45 minutes outside Seattle, and we grabbed the boys and Rory, Marie and Quinn, and took advantage of the (very distant) friends and family rate. We were looking forward to some R&R with some of our closest friends, and figured the kids would love the change of scenery and all the activities. Hiking! Swimming Pool! Paddle boats! Fresh air! Golf for dads! Facials for moms! And a winery!!

Okay maybe not all of those activities were for the kids.

I was super stoked to rest, relax and catch up on some long overdue chat time with my buddies. Someone forgot to remind us, though, that "vacation" doesn't really exist when you have small children. And these are three really wonderful kids who sleep well, eat well, and play well. They just didn't really sleep, eat or play at the same time. Which meant our family orbits around the NapSnackPlay sun didn't really sync up. And by the time we got the kids down for bed, we were spent. Man, I just cannot hang like I used to. It's pretty pathetic.

Suncadia was HOT and sunny. Ahhh, just what the doctor ordered. The dads golfed, the moms facial'ed, the kids swam. We got some fresh air and more importantly, got out of the daily grind in Seattle. As for the resting and relaxing and marathon chat sessions, well, there's always next year.

Fakey fakey paddleboat lakey

Lo's a true Pices: he LOVED the pool! Kick! Kick! Kick!

Ready for swimming lessons!

Favorite pasttime: zurburts on Lo's chunky cheeks

What do you do when you're out of the city with no baseball in sight?
Pitch pinecones. Duh.

Sweet Quinny

It's officially impossible to take a picture of three kids smiling at the camera.
It's also impossible for Micah to uncross his eyes.

18D: _ _ _ Blue Eyes

2011-09-22T23:45:00.000-07:00

Family lore tells a great tale of how people used to ask for Tatay's autograph in the Philippines because he was a dead ringer for Frank Sinatra. (The young slim one, not the chubby drunk one). Tatay would sign "Dr. Charles Harn" with a flourish and a wink and be on his way.

Because of that, and in addition to already being a fan, Nanay LOVED Sinatra. Stella by Starlight was her song (because, obviously, being a Stella herself). She'd sing the old standards in her wobbly, horribly off-key voice, what she didn't have in vocal skills she made up for in gusto. And her love of Frank trickled down through the family DNA, down the generations to me.

(MOM: that's not why she named Uncle Frank "Frank", is it?! I just realized this.)

As if I needed one more reason to love him, I just learned he was a lifelong crossword puzzler. Here's a charming article about his friendship with the old editor of the New York Times and a letter from Frank to Eugene about how he came to love crosswords. Nanay would have loved this.

Bill Shakespeare, King of Yuks

2011-09-18T20:50:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I love about this most: the fact that we owe all these everyday phrases to William Shakespeare, the way it spread around the internet like wildfire in like, one day, or that one of the famous phrases is "Knock Knock, Who's There?".

original source

Short Post Script

2011-09-18T20:38:00.000-07:00

Another reason I'm glad I didn't inject myself like Barry Bonds: in the madness of Missoni for Target, I scored some cute stuff in Girls Size Large while women were ripping the grown up sizes out of each others' hands.

Play me off, Randy Newman!

I Am Not A Doll. I Am Not A Toy.

2011-09-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

It's no secret I'm a short stack. Coming in at 5 feet 0 inches, my DNA doesn't give the boys much to work with. As predicted, they're a couple of Fun Size Huskes themselves. We've had a few recent doc appointments lately, and the boys are doing great, but both "proportionately small". Micah plateaud recently and is stuck in the 6th percentile for height and 5th for weight, and Lo, although each of his cheeks weigh 6 lbs, is about 22nd percentile for weight and 35th for height. Please God, don't let this be his only growth spurt.

When I was younger, I heard of classmates getting Human Growth Hormone injections to try to jumpstart their bodies so they could reach "normal adult height" and finally run the fun rides at the carnival. I was always a little jealous, but I reminded myself that I hated needles and roller coasters were overrated. A few years ago, they started a public service campaign that reminds parents that anyone 4'9" and under should be in a car seat. I'm practically illegal! Mortifying.

Turns out all I really needed to know to make myself feel better is that it cost those poor suckas $150,000. For serious. Here's one needle-loving, HGH-spurted bitty's account: [click to read]

Ten Years

2011-09-11T12:57:00.000-07:00

I hit snooze for the fourth time and realized the annoying radio DJ was STILL blathering on in her news update. Except there was something in her voice that finally made me listen. An airplane. New York. I listened.

I turned on the Today Show. I woke my parents up with an early morning phone call. We listened. The South Tower fell.

I was an unpaid intern and didn't know if I could skip work that day. I really wanted a job. Really really. So I got ready and jumped on the bus.

On the 41, people speculated and shared theories. We weren't everyday strangers to each other anymore. The bus driver updated us a few times. We all looked up at the Columbia Tower, the tallest building in Seattle, as we passed by. We craned our necks to make sure it was still there as we drove by and listened.

The rest of the day is a blur. As is so much of the past ten years. But I try to remember what I can of that day once every year. It was so scary and so sad. I try to remember what I heard, and it's good to listen.

Ten years. Let's hear it for New York.

First Day of School

2011-09-09T00:38:00.000-07:00

If the swarms of yellow buses and hundreds of nervous parents flitting about Seattle are any indication, school's back in session this week. And daycare is no exception. Little Logan's Summer Tour Of Family Love has come to a close, and he finally started daycare on Tuesday.

Marie made this onesie for Lo at my shower.
BM are the initials of our daycare but he's a fan of the other kind, too.

Micah very excitedly helped me sign brother in, and our jaws dropped when we entered the freshly remodeled Baby Room. They close school every year right before Labor Day to plan curriculum, clean the school down and rearrange things a bit, but the Baby Room is a completely different place. We've been watching a ton of HGTV lately (I'm completely addicted to Curb Appeal and House Hunters International), and I'm guessing the owner has, too because she pimped the place out! Suddenly, it seemed massive. Can a fresh coat of paint do that? Micah and I oooohed and aaaaaahed and wooooowed. What was missing?

"The cribs are gone." smiled Miss Brenda, her eyes twinkling for a reaction. Heh? Newsflash, Miss Brenda: babies sleep a lot. Mine was practically comatose for his first fourth months. Don't we want them to do that? Don't they need to? "Nap mats." Nap mats? "Yup, we're gonna try it. See if they'll do well like all the big kids. They have to make the switch to naps in Waddlers anyway. It'll be interesting but I really think they'll do great." Her eyes twinkled some more.

HAHAHAHHAHAHA! Lady, you're crazy. How will you contain them on the floor? Lo rolls like a convenience store hot dog the minute you set him down. But the room sure looks amazing, with all that extra space the cribs used to take up. The judges of Design Star would approve, even if the kids who are just dying to curl up in a crib wouldn't.

As it turns out, of course, these people know their kids. Logan took a three and a half hour nap. On the floor, without any crib boundaries. Whoda thunk it. He's doing great so far, and Micah has been sweetly checking up on him. And Miss Brenda's eyes are still twinkling.

Let Them Eat Baby

2011-08-29T09:14:00.000-07:00

If for nothing else, you should read this post on "the terrifying new practice of the cake gender reveal" because she references a grumpy Jonathan Swift, sagging Twinkies, and this sentence:

"Sometimes I like to eat navel oranges. You know what I don't like to eat? Babies."

I don't hate the idea of these gender reveal parties, especially after our experience finding out about Logan, which left a little something to be desired. You're in a small dark exam room without your doctor and the fate of revealing your family dynamic falls to your ultrasound technician. Which, if you have someone who is great with reveals, say, OPRAH, this would not be a bad thing. But Oprah didn't come to my ultrasound, so we had a very sweet young tech with a Russian accent as thick as the Siberian ice shelf.

"Dyoo you vant to know de baby's gendah?" (heh. somehow she just turned into a vampire) she asked, squirting cold blue goo over my belly.

Dave and I look at each other to make sure. "YES! Totally. Tell us!"

"Hokay, I tell you ven ve get closer to de area." Measure, scan, measure, click click click on the computer. Fifteen minutes later, "Hokay, you still sure you vant to know?"

"Yeah!"

"Eet's a boy. Congratulations." Measure, measure, click click click.

...

click click click.

Dave says something like "See? I knew it!" and I...cry. Our faces must've looked like we needed more because then she points to the screen and says flatly, "Dyoo you see dose two circles?" and she turns the cursor into a telestrator, circling two fuzzy blobs. "Dat's de scrotum. So eet's a boy. Congratulations." click click click.

Now, I know they do like 12 ultrasounds a day, but I really felt like she could've put a little more effort into the news. There was no ta-da! No panache. No anything! Just some dark and awkward silence after a half-assed gesture toward Logan's twig and berries.

So in the absence of paying Oprah's day rate, I think there's something to be said for these gender reveal parties. But there's gotta be a better way to do it. Grammy - that's your next assignment. Not for me! No no no. But for the betterment of the pregnant world.

Musical Theater Dork-Out. I Can't Help It, It's the Score.

2011-08-17T23:36:00.000-07:00

Twenty years ago, Mom and I were standing on a very rainy corner in Midtown Manhattan with our arms full of deals from the Seacaucus Outlets when we got drenched by a passing cab. Wah waaao. We were pissed for a minute but laughed it off and took our soggy, puddle-smelling selves into the Imperial Theater where my life changed forever.

LOL Sorry, I got a little carried away.

What happened that night was I saw Les Miserables for the first time. Eventually, I'd see it about eight more times, most recently this past Sunday with Brandy for its 25th anniversary tour. What is the thing you love the most? I think for me it's this show. More than Aaron Sorkin's writing, more than performing myself, just about as much as ice cream, I. LOVE. THIS. SHOW.

I've never read the book, never wanted to, and though I love history I could do without the French Revolution setting and the hard-to-follow plot line. David bought us tickets one year for my birthday, and was fast asleep by the sixth song (sacrilege!!) because it was so complicated. Ultimately, it's a story about redemption, and fierce love in many forms. Like a historical Love, Actually. With singing. And baguettes!

What really goes right to the marrow in my bones, though, is the music. We had a friend in college who would come back from movies and only talk about the cinematography and the score - Really, Ann, you just saw Gladiator, and all you can talk about is the crescendos in the third act?! And though it seems hifalutin' to say that about Russell freaking Crowe, when you have an orchestra booming and swelling around you and actors singing their asses off in front of you, it's impossible not to be moved. The music and orchestration of Les Miz is my favorite thing on earth to hear. And I know I'm not alone, it's the third-longest running show in Broadway history (Cats, Phantom).

For its 25th anniversary, they ditched the famous turntable set (!!), but left everything else alone. It was fresh but familiar. After so many viewings and literally countless listenings, I still loved every minute and sang every word in my head. I could be soaked to the bone reeking like a Manhattan gutter or sitting next to my snoring husband, as long as you're still going, Les Miz, I'm coming.

And for those who haven't seen it, this pre-show plotline crash course will help, courtesy of Forbidden Broadway:

And, for Mom. Thank you for smelling like Times Square with me and for always singing the harmonies.

A Lo By Any Other Name

2011-08-17T00:08:00.000-07:00

Have we ever talked about how intimidated I am by names? Not like, MY name, but the act of naming something. A child, particularly. It's partly why (okay, entirely why) we narrowed it down to family names when Micah was born. I just couldn't deal with the millions of options out there. Of course, we didn't end up using the family name we picked out, but at least we narrowed it way down.

Part of the trouble with having another boy (besides my surprised tears during the ultrasound. Hi Logan! Mommy loves you!) was that we already used the one boy name we really liked on our other kid. And unless you're George Foreman, you can't use the same name for all of your sons. So when Lo showed up early, we were totally unprepared in many ways but it took us three days to name him.

Naming is a completely personal thing and can get kind of complicated. Some people have rules about a certain letter to start with, or double letters to end with (Hi Erinn! I love you!), or have all of their future kids' names picked out and what order they'll be named (Hi Ree! I love you!). We just knew we didn't want something totally weird, that couldn't be mispronounced (pet peeve name: Kirsten. Keeersten, Kirhsten, potato, potahtoh, I hate you.), that wouldn't invoke childhood ridicule with a cruel nickname (Hi Gina! I love you!), that sounded okay with our last name and as a family. One way for me to test the names was to say, "Merry Christmas from the Huskes, David, Steph, Micah and (insert name)." If it didn't past the Christmas card test, it was off the list.

Logan was born at noon-ish on a Tuesday. We stared at him all day, into Wednesday and all of Thursday, testing out our shortlist on him. Ben, but not Benjamin. Bennett? No, Ben. You can't just name a kid BEN! Can you? No. David's FAVORITE name, although he had never ever mentioned it before, was Ethan. Nope, can't do it. My cousin Rhea has an Ethan. My FAVORITE name was Jonah. Nope, couldn't do it. Dave's friend Joe has a Jonah. And we liked Kanoa as a middle name, and Jonah Kanoa sounded like a silly book character like Amelia Bedelia. Grady? Ian? Ben??? How about that family name I loved from the first round? No?!

On and on we went, suggesting names, over-thinking them, overanalyzing them, and making ourselves crazy. At one point, David gave up and said he didn't care anymore, that one of us just had to PICK SOMETHING. We *almost even let Micah name him, but then we couldn't stomach the possibility of committing to Buzz Lightyear Huske. The entire time, Logan was in the mix. Kind of in the middle, something we both really liked, but not as much as Ethan (nope) or Jonah (still nope). We negotiated. We argued. It was almost Grady. But we rolled it around in our mouths. Loooogan. Logan. It was different but not weird. It was easy to say spell. It passed the Christmas card test. No weird nicknames. No one weird that we knew in our past who was an asshole. No one at all, in fact. LOGAN. Looooooogaaaaan. Did he look like a Logan? He did. And so it was. And we very proudly filled out the forms with our unique but not weird name.

And then the next week when we were home from the hospital, I read this in a very funny book called Exploiting My Baby by Theresa Strasser:

And then Huske's cousin's son had a baby girl in June and named her Logan Michelle.

And finally this weekend, hearing the Little League World Series team from Georgia being announced, the batting line up went like this: Logan. Aiden. Austin. Logan. Logan. Dylan. Austin. Logan. And finally, LOGAN.

I AM NOT SHITTING YOU, INTERNET. Out of nine players on the team, FIVE of them were named Logan.

Okay, fine. There are a lot of Logans in this world. But still, none in Seattle, none that we know. And of course, none like our own, who is going to be the best Logan among them all.

And it still beats Buzz Lightyear Huske. One more Percocet might have sealed the deal on that one. Whew.

Newsletter: July and August 2011

2011-08-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

Oh no!!! The thing that I swore would never happen, happened. I promised myself that no matter how much life was going on, that I'd still make time to sit down and talk to you every month. But July kicked my butt. And I got MAJORLY LIFE'D. There was so much life packed into July that I'm still trying to catch up to it and it's already mid-August. Ack! Bleh! And other generic curse-like words!

We have been epically busy, boys. There was a birthday, a pirate party, a baptism, seven Hawaiians in the house, and that was just the first two weeks. There was baseball and BBQs and more baseball and play dates and rolling over and feet-eating and family reunions and baseball and man I love summer but WOW is it steamrolling us.

July was all about family family family and cousins cousins cousins. I was so happy that the Kawamuras and Pappy finally got to meet you, Logan. Skype is great but there's nothing like getting to hug you and kiss your chubby cheeks in person. Everyone took turns cuddling and trying to make "Yogan" laugh. Pappy and Grammy worked especially hard at it, and between their crazy vaudevillian bottle routine and Pappy's high-pitched squeaky voice, you were cracking UP. You have this giggle-giggle-gasp thing going on, and it's all kinds of adorable.

We know you're excited or happy when you kick your feet. You love looking around, facing out, taking the world in. I had you in the Bjorn during one of our 516 BBQs this month, and you just dangled away, kicking all night long and cooing and showing everyone those sunshine eyes and gummy smiles until you fell asleep. Just like that, one minute kicking furiously and happy as can be, the next minute fast asleep.

And that's generally how you are. Happy and easy. Grandma Carol and I were laughing about how Micah was kind of a tricky baby (oh, the hours we spent rocking you to sleep with that bathroom fan, Micah), but all we have to with you is sing a little, lay you down, and turn on "your guys" (the rainforest mobile), and it's lights out. As long as we're reading your cries correctly, you're a walk in the park.

(I'll be dodging karmic lightning forever for that comment. It's too late for colic to set in now, right?)

Everything goes in your mouth right now, especially your fingers. There's also a nonstop fountain of drool so I've been proclaiming to the world that you're teething. In fact, Grammy said she felt something poke through before she left, but that was six weeks ago and so far nada. Come on, tooth, don't make a liar out of me (Or Grammy for that matter. No one messes with a proud Grandma and survives). You're rolling over and sucking those bottles back faster than my fire hoses can fill them and laughing and getting so big. You start daycare in a few weeks and we feel so lucky that you've been able to spend so much time with family in your first five months. It's funny seeing how your alert, steady, quiet personality fits into the family dynamics. There's a lot of energy on both sides but none like yours.

Speaking of energy, Micah, I think we could power China with all of yours. One of the best things about our new house is the yard, and July and August have really proven how necessary one is if you have a rambunctious little guy. At this point we've played about 32,000 games of baseball in the six months we've lived here. You love pretending to be a handful of Mariners but none more than Ichiro. I made the mistake of announcing his name as you were "at bat" like they do in the stadium once a few weeks ago, and now you make me do it every.single.time. I've been demoted to stadium announcer and scoreboard-holder and you only want Daddy to pitch to you. Thank God. It was painful for both of us, buddy, but thanks for being so encouraging. You suggested underhand and overhand, anything to try so I could get it closer to your strike zone. I didn't improve one lick, but you're a great and patient coach. Something you get from Daddy, for sure.

Your other hero this summer has been Spider-Man. Not that you really know who Spider-Man is, or what he does, we haven't let you see any of the movies yet and not even the cartoon. But Maddox LOVES superheroes and we LOVE hand-me-downs so there's suddenly an influx of Spider-Man gear around. You recently had a superhero day at school inspired by Cash's daily Batman costume, and when you came home you introduced us to your Spider-Man face:

Spider-Man face. Fighting crime is serious business.

As much as you love Ichiro and Spider-Man, though, no one compares to Daddy. We thought it was a phase that would pass but we're still right smack dab in the middle of it. We've unintentionally been split into family teams since I was the only one who could feed Logan for awhile, so you and Daddy have been spending tons of time together. One day last week you shadowed him all over the house like a little duckling, he was practically running away from you to get some space. But we remind ourselves that there will be a day that you'll be too cool for us, so it's a good problem for us to have if you really want to spend every waking minute with Dad.

It's been a great summer, boys. And so fun to see how you love playing with your cousins. It can get a little crazy having so many little boys together, like when we were in the TriCities for Great Grandma's birthday last weekend. Between the four of you on the Huske side, it can get LOUD. Aunty Michele and I just had to laugh at one point, "where did all these people come from!?" as you swirled like a boy tornado around the hotel lobby.

I marvel at how you constantly amuse and entertain each other, even now while Logan's still small. Micah, you're full of tight hugs and sweet kisses for brother whenever you see him, and whenever Logan hears your voice he cranes his neck waaay around to see you and gives you the best, biggest smile. One just for his brother. Micah, I had a thought the other day that you're still young enough, you might not remember what it was like before Logan came along. And of course, Logan will never have a memory without you in it. Never one without the other. Ah, brotherhood.

Love,

Mommy

Lullaby

2011-08-14T00:14:00.000-07:00

Isn't this the most calming lullaby you've ever heard? Micah's really been paying attention to the whole "keep it down, the baby's trying to fall asleep" thing.

Because I'm Stubborn.

2011-08-09T22:52:00.000-07:00

Actually, because I always have to have the last word. And I have to be right. Always.

Anyway, because of that, and because my own sister didn't believe me when I said I think Micah and Logan look like each other, here. Here is a picture of them both at the same age. Just over four months.

Tell me they don't look like each other. Am I right?! Maybe not identical twins, but apart from the nose, they could be the same baby.

Unrelated: did you know the Olsen twins are NOT identical twins? They are the most exactly-the-same-looking fraternal twins in the history of twindom. Don't believe me? Click here. See? I'm right.

And yes, I'm also a total brat.

It's A Pirate Parrrrrty!

2011-07-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

Yo ho ho, Internet! I am WAY behind on life right now but I can't let the month pass without talking about Micah's epic birthday. We decided to do a pirate theme this year, partly because Micah's into this new Disney cartoon called Jake and the Neverland Pirates, partly because you know I love to squeeze every possible drop out of a good theme, but mostly because of this:

Behold! The Jolly Huske, the be-all, end-all centerpiece of our entire day. Last Fall, my cousin Mia (Hi Mia!) posted some pictures of her Brady's 3rd birthday party, and my jaw dropped when I saw his amazing pirate ship cake. So clever, so fun and so theme-y. Now, I love to bake. And I make a pretty decent chocolate cake. But I knew I needed to enlist help in order to pull this cake off. Enter Grammy.

"I'm on it!" she said, up to the challenge. And she was off on a treasure hunt of her own, looking for the perfect candies and treats to turn a box cake into this chocolate wonder, sailing on a sea of frosting with blue sugar crystals, complete with a treasure chest resting on an island of brown sugar. DUDE. Talk about taking the theme to heart. The night before the party, Mom, David and I were up til 2am finalizing the goodie bags, prepping the food, and carefully decorating the cake. Mom and David got sooo into it, meticulously placing mini M&Ms for the anchor, debating how best to pipe the frosting, and figuring out exactly which direction the parrot candle should face. They even hugged each other and squealed with glee after David's suggestion to turn some crackers into a plank. Sweets bring people together. FACT.

Putting on some finishing touches

We also made some cupcakes to round out the ship fleet. See above about taking a theme way past the point of no return. It's a problem. I can't help it. But the first step is admitting it, right?

(I just realized that this post was supposed to be about my sweet boy turning three and instead I've filled the page with praises about cake. Carbmageddon, indeed.)

Back to the party. This year, instead of inviting our friends to celebrate like in years past, we thought Micah would enjoy having his friends there. If we had kept to Micah's original guest list, we would've had an awesome time with his "best friends", Duncan and Miss Calli. Fun as they are, we thought it might be a little more lively if we invited a few more friends. So we settled on 10 of his best buddies from school (and their parents). We were a little nervous about that since we don't know them very well, but it ended up being totally great and now we have a little more to talk about whenever we see them.

We had some fun pirate decorations and dress up stuff for the kiddos (pirate hats, tattoos, eyepatches) and everyone got really festive. In fact, all of the kids except one wore a pirate hat that day. I'll let you guess which one. Yup! Cap'n Micah refused. Oh well, the rest of us went overboard with pirate fever. I might have worn Micah's pirate hat the entire party. And I might have really beat pirate talk into the ground. Avast! Ahoy! Arrrrrg!

Cap'n Cashy was the most festive of all

The summer sun was out and it was a perfect day to break in the bounce house I inherited from a co-worker (for free, no less. Thanks for getting divorced, Steve!).

Future wedding slideshow shot with BFF Taryn

It was also prime weather for treasure hunting. Mom and I cooked up an idea to have a treasure hunt around our backyard, with the kids' goodie bags as their "treasure". Mom took pictures of 5 different landmarks around our yard and made maps leading the kids to the landmarks, where they'd collect a gold doubloon, and follow to the next stop on the map until they found the treasure chest and trade their doubloons in for their loot.

And here's where Mom really took it to a new party level: no two maps were the same. She made 12 individual maps with 12 different sequences between the five landmarks so that there wouldn't be a mob of parents and kids just following each other around the yard. It was at this point that Nash's dad turned to me and asked if Grammy was for rent. They were willing to move Nash's birthday from September to July if that meant Grammy could help with it. (Pimp My Party reality show, starring Gigi? Don't steal my idea!!)

Now available for bar mitvahs and weddings!

Where's the first stop on our map?

Maddox and Bailee follow their clues

Duncan and Dad on the hunt

Estee wasn't interested so her partner hunted alone

Ahoy, loot!

Nash insisted he "pay" for his goodie bag with his gold

X marks the spot

It was such a great day. So much fun, so nice to get to know Micah's friends and their folks better, so wonderful to have my entire family here with us to help us celebrate. A perfect party for Peanut. Happy birthday, buddy! Now we've got 8 months to plan for Logan's birthday. Ready, Grammy?

Carbmageddon

2011-07-28T23:04:00.000-07:00

I heard a story on NPR yesterday that mentioned an Oklahoma research study that discovered that out of a range of foods left out for wild black bears, they seem to like pastries, particularly donuts, most.

Well, duh. I coulda told them that. I'm lured into traps multiple times a day with carb bait. It started with my pregnancy (bagels! bagels! bagels!) and has become a full-on obsession (more bagels! more bagels! more bagels!) in the last four months. I've been riding a wave of breads, pastries, cookies and crackers. English muffins and waffles and pancakes and and anything I can get my paws on so long as it's bready and carby and delicious. I forgot about the breastfeeding hunger. I've become a hovering vulture at lunch, waiting to bat clean up on leftover fries or chips. "Ya gonna eat that?" is my middle name, and it wouldn't be so bad but I'm still doing that rubberband expander trick with my jeans and look like I haven't given birth yet.

But what's the alternative? Stop eating? No! I need fuel for my body to create food for little Logan. Step away from the bagels? Um, have you ever tasted a Blazin' Bagels French Toast bagel? That's what I thought. Not an option. Exercise? Eh. Maybe I'll just make my way to Oklahoma to see if the bears have leftovers.

Forcing Festive

2011-07-23T22:27:00.000-07:00

It's a running joke in Seattle that the first day of summer is usually July 5th, after another soggy and heartbreaking long weekend. This year we got lucky, and the sun came a few days early! Happy birthday, indeed, America!

This is the face of a kid wilting in the heat, dragged to the neighborhood Kids' Parade, forced into a festive mood and waiting for 35 minutes in the crippling morning heat for the damn parade to start:

I didn't realize how into it the other kids and parents would get with their wagons and decorations and red white and blue-ing, so we were unprepared, underdecorated and without wheels. It was a parade! I thought we'd all be walking. I was wrong. The parade route was long, and our strides small. I was also dead wrong about Logan supposedly napping through the whole thing. He didn't want to be in the parade. Or, he was mad that I didn't decorate his stroller like the others with stars and stripes and glitter with a speaker cranking out parade tunes, because he cried the entire time. The.Entire.Time.

It was HOT. I didn't have water for Micah, no snack, no sunscreen. He was in a long-sleeve shirt on the hottest day of the year. I was Mom-Failing all over the place. I didn't even have a mini flag or anything red, white and blue for Micah. I almost let him steal a flag out of someone's yard because I felt so bad. But that would have been kind of pathetic. And taught a bad lesson. And because the people whose yard it was were staring at me.

So we trudged on, hotter, hungrier and grumpier by the second. Micah wilting, Logan crying, and my guilt building for dragging them around my version of the Bataan Death March.

"Mommy, can we stop? My feet hurt. I need to rest." Defeated, we plunked down on the curb, and watched as happy festive kids rolled by in their pimped out wagons, some of Micah's classmates among them. And then a six year old angel of mercy approached. "Would your son like a lollipop?" His eyes lit up at the sight of the tiny DumDum in her outstretched hand. "Go for it, buddy." And just like that, we were back on track, saved by a sucker.

We sat for a minute as he went to town on his lollipop. Amazingly, Logan stopped crying, and the brutal sun took a break behind a cloud. Micah's blood sugar crawled out of the doldrums, and we skipped the rest of the way to finish out the parade, singing Happy Birthday, America all the way back to the car.

Victory

2011-07-12T23:00:00.000-07:00

Remember when I threw down the bottle gauntlet for Logan and said that his shenanigans were going to end when Pappy and Grammy came to town? Well it was not my gauntlet to throw, and I have been put in my place, again, by my almost-four-month old.

He laughs in the face of threats, and stands down to no one, no bottle, no different nipple. Grammy and Paps have been here for a week and Logan's just not that into it. He's sorta taking it, but almost to the point of teasing us. It's blatant mocking, toying with our false hope that one ounce will lead to two, and two to four. But, no.

At best, Lo's been drinking one or two ounces all day when he should be sucking back about eight to ten. To even get him to take that, they've come up with some elaborate two-person distraction/ entertainment routine to confuse him enough into sucking it back while Pappy sings his repertoire of ol' timey songs like Easter Parade in a crazy Tiny Tim voice. Oh, to have a hidden camera in my house to capture the craziness. It's beyond ridiculous, but it seems to be working, because today there was just enough confusion and Easter Parading that he chugged four ounces.

So good job, Pappy and Grams. Don't go anywhere. Ramp up the routine and expand the volume of songs from the 20s. David and I will be your backup softshoe dancers in the background.

Rocket Man

2011-07-11T21:25:00.001-07:00

Micah's class just finished up a big unit on space, and it's been astronauts, planets and "faceships" ever since. We were on our way to a birthday party a few weeks ago when we drove by our neighborhood toy store, and they had a giant cardboard spaceship out front with a FREE sign. I've seen this spaceship in the store before, and Micah has begged me to buy it, but I refused to pay $75 for cardboard.

I can do free, though. So as we drove by, I punched David in the arm and begged him to pull over so we could haul the spaceship away with us. Yeah, it's a little beat up and sags to one side, but it's decorated with sparkly stars and colorful planets! And did I mention it's free? I figured it would be totally worth it if it lasted until Erinn's family showed up. Plus, it coordinated perfectly with what Micah was learning at school, and you all know I love beating a good theme into the ground.

So we have our beloved floppy "faceship", our adventurous astronaut, and of course, a song, to celebrate the "ylastoff" of the last NASA shuttle mission which just took off a few days ago. The last shuttle!? Have we really explored all there is to explore with the shuttles? I feel old.

Also: what happened to nine?

Newsletter: June 2011

2011-06-30T21:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

Just when I started enjoying the slow pace, BAM. Cue the cream pie in my face. June has been an absolute blur, boys. We went from one new normal to another newer normal which has been anything but. Namely, this whole bottle thing.

Stop fighting with your dad, Lo. You've made your point, congratulations, you're the most stubborn member of the family. Grammy reminded me that stubbornness runs in the family: when Maddox was a baby and just starting daycare at Auntie Hermie's, he was so against being there that he just sat on her couch, not moving, with his eyes closed in protest. All day. Until Mommy came to pick him up. Just all day, sitting there like "LA LA LA! I can't see you!" Every now and then he'd peek, and when he would see someone coming he'd shut his eyes really tight again. Five months old, and staging a sit-in. Eventually he came around, and eventually you will, too, Logan. Like, next Tuesday. That's your "eventually". Grammy and Pappy are on their way here and they're going to be all over it as if they were taming a wild stallion. So this bottle strike has been entertaining, but it ends next week so cheers, cin cin, mabuhay, slainte, BO.TTOMS.UP.

We're getting the house ready for the Hawaii Delegation to be in Seattle next week, and I'm so excited for you both to spend time with everyone. They can't wait to see how you've grown and adjusted to pre-school, Micah, and are so excited to finally meet you, Logan. It's actually a wonderful time for them to visit now that you're almost four months old so you're a little sturdier and active than the Rip Van Winkle of two months ago. When you're well-fed you're still just as happy and mellow as ever, and you've really started laughing lately. Like a full-on, borderline snort kind of laugh, which makes us all laugh harder and harder at each other.

You've also found your hands and have been chewing on your fingers nonstop. Dad and I are worried that you might already be teething, because along with trying to swallow your entire hand, the Niagra Falls of drool has been pouring out of your mouth all month. If you weren't so damn cute, it would actually be a little gross. You might turn out to be like me, a thumbsucker. No matter how tightly we swaddle you at night, practically pinning your arms to your side, a few minutes go by and you manage to Houdini your way out of the wrap and we hear you happily smacking away on your fingers. Go right on ahead, honey. Do whatever you need to do to keep sleeping through the night.

As for you, little man Micah, you're adjusting to our constant change better than anyone else. You're in LOVE with your new teachers in the 3's class, and are full of new songs and absolutely bursting with imagination. Your vocabulary supernova'd like the stars you learned about in school last week, and it's been so much fun for Daddy and me to try to keep up with everything you're saying and doing these days.

You're busy as ever, constantly moving, doing, playing, like a pinball through our lives. One minute you're taking every single toy you own and piling it as "luggage" onto your "jet plane" bed (that was fun cleaning up. By myself. Grrr.). The next minute you're a kitty or a dog, rubbing against our legs and fetching your toys. I think it all started when Uncle Max and Aunty Gina came over to help break in our new BBQ, and you spent the WHOLE afternoon playing with their Lab, Henry. Six hours of fetch. A boy and a dog. Usually Daddy or I have to play with you until we're crosseyed from exhaustion, but you didn't even want to play baseball, you just wanted to throw Henry the ball. You slept SO hard that night, and according to Gina, Henry was snoring the second they got home. We have to get a dog. I don't know if we can wait long enough for Logan to play with you.

But you two sure do click. No one makes your face light up like your brother, Lo. And Micah, you've been so interested in everything Logan's doing, so anxious to help, and such a natural caretaker. This past week you announced that your littler Elmo doll was your baby, asking us to help you swaddle (or as you say, "fwaddle") him when he's upset, telling us to keep our voices down because he's napping in his "crib", you even made sure Dad buckled him into your car seat for the ride home from daycare so he'd be safe.

June was a great month. Maybe one of my favorite months of my entire life. A good balance of calm & crazy, routine & unexpected. We've been out in our yard a ton and fixing up our house for visitors, making it feel more like ours, more like home. We have Friday night movies and weekend donuts at the bakery down the hill. We went from me being at home to domestic Daddy's turn. Preschool and day-long fetch, bottle strikes and finger-smacking. Slowly but surely, we're defining our roles, finding ourselves, and keeping up pretty well with the new abnormal. Bring on July!

Love,

Mom

Just Don't Take Away My Seat Warmers

2011-06-26T22:35:00.000-07:00

Seattle is a really gorgeous city to live in. My favorite thing about it is all the water around the city, and how vibrant and sharp the colors are here. The mountains, the Sound, the sunsets, it's like living in HD. People are really outdoorsy here. I am not one of them.

Now, don't get me wrong. I can sort of hang in the wilderness. I've seen Man V. Wild. And we went camping a bunch of times during the Summer of Fun. And once or twice in 1986. But apart from those occasional trips, my experience in the mountains has been limited to Troop Beverly Hills and that one scene in The Parent Trap (Erinn, hit the sticks together and say it with me: "Get me outta this stinkin' fresh air!").

Thankfully, I'm starting to chip away at my inexperience in the woods. I really want the boys to grow up seeing the beautiful parts of Washington, and to leave the West Seattle peninsula and the comfort of our couch to get out and do something different, see something different. So it's great that we've started a tradition with David's family to spend Memorial Day weekend together at their cabin in Packwood, at the base of Mount Rainier. We're not roughing it, exactly. We drive the three hours in our SUV with the seat warmers on, we're not sleeping out in a tent, and there is a couch. There's even frosted Cookie Parade cookies.

There's also crisp mountain air, "the Packwood Herd" of elk, s'mores, and fishing in Skate Creek.

Packwood has become synonymous with old movies, short and flat hikes, hundreds of shades of green, and most of all, being unplugged so we can just be.

So get us into that stinkin' fresh air. At least once a year.

One Way Ticket To Boobsville

2011-06-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

People, it's been a long week. I'm still limping along at work trying to jumpstart my brain, and it's like I've got one crusty node that won't let the jumper cable clamp on. You know those crusty battery nodes? The ones you have to pour a can of Coke over in order to even attempt a jumpstart? I need to pour a can of Coke in my brain.

Don't worry, I'm not really going to do that.

I wonder if that's even possible, though. Like, would you use a funnel?

What was I talking about?

Right: crusty node brain. I sit in meetings at work and it feels like they all suddenly decided to switch to Esperanto. I'm in a perpetual state of "Huh!?" So there's that.

And then, there's The Great Bottle Strike of 2011. [cue Let's Get Ready To Rumble Guy] In this corner, standing a proud 20" and weighing in at a "beefy" 13-ish pounds, Logan Huske! In this corner, armed with warmed milk and every possible bottle nipple in the Western Hemisphere, David!! They've gone two rounds a day all week, and as of 1:18pm the score is Logan 7, Dad 0.

David's been driving down to my work so that Logan and I can have our lunch breaks together, and even though it's been nice to see them, as I get increasingly busier, this is Boob Shuttle is going to be less and less possible for me to just pop out for awhile. I called the nurse at the pediatrician's office to see if they had any tricks we hadn't yet tried, and she gave it to me straight: "Look. At this point, Logan knows that if he just waits long enough, Mom will appear, and he'll get fed. So the only way out of this is for Dad to stop bringing him to you." Which is totally understandable, but lady, you're not the one with the baby crying in your face.

And neither am I, actually. At this point, it's a battle of wills between Logan and David. Who can stand the crying longer? Who will be the Supreme Ruler of Stubbornness? I can hear the frustration in David's voice when he calls saying the Boob Train is making an express run to downtown, and I can hear the hysterical crying in the background. Which is so unlike both father and son, and my heart breaks for both of them.

We're gonna try some intense bottle training this weekend, wish us luck. Between the crying, frustration and crusty node brain, we need all the help we can get. Say it with me: BOTTOMS UP, KIDDO.

I'm Still Standing

2011-06-20T23:05:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone's messages, texts and emails today wishing me well on my re-entry into the work atmosphere. So how did it go? Well, I didn't crash and burn, although I'll be completely honest and say I was a complete wreck last Friday. Just a big, fiery ball of nerves. And every time Lo did something cute or sweet, my inner alarm went, "You. Will. Not. Get. To. See. This. Anymore." All because I have to think about TV commercials and earn a paycheck [Boss, if you're reading, hi! I love my job! I'm so happy I have it!].

Aside: who ever came up with money, and that we have to earn it in order to pay for things to live? Let's tar and feather them. I bet it was Ben Franklin. He thought of everything. Mostly good. But I still don't "get" Daylight Savings Time no matter how many people explain it to me. No, I don't want you to explain it to me differently. I'll just never get it.

See? My brain's rusty. I'm not used to thinking beyond Diaper, Boob, Bath, Swaddle, Sleep.

Last night I stayed up really late, getting stuff ready and trying to psych myself up for today. And I think part of me was hoping if I never went to sleep maybe today would never come. But it did. And once I was in the car with my cuppa coffee and my sassy new haircut, I figured being sad about it wouldn't change the fact that I had to go in, so I'd better jump in wholeheartedly, or at least fake it 'til I make it.

Thankfully, I didn't have to fake anything, because I didn't have shit to do. My freelancers were SO busy with a deadline today that they hardly had time to say hi, let alone start handing anything off to me. I even got to see David and Logan, who still won't take a bottle. In getting everything ready last night, my subconscious sabotaged me (or maybe purposefully saved me), and I forgot the attachments for my pump at home. Which I discovered only after I sat down to pump. Duh. So David came to drop my stuff off, and since they were already there, we dodged the bottle bullet and I fed Logan.

Today was great, a piece of cake. Tomorrow I'm sure will be different. My work brain will start to rev back up and the Diaper, Boob, Swaddle part will shrink a little. And I'm okay with it. I've got my sassy new haircut, my adult conversations with the friends I've missed so much, and sweet boys to run home to. So hello again, working world. You're not so bad after all.

Plusses and Minuses

2011-06-15T11:57:00.000-07:00

Guess who's sleeping through the night?

THIS GUY!

Guess who won't take a bottle?

Unfortunately, also this guy. Which is not good, considering now is when he really needs to take a bottle, because I can't bring him to work with me on Monday. Yes, he sleeps a lot, and I love my co-workers, but... no.

Poor David's really starting to get nervous about this, because he's swapping duties with me on Monday and will be home with Lo for about three weeks. At least once a day he sits down and tries to coax Logan, who's just not having it. He either screams and freaks out and swats it away like we're trying to shove arsenic in his mouth, or dodges it with his tongue and spits it out like "Meh, no thank you. I said, no.thank.you." Either way, he is NOT HAVING IT.

What to do? What would you do? What would Scooby Doo? (Sorry, I saw that on a bumper sticker yesterday and was laughing in my car for a good five minutes). Well, when you need to know tricks with babies, turn to the Baby Whisperers at daycare, right? Ask the experts, duh. I asked Brenda and Violet if they had any tips, and their eyes lit up with the prospect of the challenge. "Bring Logan in here tomorrow. We'll make him take that bottle." And wouldn't you know it, he totally did.

And wouldn't you guess, he totally did NOT back at home. Uh oh.

But at least he's sleeping through the night, right?

Sizzle Pop Serenade

2011-06-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

Logan loves it when you sing to him. You could sing the ingredient list for Seven Layer Dip and he'd smile like you're headlining Madison Square Garden. He LOVES it. Which is perfect, really, because Micah's been learning a lot of new songs at school lately.

Criss cross, applesauce.

You put some oil in the pot and you get it really hot.

You put some popcorn in and let the fun begin.

Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, pop!

(in case you want to sing it with him, silly).

Bracing Myself

2011-06-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

This time next week, I'll be at my desk. Or maybe cowering beneath it. They say it's epically busy at work. So much for easing back into things from the mentally slow lane. I'll have to merge quickly or I'm gonna get run over.

So I have four more weekdays to enjoy this,

Sunshine for breakfast

And this.

A quiet house

Can you all help me slow the world down so next Monday never comes? Everyone move over to one side. Start running west. Let's see if it works.

Beats D.A.B.D.A, Hands Down.

2011-06-09T22:21:00.000-07:00

All this talk of sleep (or lack thereof), reminds me of something my friend Jennie posted that made me laugh and laugh.

This one's for you, Traci and Dirk, whose sweet Taryn takes the cake for Best Excuse of why she had to get out of bed, again, for the umpteenth time: "I just need some fresh air."

The 13 Stages of Bedtime:

Realization

Denial

Crying

Bargaining

Milk

Procrastination

Jammies

Elaborate Rituals

Thirst/Imaginary Ailments

Snuggling

Acceptance

Request for Stickers

Sleep

Pre-Ordering This One

2011-06-09T22:11:00.000-07:00

The cats nestle close to their kitten.

The lambs that lay down with the sheep.

You're cozy and warm in your bed my dear.

Please go the f-ck to sleep.

It hasn't even come out yet, but it's already sold out. Click here, weary bedtime enforcers, to find out why this book is #1 on Amazon. Ahead of even Bossypants. Gasp!

And I've already started writing its sequel, Poop in the Goddamn Potty.

Today's Agenda: Smiling

2011-06-07T10:46:00.000-07:00

I have two weeks left before I go back to work, but I'm trying very hard not to think about it. I'm just trying to soak in as many of these as possible:

Recipe for Little Boy Happiness

2011-06-05T16:34:00.001-07:00

Take four stir-crazy Huskes. Add in free Terrace Club seats from my favorite vendor and a dash of spring sunshine.

And a Moose.

Top it off with an outrageously-priced foam finger. Do not worry about where that finger will try to poke you later. Just live in the moment and say yes to the purchase.

Don't forget to sing Take Me Out at the top of your lungs. And to ask "Where's Ichiro???" fourteen thousand times.

Combine all ingredients and enjoy immensely. No preheating necessary.

Big Boy, Blubbering Baby. Guess Who's Who.

2011-06-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

I just dropped Peanut off for his first day in the Three's and it was tough (for both of us). We made sure to get there really early so he'd have time to play with everyone and ease into the day before they sat down for snack. We've been talking about it for awhile, and chatted about how fun the Three's class would be on our drive in, but when it was time for the younger kids to line up and go to their classrooms, he tried to make a break for it and join his buddies with the Two's.

I stayed for awhile until he got a little more comfortable there but he kept trying to negotiate with me - "I just need a few more minutes in my old class with my friends, and then I'll come to the Three's. Just a few! More! Minutes!" He was so nervous, and so was I. I said I'd stay until snack time but I could've parked myself in the corner of the class all day if his teachers let me.

These Threes, they're so much bigger. He was like a sapling in the middle of a sequoia forest. It didn't really help that Duncan was nervous, too. Instead of reassuring each other, they freaked out together. Mr. Zeca's cheerful coaxing didn't work one bit, and poor Zeca was really working his ass off, so he finally had to peel Micah out of my lap and anoint him the snack helper for him to stop calm down. But then sweet Duncan looked up at me with tears in his eyes, grabbed my hand, and in his little raspy voice pleaded, "Please! Don't go." And that's just about when I lost it.

I left in a hurry before my tears triggered more from Micah and Dunc, and on my way out, popped my head into the Two's to see Calli and Tara. We traded sad faces, and I started crying again. And again when I saw Lauren in the hallway. And again when Nash's mom and I were talking outside. Yeesh! Micah will never be allowed to leave me for college. Ever.

As I was getting into the car, Zeca sprinted out and waved his arms around, yelling "Micah's totally fine!!!" And of course, he was. Me, not so much, but I'll get used to it.

Newsletter: May 2011

2011-05-31T17:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

"Mommy, you're a bad pitcher." This has been said about 3,682 times to me this month. Someone is obsessed with baseball, and so we play. Outside, inside, real balls, fake balls, makeshift bats made out of bubble wands or rolls of turkey, everything is fair game to be swung on and hit "waaay into the Puget Sound! A HOME RUN!" Summer is trying to creep in here, and so, we play. Which makes this about the third time I've ever played sports in my life. And my son is crushing me, literally hitting it out of the park, telling me I suck at baseball.

And you're not wrong, that's the problem. For the moment, I'm a terrible pitcher. I just don't know how to play like a boy or think like a boy yet. But when you're ready to learn the time step or recite the "I intend to be a queen" monologue from You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown, I'm your girl. In the meantime, I'll try not to pitch it so high and outside.

But please, for the love of God, stop bossing me around. Ordinarily, you have amazing manners but suddenly this month you're full of commands. Do this, I need that. Dad doesn't mind it as much as I do, but he never had Aunty Erinn as an older sister and all this bossing around is giving me sibling PTSD. Arguing about who's the boss hasn't gotten us anywhere, so I've had to enlist the Tickle Monster to help me tickle the bossy right out of you when you really get going. Now I think you're just bossing me around so that I'll tickle you.

I've loved our slow and relaxed mornings these past ten weeks. Instead of stressing out that you might miss morning snack time, we just take our time, snacking on our own, cuddling a little longer, or playing with Logan, which is a much better way to start our days together than the usual hurried swirl to get out the door. I can tell you appreciate this new pace because you've been happier, calmer, and full of big smiles. Then it's off to school where you happily sign yourself in and proudly show your brother off as your friends swarm around him. They all say goodbye and you spread your arms waaay out to hug Logan's whole car seat, shoving your head in as far as you can to get cheek to cheek for the best whole body hug I've ever seen.

Then Logan and I head home, continuing the mellow and leisurely rhythm of the day. It's a shock to my system when you get home in the afternoons, so loud and rambunctious and your endless energy is the complete opposite from the sleepy, chill pace Logan and I keep all day while you're gone. You're the ice cold jump in the swimming pool after a long soak in a hot tub, but it's good that you revitalize and energize our house even though it can be a little jarring at first.

Logan, you're staying awake for longer stretches of the day, but I didn't think it was possible for a person to sleep as much as you do. Now, I don't really have a problem with it, but I just don't want you to miss out on life. Maybe you're just giving me permission to do my thing, and you're content to be my constant sleepy companion no matter what we do. So whether you're awake or not (mostly not), we're out and about, living life, getting fresh air, hanging out with friends. At least I am. You're busy putting the Lo in mellow. Or is it the Lo in slow? Or the Lo in holoholo? Whee! I didn't realize at the time we named you that your name would be so rife with fitting puns. Let's see how many I can eek out before the entire Internet groans at me.

I'm trying not to take it personally, but I know my voice is far from soothing and I'm about as calm as a spastic bumblebee so I can only hope you're sleeping 18 hours a day because you're growing and not because I'm boring. Agree with me on the former and disagree on the latter or you're grounded until you're 25.

For those small slices of awake time, you're quietly alert or cooing away like a valley girl's trapped inside your little body, and ready with an easy smile that takes over your whole face. Thankfully you don't make me work too hard for the smiles and laughs because it seems like everything I say is the funniest thing you've ever heard. And when you're 14 and rolling your eyes at me for telling the same three jokes in front of your friends, I will remind you that once upon a time, you thought your Mom was the shit.

It's taken me a long time to adjust to this speed, and I think you're exactly what I needed at this time in my life. I am constantly amazed that I'm learning more than I thought I could teach you, my two little lessons. One who reminds me to find joy and fun, and one who helps me appreciate the calm. Teaching me to think like boys, play like boys, and how to be a mom to my boy of summer, and my boy of slumber.

Love,

Mom

It's Only Funny When It's Not You

2011-05-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

A few weekends ago, David, Rory and I went to see one of my favorite writers, David Sedaris. My favorite part of the night was when he read some of his diary entries, hilarious shorter observations that no doubt are the seeds from which his wonderful essays are cultivated. The best one was about him standing in line at an espresso cart at a Holiday Inn Express behind a "towering pile of a woman" who held the line up with her banal and incessant chatting with the friendly but distant barista. On and on she went, as Sedaris got more and more irate. The audience roared with laughter at the familiar scene, we've all been there, stuck behind some Chatty Cathy who can't catch the hint. We laughed and laughed, oh, how I laughed.

But then it dawned on me: shit, I'm that towering pile.

Not physically, of course, but I have become that woman. Desperate for adult conversation and bopping through my days like an anxious puppy starved for scratches on the head. So backed up with words I haven't said, I pity the person who'll bear the verbal avalanche the minute I get out in public and find a victim willing to take the chit chat bait. Who'd appreciate my witty quip about Seattle's schizophrenic weather? Who wants to riff with me about how expensive gas is right now? Who else can believe the nerve of that guy who parked in the middle of the coffee shop parking lot?

You, Safeway checker? You, Vietnamese pedicurist? Ah, it will be you, then, Nordstrom shoe guy. You're the lucky one who gets to suffer through my life story and opinion about TOMs as you're stuck doing a charge-send for my Size 6 Black Glitters. Yes, he says, it is crazy how popular these shoes are, given their lack of style. Yes, I hear they're quite comfortable, and they do really donate one pair for every pair purchased. No, [polite chuckle], his name isn't Tom. I have no idea why they're called that. Right, false advertising. Ha ha. Someone should totally write a very strongly worded letter.

Oh dear. I'm a wall of words, a tsunami of small talk. Let's just hope Logan becomes a better conversationalist soon. And pray that David Sedaris is never in line behind me.

Future Captain of the Sandbox Boat

2011-05-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

Miss Calli told me this morning that after the long weekend, Micah's graduating to the Three's class. Which means he'll officially be in pre-school. Pre-school! The school before the school!

My mind is blown not only because it's a reminder for how quickly time passes, or that this is the first official step to formal education (shit, we better start saving for college!), but also that from here on out, he will remember things. A lot of things. Which means we better not f-ck him up.

Pre-school. I can't believe it. Because I remember pre-school. I remember the tire swing that Dara Ono and I used to race to at recess. I remember the sandbox that looked like a boat, enclosed on the bottom so it was muggy and steamy and open up top, where Erinn used to command her classmates to keep rowing her boat as she safely steered. I remember Dad dropping me off in the morning in the circular driveway and how sometimes he'd let me stick my head out of the sunroof of his Mazda 626 when we stopped. I remember my cubby and the cool feel of my nap mat and Miss Colleen and Miss Iris, and the songs we sang at graduation when I stood by RJ Yumol belting our hearts out like we did again so many years later in Punahou Chorale.

Pre-school. Awesome. I'm so excited for Micah, who couldn't be more resistant. Even though he's moving up with all of his good buddies (they're even moving Duncan up early just so they won't be sad without each other), he doesn't want to go. He says Mr. Zeca is "scary" (he's actually just very tall. An anomaly 'round here). He says he wants to stay with Miss Calli, his "best friend". And he argues, "But I'm still two. It's not July 14 yet. I'm not three. I want to stay in MY class because I'm two." Yes, you are still two. Too smart for your own good.

Pre-school. Here we go, a new adventure. I know once he's in there, it'll be great. And one day when his son or daughter is nervous and dreading it, he'll remember his long-forgotten buddies, the things they used to do and cherish, the smells, the textures, the songs. And he will promise them they'll love it as much as he once did.

Excuses, Excuses.

2011-05-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

Here's where I'd normally apologize for taking a little blog break. And here's where I'd probably make up some excuse about being so busy with the baby and how I can't find time to shower, much less sit down to wax witty on how things are going.

But let's be honest: Logan sleeps so much, all I have is time. So I've been reading Bossypants.

And you should, too. They even sell it at Costco, so next time you need toilet paper and 86 ounces of mustard, pick one up.

Laughing in bed before I fall asleep is the best way to drift off.

Here's a sample, which if you have daughters or have been one will ring true right to the core.

(Mom, before you "red pencil" me, these are Tina Fey's bold marks, not mine.)

A Mother's Prayer To Its Daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half. And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Stop And Eat the Bon Bons

2011-05-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

When my friend Cher told us she was pregnant last June, Annie and I SQUEEE'd and jumped around and I was so caught up in her happiness, I blurted out, "I wanna be pregnant, too!" and before those words even hit the air outside my mouth, I was. It was so much fun being pregnant at the same time with her. We really took our WonderTwin status seriously: two short, O'ahu-raised, Filipina firecrackers, due only a month apart. We had really similar pregnancies, went to the same doctor, and even delivered our boys in almost the exact same way with the help of the same on call doctor (Blinky Doc!), ten days apart. Maybe that's why Logan came early - our bodies just have to be in the same physical state at any given point in time so he was trying to catch me up to Cher.

We try to meet up with Cher and her Cruz once a week to get some fresh air and catch up on gossip. We went wogging (walk/jogging. Mostly walking. Okay, entirely walking) recently down on Alki Beach, probably went just shy of two miles on our loop. It was a gorgeous day and a little breezy, a perfect Seattle spring day. We gabbed, walked, talked, had lunch, and planned to do it again the next week.

But then, my body kind of...quit. An hour after I got home, I got super stiff and my muscles started quaking so badly I registered a 3.2 on the Richter. By the time night rolled around, I was so stiff I made Robocop look like a lyrical gymnast. Or rigor mortis was setting in. Either way, it was bad. And totally confusing because I felt fine the entire time, and have been feeling great for weeks. Did I really overdo it with a leisurely walk?! Like, I really can't take a stroll with a friend on a sunny day and shoot the shit? Boo, Universe, boo.

I get it, though. It was my body's way of telling me to chill out and take it easy, stop trying to push it, quit filling up my time with activities and just enjoy the slow pace with Logan. And oh by the way, I'm not in charge (as if I needed a reminder!).

Or maybe the universe is being awesome and giving me permission to skip the exercise, telling me to just sit down and shovel food into my face. To which I'm happy to obey. I'm sure Cher won't mind if next time we cut straight to the snacks.

Two Month Check! Check! Check Up

2011-05-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

We just got back from Logan's two month check up, and here are his stats if you're curious:

Weight: 11 pounds 1 ounce (39th percentile, but apparently "quite beefy considering Mom's size" according to Doc. You calling my kid fat?!)

Height: 21.75" (13%)

Head Circumference: 39.2cm (35%)

Doc said he's doing wonderfully, and remarked at his mellow disposition. "Looks like you got lucky with such a chill little guy!" Word, Doc.

Logan's hitting all the right milestones which for a two-month old are:

- Eating. Check!

- Cooing. Check! Love this one. Very chatty, this guy. When he's awake. Which brings me to...

- Sleeping. Um, check check triple checky check.

- Head bobs when held sitting up. Check! It's like he's in constant agreement with me. AND WHY WOULDN'T HE BE WHEN I'M ALWAYS RIGHT?

- Smiling. The real kind. Check! This is the best one. This morning, Micah was saying good morning to Lo and Logan's face broke out in the hugest smile when he saw his brother. And then Micah smiled a gigantic, excited smile back. And then Logan smiled. And then Micah smiled. And then my face hurt from this contagious smile contest in which we were all winners.

"Art".

2011-05-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

"Watercolor on Doily Thing"

M. Huske, 2011

I Am Composing Some Carols As We Speak

2011-05-08T22:35:00.000-07:00

Happy Mother's Day! Did you decorate your tree and put your handmade gifts inside it? What do you mean, what am I talking about? You mean you don't have an almost-three-year-old who lovingly makes you a gift at daycare and insists that it goes in the Mother's Day tree? Well okay, fine, a standard houseplant will suffice in a pinch. But you have to shove your presents and cards deep inside its branches, I'm told.

Then, I'm also told you're not allowed to open your gift. Even though it was made for you and your name is on it. It's up to the almost-three-year-old to determine when he feels like opening his gift to you. At that point, it won't even matter, because he's already told you what's inside it. "It's bright and yellow! And has your name on it!" he sing-songs. All true, you eventually learn. It's also oversized and wooden, too big to be a Christmas ornament, too small to be a frame. Maybe it's custom-fit for the Mother's Day tree.

Made up traditions for what's essentially a made up holiday, and I love them both. Thanks, Hallmark, for recognizing that moms could use a day. Hope you all enjoyed yours. I sure loved mine.

Musical Interlude

2011-05-06T12:08:00.000-07:00

And now, a song about peanuts, courtesy of Peanut. Hit it, kiddo.

The Answer, My Friend, Is Swimming In The Wind

2011-05-05T13:39:00.000-07:00

Happy Boys' Day to everyone with a little man under their roof! Seeing as I'm surrounded by dudes, we'll be celebrating this holiday for the rest of my life forever and ever amen. I misplaced the little carp that Pappy sent up last year when we moved, so I'm debating between stringing up some real whole fish outside, making paper carp with Micah when he gets home from school, or combing Seattle for last-minute fish kites.

For all you unfamiliar mainlanders, here's an official-ish explanation about what the heck Boys' Day is all about, but generally it's about celebrating the character of little guys and who they might grow up to be:

A common sight in Hawaii’s neighborhoods during Boys’ Day is koinobori, large carp streamers or windsocks that “swim” in the tradewinds on bamboo poles in front of homes. Following tradition, each streamer represents a male in the household. The carp nearest the top of the pole usually symbolizes the father, and is the largest. Additional carp represent sons ordered by age, working downward from oldest to youngest.

Carp are classic symbols of masculinity in Japanese culture, associated with strength, perseverance and longevity. In the wild, the fish swim against the currents, scale waterfalls and live an exceptionally long life—qualities that are fitting traits for a young man.

Other Boys’ Day staples include musha-ningyo (samurai dolls clad in body armor and armed with weapons and helmets), kashiwa mochi (a bean-filled rice cake wrapped in an oak leaf) and chimaki mochi (a similar cake wrapped in bamboo leaves)—all of which are given to the men of the house.

Well, I'm plum out of armored Samurai dolls, oak leaves, and mochi. And I suppose hanging dead fish outside isn't the most ideal way to introduce ourselves to our new neighbors, so I guess I'll just rip this off from the internet instead. Happy Boys' Day!

A Saturday Conversation

2011-04-30T12:28:00.000-07:00

Micah: I want to play volleyball!

David: Hmm, buddy, I don't know, you have to be pretty tall to play volleyball.

Micah: When I get bigger, I can play it!

Silent laugh between David and me. Maybe not even then, kiddo. Maybe you can be the setter. Or the equipment manager. Blame my vertically-challenged DNA.

David: Yeah, when you get bigger, you can try. But volleyball is kind of a girls' sport, so maybe baseball or basketball will be better for you.

Micah: ...stare... Don't trick me, Daddy.

Regression Explosion

2011-04-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

Micah's super curious about all things Logan and has been revisiting his baby years a little by testing out some of his brother's things. Like squeezing his feet into Lo's little socks, and playing with some of his toys. We figure it's pretty harmless, although this activity mat might disagree.

MooOOOooolah

2011-04-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

Check out sweet cheeks at five weeks:

Let's use that as proof that the boobs seem to be working just fine. You may remember last time, Micah's doc wondered if I was pumping "straight cream". And I was horrified and humbled when The Girls took on a mind of their own and started behaving like the dancing fountains in front of the Bellagio (which I wrote about with every boob pun under the sun here). So I was prepared for what was bound to happen.

The Girls are back in overdrive, my cups runneth over, etc etc. Poor Logan wakes up ready to eat and practically gets blasted in the face. He's expecting a few leisurely sips and instead gets Niagra Falls. Sorry, kiddo, there's just one speed on these things and it's set to Firehose.

The nurses at the hospital called me a "super producer" (Which also happens to be my title at work. Ha!) and told me I make three times as much as other new moms. They had me pump a little while we were there to make sure Logan and I were in sync with his eating, and after a quick pump session, one of them raised a suspicious eyebrow at me. "Just do it for like 5 minutes, remember?" "Yup, that's what I did." "THIS is what you got in 5 minutes?" "Um, yes?" "Holy cow." (no pun intended, I'm sure.) When I get orders to do something, I do it. I'm a good boob soldier in the mom army, lady. I want to boob all that I can boob.

It's a weird badge of honor to wear, and one I have no control over, but I'll take any excuse to brag. Although it was a little weird when we were walking out after being discharged and the escorting nurse whispered, "Are you the one with the milk?" like I had two ounces of weed to sell her.

As it turns out, breast milk might be more profitable than good ol' cannabis. I was making a joke about donating it to a milk bank when someone told me Doogie Howser and his partner were buying fresh breast milk for their newborn twins. And paying top dollar for it, no less. And I just heard Elton John and his partner have theirs FedEx'd daily. Black market boobs?! Wha?! When Erica was here for a visit we Googled the going rate and some sites quoted $2 dollars an ounce. DUDE. Do you know how much milk infants drink? A LOT. And if they drink it for the recommended first year of their life? Cha-CHING! You mean I don't have to do anything different than I'm already doing, and I can make money just sitting around, pumping? This is almost too good to be true. Now all I need to do is find out who the next celebrity gay couple is that needs the goods, meet them, charm them, and be their supplier.

This sounds like a bad reality show. Pimp My Pump? Don't steal my idea!!

Newsletter: April 2011

2011-04-14T16:48:00.001-07:00

Dear Micah and Logan,

First of all, because we can't stop talking about how much you guys resemble each other, let's get this out of the way. Here you both are at about two weeks old:

Am I right!? Logan, you are ever-so-slightly darker, and your nose is just a touch Filipino-er, but the only other difference we can tell after hours of staring at you both is that your head is a little smaller. That's about it. Otherwise, you look like identical twins born 33 months apart.

Personality-wise, however, you're night and day. Maybe because it's we're different parents this time around: more relaxed, more familiar with what we're doing, less inclined to freak out at every peep and noise we hear. With Micah, every day was an adventure and it took us awhile to figure things out. People said the newborn days were chill and easy and we dismissed them all as mental. We thought our days were better-spent hyper-analyzing you, trying to enforce some kind of system or pattern, and generally being clueless rookies.

Logan, on the other hand, you are so chill that we're bordering on neglect. In fact, Grammy, whose sole purpose of visiting us is you, completely forgot about you a few times. Micah always made himself the center of attention with his loud cries and changing moods but you're perfectly happy just sleeping and snuggling. Our little hibernating bear. At first they warned us all this Rip Van Winkle-ing was because preemies think they're still on the inside and just sleep the day away. We even had to wake you to feed you because you didn't have that instinct yet to bother making a peep in order to eat. But, they said with a wink, watch out for his original due date to come and go, because he might become a totally different baby, a more typical newborn. And when April 8th came, you were all, "Hey due date: SHOVE IT. I'm sleeping. You're dismissed." And you yawned, stretched, and slept for a week straight. If I'm the definitive Type A, then kiddo, you're a Type Zzzz.

Now, this is very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed. Because you're the kind of baby that makes people want more kids. If it's this easy, hell, why not go for one more. Two more! Cheaper by the effing dozen! But I'm not falling for it, hoooo no. I won't be a sucker for your sweet little "ooh, look how cute I am when I smile and then just curl up and sleep forever!". You know why? Because I know what the face of a melting down two year old looks like, that's why. I know this won't last forever. So I am not falling for it. I will just cherish every sleepy second of it until you throw your first tantrum about the Diego sticker being too sticky or whatever the offense may be, and we will take it from there.

Speaking of two year old tantrums, Micah, I'm so amazed that you're adjusting so well to being a big brother. Any tantrum that's thrown is just because you're two and has zero to do with your brother being here. We were bracing ourselves for a tidal wave of complex emotions but have barely gotten a ripple. You are proud, protective, interested in your brother and so, so sweet. You're Binky Patrol, Diaper Alert, and Mr. Helpful Suggestion. Whenever Logan makes a peep, it's "Awww! What's wrong, Yogan? You hungry? Need your binky? Awww!" and you gently stroke his head or try to hold his hand to comfort him.

It's hard to believe you were once as small. Especially now, as you're doing big kid things like wearing big boy underwear to school everyday and reading your nightly story to yourself. Dad and I love chatting with you just to see what you'll say in conversation. I was calling you into the kitchen the other day to come get your snack, and you said "Actually, Mommy, I'm okay. I had a snack already, we had graham crackers at school and my belly's full." ACTUALLY, Micah, sometimes it feels like you're two going on ten.

We were leaving for school a week or two ago, and when I turned around to help put your coat on, you had vanished. I found you in Logan's room, climbing on his crib. At first I thought you were just stalling or trying to wake your brother up, but then I noticed you put your favorite gold pirate dubloons in there next to him. "I shared my dubwoons with Yogan in case he needs them!" you shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing. And then once you knew he had his pirate loot while he was dreaming, you were ready to get your coat on and go. Your favorite little Elmo and other various treasures have since made their way into your brother's crib, and if this isn't the best example of what I hoped brotherhood would be for you two, then I don't know what is.

Love,

Mommy

Things That Make Me Cry

2011-04-14T15:37:00.001-07:00

Weddings. Particularly the last moment that dads and daughters share at the end of the aisle as one is about to give the other away.

When Pratt died on E.R. Oh my God, the tears. I don't care if David and I were the only two people left watching that show (we were), it was incredible.

Blooming brother moments like this: