Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Our visit to the White House accompanied by many pictures of varying degrees of smiliness

We were lucky enough to get tickets in the lottery for the White House Easter Egg Roll.


Will we get to meet him? Probably not.
But then why did he invite us to his house? Well, he's invited lots of people.
Will we get to see him? I don't know. Maybe! Wouldn't that be awesome?

By the time they were all dressed up, they were kind of...tired.
But then we got all jazzed again! We were going to Daddy's office! Where we would see the fish! And then we would go to the White House! And it would be awesome!

Mama was foolish enough to wear 4" heels. Because she lacks judgment.  And why is she currently writing about herself in the third person? Hell if she knows.

In any case, I wore, the heels, and there was a TON of walking just to get to the point where you get in an exclusive line with 6 kabillion other Easter Egg Rollers.  Which we were in for an hour and a half.

Which didn't go over so well with the kids. India wanted to be held almost the whole time. By me. Finally Nick convinced her to ride on his shoulders.
They were temporarily entertained by the program.
Eventually we got in the gates, and the parents were the only ones impressed by the backdrop.
We got in line for the Official Egg Roll, which is also where you can take an Awesome Photo. The volunteers tell you to Keep It Moving. So you tell your kids to SMILE. And they basically say FUCK YOU WE ARE TIRED OF THIS NONSENSE.

I think if we can get tickets again when the kids are older, it will be great. As it was, they weren't interested in any of the activities beyond the egg roll, in which India sat down and tried to eat the egg, and Jordan wanted to throw it.

They were both too scared to take pictures with the big fuzzy characters. Even the awesome Lego ones. Even the compelling and odd green elephant.
Jordan was crushed that we did not see President Obama. Crushed. And tired.
And then on the way out, to the tremendous delight of our kids, we got boxes of Peeps, a frozen yogurt sample, and a commemorative egg.

All in all, I'd say it was a great success.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Two, my love. And wuv, two wuv, will fowow you foweva...

Dear India,

You are two and you are in charge, and boy howdy, are you TWO!

I feel like every morning you wake up saying new things. Your latest ones are: "I want to taste it." "I no like it." "Sorry, Jordan. I no mean it."

You have such strong opinions and wants, and you cannot yet voice them all, but you can SHRIEK! Basically, you do a great job of making yourself understood. Lately you've become obsessed with lip balm. "Lips, Mommy. Lips! LIPS!"

Apparently we have your little friend Colette, or rather her mother, to thank for this one. It's not that I mind sharing lip balm; it's that you spread it all over your face and then start eating it.
Like the rest of the universe, we are in love with Frozen, and you will request it by saying, "Frozen fractals all around!" We listen to it in the car and you and Jordan sing along. You both love the first song where they're splitting the ice.

I always put it on while making dinner or when I need to get something done, so sadly, I've still not seen it all the way through.

One of these days I'm going to watch it start to finish when everyone is asleep.

Here you are using the potty (which you've expressed extreme interest in - hello, kid #2!) and riveted by those fractals.
 The words I often use to describe you are "firecracker" and "bulldozer" - and while both are true, they're kind of unfair. Because you're also incredibly sweet and loving and so very affectionate. You give hugs and blow kisses and like nothing more than to fling your arms around Dad's or my neck and hold on like a little monkey on a branch. Until you see something you want, and then you are off like a shot.

You are a terrific eater, but so was Jordan, so I fear the days of spaghetti are coming. Right now you love mozzarella and tomatoes drizzled with olive oil, and you love tabouleh. You're a big meat eater as well.

Sleep has gotten better, thank goodness. You're still not the sleeper your brother has always been. Nana says that in fact, you are just like me as a kid. And Pat, who has known me my whole life, says seeing you in action is poetic justice.

You sometimes make me very tired and you can drive me crazy and you are an absolute beam of pure joy. All swirled together like a rainbow with sprinkles on top and wrapped in puppy kisses.

I tell you and your brother a story in the dark every night before bed. You and your friends are the main characters, but often you're mad about the lead-up to bed, and refuse to be in the story. Until it gets good, like they're eating ice cream or riding on a train or something, and then you say, "India! India!"

It's hard to believe that we only met you two years ago Saturday. It feels like you've been here forever, and I can't imagine my life without you.

I love you like sunshine.



Thursday, April 17, 2014

India, that's not for playing with!

We have this rule at our house that you cannot take off your underwear until you get inside the front door.

Now, this would apply to all of us, but really, the rule is only necessary for the under-four-foot set. Because typically, Jordan just can't wait to get his pants off. They're sandy. They're wet. They're green.

And then, then it's a short leap to the removal of underwear.

Now India likes to do this as well. And since she's starting to use the potty, which we want to encourage, there is a lot of running around half-nakey.  The other day I walked into the kitchen and Jordan was wearing nothing but one sock.

They have a bath just about every night, partly to get clean, but also because they have such a good time playing together. I'm not sure at what age the joint baths stop.

And I don't know about you, but we've called his penis a penis ever since the beginning. I remember visiting Maude's family in Tunisia when I was about eight or nine (I think). This is also the trip where their maid tried to force Maude and me into smoking a cigarette. 

Anyway, the important point for this story is that their mom said something to my mom about Adam hitting his tallywhacker on a doornob.

I remember this for two reasons: one, I was fascinated by the word tallywhacker. And two, how on earth did he manage to hit it on a doornob? At a year younger than us, there's no way Adam's tallywhacker was anywhere near the doornob. Did he leap off the bed and hit it on the way down? Was he standing on a chair right by the door?

I never asked, and I still wonder. Not that I spend my time thinking about Maude's brother's penis, but well, actually, I guess I do.

Anyway, in the bath my kids play with bubbles and boats, and cars, and princesses. They scoop water. They brush teeth (sort of). Sometimes Jordan will lay back in the tub to get his own hair wet, rather than me washing it.

So the other night India looked over at Jordan's reclined body, noticed his penis, and gave it a yank.

I could see why. It was just right there. I doubt they still have cigarette vending machines, but I remember seeing the nobs and pulling on them out of curiosity. It was kind of like that. Hey, there's something sticking out. Pull!

Jordan was surprised and outraged, as one might be. He sat up right quick. "INDIA! That's my penis! It's not for playing with!"

(Oh, my sweet boy, are you in for a surprise.)

Thursday, April 03, 2014

Which is fine as I've never grown out of the 80s really anyway

Today I linked to this post from when I was 21 weeks pregnant with Jordan - which was FIVE years ago today! Five years!

Five years ago I was pregnant and thinking I was enormous. Ha! And five years ago today my dad was still alive, and would be for another six weeks.

Five years ago we hadn't yet signed our lives and first-born away to buy the grand hotel and sink our blood and sweat and tears into it for, well, ever.

Five years ago we hadn't so many things. There's a lot to chew on.

One of my friends remarked on my post that it was the golden age of blogging in DC back then, which was true. It was so much fun to blog and meet other local bloggers.  I was very immersed in it and made a number of friends who became in-person friends that I still see, even though some of them have left blogging behind.

I wonder periodically if I should do the same. I read a line somewhere recently about blogging being so eight years ago or something of the sort, and I was thinking, well, yah. But I like it. I don't do it so much anymore, particularly as I'm trying to focus on other writing, but...I like it.

So at the moment, my little corner of the Internet is still here. No matter how eight years ago I might be.

Monday, March 31, 2014

The great armpit mystery

We are trying a deodorant experiment.

I read this article about crusty yellow T-shirt armpits, and how they are actually caused by antiperspirant mixing with laundry detergent.  And that the antiperspirant might also cause Alzheimers and disrupt your hormones and a host of other creepy-sounding things.

Really, I was just looking for a way to salvage Nick's undershirts, but you know how Google takes you down a rabbit hole and then next thing you know you are late, late for a very important date?

But I digress. See, I always thought the armpit crud was just something men did. Like, their testosterone mixes with their deodorant and then gets swirled around by their hair and mashed into their shirts and it's just one of the gross things you have to live with if you want to live with a man, kind of like how they like to fart under the blankets and then floof them in glee in your direction.

Or maybe your husband or boyfriend doesn't do that. I don't know any women who do, and so I've always assumed that would be one of myriad positives of being in a lesbian relationship.


It turns out that it's kind of hard to find just deodorant by itself. It seems to typically be mixed with antiperspirant. And their also seems to be this movement towards clinical strength armpit stopper-uppers, which seems kind of scary to me.  I don't know.

I also did a little research on the natural kind. One friend told me that Tom's of Maine doesn't work, and another friend said the crystal sucks. Those were the only two natural-ish options at our CVS last night, so we wound up getting Speed Stick, I think it was, because it smelled OK. I'm considering ordering a couple of natural ones, though, and seeing how they go.

So, the urgency for the switch to deodorant was prompted by the following:

I took the bold step of ordering Nick new undershirts! They arrived all sparkly white and fresh and new, as you can see above.

Nick is fully on board with the experiment. He also read that we should practically be boiling his undershirts, which may or may not happen. I'm more concerned about the chemicals; he's more concerned about the crud. Our hot water is already very hot.

Also, I include this picture because people sometimes tell me that before meeting Nick, they thought I was exaggerating about how enormous he is. I know I'm not very big, but I'm pretty normal. His people are giants. I'm telling you.

I mean, yes, I exaggerate when I describe a wall of seersucker walking down the street. But...not by much. I mean, look at this jacket.

Because of this, folding his shirts is tantamount to folding sheets. I hold them by one end and fling them out and they make that same THWACK sound.

And every once in a while when I'm folding laundry, I mistake a pair of Nick's boxers for a pillow case.

I always think it's a lot funnier than he does.