I called the neighbor...

...and explained that we have this...thing...about sleep. i.e. we get really testy and crazy when deprived of it.

(In other words, if I had known your dog were in agony, and wasn't just being annoying, I wouldn't have leapt from my bed, tripping over my own dog, to yank open a window and scream into a rainstorm.)

It's just our son sleeps so lightly that I could stand in the backyard and yawn and his little eyelids would flutter open. I know every inch of the floors in our house -- which ones creak, which don't, and just how to hop-scotch safely to our bedroom without waking the wee one.

But I digress.

Did I mention that the neighbor woman is a widow? That the dog is 14? That it's her daughter's dog? And that she likely will have to put it to sleep tomorrow?

I am cursed. I will be known as the woman who shrieks at poor sick animals wracked with pain.

Just watched Little Miss Sunshine, however, which boosted my mood considerably (was in hysterics during the dance scene) -- despite all this blasted rain.

Great movie.

As for the weather, if I don't see some sun soon, I may very well wander into a veterinary practice and yell at all the ailing animals there too. Because by then -- I WILL HAVE LOST MY SANITY! This weather is awful. Started raining Thursday night and hasn't quit since.

I'm good for one day of wet, gray weather and that's about my max. So yeah, we're way past what I can handle given my pitifully low seratonin reserves.

Today I went to the gym just for the bright lights, music and noise. (OK, yeah, and the whirlpool.)

How to feel like an ass...

So your neighbor's dog has been barking incessantly the past several days. It's a little white yip-yappy thing, and you -- well, you're partial to big dogs. REAL DOGS.

So this little disattached mop-thing next door won't shut up, and even worse, he's awakened your 2-year-old four or five times in the past couple of days.

Last night, he woke up your kid twice. And you got so mad you screamed, "HUSH!" out your bedroom window. Granted, that's actually pretty polite for you, given your fondness for cussing.

The second time the dog yaps your child from slumber, hubby goes out onto the front porch and yells, "SHUT UP!"

And then the next day, you get this note from your neighbor -- a really nice, articulate, apologetic note -- about how her dog has some horrible infection and it can't go to the bathroom without yapping in pain and how the vet keeps encouraging her to put it down.

And you feel like an utter bitch for having shrieked like a raving madwoman from your bedroom window to a DYING DOG that is in some sort of bathroom purgatory.

ARGH.

Who's that big guy...

...lumbering through my house?

Seriously, it's strange, after a fall of absences, to have Hubs here on the weekends again. Not that I'm complaining -- we're thrilled to have him back on a regular basis.

It's just that you don't realize how you fall into these little routines, and then suddenly there's this extra person who doesn't get that library time comes after naptime which follows lunchtime which follows morning playtime/cleaning time.

(Or that naptime falls conveniently around the Saturday repeat of What Not To Wear and that the TV is MINE during this blessed hour.)

He's catching on though. And tonight, he's whipping up a pot of venison chili -- yay! I have missed that man's chili.

OK, back to What Not to Wear. Christina is learning to buy clothes that don't give the girls too much freedom...

More blahness...

...rain and more rain. And when it isn't raining, it's gray. I HATE gray.

I have an insatiable need for sunlight, a craving that often drives Hubs batty.

Oh, and as for the realtors who've had the misfortune to take me on -- well, let's just say their relief at depositing me on the doorstep of an appropriately sunny home has been damn near tangible.

When Hubs and I moved to San Antonio in the fall of 2004, it took two weekends of house-hunting before I finally deemed one particular place to be light enough to consider.

And mind you, we were only looking to rent at the time.

"Nope," I declared several times. "This is a cave. I can't live in a cave."

Hubs, on the other hand, loves a dimly lit room. He couldn't understand my lack of interest in houses that boasted only a sliver of sunshine.

"But look at all this storage space. This is perfect."

"No way. If you make live here, the Tootie-post-partum experience will seem like a freaking Pollyanna picnic compared to my maternity leave this go-round. I cannot deal with gray. I cannot sit in the dark house, hormonally challenged, nursing a newborn, weeping over weather forecasts. Give me sun. Give me light. Give me a house that has decently sized windows and more than one per room, for God's sake."

By the time we moved back here, he had learned.

"No," he kept telling our realtor, "she won't like that. Too dark."

One house we didn't even enter, due to a lack of windows.

Besides, even before we made the rounds here, I'd already settled on the perfect place, based solely on some photos sent by friends of ours.

Big picture window, flanked by two large rectangular ones, in the living room. Bay windows in the kitchen. French doors and two additional windows in the master bedroom.

Light. Lots of it.

Sold.

We've never yet covered the living room window, which the means our neighbors are treated each night to the Crazy Family Show.

I don't care. I hate drapes or curtains or whatever you choose to call them. Blinds? Marginally acceptable. At least you can yank them up and leave them there. So let the neighbors gaze upon Hubs' ripped, stretched-out boxers in nightly horror. Because when I walk into my living room each morning, I find a space already filled with sunshine.

Except for the last several days.

Am at the end of my patience. And February looms. Ugh.

How to traumatize your toddler:

1. Decide it's time to take down the artificial Christmas tree.

2. Remove ornaments and light. Ignore nervous looks from your almost-2-year-old son.

3. Remove top quarter of the tree. Ignore how son sidles to the front door.

4. As tree leans precariously, grapple with second piece to be removed. Jump as toddler screams in horror.

5. Lay decapitated tree across coffee table and try to console son, who only screams louder at the sight of his desecrated, topless, horizontal Christmas tree.

6. Try again to pull apart remaining halves. Ignore screams. The sooner the tree is gone, the sooner he'll forget all about this.

7. While using your more tame array of cuss words (crap, hell, dammit), lug tree through the living room door, down the hallway as toddler's screams grow even louder.

8. Pull vainly on tree as it becomes stuck in bedroom doorway.

9. Hurtle across the bedroom with second piece of tree that has suddenly given way.

10. Hurriedly unwedge remainder of sad, pitiful tree and stash in corner of the bedroom.

11. Return to living room to find toddler happily engrossed in an episode of Blue's Clues.

Which of these things is not like the other?

And here we have, to the left, the non-morning people. And to the right, those who wake up perky and ready to go...

To all those assembling toys...

... the type requiring a set of deluxe tools and massive amounts of patience...





Merry Christmas!

Pretty pic

Hubs shot this the other morning...

Oops.

In keeping with my tradition of committing at least one faux pas per visit to the in-laws:

We arrived late Thursday night, and I headed straight for the guest bathroom. My MIL is the type who stocks the restroom with everything a guest might need (shampoo, toothbrushes, lotions, shower gels, razors, etc...)

So when I saw the handy, beaded neck-massage device on the counter, I helped myself. Long week at work, long drive, ahh...heaven...

...until the damn thing snapped in two, beads flew everywhere and I realized, belatedly, I had just used one of my MIL's favorite necklaces to rub my neck.

I restrung the necklace and tied off the twine. Am hoping she doesn't notice that it's now a little shorter than it used to be.

The wee ones...

...wish you a very Merry Christmas, despite their reservations about that Santa dude:

Imagine:

Hubs, 6 foot 2, silver-haired, with a snazzy goatee...

...wearing a pair of fuzzy kitten ears, sprawled on the living room floor, feet protruding from the pink Disney Princess tent he is currently forced to occupy most evenings.

Oh, I simply cannot wait to get my camera... and oh, the power I will wield...

Definition of cute:

My daughter, the diva, with a lavender blanket fastened around her neck with a chip-bag clip:

"Goodbye! I may never see you again..."

And E-man, my sweet boy, looking at her with the most perplexed, what-the-hell expression on his face...

And this --

Tootie, on her way to a birthday party...

Fashion plate? Moi? ha. Ha! HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Got home yesterday and, as I changed clothes for a Christmas-shopping expedition, I noticed I had worn my skirt inside-out all day at work. And to interviews. And meetings with editors. Hmmm...shrug...oh well...

Braved the crowds with Hubs. Ate dinner at a busy restaurant. Got home. Asked spouse to rub my shoulders. He says, with barely contained glee, "Did you know your shirt is on inside-out?"

Sigh...

Sanity? Wherefore art thou...?

Hubs has been gone, and, stupidly, I decided that I absolutely had to go to the gym tonight. I felt fat. I was stressed. At the time, it seemed like a great idea.

So I picked up the wee ones, plied them with cereal bars, and off we went. Checked them into the playroom, no problem.

But then -- the departure. Oh ye gods.

At the front desk, as I turned in my locker key, Tootie said, "Mama, I need a drink," prompting E-man to chant, "Cup! Cup!"

So I bought bottled water, E-man took a swig, and then shrieked as though I had poured battery acid down his throat.

He screamed all the way out into the parking lot. He screamed as I buckled him into his seat belt. And I'm thinking, "OK, he's tired. This was just too much. I should have just gone straight home."

And then, just to dot the exlamation point, my sweet baby boy hurled his binky into the front seat.

Waaah! Waaah!

Mama, why is Etan crying?

Waah! Waah!

Mama, he's being loud.

Waah! Waah!

We pulled into the driveway and I swear, upon a dozen binkeys, no matter how fat I feel, I will never, ever attempt this again.

(How many days until Friday?)

Oh, ick...

...While at the grocery store yesterday morning, I encountered a father shopping with his son. The child, an adorable tow-headed tot, looked to be a little over a year old.

And he was gnawing on a bloody styrofoam-and-Saran-wrapped package of steaks.

It took every ounce of self-restraint I possess to not whack his father -- who clearly was allowing this potential E. coli exposure in an effort to preserve the peace -- upside the the head with said meat.

Doesn't he know to head straight for the fruit snacks, then proceed to the juice-box aisle and then present the cashier with a couple of bananna peels, telling her to charge whatver, you don't care, their contentment was so worth a few extra dollars...?

And that child's mother...if she had any idea...

Used to love real Christmas trees...

...until the year I spent two weeks trapped in the house with a Scotch pine — or was it a Douglas fir? — after having had foot surgery.

I sneezed and hacked, and by the time I returned to work, I had fought off countless impulses to torch the freaking tree.

I fantasized about its demise, eagerly counting needles as they dropped to the floor.

Two more weeks 'til Christmas, and surely by then it will be dead. Die, you damn tree, just die.


(For an alternative viewpoint on this topic, check out what my fellow Musing Mama has to say...)

So for the past four years, we've had a fake tree. Yeah, I miss the real ones. But it's so nice to not have to consume Benedryl by the handful, you know?

Anyway, tonight Hubs put it up in the living room -- making his usual nostalgic noises regarding real trees -- while the kids ran around with enough hook-adorned ornaments to put out a dozen eyes.

Here it is. Enjoy. Now excuse me while I rejoice in its non-smelliness and my allergen-free Christmas.

It would have been perfect if...

From a mama friend:

"Yeah, he drew the bath, lit the candles and then gave me a massage. If we hadn't had to have had sex afterward, it would have been perfect."

Please, let me whine...

...about my little whiner.

My sweet Tootie -- what happened?

Once upon a time, we were so in synch. Now, I WANT TO PUT A NAIL GUN TO MY HEAD when I hear a sentence prefaced with: "Ma-MAAAA!"

It's the tone. It's driving me mad. I find myself complaining to the dog, who really could care less, so long as you leave enough crumbs scattered about for her to follow and consume until she pukes. (God forbid we have a vomit-free household anytime in the near future.)

You'll wear only pink. You hate pink. Your dinner isn't edible, the toilet is too high, the bath water is too hot, you can't find your spotted kitty, the movie has too many previews, the five-minute commute from school to home is too long, the radio is too loud, it's not loud enough... "MA-MAAAAAA...!!!"

The morning survey of your clearly inadequate wardrobe is enough to make me want to bang my head against a concrete wall and plead to be committed.

I hate my clothes too, but do you hear me grousing about it each morning? (OK, well I do, but only to myself.)

The experts say I should walk away from clothing battles. That you are learning to make decisions and are reveling in some new form of independence.

Independence be damned. Do you have any idea what kind of self-restraint I practice when I allow you to leave the house in a yellow gingham SUN DRESS when it is 20 FREAKING DEGREES outside?

One day you will. And I pray that your daughter (for you are destined to have one) will insist on pairing said outfit with hot pink cowboy boots and turquoise kneesocks, just so you, too, can spend the morning shuddering over your coffee, picturing and repicturing today's hideous attire and wondering which parents at the day care are talking behind your back...

Petit Jean State Park...

We went last weekend to the Bear Caves trail.

Took us forever to convince Tootie that there weren't any bears...

Yeah, I know I look like I've knocked back two bourbans and inhaled...something...but that's the way -- unfortunately -- I always look in photos.

Also, here's Hubs w/ the kids... I took the photo, valiantly ignoring all of his instructions. Sometimes it sucks to be a photographer's wife. But again, I'm getting my own camera for Christmas...

Panicking as I...

...wrap up a project at work, but really must take a few minutes to not think about it — never mind actually writing the damn thing.

Brief reflection, prompted by listening to an oldies station this morning:

It used to be I woke up at 10 a.m. wondering why Sheena's "My Baby takes the Morning Train" was running through my head. (Answer: I had, the night before, drunkly hopped on top of a brightly lit column at a bar in NYC and danced — alone to it — according the the ex-boyfriend I was visiting. I chose not to believe him at the time.)

These days I awake wondering whether I remembered to put Tootie's jacket in the dryer or whether we're out of the current fave cereal or whether I have any clean undies.

OK, well, the latter has always been a pressing concern, but you get the ides...

I'm so damn ancient and staid. Will address this in the future as I'm on a new quest to triumph over frumpiness.

All right — back to project. Editor looming...