TheMommyBlog

Sunday, October 12, 2003

Just have to post this for the record, or I might wake up thinking it was part of a wine-induced fantasy: dh and I took the tired, napless children to eat at a pasta place (child-friendy, crayons and coloring-placemats and bread waiting at the table), and they behaved beautifully. No one got up (except to go potty--good call, Dylan), no one cried, no one wandered away, not one irritated glance or forced smile from another table, timely delivery of much-appreciated food (lest that one slip by you, let’s repeat it: Timely. Delivery. Of. Much-appreciated. Food.), and a smooth transition from famished shoveling down of nutritious spaghetti and tomato sauce with bread to an elated clamoring for a scoop of ice cream at Cold Stone.

I stayed to settle the bill as the three of them slid out of their chairs and followed Daddy in an orderly and very adorably polite fashion, and I didn’t hear another peep until I arrived at the ice cream store just in time to witness Logan using Daddy’s car keys to open up the locked and occupied bathroom whose startled resident promptly smashed Dylan’s fingers in the door in his haste to restore privacy.

Fast forward through the screaming, shreiking, comforting, apologizing, kissing, and scolding, and try to concentrate on the blissful, sticky consumption of strawberry and mint desserts, followed quickly by a hasty retreat, baths, and a split-second descent into slumber.

On balance, as perfect a night as we’ve ever had.

Sunday, October 12, 2003

As is abundantly clear from my reading list (moved to my ”about” page because it is so dang long), I love Bill Bryson. He absolutely cracks me up. Very few authors make me laugh out loud and race around the house looking for someone so I can read passages, and none that I can remember since Nelson DeMille came out with The Gold Coast. Here’s a sampling from In a Sunburned Country:

“I had never been to Sydney...the only time I had seen anything before at all of the real city was some years before, on my first visit, when a kindly sales rep from my local publisher had taken me out for the day in his car, with his wife and two little girls in back, and I had disgraced myself by falling asleep. It was not for lack of interest or appreciation, believe me. It’s just that the day was warm and I was newly arrived in the country. At some unfortunate point, quite early on, jet lag asserted itself and I slumped helplessly into a coma.

I am not, I regret to say, a discreet and fetching sleeper. Most people when they nod off look as if they could do with a blanket; I look as if I could do with medical attention. I sleep as if injected with a powerful muscle relaxant. My legs fall open in a grotesque come-hither manner; my knuckles brush the floor. Whatever is inside--tongue, uvula, moist bubbles of intestinal air--decides to leak out. From time to time, like one of those nodding-duck toys, my head tips forward to empty a quart or so of viscous drool onto my lap, then falls back again to begin loading again with a noise like a toilet cistern filling. And I snore, hugely and helplessly, like a cartoon character, with rubbery flapping lips and prolonged steam-valve exhalations. For long periods I grow unnaturally still, in a way that inclines onlookers to exchange glances and lean forward in concern, then dramatically I stiffen and, after a tantalizing pause, begin to bounce and jostle in a series of whole-body spasms of the sort that bring to mind an electric chair when the switch is thrown. Then I shriek once or twice in a piercing and effeminate manner and wake up to find that all motion within five hundred feet has stopped and all children under eight are clutching their mothers’ hems. It is a terrible burden to bear.”

More than once, I have been reading a book of his while waiting for my dd to drift off, only to wake her up again and again with my silent, stifled, shuddering laughter.

Sunday, October 12, 2003

So the hubby and I got a babysitter last night for the first time in weeks if not months, and went out to dinner and a movie. I could stop right there and let you believe that we spent our time “wisely,” if you know what I mean, or at least in getting re-aquainted or connecting on an emotional and intellectual level. Unfortunately, the movie we both wanted to see was showing at a newly renovated mall. That just opened. Because of the crowds (ten thousand of our closest teenaged friends), we got there early to buy tickets and grab a bite. The lines were horrendous, and every restaurant had an eternal wait, by the looks of the entrances. Can you see what’s coming? Can you guess what we did with our 4 precious hours, purchased with the services of the 12-year-old down the street and the pizza delivery guy?

Dinner: burrito for dh, Jamba juice for me.

Pre-show entertainment: a loop through the mall, with a stop at Old Navy, where we simultaneously made our way to the children’s section to buy socks--we’d both noticed that Daphne & Logan only have a few pair each with winter coming--and then we swept past the jacket section to see if there was an acceptable pullover for Logan (no inside seams, no ties, not too many bells and whistles--he’s a purist), but there wasn’t. But dh did find an adorable hat for the baby, with little felt flowers sewn on. As we made our way to the register, we swore an oath not to tell anyone we spent part of our date shopping for children’s sweat socks.

(By the way, Kill Bill: Vol. 1 was absolutely great--go see it.)

Post-show discovery: the pizza guy never showed. We got home at 10:00 to find our oldest sitting in the kitchen eating pasta brought over by the sitter’s mom when the kids got too hungry (or fell asleep) waiting for that jerk who’s going to get a call from me later. We apologized profusely, handed the sitter her Tupperware, and drove her home to the end of the block.

Is anyone out there willing to come over and shoot us?

Friday, October 10, 2003

We had the greatest time getting our henna tattoos! We sat on a sheet in the Indian Bazaar in Sunnyvale for three hours while all four of us were transformed. Luckily, Claire got her feet done and so was the only one able to dig through purses for keys and money. We all drove home, gingerly protecting our nacent designs. Here are mine!

Friday, October 10, 2003

...that this 3-year-old goofball:

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could draw like this?

I said, “It looks like Gilbert from Caillou!” He said, “Yeah.”