Barbershop

Should there be a punishment for children who decide to cut their own hair?

Or is the natural consequence of living with their new "do" punishment enough? Or is that only punishment to their mother? (In the picture it may look like I'm squeezing the heck out of Eliza's neck, but rest assured that I didn't actually do that. I only thought seriously about it.)

Today, for the second time in a week, I found locks of hair in the sink. Last time it was brown; today it was blond. Hopefully tomorrow it won't be a few of Lily's blond locks, I mean, quarter inch strands. She's challenged enough in the hair department. Today I also caught Eliza smearing a massive dose of body cream (thick lotion) on Lily's head. I hope she wasn't prepping it for a trim or shave or artwork session like she gave our couch cushion.

I guess I should be impressed at Eliza's ability to give herself a razor-like trim with a blunt pair of preschooler scissors. Instead I'm feeling nervous that she will grow up to be a tattoo artist or Sweeney Todd.

An apple a day doesn't work

Because I am a glutton for punishment, I scheduled two doctor appointments for tomorrow. I’ve already laid out the diaper bag, immunization records, 10 packs of fruit snacks (one per girl per twenty minutes) and a whole bottle of Tylenol (for me once I’m finished).

There is no “excitement” like that of taking three kids to the pediatrician. [Except, maybe, taking eight kids. How did you survive, Mom?]

Last month I took Sage for a UTI check (with the rest of the crew in tow). Sage was instructed to urinate in a cup. I took all three kids in the restroom, and we sat back to wait for Sage to work her magic.

Nothing.

Three more minutes.

Nothing. [“Don’t touch the garbage can, Eliza.”]

5 cups of water later.

Nothing. [“Don’t lie on the floor, Eliza.”]

5 minutes of letting the water faucet run.

Nothing.

“Come quick Mom!” [Finally.]

“Oh, sorry for getting you wet, Mom.”

At last we can go back to our little room and wait another 30 minutes for the doctor to come tell us Sage doesn’t have a UTI.

Then there was Lily's rash last week. The nurse asked if it was all right if a medical student came in with the doctor. I said it was fine. I just didn’t realize that the med student would be playing doctor like I used to play house.

Here's a bit of our dialogue:

Med student comes in first, without doctor. [I try to kick two pairs' of pink crocs out of the way before he has a chance to trip on them.]

Me: “Lily has a rash that she keeps scratching.”

Student: “Let’s look at her history. It looks like Lily had some reflux when she was 1 month old. How’s that?”

Me [to student]: “Fine.”

Me [to kids]: “Keep the lids on the markers.”

Student: “And how is Lily doing with her diarrhea? No, wait, it looks like she had that when she was…let’s see…3 months old.”

Me [to student]: “She’s fine.”

Me [to kids]: “Those Cheetos are for AFTER the appointment.”

Student: “And how is Lily’s GERT?”

Me [to student]: “What?”

Student: “Her torticollis.”

Me [to student]: “Fine. We’re working with the therapist on that. What do you think about her rash?”

Student: [opens mouth to speak]

Me [to kids]: “Do not color on each other, and wipe off those Cheetos with this wet wipe.”

Etc.

Thank you (doctors’ offices) for teaching me patience. I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

The Biggest Loser

"Exercise is a dirty word. Every time I hear it, I wash my mouth out with chocolate." ~Author Unknown

Last week was Mark’s family reunion. One of the first items of business on arrival day was for my sister-in-law to award the prize for the “Biggest Loser” of the family (since January). Unfortunately, my EZ Bake oven diet did not carry me through victorious. While I did not win the Biggest Loser award, I may have been the Biggest Loser of the losers of the Biggest Loser competition. If that makes sense. My measly two pounds were smoked by Mark’s brother’s eleven pounds. And to add insult to injury, he even shared his chocolate prize with me. And I ate it.

One of the highlights of the Biggest Loser competition for me was the moral support Sage and Eliza provided for me in my pilates quest.

We only have one exercise mat, which Sage claimed as her own. This made Eliza cry, so I found Eliza a little doll sleeping bag to do pilates on. This worked for about two minutes, before Eliza decided that trying to zip herself up in the sleeping bag was far more interesting than doing exercises. Before losing interest, though, Eliza heard the narrator encourage “pull your bellybutton in.” She sat upright, in her footy PJs and said, “I don’t have a belly button.” And then proceeded to unzip her PJs to look for her bellybutton. Because if you can’t see it, maybe it’s not there. Maybe that’s why the pilates girls are all decked out in bikini tops.

As for Sage, she took the exercises very seriously. Adorned in her own footy PJs, she followed the instructions to a tee. Or at least to what she thought was a tee. In reality, her “Swing your legs back and forth like big scissors” looked more like she was following the instructions, “Pretend it’s 5 hours past your bedtime and your mom suggests it’s time to turn off the TV.” Temper tantrum leg thrashing burns calories too, right?

Sage was fascinated by the pilates girl models, and took interest in the “fingernail polish on their toes!” Which, for some reason, seemed more scandalous to her than the girl’s olive colored bikini and skin tight leggings. (The way I make myself feel better about the immense difference between the size of my stomach and theirs is to make fun of their outfits. Just let me be a little immature.)

Although there were five pilates champions on the video, the coach only referred, by name, to the one who demonstrated the “low intensity” variations. Dagne. Or maybe it's a code name. Dag-knee? Dagh-neigh? Anyway, I could tell that Sage thought Dagne and her toenail polish were pretty cool. Sage often encouraged me to “just do it like Dagne instead of the other girl.” And last month when someone asked Sage who her favorite movie star was, Sage picked Dagne.

Sage and Eliza’s interest in my pilates workouts may not have lost me any inches around the midsection, but it sure provided for some great entertainment. I won’t forget how much Sage laughed when the pilates coach encouraged, “Squeeze your tushie!” or how often Eliza found it necessary to repeat that encouragement randomly throughout the day (occasionally accompanied by a squeeze to my leg or bum).

Some fun exercise quotes:
--Exercise is the yuppie version of bulimia. ~Barbara Ehrenreich
--My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit. ~Phyllis Diller
--Aerobics: a series of strenuous exercises which help convert fats, sugars, and starches into aches, pains, and cramps. ~Author Unknown
--The word aerobics came about when the gym instructors got together and said, "If we're going to charge $10 an hour, we can't call it jumping up and down." ~Rita Rudner

Lots of symptoms

I think I figured out where Lily's mysterious rash (last week) may have come from.

I think it originated from the same source as the blue mouth symptom.

The doctor thought it was viral, but I know better.

We call them E. Coli and S. Coli.

"The noblest yearning"

All-knowing internet sources tell me that it is customary to give gifts of wool or copper on the 7th anniversary. Thankfully, Mark and I have a more practical view of anniversaries.
1st anniversary: Chocolate (even if wife is in Mexico)
2nd anniversary: Chocolate (even if husband is in China)
3rd anniversary: Chocolate
etc.

But, as for Mark's little surprise date yesterday, apparently "showering" for a guy means "shave your legs" for a girl.
The anniversary gift was a massage! I think we ought to make that a yearly ritual, along with the Dove chocolate miniatures.

Last night Mark and I watched "He's Just Not That Into You," which was kind of an ironic choice for an anniversary movie. But, in fact, it caused me to feel very grateful to know the truth about marriage in a world that is so confused.

What do you think of this quote?

"The noblest yearning of the human heart is for a marriage that can endure beyond death." (source)

That's what Mark and I are working on. And we've got 7 (sometimes rocky) years under our belt and an ever-increasing conviction that true happiness comes from weathering the storms of life with fidelity to each other and to God.


And if I could do it over again, the only thing I'd change about our special day in 2002 was to have picked different material for the bridesmaid skirts, so Krista couldn't burn a hole in one right before the reception. Oh, and not missed our honeymoon flight the next day.

Almost a tweet

Wish me luck.
I'm off to an anniversary date (7 years!) where Mark's only instructions were "Make sure you shower before."
???

Our trip on I-80 (the I is for insanity)

Last week we took a trip to California for Mark's family reunion (camping in a park of huge redwood trees), and for some adventures in the Bay Area and at the beach. And to test the limits of our sanity and creativity in a squishy car. This picture kind of sums up the driving portion of our week.
A torturing two year old, a picked-on six month old, and a bored and cranky four year old. This is why a 10 hour drive home (curse you Mapquest, for getting our hopes up) turned into a 16 hour adventure...make that two 16 hour adventures.

Mark and I had to play rock-paper-scissors to see who won the chance to be the driver. The loser got to break up fights, dole out fruit snacks, switch DVDs, devise creative responses to the "Are we almost there?" question, and see a lot of this sight:
It's Lily cranking her neck around (pretty good for a torticollis baby) to cast desperate looks at her parents. I think an accurate subtitle for this picture would be "Please get me out before someone...
puts another peanut in my mouth/wakes me up with the "California, Here I Come" song again/puts their bare foot on my cheek/tries to pinch their sister across me", etc.

And even though she caused a huge ruckus in the backseat, Eliza kept us laughing with her observations:

When we were passing through Reno, she announced "I just saw Indiana."
When we were passing through the mountains she announced "I just saw the ocean and the fish."

When we gave her a drink she said, "I'll not remember to spill. Spill is when you do this..."

When it was her turn to choose a movie to watch, she would always ask to listen to "Jacob and Sons" from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." (She has a cousin named Jacob and I'm pretty sure she thinks the song is about him, no matter how many times we have told the story of Joseph of Egypt.) Once she asked if Danielle (Jacob's mom) was the one singing that song.

When we set a "no talking" rule around bedtime (or rather, around the time we wished they would go to sleep, which was about 3 hours earlier than the time they actually fell asleep), Eliza said, "Lily can't talk really much." Good thing we've got that cleared up.

To our amusement, Sage kept a running total of the number of people she saw "blowing cigarettes" on our California trip.

In addition to the backseat commentary, we also got a kick out of a few places we passed (and passed up): Chubby's Diner, 9 Beans and a Burrito, and Terrible's Gas.

There was a little bit of trauma with our little people when (half) a butterfly got stuck in one of the windshield wiper blades.

And, the insanity of I-80 culminated in our arrival in San Francisco. What in the WORLD is wrong with drivers there? If I hadn't been gripping the car door the whole time Mark navigated us through that crazy city, I would have been furiously composing my last will and testament on a McDonalds napkin.

Miraculously, we arrived at our hotel safely. After checking out the ice maker, little fridge, and the bounciness of the beds (must-do's for kids in hotels), our little ones finally slept. While visions of cable cars danced in their heads.

More forthcoming on the non-insane part of our trip.

The right to remain private

This morning my brother-in-law called me and said he had something to read me. He proceeded with this:

J is for jubilant

A is for amiable

N is for never shy

E is for elevated

L is for long memory

I was pretty bewildered, as this bro-in-law is not really the sentimental type. Then he confessed to me that he and my sister were outside in my parents’ barn (where I have a lot of boxes in storage) and he was reading one of the comments from my high school yearbook.

“I guess your memory is not so long if you don’t even remember who wrote this comment” he teased.

Moral of the story: Don’t leave your boxes labeled “Yearbooks and Journals and Other Juicy Stuff” where brother-in-laws can find them. Since I had to hide them from my sister growing up, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the person she marries is equally interesting in all my qualifications. Jubilant, amiable, etc.

(I dare you, Bryce, to defend your actions in your first ever blog comment under your own name.)