Cankled. Rankled.

Most mornings around here go a little something like thus: I lounge in bed until around 9:30, until our man Jeeves comes in with my coffee and a crisply folded copy of the Wall Street Journal which I peruse until about 10:15, at which point I have the children, who have been fed, dressed in starched pinafores, and drilled on their Latin declensions by their individual nannies, brought in to sing a little song in three part harmony. In French, sometimes Italian. Then I am ready to start my day.

OR. I wake up around 6:45 am to Hudson singing, loudly and off-key, the ABC song. It was technically the fifth time I'd been awake since I went to bed (Helena had a rough night, Harper had a bathroom trip) and thankfully, the husband, who is much better with mornings than I, always gets Hudson and Harper up and gets them their morning milk so that I can have a little while to right myself until Helena gets up. I DID read the front page of the Wall Street Journal (as a general rule, most of it bores me to tears AND makes me feel stupid--not a great combination) as I ate two banana oatmeal muffins on a paper plate (made for us by our new neighbor!) whilst standing by the microwave holding Helena on my hip. And there, on the bottom of the page was this:

"Chubby Lower Legs, Latest Styles Don't Mix As Women Fight Costly Fight Against 'Cankles.'

In case you aren't in the know, "Cankle, a portmanteau word combining calf and ankle, refers to 'the area in affected female legs where the calf meets the foot in an abrupt, nontapering terminus'..." Now cue the Hallelujah Chorus because, "Gold's Gym has declared July "Cankles Awareness Month" and is offering a customized "cankles-busting workout." The article goes on to detail some of the measures women are taking, including ankle liposuction and special flip-flops, to tone their cankle region. There were also a couple of paragraphs (because this IS the Wall Street Journal) in which an MIT professor gave us some other examples of slang used throughout history to "unflatteringly describe the human anatomy." I think my favorites are 'wide in the boughs' (19th century, to denote wide hips and an ample bottom) and 'bay window' (19th century, for a protruding gut). So, the next time you find yourself wondering why the world in general dislikes Americans, you might want to think about that banner flapping in the wind outside of your nearest Gold's Gym. Because we care about things like cankles.

I was thinking about good parenting advice. When I had Helena, the pediatrician who saw her in the hospital was a delightful, 60ish lady with cool dread-lockish hair and three grown kids of her own who made this pithy statement when I asked whether or not you need to take a newborn's temperature on a regular basis. She said, simply, "Sick babies don't eat. Sick. Babies. Don't. Eat." And as I was sorting clothes to wash today, I thought about something my wise friend Tara, mother of three boys, once told me regarding laundry. She said something like, "If is isn't dirty, they can wear it again." Now that Harper is fairly neat at mealtimes, this actually happens. Anyone else have any pithy advice for me?

We got a new easel at Ikea.

Happily ever after

We've really been enjoying our porch swing. Harper usually gets up from her nap before the other two and she will say, "Let's go swing, just us Mommy," and we will. We listen to the cicadas and birds and sometimes we talk about things. Today we had been out there about 2 minutes and I was warily eyeing a wasp that seemed a little too interested in us and in that instant of distraction, a mosquito stung Harper right in the middle of her forehead (where there was, incidentally, also a curl). I brushed it away but it had already done its work. She got another bite yesterday, also on her forehead. I think this cannot end well. It's usually the second day that they grow to such epic proportions.

The tile guys finished the tile in the bathroom at 8:29 pm last night, a mere 5 days after the promised end date, but we're still waiting on the plumber to come and put the toilet and sink back in. I'm trying not to think about what's been happening in that toilet in the week that it's been sitting outside. I have already had to google things like, "Pictures of roach poop" this week. It looks like chocolate sprinkles, for those of you who don't live in a 55 year old house that may or may not have had groups of students living in it for the past 8 years. I have every single thing in my pantry enclosed in ziploc bags. Just my little way of saying, "LOVE DON'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE YOU FIENDS!!"

Harper and Hudson love the house. Harper has even decided that Hudson is an acceptable playmate. The noise level, however, has risen exponentially. It is LOUD having tricycle races on wood floors. There is a loop through the kitchen and front living area (which is sans furniture at this point) that has already seen at least 500 laps, I'd guess. Harper comes zipping through, "HI MOMMY!" and I say, "Hello Lightning. My, how FAST you are," then comes Hudson, "HI MOMMY!" and I say, "Hello Mater. My how FAST you are." And that's good fun for at least 30 minutes then we go outside and do some of this in the front yard:If you're wondering where to purchase the fancy pool Harper is swimming in, try Target, right under the spatulas, to the left of the cutting boards.

In a bit of sad news, Harper's one and only princess, a tiny little Snow White, was decapitated in an accident earlier this morning. She was apparently attempting to drive a dump truck in her party dress instead of her work dress and the cab just couldn't accommodate all of that frill and the flippy brunette bob too. Which sounds embarrassingly similar to the predicament I found myself in on prom night in 11th grade. I thought I was resplendent in that fluffy pink confection with not one, but two petticoats, and equally enormous hair. I don't actually remember the car I had to stuff myself into, but it was (barely) big enough for me in all of my voluminous splendor.

Helena Jane is seriously acting like she might crawl soon. I leave her on her mat and this is what happens a minute or so later:

A Moving Story

He picked up a handful of snow--and another, and still another.
He packed it round and firm and put the snowball in his pocket
for tomorrow. Then he went into his warm house.

It's from The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, one of our favorite books. It was the first book Harper read enough to memorize and now Hudson is also a big fan. Every time I read that page, I think about what masterful storytelling it is. Take out the word "warm" and there goes the conflict. Poor Peter checks on his snowball before bed and finds nothing but a wet pocket.

Well, we are all moved. Hence the blogging absence. For the FIFTH time in our five years of marriage, the husband exhibited his superhuman moving skills. He sent the kids and me away to my parents' house and did all of the packing and moving himself. Though we did pay for movers to do the heavy lifting this time. The kids and I came back on Sunday and as we were exulting in all of the rooms! and the yard! and the porch swing! the air conditioner died. Um hm. Yes it did. Perhaps our enthusiasm scared it. Now, a little back story. I myself am not generally a fan of air conditioning. I like to keep the thermostat at about 80. Much lower than that and I need a sweater. I have a whole stack of 'house cardigans' that I keep in my closet. And it just seems unnatural and ridiculous to be so cold inside when it is 827 degrees centigrade outside. BUT. But. It turns out that if your AC dies in Houston in summertime it gets much hotter than 80 degrees in your house. It was 92 degrees in our bedroom and, in Helena's bedroom (more on that in a minute) which has the only window that faces due west, the thermometer read 101. INSIDE the window. Thankfully, after about 12 hours, the AC magically came back on. However, this little on-again, off-again relationship has replayed three times this week, including today. We are now on a first name basis with the AC repairman (hi Carlos!). In a second fun twist, the owner of the house also has decided to re-do our master bathroom. So since Thursday morning we've been sharing the house with the tile guys (hi Pedro! hi Kevin!) and not sharing the house with our toilet, which is sitting outside on the deck. Tearing out 55 year old tile is a noisy, dusty business, but it's going to be really nice to have a brand new bathroom. This is, incidentally, why Helena is in her very own room a little before I had planned. She was NOT a fan of the 101 degrees in her very own room so the husband went and bought her her very own window unit. If anyone is keeping a check list, it looks like this:

1. toilet in yard (check!)
2. window unit (check!)
3. large pile of 55 year old tile debris in driveway (check!)

So obviously the neighbors are all realizing what a boon we are to their property values. But we are home. The husband mowed the lawn today with a brand new push mower. And in another week we will have finished unpacking the boxes which are still stacked to the ceiling in the study. And, hopefully, Carlos will have found the ghost in the machine. We'll say goodbye to Pedro and Kevin. The toilet will be returned to its rightful place. We will be here. In our house that is warm, but not hot.