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.

Stellar

So today was one of those days when my performance was sadly lacking. The kind of day where it's a really good thing there isn't a supervisor here to check specific things off on some rubric which will then, at a later date, be used to determine if I deserve a raise or a pink slip. The day started early with the realization that the husband had made a pot of coffee. Which, in general, is a really good thing. Only I had forgotten to dump the leftover coffee from yesterday out of the pot, which made for a tepid mess. Which, in general, is not a really good thing. Helena, after waking up three times last night, has wanted to be held all day. The husband has a fever. Hudson has been squealing and crying for no reason and deliberately knocking over Harper's things and trying to get her attention in other inappropriate ways. Which in turn causes her to fly into this Rage That Is Loud. Which, in turn, causes me to laugh inappropriately. Even though all of the squealing and Raging has awakened Helena, who is now crying inconsolably and wants to be held again. Put that on a loop and replay it around 57 times and that was today. But tomorrow will be better. And here are some pictures from our four day stay with the Grandparents Pate. Oh, and when I tried to explain to Harper that Hudson was only bothering her because he loves being with her so much and is just trying to get her attention, she made this exasperated sound and said/yelled/growled, "HUDSON JOHN! STOP LOVING ME!!" Oh, and let's not get too excited, but Hudson used the potty today for the first time. Actual use, not just sitting on it fully clothed to enjoy a book, which he also enjoys.

How To Raise a Parrot, or In Which the Socratic Method Will Come Back to Bite You

Approximately 27 times per day I have to remind Harper that she is not Hudson's mommy. I will overhear her, especially at mealtimes, giving him all sorts of useful instruction. Some examples:

--"Hudson, you are not a bear, you are a BOY. Now, eat your yogurt with your spoon." (he is going through a highly experimental phase and small fist squishing around in yogurt container has proved a very pleasant sensory experience, apparently.)

and,

--"Hudson, let's NOT talk about poo-poo at the table." (this one was said with such familiar inflection--as though she has actually heard this exact statement before. I can't imagine where.)

Hudson receives these sisterly admonishments with the appropriate amount of indifference. Sometimes he will say, "No sir! No thanks!" which is, incidentally also his favorite response to the suggestion that it might be time to change his diaper or go take a nap when he isn't quite finished lining up his cars.

Yesterday in the car we were listening to an old Jars of Clay cd and there's this song that has this weird noise going on in the background. We've speculated before--is it a squeaky screen door? a cicada? a scratch on the cd? We aren't sure. Anyway, Harper said to me, "Mommy, what insect do you think it is on this song?" I gave her my standard response, 'What do YOU think it sounds like?" And do you know what she said? She said, "YOU tell ME." So there.

We've been to the park every morning this week, and boy, it is summer in Houston.
In some other exciting news, we are officially moving in a few weeks. We are saying good-bye at last to apartment living and are renting a house! With a yard! And sidewalks! And a porch swing! My main challenge over the next couple of weeks is getting rid of the unnecessary. The house, for all of its merits, has tiny closets. I am simultaneously excited to winnow, and petrified at the thought of actually getting started.

Fish is Fish

My friend Tara, who has a gift for giving absolutely perfect gifts, sent us a package a month or so ago to celebrate the arrival of Helena. Amongst many delights was a book for Harper and Hudson titled Fish is Fish by Leo Lionni. I really like Mr. Lionni and his dream-like watercolor illustrations and simple yet profound stories. This particular book tells of a tadpole and a little fish who are growing up together in a pond. They are inseparable until one day, the little tadpole starts his metamorphosis. Once his transformation is complete, he leaves the pond to see the world. He comes back to tell the fish all about the wider world, and as he describes birds and cows and people to the fish, the fish imagines all of these mysterious beings as looking like fish--fish with wings and feathers, fish with udders, fish wearing hats and taking their children for walks. He, overcome with his desire to see these wonders for himself, flings himself out of the pond only to realize that the wider world isn't made for gills and fins. Thankfully, the frog is there to push him back into the water, where he breathes deep and, taking a look around, realizes that his world is beautiful as it is. It's really a lovely little tale.

We went back to the beach yesterday and I am happy to report that we seem to have escaped the Wrath of El Sol this time. We also, thanks to our friends the Browns (the aformentioned Covered-Up Family), got to enjoy the delights and conveniences of their beach house, which meant sand-free sunblock application and meals. PLUS toilets and a Magnificent Shower. Harper caught one large fish (quite dead) and one small fish (quite alive) using a bucket and with a little help from a couple of bigger boys.

Thanks to the husband, I got to sleep until EIGHT THIRTY this morning. Helena slept until NINE. Which reminds me that I didn't do a four month post for her. She continues to be a sweet, easy girl. She no longer has her Time of Great Sadness in the evenings because she has discovered these:
She also loves to be on her playmat on the floor, where she is free to wiggle and flip and play with her toes. She goes to bed between 6-6:30 and is still waking up for one feeding. We may or may not work on getting rid of that this month. I don't mind it very much at this point, I just need to intervene before it becomes a very bad habit, as it did with the brother. I finally got a picture of the smiling:She is beginning to express interest in toys but her favorite thing is still to have a person (or two or three) talking to her. This makes her chortle with glee. And today at lunch Harper and Hudson were making silly noises at each other and she laughed and joined in.

This morning Harper had these two little rubber lizards and she said to me, "Look Mommy, they're dancing. Because they are a boy and a girl. And that's what you do." She has also this week decided that she is going to be ballerina when she grows up. A ballerina and an entomologist.

Hudson has gotten in touch with his emotions in the past couple of weeks. He will come over to me, looking a bit woeful, usually clutching the blanket and sucking his thumb, and the conversation goes thus:

me: What's the matter Hudson?
Hudson: I'm just sad.
me: Oh? Why are you sad?
Hudson: Betuz. I'm just sad.

Usually the melancholy is wiped away with a nice hug. On the other side of the emotional spectrum, he has also begun expressing great joy over certain things. Pasta for dinner, for example. He expresses his pleasure with a couple of really deep knee bends, followed usually by his hands raised over his head coupled with an ecstatic utterance. Then some jumping. If there's anything cuter than those fat, square little Fred Flintstone feet slapping on the kitchen floor, I can't really think of it.

Firsts and Fifth

Yesterday marked the date that, five years ago, on a beautiful Sunday morning, under a small gazebo at the Dallas Arboretum, overlooking White Rock Lake, a mere 6 months after our first date, I pledged my eternal troth to this man:

We celebrated by joining our friends the Swanks at the beach for the day. It was Helena's first time at the beach and I would love to show you a picture of her but I didn't take one. Mostly because I just sat and held her most of the day, as she napped and enjoyed the sea breeze under the shade of the Swank's tenty-tarp thing. I loved visiting with Mrs. Swank and watching our kids and husbands play. Mr. Swank dug an impressively deep hole and the husband did a little boogie boarding on waves that had to be at least 3 inches high. I have never been much of a beach person but it was pure delight all around. Until, that is, we realized on our way home that we had been victimized. By El Sol. I thought I had been so meticulous with the sunblock application. And assiduous with the RE-application. Hudson was wearing a turtleneck shirt with an SPF of 50 for crying out loud. And yet. And yet. He is bright red around his left eye, both hands, and the backs of his calves. Harper has some intermittent splotching on her shoulders and thighs. The husband's neck, lower arms and legs are crimson. And I myself,who, and I do not exaggerate, sat UNDER a canvas roof fully clothed the ENTIRE time except for when I walked to the car then stood outside whilst getting the kids into dry clothes, am scarlet and sting-y on my legs and arms. Even poor Helena has pink cheeks, which made me want to cry. Oh Sun, why do you loathe us so? And why is sunblock application such a complicated endeavor? I have vowed that on our next trip we will follow the lead of the our friends the Browns and become The Covered Up Family. SPF clothing for everyone, large brimmed hats, and a vat of sunblock into which I will dip each child again and again like a candle-maker with his candles.

When we got home we had another first. Harper and Hudson had taken a quick bath and I got Harper out first to comb her very tangled hair. I then went back to get Hudson, who had grown strangely quiet. As I bent down to get him I noticed there was something odd all over the bottom of the tub. "Rocks!" Hudson announced, "I play with rocks!" Well, ladies and gentlemen, they were not rocks. Oh, they were brown. And kind of lumpy. Lumpy and brown. That's right. Poo in the tub. I am thankful that he was considerate enough to wait for Harper to get out, for I fear she would not have handled it well. The husband, of course, went into full-on HAZMAT mode and we are all still recovering from the Pine-Sol fumes. It's ironic, really, because I had just a few hours earlier been rather boastful, I fear, in telling Mrs. S, who had just spent an inordinate amount of time in the portapotty with her June, who had, inexplicably, because of some sort of leg malfunction, fallen to the FLOOR OF THE PORTAPOTTY upon her dismount (I wish I had a picture of Mrs. S's face as she relayed this horrifying news because it was priceless) that my children tended to poo on a schedule and always at home. So, there you have it.

Ten on Tuesday

1. Last week I had a rotten cold (including a 102 degree temperature one day) and may or may not have Googled the following questions:
-Can I take Nyquil while breastfeeding?
-Can I take Mucinex while breastfeeding?
-Is using an entire box of tissues in approximately 2 hours indicative of The Swine Flu?

2. On the day when I was the sickest, the husband was, unfortunately, in a trial AND teaching a class from 6-8pm so I had to muddle through an entire day of Bare Minimum Mothering, which included long periods of me feeling faint on the couch while Clifford, Big Bird, and the Word World animals took care of my children. Harper actually did a good job of tending to Hudson, even engaging him in conversation over lunch:

Harper: Hudson, eat your "tay-yuhs." (she used his pronunciation of 'sweet potatoes' which I thought was rather tender and considerate) Hudson, how is your applesauce? Hudson, mine is sweet, tasty, and delicious. How is yours?

Hudson: Good.

3. I wonder if it happens in anyone else's house that siblings who snipe and sniggle and wiggle and whine at each other all day long will, suddenly, right at naptime or bedtime, begin playing with each other like cherubim at the very gates, singing in perfect harmony and picking up as they go.

4. I wonder if anyone else has ever yelled at the top of their lungs for their children to STOP YELLING!!! and then realized that it would be really funny if their kids were old enough to understand irony.

5. Last night Harper and I were reading an alphabet book about beetles that she got for her birthday and the J page read: "June bugs usually appear in early summer during the month of June. That's how they got their name. How did you get your name?" Harper thought for a minute, then furrowed her brow and said, "Harper-Collins Publishers?" We like to read ALL parts of the title page around here. She may not like to write her name but she certainly enjoys seeing it in print.

6. Hudson has, unfortunately, contracted my cold and last night after letting him spend approximately 30 minutes playing in a nice, warm bath I decided I should take his temperature before bed even though he hadn't been acting sick all day. It was 103.8. Mother of the Year, right here.

7. I can't STAND to walk barefoot. Especially inside. I wear socks all of the time. (I try to match them but right now all of my socks are in a jumble in the laundry basket) But I can't STAND for the socks to get the slightest bit damp, so if there's a chance this might happen (getting the kids out of the bathtub, for example), I also wear these Crocs WITH my socks. It is an overall attractive look.

8. We had our first ever birthday party that involved people we aren't related to on Friday afternoon at the Children's museum. Harper had a great time and enjoyed having so many of her friends all in one place. She did tell me that night that "There were LOTS of children looking at me when there was the Happy Birthday song" which proves that she is, indeed, my daughter. (I had a grand total of 14 people at my wedding, and that was about 13 people too many looking at me all at once.) She also got a stomach ache after eating exactly one bite of cupcake. She is officially allergic to eggs, dadgummit. When her stomach started hurting, she said, "Mommy, we should get rid of the letter 'C' so there can be NO MORE cupcakes." Again, have I mentioned that "Word World" occasionally babysits my children? These are the invitations I made:And here's the birthday girl, as her ladybug cupcakes melted into an Impressionistic mess because it is Texas in late May:

9. Certain key changes make me feel nauseated. I can't exactly pin-point which key changes trigger this odd reaction, but they tend to happen in the slow, building-to-crescendo ballads of Barry Manilow, Billy Joel, and Mark Schultz. If I happen to hear one of these songs on the radio it becomes difficult to drive. I am not making this up.

10. Hudson's favorite book this month had been The Puddle by David McPhail. The illustrations are beautiful, simple watercolors and the story tells of a little boy who goes out to sail his boat in a big puddle and is joined by a frog, a turtle, an alligator, a pig, and an elephant. Harper has been enjoying reading the Frances books by Russell Hoban. I really enjoy these books too, but the only vexing thing is that Frances makes up lots of little songs and I never know what melody to sing them to as I'm reading them out loud. This happens in the Pooh books too. The more it snows, tiddely pom? I mean really. "Jingle Bells?" "Twinkle Twinkle?" "Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring?" What? Does anyone else have this problem?