rough and tumble

I feel buoyed by your comments. Six! Okay, well one of them is mine.

I can never catch Stella fast enough to keep her from peeing on the rug. I want to let her pitter-pat around the premises in all her nakey glory because one, little heinies need to air out for chrissakes, and two, because then I get to gaze upon her pink and shiny splendor. You would think that moms get to smush tushes all day long but it's not true. You'd also think, especially given the news that rough and tumble play is the latest way to get your kid into Harvard, that I'd be wrestling the time away with my two precious ones. I don't. And when I do, it's because I'm reminding myself to actually play with them. Usually I'm so busy making eggs and toast, cleaning spills, pouring milk, separating laundry, checking to see if anyone commented on my blog, that I forget to actually play with my children. So thank god for studies on the benefits of play.

fixer upper

I don't know if it's the fact that Hamish is starting preschool in two weeks or the fact that we're still seriously considering leaving Brooklyn for Philadelphia, or the fact that it's getting so cold so soon, or the fact that it's getting to be time to night-wean Stella and transition her into her crib, but I feel like I am freaking out mentally every other minute. I'm cursing under my breath and rushing around even if there's no hurry, dropping my keys and bumping into doorways.

barf bay

Our weekend camping at Crap Creek was, oh, I shudder just recalling it. How did the Miller Family Philosphy fail so pathetically? By not factoring in the possibility of vomit. Hamish threw up four times. All over Bryan mostly, thank God, but the last time was in a tin bucket while my mother-in-law)\ rocked him and stroked his hair in a picture of intimacy so complete that the addition of cartoon bluebirds would only cheapen it. I get weird about this. Weirder about it still by being hot, tired, bug-bitten, away from home and in perpetual discomfort. And what mom is ever chipper when her kid’s sick? Still, I confess this to you because I cling to the belief that I’m not alone in my filthy tornado of conflict. Feel free to let me know. For as much as I depend on Ry’s grandparents to watch him I get insanely jealous when he’s sick and is comforted by his grandmother instead of by me, when I’m right there. This happened once before, when I took him to the pediatrician when he was feverish, and his grandmom came along. Hamish insisted that she hold him instead of me, and I just stood there in the examining room, swallowing my tears of furious impotence while the two of them clutched each other.

nerves

I need to finish packing for our weekend excursion to a place called "Crap Creek." It's a campsite on a canal. A canal where gargantuan barges barge through with their toxic wares from China, the heavy cargo destined only to be recalled, or in my case, stuffed into my underwear drawer (James the Tank Engine and his tender) because I can't be bothered with a trip to the post office. I am wary of this weekend, with its inevitable filth and tented sleeping arrangements. I have been there once before and I did have a great time, there's clay in the creek and I sculpted a devil head (self portrait?). But this time I have children and this time I am older and require a certain level of comfort and air conditioning for my very sanity. I fear being beroygus the whole time. That's Yiddish for being a moody asshole. Bryan keeps telling me that it'll be fun, whee! Because our children will be entertained and tended to by people other than ourselves. This'll give us time to perfect our trailer trash poses down by the water's edge in our dirty bathing suits. I guess it could be worse. It could be a week. At the very least, I'm putting the Miller Family Philosophy into action: "Expect the worst and always be pleasantly surprised."