My baby is a genius … at backwards writing.

… and also psychologically scarred at the thought that a jellyfish might one day eat a train.

Also, blood. There has been a lot of it recently and it is traumatic. Blood on his leg-elbow from falling over. Blood on his chin from being pushed over. Blood on his finger after he pulled off a hangnail, leading him to bolt terrified from the TV room, screaming “There’s red on me! There’s red on me!”

He seems not to care that Cars bandaids cost $1.89 a packet. He just likes to replace them.

Meanwhile here is a photo of one of my all-time favorite foods:

Just above a picture of The Daddy’s most hated food:

I have found away around his strict ban: Secret Rhubarb Lunches. With the windows open. Then I brush my teeth. He is none the wiser.

Unfortunately not possible on weekends. We all have our cross to bear.

This weekend, however, my thoughts strayed from rhubarb. First we had this:

Made more exciting by torrential rain when the new roof was not quite finished. We all know I love a little drama, so why not?

In the end, it was all good, by which I mean we didn’t have to strategically position any buckets. No workers slipped off, and only 3 small bits of plaster fell off the ceiling from all the banging and thudding up there. Our new roof looks good. You know, the same but … um .. blacker. Although I am assured it will now be much less likely to leak and also cooler in summer.

Saturday afternoon the children and I celebrated the completion of the roof with a trip to a Folk Life Festival organized by our local school district and sponsored by the Big Yellow Arches. I know, right? With a pedigree like that it had to be a sad cruddy commercialized affair and a waste of an afternoon.  But I wanted to kill time and just the drive there and back would relieve me of a good 30 minutes, 30 minutes not involving TV or computers or shopping or eating or playing in the yard with the leftover building materials.

It turned out to be one of the best afternoons out I have had with my children, anytime, anywhere - and yet more proof that you should never judge a book. As if you need any more proof (and I obviously do). Just about every pioneer craft or activity  you can think of was represented - corn husking, cheese making, black powder firearms,  homing pigeons, blacksmithing, woodworking, horse shoeing, lassoing bulls, spinning, dancing, bee keeping, quilting, tin punching, cooking over an open fire… We chose to make rag dolls, paint gourds, mold models out of clay and write with nib and ink. We touched baby chicks and the kids each got to take an egg from underneath a chicken (the eggs have nothing printed on them, but still I am suspicious - surely their hens aren’t that prolific. The children don’t seem to care.) My favorite - we touched a snake and a baby alligator. My first time. The best description I could come up with for the way they felt was “handbaggy”.

Of course during all this I took exactly ZERO photos for posterity. Give me a break, I am a child wrangler, not a photographer. Someone give me a lasso and let me tie them to a tree and then I will manage a photo without losing one. Here are some pictures of the dolls instead. The one without the face is called “Really”. The one with the face doesn’t yet have a name but privately I am calling her “Scary”.

(Baby Sister may not grow up to be an artist…)

Not sure whose face is scarier here, but the doll is a big hit.

Oh, and you want to know where is the T-Bot’s doll? Well, he spent his time slaving over a love note instead. Immortalized by yours truly in grainy, blurry detail:

The big museums in town could learn a lot from today’s festival. Not at all a bad afternoon out for a grand total of $5.  And in the end, there wasn’t even a Big Mac in sight

The Daddy has been hitting the French section at the Fancy Schmancy Library in the Big City to try and edumacate the kids …And his latest find really brought it home to me that culturally, I am not French at all.

Like, in the least. Because… well …

To be honest, I am not sure what bothers me about this story. I mean, in our family we love the book my kids like to call Poopoo sausage, and that other one about the mole with a turd on his head. This one is also supposedly a genuine folk story which has been handed down the generations, until some very - um - disturbed person saw fit to publish it.

As a childrens story.

Yes, I am very possibly a prude.

But I will let you be the judge. I put it to the popular vote. Am I the only one who finds it extremely difficult to reconcile herself to a childrens book about a deformed rooster who puts things up his bottom?

In case you need it, a little more information to help you in your decision:

(Spoiler alert! I am about to tell the whole story! Stop here if you would rather buy the book. You know, as a Christening present or something. )

This is Moitie de Coq. I am sure that there are more elegant ways to translate his name but to avoid fits of the giggles, I am going to call him Half a Rooster. He is called Half a Rooster because he is exactly that: he has one leg, one wing, one eye and half a beak.

And here is what happens to Moitie de Coq: his mother, who has improbably lent a sack of grain to the King at some point in the distant past (one wonders in return for what kind of favors, ahem) sends her half a son off to the Big Smoke to get it back. On the way through the forest he meets a fox, who will only allow Moitie de Coq to pass if he hides him and takes him along too. Moitie de Coq has to think very hard about where to hide him. Finally he realizes that there is only one place possible.

You know what happens next. Yes, he meets a wolf, who also wants to tag along. He gives strict instructions to the wolf not to eat the fox and hop!

(I have omitted some of the more disturbing images from this story. For example, the ones where the wolf and the fox had to do a run-up before they jumped).

OK, this one is quite surprising. Moitie de Coq needs to cross the river next. Who would have thought that a river would also want to go on an adventure?

Some very strange French peasants in the distant past and their many ancestors who kept this wonderful story alive. That’s who.

But apparently there is still enough room in there for more! Luckily for this giant!

So, Moitie de Coq arrives at the palace and instead of giving Moitie de Coq his sack of grain the King cons him into spending the night in the Royal Henhouse. Along with 50 ferocious hens who promptly attack him. Soon to be ex-hens thanks to Hidden Weapon Number One! Carting that fox along had to be useful for something!

(I mean, what is a children’s book without slaughter?)

You guessed it, next he gets put in the sheep pen and almost gets squashed, until Wolf emerges to help.

(I got a little bored with the pictures by this point).

River comes in useful when the King traps him in an oven, following which the King gives up his sack of grain and Moitie de Coq starts home, no doubt rather lighter, although still not quite himself…

until the King chases him in anger and Giant emerges to finish him off.

Ooof. No doubt a relief for Moitie de Coq.

I was going to say: Martin! Censor this one before your children see it! But on second thoughts, why bother?  Thousands of French children are probably splitting their sides right now.

So, people, vote please! Disturbing or pas du tout?

The T-Bot started public school again yesterday. I planned to take a lovely photo of him with his backpack, on his way joyously out the door, but by the time we left for school I had been lying awake for 4 hours and was in no state to remember the formalities. As it happens, he appears to have had an acceptable day, and the whole experience has rendered him…well… animated. Which was the desired result, so let’s cross fingers and see what tomorrow brings.

We spent Sunday in a whirlwind of artsy! and craftsy! activities designed to take my mind off the fact that I found myself unable to eat. A thing. Although I was downing large quantities of coffee which probably didn’t help the situation much. Deep breaths. Count to three.

When I was little we used to blow eggs before decorating them. I have revived this custom with my own family. Except for Baby Sister, who declared the process “Yucky” and”Urgghh” and promptly vanished. And The Daddy, who asked anxiously about the insides of the eggs. Whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to save them (after we have spat in them? Noooooo). “Look!” I declared, “cheap eggs! $1.59!” He still didn’t look impressed but then he disappeared too. So we carried on.

For those unfamiliar with egg blowing, you make a pinprick hole in the top…

A larger hole in the bottom…

Then blow.The result - empty egg shells which you can then decorate and leave out of the fridge. You know, like actually on display. You don’t have to eat them! You don’t have to scour every market in the vicinity for white organic eggs in large expensive quantities, in order to avoid the derision of friends and neighbors (oh did I learn my lesson last year when I turned up to a communal egg-decorating fest with 24 of Wal-mart’s cheapest).

The T-Bot loved! loved! blowing eggs.Because “it’s just like vomit!”. Nice.

And then the children dyed them different colors.

Here is the Wictor posing with the eggs we dyed - or as he prefers to call them, the “dead eggs”.

As we were dipping the eggs in the colors I asked the kids what they knew about Easter. Because Baby Sister’s best friend’s Mom gave me a lecture a short while back, after Baby Sister dared to tell her that Christmas was about Santa Claus and presents, I thought Baby Sister at least should be prepared for when Easter comes around. Sure enough, she loudly proclaimed her joy at the Easter Bunny! Eggs! and Candy!

So. Um. Where to start?

“Kids, do you  know who Jesus was?”

“No”.

“Well, Baby Sister, did you see that painting at [best friends] place of a man with a beard?

At this point the T-Bot chips in.  “You mean Charles Darwin?”

Just in case you thought things might be getting boring here Inzaburbs, yesterday evening, right after I finished up a meeting discussing colors for our new roof (oh! the decadence!), there was an almighty din overhead.

And then guess what flew right over our yard?

Well, this being Suburban Texas, it could have been a vulture.

Or an enormous owl the likes of which swooped down and tried to pick up Baby Sister when she was two.

Maybe the Mockingbird,  the state bird of Texas?

If it was one of those super noisy private planes I wouldn’t be blogging it. Those goddamn oil billionaires invade our airspace all. the. time.

Close though. It was …

… a Flying Fortress.

Well, The Daddy found it exciting anyway

(PS: Just last week, we possibly also saw one of these. )

I had a totally different post planned for this week. I thought I may even get time to write it on Monday. Because as of Monday morning, my schedule looked like this:

Monday: school, supermarket, post office

Tuesday: school

Wednesday: T-Bot: speech and language evaluation, school

Thursday: Baby sister: dentist, school

Friday: school

This schedule would have been a welcome relief after the whirlwind of the past few weeks. Oh, how I am laughing now.

Note that most of the following is self-inflicted, due to my inexplicable drive to collect children and animals.

It is Friday morning. Here is how our schedule has panned out so far.

.

.

MONDAY

am: Receive email from friend, a crazy cat lady who isn’t actually crazy but does work at a cat shelter. The attachment is a photo of a teeny tiny cat. Call The Daddy and then agree to go look at cat.

Continue with school

Receive a very convincing spam email with an attachment and without thinking, click on it (oh the shame!).

Download Mac Virus checker. Try to work out how to use it. Find Mac virus. Try to work out how to eliminate it. Curse.

pm: Go see cat. Which is practically an obligation to buy although it is very clear that there is no such obligation. Because unlike poor Fiji, forgotten in the shelter for a year, this cat is highly adoptable.

Agree to take cat. Because OMG she is so sweet and adoptable! Must have cat now, before someone else gets her. Must. have. pretty. cat! dribble.

Discuss with friend how some people so crassly choose cats to match their furniture, and nod. All the while thinking “Pretty! My Pretty! And she kinda matches Fiji. Matching cats! Pretty!”. dribble

Go to the supermarket and the Post Office.

Sit down to fill in cat adoption forms.

Stop at question “Are your current pets’ vaccinations up to date?”.

Call vet to make an appointment.

Help The Daddy with The Dinner.

Spend 40 minutes talking to speech/language assessor.

Eat dinner, late.

Put kids to bed late.

TUESDAY

Take Fiji to the vet for his shots.

Go straight back out again for a new litter bin, cat scratcher and other new cat essentials.

Feed the boys lunch. No school today, officially classified “New Cat Field Trip Day”.

Spend 2 hours at the shelter filling out forms and visiting cats and dogs.

Get home in time to get Baby Sister off the bus.

Go to friend’s house to pick up the new cat.

Bring her home and introduce her to her new (temporary) home in the master bathroom.

She doesn’t want to stay in her new (temporary) home in the master bathroom. She is very comfortable exploring the whole house, thankyouverymuch. And she will start by escaping the minute anybody tries to open the bedroom door.

Awkward. There is a puffed-up black hissing, wailing furball parked outside the bedroom door.

The delicate gray newcomer, hand picked so as not to challenge Fiji’s dominant position in the household, disappoints. Instead of cowering so he can salvage his manly pride, she takes a swat at him. Oh nose!

The Mommy loses her senses and picks up the enormous furball to try and get him out of the way of the delicate little gray newcomer.

Next, the Mommy loses much more than her senses.

The Daddy puts the little grey Madam back in her bathroom and goes in search of a bandaid.

The Daddy is not very good at finding things. By the time he gets back The Mommy is half passed out, sweaty and shivering, her life force dripping dramatically from her hand into a bathroom sink.

Doorbell chimes. Pizza has arrived. Pizzaman looks alarmed at sight of The Mommy’s arm, but it is The Mommy’s right arm and she needs it to sign.

Cat escapes again. Another dramatic scene. This time The Mommy does not intervene but makes The Daddy go in, armed with pillows.

Gray cat suitably chastened, decides not to escape anymore.

Put children to bed, late.

WEDNESDAY

Awoken at 6am by cats fighting.

Just as well am awake as due to an apparent “typo” we have to be in Houston by 8.30, not 9.30

Get Baby Sister to bus and The Wictor to preschool, drive into Houston for language assessment. Arrive pumped with adrenalin, only 10 minutes late.

Return from Houston via McDonalds drive-thru. Call doctor. Doctor assigned by HMO is not taking new patients. Make several dozen phone calls to establish that another doctor can be seen in network. Make appointment.

Yell to the T-Bot “Twenty Minutes Free Time!!” Hear audible sigh.

Arrive at doctors. Receive tetanus booster. Receive antibiotics. Thank poor unfortunate Guy who ended up in hospital after a cat mauling for getting me to the doctors in this case, as doctor regales me with stories of people who have left cat bites to become infected and lost use of tendons, undergone microsurgery and worse.

Go to the supermarket, pick up younger kids. Go home. Binge on Tiramasu cookies. Spend the evening shuttling back and forth between bathroomed cat and resident cat. Cross fingers very hard that one day they will consent to share a litter box.

Forget children in the bath. Remember. Put them to bed, late.

THURSDAY

Trip to dentist mercifully uneventful. Drop Baby Sister off at school. Enroll the T-Bot at school. Rush to drop The Wictor off at his school before soccer at 9.30. Learn that soccer was at 8.30. Another Epic Parenting Fail. But one salvaged by the teacher who offers to get him in to the next class with the big kids.

This is why it pays to live somewhere where people are nice.

So by Thursday the schedule is slowing down. The T-Bot and I do school, supermarket, post office, pick up my license plates from Toyota (Hate them. Hate them.) Pick up The Wictor. Get home to find the fence missing from the next door neighbor’s house and a Fire Truck (FireTruck!) parked outside. There is a noise like a high pressure hose and the street is heavy with gas.

The fencer  ruptured the gas line.

Wear my sweatshirt over my face to pick up Baby Sister from the bus. Spend an hour listening to weeping, wailing, whining children and struggling to keep them in the house. Later I let them loose in the yard and struggle to keep The Wictor from playing with shards of fence and from leaping into the neighbor’s pool.

After dinner the FireTruck! returns. Stupidly promise the children (noses pressed to the window) that they can watch the FireTruck! until it leaves, and then have a bath. The FireTruck! does not leave for a long, long time.

Children weep and wail for a bath. Give up and go drink wine.

Remember children in the bath. Put them to bed, late.

FRIDAY:

So far mercifully uneventful. It is a running joke in this house that all I do all day is lounge on the couch watching Oprah and eating bonbons.

Sadly, I have not had time to watch Oprah this week (or indeed, since 1997).

Is she on a public channel? Next week is Spring Break. Maybe I should treat myself

1. Things Fit in a RAV-4

This morning we took the Mad Whip to “The Park without the Playground” (as opposed to “George Bush”, “George Bush with the Playground” and “Daddy’s Park” which are all totally different experiences). We were worried about the RAV-4 being smaller than the Explorer as we tried to cram in the customary 3 kids bikes, two scooters and a Wave Board. They all fit. They never fit like that in the Explorer.

2. Cheapest Mid-Life Crisis Vehicle Ever

No, not the RAV-4. The Wave . It was the T-Bot’s birthday present, but it is The Daddy who has become the Wave-Master. He likes to wiggle his way past us shouting in a mock California-Surf-Dude voice “THE WAVE!“. As he did this at the almost-deserted park this morning I yelled back “I don’t think you are quite at the stage where 19 year old girls are going to be throwing themselves at you!”.

We turned the corner and guess who was standing there, open-mouthed.

Yes.

A gaggle of 19 year old girls.

3. Un-co? Try Ice Skating!

I have been promising Baby Sister ice-skating for such a long time. This weekend we finally made it to the rink. After all, she is about to turn 6.

Baby Sister is one of the most uncoordinated people I know. She trips over her own feet, knocks over anything in her path and only has to turn the handlebars on her bike to fall off it.

A little harsh maybe But once at the rink she did what we like to call an “Aunty Natty“.

(Sorry, Aunty Natty, but I promise you it is a compliment!)

She listened to the instructions, got up on those skates, and in 30 minutes was skating like a pro.

4. Fish and Chips

Yesterday we were at the supermarket and The Daddy left us by the donuts to go get some fish for dinner.

He returned brandishing cod wrapped up in white paper.

“Look!” he said, “Cod! And look at the price! We are going to eat fish and chips tonight!!”

Next, he put potatoes in the cart.

And then he tossed a deep fat fryer in there. Not kidding.

And before I knew it, we were at the checkout and he was trying to Google a recipe on his iphone, to be sure we had not missed any ingredients:

“BBC Recipe Fish and Chips“, he murmured urgently into the phone.

“Ah, not again! ” he sighed, as Google brought up “fishing trips”.

We never did get all the ingredients, and had to improvise. But the fish and chips were yummy. Yummy, if not good for the waistline.

Also,  I had to burn scented candles for hours afterwards.

He is talking about frying home made donuts next.

I think if I sat and wrote for a million years, I would never finish recounting the events of the past ten days.

But I can always make a start: this past weekend I donated my SUV to the Salvation Army.

Here it is, being led away by a tow truck.

After almost two years of urging by The Daddy, I had to give it up. Because, although I was sentimentally attached to it, housed it, hand washed it and bought it anything it wanted (new battery and cables! new cooling system! sticky tires! new rear end! - and by that I mean a double hip replacement, not some sort of cheap fancy plastic surgery…) , it did not repay my love.

The sad and sudden end to our relationship began Tuesday afternoon outside Walgreens, when the T-Bot, The Wictor and I got back into the car only for it not to start.

Again.

My first thought? “This is a sign that I must stop visiting drugstores”. Because last time the car wouldn’t start it was parked outside CVS. And my mind works like that. I can make the connection between an emergency 9-pack of toilet tissue and $879 worth of repairs in the time it takes to click your fingers.

And clicking his fingers was no doubt what the Ford service advisor was doing as he processed my car. Clicking his fingers as he sang gaily “We’re in the money! We’re in the money! We gotta lotta whaddit takes to get along!” Although it took him precisely 30 hours to get to the point of gay abandon, at least over my particular car. Due to the fact that they had work “backed up” like nobody’s business.  Or like a clogged toilet. Choose the metaphor you prefer. Personally I choose the latter where my local Ford dealership is concerned, and yes I do consider it everybody’s business that you have sh*tty service, Ford. Actually I do.

(I would like to stop here to mention specifically the day I took my car in to Ford for an oil change appointment at 9am, informed the service advisor that I needed it back for the school run, was told it was no problem, heaved my 1 year old in his car seat into the courtesy bus, sat at home car less all morning, started calling at noon to be told each time that my car had “just gone into the shop” , requested the courtesy bus at 1.30, got into it at 2, and arrived to see my car parked out front. And then they told me there was nothing to pay - because they had not gotten around to doing the oil change yet.

I am not even going to go into the rear window hinge repair they did under a recall, during which they broke the hydraulic seal on the hinge and then refused to repair it because it was not covered under the recall. OK. I just went into it. Because I am mad.)

So, putting all rancor aside, before I could actually get my car to the service advisor I had to call some people I am very very familiar with. The AAA. I get on well with the AAA. We have been seeing each other quite regularly for over a year now. We are friends. They tow me. They don’t charge me (well, apart from my yearly membership fee) and we part company on good terms.

Then I went to see some other good friends of mine, Entreprise Rent a Car. Their office is on the Ford compound, you see. Which makes it very very convenient to rent a substitute car, at vast expense, every time my main ride refuses to start.

Only, not any more! This is how desperate I was to get rid of Ford, in fact, to never set foot on their premises again:

I took my family on vacation!

We spent two whole evenings at Disneyland! the Toyota Salesroom!

And we emerged with this:

(A stock photo! Because I am such an awesome Mom that I forgot to take a photo of my kids with the new car - until 10 minutes ago. At which point I discovered it was dark. And snowing.)

And yes, it may possibly take us hurtling down the highway with the throttle jammed open, who knows. I don’t take the hype all that seriously, considering the fact that for almost 5 years, until about 6 weeks ago actually, I was unknowingly driving a car which could have spontaneously combusted at any moment.

Or just randomly broken down.

So, here we are all happy happy happy, the car is quiet, just the right size and the seats are clean. I got free this and free that and even free oil changes. And it doesn’t guzzle gas.

It feels good - apart  from that big bruise on my shin where I keep kicking myself for not doing this earlier.

Can you say “Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish” here? Or does that sound like Hugh Grant should be mumbling it through his fringe?

Maybe, this being the USA, I have to say “Good Riddance to Bad Trash”?

Many many bloggers are taking part in Project 365 right now, taking lovely daily photos of their surroundings to impress the world.

I love getting a viewpoint of their daily life, whether it be their walk to work, or their kids.

Unfortunately you won’t see any daily photos from me anytime soon, but last night, after a stressful day which began by spilling a whole packet of couscous grains onto the kitchen floor, I felt relaxed enough to document a typical evening.

After seeing the results,

I think you will agree,

that Project 365 is not for me.

So, here goes:

Dinner Prep. The Fates are trying to tell me something. Probably that I am not meant to have a clean floor.

Moving on. Pre-dinner drinks to take away the stress of the endless sweeping:

First thought? I wish the beer companies would stop trying to be witty. That is not the slightest bit funny.

Oh…

I don’t think it says “p*ss off”. They actually want me to pry off the top.

I may need glasses.

The Daddy idly browses a magazine. Wonders if this homely looking specimen would agree to be our "au pair".

If you don’t get this, check out the photos on Great Au Pair, and count the number of applicants you would trust with your husband.

I promise, you have that many fingers.

It would be lovely to have an au pair though, because of this:

In the meantime there has been a lot of noise going on. No panic, it was just the kids trashing the upstairs lounge. So that's OK then.

Next, I try to distract myself from the mess by focusing on the cat. Or mostly, not focusing on the cat. To be fair, he is not a willing participant.

Smile, Fiji! I said smile, not sniff...

OK. Keep still animal, we’ll try one more time, OK?

Gee, thanks. Very attractive.

Whew. Dinner’s over, the kids are in bed, time for some peace and quiet.

Except, there’s a strange noise coming from the lounge.

It looks like we have an escapee…

...and he found himself a new toy.

Perfect end to a perfect evening.

Don’t you think?

Tomorrow is the 100th day of school and Baby Sister is supposed to go in dressed as a 100 year old lady.

Luckily we still have some silver hairspray left over from Halloween and she is going to wear her ballet tights ‘cos they go baggy.

“Hmm… ” I said, “…and I’ll see if I have something to paint some lines on you, to look like wrinkles”.

“Why?”,  she asked seriously.

“Because old people have wrinkles on their faces”

“Oh!” (studying me closely) “You mean like the ones on your face?”

“Yes. Like the (sigh)… ones on my face.”

“So you are going to draw wrinkles all over, all around my mouth and eyes -  just like yours?”

***

Talking of wrinkles, I have done something absurd. I just bought my first ever dryer.

To be fair, it is really only half a dryer - I bought the Euro model which as well as being half the price is a teeny tiny little number. I was hoping its small stature would encourage me to (cough) only use it when really needed or for emergencies, as my lack of dryer has, until now, been more or less my only contribution towards saving the environment.

But now I fear it will just have me swearing on a daily basis as I try to cram all the contents of my XXL Texas-Sized washer into it in one go.

And I bet all that cramming will negate the whole reason for the dryer, which was to eliminate wrinkles.

I mean, wrinkles in my clothes.

Seven years on, this $3.99 investment has really paid off.

Seen here on the inside of a closet door.

So that the monsters can’t escape into the bedroom at night.