Indulge Me.

A child's world is fresh and new and beautiful, full of wonder and excitement. It is our misfortune that for most of us that clear-eyed vision, that true instinct for what is beautiful and awe-inspiring, is dimmed and even lost before we reach adulthood.
Carson, Rachel

Good grief, do I ever love these kids.

Hair and Mayhem

I wanted a change. I wanted DRAH-MA! I wanted EXCITEMENT!

So I scheduled the appointment to get mah hair did.

I was thinking bright red, except that it couldn't be too red, because I don't have one of those pale-beautiful Irish complexions.

I was thinking perhaps strawberry blond. Joel used to be a ginger kid, after all.

I even briefly toyed with burgundy or Southern MD-fabulous skunk stripes.

In the end, I went with the advice of my friend, Joanne: "Just tell the colorist that you trust her, and let her do what she thinks looks good."

And so, without further ado...BEHOLD!

This is before:



And this is after:



Can't tell the difference? It's okay. Paul really couldn't either. Since, in the end, I'm both cautious and lazy, we did caramel highlights and darker lowlights.

In other words, I basically kept my same hair, but paid a little over $100 dollars to have her flat-iron it really nicely.

Here's a back angle. Squint and you'll see highlights:



And once more with ATTITUDE!:



In other news, a monster has spread poop all over my stairwell:



Moving on...

Question: What is best in life?

Answer: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.



It's on now, ants.

Finally, who doesn't love a baby eating ravioli?



I wish this was a one time thing, but Joel looks like this after most meals. It's hard to believe we have an ant problem...

Back to real posting tomorrow. Happy Labor Day!

Spooky

My brother Tom passed on this bit of spooky...

Me as a toddler:Owen as a toddler:

Boys...

The Boy...

Informs you, in between bites of sandwich, that he goes pee-pee in houseplants instead of in the toilet. You go upstairs to investigate. The plant, which you always forget to water, is flourishing, and the soil is damp. You call the husband to make sure that he did not water the plant. He says, "What plant?"

The Boy...

Stands in the kitchen, pajama top still on, naked from the waist down. You say, "Owen, let's get your pants and underwear on."

He replies, "Not yet, Mommy, I'm still touching my pee-pee." (This is the entry Owen will point to when he enters therapy).

The Boy...

Really misses Grandma and Grandpa's house. Especially their front-loading washer. Owen will sit in front of it, using a stool as a chair. He'll watch the water slosh and the clothing toss. It's better than any movie. He loves it so much that he pulls rugs off the floor and towels from the racks to create more laundry. This gets old very quickly.

The Other Boy...

Has discovered the insane joyousness of Cheerios. You place some Cheerios on the high chair tray, and then sit back and watch Joel scarf them down, stopping periodically to smile at the awesomeness.

Owen has now rediscovered Cheerios, and because Joel eats them, they are The Coolest Things Ever.

Boys....

Are great. Matching monkey jammies? Wrestling? (By the way, they don't look alike at all, do they? Owen is mini-me, Joel is mini-Paul).

I was told...

...that I posted a bad picture of Joel. Here's some cute ones to make up for it:

Six Months

Joel is six months old today.


Six months ago, it was muggy, the kind of day where the air feels like damp curtains. Today, the sky is blue, and the snow crunches under your feet.


Six months ago, Paul and I kissed our only child goodbye, and left him with his grandparents. Today, Owen wakes up, runs downstairs and asks, "Where is my baby brother?"



Six months ago, Paul stopped at Starbucks on the way to the hospital. The man has his priorities straight. Today, Paul stopped at Starbucks on his way to work. The man still has his priorities straight.



Six months ago, I was the first of my pregnant friends to have her second baby. Today, Joel, Austin, and Evan lay on the floor next to each other, wiggling and squirming, while their older siblings play.



Six months ago, I wore elastic maternity shorts. Today, I wear a size six (if I don't mind marks on my tummy).



Six months ago, I fretted that I couldn't possibly love another like I love Owen. Today, those fears seem comical.


Six months ago, Michael Phelps hadn't won eight gold medals. Today, people ask him, "Now what are you going to do?"




Six months ago, there was an earthquake in Chino Hills, CA and a smaller, but much more meaningful earthquake in a delivery room in Prince Frederick, MD. Today, my world is still shaking.



Six months ago, I did not know Joel. My boy. My love. Today, my heart is full, my dream is here, and I thank God every day for changing my world...six months ago.

Snowy Images

It's snowing. I'm looking out the window and seeing actual fluffy snow, falling down from the sky and sticking to the deck. This is a big deal, because Maryland is cold, windy, and gray, but rarely provides residents with the pay off of pretty snow.

Here are some pictures of our day:





Owen's preparing to go outside. No, he's not channeling Heath Ledger. He licks his lips constantly, and despite our arsenal of lotions, chapsticks, and creams, he has two smiles.







Even though Owen will turn three in a month, this is the first time he has played in real snow. We attempted to play with a dusting of sleet last year, but it just wasn't the same. My mother has purchased snow suits and ski bibs for him since he was a baby. This is the first time he has ever worn one. He called it his "snow costume."




We don't have a sled, because we just don't. I called Paul asking what I could use as a makeshift sled (since I'm no longer at college, I couldn't use a tray from the dining hall). He suggested a storage box. Genius.




I think he liked it.

Finally, a shout out to Joel, who slept through the entire snow adventure. Yes, he is a second child, because Owen's in the picture, too.

Occupational Hazards

When I taught English in Tucson, a girl was hired maybe two years after I arrived. She was, and for all I know, still is "quirky." She wore the hipster uniform of black, clunky glasses, clogs, striped tights, and cardigans (this was several years ago, granted). Whatever she taught, be it To Kill a Mockingbird, thesis statements, prepositional phrases, or propaganda, it always, always tied back to memorable episodes of Scooby Doo. When I met her, I instantly assumed that she would be a hit with the students. I was wrong.

I say this with no trace of smugness. Being hated, for long or short bursts of time, is an occupational hazard of teaching middle school. There was one student, (I still remember her name, but will not share it), that hated me with an intensity I've never encountered before or since. She sneered at me, whispered comments about me, dropped off her homework with a derisive huff, and told any teacher that would tolerate it that she "Was going to get [her] father to get Ms. Mohrman fired." (PS--That's me, pre-marriage).

So, whatever. At the time, it bothered me a little. Okay, way too much. "Why doesn't she liiiiiikkkkkkee me? " I would whine to then-boyfriend Paul. In my defense, it was my second year teaching. I was twenty-three years old. My skin was pretty thin. You could see the veins and internal organs through it. I mean, it was thin.

Life moved on, her father didn't get me fired, and we eventually drifted to our different stations in life. In January 2008, Paul and I returned to Tucson, after a four year hiatus. We stayed with friends, Paul ran a marathon, Owen saw cactus, we were warm. It was great.

One afternoon, we were at this sandwich place, Baggins. We were eating our sandwiches, and enjoying the complimentary chocolate chip cookies, when the former student walked in. She must have been in her first or second year of college, but her distinctive features (cough, nose, cough) gave her away. I know she saw me, too, because she looked me in the eye, gasped, and turned to her friend and loudly announced, "We need to go. There's something that smeelllllls in here!"

Really. I wish I was making this up.

So, again---being detested is simply part of the job when you choose to work with adolescents. Most of my students liked me, and I certainly enjoyed their company, too. I think I was a good teacher, with my own blind spots and areas to grow.

Which is why I'm not smug, thinking about the hipster teacher. She had a soft voice, an intense fear of germs, and a honest fear that the kids pounced upon, shredding her like a pride of lions on the African Savanna. But, she asked for help, took advantage of opportunities, showed up each day, and earned their attention, if not their respect. I wonder if she's still teaching, and if so, if she likes it. Is each day another adventure on the Mystery Machine or are her plans still thwarted by those meddling kids?

Odds and Ends Section
* I started this post planning to talk about my recent obsession with hand washing and hand sanitizer, which is what made me think of hipster teacher. This is what came out. Isn't the brain funny?
*Confession Time: I listen to music that has bad words in it when it's just Joel in the car. It's not like his mind is being shaped and formed at an astonishing rate or anything. Why shouldn't a five month old be exposed to the poetic stylings of Ol' Dirty Bastard?
*Owen has taken to saying things like, "Mommy, I have something important to tell you!" or "Mommy, stop doing that. It's time to listen to Owen!" With a set-up like that, it must be important right? No. Once I have his full attention, he usually says things like, "Fleagul."
*My girlfriends and I talk about the three doctors at our pediatric practice the way that the young folks talk about Lauren, Audrina, and Spencer on MTV's The Hills
*I've felt like the Grinch, removing the decorations during Owen's nap times to avoid potential meltdowns. He came downstairs after a nap, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and cried, "What happened to the ornaments?" I tell him that Santa came while he was sleeping, and took all the ornaments away to clean them. He pondered this, then said, "Santa better not take my easel!"

Making this the longest post ever: Gratuitous Pictures!





This is from the infamous Tucson trip.
The giraffe attempted to French-kiss Owen.
See me smiling. "Go on, honey. Touch the filthy
animal with the eight foot long tongue."

No, things aren't normal yet

I have an icky, post-holiday hangover. Everything has been too much. I want to rummage through my drawers and cabinets, and get rid of the clutter. All sweets must go in the trash can. Old toys and worn out clothing must leave the house. I'm ready to get rid of the tree and box up the decorations.

I. Am. Done.

It's an itchy feeling, not having things where they belong. I need to have some organization. It's the German in me. Joel may be crying, and Owen needs me to find the special, purple van (which is the only acceptable van to play with despite the fact that there are 2000 bazillion cars on every flat surface of the house), yet I still find the time to put my silverware away just so.

It's been a stressful few days. I was at my in-law's house. Owen and his cousin (while, really, doing an admirable job for being two) were often on the verge of a turf battle over cars, Legos, books, oxygen, chairs, affection, etc...We all should have worn black and white shirts and whistles.


Joel was five months old, and generous with the late-night awakenings.

I was tired most of the time and attempting to show everybody that Nothing Had Changed, and I was just as capable of attending to conversations, using my mind, pitching in. I wasn't.

This morning, (still at my in-law's house) I woke up around 6:30 (Joel had been up at 4, and 6, and was snoozing again), walked into the kitchen, and mumbled something nasty and passive-aggressive to Paul. He told me that I needed to go back to bed until I could be nice. I complied, after some grumbling. Paul took Joel to the coffee shop, and some relatives watched Owen.

I slept until 9:30, then sat in bed, listening to the boys playing, the hiss of the sausage cooking, the sound of my sister-in-law chit-chatting with my father-in-law. This is the part of the post where I'm supposed to have some epiphany about how lucky I am to have family members that take care of me, and how much better I felt after sleeping in. But that would be a lie. Here's reality: I couldn't summon the energy to play nice, to smile, to play with Owen, to listen to "Fox and Friends" on continuous loop. I. Couldn't. Do. It.

So, I hid. I pulled the covers over my head and dreamed of quiet, sunny kitchens, with well organized drawers and spotless surfaces.



Totally gratuitous shot of Joel (see how he's sitting up now!)

Christmas and the King

Stephen King once told an interviewer that he writes every single day, "Except Christmas and my birthday."

Years later, in his memior, On Writing, he admitted that he actually did write every day of the year---including his birthday and Christmas. He said he told the interviewer that he took those days off so he wouldn't appear to be a workaholic weirdo.

Well, Stephen, I think that ship sailed a long, long time ago.

A Digression: On Writing is an excellent text for anybody who writes or teaches writing. I learned from Mr. King that adverbs ARE THE ENEMY. Instead of using a lazy adverb as characterization, the writer needs to show the characterization through actions.

An example:

Bad, evil use of adverb: "Hello there," he said nervously.

Better use of Showing, Not Teling: "Hello there," he said, swifting from one foot to the other, his right hand trembling.

See?

Anyway, I may possibly follow the advice of Stepen King (or his pretend advice, anyway), and not blog for a day or two. In light of this, here's my Christmas gift to you:

Silent Night. Holy Night. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, a shepherd, a donkey, a sheep, a dinosaur, a giraffe, a mountain lion, and a jaguar. That would be Owen's nativity.

Merry Christmas, everyone!