If you give a baby a bite of your peach...

And the baby in question is my baby...you'd better be prepared to surrender the peach. Or there will be consequences.

nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom

The same baby who turned her nose up at ground peaches will demand your peach, or there will be blood. Did you not see her two new baby teeth? Oh wait, you didn't. They were buried in the peach. Trust me, they're there. They're small, white, and surprisingly sharp. And she knows how to use them. It may have been the most beautiful, ripe, luscious peach you've had in months, but you will surrender it willingly, because look how much joy it has brought into her life.

Said baby will eat the peach until there is nothing but pit. Then she will require an impromtu sink bath.

Hi Grandpa!

Just a peek into our marriage

So last week we were busy. Actually every week is busy. We've been so busy this past month. I feel like I'm hitting the ground running each morning and I don't stop until I fall into bed from exhaustion at the end of the day. And of course with Sweet Pea my day doesn't end there. No there's still a three a.m. feeding and a six a.m. wake up call to look forward to. More night wakings lately while she's either teething or going through the worst case of separation anxiety I have ever heard of. We either picked the exact wrong moment in her development to move her entire world around resulting in her screaming every time we so much as think about putting her down, or she's teething. There's drool, so I hope it's teething. But that's neither here nor there. (And in a side note I did take her to the ped to be sure there isn't something medically wrong. She gave me the oh-so-helpful advice to stop picking her up, she'll stop crying eventually *insert eye roll here*).

To get back to my story, we were busy. After running and cleaning and decorating and unpacking all day we found ourselves at Wal-Mart at 6:00 p.m. to buy Meaty a poster for his "All About Me" project. We wearily climbed into the car and assessed our dinner options. We could either go home and cook dinner, or since it was so late and we were oh-so-tired, and we WERE right there beside Chipotle so it wouldn't be wasting any gas (we're so good at this justifying thing) we could wipe out the rest of our checking account and buy dinner. Guess which one we chose!

So The Greatest hit the nearest ATM for some cash. After retrieving his wallet from the baby (she loves to flash the badge at people, Respect Her Authoritie!) he frantically flipped through it's contents, only to declare a moment later that his debit card was missing. The wallet is not one that the debit card could have fallen out of, even with the baby's enthusiastic waving. It had to have been removed. We quickly searched the car, but alas, nothing. I was just about to ask The Greatest where he last used the card when he turned on me. It was like a pit bull turning on its naive, loving, unsuspecting owner. I never saw this coming. He demanded to know what I had done with his debit card.

What the heck? I know how the division of labor works in our relationship. I lose things. I search. I get upset. I frantically search some more. I give up. I call in the search and rescue team, otherwise known as The Greatest. He finds my lost thing for me and finds my talent for placing things in new and increasingly creative "safe places" endearing. I understand I am the designated "loser-of-things" and he is the designated "finder-of-my-lost-things." But I tend to only lose MY things. And I've got my own debit card, which is not lost, but safely in MY wallet. Why would I even have touched his debit card in the first place?

I was furious at the unfounded allegations. And I told him so. I ripped into him. I tore him up one side and down the other. I tersely informed him that I was not in charge of his possessions. I did not lose his card and I resented the implication that if something was missing it must be my fault. I'm not the only one capable of losing things. Sometimes he makes mistakes too you know. And, by the way, why did he think I had his debit card in the first place when I have one of my own, which was not missing. I felt righteous in my anger. I had been unfairly accused with no proof. I was just fuming.

He murmured a soothing apology. He told me I was right and he was sorry. I was placated.

Now The Greatest is not only the love of my life, my best friend, the father of my children, and the finder of my lost things. He is also my Sugar Daddy! I rarely carry my wallet when I am out with him, so while my debit card was safely tucked in my wallet, my wallet was safely tucked into the diaper bag at home. So broke and defeated we headed home without dinner.

As we drove home I remembered something very important. I remembered I am afraid of heights.

See the universe has a hobby. It loves to knock me down off my high horse. If I climb up on it in my righteous anger I will ALWAYS be knocked right off. It has made me humble and scared of heights. I very rarely get all puffed up and confrontational angry because of this. But guess where I was triumphantly sitting! That's right. I was right on top of my pretty high horse. With a sinking feeling I knew that somehow, I didn't know quite how, but somehow this was going to be my fault. I had a sudden memory from our last shopping trip. In my memory I was standing by the register at Wal-Mart. I had scanned a card, and had paused to remember The Greatest's PIN which is different from my own.

Well, crap.

Was this a real memory or my imagination? It seemed pretty real.

Softly I mumbled "There might be a chance I used your debit card."

Very matter-of-factly he replied "I know."

"I might have used it last time we bought groceries."

"I know"

"I might have stuck it in the back pocket of my pants, that's what I always do with my card."

"I know."

Feeling a little defensive I vainly declared "But I might have handed it back to you. This still might not be my fault."

He was gracious. He agreed I still might not have the missing card.

We got home and I raced up the stairs to find the pants I wore the last time we went shopping. I prayed the card wouldn't be there, but had little faith my prayer would be answered. I dug the pants in question out of the laundry pile. I saw right way there was indeed a rectangular square in the back pocket.

Well, crap.

As I pulled the card from my pocket I had frantic thoughts of slipping it into The Greatest's junk drawer. He'd find it there eventually and I could claim it had been there all along. Then I looked at the card I now held in my hand. It was Sweet Pea's insurance card (I told you I'd recently taken her to the Dr.).

VINDICATION. I DIDN'T HAVE THE DEBIT CARD.

I hadn't lost the card after all. I was still unfairly accused. The Greatest was WRONG!

I grabbed my wallet and raced to the car, waving the insurance card triumphantly. This was not my fault. The Greatest was disappointed I didn't have his card, not because he wanted to be right, but because now he had no idea where it might be. I promised to call the bank the next day. Despite the fact that we were now home and should probably go inside and make dinner we set out in search of the ATM and Chipotle once again.

I was so relieved and elated at not having the debit card. But I grew wary. Stay off the horse I told myself. This still might turn out to be my fault somehow. I wasn't sure how at this point it could be my fault, but the possibility still existed. I poked through the diaper bag to be sure the missing card was not contained in the depths therein.

Nope, no card.

Then I opened my wallet to be sure that MY debit card was in fact still safely within it's imitation leather form. It was. And nestled safely and carefully beside my debit card was The Greatest's debit card.

Well, crap.

And I remembered. In a flash I remembered the entire incident. The last time we went to Wal-mart The Greatest was loading bagged groceries into our cart. I was by the register holding Sweet Pea, who was tired from a long morning of looking cute in a grocery cart. The Greatest handed me his debit card to swipe since I was closer to the swiper-thingie (that's the technical term for it). He was too busy to take it back, and I didn't want to throw it in my back pocket where it could be lost, so I dug out my wallet from the depths of the diaper bag and carefully placed it where it would be safe and un-lost. Have assured that his possession was in "a safe place" I promptly forgot all about it.

This was my fault.

"Honey..."

"Yes Dear"

I can not describe what it took to say these next words outloud, but somehow I managed to humbly choke them out.

"I have your debit card."

He didn't say a word. But he grinned. He sat there driving down the road looking so smug and self-righteous.

"I hate you."

Well that prompted him to call me by my first and middle name.

"How can you say such a thing?"

"Because you're so smug and self-righteous..."

In my smallest voice I added "and always right."

He almost crashed the car reaching for his hand-held recorder.

Deep Dark Secrets

We all have them. Things about ourselves, or our past, that we don't want others to know. Things we'd rather not admit to anyone, not even ourselves. Hidden parts of our soul. Before you get all excited and start thinking I'm gonna get deep and reveal something about myself, let me clarify. No. This post isn't about one of MY deep dark secrets. Oh no. This is about The Greatest.

The other day I discovered one of his deep dark secrets. Something I had never known about him. Information I can now use against him. Information I will bring up in arguments that have nothing what-so-ever to do with the secret, but hearing it said out loud will fluster him, turn the conversation off-track and allow me to get my way (yes, sometimes I fight dirty, now you do know a deep dark secret about me). And of course, like a good wife, I'm going to splash it all over the Internet.

There had always been signs. He saved the Burger King Kids Meal figurines of Darth Vader and his Storm Troopers. They've sat on his desk for several years now. Despite being a cop, The Greatest has always like the bad guys better than the good guys (they have more fun), so I thought this was just an off-shoot of that obsession.

When my Little Brother introduced us to M.C. Chris and The Greatest's favorite song was Fetts's Vette I should have suspected. But I was clueless, I thought it was a fun song too.

And the other day when we were walking in Wal-Mart, and I saw a Star Wars display and make a joke about it, and he very tersely informed me that we owned all the "good" Star Wars movies, I only briefly wondered when we'd purchased so many Star Wars movies. I didn't ponder the fact that we owned four, and that The Greatest had given the movies enough thought to actually classify some as good and others as not good.

I was so clueless. The signs were all there. Surely you can put the pieces together. But I was in denial. Either too busy to see, or perhaps too much in denial to admit what was right before my eyes.

But I can no longer deny it no longer. Yesterday the truth was thrown in my face.

We're decorating Meaty's room. He's growing into such a big boy, and it is time for a big boy room. Our new house has terrible olive green carpet.

Just look at it. If our appraisal hadn't clearly stated that our house was built in 2005 I would have thought this carpet was original from the 70s. We knew we wouldn't be able to replace the carpet for several years, so we've decided to make it work for us. We're going with an army sort of theme in Meaty's room. Blue walls with olive green carpet. We've got a framed poster of Master Chief on his wall and I'm scouring the Internet for some camo bedding (none of that new pixalated junk, I'm looking for some old school color blobs). We decided it would be cool to hang airplanes and helicopters from his ceiling with fishing line. And wouldn't you know it, we've got a box in the garage just full of The Greatest's childhood toys. He swore the box contained old G.I. Joe airplanes we could use.

So we pull this box out of the garage and open it to discover that there were indeed several G.I. Joe airplanes and helicopters and every last one of them was broken and missing pieces. Junk. So glad we hauled this box across the country on a moving truck that was packed to the gills and where every box counted. I'm so glad we gave all our baby clothes to Goodwill so we could bring this box with us instead. But I'm not bitter. I'm really not, well, mostly I'm not. For the things that were also contained within the box made it all worth it.

First he pulled out this

Then this

And this

And these

And finally came the...





Are you ready for it?




THE EWOK VILLAGE!

At first I was stunned, running a mental tally of how much we could make if we sold them on ebay. But when The Greatest reacted with horror to the idea of selling them I realized the truth. With frightening clarity I realized the aweful horrible truth.

THE GREATEST IS A STAR WARS GEEK!

He has saved all his Star Wars toys from his childhood, and unlike the G.I. Joe things, these were all intact, not a tiny plastic piece out of place. I teased him, calling him a geek, telling him I would have to blog this, taking pictures of it all. Normally he can take some teasing, he doesn't take himself too seriously. But he got all (to quote his favorite phrase) "butt-hurt" and was strangely defensive, informing that he was only five years old when he played with these toys.

Yet he had saved them all these years, carted them all over the country, refused to part with them.

Then he turned his back on me and proceeded to take out all his "action figures" and line them up on the counter according to their alliance with the light or the dark side. Then when he was done, while I was putting the baby down for a nap, he took pictures for me. I guess the one I took

weren't good enough to document them for posterity.

His photos look like this

The best G.I. Joe plane was given to Meaty to play with and finish destroying as only a five year old boy can. The Star Wars toys were all lovingly re-packed and returned to the garage.

I still love the man. I now know one of the darker corners of his soul and can over look, maybe even forgive this new facet of who he is. It's possible I might love him even more for this. But what's truly frightening? The kind of frightening that keeps you awake at night? My FATHER is an admitted Star Wars geek. Does anyone remember this post? Scary!

Connected at last

These past ten days without Internet or phone have been torture! Pure Torture! I have so few vices left. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't snort drugs. I don't even drink caffeinated soda anymore, it's caffeine-free diet coke with a shot of lime juice for me these days (although honestly, if I'm going to drink something with no calories, and no caffeine, I should just grow up and drink water). Really my Internet addiction is all I've got. And man, I needed a fix. I was ready to go to the public library just to use the Internet. But all my websites are saved in my favorites, so without my favorite bar I was afraid I'd end up wandering the Internet helplessly, sobbing over the keyboard because I couldn't find my friends. Rather than make a spectacle of myself, sobbing in the library, I did without. I'm so glad that blip in my life is over. The Greatest and I did discover two things about ourselves.

1. That we really don't have much to say to one another after ten years of marriage. We NEED TV to fill the silence and

2. We really need to buy some new movies. We couldn't find a DVD to watch after the kids went to bed that we hadn't already memorized.

But we survived to tell the tale! The moving day went fairly well. It didn't rain, and the tree was miraculously gone from our driveway Saturday morning. There was one rather large glitch. Due to circumstances beyond our control we ended up with no moving truck. We moved our entire house with a Ford Expedition. Which means it was slow going. We moved furniture over the course of an entire week. There are still a few odds and ends at the rental house, and a ton of dust bunnies. I thought I was a fairly decent housekeeper, yet I was still disgusted by what we found behind the TV stand. As soon as I clean the rental house and turn the keys back in this mess will officially be over. But I'm so unmotivated to clean. I've got a very large, very wet, distraction in the backyard.

We're getting settled in our house, mostly unpacked, finding places for all our things. Our computer is now tucked in a corner in the dining room. It overlooks the dining room, the family room, and the kitchen. I can simultaneously keep an eye on the children AND completely neglect them. I thought it was going to be perfect. I was so anxious to blog once our Internet was finally connected, but I hit a new obstacle. Sweet Pea is teething. She refuses to be set down or she sobs like her heart is broken and shall never be whole again. So no blogging until nap time. No problem. Since the computer is no longer in the baby's room I CAN blog during nap time. It was going to be perfect. Teething baby got sleepy. I took her upstairs for a rock-and-cuddle, and slipped her peacefully into her crib. I returned downstairs with my head full of blogging ideas, only to find this (and I've tried four times to rotate the picture, stupid photobucket, you know the drill, turn your head to the side).

This might be problematic. The girl is a computer genius. She's got mad skillz with a mouse. She hogged the computer all day long yesterday. I couldn't even entice her to let go of the mouse and go for a dip in the pool. She spent the entire day on Noggin. She is truly my child. I fear someday soon I shall find her hunched over the keyboard muttering and hissing at anyone foolish enough to make a grab for the mouse. Wonder if I can distract her from the keyboard by teaching her how to knit?

As I type she stands by my side informing me that my turn is over and it is now her turn. I have so much to share. It will have to wait until tomorrow.

It's Moving Day!!!!!

And here in the desert it is predicted to rain today!

Of course it is!

It wouldn't be moving day without rain!

In fact we had a terrible storm the other night and it blew over the little tree in the front yard of our rental. It is now residing in our driveway. I've called our property management company and they have promised to send over a landscaper to remove it. In the meantime we get to carry our furniture out of the house, around the tree, and then into a truck. Possibly in the rain. Should be a fun day!

And the cable company's system was down when I called to move our services (phone, Internet, cable). So I might be out of touch for quite a while.

See you when this mess is mercifully over.

Bittersweet

I look forward to this time of year every year. In fact I have declared it to be BETTER THAN CHRISTMAS. But this year it just kinda snuck up on me. I mean it was only August 6th for goodness sakes. Isn't this supposed to take place closer to Labor Day?

I suspect some of my gentle readers are a bit mystified. What could I be talking about that takes place near Labor Day and is better than Christmas? Labor day is possibly one of the worst holidays of the year. Sure it's a day off work for those who are gainfully employed, but there's no barbeque's like Memorial Day. No fireworks like the Fourth of July. There's no special food or candy like all the "big" holidays. There isn't even the expectation of the exchange of meaningless cards like Valentine's day. No Labor Day is a useless holiday good only for sleeping-in (which in itself makes the day worthwhile but certainly not better than Christmas). But the event to which I refer is not Labor Day itself, but usually takes place NEAR Labor Day. I am of course referring to *dun,dun, duuuuuummmmmmm*

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!

That glorious day where Parents scrub three months of dirt off their children, put them in new clothes that are presentable and slightly too big, and send them off for someone else to deal with for eight hours of the day. It is a glorious day that signals the end of the endless months of bickering that are the summer. Or at least when they bicker they're doing it somewhere else. *sigh* I love the first day of school.

In the past I have only had to scrub down Pork Chop and send her on her merry way. She loves school. She loves books, and music classes, and learning. She loves recess, and gym, and lunch with her friends. She loves everything about it. At school she shines. I send her forth into the world with confidence that she will brighten what ever corner she lands in.

But this year was different. I sent my little man as well.

I was not as prepared to send him forth into the world. The kindergarten questionnaire asked what your child does not like. I wrote "sharing." The Greatest and I are quite certain we will get to know the Principal on a first name basis this year, and it won't be at the awards ceremony (which is the only time we see the Principal with Pork Chop).

So with great trepidation we took Meaty to buy a new shirt for the first day of school. We stood in the aisle for ten minutes while he painfully selected the perfect backpack (because you know, the earth might implode if he makes the wrong decision). We gave him the traditional going-to-school shearing. After five years with him we had done all we could to prepare him to go forth into the world of academics.

Yesterday was the first day of school. Since it was the first day of school I walked Meaty to his classroom. The kindergartners have their own fenced playground. They swarmed around it in their striped polo shirts and neatly-pressed dressed. They weren't playing together, but they were nervously eye-ing one another. Meaty had been dying to play on the equipment. I gave my consent, he handed me his most-perfect-of-perfect backpacks, and with nary a backwards glance he was gone. I watched him disappear in the sea of shiny-faced little ones and something in my chest broke. Possibly an apron string? A connection I had with my little man that was mine and mine alone. He is no longer mine. He is his own.

I am excited for him. All the things he will learn, the friends he will make, the adventures he will have. I know he will grow and blossom and shine, like his sister but also not like his sister, he'll shine in his own special way. I'm excited to watch him grown and continue to be part of creating who he will be when he is all done. But as I watched him go, for a minute, just for a minute, I want to fold his long little boy legs up in my lap and keep him there forever, smelling his sweet puppy dog scent (side note, why does he smell like a wet puppy after he's had a bath?).

When the bell rang the Principal did make an appearance on the playground. He told us all to go home. He assured us that the school had our phone number on file and would call us if there was a problem. I spent the day anxiously awaiting a phone call. But no call came. At 1:15 (it was early release) I went to the school to pick up my children. Aside from one little snag where school was over and Meaty just left instead of staying in the kindergarten fence to wait for me (imagine my surprise when I found him down past the parking lot by the road) we all survived the first day of school. Pork Chop declared her teacher to be the best teacher EVER. And Meaty has consented to return (which is really all I was hoping for at this point).

So the first day of school was surprisingly bitter sweet this year. Exciting for all they'll learn and do. Melancholy to watch them grow. The paradox of being a parent.

Odds and Ends

I am exhausted. E.X.H.A.U.S.T.E.D! We've done so much work on the new house, and there's still so much to do. But I do feel like we've gotten over the half-way mark, and we're sprinting towards the finish line. We're so ready to move over there and have this all over with. The Greatest is working like a man possessed. I'm actually grateful he's working two twelve hour shifts at his "real job" in the next two days so I can proceed at a more relaxed pace. I'm still going to go over and work on the house without him, but I'm going to stop around noon to feed the kids lunch, instead of, oh, I don't know, THREE! And I might take an hour off in the afternoon so Sweet Pea can take a decent nap in her own crib instead of a fifteen minute cat nap on my shoulder. (It is a true sign of what a bad sleeper she is when I consider an hour to be a decent nap. This kid does not like to sleep).

Speaking of Sweet Pea, she's mobile. She isn't crawling in the traditional form, but she does get around. It's a cross between an army crawl and a bear crawl. It's not graceful, and it looks awfully labor intensive, but it gets her where she wants to go so she is thrilled. She's also mastered going from a sitting up to crawling, and now she's working on the reverse action. It's so fun to watch her on the floor trying to puzzle it all out. We think she successfully executed the maneuver, but of course neither of us were watching. We just know she was on her hands and knees trying to sit up, and a few minutes later she was sitting up. Whether there was intervention in the form of Pork Chop, or if she did it all on her own, we just don't know. She's eating everything we set in front of her. We have yet to find a food she will not eat. Until last night her favorite was avocado, but last night we gave her watermelon. She was shoving those tiny red cubes of heaven in her mouth as fast as her chubby hands would move, often smashing pieces into her cheek in her impatience to get more in her mouth. I may have to have watermelon on hand for the rest of the season, it made her so happy.

There's been knitting, but not much in the past few days. I've knit another pair of pants for Sweet Pea for this winter. I'm almost done with a matching sweater for her pants. This obsession with baby pants really is threatening to grow out of control. But for the moment exhaustion is keeping the obsession in check.

And just for the record. I did not intentionally do a bad job on painting. I am just naturally bad at it. It takes a certain degree of hand eye co-ordination, which surprisingly, despite all my knitting, I lack. It might also require general body co-ordination, which I also lack. I did help The Greatest paint our family room the other day when his friend from work failed to show up to help. When I dropped my wet roller on the only six inches of flooring not covered by a plastic drop cloth he didn't even say a word to me. But I notice he found other places for me to be when he painted the kitchen. I try.

And Stephanie. I did not paint Pork Chop's room. I picked out the color, I went with him to buy the paint, then I hung out with my Mom while The Greatest painted. Mom and I did hang the border in Pork Chop's room, but my hands were paint free. I did help steady the ladder while The Greatest was painting the stairs. But he had half the ladder held up by a cook book and a box of Tide. He needed supervision. Not that I could have done anything but watch him fall to his death when the Tide box broke, but at least I would have been near him during his final moments on earth. Again my hands were paint free. And when I made him paint the master bedroom, only to turn around two days later and declare the color (which I picked out) "hideous" and made him re-paint the room, again, my hands were paint free. It is a true testament to his love for me that our marriage survived that little incident. But don't worry, I've made up for it lately. My hands, my hair, my feet, my arms, my legs, my tummy (??!), my clothes, and even the baby (who was in the sling while I painted) have all been covered in paint. Only the two story living room/stairway, and two bathrooms to go, and the painting will be done! And the garage. The Greatest wants to paint his garage and *shrug* I'm not about to get between a man and his garage.

A Talent I Lack

Things are going well at the new house. Even though we haven't moved in yet we've been swimming almost everyday. I'm starting to think we've purchased the world's most expensive pool pass. We just show up whenever we feel like it to swim. The kids are getting so tan. Even the baby, who swims in the buff, is getting tan lines in her fat wrinkles. Work inside the house is moving fairly quickly, but I'm so impatient to move-in that the progress feels glacially slow.

We started out with the Greatest taping rooms and painting while the children and I washed walls. Sweet Pea was along for the ride in the sling which meant I couldn't get up on a ladder to reach the tops of the walls or bend over to reach the bottom of the walls. The children (and by children I mean Pork Chop, the middle two mostly threw the wet rags at one another) washed the bottom portion of the walls, while the Greatest came in and got the top portions. We managed to wash all four bedrooms and both bathrooms upstairs the first day, not to mention painting Meaty's room. Not bad for a days work. Since I didn't have to bend over, or get up on a ladder this arrangement was working really well for me.

I had to go and open my big mouth and ruin it.


As The Greatest and I lay in bed that night chatting about how it went and what we hoped to get done the next morning I mentioned that in all the years of marriage, in all the places we had lived and painted, I had yet to pick up a roller. I'd never roller-ed, edged, or even opened a paint can. I didn't tape, or remove tape. I had almost nothing to do with the actual painting of a room, and couldn't really recall ever painting in my life. Why, oh why, did I feel the need to open my mouth? I could have taken that little tidbit of information to the grave with no one being harmed in the process. But no, the words were out of my mouth before I realized the full implication of them.

The Greatest had never realized this inequality of the workload. He didn't know I didn't know how to paint and that if left to my own devices I might forever live in a house with paint picked out by the previous owner, not for lack of desire to change the paint color, but for lack of a starting point on where to begin. But honestly, look at it from my viewpoint. If I'm painting, who is watching the children? It's not like I was sitting on my butt knitting while he was painting all those other houses. Alright, maybe I was sitting on my butt knitting while he was painting some of those houses, but I was also tending to the children. And it's not like I was sitting on my butt knitting while he was painting THIS house, our dream house, our forever house. I was in the other room, sweating with no a/c, washing walls. I was working too.

But it was too late to plead my case in my own defense. The damage had been done. The Greatest had determined that I would paint Pork Chops room the next day. And nothing I could say would dissuade him.

So the next morning I dressed in old clothes that I could throw away without shedding tears over. I managed to get Sweet Pea down for a nap (the only nap she's taken at the new house) and with a deep breath I prepared to paint.

Now The Greatest was kind. He taped the room. He laid out plastic to protect the carpet. He carefully edged the ceiling for me. He showed me how to load paint on the roller and how to roll it on the wall. The he showed me how to roller more slowly when I splattered myself on my first attempt by rolling too quickly. He gave me the sturdy ladder because I don't like heights and can't reach the upper wall with a chair anyways (I'm not that short, the walls are that tall). He then turned me loose.

This was a mistake of epic proportions.

I managed to paint everything but the walls. I could frequently be found swearing and grabbing an edge of my shirt to wipe paint off of places it didn't belong. I got paint on the door jamb, the window frame, the window, the closet door jamb, the carpet, my hair, and my shoes (that were in the room, but not on my feet). My white t-shirt was completely pink from all the wiping I did, and somehow I got paint on my tummy as well, whether it was transfer from the shirt, or if I rubbed against a wet wall when I was trying to wipe off paint from somewhere it didn't belong, I can not say.

As I stepped in a three inch puddle of paint I don't recall dripping on the floor I had a flash-back. I HAD painted before.

When I was fourteen or fifteen I was sent away for a week of "camp." This was a "character building" experience where the youth were spending a week fixing up an old campground. It was "service to the community." It was going to make me a better person. It was slave labor!

I was painting a cabin. But I wasn't any good at it back then either. The story was the same. Paint on everything but where it belonged. Paint in my hair. And I stepped in paint back then too. Only that time it was a gallon of paint, that I stepped in and spilled. I was such a disaster they sent me to go swimming. They didn't even re-assign me a new task. They just sent me out of the way. I was such a poor clumsy little girl. Is it any wonder I've worked so hard to repress memories like these?

But I survived "camp" and I survived painting Pork Chop's room. It is now a monstrosity of pink.

The Greatest praised me and my efforts. He told me what a good job I had done. He told me all my mistakes were easily fixed. And he enlisted his friends from work to come and help him paint the rest of the house.

It Must Be Mid-Summer

Because we're preparing for our annual Fall Move! I can't believe I didn't blog it, but in addition to moving across the country almost two years ago we moved last fall to get into a better school district for Pork Chop. And I don't even want to think about this move or this one. And those were just the ones that got a passing mention on the blog. I've been married ten years and moved eight times. And we're about to make it nine.

I moved a lot as a child too. My parents must have had wander-lust in their blood. Things were always changing at our house. The furniture was re-arranged on a quarterly basis. We were always swapping bedrooms. And every few years we just changed towns. My Dad was into computers before computers were something people were into and I think he went where the technology would take him (or at least that was my child-like understanding). My best friend in high school went to the same school for all thirteen years. That was just unfathomable to my teenage brain. How could one stay in one town for so long?

And that wander-lust must have rubbed off on me. I married a man in the military, virtually guaranteeing I would never spend too long in one place. But as the years slipped by, and the moves added up (and in the interest of full-disclosure only two moves were military related, three if you count the move when he left the military) I began to ponder living in one place for a long time. Wondering what it would be like to live in one house for a lifetime. Making friends and keeping them. Not picking up heavy furniture every 12 months. Having my children go to the same school for all thirteen years. Would it be dull? Would the stability be smothering? Or would it be glorious?

I'm about to find out.

Yesterday we closed on a house. I can't even begin to get into what the home buying process was. It was a nightmare. After I hit publish I shall never think nor speak of it again. I started to type the highlights, but really, if I have a record of them I might stumble across them, then I'll have to think of them, and I'm never going to think of them again.

I didn't blog the process as it happened because I was too happy about buying the house. I was so happy my body could not hold it all in, and it bubbled out in smiles, laughter, and occasionally happy tears. To be honest, so much joy felt foreign to me. I worried that if I called attention to how happy I was the universe might notice me. Surely this much joy is not meant to be felt by one person. I didn't want them to realize their mistake and take measure to correct the situation, or temper my joy by filling the house with termites.

But the documents are all signed and recorded. The locks have been changed and the house is mine.

It was a foreclosure house, so there is a bit of work to be done in the house. Not as much as there could have been. The house was broken into and the appliances were stolen after we went into contract. So the bank had to install brand new appliances and fix the garage door. If only we hadn't stumbled upon the break-in before they came back for the fridge (we went to the house and the doors were all open and the fridge was on a dolly by the door, they never came back for it). We have a VA loan. And the VA inspector declared the house to be unsanitary. Our lender refused to fund the loan until the house was cleaned, the carpets were washed, and the pool was swim-able. That's right. I said POOL.

So I am now the co-owner (The Greatest signed the loan too) of a house with a pool. But the love doesn't stop there. The previous owners pimped the house out with lots of upgrades. My favorite is probably the humongous balcony off the master bedroom where I plan to sit and knit every day! I'll show you lots of pictures when we are done. But in the meantime I've got walls to wash.

And painting to do.

So we can move in and do this

Every day!

What does a Zombie knit?

As we all learned yesterday I am a sleep deprived zombie, stumping my way through the day in a tired haze. And what does a good zombie knit? Why *ZOMBIE SOCKS* of course!

Pattern: Zombie Socks

Yarn: South West Trading Company TOFUtsies

Needles: Two size 0 Addi Turbos

Modifications: Just the smaller needles.

Review: I didn't join Sock Madness this year. I feared with the Tiny Terrorist I wouldn't be able to participate well enough to enjoy myself. I also didn't *love* the patterns we knit last year. Most were fine, one I hated, but most weren't patterns I would have knit had I not been in the competition. I didn't want to spend what little knitting time I can find knitting things I didn't love. I was perfectly content with my decision. Then wouldn't you know it, I fell in love with the first pattern they knit,Zombie Socks, a sock madness exclusive. Thank goodness the designer offered it up as a free ravelry download when sock madness was over.

In an only vaguely related piece of useless information, I cast on for these while I was listening to "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" just as Harry and Dumbledore were fighting the inferi. I found that oddly appropriate. A tired zombie of a mommy knitting zombie socks while she listened to a story with zombies in it. I'm so in love with these socks! Perfect fit for a zombie to wear as she stumps through her hazy day.I know some people had problems with the sock being too big. But mine fit just fine. I could blame it on my monster feet (hey, I'm five six, I need big feet to carry me around all day), but I'd rather think it was a combination of size 0 needles, and the non-stretchy Tofootsies yarn that made such a perfect fit. I'm loving these socks, and need to knit myself more socks.

And a note on the tofutsies. I love this yarn. But it isn't wool. It has no stretch, give, or memory. I had to go through six or seven patterns before I found a pattern that worked so well with this yarn's qualities. I've knit with two balls of this yarn and each one contained several poorly spun places that had to be cut out, atleast two per sock (and I've knit four socks with this stuff). I adore the fabric this yarn produces on size 0 needles. So while this yarn is a bit of extra work (extra end to darn in, must find just the right pattern), I find it worth the effort.

And because I know it's expected required

Something else I'm gonna blame on the baby

To save time we'll get this part out of the way.

Yes I know she is the world's cutest baby. EVER. She would have won Regis and Kelly's cutest baby in America contest in a heartbeat, but she was missed the age requirement by something silly like two weeks. She's irresistible and I'm heartless for ever thinking a mean thing about her.

But mean things I do think. I know. Heartless. Someday my children will all be in therapy. I've learned to accept this about myself.

Being the Tiny Terrorist that she is, Operations Mommy-Will-Die-A-Slow-Painful-Death-But-Only-After-Being-Driven-Insane-From-Severe-Sleep-Deprivation continues as planned. We are entering the seventh month of no sleep. Most days I feel like a walking zombie. But an exceptionally well-trained zombie as I automatically keep the vacuum, washing machine and dishwasher running, maintaining some standard of living around here. Heck, some days I even manage to cook a decent meal with vegetables and everything. Although lately it's simply too hot to cook. Deli-style sandwiches are my friend. But that's neither here nor there. Back to the zombie. I am a zombie. So the following story is not my fault. It is the baby's.

I was cruising the Internet knitting sites (because looking at the Internet is infinitely easier than actually interacting with yarn and sticks) and I found these shoes.

I know. So cute right? I have a love of Chucks that goes deep. You can not even begin to understand (unless you are a grunge child of the '90s, then you might get it). But at $60.00 these shoes are a little pricey even if they did make me feel nostalgic and young, even if they would have looked so cute with my hand knit socks.

But a few days later I was on Tammy Knits blog where I saw these

And only $15.00 with FREE shipping. It was love. True love. I loved the texture, I loved the strap, I loved the heel. I even loved the sock in the shoe, but that wasn't for sale. I'm not precisely sure what happened next, it's a bit of a blur, but a shopping cart might have been filled, a credit card number might have been entered. It's all fuzzy. But a week later I came home from the library and found these on my front step.

I fell in love with the look, but oh-my-goodness, they're comfy. So sleep deprived I went on a $15.00 spending spree and got a pair of the world's comfiest shoes that look super cute with my hand knit socks. I'm thinking the baby, although evil intentioned, might not be a criminal mastermind. Here's hoping Boyd never takes her under his wing. The current score?

Sweet Pea: 2482
Mommy: 2

Victory is SWEET!

Now I'm just showing off

I hate to brag, but I do have the cutest baby in the world.

Real blog posts are coming soon, but since I've moved the baby from our room into the only other avaliable spot in the house for a crib, the computer room, one can see how this might cramp my "blog while the baby naps" style. But there's knitting, and plotting against me, and cute children, I promise.

I blame the baby

I know she's cute. I mean, who, honestly, who can resist this sweet little face?

And those chubby rolls? She's irresistible!

And it's a good thing she's so cute and charming, because she is devious! DEVIOUS!!!

Sure it starts out innocently enough. It all began with one messy baby face from a nice bowl of oatmeal (actually that picture might be peaches, I used my really good oatmeal face the other day, but the idea remains the same: messy baby face).

I don't know if you're familiar with baby oatmeal, but it is a close cousin of cement. But a low grade gritty cement, one you don't bring home to meet your Mamma. This stuff dries almost instantly and requires a power washer to remove.

Now my baby is simply to sweet and dainty to use a power washer on. Just look at her, she's sturdy, but a power washer might break her. She needed something as sweet and dainty as she to scrub her kissable cheeks clean. Enter a hand knit washcloth.

Just a quick thing I whipped up one evening after Sweet Pea had gone to bed. Pink befitting the princess she is. And covered in hearts, cause I lurve my baby! It takes the oatmeal off with minimal scrubbing and even uses the gritty texture of the oatmeal to exfoliate her baby cheeks making them the most kissable baby cheeks on the block. It's a win-win situation.

Or one would think.

I told you the baby is devious. She is cunning. She uses that angelic innocent face to plot against me. I just know it.

That silly little washcloth became the source of many tear from another tiny princess.

My Sweet Bird. (yes I know I am greatly overusing the word sweet. Whatcha gonna do about it? I can't help it. My girls are the physical incarnation of the word sweet.)

Bird crawled into my lap a few night later and started to cry. She wanted a washcloth too. My heart was instantly a puddle of goo, guilty goo. Who knew knitting the baby something could cause such hurt feelings? I guess I've been officially welcomed into the world of baby jealous. The situation was easily remedied. Bird and I logged onto ravelry and she picked out a very special pattern for her own very special washcloth.

Flowers for my Bird.

And to head off any future hurt feelings

A train for my train-lovin' Meaty.

And a crown for the queen princess Pork Chop.

So all this knitting is the Baby's fault. I blame the baby.

But while one messy baby might have plotted to create drama within my happy family and cause me to knit four finished objects in one week, I think this plan backfired.

Now each child has their very own custom knit washcloth. And each time they use it they feel special and know Mommy loves them enough to take the time to make something just for them. And *poor* Mommy. She just *had* to spend an entire week knitting washcloths for her children. I'll tell you it was such a *chore* but I muddled through it somehow. I think this round goes to me.

So if you're keeping score the official tally is

Sweet Pea: 2,389
Mommy: 1

I feel good about this.

Hi Grandpa!

I like a sweet potato best, but oatmeal with applesauce is pretty yummy too! As you can see oatmeal with peaches is best used for fingerpainting. It is not fit for baby consumption.

I has a flavor

Just for the record...

First let me apologise for the quality of the pictures. I've grown so spoiled with my rebel. I'm just used to taking a certain caliber of photo, namely, photos in focus. Not to beat a dead horse, but the broken camera is causing me no small source of frustration. But Bird is totally sorry.

I snapped this photo this morning after she asked if she could take a picture and I reminded her that she broke the camera. You can see how bad she feels. Who can stay mad at that? Certainly not me.

On to the knitting...

I totally kicked the yarn's butt.

It wasn't even a photo finish. I totally smoked it!

Then I turned around and knit this for a friend.

Janelle was right, once you knit one of these everyone wants one. It's a good thing they're so fun to knit!

Then I spent over forty hours knitting this

Then to cleanse my palate from all that lace I knit this for Sweet Pea

She's just started oatmeal and needs something as pretty as she is to wash the oatmeal mess. If you look carefully through the blur you can see the hearts on it.


And I knit these for some friends

They are expecting their first child. We couldn't be happier for them.

And I've started knitting this

What can I say, I'm on a lace kick, and is there anything more feminine and romantic than white lace?

I've been a knitting machine! Careful observers will notice that while I have completed all this knitting I have failed to weave the ends in or block a single project. Bad knitter. I working under a bit of stress here. We've been waiting to find out something fairly large. Something fairly large, and good. But until we know for sure we're in limbo, and I hate limbo. I just want to make a plan and roll ahead with it. I hate spinning my wheels waiting. We all know how well I did a few summers ago when we were waiting to hear about the big job change/move (and by "how well I did" I really mean, "how well I didn't do"). So to pass the time I'm knitting with a vengence. Weaving ends and blocking just doesn't sooth my nerves, plus my blocking spot is currently housing Meaty's Geo-trax collection. I should try to take a picture, it seriously takes up the entire living room and hallway, it's threatening to grow into the kitchen. I've got to find that boy a different hobby. His train collection is larger than my yarn collection. But I digress. There's no point to my rambling really. Just knitting, feeding hungry baby oatmeal, and waiting, waiting, waiting.