Only in Japan

This has nothing to do with anything. It was just so funny that I almost peed myself watching it (that whole post-pregnancy urine incontinence thing is drag).

The voiceover is saying something about this famous ski resort in Japan. Blah. Blah. They've built an outdoor hot tub area. The chairs are supposed to give you a stress reduction massage. You put 100 yen into the chair and the countdown begins. When it gets to zero, something drastic is going to happen. . .

Springy

Swings!

Green grass!

It's officially spring!

I have to say, though, as I took these pictures, I was just a little wary. I couldn't help but look over my shoulder to make sure that no one from the Disney corporation was off in the distance ready to take me out with a shotgun.

Look, Ma! No hats!

Taken today. So that's what my kids' hair looks like. . .

Studiously ignore the snow in the background, otherwise you'll get depressed for me. Instead, focus on the beauties in front, and you'll be happy for me.

This blog needs some better pics

So I realized that the most recent pictures on this blog about my kids are of ugly wallpaper, a band-aid, and a hairy-assed man in short shorts. I need to remedy the situation immediately. However, I can't, in good conscience, include a picture of my sweethearts in the same entry as the words "hairy-assed man in short shorts."

I'll just make a separate entry for the pictures.

Yet ANOTHER bathroom tale. . .

I heard this story second-hand as I was at my Norwegian class when it happened.

Seven was getting the kids ready for bed. Part of the nighttime routine is a going to the toilet. This night, Nicky decided he wanted to stand and pee. Most boys are doing this at this age already, but Nicky just hasn't been interested. He said he would do it when he was older. I'm all about precision aim, a skill most 3-and 4-year-olds don't have mastered as well as they might, so I've never pushed the issue. This night, he was ready. On this night, he stood, took aim, and all was a great success.

The story should end there. Of course, it doesn't.

Laney happened to witness the great event and decided that she, too, wanted to stand and pee.

"Laney, you can't stand and pee. You don't have a tisselur (kids' word for penis)," Seven tried to explain to her.

"I do too have a tisselur," Laney insisted. "I do!"

"No, you don't," Seven said in a very tired voice. This is not a battle one should have to fight at the end of the day.

"I do too! I can stand and pee pee."

Laney is not a child easily deterred. To demonstrate the point, she grabbed her little stool and set it in front of the toilet. She climbed up, then she lifted one leg in a sumo wrestler stance and tried maneuver her "tisselur" over the toilet -- one foot planted unsteadily on the stool, the other foot lifted high into the air. This resulted, of course, in failure. Understanding this, she was petulant.

"I'm NEVER going to use the toilet again!"

Ha! Take that, powers that be!

Just a little bit friends

This morning.

Nicky (to Laney): We're best friends.
Laney: Yeah.
Nicky, correcting himself: Just a little bit best friends.
Laney: Yeah.

I guess one can't really be real best friends with their sister, but I hope they'll be a "little bit" best friends. Forever.

MySpace as a Weapon

I have finally delved into the phenomenon that is MySpace. By weird coincidence, two friends in two weeks, both from junior high school, and both of whom I hadn't seen in many years, told me about their MySpace pages.

While it's fun to connect with old friends, and I can see where one might get addicted, I have to say that I now know why old people are notoriously resistant to change. As I navigated the pages, used by millions of young people every day, I found myself feeling a little like a fish out of water. Everything felt so new and unfamiliar and hard to navigate. I just wanted to say, "Pah, to hell with it," put my fake teeth in a glass of water, and call it a day. It didn't help that because our IP address is in Norway, everything came up in Norwegian. "#¤%&! I am better now.

It's a lot of fun, though, AND I've gotten the best idea for what to threaten obnoxious teenagers with. I'm already scared of the teenager Laney will become. She's only two, but she's got sassy DOWN, and she has already mastered the "You don't know anything, do you?" look. It's terrifying.

My secret weapon against her will be my very own MySpace (or 2018 equivalent) page. I've got it all figured out. I'll upload a picture of my 45-year-old self in in a sexy pose wearing low-rise jeans and t-shirt tied up above my belly button. The About Me section will be filled with all kinds of inappropriate use of young people's lingo. "Hip, hot momma looking for cool friends who can hang. Are you diggin' it? Hollah!"

In the photos section, I can have kissy pictures of me and Seven and embarrasing pictures of the kids. "Awww, look at her little dimpled butt." Mine and Laney's.

The threat will be that I'm going to request all the cute boys in school be my "friend" and send them my page. I think it'll work, don't you?

If I can manage to get Seven to pose for the following:


I think we, Seven and I, may just get through the kids' adolescence just fine.

Lost in Translation

I didn't bother translating the Norwegian story. It was not an attempt to be exclusionary or even to showoff. (Look at me! I speak Norwegian! Because I don't really. I write Norwegian, because I have a teacher and husband who help me.) I tried the translation, but it just didn't really work in English. It was a mix up of words that sound similar in Norwegian, but not in English. Påske, vaske versus Easter, wash. Sometimes things just don't translate well. You can translate them, but something gets lost along the way.

Take baseball, for example.

Last summer, some friends of ours invited us to a game of baseball. I declined, because, well, because I hate baseball. (I'm sorry, Aunt Suzanne! My aunt = huge baseball fan.)

I think it stems from elementary school gym classes. I can't think of a more tortuous sport for shy children to play than baseball (or softball). It's quite cruel, if you think about it. Take a child who is deathly afraid of being the center of attention, push them out onto the field alone, bat in hand, with the instructions to swing at a small ball thrown by a pitcher with bad aim. Meanwhile, all of their classmates stare on -- their eyes like lasers boring holes into the shy child's back. Maybe that last part's just me, but I get all sweaty remembering it.

Well, Norwegian baseball is not like American baseball. In fact, it's called Slåball, literally Hitball. It's similar to baseball in that there is a ball, bat, bases and teams. There is a runner that runs to bases, while another team tries to get the runner out. How you get the runner out is the difference. In Slåball, you beam the runner in the back with the ball as he/she runs for dear life to the safety of the bases.

A few days after the game, my friend had made the comment that she'd never run so fast in her life for fear of being hit with the ball.

"Hit with the ball," I asked.

That's when the rules of the game were made clear to me. I am SO glad that I didn't play that day. Can you imagine? Me, bravely pushing aside the traumatic childhood memories, playing the game in the spirit of good, friendly fun. There I am at bat. I hit the ball and casually run to first, when, WHAP!, I'm smacked in the middle of the back with the ball, traumatized anew as an adult.

I'm wondering if some Norwegian was over in the U.S., saw the game, thought it looked like fun, but clearly not understanding the rules, brought over this new version. Or maybe the Norwegians just developed on their own version, completely independent of American baseball. Or maybe someone just thought it might be funny to see other people pounded with a baseball. I wonder. Sounds like a fascinating and lucrative research project to me. Want to take it on?

In any case, a word to the wise, Americans, if you're invited to a game of baseball by Norwegians, it would be in your best interest to clarify the rules first!

The Water Cups

What does this mean in Norwegian? Anyone want to take a guess at what these are?

Actually, I'll just tell you.

No one is playing this game with me, and it's becoming a little embarrassing. It's like being an annoying guest at a party. "Wanna play Trivial Pursuit with me? Wanna play Yahtzee with me? Wanna play 'Guess That Word in Norwegian' with me?" No one does.

So anyway, vannkopper, literally water cups, are what the Norwegians call the chicken pox.

Strange names, both, if you ask me. Anyone know if the pox have a weird name in any other language?

Anyway, I have apparently had the chicken pox twice. That's not supposed to be possible, but then it means I was misdiagnosed the first time. What did I really have, then? Was it measles? Was it some new disease that imitates chicken pox? We'll never know. It will remain one of my life's great mysteries.

The "second" time I got them I was six, maybe seven. I had been sick for two days when the doorbell rang. One of the kids in my class had come to the house with a bag full of handmade "Get Well" cards. The kids in class had made them for me. They'd drawn pictures and wrote nice messages. I was so surprised and extremely touched. I read them over and over again. My first get well cards, and they really did make me feel better.

I can't imagine that any of the kids that drew those cards remembers doing it. The teacher that had them draw them probably doesn't remember either. I don't remember many of the kids from my class nor do I remember the name of my teacher. I do remember those cards and how good they made me feel.

It's amazing how such small gestures can have such a profound effect on someone. How much the power of kind words and good will can move them -- so that almost 30 years later when they remember having the chicken pox, they don't remember itchy pox, a high fever, or being sick. They remember the sweet feeling of reading a bunch of handmade get well soon cards.

For those that wondered, the answer to the BH question is in the comments section of that post.

Prinsessa

For the Norwegians in the house. . .

Laney elsker plaster -- særlig dem med motiver på. Hun kaller dem ¨klistremerker¨ og vil ha dem over hele kroppen sin. Her om dagen hadde hun et "klistremerke" med Askepott på armen sin.

Jeg spurte henne hvem den prinsessen var.

"Påskepott," svarte hun veldig stolt.

"Mener du Askepott?"

"Ja, påskepott."

Så da pappaen kom hjem, sa jeg at hun måtte forteller pappa hva prinsessen på armen heter.

"Vaskepott," svarte hun selvsikkert.

Det var kanskje det beste navn av alle tre. . .

Master of the Guilt Trip

At two, Laney has already learned to master laying guilt trips on people. Shouldn't this be years in the making? How can she do this already?

For whatever reason, she was in a crabby mood the other morning. She followed me into the bathroom and when I finished, out of habit, I flushed the toilet. Wrong thing to do. She started to cry.

"I wanted to flush your pee-pee! I wanted to flush your pee-pee!"

(Gross. Why do so many of my stories involve toilets and toilet matters?!)

To be fair, I think she had made this request before the actual flushing, but I wasn't really listening. Sometimes, you just want to pee in peace, and around here, you make your own peace. You find your center and drown out the kids noise.

"I wanted to flush your pee-pee! Whine. Whine. I wanted to flush your pee-pee!"

This went on for five minutes. Okay. It went on for about 30-seconds, but it felt like five hours, and I wanted her to stop already.

"Laney, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you wanted to flush the toilet. You can flush next time, okay?"

"No!" she cried on the verge of hysteria. "I wanted to flush your pee pee!" (Are those words beginning to grate on your very last nerve yet? Are they? Are they?!)

"Well, I can't do anything about that now! You need to stop it," I snapped at her.

She didn't say a word and gave me her saddest puppy dog eyes and began to whimper like I kicked her. Shoulders drooping, she walked slowly away, went to an old chair and sat down, whimpering the whole time -- not crying, just making these little, sad noises.

So who was being unreasonable here? Demanding over and over and over again to flush another person's pee pee, long after it has gone down the toilet, is not charming behavior, is it? It's not fun for the other person, and they have an excuse for getting annoyed, right? Right!

So why the hell did I feel so guilty?????

No more Norwegian

I was getting ready to go to my Norwegian class when I heard Nicky running up the steps.

"Mommy," he said a little breathless. "You have to call me if you see any invisible bad guys at your school."

"Um, okay."

"Don't forget, you have to call me, okay? (pause) Why do you have to learn Norwegian?"

"Lots of reasons. One day, you'll go to school and have homework and stuff. I'll have to help you and Laney with your homework."

"Pappa can help us with our homework. Don't go! Don't go to your class!"

Aha! The real reason for this conversation.

I think he thought that settled matters, because when I was about to walk out the door, he reminded me, "Pappa is going to help me and Laney with our homework. You don't have to learn Norwegian anymore."

Sigh. I wish it were that easy.

No such thing as background noise anymore

A few months ago, I was driving home, hands correctly positioned at two and ten o'clock, eyes scanning the road for potential hazards and my two children sitting quietly in the back. One of those NOW compilation Cd's was playing in the background -- I think it was NOW 245 or something like that -- when a Missy Elliot song came on. I didn't pay much attention to it. Normally, I skip over it because I don't like that song too much. This day, I was just cruising casually along, not paying attention to the Cd, when it suddenly strikes me that she's singing/rapping the following:

"Call me before you come ovah, so I can shave my cha cha. Something. Something. Something. Go downtown and eat it like a vulchah (vulture)."

I almost swerved the car off the road when I realized what she was saying and tried desperately to flip past that damn song.

I had heard that song a million times pre-kids, when it was overplayed on the radio, which is probably why I didn't pay attention to it when it came on. I don't remember the name, but the uncensored version must be really dirty because for most of what I'm guessing is the censored version we were hearing, she's rapping something like, " Yurf-wan-if-in-wen-yet." Anyone know what that means?

The last thing I needed was for my four-year-old, who picks up on EVERYTHING, to ask me "Mommy, what's shave my cha-cha mean?" Or worse, listening with horror as my two-year-old sings at a family gathering later, "eat a vulcha," while everyone smiles on and asks me, "How cute. So what's she singing?"

Funny how things that were once background noise become potential accident-causing hazards once you have kids.

Anime

I love the word anime. It's the Japanese word for animation. The Japanese adopted the English word, shortened it, then made it their own. They do this is a lot. A remote control is a ri-mo-kon. Now, anime has made its way back into the English vernacular meaning a very specific-type of animation -- namely a specific type of Japanese animation.

How's that for a boomerang effect? Pretty cool, huh?

If you're wondering why the heck I'm blogging about that, I just saw the new Britney video on YouTube where she was an anime character. I started thinking. . .I warned you about this. . . and the random thoughts flowed.

Here's the link, if you're interested. I feel a little guilty like I'm contributing to the pop wreckage. . .then again, most people have probably already seen it.

Renovating the house is fun

I am trying to enjoy the house renovation. We are still painting the entryway, which is a very small room, but it has a lot of nooks and crannies.

First, the new floor had to go in. Then the walls had to be painted. Then the door frames. Then the -- I don't know what it's called, but it was near the ceiling and an awful red horror that had to go. Then the stairs that led into the entry. Then the. . .

Will it NEVER end?

Next is the kitchen, which will be a real nightmare.

I am trying to enjoy the house renovation.

I am failing miserably.

Anyway, we found this old wallpaper and are using it to cover the floor, so as not to get paint splashes on the new floor. Can you believe that once upon a time, stores actually sold this product as something you might wish to cover your walls with??

How about this beauty?

Sad thing is that I think it must be circa 1970s or so. This means it may be back in fashion very soon and covering the walls of your loved ones homes!

It's a sibling thing

Laney kept herself and Nicky up past their bedtime Friday night. They share a room, and sometimes she goes into his bed when she should be in her own. They chat and laugh and have a good time, then she goes back to hers and they go to sleep. Sometimes, she just chatters away from her own bed. I don't mind for the most part, although I want her to stay in her own bed.

I think it's important that they have time to develop their own special friendship. This nighttime conversation is a part of their routine and growing relationship. Nicky, being a very agreeable type, rarely complains even when he is tired. I know that there are times when he would have fallen asleep much earlier had it not been for Laney's chatter. Sometimes, it works the other way, too, but not very often.

Saturday morning, she woke up earlier than Nicky did and must have been waiting for him. She came in and hung out with us. The second she heard him stir, she ran in their room to see and ran back out shouting, "Nicky's awake!! Yippee! Yippee! Nicky's awake! Yay!" She ran around the house like that for a few minutes. She just couldn't contain her excitement. I think the last minute or so she was just playing for the attention she was getting, but there is no doubt that her big brother waking up was the highlight of her day. It was so very sweet to see.

Nicky is equally devoted to his sister, but his is a quiet devotion. The other day, he sat quietly at the table and carefully drew a little princess for Laney. He was insistent that I cut it out and give it to her, so she could play with it. It was very important to him as he had made the princess especially for her. "Det er så fin (It's so pretty)," she said sincerely when I gave it to her. Meanwhile, Nicky beamed with pride. The first princess got a little blue mark on her, and Laney got upset and cried because it was "ruined." Nicky quickly drew her another one. That's the thing about Nicky. He doesn't shout and yell Yippee when she comes into the room. His gestures are subtle and done with little fanfare, but I know he rushed that second princess to make her feel better. He put his very kind heart into those little princesses.

I wish I could take these moments and bottle them up for later. I would keep them like treasured photos. Well, not my real treasured photos which are shoved in boxes until I can actually get them in albums or put on display. I mean the treasured photos of my fantasy life, which are beautifully framed and hanging on my wall.

These days of our lives are just flying by too quickly.

Why I dress the kids

It started simply enough as these things do.

Seven was a stay-at-home dad until Nicky was two, while I worked full-time. Luckily for me, I worked close to home and could come home for lunch and to nurse when he needed it -- Nicky, not Seven. One afternoon, when Nicky was two months old or so, I came home to find my husband in sweats and my son still in pajamas -- mismatched pajamas, at that. He had on the light-blue top from one set with the red and white striped pants of another. Didn't Seven have time to get the two of them dressed? Really, what did he DO all day long?

"Is that what he's wearing," I asked casually.

"What? He's comfortable," Seven said, irritated. You have to know my husband to know that he is a very patient man and not easily irritated.

I couldn't argue with comfortable, so what I said was, "Well, couldn't you put the matching pants on to that outfit?"

While what I thought was, "This is our firstborn son. He has a CLOSET FULL of adorable clothes that he's outgrowing by the second. What is so hard about putting a cute outfit on him and taking lots of pictures of him in all his cuteness? Why is he always in pajamas or the same two 'comfortable' onsies?"

Meanwhile, my husband said nothing and thought, "Who is this woman glaring at me? Where is my wife? We're not going anywhere. Who cares what he's wearing?"

The years passed. When Seven dressed the kids, it was for comfort. When I dressed the kids, I matched their tops to their bottoms. Sometimes, if Seven dressed them in something weird, I changed them. We didn't say anything about the kids clothes.

One Saturday morning, Seven very sweetly got up with the kids, got them dressed, and went down to breakfast, while I dozed. When I came down, Laney was in this.

The guys reading are probably thinking, "So? She's wearing pink." You girls understand me, though, right? Is that plaid with stripes?

So it just became one of those unwritten house rules. I get the kids dressed every morning, even weekends and holidays when Seven is home. Seven doesn't bother, because he says, "You're just going to change them anyway."

I think this is another example of how men and women are just wired differently. I know which top goes to which bottom of all the kids' clothes. My husband simply doesn't care. Gasp! DOESN'T CARE!

Of course, it could be a genetic thing. This was my mother-in-law's pick for an outfit.

While he looks so cute I could eat him up, what on Earth does he have on?

My kids are roughly the same age in those last two pictures. Is it just me or do they look like they could be twins?

Mommy's also a snappy dresser. Um, no. No, she's not.

One might think, reading the last post, that I'm equally conscientious of my own clothing.

One would be wrong. It's the exact opposite. I look like poo-poo most days and am in desperate need of a wardrobe update. I dress my kids like dolls to fill that empty void inside.

The worst of it is that sometimes I think I look nice. I get dressed and think, "That's not too bad." Then I'll see a picture or something and think, "That can't be ME? I thought that top looked nice on me."

It's awful to be delivered painful blows like that on a regular basis. I have stopped buying clothes for myself. Instead, I buy way too many clothes for my kids.

Hey, if I looked like Heidi Klum does after popping out baby after baby, this blog would be all about me, honey --me and my killer post-baby abs. Picture after picture. You would read that, too, right? I could have posts like:

"Oh, look! Me doing the dishes in a short skirt."
"There I am again, lounging casually on the beach in a small bikini."
"Life is so hard for a woman with such a perfect ass."
"Kids? I have kids?"

Spring Cleaning

Nicky cleaned his room yesterday -- ON HIS OWN INITIATIVE. Doesn't sound like a big deal, but it was -- especially since many of our conversations go something like this. . .

Nicky: Mommy, I have to pee.

Me: Well, go pee. You're four-years-old and can do that yourself.

Nicky, very put out: Why do I have to do EVERYTHING myself?!

Nicky: Where is my Spiderman?

Me: I don't know. Why don't you go check your room?

Nicky, letting out a big, tragic sigh: Why do I have to find EVERYTHING myself? You NEVER help me!

I heard the kids up and about Sunday morning. I heard Nicky tell Laney that they were going to clean their room, which incidentally was a toy-strewn nightmare. I heard Nicky directing the action and the opening and closing of cabinet doors, scraping and pushing. Finally, I heard Nicky come in to my room and announce, "Mommy, I cleaned my room! Come and see!"

I did see. They managed to do a pretty good job, Nicky and his little helper/sister. Someday, I'll teach them that shoving everything under the bed is not really cleaning, but for now, I was so very proud of the effort. I made a big to-do about what a great job they did and how happy I was. Nicky was thrilled with the praise and asked several times throughout the day if his room looked nice just to hear more.

Today before bed, he says to me, "Mommy, you know what makes me glad?"

"What, baby?"
"I'm glad when you are happy I clean my room."

May it always be this easy for us to make each other happy.

Ever wonder what they're thinking about?

This is my daughter.

This is my daughter with her panties on her head.

She was supposed to be in bed, but I heard little feet pitter-pattering. "Laney, what are you doing," I called. Pat-pat-pat-pat. I heard her running back to bed.

When I came in to check. . ."Mommy, I put underwear on my head!"

Should I be worried about this little habit of hers?

Curse of the 80s

I know I can't be the only one with this affliction. I think it must be pretty common among my generation.

Seven and I were repainting our entry hallway this weekend, and as I made the long strokes of paint up and down, I could hear Mr. Miyagi in my head, "Up. Down. Paint the fence." Everytime I made a stroke, "Up. Down. Paint the fence." I couldn't get him to shut up.

Next thing I know, I was reliving the scene in my head where the Karate Kid gets so mad and confonts Mr. Miyagi and learns the true meaning behind "Wax on. Wax off."


Is there any other movie in film history that teaches us more about the meaning of life and house painting than the Karate Kid? I think not, my friends. I think not.

Plooping in my underwear

I read recently that if you start learning two languages from birth, then you use the same part of the brain to process the languages. If you start learning a second language later in life, then you actually use a different part of the brain to learn the new language. I didn't read what age the different part of the brain kicks in, which I would be curious to know.

It makes sense to me. Last summer, I found myself trying to speak to a couple of Japanese tourists who were lost. My Japanese is stronger than my Norwegian, and certainly was at that time, but I found that only Norwegian words would come out. Try as I might, I could NOT find the Japanese words. In essence, the first few words out of my mouth were Norwaneseish. Yeah, gibberish. Basically, I had accosted these lost Japanese tourists and started speaking gibberish at them, scaring the shit out of them in the process, I'm sure. They probably couldn't figure out what the heck was going on at first. "Who IS this woman? What does she want? Why is she talking to us like that? No! No! Leave us alone!"

It's like my brain processes English, then all others. If it's not English, then it pulls up the first foreign word that it can. Norwegian words are at the top of the pile, failing that, Japanese comes next. It doesn't matter which language I'm trying to speak. Of course, if it is Norwegian, then it works. If it is Japanese, then something really bizarre comes out. It doesn't matter that my Norwegian is still pretty poor. It's the language at the top of my 'other' pile.

For the kids, it is so different. They switch back and forth with ease, since they are growing up bi-lingual.* They can distinguish between the languages and rarely mix them. English is for mommy (or mommy's family) and Norwegian is for everyone else, including each other. In fact, Nicky gets really irritated if he is speaking English and someone else, i.e.-pappa, answers. He is also known to give Norwegians who dare to use English with him a funny look. Laney just tells them off. Someone spoke to her in English the other day and she said firmly, "You're not mommy!!"

Still, learning to languages from the get-go can't be easy and sometimes the kids say really cute things.

My current favorite is "ploop."

The Norwegian word for fart is propp. Laney translated it herself into English as ploop. Anyone with kids knows that kids ploop all of the time, so she'll often announce, "I plooped in my underwear!" She is pretty much potty-trained and one morning I put her on the toilet and then went to get her clothes. She had gotten off herself, and I was a little worried about that and asked her if she had gone poo poo. She gave me her most withering "Don't you know anything?" look and said in a very sassy voice, "No, I just plooped in the toilet," and walked off. Very hard to be sassy, missy, when you're throwing a word like ploop around!

The bilingual kids in the front yard a few weeks ago.

It's also interesting (to me anyway) to see how the kids will directly translate things from one language to another -- most often from Norwegian into English as Norwegian is the dominant language -- when they don't immediately know the equivalent. For example,

With one time! It means right now! It's a direct translation from the Norwegian med en gang.

Pee pee me out. Also a direct translation which means to have a potty accident. This totally cracked me up the first time I heard it.

Summer flowoo (flower). Laney said this to mean butterfly. The Norwegian word for butterfly, sommerfugl, translates into summer bird. I guess she mixed the words and sounds.

I is really fascinating to watch how they process it all. You can see it in grammar mistakes they make, like switching word order, but mostly you see it in how extensive their vocabulary is in both languages. I am at the point now that if I don't know what a word is in Norwegian, I can ask Nicky and he can tell me. He acts as my tutor and is very excited to teach me words. It's a little sad for me that my four-year-old is better than me, but it makes me very proud too.

I don't have so many recent indoor photos of the kids, so I'll post this one because I love it. Nicky was two years old and Laney was five months old.

*I grew up sort of bilingual. I could understand Japanese and some things come easy to me that are hard in a second language, like thinking in numbers or simple math (it's so much more natural to do these things in your first language), but I was never bilingual the way my kids are.

What's a BH?

Want to take a guess? It's another one of those great Norwegian words that just cracks me up.

Hint: Comes in all shapes and sizes.

Answer is in Comments.

You know you're a mom when. ..

You can't remember the last time you took a shower. You just know it wasn't all that recently, because your hair is greasy and you're starting to smell funny.

Your daughter wears your (clean) granny-sized panties on her head like a baklava. Small panties encourage making babies, thank you very much. Granny pants are for maintaining the status quo.

A friend invites you and the kids out to Chuck E. Cheese and your response is "Sounds like fun! I can't wait!" Sad is the day you realize Chuck E. Cheese is the highlight of your social calendar.

Shaving your legs is on an as-needed basis only. And let's face it, it's not needed as often as it used to be.

Discussion of poop at the dinner table doesn't phase you. In fact, you're the one bringing it up to your husband who is now gagging on HIS food. Men are so weak sometimes.

You've been punched in the boob.*

* Maybe that's just me. Nicky, then two, had crawled into bed with me one morning and I leaned over him to reach something. This was shortly after I'd given birth to Laney and was still breastfeeding. Anyway, I was in pjs and my pendulous, milk-filled breasts dangled over him. (No, not over his face. I wasn't trying to suffocate the kid). His thought, "Oh, look! Punching bags!" Pow! He punched me really hard in the breast. Oh, that hurt!! Damn kids.

Arctic living

You know you live in the Arctic, when you step out into +5 degerees C (+41 degrees F) and your four-year-old says "Mommy, it's warm! Is summer coming?"

Despite the snow on the ground, albeit melting snow, you agree that it's warm and wonder yourself if spring may come early.

My how things change.

There was a time when the temperature dropped to 71 degrees F (+21 degrees C), I thought it was parka weather.

Once upon a time in Tibet

Seeing all the turmoil in Tibet has made me really sad. It's hard to see the pictures of burning shops in Lhasa and the violence and anger at the demonstrations. I hate to think of there being so much upheaval there now, because I remember it as being so quiet and peaceful. Lhasa is such an amazing city and the Potala Palace is truly beautiful.

Long before kiddos, I used to travel. I took a nine-month backpacking trip around Asia when I was 24. I was in Tibet for three weeks during that trip. That was November 1997. I can't believe it's been ten years already.

At that time, Tibet wasn't an easy country to travel. I don't know if it is now or not. Travel was by very infrequent bus, in the front cab of a truck, or tractor. You haven't lived until you've traveled any distance by tractor. It's too bad I was travelling in the stone age, before digital cameras, or I could share pictures.

I loved Tibet. It was so tranquil. When I was there, the sky was always blue, and the air was so fresh. People were so friendly, and of all the countries I visited, Tibetans smiled the most. It's kind of amazing to think about. Life is not easy for Tibetans, but they are smiling all of the time.

Tibetans are intensely religious, and there are nunneries and monasteries everywhere. One of the highlights of my trip was staying at a nunnery in the mountains that had natural hot spring. I remember going to the hot spring under the light of a full moon, and maybe I was just lost in the mysticism of the country, but it felt magical, almost divine. I really did feel close to heaven. It could also have been that the hot spring was very warm, and I stayed in it much too long. When I got out, I was so dizzy that I sat on the cold stone steps in the freezing cold weather. I thought I might pass out. I didn't feel the cold at all -- not until I got back to my unheated room and slept in my baklava.

I also remember being kindly invited in by two nuns to drink butter tea. It's like half melted butter and half tea. Good lord, it was awful! Gagging it down was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I felt like such an ass. Here were these two wonderful young women sharing their tea and their culture with me, and I could barely focus on them. It was everything I could do not to yak on the floor. I was there for maybe an hour or so. We couldn't talk much because they didn't speak English, and I didn't speak Tibetan. Still, it was such a lovely experience (aside from the butter tea, of course). I couldn't help but marvel at how open and inviting they were and how excited they were to meet with a foreigner.

I also spent two weeks in the Tibetan enclave above Dharamsala in India. It's where the Dalai Lama lives and where the Tibetan government in exile is. It felt like what Tibet would be if it was modernized. When I was there, I met a monk who asked me to teach him, and his friend, English.

I was sitting on a roof-top cafe reading a book when I saw him walking around asking others there to teach them. The friend spoke not one word of English, while he just a little. People kept saying no, and I felt bad for him. I'm such a sucker for that kind of thing and knew that if he asked I couldn't say no. And because I am so selfless, I remember thinking, "Please don't ask me. Please don't ask me. I just want to sit here in peace." I put on the earphones of my walkman and buried my nose in my book hoping he would pass me. Ugh, I am such a crap human being. He didn't pass me by and asked me to teach him English, and I said yes.

He spoke very little English, so we could barely communicate. All I really learned about him was that was originally from the province of Amdo (same as the Dalai Lama), and he had walked for 30 nights to get to Nepal before he made his way to India. Despite the fact that life couldn't have been easy for him, he still seemed so happy. I had admired how he could ask person after person to teach him English and when they said no, he just moved on until he found one who would, never disappointed -- at least, not that I could see. He was extremely kind, and I liked him very much, even though we couldn't really speak to each other. I genuinely enjoyed his company. I was his English tutor for the two weeks I was there.

When I was leaving Dharamsala, I introduced him to an English woman that I had studied yoga with. I asked if she could take on his teaching. She declined but promised to find someone who would. Years later, and I'm not clear on the details, my yoga friend and the former monk met again, fell in love, and married. They now have two gorgeous daughters and live in England.

Funny how life works out sometimes.

As for the situation in Tibet, I hope it works out peacefully. The Tibetans have tried for the last 50 years to resolve the situation with non-violence. It's kind of sad, but the problem with non-violence is that it's easy to ignore. Tibetans live very much by Buddhist values, which are peaceful. This is why I doubt the Chinese government's claims of suicide bombers. However, I guess you never know. Anger does all kinds of things to people. In the end, it's hard to fault Tibetans for wanting independence for their country. I, for one, hope they get it.