Temptation is. . .

Temptation is buying bags and bags of pinata fillers weeks ahead of time. Those damn individually wrapped candies are just screaming my name from the top shelf they are hiding on.

Secret of Aging #1: Stiff Back

Here I share with you the secrets and wisdom of aging gracefully. No! No! Make it stop! I won't go!!!! Yes, gracefully.

The reason your back stiffens as you age. . .

It becomes harder and harder to get a full glimpse of your ever-expanding and/or sagging ass in the mirror. You see, it is a psychological defense mechanism. The less you can see, the more you can convince yourself it is still the same size and shape it once was thus protecting your delicate aging psyche from the truth.

If you are lucky, by the time you have a true old-lady's bottom -- wrinkled, drooping and held into place by giant panties -- the combination of stiff back, poor eyesight and the onset of dementia will allow you to enter your golden years convinced that your ass is still as firm and round as it was when you were sixteen.

What you can't see, can't hurt you.

Chili Nuts

My husband has a ritual. When watching a soccer match on television, he likes to have a glass of beer and something salty to munch on, for example, chili nuts.

Not so long ago, the all-important, the-world-will-implode-if-you-don't-see-it European Champion's League final was on tv, and the kids got to see a little bit of the game and have their first taste of chili nuts. Bonding over sports, a bizarre ritual, if you ask me, but the kids enjoyed it.

So the other day, Laney and I were doing some grocery shopping. While I pushed the big cart around and loaded it with boring food items, she pushed her mini shopping cart around and loaded it with healthfood, i.e.-sugary cereal, strawberry milk, and chili nuts for daddy. When we got home, she proudly showed him what she had bought for him.

Fast-forward to that evening -- as Laney was getting ready for bed, she asked her father, "Aren't we going to go downstairs and watch soccer and eat chili nuts?"

Wow!

Thanks everyone for the kind comments on the last post! So it really isn't just my mom, my friend Lin, and my husband's nephew's wife who look at this page regularly.

I was truly touched.

And inspired.

To write!

And to be fair to "Crackbook" as Kim called it, much of my recent time away has been thanks to out-of-town visitors and spring cleaning.

I am telling you now that if anyone in this house develops a dust allergy, it will be the end of us all. The one with the allergy would probably die of a fatal allergic reaction (there IS that much dust around here), and I would succumb to a heart attack in trying to chase the tiny particles away.

As an aside, another "benefit" of being short is that many dust-collecting surfaces are above eye-level. I forget how the dust is piling up on those surfaces until I go into one of my frantic must-dust-everything-within-reach-or-I-will-die modes, then am horrified by the amount of dust I have been allowing my children to breathe in. Oh, well. Out of sight, out of mind, I say.

Thanks again to everyone for all of the great comments!

More excuses

I had been wondering what the problem was. I just haven't been as motivated to blog as I had been at the start of last year.

There are the usual excuses, loads of laundry, nice weather, house to clean, must-be-out-in-the-nice-weather, attempting a vegetable garden, holidays. Oddly enough, I don't think those aren't really the problem.

When I started this blog, it was my attempt to keep in touch with the world. I figured this was a great way to record the funny stories and lives of my kids without forcing them down everyone else's throat. I could write away about my children, my life, and people could just come in at will and check in when they wished. After awhile, though, with few comments, I felt a little like I was talking to myself.

Although those of you that do comment, Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmwahhhhh! I love you! I love you! Blowing kisses your way and waving. . .

. . .from the stage, while clutching a golden statue and wearing a fur stole and ruby-red evening gown.

Oh, wait! My fantasies are inter-mingling there. Sorry about that.

Motivation has been lacking, why?

The problem is, I think, Facebook. I have become one of the millions of my generation that is addicted to Facebook. It's taken over blogging. It is the only explanation.

I give myself an allotted amount of time to hang out on the computer (a limit I almost always exceed, like I am doing today) to do "me" stuff. That includes the blog, returning emails, chats, whatever. The rest of the day, I do actually try to do stuff around the house, take care of my own children (Huh? Is that them in the street playing with knives?!), generally, make myself useful and have a life.

Facebook has been eating into the computer time. This morning, I chatted with someone I haven't seen in over a decade, and we chatted about other people I hadn't seen in over a decade. It was a lot of fun, but now I have passed my alloted time limit. I am sitting here on the blog, anyway. Bad, bad girl!

Of course, I miss the blog when I am gone too long. This is my space, after all -- the one place I come to talk about me, me, me, and my kids, my kids, and my kids, and if you're here you have to listen. (Hmmmm. Is that why there are so few people here?!) I also miss the people, like Jody, Heather, and andrewsmom, who are kind enough to check in here, but that I don't "see" anywhere else.

Weird, how that is. Makes one wonder about the changing nature of human interaction in the digital world. I think I will segue into a new post with that thought.

Let's see how long it takes me to do it this time. A day? A week? Two? Two years?

Ah, the excitement and thrill of coming to churakagi.blogspot.com is just too much sometimes, isn't it?

This post was really an excuse to let you know that I am here. I am alive. I have not been run over by a truck. I will be back.

Flies on the Wall

The kids and I were sitting out in the yard enjoying a beautiful spring day when I heard an obnoxious buzzing sound.

Flies. They've begun their buzzing, but this was a little louder than usual.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered it was two flies. Mating.

"Oh, no," I exclaimed. "Those flies are making baby flies!" I looked around to grasp something I could swat them with. If I could get them both, then I could prevent hundreds of flies from being born, perhaps hundreds of generations of flies even!

I needed something quick. A towel! Swat!

Dammit! I missed. (To my credit the naughty word stayed in my head.)

I sighed audibly and sat back down.

Nicky, who had been watching the excitement, asked, "Mommy, are those flies annoying because they are making babies?"

"Yes, very."

"Don't they know they shouldn't make babies? It is annoying to people."

Oh, honey. There are PEOPLE in the world that don't get that.

Exercise = more energy

Who comes up with this stuff?? I always feel like poo after exercising. Tired, sweaty, thirsty, and usually the makings of a headache.

Instead, I am thinking that I should embrace my chubby cheeks. It is the cheapest way to puff out the fine lines and wrinkles, after all.

Pure Genius.

Sentimental Twit

I have been recently having storage space-related panic attacks.

"So much CRAP, not enough place to put it all!!"

My heart begins to race and stress levels rise as I look at the sea of clutter that surrounds me. As soon as I feel like I have got it under control, a clutter tidal wave of kids and husband crashes over me.

Today, as I am packing away a bunch of cleaning supplies (oh, this EXCITING earthly existence I lead!), I came across a bulb syringe we had from when Nicky was born.

You know, the thing that suctions your baby's nose before he learns to blow it himself? Yeah, one of those things.

We took it from the hospital, at the suggestion of someone we knew, as it was much better than anything you could buy. (Our little contribution to the rising cost of American healthcare.)

It worked like a charm, an important tool in the comfort of our child. We saved it and brought it half-way round the world to use for our second child. Then, it somehow managed to find its way in the back of the laundry room storage closet.

It's broken now. A hole in the side keeps it from suctioning. I felt strangely attached to the bulb syringe in my hand as I remembered those early days with my son. It was one of the things in his bag that came home with him when he was four days old. I sat there, deciding whether or not to throw it away or pack it away.

Never mind that I have no plans to use it ever again. Nevermind that it is broken and couldn't be used again, anyway. Nevermind that I used this thing to suction the snot out of my childrens' noses. Um, gross. I was contemplating whether or not it should make it's way into the trash.

Needless to say, it is in the trash now.

And I have had to admit I have my own little part to play in the clutter tidal wave.

A tiny, tiny, tiny part, but hey, I did throw the darn thing out, didn't I?

Try asking my kids or husband to throw out useless clutter. Good luck!

Work It Girl

Laney loves the camera. (My how different my kids are in this regard. Nicky acts like your infringing upon his human rights if you ask to take a picture.)

So earlier in the year, she asked me to take her picture. Suddenly, she started rolling around on the floor and posing in model fashion, without any prompting from me.

Laney, SuperModel

Then it was Mommy's turn to pose.

It is probably best this way.

Playing Babies

Laney loves to play with her baby dolls. She wants to "play babies" every day. Every single day. Mommy does her best to accommodate. Mommy also loves to play babies with her little girl. Just NOT every single day.

The other day Laney asked to play babies. Again. Mommy was making dinner and told her that she couldn't at the moment. They could play later, she told her, while secretly hoping that Laney would forget to play later. Mommy was soooooo tired of playing babies.

Laney said, "Mommy, do you know why I want to play babies with you all of the day?"

"Why?"

"Because I love you so much."

Mommy sucks.

But she plays babies every single day.

Exasperated

I told Laney to get ready for bed.

She gave me her most exasperated look and said, "Again?! We ALWAYS have to go to bed!! We have to go to bed every day!"

Poor kid. Those are the breaks. Life is hard in this house.

Spelling Errors

So my Blogger spellcheck has gone wacko. I think it is checking Norwegian spelling, so most of the words come up spelled wrong. I have tried fixing it, but haven't gotten it to work yet.

So if you find any glaring spelling errors, you know why. I am no longer a good speller (was once upon a time, in elementary school) and completely dependent on spellcheck.

Bad grammar. That's just gonna have to be how it be, until there is a a reliable grammarcheck in the world.

Adventures in Reading

Not so long ago, I was reading a book that I got for Christmas. It's called Snømannen (The Snowman). I needed some help with a few unfamiliar words.

The conversation went something like this:

"What are brystvortene," I called into the other room, where Seven was doing whatever it was he was doing in the other room.
"Brystvortene? Those are nipples," he called back.
Hmmmm. So this character has no nipples. Bizarre.

A few minutes later. . .

"What's a smekken," I asked as Seven walked into the room.
"Oh, that means a zipper," Seven responded, while gesturing zipping his fly up and down for emphasis. I guess it's slang for the pants zipper.

Not so long after. . .

"What does pule mean?" I was pretty sure I knew from the context, but wanted to be sure.
"What are you reading?!"
"Porn," he joked.
Yeah, right. He wished.
"No, that book I wanted for Christmas," I said. As if I have time to sit around reading porn.
"Oh," he said. "Well, anyway, pule means fuck, as in fucking someone."
Aha! I DID get it from context!

No wonder I hadn't learned these words in my Norwegian class, and that's just the prologue! The possibilites for my vocabulary, if I can manage to finish this book, are endless!

Not that any of those words will come in handy in conversations with the in-laws.

Kids and Toilet Paper

I am pretty sure it is a law of mathematics.

C = 30tp

For every child in the house, toilet paper consumption goes up about 30 times.

I don't know how many times I've come into the bathroom to find a whole roll of toilet paper rolled onto the floor.

Sometimes, it's an extraordinary amount in the toilet, and considering the dimunitive nature of my children's bathroom parts, I'm pretty sure a wholly unnecessary amount.

I must be fair, however, and point out that the cause is, almost exclusively, the youngest of my two children.

Boys will be boys

When you are the parent of a son,

one who is obsessed with Spiderman and Star Wars,

one who shuns dolls and soft toys in the daytime,

one who will one day grow to be a man. . .

there is something incredibly sweet about coming in to do the last tuck-in for the night and finding him curled up with a stuffed elephant.

I bought that elephant when I was about eight months pregnant. The reality of the fact that I was about to be mother of a little boy was sinking in. I didn't have a "lovey" type item for the baby, and this one was so soft. . .and blue. It's one of those that when you pull the tail in the back, classical music plays. I'm not sure why I can remember buying this elephant so clearly (Sears in the Santa Maria mall, must have been June). In many ways, I guess it was the first gift I bought for him. Clothes, crib, diapers, blankets -- those are things baby needs. A stuffed blue elephant -- I bought that just because I wanted the little boy I was carrying to have it.

I remember many a sleepless night with Nicky, laying in bed with him, pulling the little tail, desperately hoping the music would soothe him to sleep. It worked. . .once, maybe twice. Most times it didn't, because the music only lasts 10 seconds. Pulling the tail a hundred times a night was soothing for no one.

Not so long ago, he saw me packing it away. I have a small plastic box for both children with a few firsts -- the outfit they wore home from the hospital and a few other small soft things. When I was packing the elephant into the box, I told him how we used to lay together and listen to the music. (I left out the part about Mommy being beside herself, stressed and near tears, with a baby that wouldn't sleep through the night).

He didn't want me to pack it up, and that night I found him curled up with it as he slept.

Speaking of which. . .

And so the whole, "Better you than me" equality speech was meant to segue into the following story. And then I never actually segued. . .and poof! There went another month!

I was actually waiting to download photos for this story. . .Blah, blah.

Sooooooooooooooooooo, anyhoo. . .

I was gone for an hour and a half. When I left all seemed relatively calm in the house.

When I got home, I was greeted by the sight of this. . .

(Insert picture of Laney with white, mooshy stuff in bangs and covered in greasy substance)

I wasn't quite sure what I was seeing when Laney announced calmly, "Nicky put gum in my hair."

"What?" (You know, getting up in years. Hearing can play tricks on ya.)

"Nicky put gum in my hair," she said again. (No tricks)

Nicky was sitting in the living room. As I walked past him toward the kitchen, he studiously looked the other way.

Seven was in the kitchen making a snack for the kids, trying very hard to appear calm. And failing. He was hunched over the counter making the kids a sandwich, shoulders tensed.

When he looked up, his eyes had the look of a wild animal caught in a trap. Although he said little, the eyes are the window to the soul, and what I saw flashing behind them was, "PLEASE! SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASE!! I JUST WANT TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

I pieced together what happened, and apparently it was this:

Nicky and Laney were chewing gum when I left. And what idiot gave them gum, you wonder? Mom, the one who just left. Shortly two seconds after I left the scene, Laney decided it would be fun to try and stick her gum in Nicky's shirt. He wasn't having any of that. He'd show her! The best way to do this was by smashing his own gum straight into her forehead. And hair.

Seven heard the commotion, came in to see that Laney had a wad of gum right in the middle of her bangs. Not knowing what to do, he checked the Internet. He was actually very sweet in trying to save her hair.

The Internet said to put cooking oil in the hair and gum, let the gum soften, then comb it out. Seven decided this meant bathe the front of Laney's head in cooking oil. I think he was a tad frustrated by the whole situation, really. Men! Such lightweights when it comes to this sort of thing.

When the gum softened, Seven tried to comb it out. One can't get get a comb through Laney's hair in the best of times. This was not the best of times. Laney began to shriek and twist, then ran away, leaving Seven shaken and tired.

He decided to wait until I came home, an hour later, thinking I would have more success.

By the time I got home, the gum had hardened into a little lump in the center of her very greasy hair. I made a superficial attempt at combing it out.

As. If.

So I just did what hubby should have just done in the first place, bless his heart, and cut it out. I also cut out a tangle while I was there.

Where the hell have YOU been?!?!?!

You know, the usual.

It started with a case of writer's block in December. I decided to take a short break and wait for the kids to do something exciting. Really, what IS the point of having kids if they provide you with nothin', NOTHIN' for the blog??! Hmph.

Writer's block became. . .blah, excuses, excuses, more excuses, blah. " Christmas?! Is it Christmas, already?! It came so fast." Blah, blah. "Then I was a sick wif a cold." Sniff, sniff, blah. "You have no idea! It was so dark in January. I was so tired all of the time!" Blah, blah, blah. "I was to start again after the New Year." Blah, blah. "Okay, after the Chinese New Year." Blah. "I really should do stuff around the house instead of blogging." Blah, blah, blah.

"What?! Is it really March already?!?!"

And that, people, is how a quarter of the year just flies by and you barely register it.

Da Damene Dro

When the Ladies Left

There is a show on Norwegian television with that title. I have to say that I was a little surprised, although the ad makes me laugh every time.

Little boy jumping on the bed bonks his chin on the shelf and begins to wail. Dad looks on helplessly, while the song "Highway to Hell" plays in the background.

I was surprised, because this is a country pre-occupied with sexual equality. This is a show about men being left to their own devices with the house and kids, while the women head for vacation. The presumption being that all hell breaks loose when men have to take care of their homes and children when the women aren't around.

Something doesn't quite fit. I mean, a show about the men leaving the workplace would never fly.

When the Boys Bail
Women in a staff meeting. One begins to cry. All the women gather round, clucking and asking what's wrong. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "It's my period." The women nod knowingly -- one cannot function under the hormonal onslaught of a period -- and start discussing their feelings. Meanwhile, another women glares at the others from the corner and mutters, "Bitches," under her breath. She is the bitter Office Harpy around whom all of the drama will center. Playing in the background is, "Man! I feel like a woman!"

Yeah. Good luck with that. In the year 2009, should men being hopeless caretakers of their children REALLY provide entertainment value? Isn't the "right" answer to the question, "What happens when men take care of their own lives with no women around for a few days," that they will be just fine?

Wait! What was that? A gasp heard round the world as women exclaimed, "Are you freakin' kidding me?! Do you KNOW what happened last time my husband was alone with the children? Let me tell you. . ."

Yes. Yes. I know. All women have these stories. I have many a few um, one (?) of my own. I'm just sayin'.

Personally, when something goes horribly wrong and I'm not around, I prefer the much more egalitarian attitude, "Better you than me."