Elena No!

My dear friend Jen (of Just Imajen, the best blog you're not reading -- go check her out) was thrilled when we named our baby Elena -- and spelled it the Italian way. Jen, you see, served a mission in Rome, and as a side effect, became an expert, connoisseur even, of all things Italian. Of course, there's the food -- a fine, deeply flavored simple red sauce is worth its weight in rubies -- but more importantly, there's the music.

Long before this baby was named (or even conceived), Jen made me a CD full of her Italian favorites. I don't understand any of the words, but I know they're having a good time, and, while it lacks a certain . . . sophistication, a little bit of joie de vivre (which I wish I could say in Italian) goes a long way.

Right after my Elena was born, Jen sent me a link to a fantastic little pop gem entitled, "Elena No." (Please go listen. It's so worth the effort.) It's a catchy little ditty, which, according to Jen's translation, tells all about a controlling manipulative diva named Elena who has her man so wrapped around her finger, so trained, that he caters to her every unreasonable whim. "Elena no, Elena no," Lucio croons. "If I'm a man any more I don't know."

 My Elena Kate.

I just might have to call it prophetic.

Last week, Craig came home from work and, in a rare unoccupied moment, got out his iPhone and sat down on the couch to check his e-mail, some scores, whatever. Elena immediately toddled over to him (yep, she's walking and I am so not a fan of precocious mobility) and grunted in the general direction of his phone. In a moment of what I can only describe as acute idiocy and inability to withstand extreme cuteness, Craig acquiesced, turning his attention to something that must have been really important.

Elena shortly returned to him -- without the phone held in her hands. Her cold, wet, pee-smelling hands. Oh, yes she did. It took her a mere thirty seconds to waddle on down to the bathroom and baptize Craig's most trusted companion in a toilet full of yellowed water. Yeah, the boys should know better than to leave an unflushed toilet with the seat up and the door open -- we've been working on toilet etiquette for quite some time now, but it's hard to argue with logic that says there's no need to wash hands that haven't touched anything. But Craig made that bed, and there but by the grace of iPhone insurance goeth he. It took about a week for his new (refurbished) phone to arrive -- long enough that we were without the instantly-gratifying informational itch-scratcher for our entire vacation to the beach. So I had to sacrifice almost as much as he did.

I told Craig this does not bode well for the future. How can he possibly expect to say no to a whiny teenager when he can't even say no to the non-specific shrieks of an eleven-month old? Yes, dear, she's cute. Yes, she's your only daughter. But, um, that was also your only iPhone. Elena, no, indeed. Someone in this household needs to practice saying that about 45 times a day for the next 17 years, lest we end up with a houseful of kittens, dollies, little stray puppies, and, knowing this kid, race cars.

This little girl has spunk in spades. She chases after her older cousin to steal his pacifier -- which he then can't seem to steal back. When her brothers take a toy away from her, she lets out a holler, her meaning clearer than words could possibly be, and chases them down until they give her back what she wants. She turns the charm off and on with a level of skill I still haven't developed. But she holds her own with these rough and tumble boys of mine -- she's still alive almost a year in, and darn if she's not ending up on top!

I tell all of this to my mom, and she just shakes her head and smiles. She won't meet my eyes -- if she did, I know she would break down laughing at the similarities. Laney Kate has the red hair of her father, and the set of her eyes is all him, but that spunk? I'm claiming that all as my own.

A Sad Commentary on the Current State of Affairs

In the future, when my children watch "old" movies and discover the most recent iteration of King Kong, they will think the scene with King Kong holding Naomi Watts on top of the Empire State Building is a reference to the "Attack of the 50 Foot Sister" episode of Phineas and Ferb.

Whoa. That's deep, man.




(And if you don't know anything about those two idiotically-named characters, they're brothers who, each day during summer vacation, do something absolutely outrageous -- think build a portal to Mars -- while their older sister tries to get them busted. Meanwhile, their pet platypus Perry, a secret agent, plays Candace to the sad arch-villain-wannabe Dr. Doofenschmirtz. One scheme usually cancels out the other so Candace's oblivious mom always just misses catching her sons in the act, and Dr. D's plans are always thwarted by the silent but effective Perry the Platypus, who manages to simultaneously save the Tri-State Area and protect P & F's summer vacation plans. Can you tell I've seen every episode? Frequently? I won't complain. There are definitely worse things for my kids to enjoy.)

The Men in My Life

I've spent probably too much time singing the praises of my fantastic husband Craig on this blog, and while I am grateful for all that he brings to this most wonderful of unions, today, I'd like to take a moment to extol the virtues of another man I know:

My garbage man.

He loves me. I just know it.

It's Craig's job to take the trash can out to the end of our driveway each and every Tuesday morning, even the day after a holiday. Now. The man works hard. He recently took on another job so that we can pay off the loan we took out to purchase our business and while it's difficult to be without him 6 days a week not counting Sundays, the numbers don't lie and within the year, we will have enough financial freedom to shackle ourselves to some more debt when we build a new office. But I don't even make him mow the grass -- especially when the neighbor kid is willing, even happy, to tame our 3/4 acre for a mere $15 a pop.

So pretty much every Tuesday when I hear the garbage truck pull up our street, I glance out the window to make sure the trash has been taken up, and then, in a panic, race outside to do my husband's only outside job. Usually, I am tailed by a cadre of small children in various states of undress, all covered in peanut butter, or maybe poop. I lug the trash bin up the driveway and then try to manhandle my children away from the gigantic stinking monster truck that has, of course, become the ONE TRUE object of their considerable affections and, as such, the Everest to their Sir Edmund Hilary.

The garbage man, who, admittedly, has a nice smile under all the grime, grins at my boys, tells them to stay on the grass, and bids me a good day with a little tip of his hat and a wink. Which I think means he'll see me the same time next week.

This week, after our day at the lake on Monday, I really just forgot it was Tuesday. But last night, Craig took the trash out to the bin and came back inside scratching his head. "I forgot to take the trash up to the curb, but the can is still empty."

I just smiled to myself. Now, that, my friends, is service!

PS The use of his real name is intentional. I've decided it's time for our family to become Real People with Real Names. Introductions to come.

How to Tell The Difference Between InkMom and MommyJ

My sister is a blogger, too. If you're not yet aware of MommyJ's blog, you're in for a treat. She's funny and smart, a great writer and a fantastic mom. Please be sure to check out her companion post. You won't get the full story unless you read us both!

MommyJ and I are exactly 4 years, 4 months and 4 days apart. I am older. And bossier (and whatever she says in her blog, I totally told her to say it).

When we were younger, people often asked if we were twins. This was a little galling, especially for me, the older sister. We used to spend inordinate amounts of time staring at our faces, smushed together in the hallway mirror, trying to find the so-called similarities. Feature by feature, it's all different.

But the overall impression is pretty much the same.

We live in the same stake -- and I live within the bounds of the very same ward our parents have attended since I was two years old. This causes confusion, especially for those who only know one or both of us in passing. One particular member of our stake presidency never fails to get it wrong, even when one of us is pregnant.

Some of you lucky ducks may have the distinct privilege of meeting both me and MommyJ if you happen to be at the Casual Blogger Conference this coming weekend. Just in case you're confused, I've provided a primer. Study up -- we expect you to get it right 100% of the time. Here's how:

 This is my humility picture. And also my reminder to pluck my eyebrows before we leave on Thursday.

1. InkMom has curly hair. MommyJ does not. This would make things easier . . . except I'm getting a blow-out (of the hair -- not diaper -- variety) on Wednesday, so I won't actually have curly hair for the conference. Bummer. It's really something to behold. (And waaaaay better now that I  have been de-mulleted.) But even straightened, it's bigger than MommyJ's straight hair.

2. InkMom's baby is older. Little Miscellany (almost 7 months) and Baby Ivy (6 weeks) will be attending the conference with us. This means that my baby will almost-crawl her way over to any beautifully painted toes she can find, squawking and screeching as she goes. Please forgive her if she somehow salivates on any part of your belongings or -- egad -- your toes. And be fairly warned -- we call her The Pterodactyl for a reason.

3. MommyJ is younger, as I've already said, but (hopefully) you can't tell by looking at us. Except MommyJ wears younger shoes. And, due to some overzealous plucking, I have lots of half inch-long wiry gray hairs sticking our all over my head.

4. InkMom looks like she hijacked a produce stand and hid a couple of melons in her shirt. MommyJ looks like she's smuggling cantaloupes in her pantalones. We're pretty sure our mom overdosed on Big Macs when she was pregnant with me and I am the unfortunate result of the presence of unregulated bovine growth hormone in the beef. (Ask her this weekend -- she'll be at the conference, too!)

5. InkMom uses big words in every day conversation, without a single thought for the vocabulary size of her audience. MommyJ sounds smart and incredibly capable (because she is) without being a pompous walking dictionary.

6. InkMom has an ego the size of Texas. Maybe bigger. MommyJ is a singularly nice person who is a delight to be around because somehow, everyone is worthy of her friendship.

So let's review, shall we? I'm the big sister in almost every sense of the word: bigger hair, bigger baby, bigger boobs, bigger vocabulary, bigger ego. Thank goodness she's the one with the bigger butt!

Obsess, much?

My husband doesn't have a lot of free time. When he has some, he loves to hike and backpack and camp, with our family or with his buddies. He loves to travel, and to spend time at the lake water skiing when it's warm. There are plenty of things he enjoys. But when he only has a few minutes to spend at a time on diversions? He only has one hobby: Obsession.

He chooses a topic (usually, something he wants to buy), and then exhausts every resource he can get his hands on to educate himself about it, until he knows "enough" to make an informed purchase.

Examples? Sure. I've got plenty. Projector and 96" screen in the basement? That took three years. Jeep, and all the associated accessories? Two years. Vacuum cleaners? I'm still waiting for that one to resolve. His obsession with washing machines was accelerated by necessity, but no less intense than his serious interest in treadmills, lawn mowers, digital cameras, laptops, under-cabinet task lighting for our kitchen, garage floor sealants, minivans (also borne out of necessity), hardwood mulch, and reproductively-beneficial nutritional supplements (IVF, remember?).

He reads "Consumer Reports" more than his scriptures. (Kidding.) (Sort of.)

He does not have a monopoly on idiosyncratic behavior. I counted yesterday, after reading Steph's post, and I have 99 books (including library books) stacked up next to my bed. (I am completely willing to post that list on this blog if anyone is interested. Any takers? No? I didn't think so. But it is a REALLY interesting list.) They are not on a shelf (although, they are separated into fiction and non-fiction, then alphabetized), just stacked next to the wall. I gaze at them fondly with greater regularity than I would freely admit, because I. Love. Books. I cannot stop. My name is InkMom and I am a Biblioholic.

I also cannot sleep if my sheets are not tucked tightly at the bottom. (This caused problems early in our marriage. CPod -- all 6'5" of him -- adapted nicely.) In the shower, I always start with my hair and make my way down, and if I forget a step, it pains me if I don't have time to start over.

When I'm trying on clothes, the outfit never looks quite right until I've tilted my head to the right. (MommyJ shares this quirk. When we were growing up, the full-length mirror in our room cut off your head, and if you wanted to get an idea of the whole package, you had to tilt.)

My love for words is near-pathological. I collect them like trinkets and try them on for size often, until they become a permanent part of my repertoire. This has spawned a need to correct any and all improper usage I encounter in a way that is, I'm sure, terribly annoying to all who have experienced my supercilious oldest-child compulsion to make everything RIGHT.

Admittedly, I have let a lot of things go since having children: the towels don't have to be folded a certain way, though I'm happier if they are (after all, they must fit in the cabinet), and while my cleaning regimen might seem a little over-the-top to some (MommyJ), I'm much more flexible than I used to be, and it works for me.

I could go on. There is a certain member of my family who, for a period of time in his early childhood, would not wear pants that touched his legs. Thank goodness for the eighties God-sent trend of parachute pants. He also wouldn't wear socks with lumps, or shirts with tags, and the milk in his cereal bowl had to come to RIGHT HERE or he wouldn't eat it. We all have our little tics.

And that is why I am not surprised to already note idiosyncrasies in my children. ConMan's handwashing needs have become so intense that we have trained him add lotion to the regimen; otherwise, his little fair-and-delightsome hands become so dry it's painful -- but still not painful enough to curb his conviction that there are germs on his hands. (I think I blame this one on his germophobe preschool. Seriously.)

G-Dog, like his mama, can't sleep if his covers aren't tucked in tightly next to the wall. And, he, like his daddy, exhausts us with a machine-gunfire barrage of questions on topics ranging from the nature of God to what kind of sticks birds use to build nests to how kaleidoscopes work. (I know, Mom. I'm getting what I deserved, after famously asking questions like, "Do mosquitoes have blood?")

Last week, Miscellany visited our beloved pediatrician for her 4-month check-up. As Dr. H. examined Little Girl, MayDay kept scaling the exam table like a climbing wall. Once atop the table, he made his way across, behind the baby, towards the counter holding the baby scale, a sink, and a wall-mounted sharps container.

He was persistent, but so was I. Each time he climbed up, I put him back on the floor. Finally, as he climbed once again toward the scale, I took his little face in my hands and asked him, "MayDay, what are you trying to do?" He glanced significantly at the infant scale on the counter next to him. I followed his gaze and suddenly, clarifyingly, knew exactly what had fueled his compulsion.

I pushed the weights on the scale back over the zero-point, and my little, chip-off-the-old block control freak sighed, and said, "Oooohh, thank you, Mommy!"

Sadly, I completely understood. And I am now, more than ever, convinced that the reason more people haven't been officially diagnosed with one psychiatric disorder or another is, quite simply, because we haven't asked.

Delusions of Grandeur

Last night as CPod and I went to bed, I briefly stepped into the little boys' bathroom to tidy up. The toilet, of course, needed flushing, but other than that it really wasn't too bad. CPod cleans the toilets in our house. Thank goodness. Usually, five minutes after he finishes scrubbing, some little person takes it upon himself to turn it back into the truckstop toilet we all know it deserves to be. We spend a lot of time and effort remediating their aiming skills. And it seems to be working.

So I said to CPod, "Hey, your terlet in there is still pretty clean!" And then I started laughing because that was funny, right? (Intentionally mispronounced word, in case you were wondering.) CPod just glanced up from his Backpacker magazine and smirked at me through stylish wire-rimmed glasses. (Somehow, the smirk stings more when he just looks so good doing it, right?)

"You really crack yourself up, don't you?" he said. No laughing. Not funny.

Yes, apparently, I do. I spend waaaaay too much time laughing at my own jokes, fantasizing about being on Glee as I vocalize in the car, and wondering why they don't have more short, tree-trunk legged, curvy, busty supermodels. I suffer from a different kind of delusion: when I look in the mirror, what I see is much thinner than reality, with hair worthy of a Suave commercial, a sharp wit funny enough for Night at the Improv, and book ideas the big publishing houses would fight over could they just see into my brilliant mind.

And then I realized that I am just like those people on American Idol. You know the ones. Even the most tone deaf AI viewers can recognize a talent blackhole when they see it. Don't we all just shake our heads and wonder how on earth no one has told them that they can't sing?

I am always amazed at their confidence -- one girl's utter conviction that no matter how much Simon Cowell knows about the music business, he must be wrong about her. "Those judges don't know nothin'!" she screams at the camera as she angrily makes her way out of the venue. No, of course not. Their extensive experience and proven track record of choosing and grooming multi-platinum artists pale in comparison to your one semester of high school show choir and a lifetime of shower singing. How could belting it out in the opera house-like acoustics of your bathroom not prepare you to be the next American Idol? Honestly, I'm amazed you don't have a record deal already.

Is it a worse friend/sister/mother/significant other who fosters this delusion, or pops the bubble? I'm still not sure. But really. A little bit of, "Honey, why don't you try something else?" goes a long way.

When I was eight years old, I filled pages of my journal with a looooong list of my possible future careers. This list was, of course, based on some serious soul searching and a realistic inventory of my strengths and weaknesses. Well, not weaknesses, because, of course, I wasn't aware I had any at the ripe old age of 8. American Idol wasn't around then, but, rest assured, had such a phenomenon existed, there would have been an entry on my list of "What I Have to Offer the World" going something like this: "48. American Idol pop star, because I have a GREAT voice and I don't really get nervous in front of people, and because I have such an amazing sense of fashion and could totally set the trend for modesty." This from the girl who regularly wore red tights with turquoise shorts. Turquoise corduroy shorts. (There is photographic evidence. Wince.)

Part of me has to admire the . . . chutzpah of those American Idol contestants. It takes guts to believe in yourself way more than reality should permit. After all, if YOU don't believe in you, no one will. But, seriously. At some point, we all have to take the gauze off the camera lens and see things as they really are. Except not me. Because I AM the next American Idol . . . Mother Teresa . . . Albert Einstein . . . Jane Austen . . . Margaret Thatcher . . .