Blame it on the snow (and therefore Christmas music playing in our house), but Zach started singing “Santa Clause is coming to town” this morning. His version goes like this: “Santa…to town. Santa…to town. Santa…to town.” I said, “Zachary, are you saying ‘Santa Clause is coming to town?’” (I sang it to him). He enthusiastically responded, “Yeah, yeah! Santa come to town. Santa come to town.”

As if totally offended by the inappropriateness of it all, Matthew chastised Zachary, “No! Zachy, it’s not Christmas. Santa Clause is NOT coming to town.” Well, bah hum-bug. Matthew sure didn’t complain when it snowed last week, we listened to Christmas music and drank hot cocoa!

Mike chimed in, “Well, no. Santa’s not coming to town for a while, but Zach’s birthday IS coming to town.” Zach jumped on that right away, “Birthday…to town. Birthday come to town. Presents come to town. Presents to town.”

Matthew has already announced that Zach should get Legos for his birthday and that he will, of course, share them with his older brother. (As if Matthew shares his with ZJ. Yeah right). The one gift I KNOW Matthew would not insist on playing with/using is stickers. Zachary currently LOVES stickers. Meanwhile, Matthew has developed a serious aversion to them. It’s almost a phobia, really. If the checker at the grocery store asks the boys if they want stickers, Matthew practically shouts, “No! I don’t like stickers.” I remind him to be polite so then he says, “No, thank you. I don’t like stickers.”

The other day there was a sticker on the floor of our car – it was an ancient sticker that I’m sure had lost all sticky-power. I asked Matthew to pick something up off of the floor that happened to be in the same vicinity as said-sticker. He recoiled in disgust. “No! I can’t. It’s too close to the sticker. I might touch it!”

I did some Google-research on the topic and discovered that some refer to this as “stickerophobia,” though there was reference to something called “panniophobia” which also means ‘fear of stickers.’ I think there’s a good chance that some one made up this term in response to the question, “is there a name for a phobia of stickers?” And then people saw this panniophobia and since it sounded fancier and more ‘scientific’ than stickerophobia, they ran with it. Anyway, whatever it may be called, I did find that Matthew is not alone in this fear, though it appears there are no established support groups for this that suffer from this debilitating ailment.

Mother Nature has been so confused ‘round these parts lately; I think she’s suffering from some sort of personality disorder. Over the last few weeks, we’ve had a couple of weekends that included every possible weather system – sun, rain, wind, hail and snow. The last weekend when it snowed I heard probably four different people bellyaching about the weather: “I was so depressed when I woke up to snow this morning” or “I almost started to cry when I saw the forecast.” All I can say is carpe diem, peeps! In the Martin household snow is a magical, fantastical event. On Sunday morning, Matthew flew into our room saying, “Mom! Dad! Quick! Come see! It’s snowing! It’s….[intake of happy, ecstatic breath]…it’s a winter wonderland.” He says this last bit in a quiet voice of respect and awe. And, as if it’s Christmas morning, I throw the covers off the bed and go running down the hall to watch the magic unfolding around us.

Yes, I’ll admit that sunshine is nice. When we had that one day of about 75 degrees (remember that one?), I certainly didn’t complain. Quite frankly, it felt lovely. (I’m practicing for my future days of sitting on a porch in a rocker and shooting the sh— discussing nothing but the weather). It is springtime, after all. Matthew and I are waiting patiently to actually start our vegetable garden. So far, we’ve gardened…dirt. And it’s doing quite well, I might add.

Right, so if we had ‘normal’ spring weather, I wouldn’t complain just like I can’t complain about the wonky weather. All I can do is find the sudden hailstorms and snow totally amusing. And, while it doesn’t take much of an excuse here, snow is a perfectly acceptable reason to put on the Christmas music and have hot cocoa.

Can you still be a business owner without a business? Today is the first day of my music class at the Boys and Girls’ Club…or it would have been my first day. I stopped by the club on Monday to drop off copies of my business license (to show I’m all legal and legit and stuff) and to find out how many students were signed up on-line. TWO. 2. TWO were signed up for 30 spots. woohoo. There were a few things that went wrong here: first of all, it’s a hard time of year to be starting up a class/activity. We’re getting towards the end of the school year, so most people are winding down busy activities OR they’re signing up for new stuff – but more likely classes that’ll take the kids outside (swimming, soccer, etc.). Also, the club didn’t allow that much time for the fliers to go out before we were to start the class. AND I don’t have any clientele base up there – no fan club like I do down here. Word-of-mouth is the best way to get students and until I have an actual class things’ll start small. I knew that it would start small; I just didn’t foresee the class not actually happening as a possibility.

I’ve seen the decline in interest in my own class at home. Most of my “regulars” wanted to take this upcoming session off to do other things. So, for the first time ever (since starting the class three years ago!), I’m cancelling class since it would just be too small to make it worth it.

I went from way too much on my plate to nothing on my plate! This is a very strange feeling for me and I’m not sure how to handle it! I was so stressed about having the two days of classes, and I how I would balance that with the boys, etc. And now it’s not an issue at all! I’m OK with that. I’ll just have to use this time to find prospective students up in Bellevue. I’ll stalk the toddler parks and use my own musical prodigy children as bait.


We had our priest friend, Father Steve, over for dinner the other night. When I told him about the whole music class snaffoo, he said, “Jenny, this is God’s way of telling you that you need to relax! Take a break, sit on your butt, eat bon-bons and watch soaps.” Hey, if it’s coming from the mouth of a priest, I have no choice but to obey, right?

You know how you spend much of your life trying to figure out what you want to be when you grow up? What you’re truly meant to do? What your calling in life is? Well, for the last year or so, I feel as though I’ve been heading in the write direction. (Yeah, sorry, that was intentional. Did you catch that?) Well, a couple of weeks ago I was given the opportunity to try out a different occupation – and, no, I don’t mean as Snack and Chip Advocate or Commercial Sound-bite Professional. I was presented with the chance to try out my skills as a Crime Fighter.

So, as you know, I run three mornings a week, at 6am, with my neighbor, and now therapist, Andrea. (Let’s face it: she listens to me talk for three hours every week, she should be making serious money. And yet, she only gets paid with my admiration and undying love). ‘Twas a Monday morning and I set out, as always, at 5:55, to walk up the street towards Andrea’s house. (We meet somewhere in the middle depending on who left their home first). As I rounded the bend in the road, I saw a Dude clad in black hooded sweatshirt trying really, really, REALLY hard to open the driver’s seat of a red sports car parked on the street. The following thoughts rapidly flew through my brain: hmmm, I’m fairly certain that the owner of the car (and resident of that home) is of a different racial persuasion than Hooded Sweatshirt Dude. Hmm, It’s sure taking him a LONG time to get into that car…wait a second, yeah, that’s not his car. Dude is trying to steal that car! Bad Dude! Then I notice that Dude is not alone. Dude has Girlfriend sitting in a running small silver car with the headlights lighting up his work space. Again, lots and lots of quick thoughts run through my head. I tried to remember all of the things those articles in Runner’s World and where-ever-else told me about what to do in this situation. (A situation when you’re by yourself outside and there’s a Bad-seeming Dude).

I quickly crossed to the other side of the road and continued walking up the street staring at him like a lunatic. (I think there was something about looking crazy…maybe). He startled when he saw me and immediately stopped fiddling with the lock. He looked so guilty; it would have been comical (had I not been so busy trying to keep me heart from jumping out of my chest and, of course, maintaining bladder control).

“GOOD MORNING!” I yelled in a very loud and extremely cheery way, all the while staring him down with eyes that said, ‘yeah, I see you Dude. I knows what you doin.’ (It helps to talk like a thug in your head).

“Uh, uh, hi,” Dude stutters. “How…how’s it going?” Trying to act so cool, huh, Dude? I’m on to you. I’m so on to you, and your little Girlfriend who’s too scared to even look at me. Or maybe she’s just too busy glaring at you: See, Dude, I TOLD you we shouldn’t have waited until 6am to try to steal a car!

I strutted by with an air of complete machoness. I totally took in his appearance, her appearance, the car she was in and the house’s address. I was so on top of things. I kept walking feigning nonchalance. Once I got past them a little bit, I saw Andrea a few houses up the street, walking towards me. I continued my nonchalance in a subtle yet Olympic Athlete speed, speed-walk. As I neared Andrea, I reached for my cell phone (that I keep in the pocket of my nerdy-and-yet-oh-so-Safety-First! Reflective vest). It wasn’t there. Of course! The day that I commence my career as a suburban neighborhood Crime Fighting Mommy Machine, I don’t have the most important safety device of all – a phone. [I do, however, carry a very loud whistle that came with some of my instruments for music class. I’m not sure how or when I’ll put the whistle to use. I told Andrea about in the context of, “Never fear – should you be attacked by a vicious canine, I will save the day by blowing my whistle.” Andrea’s response was something like, “Um, yeah. Then ALL the dogs in the neighborhood will come running. GREAT idea.”].

When I got close enough for Andrea to hear me, I said, “Turn around. Turn around. Walk back towards your house. Turn around. We need to call the police.” Andrea shot a nervous look at me. “No, no. It’s OK. Let’s just get to your driveway. I think someone’s trying to steal a car.” At this point, I hear Dude and Girlfriend take off in their car – as in NOT the stolen one because I totally BUSTED them.

So, Andrea dials 9-1-1 and is relaying all of my details to the operator when she realizes things would be a heck of a lot easier if she just handed the phone to me. She’d gotten all of the basics out of the way, so the first thing that the operator asks me is, “And what was the license plate of their car?” Um. Oops. Damn. There goes my crime fighting career down the crapper. I was SO proud of myself for getting all the other details – I could still tell you what they looked like…and the house number. (As if they’re just going to sit there in front of the house waiting for the police to show up).

Better luck next time.

Happy Fool’s Day/Happy Birthday, Dad! (They go hand-in-hand, not that they are at all related).

So, Friday, I did it. I managed to talk for four hours straight about food. And I was quite surprised, that by the end of the afternoon – I had a sore throat and was hoarse! I’m apparently a little rusty and should have worked up gradually to that kind of stamina-driven performance.

I thought the whole experience was fascinating and fun. The interviewer was very impressive. He would ask me a question (everything from “could you please describe the lifestyle of your family” to “what do you look for in a snack”), I’d give a brilliant-I’m-sure answer and then he’d immediately ask another question perfectly pertaining to my previous answer. For FOUR STRAIGHT HOURS. We had a couple of breaks in the monotony. I gave them a tour of the pantry and the fridge. (He had me explain how I compare ingredients and health facts on the boxes/bags of food in addition to why I bought certain brands/products). And then we took a field trip down to the grocery store. (And yes, the camera didn’t accompany us for that part). By that point in the afternoon, I still wasn’t totally sure what the whole thing was about or what they were looking for, so I just went ahead and supplied him with a nonstop commentary while we walked up and down the aisles of Safeway. It was kind of like when I was in therapy – I made his job pretty easy. Although, thinking back, I realize all the ridiculously pointless facts that I supplied for him. (“I prefer this string cheese to this one because of…” “See, I only buy that when it’s on sale…”). When I was done with my store tour, he took me back to the snack aisle and asked several questions about packaging.

A couple of times during the interview, when he asked about different chips, I said, “if this is for Flat Earth – you guys scored ‘cuz I LOVE those chips. They’re the only ones that I buy on a fairly regular basis.” Which is completely true and it turned out, yep, the study was for Flat Earth.

When we got back to the house, they took CHEESY still shots of me putting away my groceries and holding up my 1st grade art collage. He loved the added creativity of the Diet Pepsi can hanging off the bottom. And it turns out, Frito-Lay (makers of Flat Earth) also own Diet Pepsi. I was their dream girl.

We went back to the living room where the best – yet most painful – part of the interview took place. He brought out four different bags (and flavors) of the chips and basically had me perform a taste-test. It was painfully awkward as I heard myself say things like, “mmm…mmmhmmm…this chip is, well, it’s very approachable and not at all standoffish.” Did I seriously just say that? On camera?? And about a chip??? He asked questions like “what kind of emotions do you feel when you first open the bag?” “How do you like the bag design of this one versus that one?” (They all have a different background scene).

The whole time that I interviewed, Mike had done an exceptional job of keeping the boys quiet and out-of-the-picture (literally). But when the boys saw mommy sitting on the couch with four bags of open chips around her they were like “enough already! Let me at her!” Zach came and ate a chip. (I quietly reminded him: “Look at the camera and smile. Work it. Here’s your big break.”).

In the end, I received my fat payment for my time AND four bags of Flat Earth “veggie crisps”…which I highly recommend. (No, they’re not paying me to support their product….well, they did pay me but I’m not on commission). Apparently, they’re very approachable and not at all standoffish.

I have found my dream job. Finally! People willing to pay for the immense skill I have to offer! Granted this dream job will only take place once (tomorrow afternoon for four hours), but still…Listen to this one: I will get paid (a good sum of money, I might add) to talk (yes, ME! Talk! For four hours!!) about…wait for it…food! All I need to do is talk and share my opinion about food – specifically “snacks” for four hours. Not only can I do that, but I’d LOVE to do that.

Let me explain. A couple of years, I received a call from Consumer Opinion Services. They were having a group discussion/survey on hospitals in the area. It was maybe a two hour commitment, one evening, and paid $50 cash. I loved it, and of course, I had a lot of opinions on the hospitals in the area (though this was even before I lived at one for nearly two months). The group discussion was kind of like my first ever Caucusing experience this year – I really like the opportunity to sit down with a slice of humanity and see what peeps out there are like.

So, I received a phone call a couple of days ago asking if I’d take a brief survey on snacks as there was going to be a study in our area. The boys were napping and, well, let’s face it – I enjoy talking and I enjoy food. The first question was “Please answer yes if you eat any of these foods for snack: cheese, fruit, nuts, dried fruit, yogurt, crackers, chips, cookies, candy…” Unfortunately my answer was yes to everything. (We apparently eat a lot). I did try to defend my last couple answers: Cookies? Um, occasionally. Candy? Every once in a while. [Except pretty much all day long today because I’m sacrificing myself for my family and polishing off the last of the Easter candy, so that they don’t have to consume that unhealthy garbage.] Then the question was, “Do you do most of the grocery shopping for your family?” “In the last twelve months have you bought any of these…Doritos? Sun Chips? Pringles? Etc. Then “what flavors of those did you buy?” “How many times did you purchase those?” “Do you remember what the package looked like…?” And my personal favorite, “Just for fun: if you could be any person, place or thing what would you be and why?” Huh? And you’re going to pay me to answer fun questions? Seriously?

At the end of the phone survey I was informed by my new biggest-fan that I was PERFECT for the study. She really was so pro-me it was a little odd. I even heard her say to the phone interviewers around her, “Yeah. I got her! She’s great!” Now am I great because I like food?? I think I hooked her with my ability to clearly describe the one bag of chips that I do buy frequently – Flat Earth’s “baked harvest cheddar veggie chips…with ½ serving of real vegetables in every ounce!” (Feeding your kids chips that are advertised as something remotely healthy, takes some of the mom guilt off your shoulders).

My new BFF informed me of the requirements for this little brief employment: it’s an in-home study, they come to me! I will need to block off 12:30-4:30pm tomorrow afternoon (and therefore, the boys must be supervised by someone else. Mike is so pumped about the money that he’s going to come home from work to chill with the boys). The interview will include a question and answer session, a tour of my pantry (which just sounds, well, a little dirty!), and then a trip down to the grocery store. There will be two interviewers and a VIDEOGRAPHER to record the whole thing!!! My question was: is this really a shot at my own reality TV show? I can just see the camera guy following me around at Safeway while I peruse the shelves, telling them what catches my eye. It’ll be like having the paparazzi following me around! I feel like Britney but sane! (In the end, I found out that, sadly no, the camera won’t record the field trip to Safeway. Oh well, no extra stares from the neighbors, I guess. Though it might be enough to be followed at the grocery store with three people with clipboards recording my every word).

The other fun part of this process is that I’m getting paid to make a first grade art project. I’m to make a small poster board display of “food and how it makes me feel…what is your dream snack? What would your dream snack do for you? How would it make you feel?” I’ve been promised that everyone gets an “A” – there’s no way to fail this project (unless it’s not completed). And that the “more creative, the more you tell us about yourself, the better.” Is this a joke? I can hang a Diet Pepsi can off of it, include a dark chocolate wrapper, and maybe include some healthier stuff too. Is this Hidden Camera or something?

I completed the art project last night, and I’m pleased to say that it’s quite high quality. Maybe even more of a fifth grade level than first!

Happy Easter! Let’s celebrate with some recent anecdotes from the Tribe Martin.

Matthew and I have been spending a lot of time “farming” here on the homestead. The definition of “farming” on the Martin land is this: we move piles of rocky, hard weedy dirt around; we use paver stones to form two beds next to the garage; we hope to eventually stick some stuff in the ground that will later grow into something remotely related to fruit or vegetable that we can eat.

Our afternoons farming are always interrupted once or twice by the shrill girly-scream of my four-year-old son. This means he has either unearthed a worm or spider. Yesterday, the insect interloper caused such an uproar that shovels had to be put down and we (Matthew and I, not me and the bug) had to have a heart-to-heart.

“Matthew,” I said, “I don’t like spiders either.”

“Really?” Matthew asked incredulously.

“Yep. When I was little, I always made Uncle Chris kill them for me, and eventually I slept with a baseball bat in my room to protect myself…not that they could do anything ‘cuz we’re a lot bigger than they are, huh? But it just made me feel better. Now, if Daddy’s home and I find a spider in the house, I have him kill it. But if he’s not home, I have to be brave and kill it.” [or pretend that I didn’t see it and vacate the house with the children as quickly as possible for a spontaneous – but necessary – errand].

“I’ll have daddy kill spiders too,” Matthew informs me.

“OK, but what about when you’re a grown-up, and if you’re the daddy? Then will you kill it?” I inquire.

“No. I’ll have the mommy do it. My wife will like spiders and always kill them for me.”

Good luck with that, future daughter-in-law of mine.

After post-farming clean-up yesterday, we went out do dinner. Zachary had earned all of his “coins” (poker chips that are placed in an empty deli meat container in order to bribe our children to be good little people). I didn’t have any cheap, crappy toys to give him as a prize, so we decided to head to one of those family-friendly places as a treat. The choice? Billy McHale’s. Let me tell you, a train driving around a track suspended from the ceiling is almost as cool as Disneyland.

But perhaps even better than the train was the Jack. By some act of God, we were seated on the other side of the wall-partition from a family with a five-year-old named Jack. Matthew and Jack had a perfect little window in which they could swap facts. The conversation – to the best of my memory’s ability, went something like this:

Jack: “Hey, watch for the train. I’m five. Where do you live?”
Matthew: “In the white and black house.”
J: (laughing) “No WHERE do you live?”
M: “Washington.” [Mommy: “Newcastle, Matthew. We live in Newcastle”]. “Newcastle, we live in Newcastle.”
J: “We live in Covington.”
M: “Mom! They live in the same town as us!”
ME: “Matthew, Covington is no where near Newcastle.”
J: “My name is Jack.” [Matthew grins from ear-to-ear. One of his best buddies is named Jack! And he has a cousin named Jack – who Matthew adores even though they only met once, last summer. Oh, what luck! We know how great Jacks are].
M: “My name is Matthew [pronounced “Maffew”], and John Deeres and fire trucks are my favorite.”
J: “I like tractors.”
M: “My favorites are John Deeres.”
J: “I like hay balers.”
M: (hardly able to contain his excitement) “John Deeres have hay balers!”
J: “How old are you?”
M: “Four. Green is my favorite color.”
J: “My favorite is red.”
M: “MY favorite is red…and green. I like red AND green.”
J: “So, Matt, [Mommy cringes -- I'm so not ready for my Matthew to turn into a Matt] do you want to be my best friend?”
M: “Oh, sure!”
J: “Draw me a map to your house.”
M: [Drawing lines on the back of the Kids’ Menu] “OK, you go this way, then this way, then go here, then this way to our house!” [drawing a square-ish shape at the end of the squiggly lines].
J: “My grandma and grandpa live in Ellensburg…on a farm.”
M: “Can I have a map?”

In purple crayon, Jack’s dad (who we haven’t actually seen due to the various Billy McHale’s props hanging in our way, but we assume he has parents over there), draws us a map that includes a few road names off of the Interstate with an X marking “Spark’s Farm.” I think, if we were really dedicated stalkers, we could actually show up at the farm. It’s a much more detailed map than Matthew’s, that’s for sure. And how great that Matthew’s new best friend has grandparents with a farm! You know how much we love John Deeres in this house.

Eventually food arrives and Matthew and Jack’s conversation becomes more sporadic as they focus on eating mac ‘n cheese or chicken tenders or some other fried food substance. At some point during dinner, two peanut M & M’s are passed from Jack to Matthew. They happen to be red and green, perfectly corresponding with Matthew’s recently declared favorite colors. Jack’s mom says something (still can’t see her either) and Jack says, “You can have that one when you finish your dinner.” Matthew – always Mr. Polite – thanks his new best bud. Finally, Jack’s peoples have concluded their meal (they were there before us, after all). Jack bids his new best friend farewell. When his parental units surface above the restaurant paraphernalia I wave to his dad and say, “OK, we’ll see you in Ellensburg!” Smiling, he responds, “Everyone is always welcome at the Spark’s Farm.” Sweet! We’ll consider that our standing invitation.

How funny would that be if we showed up – with our purple crayon-drawn map?! “Yes, hello. You don’t know us but we met your grandson Jack at Billy McHale’s and well, he’s our son’s best friend, we were given this map, so…which room is ours?!” There’s a part of me that REALLY wants to do it.

Zach is all about the pronunciation. For an almost-two-year-old, the boy’s got serious vocab-skills. I feel like he kind of skipped over that baby talk thing. (I suppose I could read back through my Blog and find actual documentation of this…or discover that I’ve already written on this topic…or find that I often quoted his ‘baby talking’ proving that I’m a big fat liar, but we’ll just move forward). He’s also pretty big into repeating EVERYTHING we say…and everything that Matthew says. Unfortunately, Matthew occasionally gets into that four-year-old boy potty/body talk thing that drives everyone within hearing up the wall. You’ll say something like, “OK, time for bed.” And you’ll get the response of, “OK, time for my bum.” (Which, it turns out, if you’re four, and a boy, is the most clever and funniest thing imaginable!).

Today, I was giving Matthew a hard time because he was in my facial cheek vicinity – I expected him to give me a nice little sonly kiss but instead he snorted out his nose onto my face. “Matthew!” I cried. “No! You weren’t supposed to snort! You’re supposed to kiss my cheek.” Matthew – under his breath, the cheeky little booger – muttered something that I couldn’t quite catch. Zachary, however did. And he proudly shouted, “kiss my bum!” Yeah, not cool, Matthew. Not cool.

So, as I said, Zach has extraordinary pronunciation...with the exception of one word: yogurt. Really, when you think about it, yogurt is a peculiar sounding word; especially the gurt part. In French, it’s even better: yaourt. (Pronounce: yow-urt). Zach’s yogurt pronunciation is best of all: GA-HONK. It’s quite catchy too. Matthew has even started asking for ga-honk. I don’t think that’s the direction we’d like to go, but it is kinda funny. So, go enjoy some ga-honk today!

Today marks an anniversary for me: two years ago today, I checked into Overlake Hospital, 28 weeks pregnant with Zachary. I didn’t leave until after his birthday – April 28th. It’s weird to think about the dates right now: today is March 12. Doesn’t April 28th, the END of April, seem a LONG ways away??! Let me tell ya: it seems even longer when you’re lying in bed the whole time. Thinking about my bedrest stay at Spa Overlake is a good reminder to be thankful for the little things (and the bigger things). I went for a 5-6 mile run this morning! What a difference compare to my March 12th morning two years ago. I can get up and use my own bathroom! (Hooray for privacy…and toilets). I have Replay TV and call-waiting on the phone. I can sleep through the night (when the boys let me) without having to wake up for a vitals check or shot in the arm and waddle to the potty. I’m self-sufficient (I can get my own graham crackers, thank you very much). I get to sleep in my own bed, and I can wear “regular” clothes with stretchiness as an option not a necessity. I no longer watch the morning news or catch depressing bits of daytime TV. (I do miss watching Ellen Degeneres though). Most importantly, I’m thankful to be home – in my house with my boys. No one else has to take care of them because I am totally and thoroughly capable (although half the time I’m still secretly hoping Super Nanny will swoop in for some guidance and assistance).

This time of year also marks another anniversary. It was almost a year ago (about a month after daylight savings), that Andrea and I started running together at 6am, three mornings a week. And let me tell you: daylight savings stinks. I apparently don’t handle change well. I just can’t let go. I’m still saying things like, “yeah, it’s six o’clock, but it’s REALLY five.” And “I should get to bed, but in old school, REAL time, it’s only 9:30.” You can’t reset your kids, so they really keep you tied to the old time. I miss it. I miss when 6am was 6am. Now 6am is really 5am, and that’s just lame. Who’s idea was this anyway?

Mike and I flew to Boise, Idaho for the weekend. Not just for kicks but for an Engaged Encounter Unit Board Meeting which, really, is nothing but kicks. They are so much fun! We stayed with a wonderful family who wined us and dined us, and we had a marvelous time with all of our Unit Board friends.

I must admit that I’ve been looking forward to the weekend for a while – not because of the ditching kids factor – but because of the airport. While I don’t love flying (I’m OK with it), I’ve really gotten to love the airport experience. I really think that I could spend hours in an airport (and have). I love to study others and in my opinion, next to Costco, the airport is one of the best places to pursue my passion for people-watching. At one point, while we waited to board our plane to come home from Boise, I made Mike move seats two or three times to locate the best possible vantage point. (I’m sure the fellow people-watchers were fascinated by our relocation process; they were trying to figure us out). That’s one of the best parts of people-watching: trying to unriddle their story, who they are, where they’re going or coming from, and (my personal favorite) why they selected that outfit for their traveling attire. You see everything at the airports these days: from heels and suits to pajamas and Uggs (really expensive, comfy cloggy-slipper-type boots, for those of you lacking knowledge in the current fashion trends). I was most fascinated by the head-to-toe white linen suit Man. The only splash of color decorating him was a bright yellow scarf wrapped around his neck. He happened to sit right by us and was reading what looked to be an essay or report on Yoga/Meditation. (Yes, my people-watching skills do occasionally turn into glancing at other peoples’ reading materials).

While Yoga/Meditation Guru Man made me happy, I was also fascinated – and slightly disturbed – by WAY Inappropriately Too Tight EVERYTHING Man. On Friday, we flew with WITTEM and his wife to Boise. On Sunday evening, we had the pleasure (OK, displeasure) of flying back to Seattle with Wittem and Mrs. Wittem. Friday’s ensemble was a skin-tight blue t-shirt, tucked into skin-tight black Levis, cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and puffy white vest (that was too tight to fully snap shut). I was disappointed to see that Wittem’s outfit on Friday was not an accident – I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt – but when the Wittems arrived on Sunday evening, I discovered, no, this is just the look this man goes for. For Sunday’s travel, Wittem selected a long sleeve, skin tight SHEER t-shirt, underneath white puffy vest (too small to snap closed), showing-it-all too-tight Levis, and white cowboy hat and black boots. Mrs. Wittem, however, always appeared perfectly normalized and acceptable in her attire selections. I just don’t get it. I must admit that I was assuming the Wittems were from a more rural locale – such as Idaho – and that on Friday, we were flying them home. However, seeing them return to Seattle like us, really threw me for a loop. Are they from here? I have a hard time seeing Wittem blend in with either the (stereotypes here): Yuppies of Bellevue or Urban Granolites of Seattle.

While we partied in Boise, the boys spent the weekend with the Buckley and had a marvelous time. On Saturday morning, my parents took them to their friends’ son’s farm. You can imagine the excitement. (Grandma’s….the boys were a little hesitant at first). When I spoke to Matthew on the phone later that afternoon, he said, “Mommy! I got to steer the John Deere. And I got to scoop up horse poo!” Wow, highlight of his weekend, I’m sure.

So, the Martins are all reunited again in Newcastle – undergoing the stress of daylight savings (you can’t reset your kids’ clocks) and sickness. Zach had a bit of a fever and cough for my parents this weekend (sorry, Grandparental Units!) and Matthew started the cough and fever last night. Being forced to stay home is actually a good thing. Yesterday, there was so much laundry to do, that I had the boys help me with one of their favorite household chores. We call it LAUNDRY AVALANCHE!!! The boys sit on the stairs, and I proceed to dump hamper loads of laundry on them. They ride down the stairs while butt-surfing on a wave of dirty clothes. Once all the laundry is at the very bottom of the stairs, they use dump trucks and kid-size toy shopping carts to transfer the laundry from the base of Mt. Martin to the Land of Laundry where it slowly (over the course of a couple days) is turned into clean clothes by the Sprite of Cleanliness who – occasionally and ever so benevolently – visits our home.

How in the world has a ca-razy life gotten even ca-razier? Let me tell you: I am now officially the sole proprietor of my own business! Little Ditties (Music Academy) is off the ground and running. In the near future, I will be on contract to teach my toddler music classes at the local Boys and Girls Club. A while back, I had considered taking on the Preschool music teacher position as well, but that was just too many hours right now and not enough moolah to make it worth it. I’m a stay-at-home Mom and a very part-time music teacher/business owner! (And that’s how it’ll stay for a while).

I’ve spent a lot of time doing research for my class. For the actual instructing part, I’m good to go. It’s things like needing to buy more instruments (as it will be a much big class: 15 kids w/15 parental unit/grown-up helpers), but especially researching all the legal/tax broo-ha-ha/official stuff that goes with having a business. What I have learned is pretty exciting! I can write off all of my class-related purchases including: my commuting gas/mileage, all materials, and I don’t know…if I need to stop at Starbucks to get caffeinated before class that would count, right? What about new clothes for the new Sole Proprietor of Little Ditties? Afterall, I am a business woman now. (Just kidding: Random IRS Person who might be reading this).

Well, we survived. All of us. Saturday was a beautiful day – a perfect first ever bike-riding day. We took the kiddos, helmets and bike and tryke to the elementary school where there’s a nice flat courtyard (and cool playground). Matthew hopped up on that bike like he’d been doing it his whole life. He road around like a pro for…two minutes. And then he was done. He wanted to play on the playground. Thankfully, the bike hadn’t actually lost its novelty and he continued getting on, riding around for a bit and then taking a play break. All four of us went down into the soccer field where Mike found a flat recess ball that we kicked around. Talk about the difference in our boys’ personalities: after about five minutes of playing with the ball, Matthew had lost interest and had found a fantastic stick with which he dug in the dirt. Zachary, on the other hand, is a little soccer pro and zipped up and down the field, kicking the ball like I’ve never seen a not-yet-two-year-old kick a ball! I think he would’ve run and kicked for hours had daddy not gotten a little too excited and kicked the ball too hard…over the fence.

We’ve kept the bike/trykes in the trunk of the car, so yesterday after preschool I took the boys to a park that has a nice flat trail around it. Matthew was, again, riding like a champ – which was a good thing as I was busy helping Zach with the tricycle. (He can’t actually quite reach the pedals yet, so we have to push him along while he kicks back and sits in luxury and laziness). Matthew was riding towards the playground. I don’t know if he couldn’t/didn’t slow down due to the path being a slight decline or if he meant to do it, but he went straight over the curb down into the play area. It was definitely his first major nasty spill. Thankfully, he landed in the wood play chips, so it was a really soft landing considering. It freaked him out though. But we played for a while and when we started turning blue (it was SO cold and windy!), I announced that we were going to ride around the loop (the long way) back to our car. Matthew hopped right back on, no fear, and did awesome. There was an older gentleman walking along the trail as we neared our car and I looked back and saw Matthew grinning at him from ear to ear. When we were heading home, Matthew announced, “that man got to see my new bike. I think he really liked it ‘cuz it’s really cool.” I asked him if he was proud of himself for riding after falling off, etc. and he said, “Yep, I sure am. Yes, indeed.”

I’m turning (or have turned, I should say) into one of those people who comments on the weather and “how time flies.” But I really do have a hard time wrapping around the idea that spring has nearly sprung. We’ve even seen some more sun this past week. My flowers are starting to come up! But seriously, how is it almost March? And another question: we’re what? Half-way through Lent? How is it going to be Easter soon? We just had Christmas! Jesus was just born and now we’re going to turn around and crucify him already? That was the quickest 33 years ever! Give the guy a break already.

Back to the pleasant springtimey weather. Thankfully, we’ve managed to get out and enjoy it. We’ve been to the park a few times and I’ve taken the boys out in the double-jogging stroller twice on runs. It’s been a while (maybe since the last continuous time of sun) that I pushed the boys on a run. I’m out of shape…pushing 80 pounds of stroller and boy is WAY harder than it used to be. (Plus the boys have each gained a couple of pounds). If I took the boys out just once a week for a month, I would be SO ripped. Or at least my left arm muscles would be bulging! (Matthew always sits on the left side and that’s my weaker arm anyway). That’s a great image: huge, rippling, ginormous left arm muscles and wimpy little girly right arm. Would I walk a little lop-sided to make up for the difference in weight? (Yes, these are the questions that plague me and keep me up at night).

Anyway, on our run yesterday, we came upon another couple fellow runners. The first was another running mama with single kidlet jogging stroller and dog on leash. There’s something about that connection that can’t quite be explained. The way we looked at each other as we said “hi” was just…well, magical. It’s so much more than just “hi.” Did she feel it the way I did? Was she as impressed with me as I was with her? I feel, at least, that when you pass another running mama (or papa, for that matter), in your head you’re thinking, “You rock. I know how hard it is to get out the door, to keep these little people happy while you run, and therefore, how dedicated you are. You rock, man. You seriously rock.” (Yes, ALL of those sentiments are hidden behind that simple “hi” greeting).

Fellow runner #2 encounter was a hard-core running guy. (Like he had the running tights and everything). I had that tingly feeling of someone behind me on the sidewalk and seeing as our double-wide takes up nearly the entire width of the walkway I pulled aside to let him pass. (Yes, we’re so wide, in fact, that people have to step off the trail into the underbrush to allow us by). So, Running Guy goes flying past us and again I wondered, “Does he think I rock? He must be kind of impressed that I’m pushing this big thing even if it does mean that I move at a turtles’ creep?” Which reminded me of something else: The Tortoise and the Hare. I asked Matthew if he thought the guy was racing me and should I try to keep up. Matthew was totally into it. And I must say that that kid ROCKS in the stroller. I’ve trained him well to cheer me on, but he goes above and beyond my teachings saying things like, “faster, Mommy. Come on. Don’t let him get away. Move it! Feel the burn!! FASTER! You’re losing!!” My goal wasn’t to whoop the guy as I figured that was out of the question. I had two handicaps: my legs were half the length of his and I was pushing 80 pounds. My goal was, however, to not let him out of my sight. I managed that – for about a block I trailed not too, too far behind him. And then the magic of the Tortoise and Hare happened! He totally kicked it into gear and sped ahead. I could still see him hauling butt down the path, but then, oh but then! I saw him suddenly stop and start walking in slow circles doing that bending over/gasping thing that you do when you’ve exerted just a bit too much trying to be all macho and stuff. I excitedly reported to my Race Coach between gasps, “Matthew! We’ve totally got him! He pushed too hard. He’s just like the Hare. We were slow, but slow and steady, man. Haha! The Tortoise always wins. Suckuh!” (OK, I didn’t say Suckuh ‘cuz I don’t want my four year old to start saying it, but these are the words that pop into my head when I’m trying to self motivate during a run). As I passed Running Guy – I’ll admit, at an increased pace for show and jab – I realized something. Oh, he was waiting to cross the street in the other direction. He wasn’t going straight like me (and therefore had the walk sign). Right. He was waiting for his crosswalk sign to change. Oh well. It was a good ego burst for a while there. And I did keep him in my line of vision for a full block. That’s gotta count for something.

By the time I concluded my run at the big park near our house, the boys were ready to get out and run themselves. I unstrapped Matthew and he went flying up the hill towards the playground. Zach was so excited about his new found freedom that he went sprinting too – just a little too fast. He lost control and did a total face plant-scrape along the pavement of the path. Blood and scrapes under his nose, top lip, bottom lip and chin. Great. Mom of the year award. Why do I not keep him in a hockey face mask/helmet all the time?! Well, it’s not the first fat lip this not-yet-two-year-old has had… I’m fairly sure it’s not his last either.

And speaking of helmets, we’re looking at a big day here in the Martin household. It’s Saturday, it’s sunny and it’ll be Matthew’s FIRST EVER day riding a bike!!!! We bought him a little starter bike w/training wheels at Target, and Mike got it all put together last night. (I might add that the instructions indicated the bike would be put together in a snap – fifteen minutes! – it took Mike two hours and by no lack of skill. He can follow instructions like no one I know. So the 15 minute assembly time must mean that’s how long it would take a race track pit crew). We got Zach his own bike helmet for riding the tricycle now that Matthew will be moving on up to big boy bike world.

I’m afraid. Two boys on self-propelled transportation devices. Just to be on the safe side, I think I better stock up on bandaids, first aid kits and ice packs. And chocolate…for me.

We had a mega-huge event for Engaged Encounter on Saturday night. Mega-huge makes it sound like a car sale at a dealership or something, but it was actually a much classier extravaganza then that. We’ve needed to do a recruiting event for some time now, but no one has stepped up to plan it. Now, let me introduce to you the mastermind behind our stress: Michael Martin. The event was all his brainchild. The original idea was to have a Prom for married couples. He wanted to take me to Prom! That idea, however, was immediately shot down by some of our older team couples – they said there was no way they were going to get dressed up in formals and tuxes and it would, therefore, be a turn-off for perspective new couples as well. So, the idea morphed into a Valentine’s dinner and dance. We invited all the married couples who had attended the retreats in the last several years and had filled out a ‘yeah, we’d like to get involved someday’ volunteer form. Panic started to set in when we sent the evite out and realized we’d invited hundreds of people! In the end we had 84 people RSVPed to attend though we only had 64 actually show up. (I guess there are ten couples still driving around Issaquah trying to find St. Joe’s Catholic Church).

The evening was a HUGE success. Everything really did go off without a hitch. We spent four hours in the morning decorating the hall and totally transformed it, we came home for two hours, beautified ourselves (and man, do we clean up good!), and went back to St. Joe’s. We had a marvelous time and met some fantastic couples who all seem pumped to join our group. (Or married persons’ cult, if you will). I had the pleasure of MCing the event, and well, you know me and a mic. And Mike. I love ‘em.

Considering that we’d abandoned our boys pretty much all day on a Saturday, we thought that a family outing on Sunday (despite our fatigue) was in order. So, after church, we headed to the zoo. Ma and Pa Buckley got us a membership for Christmas and we’ve already put it to good use. The boys and I actually took them with us on Friday (so this was our 2nd trip to the zoo in three days)! On Friday, our trip was all about the gorillas. Sunday – it was the bats. Matthew was finally feeling brave enough to venture into the Nocturnal house for the first time. In the end, he decided that bats are really cool.

The gorillas have always been one of my favorite animals. There was a time – circa 6th grade – that when I grew up I was going to move to Africa to live with them in the jungle. I think dad provided me with the wake-up call that I would really miss the luxuries of home, but more than that was the mention of huge jungle-y spiders that sealed the deal. I do have a stuffed gorilla still, so between that and the zoo, I get my primate fix.

On Friday, shortly before we departed the zoo, we made a stop at the gorilla camp. We were watching them when a woman started walking by behind us on the zoo path. She had a poodle. A poodle?! Dogs aren’t allowed at the zoo! But this poodle was an in-training helper dog. (I didn’t know poodles did that, they always seem too high maintenance and froofy to me). As she hurried by she spoke out loud saying, “I know. I know. We’re getting out of here as fast as we can. Don’t worry. I know you don’t like dogs.” I think we were all wondering, “What the heck is up with this dog chica?” Within moments we had our answer.

The gorillas flipped out! They obviously watch us and are way more aware of what’s going on our side of the glass than we give them credit for. Several of them stood up and glared that dog all the way down the path. It looked as if one of them had been posted on guard, had alerted the others of the potentially dangerous predator (POODLE…what a killer!) and On-Guard Gorilla held a stick – ready to defend his turf should he need to. It was fascinating!

The next group of gorillas (the two groups are always kept separate) had a new baby to show off. The little four month old ape baby (would that be a bapey?) was clinging tight to his mama. Two of the bigger gorillas suddenly started to scuffle over some food and mama gorilla turned into protective mode, roaring and breaking the two apart while she ran to the other side of the glass. (Right in front of where my mom and I stood). We had a perfect view of the baby gorilla; unfortunately we also had a perfect view of the mama gorilla. She proceeded to turn around and answer a call of nature so to speak. Then she, uh, how to put this delicately? She was impatient for the call to conclude on its own, so she reached up and, um, pulled the remainder of the call out…OK, yeah, it was gross. And I’ll just stop there. I don’t know who said it, (could’ve been me) but someone said, “Wow. That’s Mother Nature at her finest.” When you gotta go, you gotta go.

While I do often refer to my children as “monkeys” and I do occasionally feel like I live in a zoo – watching the mama gorilla made me glad to live in a place with things often taken for granted: plumbing, toilet paper, privacy.

So, Happy Valentine’s Day to ya. We started the celebrations early – we had a really good day yesterday. The sun was out which is so rare these days, it makes all of us pasty-white Seattlites crawl out of hibernation. When the sun was first trying to break through a thick bank of clouds, Matthew said, “Look, Mom – the moon!” I had to correct him; sadly my children didn’t even remember what the sun was.

I was starting to worry that we would never get out of our cranky curse. Since last week, we – me and the kids especially – have been fighting the effects of “bijiggitiness.” That’s our word for feeling generally blah, cranky and stuck in a funk. We were losing the battle. Thankfully, yesterday, that really turned around. After preschool we went and played at the park for an hour. Matthew had some sugar to burn off from his “Celebration of Caring and Sharing” Party. (Is it no longer PC to say “Valentine’s Day”?). Plus, it was beautiful, so everyone and their mother, their dog and their long-lost cousin found their way outside. It’s really like we’re zombies or something – stumbling out of houses, blocking the light with your arm, completely disoriented in this new colorful and not just blah-gray world.

We had a fantastic time at the park and then came home for lunch and naptime/quiet time. Matthew and I were playing Legos in his room. I told him that I’m so impressed with the different vehicles that he can create; I said it makes me very proud to watch him. And he said, “You make me proud, Mommy.” Huh?! “I do? What do I do that makes you proud?” Without skipping a beat or breaking his Lego-building focus, Matthew responded, “You watch over me. Keep me from getting lost. Make sure that I don’t get into trouble.”

Oh my gosh, he gets it!

I was having a very weird dream at 1:30 this morning. It’s one of those where I can’t really remember the details; it’s all quite foggy. I know that there was a bunch of people in it. All of a sudden the people began speaking like Zachary – cute little baby voice with words mingled like “nigh-night” and “nums” and lots of “mama….nigh-night?” I woke with a start to wee little Zachy standing two inches from my face.

So, all in all, life without the crib has gone surprisingly well. We took down the crib and the changing table and generally emptied the room quite a bit. We put his mattress in the corner cozied up between the wall, his book case and a large bean bag dolphin (to limit the whole rolling out situation). The plan was to go twin bed shopping this past weekend, but he’s actually doing so well and loving his little “big boy bed” so much, that we’ve decided to wait a while. Why mess with a good thing?

The first night that he slept in his new “room-bed,” he got up a few times. He would stand at the door trying to turn the kid locked-door handle. After a while he started calling, “honey??? Hon? HONEY!” (I’m still not sure if he was calling for Mike or me). But overall, he’s done quite well. The one big issue is that we had to remove the space heater from his room (lest he play with the dials in his new-found freedom). That room gets very cold with the door closed. So, after he’s asleep, we open his door, make sure the blankets are on him and call it good. Except for the few nights when I’ve woken to a Zach-dream and Little Man in my face, it’s gone fairly well.

I hosted book club last night, and told my girls that they should all go down and see Zach’s new room set-up. Zach immediately went flying down the hall and had to get in his bed and go “nigh-night” to demonstrate how it works. I think he likes it! Though I still really don’t like that my baby’s growing up.

Holy little stinkin’ Houdini, Batman! Zachary (aka the “Monkey”) is living up to his nickname. Our dexterous, agile wall-scaling, head-sticking-(and stucking)-through-stair-banister, jumping-into-bathtubs-fulling-clothed CHILD is now scaling up and out of his crib in three seconds flat. I guess I should be surprised that it’s taken him 21 months to figure out how to shimmy himself out. I miss the semi-freedom of the last 21 months already. I miss the days of being able to keep at least one of my monkey-offspring in legal-baby/child-captivity devices. It was nice while it lasted.

Last night after time-and-time-again of taking Zach back to his room, I finally decided to sit in the chair to a.) watch the magic in action and b.) return him to the crib every time he got out. I watched as Zach swung his leg WAY up over the side of the crib and lower himself to the floor with the stealthy agility of a cat burglar. He crept-scurried across the floor to the door where he stood twisting and rattling the handle until achieving victory. The door swung open. Zach looked back and flashed the biggest and most valiant smile I’ve ever seen. Dimples flashing at me in the dark, he paused, the thought bubble above his head reading, “Freedom, ahh sweet freedom. Let me just revel in this for a moment. Ha! Even more fun is the fact that, now if I run down the hall, she’s totally going to chase after me, and that’s just HILARIOUS! Muahh-ahhh-ahhh! [evil baby laugh] I hold all the power.”

This forces Mommy Me to face two very sad and difficult realities: a.) my baby is done with the crib (that I planned on keeping him in until he was 13…or 3 whichever came first) and b.) my baby can wander the house at night getting into all sorts of mayhem and keeping the household sleepless for…years. Crap.

Always brimming with support and advice, my friend Molly – who, by the way, I adore – suggested that I try the playard/porta-crib. A very ingenious idea, thought I. Zach laughed and spat in my face at this idea (figuratively though sometimes literally). He escaped the “play pen” (the non-P.C. term) in a little under a minute.

My afternoon now has a new plan: empty Zach’s room of all dangerous, life-threatening things and furniture to turn his room into his new “crib.” He’ll be sleeping on the floor on the crib mattress until we get around to buying him a real bed this weekend. Until he gets over the excitement, I will stumble after him at night as he explores his free reign – bumping off the walls with fatigue, mind you. (That’s me doing the bumping…he never tires. Ever).

Ahh, FACEBOOK, it’s like middle school and high school all over again. For those of you lacking the Facebook 4-1-1, it’s an on-line world of networking, connecting with friends – old and new. You can search for old classmates and do all kinds of legal, addictive crazy-fun, on-line stalking. It’s also a black hole/vortex/time-sucking procrastinating mechanism. I somehow just managed to spend two hours creating my profile and adding photos. It’s a lot of pressure. Just what kind of ME do I want to portray to my former classmates, and friends-of-friends?

Facebook really is teen-pressure for older folk. I even joined due to my inability to resist peer pressure. It was definitely the “all the cool kids are doing it” kind of a scenario. But man! The pressure! Once you’re on Facebook then it’s a race to see who can prove their coolness and popularity (and therefore, purpose and wholeness as a human being) by having the most friends. I’m happy to say that just after joining a little over an hour ago, I already have nine friends. I am SO cool.

It’s a good thing that I’m making/reconnecting with friends seeing as I’m having issues with one of my dear ones. So this friend – who shall remain nameless lest she…wait. Correction: I now have TEN friends. See, I told you I’m addicted…and cool. Anyway, so this friend and I were quite close. She also has kiddos and our offspring were good buddies. However, due to scheduling conflicts at this time, we rarely see one another. For the past several months, she and I have only spoken because I phoned her. Should I take the hint? We’re going on probably six months now and we’ve only talked because I initiated conversation.

At any rate, I was discussing with Matthew at breakfast this morning that I’m a bit sad to no longer be so close with this friend. I said that the fact that she never called me anymore made me wonder if maybe she didn’t really want to be my friend. Matthew said, “Well, mom, you are a-die-able.” “A-die-able?” I asked. “Do you mean adorable?” (Thinking, how sweet! You’re right, she SHOULD want to be my friend, I AM adorable.) Matthew continued, “No, Mom. A-DIE-able.” “Well, what does that mean?” I inquired. “It means that you’re going to die.”

So, like I said, it’s good that I’m making friends ‘cuz some of my old ones are dropping me since apparently I will be dying…and it sounds like soon. Maybe some of my new Facebook peeps will come to the funeral. I sure hope that my four-year-old does not have the gift of prophecy.

By the by, I just checked and I’m up to eleven. I rock. You might as well just go ahead and vote me Facebook Queen now.

I must admit I’ve been feeling quite BLAHG lately. (If you know me and my affinity for word creation – or if you’re just a bright one – you will immediately understand that my clever word “blahg” translates into: feeling quite blah about my BLOG). I wonder if I’m waiting for good material to Blog about. This worries me as I worry if I’m secretly asking for things to happen. Unfortunately, it seems that when the Blog gets slow, things always do pick up – like snot or puking in the Martin household – providing me with endless anecdotes to share.

So, sure enough I was feeling a bit Blahgish this morning when ahh! Lo-and-behold, Matthew stumbles out of his room with a new and nasty cough. (Yes, Blogging material, here we go). Matthew does something interesting when he has a cold, he hums – nearly constantly – it’s a monotone, non-melodious tune that just drones on and on and on…and on. And because I’m his mother, and I’m allowed to say stuff like this: it really kind of creeps me out. It starts to sound a little wacko and weird. Like maybe, along with the nasal congestion, come some psychotic tendencies. I don’t know. Just a thought.

Also, to assist with my Blogging, Zachary woke up on the cranky side of the crib today. One side of his crib is up against the wall, so we really only have one exit option, but for whatever reason, today it was SO the wrong side. He was eating breakfast and munching on some freakishly-not-naturally-bright-colored fruity cereal when I helped myself to one of the little lime-shaped green ones that had wandered off his placemat. I really didn’t think he would notice or if he did, he certainly wouldn’t care. Boy-oh-boy was I ever wrong. Zach looked at me completely taken aback. “What?” I mumbled guiltily. He shook his head and with eyes welling up in fury and disbelief, disgust and utter disappointment said (and then screamed) “MY NUMS!!!!! MY NUMS!!!!” [nums/nummy = food in this house]. He pointed his finger accusingly at me, shrieking about the injustice of it all. Mike came out wondering what was so wrong. Certainly there was something seriously bad occurring. I walked away from the table. I ate a lime! That’s it. One lime. I gave you LIFE, child. The least you can give me is some sugary-green-lime-shaped puff.

Thanks for the material, boys. Blahgishness has subsided.

Apparently I was gaining too much of a healthy self-confidence, maybe even an ego. So, God planted this little moment just to remind me what a nerd I really am.

Last week, I met the sister-in-law of a really good friend. I won’t go into details as it’s a long and confusing story of how I connected with this woman. Anyway, I had just gotten the boys strapped into their car seats and I thought, I should go introduce myself. So, I went up to her and explained who I was and that Mike and I are good friends with Kate and Kevin.

“Oh!” she says. “From that thing?”

“Engaged Encounter! Yep.” I supply the “thing” that she is looking for.

“They’ve met some really cool people through that,” she informs me.

Then somehow my brain quits functioning and I get stuck. All I can do is grin from ear-to-ear and say, “Yep, we’re really cool peeps.”

She laughs and kind of jokingly mocks what I say, “You’re like yeah! That’s us!”

And then for some unknown reason all I can do is repeat the exact same mind-blowing line again, “Yep, we’re REALLY cool peeps.”

We say our awkward goodbyes after a terribly awkward conversation, and I get in my car. I drive up the narrow street, turn around in the intersection and head back down in order to depart the neighborhood. She’s still standing outside, so we wave (Oh wow. There goes the really cool peeps again! She must be thinking). I feel like she looked at me kind of strangely as we drive by but think nothing of it because I am SO cool. Two seconds later I hear a weird sound on my car – coming from the roof. A moment later, my travel coffee mug goes rolling down the windshield, down the street and rests underneath a parked car. This is why you don’t put things on top of the car. (For the record, I don’t usually do this, but my hands were so full I didn’t have a choice).

I park my car in the middle of the road, hop out and get down on my hands and knees in search of Travel Mug. I can’t seem to find it anywhere and decide that lying on the ground in the road with my children sitting in the car in the middle of the street is probably not the best plan. So, much to Matthew’s distress, I decide to forego the coffee mug search and continue home.

At the first stop light, I decide – for whatever reason – to get a piece of gum. Before chewing it, however, I’m going to be really cool for the cars around me and check myself out in the visor mirror. Right. Two BIG BLACK poppyseeds stuck on either side of my top row of teeth. Of course I have big black objects in my teeth. As if I wasn’t making a great first impression all ready! Now I know that my “We’re really cool peeps” comment was thoroughly supported by my appearance…followed by the coffee mug rolling down my car. Reality check: we’re not cool peeps. We’re not even really cool. And I really shouldn’t be saying peeps.