Ticks!

We went for a hike in the country yesterday. I came home with three ticks. The problem is that I didn't find them until 1:45, 2:15 and 3:30. AM. Then I stayed awake for a very long time with the itchy creepy crawlies.

Fortunately, Lotta (7yo) had given me a pebble that she found interesting which was on the base of my lamp. I used it to crush those little bastards and line them up in a row like frontier rattlesnakes on my nightstand. Now they rest in peace in a baggie I can give my doctor when the lyme disease sets in.

Oh, and I'm tired as hell.

Gone Fishin

Okay, I haven't. But it sounds so much better than kids' yoga, treadmill, grocery store, garage sale, laundry. Doesn't it?

One week to opening day of the trout season, though. Ben "A River Runs Through Him" Wundrun will be missing most Saturday mornings for a while.

Things the 4 YO says

I may need to give the 4 yo her own featured spot here on the blog.

Seated at the computer, my back to the world, 4 yo came up from the basement and said

momma, you gotta help me with the bodies.

Dear Lord, please let her mean the Barbie bodies and not those other ones in the basement.

And now for this important message

4yo got sent to her room for punching her sister in the stomach. She is passing her incarceration by singing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" at the top of her lungs.

Much better than rattling the tin cup on the iron bars.

I Canoe, Can U? And Then There's Kayaking Too

Though I will probably never have that little place on the lake that I dream of, I seem to be putting together a little flotilla of water toys. We have a 20 yo little boat with just enough oomph to pull me on skis, a sailboat that I ought to turtle one day soon just to get over the fear of it, and now I'm thinking of a kayak (or two, so the whole family can go). My parents have a pontoon boat and a jetski and a canoe. I love them all.

I was a canoe instructor at summer camp ages ago. Any of you who were camp counselors in that era probably know that my qualifications for the post were that I could swim and hold a paddle. In today's climate I doubt you can call yourself an instructor without having 40 hours of class time under your pfd. In fact, the canoe that my folks have is a leftover from the same summer camp. I often wonder if it's the same one that girl peed in because she couldn't wait to get to shore, or the one I, close to drowning from exhaustion, made the most rapid and acrobatic water entry into after a really large fish touched my foot. (A good story for another day).

Those canoes are awful. I'm amazed we never lost a camper because if you lift a cheek to fart you've nearly swamped. Ben hates that canoe and so does the 4 yo. Me and the 7 yo are good paddling partners. That's why we are thinking it might be fun to have kayaks. She could go out under her own power. How cool would that be? A solo trip for me might be more fun in a kayak than a canoe. It's no fun in left-over-camp-canoe.

Fortunately, there's a great canoe and kayak store in Madison. We stopped there yesterday for some advice and I've begun asking people that I know for their thoughts. I can take a class when the weather gets warmer to see if I actually like the sport. (It dawned on me last night that I haven't got the first idea of what kayaking is like. Ben's aunt, who canoes the Boundary Waters in Northern Minnesota told me she doesn't like to kayak at all. The reason? Kayaking is paddling left-right-left-right-left-right. Canoeing is left, left, left, left then switch with your partner. You are afforded a little rest on your weak side). 7yo can take a class too, as long as we lie and say she's eight. She's as tall as a 9 yo so no problems there.

Here's what I know: a 10 foot kayak should be okay for my daughter. There are kids' kayaks, but do I want that? I should not get anything less than a 12' kayak. Would I want an inflatable? Are certain materials worth the extra price tag if I'll only be a casual user? (Something called duralite comes to mind. Sounds like a condom.)

Any one have any ideas?

How About a Wafer Thin Mint

At 4:30 Friday morning I was awoken by the precious pitter patter of little feet running harem skarem toward the bathroom. Then the dulcet tones of the 4yo puking in the toilet. I do not lie when I tell you that she threw up 18 times in the next 24 hours.

The 7yo was less than gracious about the feelings of the 4yo suffering the flu. She went so far as to jump on the bed, not thinking that her sister, who had vomit coming out of her ears, was really all that sick.

But ah! flu bugs. They are so democratic. Seeking out the nearest host regardless of arrogant denial that you'll get sick too. Quickly the 7yo was felled. Guess who was the bigger baby when it was her turn to hang her head in tidy-bowl land?

But we survived, and began the process of recovery. We sustained a full day and a half of vomit free living. From early Sunday morning until....Until tonight. 7yo pretended that her lettuce in her salad was making her gag. Until it did. Then she went to the bathroom and threw up. Cheerfully returned to the table and announced that her lettuce made her throw up. Smiled, even.

Following suit, the 4yo thought her noodles might make her sick. She ran to the bathroom and threw up. Into the toilet. Not realizing that she had started something she couldn't finish, she shut the lid.

Then she puked spaghetti all over the toilet lid, the toilet tank, the bowl and most of the floor surrounding the toilet.

Did I mention that Ben is out of town on a corporate field trip?

Mother's day is not enough to cover shit like this.

Crank up the ovaries!

If someone gave me one of these I would have another baby just to put in it. Yes, I am deep like that.

Love Song for Nine One One Part Two

After we got our picture taken together, Ben and I started to chat each other up. He knew words that had even more than two syllables and could put coherent sentences together. Ones that utilized a subject and a verb with clauses thrown in for good measure. He looked like a guy who wore his shirts with sleeves. This was an improvement from the last two people that I had dated. We had loads of things in common. He told me that he once asked my sister (who never once mentioned him to me, by the way!) if she had a sister. She said she did, but that I was married to a prick.

My brand new brother-in-law and his buddies, Ben included, had a strange tradition of dancing in their boxer shorts at each other's weddings. While this might sound kind of stupid, in my family the tradition was to dance the "Polka Slam". The rules are: polka around the dance floor as fast as you can, gaining enough centrifugal force to knock other dancers (your cousins) down. At my own wedding I ripped my dress during the Polka Slam. So who was I to judge? I knew about the boxer shorts dance in advance because under my bridesmaid's dress, I was wearing my own pair of boxer shorts over my garter belt and stockings. My sister wanted the girls to beat the guys to it by going out on the dance floor and pulling up our dresses for the big --yes, it's true-- Packer boxer shorts reveal. *sigh* Do I have to tell the rest?

Ben caught a flash of the garter belt and wanted it when it was the guys' turn to do the boxer shorts dance. He came up to me and asked me for my underwear. Being a demure, well-bred midwestern girl raised by an imaginary television mother, I said "sure!"

We found the coat room and locked ourselves in for the underwear exchange. Having given him my underwear, and he having put it on, there was nothing else to do but kiss. and kiss. and kiss.

Heaven.

The next day we were at my folks house for the gift opening. I offered to take him to the airport so he could catch his flight home to Richmond, Virginia. I waited with him for his plane in the airport coffee shop. Sitting there, I knew I was in love. But still, there had to be a hang up. Secretly gay? Not a chance. Violent streak? Psycho killer? Those are the charming ones.

After a week of long phone calls and hours of instant messaging I hadn't discovered anything seriously wrong. I told him that my plans were to move somewhere after Thanksgiving. I was seriously considering: Austin, Texas; Charlotte, North Carolina; or London, England. In fact, I had a plane ticket and hotel room all set for a trip to London set for the third week in September. The first thing that Ben said to this was that Richmond was much nicer than Charlotte (he later admitted this lie, sorry Richmond) and suggested that I come there for a visit. If I liked it, I could move in with him after Thanksgiving. Remember my demure, conservative side? So you know my answer: I immediately said "sure!" and cancelled my trip to London, choosing instead to drive to Richmond with the vacation time I had already requested.

I had known him a week.

I thought I should call my brand new brother-in-law and get the goods on him before I drove down there and got myself killed and thrown in a landfill or down a mountain. "What," I asked my b-i-l, "is this guy's problem? He seems perfect - so why isn't he married already?"

"He doesn't want to commit," said b-i-l.

Odd. He had already asked me to move in with him, in less than a week. That did not sound like commitment issues.

I made the trip to Virginia. The trip meter in my car showed that in the fourteen hour drive I had stopped for only thirty minutes total to buy gas. If your guess was that I did this feat on an incredible amount of Tab and cigarettes you would be correct. I must have stunk like an exhaust pipe by the time I got to his house. Eeewww.

During that week I made up my mind to move there. Ben took me to an Oktoberfest celebration at Fort Belvoir. We sat at long tables with guys from the German Luftwaffe. They barely spoke english and we spoke no German but we all had a great time. We hoisted those big dimpled glass beer steins and sang 'ein prosit'. I taught the Germans the polka slam. They needed to know.

Ben, laughing at me for being such a dork, said "will you marry me?" I answered (say it with me:) "sure!"

So much for commitment issues.

I moved in with Ben in November. We bought a house and got married in April at a friend's place in Jamaica. We flew to Jamaica as two and came home three. The following October Ben was transferred back to Wisconsin and we moved home, me seven months pregnant.

The End.

****

I should tell you a little about my alcohol issues, as a kind of a post-script. Obviously, I drove around under the influence. After I met Ben I did tone down my drinking. I didn't need to pass out every night just to shut up ugly thoughts in my head anymore. But in the time between meeting Ben and going to Virginia, I went to a bar where our mutual friend was bartending. I didn't have that much to drink (for me, I thought) and drove home. I got my second DUI that night. Ah, irony.

A second DUI means either house arrest with a Lindsey Lohan anklet or a week's jail time. Since I was already moving out of the state and had no home to be house arrested in, I chose the week in jail.

Can you imagine Ben's choosing me with all of that? Do you find it ironic that me, Ms. Flaming Flaws, would be so quick to dig for his imperfections? To this day I don't quite get how he managed that. In fact, while I was in Wisconsin doing a week in lock up, my dad was busily trying to contact me in Richmond, where he thought I was. Ben was so obtruse that my dad had figured Ben had killed me and dumped me in a landfill or threw me down a mountain and was about to go to Virginia to find out what was going on. Dad would call Ben and demand that he put me on the phone or else! My dad was saved the trip to Richmond to find me when one of the county deputies at jail, who happened to be his friend, told dad he saw me in the jail. Small world. Uggh.

Anyway, a week in jail in January followed a few months later by a pregnancy, went a long way toward fixing the cigarettes and alcohol situation. It's not a method I'd write a how-to book about, but it did work for me. Just this summer something reminded me that I used to be a person who smoked. The thought was a little like a friend telling you something about someone that you can't really believe. I did it for nearly twenty years, by the way. I can't drink and drive. If I did, I would get six months in jail. I don't think my babies would go for that. I know this sounds stupid, but I do actually like the smell of cigarette smoke (outdoors, like at a baseball game or festival) and have no problem with smoking - all smokers know how stupid it is, they don't need to be told by me. So while I am fine with smoking, I am zealous on the topic of drinking and driving. I am horrified by the fact that I did it in the past, and can't truck with people I know doing it now.

So it is eight years on. Two kids, two dogs, two fish. Most days I would say are 'happily ever after'. The other ones I'll just blog about.

Oh, and we still like to sneak into the cloakroom at weddings and make out, which is how we commemorate September 11th, 1999.

The Toughness of Babies

Sometimes I confess that I look at my children, sigh, and wonder why they are such whiny babies. I imagine that the answer to that question is that: They are babies. I can't feel their pain for them and sometimes, exasperated, will say to a crying child 'shake it off'. I have a nephew who used to literally stand up after falling down and shake whatever body part got the boo boo. He's nearly ten now and still hates for anyone to see him experience pain. Like a cat he wanders off to find a place to be alone and hurt. I'm thinking that someday he will not be a fun person to be married to.

You may have heard that areas of southern Wisconsin experienced some pretty bad flooding. Somehow my notoriously soggy basement did manage to stay dry through it, but we exceeded the one month average rainfall record set in any month in history by several inches last month. Things have dried out now, though it is raining right this minute, but that drying up brought us the most macho, steroided and fierce mosquitos I think I have ever been stung by. What has happened is that mosquito eggs that may have been laid several years ago never hatched because they didn't get wet enough. Rising floodwaters hydrated these little eggs and blamm-o. Worst mosquitos evah.

Scientists are saying that these uber-mosquitos can travel really long distances, too. I read that they were detecting Spring Green, Wisconsin Mosquitos in the suburbs of Chicago. (Sorry Splotchy and Bubs). I relayed this little anecdote to a friend who quipped "how can they tell? Is there a special Spring Green brand of DNA?" The answer to that question, for anyone familiar with Spring Green is yes. And I mean that in a good way). This means that even if we didn't get flooded enough to awaken the dawn of the dead genus of mosquitos, these mosquitos may have been awakened a hundred miles away. Coming across the state like valkyries with the singular intention of sucking my blood.

Bastards.

On Labor Day when we returned from our vacation at dusk we had to unload the car and that meant keeping the doors open for too long. All night we got bit by mosquitos in our beds. What an insult. And these bites sting. One bite and I am pissing and moaning like Paris in a jail cell. Which leads me back to the babies.

This morning I put the 4yo in the tub. Aside from a very apparent bug bite right between the eyes, when she took her pj's off I saw at least a dozen red welty angry bug bites on her belly and her back. Holy shit. She hadn't said a word.

The little ones are stronger than we know. Ben Wundrun is tearing up those 'mother of the year' nominating papers as we speak.

Goin on Vacay - See you after labor day!

I'm headed up nort' to the land of sky blue waters. See ya later, decorators! I'll crack some cold ones for you while I'm away, or you can enjoy this:

Is this TMI?

On the day my littlest cheese nip was born my obstetrician delivered a total of ten babies at St. Joseph's Hospital in Milwaukee. When he told me how many deliveries he had that day I blurted out 'did everyone get drunk at the State Fair?

Not missing a beat, my doctor said 'Yes. That's why I go the the Fair and hand out my card to all the drunk couples.'

Happy Day Five of the Wisconsin State Fair, littlest one. If you were a boy we were going to name you 'Dayvis Fivel' in honor of the day you began the long journey of cell division.

Would you like your moment of zen?

It's been pretty gloomy here of late. I wasn't going to post the cheese nips on this blog, but you know what? This picture taken last week just makes me happy. Grandpa H. was over and was watering our plants and babies. Hope it makes you happy too.