Yep.

This guy kept saying "oggayyguysh, lesht go! Lesht go!"
Apparently, it is offensive to the Portlander to have reindeer puppets in the windows of major department stores. So there are no decorations in any windows of the department stores. Okay.

At the tree farm lot, all trees were 25$, because you had to die to get them. Even these trees are 25$ I wanted to know, but I figured smartassery is not appreciated.

Keeping It Simple.

Yes, the Holidays, Christmas, Solstice, Xmas, The Thing We Don't Celebrate is here. And so is Jens' First Birthday. We decided, months and months ago, to Keep It Simple.
So we drove to Mount Hood and cut down our Tree. (Sorry and Thank you Otto the Tree) And had coco. and went to a farm!andapark!andlookedatwindows!and got new christmas records and new ornaments and candles and and we went to the european market place to see what they had,it's only a 5 hour drive in the opposite direction and and we put lights on every surface and had low blood sugar.

Sleeping in

We had Thanksgiving at my gracious and lovely friend Robin's home. We were one of 3 families there. The rest of the 30 or so party goers were lean, streamlined singles or doubles with no kids. No gear, no 50 pound bags of colorful bullshit that we lug with us to parties and everywhere in hopes we will get a moment of this streamlined existence. Clean, refreshed people with interesting lives, matching socks and complete sentences. Inevitably (within minutes) Jens had a meltdown (bless him) so I took him and the Useless Bag of Crap to the back room, which was the coats on the bed room. Inevitably (within minutes after that) both of the other families joined us with their cooperative angels. Thus the coat room became the insane kid room. We sat, trapped by children. Trapped with children. We talked, therefore, only, about children. Kids! Babies! Kill me! I washed my hair for this? I poured myself a generous glass of wine, and another, then opened a bottle. Hey, don't judge I was in the Kid's Room. I escaped for the bathroom and heard bits of sophisticated conversation, which had I been able to, I could not have really participated in, but I could have nodded, uttered monosyllables, taken notes. But, no, me and my clean hair were relegated to the Kid's Room, and all it's glory, falling, screaming, wanting, needing, destroying, messy glory. And the families biggest worries "SHE JUST REFUSES TO SAY KITTY!" I left the party early, feeling displaced and disappointed.
On Friday morning I woke up feeling headachy. My loving (well-meaning) husband told me to sleep in (!) How glorious! I reclaimed my rightful (fair, mathematically correct) part of the bed (half I should get half the bed,not the seam of the edge of the bed with one leg on the floor, right?) and went back to sleep. I woke up some time later (probably 15 whole minutes) to the sounds of Baby screaming and things crashing. I thought: Well, I am sleeping in, Daddy said so. Daddy knows about this screaming and crashing. Daddy is on it. The screaming continued, there were more crashes. I figured Daddy died, so I went in to the play room. There I found Baby on top of the desk. By the window. On top of the desk, with both arms in the air, victorious tiny fists pumping. Clay,mounds of clay, pounds of clay, entire packages of clay were coming out of his mouth. The clay was bubbling, flowing like lava. He had drank water from the vase, and created a clay volcano down his pajamas. Flowers were strewn. The keyboard was blinking and buzzing, breaking. There were clay streaks everywhere on everything. The chair was knocked over. The cats were crying and rocking in the corner. Markers were uncapped, leaving garish stripes all over Baby. Every single toy, every single item was out of it's basket or box,destroyed and/or used unsafely. Baby Jens gave me a huge grin, and offered me a freshly uncapped magenta marker to eat.
Daddy was asleep. On the cold, hard floor in his boxers and nothing else.

Hot Droid Moms with Expensive Baby Gear

Sometimes other moms aren't so nice to other moms. This perplexes me. We are all in it together, ladies. No matter how fantastic you look, and will always look, no matter how amazing your life is on paper, no matter how hot your partner is, no matter how cute your baby is, with their expensive pants, this is a hard life at times. I don't care how bitchin' your 2,000$ stroller is, with the matching coat and umbrella and bags, and coffee holders, with matching bells and whistles. I don't care, it doesn't matter it doesn't help. There's no avoiding that sometimes being a mom sucks. Sometimes a lot of the time being a mom sucks. Being a mom is very hard, it is draining, demanding, difficult, and constant. There is suffering. We moms have sacrificed, and will continue to do so. The rewards are small at best, and most of them are very abstract and distant. Moms give and give. and give some more.
My body has completely changed, I did not bounce back in 2 weeks. I pee my pants when I sneeze. Parts of my body look weird, just weird. My hair is thinner, and more dry. My skin is dry. My pants don't look right. I rarely have time to pull myself together, I am a busy mom. Some, well, most days do not permit time or reason for make up and high heels. But hey, if you are one of the lucky ones who bounced back, who looks better than before, who has time for fake eyelashes, who is not challenged or compromised by motherhood, great. You should like me even more, I make you look better and feel superior. I am happy to fulfill this role, let's be friends.
All of us as mothers compromise our identity. You, at the park saying "Agoogoogoo!" are not cool any more. You are not in a touring band, you are not cracking the whip at the big business conference, you are not ruling the waves in your kayak. You are a mom, and you are tired, and you are acting a fool to make a baby smile. I am too, so let's be nice. I will be honest and tell you, if you talk to me, and not sneer at me, that at times I feel awful. I am a totally different person. I miss my friends, I miss being me. I sometimes envy my childless friends, their freedom, their open lives. I miss space. I miss sleep. I miss quiet, I miss being alone. I would also like to have friends who are moms. Consider it. I can also be positive, and fun and funny and smart, sometimes.
Some of us moms do not have the money for that 2,000$ stroller, or the friends with that money. Or, some of us moms think that a 2,000$ stroller is just stupid and we spend our money on other things. It's okay to have this stroller, I'm calling for a truce, amnesty for all, so can the stroller just not matter? Or the other pricey baby stuff? It's just stuff, things.
Babies are insane, moms. They lack control. They have good hours and bad hours. Do not judge the baby. Babies, are lovely, they are also stinky, gross, wet messy things with drool. Some of our (okay me, my child my baby) babies do not like to get dressed, get changed, get wiped, get bathed, get cleaned up. Sometimes, I take on this morning battle, only to be defeated in minutes by my insane son who divines dirt and snot and unidentifiable food crust to him. Sometimes, you choose your morning battles, sometimes, the dirty pants are a go, so we can get to the park before the nap battle. So don't say "Oh! You have some mud on your knee, or Oh! You have snot!Oh! You need a diaper change!" Or "Oh, someone needs a nap!" You are being bitchy, and passive aggressive. I might say "Oh!Someone needs a slap!" I am just trying to take the dirty baby to the swing. Ok? Ok.
And, do not make comments that are going to send me to ulcer city. Saying: "He really isn't talking is he?" is not kind, or helpful, or true, nor does it matter, nor do you know anything about anything. Also, do not project a horrifying future onto my son:"My, he is so active! Does he ever sit still? Wow. I wonder if he is ADD, or ADHD." Or things like " I had a friend with a baby just like him, and he just had a terrible time always. He failed at school and in life. I think he is in jail, though no one knows because he still can not speak or write." Not nice, lady, my hand tingles with a desire to slap you. Now I have to go home and look on the internets, which is going to affirm that my 11 month old baby is on the fast track to becoming a serial killer, and he has a lot of diseases too.
So, some of you moms, let's give each other a break. We are just human beings, struggling to be good parents. I am in no way a threat to your superiority, so you can chat with me at the park. Or at least smile. Hey, if you stop sneering, and get to know me, you could at least get a baby sitter out of the deal, and you can tell your robot partner how glad you are not to be me! We all win.

Fat Queen

Yesterday I got to hang out with my friend Cindy's daughter, S. Her school flooded, or "It got all wet" as S told me. I got a glimpse into the coming years with Jens, and I don't think I am going to make it. The talking!! It was this endless word salad of demands, observations, questions, demands, non-sequiters, verbalized synaptic misfirings, commands. One of her favorite command/demands was "Plllllaaaaaayaaaaaaaaaaaaay!" I followed her instructions as best as I could, acting out her fantasies of baby monsters eating donuts with boots and flying ponies that are hiding from these things (why anything would hide from a donut I do not know) I never played right though, or the rules were always changing.
After about an hour I was winded, totally done. I had 8 more hours to go. Jens looked totally overwhelmed and perplexed by this dynamo and offered his best weary smile. S, in turn, was enraged by Jens, and everything he did was wrong. It runs in the family.
She decided to name my cat Bob, and scream his name all day. She ate every piece of food in the house.
My favorite game though, was when she told me "I am the sleeping princess and you are the fat princess."
Fat Queen, child. Now give me the booted donut.

So sad.