This morning it snowed, hard – the flakes were so fat and so perfectly round that our yard looked like a little kid’s drawing of a big blobby snowstorm. All through breakfast the boys watched through the blinds. Because this is Texas and snow is always exciting, and it was a total surprise. If you don’t watch the news, life is full of surprises… like all the flags were at half staff on Monday and I never found out why. Did we lose the superbowl or something?

The snow didn’t stick, but as it was tapering off we all bundled out and went outside anyway.

Then the Scout worked with Kevin on a science project while Graham and I went to the store for mission-critical household items, tampons and ice cream. What? They’re right there together on the same aisle.

Then we had lunch, because really when it’s cold outside what is there to do besides eat meals?

Kevin left for work after lunch. I took a nap. The boys didn’t really let me take a nap – they were literally climbing on my head for the entire hour asking me to please get up and watch them dance – but I couldn’t stay awake. Sleeeep. It was a surprisingly restful nap.

After I woke up, the scout said, “Aren’t you going to take a picture of the scout? I rescued a horse!”

So I did that.

At some point they worked on the dino dig, which has now entertained Nicolaus for a solid year and a half. Talk about getting your ten bucks worth of entertainment out of a toy. He even let Graham be his assistant, using a little paint brush to brush the plaster dust out of the way.

Then we drew with colored pencils, and tried to show Graham what an eraser is for (NOT eating. No, no. NOT eating… shit.) Then we painted. Nicolaus made a weasel for himself on the refridgerator using magnets, with little trays for his brushes and all.

You can’t make him say easel. Just like you can’t make him say the word cougar. He says cooter, making Charlie the Lonesome Cougar the dirtiest-sounding movie we’ve Netflixed so far, even counting IMAX – Up Close With Beavers. Which I’m assuming you’ve rented as well.

So he made a weasel and he used it to paint three pictures using his most grownuppish brush because he is working and making real paintings for people to buy. I sort of promised him that I’d try and sell his paintings, so you guys might have to help me out. I asked him how much he planned to sell the paintings for and he thought for a second. “Forty dollars,” he said. Then he added, “You might have to sell them to a rich person.”

His definition of a rich person is anyone who can afford to buy Lightening McQueen Chapstick which really on a global level is pretty right on.

While Nicolaus worked hard on his paintings, Graham worked hard at learning how to use a brush. He’d carefully dip the brush into the water bowl, and then swirl it into every color of paint in the little tin. Then he’d dip the brush back in the water and start over. At some point, his hands got involved and it was all over. Pretty soon he’d splattered muddy paint all over himself, his shirt sleeves, and his desk. A little got on the paper somehow, and he was very proud.

Then there was a bath, which they both enjoyed.

Then they put on matching pajamas and ran around joyfully pretending to be ballet dancers doing a performance for their audience – are you writing this shit down? There just aren’t entire days like this, okay? – while I made dinner. Grilled cheese sandwiches made with swiss on wheat bread, and Nicolaus declared it the best dinner he has ever had and told me next time we go to a restaurant that has a picture of a grilled cheese sandwich on the menu he’s going to get that because he just never knew what it was but now he knows and it is very delicious. Graham declared it “food” and gave half of his sandwich to Mouse who seemed to like it too.

Then we read Harold and the Purple Crayon and a Lassie book, which just isn’t as funny now that he can pronounce the letter L. I’ll miss you, Assie.

So that was today.

This morning I was offered a marketing job, in Atlanta, working full or part time, in the exact part of town we were thinking of moving to for the next year or two. If you’re any good at finding greater meaning in things, maybe you can help me out here because I can’t figure out what in the hell this is supposed to mean. I wasn’t looking for a job… but still. Is it a sign that we are supposed to move to Georgia? Is it the answer to all out money problems? Is it like a do-over career thing that I would be a jerk to pass up?

Or is this opportunity actually a test of my determination to create a simple life, true to myself and my art? In which case I should say no and dig in even harder with the art stuff.

Or is it nothing at all, a random coincidence made probable by the fact that I only have a few friends and half of them live in Atlanta? In which case I should have some more ice cream before bed.

All day I kept thinking you know, this would be such an easier decision if my children were being crazy assholes today. But look at them! They’re listening to Moby and PERFORMING A BALLET. I bet no one in the marketing group at this fancypants company ever does that.

Though it isn’t fair of me to assume. Maybe I’ll email the guy and ask.

Nicolaus has discovered three things this month:
1. Pronouncing the letter L

2. Vegetarianism. And like many of the vegetarians I knew in college, he’s a little unclear on how it works. The first couple of nights after dinner he declared “Look Mama! Your vegetarian ate all his MEAT.”

“Um… you know vegetarians don’t eat meat, right?”

“Well I didn’t want those animals to die and go in the trash.”

Yesterday he announced that he is the kind of vegetarian that doesn’t eat mammals. So he can still eat fish and shrimp, but dolphins and seals are right out. I started harrassing him because I’m supportive like that – just ask my junior year room mate – and asking him, “So will you eat cows?”

“No.”

“What about mice?”

“NO.”

“What about people?”

“No!!”

“Oh. What about… chickens?”

Silence. He’s still deciding what to do about chickens. The other night when we had chicken for dinner he asked me to make him eggs instead. I think we’ve established by now that I’m at the mercy of my children’s whims, so I did it even though mothers who prepare seperate meals for different members of the family are pathetic and bad for not thinking about whether the world wants us to raise our kids to expect whatever they want whenever they want it, but come ON. He’s exploring an ideology here! It’s very cute.

He was halfway through eating his eggs when he stopped. “Wait… where… when do the farmers… get the baby chickens out?”

We reassured him that no baby chickens were ever in those eggs, quickly glossing over the fact that sex exists, and he was relieved and happy and went back to eating. So we’re working through the details on vegetarianism.

The other day he started trying to talk ME into giving up meat as well, and told me, “See… my job? Is to convince other people to be vegetarians too!”

Oh god. He’s going to be one of those vegetarians.

“How come?”

“Because it’s my JOB. It’s how I make money.”

“How do you make money at that? Who pays you?”

“Daddy. Twice a week he pays me an allowance. Because I do my job.”

Hm. So the rest of the day he delivered little commercials for vegetables, commercials against killing animals, commercials for eating hamburgers with just bread and cheese. And really, if bacon weren’t meat I might consider it.

3. The Boy Scouts of America.
We found his uncle’s Webelos manual… which I’m not being disrespectful but did you know that WeBeLos means WE’ll BE LOyal? I wonder if Webejammins was considered.

This book has triggered a new obsession, one bigger than you and I and everything we’ve ever owned. The Scientist now wishes to be called Scout. The Scout is about to turn four, and he is outraged that The Boy Scouts of America is such a closed-minded, prejudiced organization that they won’t let him join until he is seven. Fourophobe assholes.

My mom brought him one of my brother’s old cub scout unifrom shirts, and Nicolaus has been worn it every second since. It’s for like an eight year old, so it hangs down to his knees but so what? Real Boy Scouts aren’t deterred by such setbacks. Boy Scouts can handle anything. He shows me all of his patches and explains what he did to get each one… “This one I got for jumping off of an airplane… and this one I got for helping the police catch six bad guys… and this one I got for saving these horses who were stuck? On the top of a mountain and couldn’t get down? So the Scout climbed up there and rescued them.”

Tucked inside the left pocket there was a bear patch which my mom never sewed on because she is awesome and wanted to hide it in there so I’d one day find it, like a little note from her saying “You’re lameness is genetic. Just do your best.”

He decided that he doesn’t want me to sew it on because he needs it for his commercials. He pulls it out of his pocket and shows it to other kids to try to convince them to join the Boy Scouts. So, yeah… he’s that kind of Boy Scout.

Shit shit shit shit shit. You hear of other people’s family members discovering their blog and those family members being all oh my god why are you telling the world all about that thing with the dog’s penis and your depression and my alcoholism and Susan’s nose job and everything else? Or even just haha found yer blog… great stuff! You’re fired. And I want a divorce. And you are no longer our daughter.

Well I don’t know for sure, but it seems that Graham has somehow found this site. Specifically this entry, where I talk about the brain defect I suffer from which will not allow me to let him cry for more than thirty seconds.

So the weaning is not going well.

During the day we’re alright. It’s easy to distract him when I’m awake and clear-minded enough to offer exciting alternatives like a cup of milk or a toy car or a trained baby Indian elephant. But at night, you know… it’s dark and I’m asleep and man alive my brain will do anything for more sleep since the advent of the early bedtime/horrible morning waking up time. Greedy brain. Around one in the morning he wakes up screaming because he had a nightmare about me not giving him exactly what he wants all the time every second. Baby. Crying… I stumble to the boys’ room and look at him. A tiny part of my mind goes, ERROR. DO NOT PICK HIM UP.

I pick him up and bring him to our bed. There there, it was only a bad dream…

I am an idiot. There is no end in sight. More later. Baby hungry.

Comments are open again. See, I upgaded to the latest version of Wordpress this week and when I did so, I somehow accidentally erased the part of the database that made my brain remember how to make a new fucking post. ALLOW comments… meaning, they are allowed.

So, to review:

• I drew a nest
• my children are funny
• we are dumb for moving all the time
• you should tell us where to live
• there was an enormous roach in the bathroom just now and I tried to kill it but it disappeared so I just squirted some poison into what looked like the sort of place where a roach might hide and then I ran away and closed the door, oh like roaches can’t magically permeate doors but it made me feel better and now I have the total heebie jeebies.
• am I morally obligated to mention the roach somewhere on the home sales flyer? Or the fact that when it rains, fire ant mounds appear in the front yard? Or that the squirrels in the yard formed a union last year and will strike – with picket lines and everything – if their annual demands are not met?

“Nicolaus you need to pick the blocks up.”

“I don’t think so… can you clean them up?”

“No. Pick them up.”

“But I got them out!”

“We know… that’s why you need to clean them up.”

“No, that’s why you need to clean them up. I had to get them out.”

We got Nicolaus a microscope. I had a gift certificate to Toys backwards R Us, and there wasn’t anything else in the entire store that would satisfy him other than the $150 telescope which – isn’t that what those giant observatory ones cost?

So the scientist has a microscope and like most scientists I know he is obsessive and not very sharey with it. At night he puts it right next to his bed. And hugs it and whispers, “I love you microscope. I wish you were my real mother.”

I’m pretty sure.

—-

Meanwhile Graham is entering the “the only good ideas are my ideas” phase of toddlerhood. If I try to get him to do anything he shakes his head and gives me the baby finger. Then when I give up he’s like, crap. That DOES sound kind of awesome. Why do I keep telling her no?? Must learn their word for yes. A minute ago I offered him a yummy dried peach slice. He shook his head and said, “Naow.”

So I set it down on the table. Just now I looked over and he’s cheerfully chewing on the peach. “Mmmm!” He told me, “Ood.” Which means food in Dutch or whatever language he speaks. Seems to be Dutch.

Do I sound sleepy? We’re working on this thing where the boys go to bed earlier. It’s working! But now they’re back to waking up before seven, which is just sick and wrong. So next up is teaching me to go to bed earlier.

A realtor came over yesterday and told us what we need to do to sell our house this spring. Her suggestions weren’t surprising: paint, clear out clutter, put pants on your kids when people come over. We wrote it all down.

So there’s that. Selling the house! Woooo! You know, Wooooooo?

I’m writing this here so maybe next time we will actually remember it: People with residency ADD should not buy houses, ever. By the time we pay all the realtors and everyone, we’ll be happy to break even on this deal. And it’s a huge pain to go through when we’re going to end up getting restless and movey a couple of years later. So it may be a (nother) financial mistake but we can’t help it; we’re restless, we’re movey, so here we go. Towards Georgia for now… and then who knows? Tennessee? North Carolina?

We’re looking for a town to live in that may not exist: Some magical not-urban, not-rural, but not-suburbia-either place. Somewhere pretty. Friendly. Warm weather. Arty. But not pretentious or scary or overrun by giant swarms of angry bees eight months out of the year. If you know of such a place, please let me know. So we can buy a house there!