She Walks And Talks. And Growls And Climbs And Screams.

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I promise this isn't a Halloween re-cap post. The kids had a fun Halloween, and we have enough candy to easily get us through next Halloween, but I didn't get any good pictures of the kids in their costumes (since photography happens to be one of the things I suck at), and I'm sure you've seen enough of those lately, anyway. So, I'm skipping that, but the photo is completely relevant to the subject matter of today's post: my adorable, sweet, cuddly, immobile baby has been possessed by demons.

I'm not sure how it happened. Maybe just a stage. Or the costume was some kind of portal for evil forces. Either way, Sylvie is exhausting.

She walks now. All over the place. I'm so proud and it's super cute the way she takes these stiff-legged steps with her little arms flailing the whole time. Until she falls. And screams. And then I have to pick her up and try to cuddle her until she starts screaming and squirming and hitting my face because she wants down so she can continue walking. And she wants to walk everywhere. Up and down the stairs, out the front door, in stores. Away from me. We had a miserable experience last weekend shopping for a clearance-priced chainsaw for my 5 year-old (Yes, you read that correctly.). The store we were at had no shopping carts, and because I am huge and pregnant and exhausted (Okay, I feel huge, anyway.), I opted to let Sylvie walk on her own rather than carry her through the store. Big mistake. When I finally wrangled her into the long, long, long line of customers waiting to pay, Sylvie refused to stand still and wait our turn patiently and quietly. Can you believe the nerve? So, I was forced to constrain cradle her lovingly. While she cried and kicked and screamed. For 10 excruciating minutes in line. People stared and I sweated. Profusely.

Then there's the climbing. Oh my God, the climbing. I have raised three babies before her, but I've never seen a better example of my survival-of-the-fittest-through-self-destruction theory than Sylvie. She climbs everything: chairs, tables, beds, in and out of her highchair and bathtubs, on top of the computer desk, any person who happens to be sitting on the floor. She wrestles free of seat belts and stands up in shopping carts the second my attention is diverted... It's like the voices tell her to teeter on the edge of every surrounding and dangerously high perch and she's thrilled to oblige. All day long. Because the climbing inevitably leads to falling, which invariably leads to crying and attempts at cuddling, which leads to squirming and screaming, and more walking and climbing, I must remain diligent. It's draining, but amazingly, we've had only a small bump on the forehead, and no stitches. Yet.

But okay, she doesn't really talk, other than the occasional "uh oh" or "all done" or her favorite all-purpose exclamation: "whoa". She does, however, growl. Constantly. At first, she only growled when she saw the cats, which kind of made sense, but now she just growls all the time. She hasn't started swearing or making lewd references to anyone's mother yet, so the growling is actually pretty cute and funny. And it's quieter than the screaming at least.

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If you can stand the sound of my voice for 30 seconds (If not, I don't blame you), keep the volume up and listen to Satan's Sylvie's "Whoa!" at the end of the video. Sure, you've seen lots of videos of babies' first steps, but not every mom is as lucky as me to have caught her toddler's demonic possession on film!

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I guess the growling I could live with, but I'm hoping to find a cheap exorcist that this screaming and climbing stage will pass before this next spawn of Satan precious bundle of love arrives.

Say What?

Valerie, age 4, observing the long line of cars backed up at the bridge near the entrance to our subdivision, which is frustratingly infuriatingly swear word-inducingly inconveniently under construction:
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"Mama, I bet all dem people sayin' dammit."

A Scourge of Suburban Wildlife Part Two: The Terror Continues...

As if the slaughter of innocent pumpkins wasn't terrifying enough, these chilly and rainy first weeks of autumn have seen my home besieged by even ghastlier creatures than squirrels.

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A swarm of desperate and dying bees found their way into my basement through the dryer's vent and figured my house made as good a place as any for their graveyard. Of course, I thought immediately of the scene in The Amityville Horror with the priest, when the maniacal swarm of bees drive him out of the cursed house. We definitely had a swarm here, but, luckily for my family, our bees seemed to be neither maniacal nor a manifestation of murderous evil. Most buzzed around in confused circles until they died quickly and quietly and were collected by the kids for burials at sea. And many fell victim to my vacuum cleaner, as the thought of Sylvie finding a bee on the floor and eating one was especially horrific to me! A good incentive to sweep all the floors, anyway...

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The afore-mentioned bee scene. Our Citronella ants actually behaved more like these bees. And our bees behaved more like they were at a Phish concert.

And again this fall, we were briefly beleaguered by Citronella ants. Hundreds of the winged pests climbed and crawled their way out of cracks and crevices near the foundation of the house and covered my back door and the floor of my mudroom in a matter of hours! They're essentially harmless, though; they disappear almost as quickly as they arrive and the kids enjoy sweeping and swatting them to smell the aroma they release. They give off a scent like Fruit Loops. Or Fruity Pebbles, depending on who you ask in my house. It's a long-standing family debate.

Now, just in case you have mistaken me for some kind of woman who is tolerant of insects, or brave, I'll show you what I found in my kitchen sink. I had left a pot to soak (Because it wouldn't fit in with the load of dishes I put in the dishwasher after dinner the night before, and I'd rather run the dishwasher again in the morning for a single pot than wash one by hand. So what?) and when I removed the pot from the sink, I saw THIS underneath!

No need to point out the fact that my sink looks almost as gross as the spider. I said I had a pot soaking.

Holy Hell, this spider was HUGE and HAIRY and STRIPED and ENORMOUS and had been making a web in my sink! Under the pot! Unfortunately, Eve, my resident Dr. Dolittle and pest-removal technician, was at school. So, I took the picture for her. Right before I blasted the hairy bastard down the drain with the sink's sprayer. And right after I nearly peed my pants. I think my neighbors may have been alarmed by all my screaming, but the kids thought the whole situation was hysterical. I, on the other hand, spent the entire rest of the day itching and scratching and convinced this dreadful creature had somehow ended up in the cuff of my pants or my cleavage. A good incentive to keep the dishes clean, anyway...

Believe it or not, though, I don't find all the bugs here to be repulsive. In fact, I saw a couple last weekend that were downright adorable.

The kids all entered the costume contest at our town's Fall Festival. Valerie, the cutest spider that I've ever seen, won second place in her age group!

Happy Halloween!

Say What?

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Sylvie, age 1: "Uh oh..."

A Scourge of Suburban Wildlife

The change in season brings cooler weather, shorter days, chili in the crock-pot, caramel apples... and, apparently, a plague of beasts, upon us.

Like most suburbanites, I welcome autumn to my home with a few carefully placed seasonal decorations, including, but not necessarily limited to, pumpkins. And because I happened to find several pumpkins for a very good price, and because I happen to be a master of efficiency who also happens to be extremely cheap, I wanted to maximize the usefulness of my prized pumpkins by using them to adorn my front yard and porch during the early weeks of October, and then, in celebration of Halloween, harvesting the seeds for delicious snacks and carving cartoonish or terrifying faces into the pumpkins' flesh, much to the delight of my children!

However. Like many suburbanites, I begrudgingly share my property with a certain breed of gray, bushy-tailed rodents, whose sole purposes on this earth seem to be to run out in front of my car and to destroy my carefully placed seasonal decorations.

I just knew after last year's feast, these bastards had been counting the days until I made the mistake of leaving delicious and irresistable pumpkins unattended outside again. But this year, I decided to arm myself with a most impregnable shield: information that I got from the internet. According to several websites, the names of which I can't currently recall, the best squirrel repellant for pumpkins is hot sauce. By all accounts, they hate it! So, the kids and I whipped up a batch of Frank's Red Hot and Kroger brand chili powder and went to town basting our pumpkins with the stuff. The kids actually had a blast doing this, and I was chuckling to myself the whole time just picturing the shock in their beady eyes (the squirrels', not the kids') as they sunk their ugly teeth (again, the squirrels') into my pumpkins and learned a lesson they'd not soon forget! And it worked! Ha! Victory at last!

Until it rained.

For days on end.

I have half-heartedly, in between bouts of rain, reapplied my squirrel repellant, and it seems to be working with a few of the remaining pumpkins. And when I catch the sneaky sons-of-bitches in the act, you better believe I waddle out to my front porch, hissing insults and hurling handfuls of rocks that, due to my profound lack of athletic ability, have not even once hit their desired fuzzy target.

The salvageable pumpkins have been turned good sides to the street. But the empty shells sit mocking me, mangled and hollow, like my spirit.

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Don't despair, readers. I plan to pick up a few more pumpkins while they're still on sale and keep them in the garage. And coat the keypad with hot sauce.

Murphy's Mama's Law #13

Any mama who eagerly sells every last piece of her baby gear and maternity clothing in a garage sale will discover she is pregnant approximately one week later.

Read the rest of Murphy's Mama's Laws here.

Back To School... Finally

This week marked a few very important milestones. Eve began 4th grade, Gavin boarded the school bus for kindergarten, and mom was down to TWO kids at home every afternoon - one of whom naps on a daily basis! I'd been anticipating my calm, quiet afternoons for months, and planning all the facebooking blogging housework that I could accomplish in my daily 2.5 hours of (relative) peace.

Don't get me wrong, I love summer vacation as much as the next stay-at-home-mom, and I spent ours exhausted and irritable banishing children to bedrooms due to constant fighting not blogging happily slathering sunscreen and packing picnic lunches for trips to the zoo and and sunny days at the pool. But I must admit, I was looking forward, and may or may not have been counting down the days, to earlier bedtimes, predictable routines and schedules, and quiet(er) time each day to re-group.

School supplies were purchased and delivered to classrooms, lunch and snacks were packed, emergency contact information and release forms submitted, and the big day went off without a hitch and nary a tear. (I remember sobbing in my minivan as I followed Eve's school bus the entire route to school on her first day of kindergarten. Guess I'm over that. Maybe again for my last kindergartener?) Sylvie was napping within minutes of the school bus' departure and Valerie and I had an entire, glorious, peaceful afternoon to ourselves!

Gavin, the coolest kindergartener in town.

Sylvie, for the sake of propriety, let's try and contain our glee at least until the bus pulls away from the curb, shall we?

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The glee was shortlived. Later that afternoon, the school bus returned one exuberant child to me, and one with a very sore throat. The next morning, Eve's sore throat was accompanied by a fever. And a feverish and very fussy baby sister.

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The next two days were a blur of crying and complaining, moaning and groaning, temperature-taking and toddler-toting... And the sick kids were miserable, too! And the rancid icing on the wretched cake of anguish was the mountain of make-up school work Eve was supposed to be accomplishing in her absence! There are not enough words in my online thesaurus to describe the hell that was my experience with this school work. There is a very good reason that I don't home-school and my family can and will testify to this fact. For the sake of my psychological well-being, I have blocked out most of the memories of these two days, and will spare you, readers, the goriest details. I'm sure, though (or at least I keep trying to convince my husband and kids), that we are now closer as a family for having gone through this horror together.

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Two days later, fevers are gone, the constant crying has ceased, we are back to a manageable school-work load, and I feel like a new woman!

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What do you mean, three day weekend?

Hey, Look! I Can Grow Something Besides Humans, After All!

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I am not a gardener. Not even close. The sunflowers the kids and I planted this summer never materialized. I can't keep houseplants, either; I've even killed two cactuses cacti (Thank you, Spellcheck). I do love the idea, though, of having a vegetable garden, but I'm pretty sure that's more out of cheapness, than desire for horticulture. I don't have the time, or ambition, or sunlight, for that matter, for a vegetable garden. And to be honest, I really don't like getting my hands dirty.

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I was delighted, however, when my mom gave me a potted cherry tomato plant, that I have managed, somehow, to keep alive all summer! And my nurturing - or at least my diligence in looking at the thing every couple of days to see if any tomatoes were sprouting - has been rewarded with a dozen adorable (and delicious!) tiny tomatoes!

Happy 4th Birthday, Valerie!

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Happy birthday to my Valerie, the cutest, funniest, sweetest, princess-iest, junk-food-iest, messiest, loudest, and most-loved 4 year old that I know.

Wardrobe Wednesday

Now, where did I put my pencil?