HAPPY 4TH, PEOPLE!

Trying out this new video upload feature. Let me know what you think of it.

A MOTHER'S SACRIFICE

Today the kids had to bring shoeboxes to school for a project.

Shoeboxes, people!!! Have you any idea what this means??? They're more valuable than gold in my house. [Yes, I'm being completely serious!]

MAMA'S DREAM SHOE CLOSET

So, I reluctantly rifle through my closet, gently pushing aside the Aldo boxes, which open sideways, which I happen to think is ingenious. And then I navigate past the giant Nike boxes that Mommy's Nike IDs come in, which are lined in velvet and come with they're own special satin bags, which I've hijacked for several of my very favorite pairs of heels because, for God's sake, they shouldn't be wasted on anything as remotely unsexy as tennis shoes!!! Then I pile the fabulous Nine West boxes carefully on top of one another high up on the very top shelf because, dammit, they just look so adorable all lined up and sized just right like that, and all in that oh-so-calming shade of grey...

Anyway...with both kids at the bottom of the step stool waiting (im)patiently for their box, I make my apologies, beg forgiveness from the shoe gods, and reluctantly remove two of my bejeweled Cancun ankle-wrap sandals (which you may recall my mentioning a while back)from their protective little homes, and woefully hand them over to the little monsters drooling at my feet.

"YAY!!!!!!!" they run screeching out of my closet, raising their arms to hold the sacrificial cardboard carcasses above their heads, dancing around the bed chanting in unison, "I've got a shoebox! I've got a shoebox!" in utter satisfaction of their triumph over my vice.

And I emerge from the utopia that houses my couture and accoutrements completely defeated as a shoe-whore, but glad to know that when push comes to shove, I CAN make those hard choices for my children. Yes, I can!

That is...until we got to school and Teacher Teresa, who lavishes praises on the kids for remembering to bring in their boxes, makes sure to tell me how thoroughly surprised she is not to see little lucite shoeboxes with pearl handles and shiny polaroids with index cards labeled with the make and model of my heels affixed to the front of each and every box.

[GASP!!!]

Can you believe that? I mean, can you really believe she said that to me? Out loud??? The nerve of that woman! Really.

And I fumed about it all the way to the mall...where I quickly purchased every shoebox-sized lucite container I could find. [What a totally fabulous idea, no?!!!!]

By the way, you can get these for someone special (*hint hint*) at We Love Your Feet for a really reasonable price if you shop in bulk!!!

happy birthday, grandma queta.

we miss you every single day.

AND NOW THE NOT-QUITE-SO-COMEDIC STYLINGS OF SAIA YSIDORA...

Trying to teach a four-year-old to tell a joke is like...trying to teach a four-year-old to wash the dishes. It's clean, but oh-so-messy, goes all over the place, and still requires you to finish things up when it's done.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?" she tries for the twentieth time in as many hours.

"I don't know, Saia. Why?" I monotone with a strained smile.

"Because she...it...wanted to...she was trying to...because...to get to...because she had to cross the street...um...to be over the...to cross the road...to get...to get..."

"To the other side, baby! To get to the other side," I practically weep.

"Yeah," she smiles satisfactorily, "That's right, Mom!"

[And the crowd goes wild!!! Okay, maybe not.]

INTRODUCING: THE COMEDIC GENIUS OF SANTIAGO GAEL...

"So, how was everyone's day today?" I ask as we drive home from school yesterday.

"FINE!" they both sing out in unison [a sure sign they're not quite telling the whole truth].

"Did anyone get in trouble today?" I prod.

"NO!" he says. "YES!" she counters.

"What happended, Santiago?"

"I had to sit at the yellow table by myself," he explains.

"For..." I coax.

"For not listening," he continues.

"To..." I add.

"To the teachers when they asked me to stop," he concludes.

"Stop what?" I ask dreading, always dreading, the answer.

"Stop making everyone laugh when I tell them I can burp my ABCs," he says giggling.

"Where in the world did you get that from?!?!" I demand.

"From Hami in Over the Hedge," they reply, both barely able to contain their laughter at the apparently fond and furiously funny recollection.

"But you know that's nasty, right?" I ask. "It's not even really funny," I say.

"No," he says. "I mean, yes," he stumbles, "but, Mom," he goes on, "everyone really laughed when I said diaper."

[and they erupt into uncontrollable hysterics]

Obviously, they got their sense of humor from their other Mommy!!!

WHO SAYS THE SWORD AIN'T MIGHTY???

"Santiago?" I call from the kitchen window.

"Yes, Mom?" he answers without turning around.
"What are you doing, Bubba?"

"Nothing."

[uh-huh. the mischief maker's tell.]

"Santiago Gael, please tell me what you're up to," I insist.

[Slowly. He. Turns. Around.]

With a whimper, he struggles with his waistband, tugging and pulling, and getting visibly more frustrated by the second when suddenly he screams...

"I JUST CAN'T KEEP MY SWORD IN MY PANTS!!!!"

[No, no, no! This is NOT a sign of things to come!!!]

[And get your minds out of the gutter, people. He's only four! It was a real plastic sword he was trying to hook onto his belt loop, for crisakes!]

CONGRATULATIONS, MOMMY!!!

We're so very proud of you and your new job!!

And you just know we can't wait to come and terrorize all your new staff and colleagues!

Big love from two of your three biggest fans,
Skinny & Boy

WWID??? (What Would Imelda Do?)

Imelda Marcos, that is.

"Mama," she says on the way into work one day last week, "What other shoes do you have besides high heels and flip-flops?"

[Well, seriously, what else does a girl need???]

"Well, honey," I begin with a puffed out chest a glow of pride, "I do have a couple of pairs of workout shoes, a few pairs of bejeweled sandals from the Cancun vacation, some mules, some slingbacks, at least one pair of mary-janes..."

"Mama..."

"A good number of tall-girl boots, some ankle boots, and some equestrian boots..."

"Mama..."

"I've got those gorgeous Pragues that Mommy got me for Christmas, and those goddy gold things I got on sale..."

"MAMA!!!"

"Huh?...Yes, baby, what is it?"

"Mama," she continues in a slightly more frustrated tone, "the reason I was asking was because I needed to know what shoes you want to be wearing when an elephant sits on you."

[??????]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUNTIE MEGAN!!

WE LOVE AND MISS YOU

AND REALLY WISH YOU'D COME OUT

AND SEE US SOME DAY!

My Modest Mouse

"Go ahead, boy. I'll have your shirt ironed in just a second," I hear Mommy telling him through the monitor.

"Noooo, Mommy. I don't want to go," he protests.

"Why not, son? What's wrong. Mama has your leche ready," she coaxes.

"But Mommy, I'm just in my t-shirt," he explains.

"So?"

"I don't want Mama to see me until I'm dressed," he says.

"Ohhhh. It's alright, boy," she says through a cheek-to-cheek grin, "Just explain to Mama that I'm ironing your shirt."

So he comes into the living room and peeks around the corner into the kitchen with his hands crossed over his chest.

"Here's your leche, son," I say, holding out his sippy cup, but he won't budge.

"What's wrong, papa? Come on in and get your milk," I say, "so I can see your new t-shirt."

He shakes his head and just refuses to come in, so I have to promise him that I'll look away while he steps in to retrieve his milk, and won't look at him until he's fully dressed. Which I do.

And when Mommy's done with his shirt, he swaggers into the kitchen and does a couple of little GQ turns on the rug to show off his new (and freshly ironed) polo, and then marches his little peacock tail back into the living room.

FELICITOS, GRANDPA DONNIE!!!

HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY,
HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY, BIRTHDAY, GRANDPA DONNIE!! WE LOVE AND MISS YOU TERRIBLY!!! COME SEE US ALREADY, WOULD YA???

ZIPPADEEDOO...WHOA, THERE!

On the way into school yesterday morning we all happen to be in a particularly unusual collective good mood and start a round of "Zip-a-dee Do-dah."

As with most things vocal, they begin to belt it out at the top of their lungs:

"Zipadee Do Dah!

Zipadee Ay!"

[and here's where it gets good...]

"My Ho, My Ho


Wonderful Day!!!"
[Hmmm...now how to correct this one without having to explain why...]

UNDERNEATH IT ALL...

One of the multitude of gifts they received for their birthday was this very cute little croquet set. [Seriously? you say.] Yeah, we thought the same thing. But the kids really seemed to take to the experience -- oh, for about 10 minutes. Which, really, when you translate that into toddler time is like 3 hours!!!!

But anyway...Saia, inherently cursed with her anal retentive attention to detail by both nature and nurture, just loved the whole bit. She helped me tear open the package, read the directions, and set up the course. We matched the little tunnel thing-a-ma-gigs to the color coordinated mallet and ball, and we even measured the distance to the winning pin from each lane. And then she proceeded to repeat my every instruction to both her brother and her Mommy AS SHE PLAYED (the little multitasker!), and much to their collective annoyance.

Chago, on the other side of the coin...immediately shot his ball across the lawn and into the street, stepped on 2 of the 4 tunnels, sent the head of his mallet flying across the driveway, and screamed that it wasn't fair that Saia always won when, of course, she did.

So, here I am, always mindful of being politically correct, always trying my best to be diplomatic, always determined to see the black, white and grey of every possible situation, in what I always thought to be my grandest social experiment -- that is, raising these two children in exactly the same way, with the exact same set of rules, with no gender biases, no social norms imposed, no pinks for her and blues for him, allowing them to ultimately be who they choose to be bywhatever means and in whatever manner they choose to express it -- and all I can really say is "OH MY GOD, HE'S SUCH A DAMN BOY!!!!!!"

WE'RE A TOP 100 MOM BLOG!!!

Yay! We've just received an award for being a Mother's Day Central Top 100 Mom Blog.

How cool is that?!?!

Now, if I can just get my rear back into gear and posting regularly again, maybe the threatening emails will stop, too. ;)