SACRILEGE?

Home this afternoon with a feverish child who's just whispered "uh-oh" from the bathroom.

That's never a good sign.

When I walk in, she's standing there with her pants at her ankles, leaning over the commode, her right sleeve rolled up to her elbow and just about to dive in for something.

"SAIA!!!!!!" I scream.

Startled, she whips around on the verge of tears.

"What are you doing, baby?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"Honey, just tell me what happened."

Her lower lip begins to tremble just a little. "I...I...was going potty...[sniff]...and the...the book fell in."

"Okay..." I begin.

"On top of my poop," she concludes.

[Ahhhhh. Crystal clear now. Thank you very much.]

"Babe, the book's dirty now and we'll have to throw it away, okay?" I try to explain without laughing. "Why don't you get dressed and wash your hands and Mama will take care of it, alright?"

But as I peer into the bowl trying conjure up what I could possibly use to fish out the book...that's veeeeeeery long...and disposable...well, I just so happen to notice Jesus is staring back at me. Yes, THE Jesus. Apparently, the little Story of Easter board book took a high dive off the toilet top and despite my not being an active religious practitioner of any sort, I have to admit that my old Catholic guilt actually kept me there for quite a while wondering what the hell to do. Literally.

What do I do with it? Do I throw it out? Can I do that? Who's gonna absolve me of this one?

I know, I know, ridiculous, right? But let me just try to explain this phenomenon by saying if you have ever, even once, when the whole fad first started, forwarded on a chain letter or email just on the one-in-a-million chance that you might possibly run into some bad luck some day in the very distant future, then you understand 1/100 of what Catholic guilt can do.

That being said, however, I'm a grown woman now -- and mostly sensible -- so into the trash it went. But I'll betcha a 5 spot I have nightmares tonight about diving into a garbage bin to rescue that damned poop laden thing so that I don't burn in hell for eternity.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIA SONIA!!!

May you live all the days of your life.
- Jonathan Swift

AND...

Inside every older person is a younger person -
wondering what the hell happened.
- Cora Harvey Armstrong

INTERLOPERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Children of the Corn is still, as...uh...corny as it is, one of my all time favorite horror flicks. I mean, you really can't beat it. Linda Hamilton before she was buff. Whatever that guy's name is who was on 30-Something, Peter somebody. And those kids. Scary, scary little suckers. Malachi haunted my dreams for yeeeeeeeears.

Aaaaanyway. There's this part of the movie, you may recall, when the freaky children all point their fingers at the strangers in town and yell, "INTERLOPERS!!!!!"or "OUTLANDERS!!!!!" Holy pre-pubescent cult following, Batman! I'm creeped out just talking about it again.

So, the other day...

"Mama?"

"Yes, Saia?"

"Why do those people still have Christmas lights on their houses?" Saia ponders aloud -- as she often tends to do.

"Oh, baby," I begin to explain. "They're just procrastinators."

"What's a crastinator, Mom?" asks Chago.

"A procrastinator, Son, is someone who is putting off doing something they should probably already have done," I sum up in a nice neat little package.

"Oh," says Saia, looking back out into the neighborhood, "okay."

And then every day, for the past two weeks -- that's 14 very long days, FYI -- they've each pointed and screeched at the top of their lungs as we drive by the still very merry looking homes in our little 'hood, "PROCRASTINATORS!!!!!!!!!!!"

And I gotta say...little creeped out over here.

DESPITE WHAT SUCKED

I know there were so many things you wanted to say.
I could see it in your eyes.
Felt it hanging over the room like a wet blanket.

I know you weren't done.
I know it wasn't fair.
I know you waited even with your last breath
for
a
miracle.

And I'm so sorry that we couldn't have done more,
and worse,
that maybe
we didn't even really try.

And I'm sorry that we didn't get to know you better.
That we didn't even bother
to find a way to
love you better.

That we didn't couldn't wouldn't
give you more of our
very
precious
time.

I'm so sorry
that we left you there to fend off the wolves
alone.
Making me sorriest for not making that last stand
sooner -- and louder -- and worthy of you.

I realize now that you needed me
more than you knew more than I knew.
And I should have been there.
Despite what sucked.
And I wasn't.
And I hope you'll forgive me
my pride.

For my Aunt Emma Marie, who lost her brief skirmish with cancer on January 23, 2007.

HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

"Santiago?"

"Santiago?!"

"SANTIAGO!!!"

"Yes, Saia, what is it?" he finally replies.

"I'm going to tell you something that is very very very important, okay?" she asks.

"Okay???" she repeats.

"OKAY?!?!?" she yells.

"Okay, Saia." He's the Marquis de Sade sometimes, I tell you!

"You should definitely never never never step in front of a car," she begins. "And you should never never never walk in the street without holding Mama's hand," she continues -- beginning to wag her finger a little now. "And you should never never never run in a parking lot. And you should..."

"Saia?" he interrupts.

"And you should never..." she continues.

"SAIA!?!?!?" Second attempt.

"I wasn't done, Santiago."

"But I have something VERY important to add," he says.

[Exasperated sigh] "Alright, Santiago, what is it?" she concedes.

"You should never never never go near a skunk."

SAIA, INC.

"SAIA!" he yells as we slip through the toll booth this morning (gotta love that carpool lane, baby!).

"Yes, Santiago, what is it?" she asks, already beginning to look a little ashen as she prepares to pull the ol' think-I'm-gonna-throw-up routine since she's realized that even the slightest gagging or heaving will get her out of school and into Mama's office for the day.

"Saia, somebody has your truck!" he explains.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Santiago," she mumbles.

"Your truck, Saia. See? Over there. The one with your name on it."

And passing us in the slow lane is, for those of you that don't know, a truck from the Saia, Inc. trucking company from whence Mama stole her name.

And yes, I do realize that it's not gonna go over real well when she's 13.

SICK, MY HINEY HO!

Okay, so she did throw up 3 times on the way to work this morning. And to her credit (she's such a trooper), she warned me each time, so that I had enough time to pull over to the shoulder and hold her hair while she puked all up and down Highway 92.

But after a week and a half of this (on and off and alternating between the two of them), I finally decided to take her in this morning for a real live doctor's visit. So, we dropped off the boy at school, waved goodbye and took her in. "Stomach bug," they said. "Has to run it's course," they said. "We're seeing a lot of it," they said. And patted our heads as they ushered us out the door.

So she's with me at work today, not feeling the least bit under the weather suddenly and thoroughly interrupting my day with "Mom, I'm bored," but at least she's stopped spewing. For the time being, anyway.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEMA!!

We miss you and love you so much! And we can't wait to see you in March.

Feliz Cumpleanos, Granpa Juan!!!

WE LOVE YOU!!

TWO THUMBS WAAAAAAAAY UP!!!

Took the kids to see their first movie in an actual theater over the New Year's weekend. It was a 10:30am matinee of Happy Feet, and soooooo worth the $50. [Yeah, I know, I can hardly believe that's what it costs these days for a family of 4. What the hell!?!? I mean, even I remember when it used to just be a couple of bucks to get into a show, and if you went to a matinee (and not a butt crack of dawn one either) it was SIGNIFICANTLY cheaper. But noooooooo, the greedy media moguls make me resort to waiting anxiously at my living room window for this week's disgruntled postal worker to shove my previously viewed (and viewed and viewed and viewed) Netflix selection into my mailbox, so that I'm inevitably and forever relegated to being behind the times, out of touch, and totally clueless when the Oscars are handed out.]

ANYWAY...bitter pill swallowed...loved the movie. Had a great time. Chago ate practically a whole tub of popcorn (unsalted, unbuttered, of course) all on his own (and then threw it all up at bed time). And, as usual, they completely surprised me in that they weren't scared at all at how big the screen was or how loud the music was or how totally terrifying the monster seal looked. They asked a few questions here and there, but in general really seemed to understand what was going on. And when it was all over, they asked me to rewind it and skip the credits this time.

Click the PLAY button below to watch the movie trailer with the best song ever.

FERGALICIOUS!!!

Alright, so since we only ever listen to children's music, rhymes, and stories on the way to and from school during the week [yes, you may safely assume I am well beyond loopy by Friday afternoon], we negotiated with the kids [because EVERYTHING'S a negotiation these days] that Mommy and I could listen to our music on the weekends.

And although we do take care to transfer the music to the front speakers when we're out and about to limit their exposure as much as possible to the likes of Snoop Dogg, Chingon, and [gasp!] the Dixie Chicks, we'll randomly hear one of them repeat a phrase from a song now and then when they've been particularly tickled by something.

For a few weeks a couple of months ago, they were hooked on Yung Joc's "I Know You See It" because of the little "eenie, meenie, miny, mo..." in the chorus. And before that you practically had to hold them down with both hands to keep them from bouncing all over the place to Dare by Gorillaz as they shouted at the top of their lungs, "IT'S DAY-UH!".

But this morning Chago woke up, came traipsing into the kitchen, and demanded that I play Fergalicious for him. And although it's a creepy enough for me to hear him singing, "D to the E to the L-I-C-I-O-U-S...", what I absolutely will NOT stand for is the blatant disregard for the English language: tasty is not spelled with an E, Fergie [as in "T to the A to the S-T-E-Y"]! For crissakes, what the hell are you trying to teach our children?!?!?!

PUKEFEST 2007

Well, if there was anything that could get me writing again, Lord knows it's projectile regurgitated milk curd. Mmm...mm...mmm. Man! There's just nothing like it.

No, seriously. There's really nothing freaking like it in the world.

It's almost alien the way that it just shoots out of their mouths. The force. The color. The rank, putrid perfume. It defies the laws of gravity, nature, and Murphy (I'm sure).

And, please, it's just not possible that this much crap could come out of my sweet little babies. It's just not. I mean, their little tummies aren't nearly that deep, their appetites hardly that vast. And for crissakes, it's not like I'm feeding them packaged spinach!!!

Okay, side note. I did have a good 20 minutes of Amy having to talk me down from the ledge when while trying to backtrack and figure out from whence this pukarama could have begun, I realized to my utter horror that I had indeed given them fresh spinach. Granted, it was frozen fresh. And in a ziploc bag (and, therefore, previously eaten). And...well...okay, it WAS from 2005. But still, it was a good 20 minutes of sheer terror, I tell you. Comfort me, dammit!!!

But here we are at home after 5 days of Chago spewing on and off and Saia unleashing the beast within on the way to school this morning...in the truck...on the bridge...with no exits...and in the rain [come on, follow the logic: we couldn't open windows -- aren't you glad this doesn't come in scratch 'n' sniff?].

Yeah, that's right. I USED to have nose hairs, too. But after spending 2 hours cleaning out the truck...with ten 4" x 6" lemony fresh WIPIES, for f*ck's sake...IN THE FREAKING RAIN...in my brand new Christmas red leather Prague heels [yes, the heels are fine, thanks for asking], I'm just a little beyond consolation at this point. I just hate times like this. Some nameless, faceless child at the bouncy house or the movies or the mall or the restaurant or the grocery store or the preschool or the post office has infected my children with the f*cking stomach bug -- AGAIN -- and I still don't have enough towels!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Weepy, Snotty and Drooly

"Mama," she says, "what're the names of the dwarfs again from Snow White?"

"Um..." I say, racking my 36-year-old brain. "Dopey [why is it that we always recall Dopey first?] and Happy..."

"Grumpy!" she interjects.

"And don't forget Sneezy and Doc," I add [admitedly more than just a little excited that my memory hasn't completely forsaken me just yet].

"And..." she ponders. "Sleepy!"

"Yes! And who's the last* one?" I ask.

"YAWNY!!!!" she cries victoriously.

[Yanni???? Um...not in MY fairy tales, baby!!]

*By the way, so that you don't cause any further injury to yourself, it's Bashful.

I'M SOOOOO SORRY!!!

I totally forgot to leave a message here letting you know that we'd be on vacation for a couple of weeks.

But we're back now -- exquisitely tanned and really missing those mid-morning pina coladas (oops! did I say that out loud?)

Anyway, just give me a couple more days to unpack and upload the bezillion pics and videos I shot, and we'll be up and running again in no time.

Missed ya!!!