This Blog is Seriously Lacking...

Babies in Hats.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane... no it's Willboy

We were checking out in line a the bookstore and Will was standing in the way of a woman trying to get past, I ask him to move, and he looks up at the woman and said, "oh, 'scuseme". The woman gasped and said "Awww". I mean, Will's cuteness, it has the power to move mountains. I'm not kidding.

The pictures from several weeks ago, the makeup? Well he did it again, this time with mascara all over his face. I was about to flip out when he looked at me and deadpaned, "I 'piderman".

What am I going to do? He's going to borrow the car one day, wreck it, and look at me with those big brown eyes... and I'll be done for.

Wake me in January...

Is it December already? We're in the midst of a big move to Olympia, holidays, and the eve of legislative session...

It's enough to make you want to lie down in a giant recliner and sleep.

Little Rascal

Will's not so sure about trains in real life. We read his That's Not My Train book at bedtime, and he loves it. The train at Titlow beach? Not so much.

We went to dinner at Steamer's in Tacoma last weekend, the kids loved the fish and chips, and will gleefully watched the trains pass from inside. However we went out to get a closer look and as you can see, terror, would be the word.

He talks so so much and is so big now, we forget that he's still really a little guy. A little guy that is sometimes just lonely at bedtime, and needs some extra hugs.

But sometimes he's just a rascal.

Beautiful Beautiful Beautiful Girl

Am I always so negative? Maybe... maybe I spend too much time agonizing over things that don't really matter. There are real, actual things to be worried over in this world, and at the end of the day, I have three kids that are happy, healthy, and truly the joy of our lives. I promise. And I promise to remember that more and not dwell on the things that drive me insane.

In all? Things are good. Halloween was fantastic, even if it was frusterating that Emily would cower and whine about not going to the "scary" houses. Emily was a graceful and sweet Princess Leia, Violet fell asleep as we strolled through the neighborhood, and Will was the most perfect Jedi ever.

And I probably don't talk enough about Violet. She's just about the best and most cutest baby ever. Really, I mean really, you might say I'm biased, but can you argue with this?
She's just so happy. If her smile could get any bigger, I think her face would just break. Will has even grown attached to her, and gives her the sweetest kisses at bedtime. She's discovered that she can squeal (I know, in this house? Go figure) and she'll do it at the top of her little voice as she kicks her feet as hard as she can. And can she move! Last night I put her down on one side of the bed, and sat on the other edge reading something distractedly, and the next thing I knew, her little fist was hitting my back. She's not crawling exactly, but she scoots, rolls and drags herself across the room. She's a determined, loud, and stubborn girl. She's fitting right in.

My kids are Awesome

That is all.

Bus Stop Confessions

I have a confession. I hate the bus stop. Hate it.

I like the other moms enough, the kids are nice, and I like seeing Emily run around with her friends, buzzing with excitement for the school day. And it's rare these days, now that I'm working, to even be home at bus time. But I feel so awkward and apart, always. And it's more than being twenty years younger than the other parents, or not living in the right sub-development, or driving the right minivan. I go from being competent and confident in a world of politics to navigating a field of land mines where the caution signs are written in a foreign language. I don't want to seem like I'm not participating, but I can't muster the energy to participate. I feel like I should want to fit in, but I don't. I feel like Ian's afforded a certain distance being not only a dad, but a stay-at-home dad. The women joke, when I do go, that I shouldn't worry, that the baby is dressed every day, as if having been born a woman somehow makes us carriers for the baby-dressing gene. "Good God I hope so" I want to reply, but instead I laugh nervously.

I met with my former boss, a state representative, last weekend. She's a strong woman, an advocate, and a wonderful mother and grandmother. She told me that she attended a luncheon with 800 women recently. "800 women in one room, you'd think I had something in common with one of them", she told me "But I didn't, and you'll come to realize over the years that you won't either".

I took Emily to school late today, and I walked Emily to her class, smelling Elmer's Glue and sweaty kids, walking hand in hand, my heels clicking loudly in the empty hall. I might not understand this world, I might not fit in here, and I might not ever. I might have become a parent by accident, but as I watch Emily bound up the stairs to her classroom, I realize that I might not ever know what homework is due, and I'll never volunteer in her classroom, but she's okay. And I'll have to work on being okay with that too.

I get back in my car, turn on some Nine Inch Nails and speed down the freeway to another day.