Beach

You may or may not be pleased to know that I am, in fact, not dead. Yet. It makes me giggle to gross you guys out but I try my hardest to model my nicest manners whenever I can muster them up, especially now that Weston can read, so I will spare you the play-by-play of the boil-bursting episode. Let me just say, though, that cheesecake with strawberry sauce is probably ruined for me forever. Also I may be blind in one eye. It's too soon to tell.

Potentially more deadly than the giant suppurating carbuncles of doom, however, was the six day 'vacation' with Weston, Shane, my mother, my sister, her daughter and her miniature Godzilla charming twenty month old son. Seriously, I thought I would expire from exhaustion just watching my sister. She was constantly lunging after him, her face was haggard, and there were always raisins stuck to her pants. Not an especially good look, if you were wondering.

'What is wrong with this kid?' I asked myself from my comfortable vantage point as the mother of an oh-so-mature almost three year old. Until I went back and read about the times I was handily humiliated at the post office, the office party, the barbecue, the boss' house, and the sidewalk. Then I was a little bit more understanding, but I'm still pretty sure Shane never attacked a pack of other kids with a kite, or kicked them until they ran away, or pig-piled them while evilly chortling. It could be because I kept him tied up in the closet for about eight months, but I prefer to chalk it up to his inherently better nature, or perhaps to my superior parenting skills. The other kids, including Shane, were surprisingly tolerant of the tiny tyrant, and didn't once smack him back, despite what must have been a major temptation. Lucky for Teddy, he's a cute little monster.

We hit all the hot spots of the Northern Oregon Coast: the Tillamook cheese factory, Fort Clatsop and the pizza place on the corner. Okay, we went to the pizza place twice. Whatever. We went to the beach seventy zillion times and ate forty bucks worth of candy from Bruce's. On the way home we stopped overnight to visit Aunt Ina in Portland and visited the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry (OMSI).


And now we're back. The floor Lloyd did while we were gone is gorgeous; I have a vanload of wet filthy clothes; and Jennifer is probably crumpled up at home like a wrung-out rag, waiting for Monday when she gets a nanny day. And there are sure to be tons of new things at the thrift store! It's good to be home.

Sprung

So! I hope you are all having a fabulous new year. I am not a fan of resolutions, but I HAVE been trying to eat a little better and exercise more for several weeks now. The 'Osan 15' is a common phenomena here, so I am right in the thick of things. Well, let me rephrase that: I have heard rumors that perhaps I am not the only one carrying around a few extra margaritas, but I have seen no such evidence on any of my slim and statuesque friends, acquaintances or assorted Osan beauties. In any case, soon I will be in the land of Target and Goodwill and I will be ever so sad if I can't fit into the ratty cargo pants of my choice fifty-three times a week when I need to go shopping.

Tonight, Lloyd and I went to the BX and Chili's, which is the standard big night out on the town here at Osan. I sucked down my fair share of wings and a couple of margaritas, varying the position of the straw so as to cleverly avoid the tequila abrasion. When we got home, I virtuously pounded out some sit-ups, dips, push-ups, leg lifts and stretches. Don't I sound ATHLETIC? Hahahahaha, I totally have you fooled. You should see me, for real. Oh, how you would laugh. After that strenuosity, I didn't want to 'run' the stairs, so I jumped on the mini-trampoline for a while. And by 'a while', I mean about 2.5 minutes. But at least I wasn't smoking deep-fried twinkies, right? Hmmm, I wonder if anyone has tried that?

While I was jumping, Weston weighed in:

Weston: Mama, are you sure that trampoline is strong enough for you?

Me: Yes, I'm sure (pant, gasp)

Weston: Well, those springs have to work awfully hard. You're so HEAVY.

Me: It's fine.

Weston: But look how much they're moving! They go almost to the ground!

Me: Grrrrrrrrrr (pant, gasp)

Bring on the twinkies! I might as well load up; I'm going to die soon anyway. I didn't used to be so fatalistic but I recently had a VERY interesting conversation with Shane. He likes to rub my scars, scabs and rough skin with his grubby little paws. Yesterday he was trying to pick at a spot on my chin, and when I told him to stop, he replied, 'I'll pick your owies WHEN YOU'RE DEAD'. I'm not sure what he has planned but I might as well give up the jumping for the good of trampolinekind everywhere, since my days are numbered. I can see the headlines now: 'Police Baffled by Mysterious Scab Free Corpse; Trampolines Rejoice in Streets'. I just hope they don't try to pin it on the poor twinkies.

Bad

Well. Last night was a real winner, people. About twenty minutes after the boys went to bed, Shane came out saying, 'I hungwy'. So I gave him a piece of bread and sent him back to bed. Everything would have been fine, except:

Lloyd: Did you let him take that bread in there?

Me: Yeah, why?

Lloyd: What if he falls asleep with bread in his mouth?

Me: That's crazy! He's not going to fall asleep with bread in his mouth!

Lloyd: I've fallen asleep with food in my mouth lots of times.

Me: And you're not dead, right?

But, of course, because we are paranoid idiots, I had to go in and retrieve the bread. I had hoped he was asleep, but no such luck. He hadn't taken bite one of the bread, and was happily playing with it. I left, quiet reigned, and we waited a few minutes. Lloyd went in a little later and came out with the bread, now broken into pieces, and tossed it in the trash. The wailing started, and Shane came back out wanting his bread back. I gave him a new piece but that just made it worse, because the new piece was not properly broken. Right about now you might be wondering why we did not just make him go back to bed and go to sleep. This just proves you know nothing about small children. But we also live in fear that his high-pitched shrieks might wake Weston up, since they share a room. So it's 'Yessir, yessir, three bags full' and it's a small price to pay. Thank you for keeping your opinions to yourself.

You know what comes next, right? Yep, I fished the precious broken bread out of the garbage. Just then one of our more well-groomed neighbors knocked on the door, wishing to borrow an iron and ironing board. Standing there with bread crumbs and coffee grounds dripping from my hands, I had to confess the truth: We do not own an iron. There, I said it. And I'm not ashamed. Just don't tell anyone, okay? I'm not sure he believed me, but it's totally true. I can't even remember the last time we had one. And I have to say, I haven't missed it, not once. In fact, I'm thinking of getting rid of the vacuum cleaner, too.

As it turns out, Shane was unable to sleep because he was having bad dreams about the 'ghost train'. I believe this is his catchall phrase for anything scary, but I'm not entirely certain. The whole night was pretty bad. Luckily Weston was hopped up on Benadryl and didn't wake up at all. He had a huge ugly swollen upper arm from his shots a few days ago, but it seems to be improving now after a trip to the ER. Today we will be making dreamcatchers and 'No Bad Dreams Allowed' signs. Wish us luck!

Lies

We all know there's a big long list of lying liars. I could write it out but it would take all my writing time and space and you still wouldn't know what the hell I was talking about. Plus, you might think some of my liars are telling the truth and get mad and not read my blog anymore, and then I would be sad. Which is not the point of this at all. The news media is definitely always near the top of my list (I'm looking at you, Jayson Blair and the New York Times; can't you just go away? You disgust me and we can never be friends again), but astronomers, if they make the list at all, are down at the bottom with the sneaky cats and my more reliable relatives.

It's cold here in Korea; have I mentioned that? Highs in the mid-30's with winds of 10-20 mph. I wouldn't say it's bitterly cold but it's getting unpalatable for sure. We've been housebound for a week because Shane refuses to wear anything but his Jay-Jay the Jet Plane t-shirt, jeans, and Crocs. No socks, no underwear, no hat, no coat. Don't even ask about mittens. I would let him go out like that until he decides he's good and ready to put his warmer clothes on, because a cold child is a compliant one, but Lloyd won't go for it. Right now you're probably thinking that he's a much better parent than I am, but the truth is he's just worried someone will rat us out to Family Advocacy (our Air Force version of Child Protective Services) if they see Shane shivering while the rest of us are all bundled up. I would just tell them he was being punished for spilling milk on the couch, because I think that's really funny, but Lloyd says that would make it worse.

Anyway, this morning we ventured out waaaaaaay before dawn to watch the fabulous meteor shower the news has been telling us about for days. The best view would be in Asia, the astronomers said. Hundreds or thousands every hour, they said. Find a dark place with an expansive view of the sky, they advised. So out we went into the cold night. Shane had his coat on, but I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the tantrum included vomiting on the floor. We parked near the golf course, the darkest place we could find on Osan Air Base, which is lit up like Stalag 17.

And..... we saw ten meteorites in the hour that we were there. TEN. We should have gone to North Korea. It's plenty dark there. I bet they got the show of the century, but the astronomers and 'journalists' there probably told everyone that the shooting stars were coming our of Kim Jong Il's ears or some crazy shit like that. And guess what? That's no worse than the garbage our news media machine feeds us. In fact, I think I might prefer it.

Hodge Podge, plus pictures!

We had some pictures taken recently by our fabulously talented friend and neighbor, Christa. She did a great job and we were really pleased. I am not so photogenic myself, and she actually got a few nice ones of me, so hurray! Shane was in a real mood, too, and you would never know it from the pictures.

And, I am considering submitting one of my 2009 posts to a blog anthology effort, but I have no idea which one to send in. If you liked one in particular, please let me know. Don't worry, I wasn't thinking of sending in the booger one, even though it WAS especially satisfying.

Weston made me a peanut butter cookie dough sandwich for lunch, and it was every bit as delicious as it sounds. He must have been in an especially creative mood today, because he also installed weather instruments on the deck: pipe cleaners, straws, paint brushes, crayons and a coaxial cable, all stuck into the bottom of our hanging planter boxes. Now, he can determine the weather conditions: if the wind is blowing just a little, the smaller instruments like the pipe cleaners will move. If the wind is stronger, the coaxial cable will move. Believe me when I say he will be at least as accurate as any weather forecast I've ever seen around here. Take that, AFN and Yahoo! You've been outmaneuvered by a five year old boy wielding toys and art supplies. If you want some weather forecasting advice you can email me at storiesfromkorea@gmail.com; I'll see if he can pencil you in. On the other hand, if you're here from the Food Network, you might want to check back in a few years.

Ummm, chocolate!

Now, you guys might not believe this, but I cleaned the laundry room yesterday. Well, okay, 'cleaned' might be a little pretentious; what I did was shove the washer and dryer back against the wall where they belong, prop up the unbalanced washer leg with a bar of soap, move all the junk that was all over the counters and shelves into corners and cupboards, and sweep the floor.

You've probably read my occasional complaints about the laundry facilities here, but the laundry room is brightly lit and roomy, with lots of shelves for storage and a nice counter. Some of my friends use them for sewing or hobby rooms, and I even heard of a family that took all the shelves down and turned it into an extra bedroom. Let me just say right now that I have NO idea how any of that is possible: you can see a picture of the typical state of our laundry room here.

As I was sweeping up a pile of debris that you could hide a rat in, Shane came in and closely surveyed it. Then he said, 'No chocolate chips', and meandered off to simultaneously throw all the books off the bookshelf and smear peanut butter on the wall while I stood there, puzzled. Chocolate chips? Then it hit me: at some point, he must have successfully mined chocolate chips from the sweep-pile, and now considers it a food source. Ummmmm, chocolate.

True

Here are two conversations from this morning, free of any embellishment or commentary whatsoever:

Lloyd (getting shirt out of drawer): This shirt is dirty!

Me: So?

Lloyd: I can't wear this! It smells like underarms!

Me: What are you complaining about? It's a miracle any shirts even get into your dresser. You should be grateful. And if you don't want your dirty clothes and your clean clothes mixed up, you should put your dirty clothes in the laundry room, instead of on the floor where the clean clothes are.

Lloyd: I don't even know what to say to that.

Then, after Lloyd went to work in a huff, I was took a leisurely 30 second shower and came out to this:

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Weston: Shhhhhh, you're okay. Want me to kiss it?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Me (picking up Shane): He sounds like he's really hurt, Weston. What happened?

Weston: Ummmm, we were playing.

Me: I see that. How did Shane get hurt?

Weston: Welllllllll, I hit him with this ('this' is a hollow, hard plastic tube, about 18 inches long and 1 1/2 inches in diameter). On accident.

Me: Where did you hit him?

Weston: Ummmm, in the face. On accident. Twice.

Me: I see that this is too dangerous to have out; I'll have to put it away.

Weston: Why?

Shane: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

Indoctrination

The doctors here come, and then they go, in pretty rapid succession. There have been three different pediatricians here in the time we've been here. There's only one at a time, just in case you live in a regular place where you can still take your kid to the doctor if the pediatrician is sick, on vacation, in training or at a conference and don't get my drift. You know, it's the military; they move around, that's how it works. That's what I used to think, anyway. Today Weston had an appointment and I had to take Shane with us, and now I know they are just churning through the doctors until they can find one that can hang.

We have a nice little clinic: you walk in through two sets of automatic double doors, and the entryway opens up into a large common waiting room for all the clinics. There is the pediatrician, the family practice clinic, the dental office, the immunization room, a pharmacy and a couple of administrative offices. The waiting room probably holds about 50 people normally, but several hundred can fit in a pinch, like during the great New Year's Eve fire. This morning, there was a normal crowd- maybe a couple dozen people in varying states of distress. Until we arrived, of course. Then the distress level was elevated across the board.

We had to come a little early so I could fill out some forms. The boys played and chatted quietly while I filled out the forms and I felt pretty smug as our appointment time approached. As our appointment time faded into the past, I started to get a little antsy. I'm an experienced parent; I had some healthy snacks and little toys in my bag, but by ten minutes past appointment time, the sunflower seeds were flung all over the floor and the toy interest was exhausted. That's when it got ugly. Shane started running in circles around a pillar right in the center of the check-in desks. As if that wasn't bad enough, he was hollering, 'BUTTON! BUTTON! BUTTON!' in sort of a sing-songy voice. It was a toss-up as to which would be worse: let him continue, or stop him and listen to the screaming instead. I elected to stop him and sure enough, screaming ensued. It didn't last long, though. Just long enough for a loud and heated argument to brew:

Shane: I Spiderman!

Weston: But I'm Spiderman!

Shane: NO! I not Underdog! I Spiderman!

Me: You can both be Spiderman; please use your inside voices.

Both: NO!

Clerk: Does anyone mind if we move these kids to the head of the line?

All: NO!

Okay, okay, I made the last part up, but jeez, what a nightmare. Then, once we got into the doctor's office, it was even worse. The room with the elephant table was being cleaned, so we had to go into one without an elephant. CAN YOU IMAGINE? The horror! And the instruments, garbage can, sink and floor were irresistible. Finally, the doctor poked his head in, looked Weston up and down, said, 'He's fine!', threw some papers at me and slammed the door. I don't think he'll be here long.

Naive

I am very naive; maybe you didn't know that about me. I'm very suspicious of some things, such as politicians, pharmaceutical companies and military brass, to name just a few. But oddly, I am often shocked, simply shocked, by events that would probably be considered pretty ordinary by most people. Like the whole juicy bar thing. If you're not familiar with 'juicies', they are local bar girls. Patrons pay for the privilege of their time, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. If you're curious, and you know you are, they're called 'juicies' because they look for clients to buy them overpriced 'juice'. Or so I hear. I'm just not sure I believe it. Who would do that? It just doesn't make any sense! Now, we live in a military town, and every single military town all over the world has seedy establishments right out the front gate, right? And surely the world's oldest profession must be thriving. I know all these things, and yet, I am still surprised that this might actually occur.

And, here's another one: apparently two-year olds commonly have tantrums and insist upon the most ridiculous things. I KNOW! I mean, sure, I've read that in a book or two, and heard dozens scores at least twenty jillion parents say something along those lines. And, I've even had a two-year old before, so you'd think I might have been prepared for my charming curly-haired little cherub to turn into a red-faced, snarling, venom-laden (but still cute) rodent when something doesn't suit him. But NOPE, I am still surprised. Maybe if he'd eased into rodenthood, I could be a little more accepting, but it was pretty sudden. For a few days now, he's been favoring certain things: a fleece blanket, a t-shirt, this toothbrush instead of that one, nothing too hard-core. But today was one constant scream-fest. Why? Oh, let me count just a few the whys:

1. Could not eat giant spoons full of butter instead of lunch and dinner;

2. Had to wear an alternate shirt because Jay-Jay the Jet Plane shirt was in the washer (see photo above);

3. Mean mother tried to help operate drinking fountain; and

4. Hateful brother did not want to watch spider episode of Magic School Bus all day.

OH, THE AGONY! But I'm pretty sure he'll be back to normal tomorrow, right? Surely this can't go on. I mean, who would do that? It just doesn't make any sense!

Shavings

My thriftiness knows no bounds, my friends! Look what I've done now! Shane has needed a haircut for AGES, and last night I decided to take matters into my own hands, saving approximately $8. I didn't really WANT to do it; his little curls are so cute and I would have totally just let them grow until Lloyd squealed about him looking like a girl, but he doesn't always like having it combed and he gets these little matted proto-dreds. Those, too, were cute, but I was worried he might get fruit flies, and the Pig-pen look is not the greatest.

Some of you might think I'm not capable of a reasonable hair-cutting job, all because of some ridiculous, greatly exaggerated dog trimming incident that may or may not have occurred MANY years ago. For the record, she SAID I could do it; it's not my fault her dog doesn't trim well. I'm not going to let The Man keep me down anymore! If I want to cut hair, I will! Wanna come over? I'll snip you up reaaaaaalllll nice.

And all this hair cutting has another benefit: now I have a ziploc baggie full of matted dirty blond curls to add to my Christmas list. Also, one of my more brilliant readers pointed out that I also have a bunch of unused and expensive coffee filters. So, now I have dried beans, lint, fingernail clippings, hair trimmings and coffee filters. Crafty paradise awaits!

Salute

Every weeknight at 5:30, the giant speakers play the Korean national anthem, followed by 'The Star-Spangled banner'. At 5:29, people all over the base scurry indoors so they won't be forced to stand still, facing the flag for the interminable 4 minutes and 33 seconds it takes to play the songs.

When the warning horns sound, cars on the road stop, joggers halt in their tracks, and Weston and Shane run out onto the deck.

Weston takes protocol VERY seriously, and stands solemnly with his hand over his heart for both anthems. Shane is, how shall we say, a touch more cavalier about the whole thing. He points at the cars parked in the road: Taxi! Dat taxi!' He shrieks at the people stopped on the sidewalk: 'Hey, who dat? Hey! HEY!' Oh, and he usually has no pants on. At our house, everyone salutes the flag in their own way. And that's okay. God bless America, land of the free and home of the brave.

Messy

I had been planning on taking this picture of Lloyd in his mess dress for a long time. He had a ceremony to go to tonight and we have been scrounging up the bits and pieces of the uniform for WEEKS: the buttons, the cuff links, the bow tie; it's all very complicated. The clip-on bow tie, in particular, is surprisingly vexing.

And while he is very handsome in his mess dress, that is not why I wanted the picture. No, I wanted the picture because, unless something goes dreadfully awry, it is the very last time he will wear it. Ever. Never again. I took the picture because I relish every indication that our Air Force time is drawing to a close. He looks a little grumpy because he felt I was not taking the primping and polishing quite seriously enough, but he did consent to pose.

And that was going to be the end of this post. Oh, I might have gone on a bit about how I'm going to dance naked around a uniform bonfire when we get out of here, or how I'm counting down the coffee filters (187), but that was basically it. But then....

But then, as Lloyd was walking out the door in his fancy outfit, Shane fell, jumped or was pushed off the back of the couch, smashing the back of his head into one of the 45,873,912 toys laying on the floor behind it. And there was Lloyd, all dressed up with no place to go. Except the ER. And so we did, and instead of attending a fancy dinner party, Lloyd spent the evening in a dingy hospital basement and eating takeout pizza after Shane was cleared to go home and continue throwing himself around with reckless abandon.

So there you have it, the story of Lloyd's last dress-up party. Sniff. Now pass the matches.

Blame by numbers

It has been five days since I have posted. In that time, two children have had three infections, requiring two ointments and one liquid, three times daily for seven days each, as well as three cleansing baths and/or warm compresses daily. After each bath, the tub has to be rinsed with 16 squirts of Clorox. I thought of asking the doctor more about the unfamiliar things of which she spoke: 'disinfect' and 'sanitary' but she already thinks I'm a dirty hippie, so I came home and googled them instead.

All together, this has resulted in approximately 67,000 tantrums, 1,003 thrown items (three by me), 38 night wakings and zero blog posts. I was a little concerned that my blogging might suffer after I was absorbed by the collective but Facebook is innocent, this time.

Guest Post Entry 1

I have the first submissions to the guest post contest! There's still plenty of time to enter- send your entries to storiesfromkorea@gmail.com

From Anonymous:

My toddler had butter and coffee for breakfast. Am I a bad mom?

Okay, okay, that one was totally me. But here's a REAL one:

A Confession: Milk Bones

I sometimes buy milk bones and eat them. I don't even have a dog. They're not bad, either. They taste like crunchy pizza crust.

Easter Video

The Easter Bunny made a visit to the garden and deposited and enormous number of eggs, after leaving giant bunny tracks in the garden (naughty bunny!)

And here is a link to Helen's much longer and nicer video.

Stories from Saturday

Carnage

This may come as an unpleasant surprise to some of you, but the military here thinks they have some important business to attend to. Some boring blah blah blah about communists and missiles and dictators, oh my!

The military personnel (aka 'dads') have been working hard leaving early and coming home late because more blah, blah, blah. This leaves the rest of us (otherwise known as 'moms' or 'spouses') suffering from battle fatigue, sleep deprivation and/or PTSD as we pay the bills, get the kids to bed and suck down bottles of wine take out the recycling alone AGAIN.

Hangovers Motherhood Lack of sleep causes all sorts of bad decisions, poor judgment and sloppy execution. It's why Lightning McQueen got into that whole Radiator Springs debacle, why Marge Simpson didn't stop having kids after Bart, why Van Halen hired Sammy Hagar, and why my children eat off the floor, among numerous other catastrophes and questionable practices.

Today, it caused carnage in the elevator. I still don't know what actually happened. Exhausted, I was wheeling the stroller into an elevator full of people. The stroller was full of assorted toys, shoes, food, sippy cups, and an onion plant in a cup full of dirt mixed with diluted pee, and the boys were on foot. They were behaving pretty well, maybe about like halfway trained circus bears: wildly unpredictable but docile in appearance to the casual observer. I would have waited for an empty elevator but they had already run in ahead of me as soon it arrived. After successfully shoving aside six or eight innocent victims with my behemoth orange double stroller, I turned around to push the button for our floor. When I turned back, Shane was on the floor screaming.

The high-pitched shrieking and disapproving looks were, of course, nothing new to me, but the blood spurting out of his mouth was a little unexpected. I sopped it up with my shoulder, which happened to be foolishly covered up with a brand new white shirt and toted him home chanting my new mantra: 'Zin-fan-del, Zin-fan-del, Zin-fan-del'.

Before my mother freaks out, let me assure you he seems to be fine. He does have nice gash in his upper gum but it stopped bleeding pretty quickly, right after my shirt was ruined. I gave him a sea-lion sized dose of motrin and tossed him and Weston in the tub with a couple of cans of shaving cream. Right now he is sitting on the couch watching Bob the Builder with his hand down his pajama pants, so I guess all is well. For now.

Shaneanigans

Why do I have a picture of my sandals and sock clad feet on the top of my blog? Say, I'm glad you asked! I'd love to tell you. Today was another beautiful Osan day. Clear and sunny, and just a little bit windy. We decided to meet some of our lovely friends at the garden and packed up the stroller with just the necessities: Plastic bus, two inflatable balls, O ball, football, stuffed frog, stuffed cat and a bag of m&m's. I put the plastic cover on the stroller to keep the wind out and we hit the road. Since we were just going to the garden to play in the grass and dirt I wore the footwear and green sweatpants you see in the picture, along with a very bright orange but stained sweater. I topped this ensemble off with a black coat and a not-quite-neon orange backpack.

We cavorted in the slightly chilly arctic wind for a while, then Helen wisely decided she had had enough fun for one day. Janelle and I, not being so bright, decided to undertake the eleventy jillion 1/4 mile trek to the BX to play in the play place there. Unfortunately, the play area does not feature a containment system, but I am guessing that after today the management is seriously considering a very powerful electric fence. Many, many unsuspecting observers were treated to the spectacle of me in my colorful attire trucking through the BX to collect Shane each of the 87 times he exited the play area at mach 5. The return trips were slower, but accompanied by a very loud soundtrack.

Shane finally decided that perhaps the play area was not actually a primary color themed torture device, just in time for Weston to decide that he was starving and had to leave right that instant. Sadly, the m&m's had been devoured long ago and I have a standing policy against food court pizza every night, so I loaded up all the crap and put Shane in the stroller. There is no word or phrase that can adequately convey what this looked and sounded like. Picture the beautiful outfit. And the sheer volume of stuff. And the screaming. Add flailing and the dull red burning of my face and you might be able to imagine a small fraction of the experience. And that's when the situation started to deteriorate.

As I attempted to push the stroller out of the BX, Shane was screaming and yanking against the stroller straps with his body. He lifted the plastic off the stroller and repeatedly tried to lunge out. No lie, every single person we passed gaped at us in slack-jawed wonder. This was not helpful. Just a handy tip: when you pass someone like me, do not look at her or speak to her unless you have a large bottle of downers to share.

Shane was practically hysterical and I have 'SUCKER' tatooed across my chest, so I took him out and started carrying him while pushing the stroller. I had progressed about 100 yards, to the front of the library, when one of the inflatable balls flew out of the stroller and across the road, forcing a cabdriver to slam on his brakes and rendering Weston inconsolable. If it had been a smidge warmer, I would have curled up on the sidewalk and waited for someone to identify me and call Lloyd to come and get me. When it warms up I am thinking of writing his cell number on my arm with a permanent marker. Since vanishing into thin air did not appear to be one of my few options, I mom-handled Shane back into the stroller, retrieved the ball from a chortling but helpful passerby and went home, studiously avoiding eye contact and ignoring whatever detritus might have been flying off the stroller.

Home now. Not leaving again. Ever. Where were you this afternoon, ever-so-helpful ajimas? Hmmmm? And while I'm asking questions, here's one for Phil & Ted: The wind/rain and UV stroller covers are super great, thanks, but where the hell is the soundproof one? Now, THAT would be useful.