Jubilations

We've been puke-free for three full days now.

The child was up and playing again as of yesterday, though with a little less enthusiasm then usual. Food is being gradually reintroduced with no upset. We even ventured out into the world today. It's nap-time now and Arabis is in the center of a pile of kitties on the day bed.

I'm trying to gauge whether or not it's safe to take her to her music class tomorrow. We've attended one and missed the following two due to illness. I doubt she's contagious. Just not sure if she's up to it or not. God, I wish the kid could talk.

Although...she did say "caper" yesterday. Heh. My little Bruno.

Thanks to everyone for your well-wishes! We survived (knock on wood, spit thrice)! Yippee!!

State of the Sickie

Arabis went right from having the cold of the century to the stomach virus from hell. And on top of that both ears are infected. We just got back from the doctor. The past 36 hours have been nothing but vomit and diarrhea. The child is a veritable Vesuvius, erupting from both ends. She's lost a pound and a half in weight.

But we have antibiotics for the ear infections and have been doing everything right according to the doctor to keep her hydrated. She's resting now, sleeping peacefully, thank the gods. There hasn't been a lot of sleep for the parental units.

I realize how lucky I am, that this is really only her second illness in 20 months of life, but that doesn't make it any easier. And I had a brief flashback of horror when the doctor said her ears were infected, to my own childhood and my own severe ear problems (resulting in my faulty hearing today). But the days of lancing ear drums are long gone.

She sleeps. I should too.

Courting the Middle Eastern Way

A few days before Christmas, we stopped at the halal market on San Pablo Avenue for supplies needed for the holiday dinner. Mojo, my mid-western goth boi, has developed a taste for Armenian cooking, and I tend to return to my roots when it's especially cold and rainy.

Leaving Mojo in the truck with Arabis and the Monkey Boi, I dashed through the rain and into the market, quickly gathering the necessities (buglar for pilaf, sharia and some paklava as a treat). As I walked toward the counter to pay for my goods, an older man entered and nodded respectfully to the cashier and the butcher, who was standing nearby.

"Happy New Year" he said in English.

"May we all have a happy new year, insh'allah," came the reply.

They proceeded to talk in a mixture of Arabic and English and I caught the word "basterma."

"Do you have basterma?" I interrupted excitedly.

The reply was an enthusiastic affirmative, and the butcher led me into the back of the store, chatting as we walked. He asked me where I was from and I told him I was Armenian. "Then we are cousins," he replied.

Basterma is a marinated and highly spiced meat product, the end result being somewhat akin to beef jerky...only this stuff is lethal to the uninitiated. Mojo, for some bizarre reason, loves it. One of the few odars (non-Armenians) I've ever met who can stomach it.

He showed me where it was kept and began selected a good package for me.

"No, no...not today," I hurriedly told him. "I don't have enough money today. But now I know you have it for next time."

"Not to worry. You don't need money. *I* will buy you the basterma!"

I quickly objected and he insisted that money was no object and the basterma would be a gift from him and that anytime I wanted basterma or soujuk (a spicy sausage) I should come and see him.

"So," he began, "are you married?"

"Yes," I quickly replied. "He is in the car with the children." (NOTE: This is not true. Mojo and I are not married...but marriage is the only concept which carries any weight in this context.)

"Ah. Then, my beautiful cousin, you must buy your own basterma!"

I walked back to the car in the rain laughing happily.

Snotty Nosed Kid

Arabis has THE cold. You know the one? The one everyone is getting/has gotten/or is just getting over? Yeah. That one. The same one that I had and got over. That Mojo had...and got over. That I got again...because sharing is caring. And then he got one more time...can you feel the love?

This is the second time she's ever been sick. In her life. She's almost 20 months old but has been healthy as a little horse. Her first illness was the day before her first birthday. If the kid can't handle turning one, I'd hate to see what happens at her fortieth!

But now? Oh, my goodness! It's Sarah Bernhardt shrunk down to 35 inches tall. She's miserable. And must share. The child is living in a viscous environment. She wants nothing than to lay on Papa and moan. Unfortunately, Papa went to work today. I am currently the second (and non-preferred) choice of cuddle buddy. I don't make it all better like Papa does. (Trying not be bitter. Do I sound bitter? I have a "Daddy's Girl.")

So, to cheer everyone up, and then back to bed, I give you just about my favorite Sesame Street guest appearance ever (...well...the one with Robert DeNiro and Elmo is pretty good too).

"C'mon Monsters! You don't have to cry. We can be happy! Yeah!!"

The Year in Review

I've grown awfully fond of Boogiemum. So much so that I broke my self-imposed cardinal rule and posted a meme in her honor.

And I adore Wannabe Hippie. She did a meme too. So here I am...hopping on the lemming train.

Only it'll be a little truncated since this blog has been in existence for less than a year. The idea is that you post the first sentence from the first post of each month. Click on the month link to read the full entry.

May: I will post in this forum at some point.

June: Bit is obsessed with her own reflection.

July: Post coming soon with lots of photos.

August: We got one of our windows shot out yesterday.

September: I know I've not done a proper update in quite a while, but things have been proceeding at a whirlwind pace and to be perfectly honest, I know of no way to comfortably share with the world the poo-flinging currently going on in my personal monkey hut.

October: On Sunday, Arabis, Mojo and I met my friend Lisa, her husband Evan and their fabulous son Blue for an afternoon of fun at Children's Fairyland in Oakland.

November: Okay.

December: I feel the need to shout out to the world that I live still.

Not terribly exciting, is it? But it is a good reminder that a catchy opening line will do wonders.

Monkey Boi returns to Ohio tomorrow and then things will settle back to normal and I can regale you with holiday photos and tales of joy and mirth...or mayhem and murder. No debauchery. It wasn't that kind of Christmas, not with the two kids around. But we survived, despite my innate dislike of this time of year and the surly countenance that accompanies it.

I do hope everyone had a lovely and safe New Year's and that this upcoming year brings much joy and peace to all of us. This new year is one of transformation, and I am not sorry in any way to see the ass end of 2006 out the door.

Oh, It's a Jolly Holiday

Monkey Boi is in da house. And suddenly Mojo dawns his mantle of Papa-dom. It is an interesting twist on being a parent and I love to see it in action.

Monkey is a typical about-to-turn-13-in-three-weeks boy and has the selective hearing that seems to come with the age. That and the fear of showering. He is fond of stewing in his own musky scent and will do so as long as he can get away with it.

My self-appointed task during the summer was to have him showered and washed every day, along with teeth, and I am proud to say I was rather successful. Of course, he still needed to be reminded numerous times ("Turn on the water, get in the shower, use soap...") on a daily basis before the event actually took place.

As a parent, one can shout "Get in the shower" until one is blue in the face...to no avail. Mojo has a finesse to which I can only hope to aspire. To whit:

"I'm a good natured fellow, a happy-go-lucky scamp. One might even go so far as to describe me as 'jolly.' But if you don't get into the shower right now, I'm going to strangle you with your own large intestines."

Works every time.

God, I adore that man!

Still Here...

...just sick with the norovirus-y thing. Been doubled up in the bathroom or curled under two down comforters in the living room all day. I had to call Mojo to come home when he was barely half way to work, it came on so suddenly.

It was a horrific comedy of errors: my being violently ill in the bathroom and trying to occupy the kidlet and keep her safe and from getting all into my sickness. I had to jump in the shower to clean off and she just climbed right in after me, wearing all her clothes and her cool new ladybug galoshes.

My mom came tonight so Mojo could go to do the radio show, thank the gods. She made dinner, fed and bathed Arabis, tidied the toys littering the living room and rocked the girl to sleep. Me? I just laid on the day bed and moaned. Pathetic!

Mojo was not pleased about having to come home today. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow, with him at work, Mom at work and me barely able to move and completely unable to eat. One minute at a time, I guess.

To top it off, Mojo's son, Monkey Boi, is flying in from Ohio on Wednesday night and the house looks like some terrifying space monkeys maybe got loose.

Pleh.

In Which Our Author Crumbles

At last. I have been desperate to write all week and the time to do it has eluded me. Arabis has hit a new high in teething misery and hasn't been sleeping at night. Therefore, neither have I. She's been napping during the day, thank the gods, and though that is an opportune time to write I find myself joining her in the land of dreamy dreams instead.

So now I sit here and stare at the screen with my lids getting heavier and heavier. It's cold and rainy. Has been all week. I've got bread dough attempting to rise in the kitchen and I am praying it will do so though I am beginning to have my doubts. It's too damn chilly in this loft.

I have stopped counting the deaths that have occurred this year. I can't keep track. On Friday I learned of the death of another close friend by drowning. His name was Jorge and I worked with him for many years teaching sea kayaking. He was killed in a kayaking accident in Mexico and his body was never recovered.

Learning of Jorge's death stripped me of any last vestige of "strength in the face of adversity" that I had left. I broke down over the weekend. Called my director at the Dickens Fair on Saturday morning and said I would be unable to make it this weekend (something I have never, ever done {i.e.: not honor a theatrical commitment}). I spent the weekend with my little warped family, cuddling with Arabis and Mojo, watching telly, eating soup, regaling Mojo with stories of kayaking exploits we (Jorge and I) had shared and crying. But it was what I needed. The world had suddenly become sharp and painful and I needed to retreat to a place of greater safety.

Come Monday morning I felt almost human again.

And the irony of this all? All week I have been frantically searching the time to sit and pour my little dark soul out into the ether. So here I am, having achieved my goal of the time to write, and all the words that I had been forming in my head are gone. All the witty stories and pithy sayings I have been mentally composing to get me through the lack of sleep and frustration of being unable to provide long-term relief to my miserable toddler: gone. I have nothing left.

I guess sleep it is for me.

Another Rule Bites the Dust

I've long held an unspoken rule that this space would be meme free, however with the approach of the holidays I felt an exception could be made for this sweet little piece of self-aggrandizement. From the ever-charming Boogiemum.


1. Eggnog or hot chocolate?

Eggnog, please.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree?

Presents wrapped by me. Santa doesn't do squat. I mainly bake for everyone anyway. This year this a lot of knitting being done as well.

3. Colored lights or white?

None for a long time. I like strings of one coloured light, though. May do something this year.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

Never. I have a cat of very little brain who will eat anything green.

5. When do you put your decorations up?

Haven't decorated for years. That's going to have to change now that I have spawned. The Evil Dwarf will be expecting it.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish?

Lamb. (We're Armenian. It's what we do. Although we did upset my grandmother in years past by teasing her about eating the lamb of god at Christmas {the lord is very tasty with pilaf}. She was not amused.)

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child?

Lying on my back under the baby grand piano at my grandmother's house while my mother played Chopin. Also going down to Union Square, San Francisco, with my grandmother to look at the holiday windows in all the big department stores. We'd do that every year.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

Santa was never a big deal. I think I always knew. There was a different one at Emporium every year we went to have photos taken, so that was a dead giveaway.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

We open all our presents on Christmas Eve. And then have a second Christmas gathering (sans gifts) on Armenian Orthodox Christmas (6 January)

10. How do you decorate your Christmas Tree?

I haven't had a tree in years. It's the cats, see. Again, we'll have to change this soon, what with the Sprog and all.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?

Love it.

12. Can you ice skate?

Yep.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift as a kid?

A six foot tall, styrofoam, assemble-it-yourself tyrannosaurus rex skeleton from my Uncle Ben. I *LOVED* that thing. Eventually the pieces disintegrated.

14. What’s the most important thing about the holidays for you?

Family. It was really horrid for a while there, but as time passes and people as well, it's getting nice again.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?

Bourma, khadayiff and kurabia (Armenian, remember?) . Also, my mother's peach pie rocks!

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

Dickens Fair.

17. What tops your tree?

No tree.

18. Which do you prefer: giving or receiving?

Giving.

19. What is your favorite Christmas Song?

Carol of the Bells. Followed closely by The Holly and the Ivy and The Wassail Song (I love the pagan symbolism and origins of these carols).

20. Candy canes?

Okay.

Quick Update

I feel the need to shout out to the world that I live still. I breathe. I eat. I sleep (albeit not nearly enough as I'd like). I had the intent on the first of December to keep up the discipline of daily posting that NaBloPoMoFo gave me, but that quickly fell by the wayside due to lack of practicality and content. There are definitely enough subjects and thoughts carousing in my brainmeats to make for interesting writing (and I hope reading) on a daily basis, but the truth of the matter is that the time to really sit and explore them is severely limited. The best time is when the Teething Terror of Toddler-Town naps, but I have been so exhausted that I have taken to napping with her. At night I have been so tired after the evening tasks of dinner, dishes and bathing the above mentioned Terror, that sitting at the computer is the last thing I want to do.

But after a discussion with Mojo last night (which I will delve into in greater detail on a later post) I have reaffirmed the need to be committed to writing. And this journal is a good practice for me. A place to show up on a daily basis and just write. If it's important, and it is, I need to make the time for it in my life. I'm not sure how this is going to work, or when or what it will even look like. But it's necessary for me to get serious about writing again. As necessary as breath.

Day Thirty

I am sacrificing my computer time and the brilliant farewell NaBloPoMoFo post that I have been composing in order to allow Mojo to finish his NaNoWriMo.

Because he got a paid writing gig after he committed to doing NaNoWriMo, he let it slide. Now that the paid assignments have been completed, he has decided to finish his novel. The boy wrote 32,000 words in the last 24 hours. He has a little over 7,000 words left.

I think I hate him.

A Public Service Announcement

Today's half-written post (in draft form) is being preempted to bring you the following message:

We are sick. Or getting sick. Or just getting over being sick. Three people. Three states of being. All of them crappy. Or pukey. Or just feeling "blah."

We now return you to your regularly scheduled internet surfing.

Eight Random Facts About Me

1. I was born in San Francisco at St. Francis Hospital on the feast day of (you guessed it) St. Francis.
2. I have never owned a lava lamp.
3. I am a published poet.
4. English is not my first language.
5. I love roller coasters but am deathly afraid of ferris wheels.
6. I have a clavicle rib. I am a throwback to when humans were aquatic.
7. I can wiggle my ears.
8. I am afraid of fire...which is one reason I became a fire performer.

Challenging Day in the Life of a Teething Toddler

We did not go quietly about our day. The child is hell bent on destruction. She is fine, but she is not happy.

She only napped an hour today.

She is not eating. She refused lunch and fought getting into her highchair. I finally gave up and took to slipping her bits of food during the day when she wasn't paying attention, then making sure she actually ate them and didn't stash them anywhere.

She has taken two tumbles, one bad(ish) one not so much. She is still trying to climb despite the aforementioned tumbles. She has taken to emptying shelves of books and using them to construct ladders with which to climb on things hitherto unavailable due to their height.

We're really not very happy today.

My mother even wanted to take us out to sushi for dinner tonight and I said no. Mojo was shocked when I told him. Just the thought of trying to wrangle her in public in this state was too much for me. Plus, mom wanted to go to Costco and pick up our new cards and I just couldn't see the double excursion ending well.

Instead my mother came over for her regularly scheduled Monday night dinner with the granddaughter (a standing date since Mojo has his radio show on Monday nights). She brought me some staples from Haig's in San Francisco (buglar, mahleb, gorgod [barley], lokum, lavash hatz) and we had a nice and simple dinner of steak, mushrooms in butter and asparagus. I had made the pilaf prior to her arrival so it was perfect when she got here.

I managed to manhandle (literally) Arabis into her highchair and she actually ate a couple stalks of asparagus (which she adores) and a healthy dose of pilaf (my blonde, blue-eyed Armenian daughter!).

Got her happily scrubbed and clean in the tub without getting drenched myself and she slipped off peacefully to sleep about 20 minutes ago.

I will be delirious with pleasure once these teeth come in. She is having such a rough time and is obviously in pain. I do everything I can (Tylenol, cold things, etc. [Hylands doesn't work for us]) but it is still the most horrible thing to watch your child suffer and be able to offer only so much relief.

I am going to sign off the computer and read a two month old New Yorker. These days that comes perilously close to the height of decadence for me. Isn't that pathetic?

Pleh

I'm beyond tired, beyond spent, beyond knackered even. I am what my friends back in England would say: utterly shattered.

My internal censor just punched out once she found out I couldn't afford overtime, so here I sit, brain (such as it is) to fingers to keypad to screen and out into the ether. Maybe some of the invisible people that live in my computer will leave me comments. I like comments.

See? I've lost it. I'm exhausted. Three days spent walking more miles than I care to imagine on concrete in Victorian-inspired boots; projecting past hundreds of customers, booths, parades, other actors; on my feet with my brain engaged and going at 110% for nine hours a day for three days running. And all done wearing a corset and a Yarmouth accent. Well, there were clothes on over the corset. Obviously.

Today was the day of melt-downs. Of sick children (our young David Copperfield was feeling poorly), people with short fuses and actors with failing voices and aching feet. This third day of the three day opening weekend is always hard, but from a customer and theatrical standpoint came off without a hitch. Personally, I'm barely alive and glad to be back to my poor teething toddler and messy home.

I spent the last few days on my perambulations looking for a friend who I've known for 20 years and is one of the best stage managers I've ever worked with. I finally found him today, not doing his usual job. He hugged me and took off his hat, to show me his bald head with whisps of hair. My smile faded slowly as I realized this was not a fashion choice.

"I have lung cancer. This is from the radiation and chemo," he told me.

I was shocked. His spirit is strong and he says he is doing really well. But I came home tonight and melted into Mojo's arms and cried the tears I could not shed in front of my friend. My friend, who has managed more stages that I have either danced or acted on than I can begin to count; who shares my birthday (though he is ten years older); who has always provided me a place of safety to retreat to in the crazed world of the theatre and the insane world in general; the friend who many years ago wanted to be something more and I kept him at bay; the friend who remained a constant and true friend.

I can't write anymore or make heads or tails of the world right now.

Almost Forgot!

I'm almost through the entire of month of NaBloPoMo without missing a post and just now was about to slip into the land of dreamy dreams when I awoke with a start. I'd forgotten to write! I'd of kicked myself if I'd drifted off and missed a day so close to the end.

I'm tired. Beyond tired. The Dickens Fair is off to a rousing start. We opened on Friday, so for the last few days I have been on my feet from 10:30 in the morning to almost 7:00 at night. I'm exhausted and sore yet having a lovely time. And we have one more day of this weekend to go.

I've forced myself to slow down today and pace myself a bit more, not take that extra street improv gig, be sure to go into the green room to rest, warm up my voice and get plenty of liquids as well as get some down time between scheduled bits and the more spontaneous theatrics that also happen.

I'm staring at the words on the blank screen before me and they begin to swim. They look like ants, indistinctly scurrying on away on some important errand. I think this is a hint that I am in no shape to write. The exhaustion is complete.

Be in suspense for a few days more. Hopefully on Monday (or at the latest Tuesday) I will be in better shape to write and explain more about what I am doing and my own history with the institution known as the Great Dickens Christmas Fair and Pickwick Comic Annual.

Here's Where I'll Be Every Weekend 'Til Christmas

THE GREAT DICKENS CHRISTMAS FAIR!
FIVE WEEKENDS
including the FRIDAY after Thanksgiving,
and the SATURDAY before Christmas!
Fri. Nov. 24 through
Sat. Dec. 23, 2006
In San Francisco's Cow Palace Exhibition Halls
Celebrate the Holiday Season in Victorian London!

The bustling streets of London, immortalized for all time by the mighty pen of Charles Dickens, form the living backdrop of your excursion into Christmas Past. You are a living part of a Victorian Christmas card come to life!

A Bay Area tradition for 27 holiday seasons, the Great Dickens Christmas Fair returns to the San Francisco Cow Palace Exhibition Halls for five weekends , including the Friday after Thanksgiving and the Saturday before Christmas in 2006, from Friday, November 24 through Saturday, December 23, from 11am 'til 7pm.

Created in 1970 by Ron & Phyllis Patterson, the fair is now produced by Kevin & Leslie Patterson and Red Barn Productions, who continue the family tradition of theatrical excellence through authenticity, participation, and playfulness.

Come wander the lanes of Victorian London, as the glow of twilight settles upon the city. With the scent of pine boughs and freshly baked scones floating in the air and the sound of carolers and holiday merrymakers accompanying your stroll...

• Visit shops bedecked withChristmastime finery and filled with unique treasures.
• Stop in for a hot toddy or a pint of Boddington's at Mad Sal's Dockside Ale House, where the low-life hang out and the high-born drop in.
• Raise a champagne toast to the holidays at Fezziwig's Warehouse, the most cheerful spot in London.
• Enjoy rollicking entertainments on four stages and in the streets.
• Feast on fine foods from the British Empire and beyond.
• Rest a spell in Cuthbert's Tea House, for a sip of hot tea and cucumber sandwiches or scones.

A holiday adventure into Victorian London, celebrating with hundreds of costumed players in 90,000+ square feet of theatrically-lit music halls, pubs, dance parties and Christmas shops on winding lanes. It'’s a twilight evening in Charles Dickens'’ London Town: a city filled with lively and colorful characters from both literature and history. Enticing aromas of roasted chestnuts and hearty foods fill the air. Cries of street vendors hawking their wares ring out above the bustling crowd. Dozens of lamplit shops are filled to overflowing with Christmas presents.

Experience the joys of Christmas past at the Great Dickens Christmas Fair!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Baby Shiva, Mini-Goddess of Destruction

Thanks to all you mamas out there for the teething advice. There is always the worry that she is actually physically sick instead and I am pleased to announce she is not. On a psychological level...well...let's just say that her behavior of late would send any psychiatrist in their right mind running for the straight-jacket.

The teeth. The gleaming ivory fangs that will one day completely adorn my toddler's gaping maw, truly rendering her the most horrific beast in the World Monster Almanac, have still not made their appearance. I can see the canines hovering just below the surface and judge by her behavior (sticking her fingers far back in her mouth, rubbing and then crying) that her second-year molars are coming in six months early.

I. CAN'T. TAKE. MUCH. MORE. OF. THIS.

Last night, at 11:30 PM, Arabis wakens with a start and begins to scream. And scream. Did I mention the screaming? Raving shrieks of unholy infant terror that could not be calmed. She wants Papa. Okay, that's good. Then, the breathing becomes more rapid, the face reddens, the mouth opens, sound bursting forth unremitting. Not Papa? How about Mama? Yes. That's the ticket. We want the mama...or DO WE?

Back and forth for half an hour. Is it the diaper? Change the diaper. Contrary to the sounds being emitted from my baby's mouth, this did not involve in any way, shape or form hot pokers.
Okay. Diaper is changed. Is she hungry? Get the bottle. Obviously the bottle is filled with acid of vitriol, or so her howls would have us believe.

Is is the teeth? It must be the teeth. Where's the Baby Orajel? Okay, can we get it in her mouth? How is she managing to yell without opening her mouth? Do we have pliers around here anywhere? Get the Baby Tylenol in at the same time.

Phew. Baby Orajel rubbed on the gums. Mama got a little in her mouth too, that's why we're both drooling. The screams have abated and we are left with a red-faced, watery eyed and runny nosed being who vaguely resembles our daughter.

Papa puts a saved version of Bear in the Big Blue House on the telly, then calmly announces that he is going to bed. Good night.

The sound you now hear is me, breathing heavily through my teeth like Darth Vader, plotting Papa's demise.

She was up until 2:00 AM. I don't know how we finally managed to fall asleep. I remember there was much singing in Armenian (one of the few things that almost always works to send her to sleep). But I am so sick I sound like a cross between Carol Channing and Bea Arthur. And whenever I say a word with a deep throaty guttural sound I end up hacking like a three-pack-a-day smoker. And where was Mojo? If we are very quiet we can hear the gentle snores wafting down from the loft. He is upstairs. ASLEEP.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

This morning? She goes back and forth. The cursed fangs are right there, so close to the surface I can *see* them, but they stubbornly refuse to emerge. Does the damned thing want a marching band, because that can be arranged. I have not dressed. Nor brushed my teeth nor put in my contacts. My hair is still in its braid from last night, much of it now come loose around my face like a Halloween fright wig. Mojo actually had the testicular fortitude to *LAUGH* at me this morning. There is a special circle of hell for him. Unfortunately he is such a sweetheart most of the time, he really doesn't deserve it. Plus he's working this extra contract writing job so we'll have a nice holiday when his son comes out in December, so I can't be hard on him at all.
Oh, and my fever's back. Can you tell? Am I delirious? I *hate* being sick. I am a horrible patient. I revert to being a petulant eight year old.

They say Shiva is the goddess of destruction and renewal. The destruction is self-evident. The renewal I will gladly accept in the form of her learning that the toys go *in* the box when we are done playing not *out* faster than mama can shovel them in.

Brevity is the Soul of Wit? Really?

Another truncated post. I'm tired and fighting a bug. The kid is cutting four canines and appears to be working on her second-year molars six months early. I only just managed to get her to sleep and I am quick to follow.

NaBloPoMoFo is kicking my butt right now.