Ceiling Fans in March

This is the time of the year I scoff at the following statement:

It's a dry heat.

And the following opinion:

Summer only lasts three months.

It was 90 deprees at one point last week. I turned on the AC (that's Phoenix speak for air conditioning, folks). When I lived in Seattle and it was 90 degrees it was June. People were indignant. Yet there was still a nice, salty breeze coming in from the Bay (that's Seattle speak for Elliott Bay, their immediate connection to the Puget Sound). I get misty-eyed just thinking of it.

My goal is to complain less about the heat this summer--so I'm going to do it in the spring. My summer transformation into a pile of aimless goo makes Jamie fear for my sanity and ability to deal with minor amounts of stress. In addition, it offends the memory of his late father who, apparently, used to say, "Don't complain." Short, sweet and to the point advice.

I was thinking of all these things on Saturday around 3pm while driving home from the grocery store with Stella, "It's getting to be the time of the year where I will only leave the house between nap time and sunset if I have to go to a major event scheduled by a nincompoop who has more heat tolerance than I do."

It is true that I rarely emerge from my home between the months of April and October after I've returned from a crack-of-dawn outing to the park or something. I won't be the lady with lots of cats, I'll be the weird lady who doesn't leave her house when it's house. Hey, I already am that lady. One September I put off buying batteries for my alarm clock until November as I didn't want to make a quick stop on the way home from work.

I was justifying all my intolerance with the following logic: "I was born in Wisconsin. I have Nordic ancestry. I have people in my lineage named Knute and Rikka. I was not made for this." I lamented this fact in an email to my Uncle Terry and he shared with me a most touching joke. It made me laugh out loud (my apologies to Uncle T for reprinting his most confidential text here sans permission):

"i know people "adapt" to the heat,but still...reminds me of the old joke about the black guy talking to god about his skin,hair,running ability,ect. which god patiently explains about skills in the jungle ,then the guy asks:"then what am i doing in cleveland?"

There's more where that came from. Trust me. Terry's full of them.

Dreams Are Weird (Right?)

I've always had a capacity for really vivid, random dreams. (I know, right? No one else does. I'm so unique.) They would involve acquaintances and when I was in high school I would blurt out to someone in a class, "You were in my dream last night. It was so weird." This was a short-lived habit because if it was a boy I would be really embarrassed. I would try to explain that they were, say, working at McDonald's and I was ordering a burger from them or something equally unimportant, but I'd still get a weird look.

With the advent of Facebook I have really random dreams. Recently, a friend from high school and a Facebook friend showed up as my soccer coach. Then I had a gaggle of elementary school friends in a dream. We were having a pool party. What's even weirder is when worlds collide in my dreams. When my high school friends are hanging out with my college/Seattle friends. I am nearly incapacitated in these dreams because I don't know what to do.

However, there's one friend I have from high school that died a long time ago. So long ago we were still in high school. I manage to have a recurring dream about him where he shows up as his high school self and I'm elated to see him and shower him with hugs and tell him how much I miss him and love him and what's been happening. This is always a nice dream. It's like reconnecting with someone that it's impossible to reconnect with.

The reason these dreams are weird is that they are so real. Whenever I wake from one I really feel as if I'd spent a half hour catching up and slathering my friend with love.

The most recent installment left me a bit deflated as I was taking Matt out to lunch (he offered to pay and I looked at his debit card and informed him it had expired in 2002). We went to some mediocre Asian place and there was a distracting group of my real life/Facebook friends at another table. It was a most eclectic mix of my various "networks." They were loud and boisterous and having SO MUCH FUN!!! I was trying to talk to him and he wouldn't respond. I caught myself thinking, "I know he's dead and all, but he's being lame."

Those Facebookers totally hogged my dream.

My Fat Face

The thing about being tall and skinny most of your life is that when you lament the fatness of your pregnant face people are always retorting, "You're not fat."

Not that I frequently lament the fatness of my face. In fact it's only come up once in a conversation with someone other than my husband. And even to him I just started remarking about it.

I recently printed out some family photos to put in an album. There were some from last summer and the difference between my cheeks and my eye sockets between now and then is striking.

Then there is my fat feet and fingers which feel like they're going to burst by the end of the day. Then there is my stomach. Something one never considers before they are pregnant is just how much your stomach will grow and get so tight. I always tell Jamie to feel my stomach--my one pack--and notice how tight it is. I wonder if carrying an extra thirty pounds in the abdomen is as uncomfortable if it's just kinda limp and saggy?

Realizing that this might be my last pregnancy due to health concerns has made me thankful for a few things that I won't miss:

eight weeks of morning sickness, and therefore, eight lost weeks of life
fat face
fat hands
swollen feet
miniscule amounts of pee yet the raging need to go
hip pain
back pain
difficulty manuevering

These are the physical things that I remind myself will most likely be a thing of my past. I will be back to my normal, agile self and able to quickly chase after my naughty brood of small people.


For evidence of my fat face (notice the eye sockets):

Non-fat


Fat

Stella and Gianna: Spritely Beach Gnomes

We returned from our jaunt to the beach much refreshed and full of sand. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting in the sand and watching the girls be industrious with the slightest of materials. They would move sand from one place to the next, make "dinner," find hermit crabs and pick them up and point out starfish. Stella loved finding "bouncy things," aka anemones, and poking them until they closed themselves up and squirted water at her.



We also went to Jamie's school, Thomas Aquinas College, and saw the inside of this beautiful chapel:



I was never inside it long enough to take any photos of the inside, however, as we attended an eleven o'clock Mass. It was high time for crying and fidgeting. I didn't mind entirely, as I was able to hang out outside in the beautiful weather and watch Gianna play in the grass and find lady bugs. To Gianna all bugs are bees and when she spies one she says, "Bee! Bee, Mama! Bee! Bee, Mama!" She does not want to hold them, though. Do not even try.

Some of my favorite pics:

Stella found something noteworthy


Gianna and her little tide pool


Stella happy as a clam


Gianna's sweet little dirty feet

If You Are a Creepy Neighbor Who Wants to Steal My Stuff, Don't Read This

We're off to California for a week. Yeehaw!

Back in January Jamie got word from his alma mater, Thomas Aquinas College, that they would be dedicating a new chapel on the first Sunday of his spring break. Fortuitous! We decided to attend the celebration and stay on for a few days to make the six hour drive with children more worthwhile.

Stella has been talking about going to the beach for weeks now since we made the mistake of informing her of our plans. Gigi doesn't really know what's happening but sees all the commotion and packing and gets giddy and does innapropriate things like get ear infections and stay up all night screaming and climb/fall/tumble out of her crib. Yahoo!

Typing this out just made me realize I must pack my camera. Yipee!

(Can you tell I don't get out much?) Yowza!

But if you're a creepy neighbor or one of the many transient homeless people who lives on the fray of our neighborhood--we're here all week. Besides, you already stole a bike and my preshus bike trailer, you a-hole, so in the words of one of the storm troopers in Star Wars, "Move along, move along."

Which is Worse?

The child suffering from the ill effects of an ear infection

OR

The child wildly protesting the medicine prescribed to combat the ill effects of an ear infection?

(or the pink medicine all over your carpet and a few towels after two adults had to restrain the child so that the prescribed medicine could be partially ingested?)