Take lemons, make lemonade. Suck it, lemons!

So many of you know that our second car is still in Altus, Okla., which is where we left it on our way to Santa Fe a few weeks ago. Jerry was supposed to go pick it up this past weekend with a buddy of his, but it wasn't ready yet. That same buddy can't go this weekend, so we thought we'd pile the kids into the car and drive out on Friday.

I was kind of dreading the trip, but now I'm psyched about it. Why? Well, we've booked a suite at the Holiday Inn there that has an indoor pool, so we'll be staying two nights now, using all of Saturday to explore (after we pick up the car). OK, so it's only Altus, and it's kind of a nowhere town. But nearby is the Quartz Mountain Nature Park, and that place is actually supposed to be kind of pretty. If you click on the link, it shows you a 360-degree view, and well, hell, it's nicer than Dallas, TX in January. So we'll be packing the swimsuits, baby hiker and making a day of it.

Hopefully I'll have some pictures.

Then, Monday, it's off to DC for me. Altus, Oklahoma. Washington, DC. What a globe-trotter I am.

Let's see, do I still know how to work this thing?

Ugh. It feels like I never get time to post here anymore. Future Hunter, when you're reading this honey, know that it's not that I didn't write or post as often because I cared for you any less. You are seriously such a great kid who could inspire so many wonderful posts, if only mama had the time. Whatever year it is you read this, kiddo, look at me ... see those lines and dark circles and that huge display of textbook haggard written all over Mom's face? Yeah? It's even worse now. And remember, hon, Mama was the 3rd child, so she knows all about getting the shaft. There's like 1,847 photos of your Aunt Tara as a child, 348 of your Uncle Jay, and about six of me.

Anyway, a quick post. In the last week, Hunter has learned to say "Mama," learned to give high fives, clap and ... drum roll please ... pull himself up and cruise around the room. He'll be walking in no time. Oh, and he's gained 14 lbs. OK, that last one is an exaggeration, but it feels like it. In fact, I have decided I've GOT to get a 4-door car because Linebacker McEats-Constantly and Wiggles McCant-Sitstill are just too hard to get in and out of my little two-door.

Speaking of Wiggles, err ... Wilder, he is quintessentially 3. I walk around all day going "Wilder, can you pick that up?" Repeat aforementioned phrase somewhere between three and 12 times, and you see what I'm getting at. Are all 3-year-old boys like this? He is literally in his own head about 90 percent of the time, but let me slip an eff-bomb just once I tell you. I kid, I kid. I don't swear in front of my kids (hardly ever).

Well, it's after 9 p.m. My pillow is begging me to come drool on it for a bit. Hugs, k.


Hunter in his crib right after he pulled himself for the first time. So pleased. So proud of himself.


Wilder comes in to congratulate his brother. Have I mentioned how much this kid LOVES his little bro? Man, he cannot get enough of him. It's pretty great, but honestly sometimes Hunter looks at me with an expression that says: "Seriously, what's a baby gotta do to get a little space around here?"


And Betty, just because she's neglected too often. But look how cute she is! And that stuffing on the floor behind her? A toy! She ripped to shreds! Because I don't have enough messes to clean up!!! (NOTE: sarcastic use of exclamation points ... but honestly, I adore this dog. She's the best.)

Wilderism No. 1,597

Said at breakfast the other morning: "Mama, little boys need ketchup."

I've also been meaning to note for some time that I taught him how to play Slug Bug(minus the slug, of course ... that'll come later when I can teach him there's a time for a little punch but mostly a time for never punching). Anyway, it's kind of funny that we don't slug each other, because he says SNUG bug, as in "SNUG BUG BLUE MAMAAAAAAAA!"

And now a few photos from our recent -- and Hunter's first -- trip to the zoo:

Christmas Eve & Christmas 2008

Santa Fe scenes

The epic bad road trip

I guess if a road trip starts off with your car engine crapping out on you in the middle of Nowhere, Texas, and ends with a shot in the ass cheek of your choosing, there's not a lot of need to fill in the details of what went wrong in between. And, truth be told, those were the two big craptacular bookends to a trip that -- had I known now what I didn't know as we excitedly piled into the car last Friday morning -- I would have run kicking and screaming from.

Jerry thinks this whole trip might have been a good thing. It's good to get out of our comfort zone, he says. And indeed, this is one of the things that makes me love him: his incessantly optimistic, Pollyanna-esque attitude toward life. Most of the time these days, I can keep pace with him on this stuff. Even Saturday morning, as we rolled out of our Amarillo hotel in our rental car (courtesy of the nice folks at Putnam Toyota in Altus, OK), with a mere four-hour drive between us and Santa Fe, I thought: "Yes, he's right. This is good. Shakes us up. Gets us back to the basics." But at that point, I'd had a mere three nights of bad sleep. By the time we got home, that had doubled. And, let's face it, when you don't get more than three hours of consecutive sleep for six nights, there's this slight tendency to not only not be very sunshiny in your attitude toward life, but in fact to want to curl up into a small fetal ball and cry and pout and pummel a soft object.

Which is pretty much how I felt on our descent into Dallas late Tuesday night. We'd been in the car for more than 12 hours due to a HUGE snowfall in Santa Fe the previous night. We barely made it out of the New Mexico driveway, and our neighbor, though he did not know us, shook his head in disbelief that we were even attempting to leave with two small kids in the car. We didn't have much choice. Not only were we not booked into that place another night, but my psyche was bound and determined that we would all sleep -- sleep real sleep -- in our own glorious beds that night, come hell or high water. Or, in our case, jack-knifed trucks, icy roads, idiot drivers in PT Cruisers, and god-foresaken pain-to-beat-all-pain ear aches.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Suffice to say the trip took a little longer than expected, and we were probably lucky to make it at all. We were on I-25 North for a bit when I-25 South was shut down completely. The boys were wonderful on the drive, and a baby-changing station near the New Mexico-Texas state line that didn't make me fear for Hunter's immune system had me thinking that maybe our luck had changed. Yes, it took something so simple as a place to change the baby that didn't look as if it might harbor Black Death germs to make things look a bit better.

Boy, was I wrong.

I had been sick since the previous week (and, truth be told, this probably accounted for more than its fair share of my bad attitude about this voyage). It's one of those cruds that's very hard to shake. Just when the head cold was starting to clear up, a sore throat would set in. Etc. About two hours outside of Dallas, I'd noticed my ears were starting to clog. I thought maybe it was the altitude and weather changes we'd experienced that day. But a little clogging quickly led to pain and, by the time we pulled up to our front lawn, I was white knuckling the dash, rocking in my seat. I had a breakdown outside of Dallas and Jerry just rubbed my head while I silently sobbed, partly from the pain but, honestly, more from the just horrible experience this trip had become, and that one additional bit of nastiness had been heaped upon my head. I was feeling epicly sorry for myself.

So we pulled up, I ran inside, peed, grabbed my keys and jumped in the car to the hospital. There was no way I was going to endure a seventh night of no sleep. I just couldn't. Well, that and the pain wasn't tolerable. I like to think I'm a pretty tough chick, but that pain was more than I could take.

So luckily, I only had about an hour wait in the ER. The doctor quickly saw me, looked in my right ear and summed it up: "Yep, that's pretty bad." He talked about numbing drops, a shot of antibiotics and pain relievers. I nodded, and nodded and nodded, thinking silently: "Yes, oh dear god in heaven YES! Drugs! Now!! Stat!!"

And then he asked if he could talk to me about something non-medical condition related. So, for five minutes -- five minutes of me thinking "What in the hell is going on here?" and physically restraining myself from jumping on this medical professional's head and dragging him to the meds station -- he talked to me about some group of critical thinkers he was forming, to talk about such things as global warming, climate change, etc. etc. I guess he thought I might be interested, although I have ZERO idea what could have given him the impression I could be an intelligent critical thinker. I hadn't slept in a week, my hair was greasy and I was covered in the general crustiness that goes along with being a mother of two small boys. I'm surprised he thought I had a home other than a cardboard box, much less gave some credence to my brain. Anyway, eventually I muttered something about how I'd pass him name and number along to my much-smarter husband, and then some very nice lady came in with a shot of antibiotics and numbing drops. The only thing she wanted to talk to me about was which side of my ass I wanted the shot in.

I chose my right side, and afterward I wondered how I came to that decision.

Now, before I go giving the impression that this trip was without its merits, let me say this: We had a wonderful time with our friends Jeff (who turned 40 while in Santa Fe) and Ginger and their son, Micah. Our friends Julie and Jim rolled in from Denver and it is ALWAYS good to see them. And we got to know Jeff's brother's family, and not only are they awesome, but Glenn and Emily's twin daughters, Cecily and Corrina (and I'm sure I'm spelling those wrong) are my babysitters of choice if we ever move back to Colorado. Those girls are the kind of girls that, if I had daughters, I would want them to be. I also had, courtesy of my amazing husband, a chance to visit the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum, and that is always a soul-healer for me. I adore her. She makes sense to me. And I love her art.

So ... there you have it. Not much else to add. Our car is still in Altus, OK. We have no idea what we're going to do about that. We'll probably have to go down there to pick it up. Another road trip. Oh, joy.

I have some great photos from this trip, despite the details. I will post those separately, so as not to taint the general feeling of fun they represent (you'll note I'm not in any of them). Those and Christmas Eve and Christmas photos to come over the weekend.

Merry Xmas to all. Love, k.

From the "Words You Never Thought You'd Utter" files

"Wilder, get your hand off the dog's butt."
(And yes, I mean THAT part of the butt. Eww.)

And the award for best whine job in front of the mirror goes to ...

I might be too tired to do this post justice, but I really want to write it. So we'll see ...

Wilder has something of a dramatic side in him. He's been known to sit in front of the mirror when crying, looking at his face from all sides to, I guess, see which looks the most authentically crushed. Presumably he does this because he's both impressed by his own theatrics, and because he's plotting which of the teary-eyed expressions in his general grab-bag of sadness he'll use to manipulate me the next time I deny him a piece of candy or say no when he suggests we mainline sugar into his veins for breakfast. 

This morning, he involved me in this little game. I'd called him into our bathroom vanity area to brush his teeth, which he half-heartedly didn't want to do. I say half-heartedly because, as soon as he saw that big 'ol mirror with that sort of torqued off little tow-headed boy looking back at him, he decided to really turn on the waterworks. He buried his head against my stomach and began the usual routine of having his little come-apart. 

"Are we trying out a new crying jag?" I asked.

"YES," he pouted.

"How's slumping against my belly working out for you? Do you think it lends authenticity to your plight?"

He narrowed his eyes and gave me a crusty eyeballed look. 

"No, seriously, why don't I cup your head with my hand? It might help even more ... oh wait, that's blocking your face, and we can't do that, can we? It totally takes away from your performance, doesn't it?"

Pause. Further narrowing of eyes ..."Yes." Very small, distrusting voice. Small whimper.

"Kid, that was an Oscar-worthy performance. Congratulations ... Shall we brush your teeth now?" 

Wilder hearts Hunter

Rarely do I get a chance to post here these days, much less twice in one morning, but I'm off work today, sick, and I can't lay face down in a puddle of my own drool ALL day. So a brief respite from rest for this:

It happened over Thanksgiving weekend, but Wilder and Hunter have embarked on a new phase of their brotherhood. I think I'll coin it the "Hey, I had no idea you were so FUN" phase. Sometime on Thursday or Friday night of last week, Jerry and I blended into the background while the two boys played an interminable game of peek-a-boo that had them both laughing and wrestling and generally forgetting they had parents for quite some time.

And I have to say, it was pretty damn cool.

When we found out Hunter was going to be another son for us, I suddenly had all these visions of the things my boys would do together: play catch, hunt for rocks and lizards, wrestle, climb trees, swim in lakes and dunk each other, have races. And, probably occasionally, yes, beat the hell out of each other. In other words, I envisioned them as brothers, yes, but also friends, playmates. Co-conspirators. Adventurers-in-arms.

And this past weekend I got a little glimpse into our future. The thing I saw is this: They ADORE each other. It was like a light suddenly went on, particularly for Wilder, and he saw the potential that this ever-growing little flesh monkey poses for him. Someone who, given a few months, will always play cars with him.

I can't really adequately express how happy this makes me. I'm not sure they'll have a ton in common; it's still too early to tell that, of course. But, for now, they make each other giggle and, more often than not, just when I'm about to tell Wilder to leave his brother alone, stop jostling him or squashing him or rubbing his head so vehemently, I'll notice the look on Hunter's face.

"Finally," that look says, "he's noticed me." And that look is accompanied by a HUGE grin.

Dissed by a 3-year-old

Last night, I was reading a Curious George book to Wilder before bedtime. In it, George makes a mess, as George often does, and a nurse scolds him. "A monkey!" she yells (or at least she does in my version; storytime is for bringing out your rarely used inner actress, after all). "And he's making a BIG MESS!"

Wilder stops me, mid-book. He points to George.

"That's me."

He points to the scowly-faced, stick-up-her-butt, no-fun-having nurse.

"That's you, Mama."

Sunday Scenes: Nov. 16

Here are few photos from our day.

Though he was emotionally allergic to all things hat-related for the first three years of his life, Wilder has recently discovered the fun of donning different hats. He finds one around the house, he puts it on his head. He's taken to wearing a winter hat advertising Jameson's whiskey to school on cold days.

Hunter fast asleep. This kid can -- finally and do I hear the angels singing? -- sleep. One night this week he slept 12 hours straight. Pretty much every night now he's in bed by 6 p.m., if not sooner. Of course, this means he's wide awake at 5:15 a.m. This takes a little getting use to, but sleeping (mostly) through the night is sleeping through the night. I'll take 5:15 a.m. There's coffee in this world and I'm not afraid to mainline it directly into my veins. I mean, drink it.

Sometimes, apparently, a boy's just GOTTA do what the baby does. In this case, fold his rather extensive limbs into a small sink for bath time. I have a feeling they'll both be bathing like this for awhile. Oh well, it's easier on the back.

Hunter in all his glory, post bath.

Just a cute photo of my little Hunter and his beautiful eyes.

Scenes from a week

Since I rarely have time to post here anymore, I thought I'd do more of these kinds of posts: taking photos with my iPhone and then getting them up every so often. I know it's the photos of the kids that most of you come here for anyway, rather than my idiotic ramblings. So enjoy, here's Round One in Scenes From a Week:

Wilder this morning before school. I thought he look so handsome. It took me probably 15 frames to get this and the one below. The others were a blur, because he NEVER sits still these days. He defines kinetic energy. He also embodies the dedication it takes to exhaust a mama.

Another photo of Wilder looking "sharp." That's what Jerry tells him when he's dressed, combed, brushed, etc. "You look sharp, sunshine." So Wilder has taken to looking in the mirror or at photos of himself and saying, "Oooh, I look shaaaarp."

Hunter just before he and I took a long walk on Monday. He was out sick from school, and although it was just barely misting and we probably shouldn't have been outside, we went anyway. Sometimes, fresh air is the antidote. I didn't want to jinx it before now, but H is sleeping a lot more at night now. He's also trying like mad to crawl, has 7 teeth and will mimic many words, including Mama, Papa, Brother (brudda), up (as in, get out of bed now), and Jerry and I both have heard something akin to "I love you," which sounds more like "I-wuh-woo." Of course we don't think he knows what he's saying, but he seems to be a pretty good mimic of things he hears us say around the house a lot. And I expect he'll be talking a lot earlier than Wilder did. Of course, he listens to Wilder talk non-stop during the day, so I assume that helps develop that little language center in his brain.

Wilder and his new kitty friend, "Blue," so named by us because of her piercing blue eyes. She's either a neighbor's cat or just the alley cat taken care of by everybody. Whatever her status, she's taken to Wilder. We've never seen her out of the alley, but the other morning we were playing in the front yard, and she must have heard his voice, because she came running. And she stayed as close by his side as she could until we decided to come back inside. As far as Jerry is concerned, she's the best kind of cat. Friendly, a way for Wilder to fulfill his need for kitty love, but OUTSIDE.

The many faces of a jumping Hunter

Wilder Wilder quite contrary

Wilder is going through a bit of a phase the last few days. He's all "I don't wanna" and "I don't want to" and "No" and "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" and "No no no no no."

So this morning, after talking to his father about Obama's presidency and what it means and how friggin' cool I think it is that not only did my candidate get elected, but that America voted in its first black president and how that makes me feel just the tiniest bit better about this world my kids have been born into (Hell to the YEAH America!), I looked at Wilder and said, "Come over here and give me a hug!"

"Nuh-uh," he says.

"You're contrary," I replied matter-of-factly.

"I not."

"Yes, you're contrary son."

"I NOT. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" (Yes, seven "nos" ... I counted.)

I love it when he proves my point for me.

One more thing ...

Three women walked by our house tonight, walking their dogs. As usual, Wilder acted as the neighborhood greeter, asking them to please join us. So they did for a few minutes, so that we could pet their dogs and so Wilder could socialize with his favorite demographic next to 3- and 4-year-olds: women who exceed his age by decades. One of them, Rosemary, has lived in this neighborhood forever. She's one cool customer, an observer, and you can tell pretty quickly that she has a wry sense of humor. She sat there looking at Wilder for a few minutes, not saying much. Then this: "I've seen you in the neighborhood, Wilder. You never walk. You're ALWAYS running."

So true, Rosemary. So. True.

Our costumed selves

Just a few pics from our weekend. We trick or treated on Friday. Wilder had the basic concept down, but he didn't seem to understand why he wasn't being invited IN to everyone's house. He got his candy at the first door, walked right past the woman and started walking around her house. The next he didn't barge in, but he did ask if he could come in. We had one more talk on the basic of trick-or-treating etiquette ("say trick or treat and thank you" ... "do not go through the fridge or pick up the remote control of the person handing out candy." etc...), and after that he did better.

He embraced the concept whole heartedly. After each door closed, he'd yell: "LET'S GO GET MORE CAANDYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" So I taught him that old activist's chant: "What do we want? CANDY! When do we want it? NOW!!"

Afterward we came home, had a little party with our friends Jeff, Ginger and Micah (who came over for the whole evening), and handed out candy until a group of trick or treaters taller than us inspired us to shut the doors. We let the boys stay up late. We found out that night that Hunter is a headbanger. I have some video that I'm going to try to edit down to a more manageable size. But suffice to say that kid had a noodle for a neckbone and loves to bop his head around to the music.

Last night was the annual costume party. It was fun and our friends wowed up with their costumes, as usual. There's a pic below of Jerry and I.

Off to a cup of tea. Oh yeah, it's party central here tonight. ;-) Love to all, k.


The cutest wee Superman that ever trick or treated.

The 'lil Booster (no costume this year, just a cool ghosty glow-in-the-dark shirt)

The Russian Assassin and her Jack Skellington.

Conservatives for Change

Find out more here.

Wilder turns 3!

Dear Wilder,

Wow, kiddo. You're 3 now. No longer any baby left there (you'll always be my baby ... I just HAD to say that); fully a boy. And what a boy you are. You go through your phases no doubt, where you try my patience hourly (I want to say minutely, but that word is such a misnomer in this instance) ... but lately, you are just a barrel of energy and fun and enthusiasm and belly laughs and one amazing discovery after another. We are gliding through one of those times right now where we just get each other. We are soul mama and her soul boy. It's pretty cool, kid.

This weekend was pretty fun. You'll likely not remember it. Maybe a snippit here or there, so let me remind you.

Friday, we went to the neighborhood family movie night (the first) up at the park, three blocks away. For the first time, you let me dress you for cold weather. A hat and gloves, no less. You loved the gloves so much you didn't take them off for like four hours. You were so very good at the movie. You actually watched most of it before you realized that most of the other kids your age were running running running behind us in the tennis courts. Then we had to get up and join them. And it was fun, but before that, just for a bit, I had you all to myself. Sitting on my lap, snuggling, sipping hot chocolate and eating a cookie. It was a mama's dream.

Saturday was your party. We threw a bunch of balls and stuff into the front yard and just had a low-key party. For days you talked about your party and your presents and your cake and something you assumed you'd be getting -- "super super cars" -- which I'm pretty sure is just any car that is cool and new. Thankfully, you got some. It was a ball. Owen, Lea, Brenden, Luke and Hank came. A bunch of your adult friends came, too, because I think they love you and because they know your mama and papa always have beer at parties. When you are an adult reading this, make sure to give them hell about that.

Last night you were so very tired, so wound up. You made me sing you to sleep. We both fell asleep in your bed just after the final lullaby.

Today we just played and played with all your new toys. Papa and I tried to help you learn how to ride your bike. It's still a bit of a challenge for you, but that has not dampened your enthusiasm for it one bit. You kept yelling "LOOK! I'm DOING IT!!" at the top of your lungs any time you made it move 3 inches. I love that about you. Afterward you let me whisper things in your ear to yell as you tackled Papa over and over again. We yelled: "Donkey butts!" "Pork bellies!" "Colorado!" "Cowabunga!" "Geronimo!" "Cowronimo!" "Gerabunga!" and, of course, "I LOVE YOU PAPA!!" until we wore him out. Oh, and ourselves, too.

This afternoon we broke out the finger paints that Aunt Tara got you and took them and our giant roll of butcher paper into the front yard. As much paint got onto our clothes and faces and arms and legs as the paper. (Thanks, Aunt Tara, for verifying the washability before buying.) We painted ourselves up like warriors and chased each other in circles around the front yard.

Somewhere in between we played a bunch of rowdy games of Hungry Hungry Hippos on the kitchen floor. You're very good at that game. You play with your usual all-or-nothing attitude toward life.

Did I mention how cool I think you are? I tell you that sometimes, and you just say, "Thanks, Mama," kind of like you know already.

So anyway, kid, it was a fantastic weekend, for both of us I think. I've never seen so many ear-to-ear grins on you. Three is gonna be a good year. I love you, and watching you grow has been the highlight of my life so far. It makes everything glow a little brighter and ring a little truer and sound a little sweeter. xo, Mama

Texas in October

It's that time of year in Dallas when we all tumble out of our houses, grateful that the heat is behind us. It really is a beautiful time of year here, and we've been enjoying it by galavanting around the city, most recently to the State Fair of Texas (yesterday) and the Arboretum's pumpkin festival (today). Jer's pop, Jerry Ray, is here visiting us for a long weekend, and he's so good with the boys. Wilder has always loved having his grand-daddy around, and Hunter has taken to him just as much.

Anyway, not a lot of time to write, though I wish there was. Here are some photos from the last couple days.

A post for a friend

A lot of you know I'm not deeply religious. But I do believe in something, and I believe that we have the power within us to shift how things happen in the world. I don't pray much, unless I feel like there's something that just can't be solved in another way. Today, I feel that way, so I'm going to be saying a lot of prayers. Let me tell you why.

Two months ago, my good friend found out her husband, who was 28, died in a car accident on his way back to his offshore oil rig job. She was at work when she got the call, and I hope to never see anything again so heartbreaking in my life. They had two young boys together: ages 4 and 1 and 1/2. They didn't have a perfect marriage, but there was never any doubt that they truly loved each other.

This friend of mine is having a tough, tough time. You'd think losing your spouse like this would be enough. But for her, hurt just seems to keep piling on top of hurt. She's in a new house and her neighbors are horrible. She has a new job because of this, and her boss is awful. She is having a REALLY tough time making ends meet -- until she receives her husband's death certificate, she can't get Social Security death benefits, and the paperwork takes a long time.

Yesterday I was driving home from work, looked down at my phone and her name and number were on my screen. I take such things as signs, so I called her. And I'm glad I did; she was in tears, in a dark place. She can't catch a break and it's getting to her pretty bad. She's tough ... one of the toughest women I know. But she's reaching her breaking point. By the way, she's also one of the nicest, most generous people I know, and she's a kick-butt mom to those boys.

I don't know how to help her. I listen. I tell her it will get better. I tell her I know those are just words, but that we have to believe them. "Because it sure as hell can't get much worse ..." one of us will say. And then we laugh a little through our tears.

So anyway, here's the thing. Could you say a little prayer for my friend today? I know throwing a prayer request out in the inner-web-tubes seems like a strange thing to do, very un-Kris-like. But indulge me, please. This girl really, really needs a break. Her boys really, really need to have a mom that doesn't have so damn much on her shoulders.

And honestly, at this point I'll try just about anything to help her, to get the good, positive energy in the world shifting back in her direction.

Her name is Kristen.

Thanks, k.