Picture, Not So Perfect

A few of you have asked me why there are a few more (okay, a lot more) pictures of Mopsy than there are of QB on my blog. Well, QB is an 8-year-old boy and would rather have his nails trimmed or hair cut than pose for the camera. Mopsy, on the other hand, would happily mug for hours.

This one was taken during the 15 seconds I was able to get them to sit together for a picture last weekend. Naturally, QB decided to let one rip. Charming, as always.

I'm going to have to really work for that Christmas card photo this year.

Window Dressing

The shops in Martha's Vineyard were making the most of the Presidential visit this week. These were some of my favorites.

One boutique, Saffron, changed their window four times a day to showcase the various ensembles the First Lady might be wearing at the moment for cocktailing, clamming, shopping, or enjoying tea. That one gets an A for the sheer effort of dressing that mannequin so darn many times.

The second is pretty self explanatory. (The bubble says, "I can see Martha's Vineyard from my house!") Who doesn't enjoy a good joke at Ms. Palin's expense? No one within a 100 mile radius of the Vineyard, that's for sure.

Tossed

Well, we were in Martha's Vineyard last weekend, despite the whole hurricane thing. We knew the storm was coming, of course. At least I did. I kept asking Jarv the week before if he was sure he wanted to go, given the fact that the forecasters were warning of high winds, dangerous waves and an overpowering undertoe. In short: it wasn't a beach weekend.

But we can't cancel now, he argued. We made these plans months ago. Our friends have made dinner reservations!

And it was true, we'd been invited by some friends to come stay with them at their house. We went last year and had a great time. I was all for it. Except for that pesky hurricane issue.

Bill's not going to hit the Vineyard anyway, Jarv said dismissively.

I didn't think he was quite grasping the point. Despite my warnings, on Friday morning, off we went on the most nauseating ferry ride I'd ever been on. I spent an hour and a half looking out the stern of the boat at the horizon taking deep, steady breaths and trying to pretend we weren't dipping and rocking with every enormous swell.

Once we were "on island" as they say, J seemed to key into the fact that there was an enormous weather event headed just our way. Everyone was talking about it. That evening, after he caught the latest on the weather channel, he took me aside and said he thought we should return home the next morning. There was a hurricane coming, you know. If we thought our ferry ride that morning had been bad, think how awful the crossing would be on Sunday, in the midst of Bill's wrath? We should leave as soon as possible!

Hmm. Some might say he hadn't been listening to me at all the previous five days.

They'd be right.

Funny of the Day

We were in Martha's Vineyard this past weekend. (We like to be in the center of the action, you see. The Obamas were choppering in, Hurricane Bill crashed through. All very exciting.) Anyway, we were staying with another family and heading off to Edgartown for the day, all eight of us packed into their SUV. On our way there, another car took a wide turn in front of us and almost hit our car. One of the kids asked Dave, the driver, "Who was that?"

"Just someone who doesn't know what they're doing," Dave answered sensibly.

After a beat, Mopsy clarified,

"Daddy?"

I couldn't have scripted it better myself.

My Typing Hands are Tied

Alas, my team of legal advisors (okay, husband Jarvis) has counseled me on the wisdom of some of my more candid and revealing posts. His professional opinion is that, if I'm not looking to be ex-communicated by his clients (er, I mean, relatives) I should probably be a bit more circumspect in my writing. Circumspect isn't really my strong suit, as you may have noticed.

But it's such great material, I protested! How could I not use it? The endless antics are funny, after all, in a depressing sort of way.

So fine. I've deleted some posts. Just wanted to state for the record that freedom of speech is not, apparently, an absolute -- at least in my blogosphere.

So if you want the uncensored scoop, you'll have to email me.

Bed Bugs

When the kids did manage to get together with their cousins on this last trip to LA, they were so cute. The four of them did everything together -- swimming, coloring, asking Grandma for grits. They even insisted on sleeping all together on the floor, with blankets underneath and on top. No, two of them could not sleep in one bed and two in another, because then they wouldn't all be together. Sheesh, Mom. Obviously.

I'm amazed at how well they all get along, especially because the youngest, Mopsy, is 5 and the oldest cousin is almost 12, quite a range. I keep thinking that at some point the gap will be big enough that their interests will be just too different, like when the oldest is 16 and the Mopsy's 8. So far, though, we haven't gotten there. And I'm thrilled about that. Every extra day is a bonus.

Home, Sweet Home

When we came back from La Costa, Mopsy had a hard time settling down to sleep that night. (What else is new?) Suddenly, she burst into tears and cried, "I miss the hotel!" Trying not to laugh, because I, too, missed the lovely hotel, I asked why.

"I miss the bed," she wailed.

Ah, wise child.

For the first time ever on a trip to LA, the kids were a little itchy to get back to Connecticut. "When are we going home?" they started whining three days before our return flight. I took that as a good sign. They'd seen everyone, done all they wanted to do, and were ready to get back to our old routine. It's better than dragging them back to the East Coast kicking and screaming.

On the plane home, QB said, apropos of nothing, "I can't wait to have all my Legos, a TV that I actually know how to use, and sleep in a room that's not 85 degrees!" (You see, although the in -laws have about 15 televisions in the house, each one has about 4 remotes and works differently. No one is very confident about locating any channel other than NBC. And, yes, it was excruciatingly hot. Every time we turned on the air conditioning, it mysteriously turned itself off.)

Glad the kid's got his priorities straight.

I agree, it's SO GREAT to be home. I've never been so happy to be in my own bed, between my own crisp, smooth sheets, with my fluffy down pillow. In fact, I think I'm going to go get in there now.

G'night.

Party of Two, I Mean Four

We started working on this plan about a month ago: a weekend away from the kids! We had it all set; a reservation in Carlsbad, the go-ahead from Jarv's mom who would feed the kids and throw them in bed every night. And most important, they had entertainment: their two cousins who'd be there to sleep over, go swimming, and play for hours on end.

The cousins haven't exactly been available to play this last week, despite advance reassurances to the contrary. So the reality is that our kids would have been at their grandparents', inside a dark house watching TV about 10 hours a day. They would have been fine, of course. But we just didn't feel right about it. It's hard to really relax if you know your kids are bored out of their minds, zoned out in front of a five-hour Phineaus and Ferb marathon, snacking on endless bags of potato chips, counting the hours until you come back.

We haven't had a weekend away from our kids in about three years -- way, way too long. I think parents should be required to take time away from their kids twice a year. We'd all be so much more patient, relaxed, energized. It should be a federal mandate, even. How about instead of padding AIG bonuses with the federal bailout money, we put some into a beneficial program like that, Mr. Obama?

This is what I had in mind: lazy, listless afternoons spent by the quiet, adult pool, reading books and napping. (And by napping, I don't mean the kind where the clock is ticking and every minute spent asleep is time that I will need to watch the kids later while Jarv has an equal amount of free time for himself.) Late, relaxing dinners at restaurants that don't serve chicken fingers, cheesy noodles and pepperoni pizza. Forty-eight hours of sheer bliss.

It didn't exactly work out that way. Instead, we found ourselves in the very crowded kids pool, taking runs down the water-slides and tossing dive sticks endlessly. We dealt with a bedwetting incident, an excema flare-up, some lost headgear, and the requisite sibling squabbles. Oh, and every restaurant we went to served chicken fingers, cheesy noodles and pepperoni pizza. If one more waitress hands me a kids' coloring sheet and a pack of crayons as we sit down, I'll cry.

To top it all off, we spent today at Legoland. I loathe amusement parks. Standing in line for an hour in the blazing sun to take a one-minute ride in a little boat floating in two feet of water? Not amusing.

Not that I'm complaining. Does this sound like complaining? Hope not. It's still very nice to be here.

But a quiet weekend with my husband would have been oh so nice.

Maybe next year.

Have Running Shoes, Will Travel

I'm not the best traveller. For one thing, I almost always run late. And with kids, it doesn't often work out well.

Last week the kids and I flew from JFK to LA. (Jarv was flying the next day to meet us.) Our flight was at 2:15 and Jarv and I had several discussions about what time we needed to leave. He said 11:30. (He usually builds 15 minutes into his estimate to allow for the Michelle lateness factor.) Naturally, I voted for 11:45. We left at 11:54.

Jarv complained the whole way to the airport: I don't know if you're going to make it, he chastised annoyingly. You're really cutting it close. I was sure we would. If it took us an hour to get the the airport -- which was reasonable -- we'd still have 1 1/2 hours before our flight. I'm not one of those people who likes to arrive at the terminal 3 hours in advance. It takes long enough to fly across the country as it is, thank very much.

I ignored Jarv's kvetching during the drive and his dramatic sighs each time we came across a patch of traffic. There was nothing we could do about it now, anyway. but then we came to a dead stop crossing the Whitestone Bridge. We sat there for a good 10 minutes. Now I was actually starting to worry. I had two big suitcases and I remembered that baggage cutoff for Delta was 45 minutes before the flight. (I know that, because I missed it once, while traveling with the kids, and had to catch a later flight.)

But no worries, we were at curbside at 12:17, almost an hour ahead. Jarv dropped us and drove off, in a hurry to make a meeting, while I carted in our several bags, carry-ons, computer, DVD player, two backpacks and two kids. Slight problem, the check-in kiosk told me. We'd missed baggage check in cut off by two minutes!

I ran over to an agent to see if any cajolling or cute kids might help. No, not really, but she sent me to someone else. Taking that as encouraging sign, I ran over to Agent #2 at the other end of the counter, kids and bags in tow. No, there was nothing she could do, she told me. The computer locked out 60 minutes prior to the flight, even if the flight was delayed. I kinda got the feeling I wasn't the first person she'd ever dealt with who'd had this problem.

By this point the kids were looking at me, tears brewing. "Are we not going to get to go to LA, Mommy?" they asked in pitiful voices. The agent, checking the rest of the day's flights, told me that there were no other seats free that day, but maybe tomorrow. Or the next day. Of course there would be change fees involved and maybe a fare increase. But she couldn't even rebook me since I'd gone through Expedia. I'd have to call them to sort it out. This was bad.

What can I do?" I asked. Could I go buy some duffel bags small enough to carry on and transfer all of our things into them? "What will you do with your suitcases?" the agent asked. I could have cared less. I'd have thrown them out if it meant getting on that plane.

Are there any lockers I could put them in?" I asked. Yes, there was, in fact, baggage storage two floors down.

Lightbulb!

If I was going to get duffel bags, transfer our stuff, carry on the bags and lock up our suitcases, why not skip the duffel part, store the bags, contents and all, and let Jarv bring them with him when he flew the following day? Genius, if I do say so myself.

We ran through the terminal, the three of us, with our two suitcases and half dozen carry ons. Waited forever for the elevator. Ran off in all directions in search of this mysterious storage. I still didn't know if this crazy plan would work. Now we were T minus 40 till our flight and had yet to go through security.

Bags checked, I grabbed the kids and we ran back upstairs and through the terminal, Mopsy trailing a few paces behind. "Wait for me!" she called out to us. We grabbed our boarding passes and ran off to security. The line was short, but not moving, so I went to the front and pleaded with the Security big wigs to let us go ahead since we had a flight departing in 18 minutes, despite the evil looks from the guy behind us. If after all that, we'd gotten to the gate only to find the doors already shut, the kids would have gone ballistic.

Miraculously, we made our flight. But unfortunately, I had to admit my folly to my smug husband. "See," he said with a snicker. He loves to be right.

I admit, running through JFK with kids and suitcases and backpacks flying everywhere, sweat dripping down my back, pulse racing, is not the best way to travel. I swear I will not be late for our flight home. I promise.

Once again, I've got egg on my face. I think I'll just scramble up a big batch to have it on hand. I'm sure I'll need it again soon. I always do.

Even Better Than the Tooth Fairy

A whole new sort of fairy visited our house last week: The Pick-Up Fairy. And she rocks!

Never heard of her? Neither had I until I happened upon a recent issue of Parents magazine and read an article about her. Turns out, she's a special fairy who visits children's homes at night and helps them pick up any toys they may have just possibly, accidentally, just this once left lying about. Anything she picks up is hers for the time being.

Brilliant.

I left a little card from her in our mailbox for QB and Mopsy. The front had a nice little picture of a fairy wand and inside it explained that Miss Fairy might be stopping by our house at night just in case the two of them might need a little help on the clean-up front. They were enthralled.

"Who is the Pick-Up Fairy, Mom?" the asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, I've heard of her. Is she coming to our house?"

Then the questions started coming rapid-fire: How will she get in? What will she do with our toys? What happens after that? What if we have some sort of complicated project on the floor that we don't want her to take?

I should've planned on this thorough vetting process from my 8-year-old. Instead, I winged it. She'd probably get into the house the same way Santa would. Any toys lying around, I suppose she'd take and return later. Projects on the floor? Well, we'll leave her a little note. I'm sure she'll understand.

That night, it was a miracle. The house has never been so clean. Jarvis and I watched in amazement as the two of them scurried around like little mice, gathering every stray Lego, every Lite Brite peg, every lone puzzle piece on the carpet in record time.

As I said, brilliant. Now, at night, instead of threatening, cajolling, nagging and negotiating -- all of which are largely ineffective -- all I have to do is say, "Pick-Up Fairy" and my kids jump into action. It's a thing of sheer beauty. It's taken the burden off me entirely. Now that the Fairy has entered our lives, the consequences of playroom sloppiness are out of my hands.

Other children who've been by our house and seen the card from Miss Fairy are equally fascinated. Who is this gal and why haven't they gotten a visit from her, they want to know. All I can say is, parents, dispatch the Fairy soonest. You won't be disappointed!

And to whoever wrote this inspiring article in Parents, you have my deepest, most sincere admiration and gratitude. I just wonder, now, if there's some way I can get it to work on my husband...