“My Dad has a Yacht of Girls”

Curlytop and Snugglebug have made great strides in their language development since we first consulted with a speech therapist over three years ago. Still, there are some words they use which can only be understood by family; and Curlytop still serves as a Snugglebug-to-English translator all too often.

Music Store Bob’s wife, Brenda, watched the girls one night while Waterdog, the band featuring Bob and Mr. Wright, played a local venue. She commented on the girls’ speech patterns, likening it to “twin speak.” Even though Curlytop and Snugglebug are thirteen months apart, they function pretty much like twins, and they do appear to have words that they use exclusively with one another. This phenomenon of secret or made-up language is called “idioglossia.” When it occurs in twins, it’s known as “cryptophasia.”

Some of their speech, though, is just difficult to understand. They’re speaking English, but the average listener can’t decipher it. Since I’m their mom, I consider myself to be an above average listener, and I’m often able to simultaneously translate for the listener as the words come out of my girls’ mouths.

For example, “chex monks” are not cereal friars, but chipmunks. “Hizzards” are scissors, but the singular form, “hizzard” is a lizard. A “jam witch” is a sandwich, whether or not it’s made with jam (which is actually “jwelly”); though it’s often made with “pea gut bunner.”

Toward the end of the month, the girls eat a lot of pea gut bunner jam witches, but when payday comes around, they’re living high on the hog with pea gut bunner and jwelly jam witches.

A “cow; oaty” is obviously a coyote, and “a yacht” is simply a phrase meaning many; a lot. Therefore, the statement “My dad has a yacht of girls” really just refers to his five daughters, who don’t even come close to filling up a yacht – not that we have one to fill, anyway.

Then, too, are the words that are spoken plainly, but signify something other than their original meaning. A “princess” is a dress, no matter the royal status or title of the young lady wearing it. “Cow,” not to be confused with “cow; oaty,” refers to beef or anything resembling it and intended for consumption. A “wiggle” is any skirt that provides a beautiful swish when the wearer wiggles her groove thang, and “break-uh-ull” (breakable) refers to anything they aren’t allowed to touch.

Okay, maybe that last one is my fault.

I’ve provided my little ones with many terms that have become commonplace in their language, such as “coffee,” which indicates any beverage Mommy is allowed to drink but they aren’t (I thought “Southern Comfort” a little too formal) and “working,” which is anything Mommy is doing at the computer that she doesn’t want interrupted.

Because, you know, “Facebook” is a pretty complex concept to explain to a preschooler.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kygp/2868456244

New on My List of Cool Places

SweetRiver Bakery.

Deliciously funky, amazingly friendly management, excellent service and a wonderful menu. What's more, Mr. Wright's band, Waterdog, is performing at this very minute in the courtyard.

Also - and this is important - beer, wine, and superb coffee.

Near Pateros? Head on down!

Tokyo Breakfast

I had no problem finding seemingly vegan food at our hotel's breakfast buffet.

Photo (clockwise, from top left): miso soup, fresh pineapple and kiwi, coffee (thank God), roasted potatoes with carrot and squash, rice, an assortment of Japanese pickled things including lotus root

Mr. Wright and I are going to tidy up our room and take a walk. This afternoon we take the bullet train to Kobe.

Oh, I almost forgot! When I put my foot into my shoe this morning, I felt something weird in the toe. I reached in and pulled out one of Curlytop's sponge letters.

Awwwww! My heartstrings definitely got tugged. When Mr. Wright travels without me, I always send something of mine with him so he'll think of me. Before he goes, I ask, "Are you carrying something of mine, besides my heart?"

Turns out, I carried something of Curlytop's to Japan.

It's October. Let's Talk About Breasts!

It’s October. Let’s Talk About Breasts!

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and everyone is talking about breasts. That’s a good thing. Breast cancer is an ugly disease, and a cure needs to be found. Frankly, though, I’m not a huge fan of my own breasts.

I’m not saying they’re a bad set, as far as breasts go. It’s just that they don’t serve much purpose beyond filling out sweaters and giving Mr. Wright something to comment on when I get out of the shower. “Hey, Mama, you’ve got some sweet ‘stuffs’ there! Need any help drying them off?”

The “girls” have served me well. They’ve nourished a child. They’ve caught the bartender’s eye to get me quick service in a crowded nightclub. They may have even helped me get out of a speeding ticket or two.

Last year, I found an alarming lump.

I was drying off after a shower (Mr. Wright was in the other room and had somehow failed to offer assistance) when I hit an extremely painful spot. Instinctively, my hand went to the source of the pain – a lump, about the size of a quarter.

“GREG!” I shrieked. (I don’t call him “Mr. Wright” when shrieking.) “GREG! COME IN HERE!”

He came running. “What? What is it? Is it a spider? Did you forget to vote in the last primary? Good God, woman! WHAT IS IT?”

I grabbed his hand and pressed it to my boob. “Feel!”

He felt. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“No… THIS.” I placed the tip of his index finger directly on the lump.

He frowned. He felt some more. He frowned harder. “What is that?”

“I don’t know!” I cried. “It wasn’t there last week! If it’s cancer, and it grew that fast, I’m going to die! Think of the stories you hear about people who are fine one day, and then dead a month later from some cancer they got that just GREW! That grew so fast that the doctors couldn’t DO anything! I’m going to DIE!”

“Calm down,” he said. “You’re not going to die. We’re going to get it looked at, and you’re not going to die.” I could tell, though, by the worried look in his eyes, he knew I was going to die from some form of mutant breast cancer that grew faster than the national deficit.

We called for an appointment, and learned the next available date was a week away. I called old friends, announced I was dying, confessed lies I’d told but never been caught in, assigned favorite books of poetry to writer friends… “I don’t know if I’ll have time to make a will, but I want you to have my favorite collection of Rumi poems…”

When the day finally came, I sat, crying, in the waiting room, praying that Mr. Wright’s meeting would get done early so I didn’t have to hear the news alone.

“That’s a really big lump,” the doctor confirmed. “We’re going to do a mammogram and an ultrasound, then we’ll assess it.”

Mammograms are as uncomfortable as everyone says they are. I won’t bore you with the details. As the ultrasound technician pulled a paper “drape” over my chest, I continued to cry. I looked at the monitor as the ultrasound device rolled over my breast, alarmed at the series of dark spots it revealed. It appeared that half of my breasts were made up of the sinister darkness. “Oh, God,” I whispered. “I have cancer, don’t I?”

I looked away from the screen, wiping my eyes, as Mr. Wright walked into the room. I’d never needed him to hold my hand more than in that moment. The doctor entered the room and surveyed the screen. “It’s not cancer,” she announced. “It’s fibrocystic breast disease.”

“Am I going to die?” I asked.

“Not from this,” the doctor assured me.

Fibrocystic breast disease is a very common – yet rarely discussed – condition which causes my cha-chas to produce painful, non-cancerous lumps. It’s estimated that 30-60% of women may suffer from this condition, and there’s no clear consensus on what causes it.

“There are some things you can do to diminish the growth of the lumps and discomfort,” the doctor advised. “Avoid fatty foods. Avoid caffeine…”

“Avoid caffeine?!” I gasped. “Can’t you just cut them off?”

Mommy Masochism: Piece of Cake?

What kind of an insomnia-plagued masochist would work through the night, forgoing sleep and the promise of sweet dreams, baking and decorating custom cakes for four children who probably aren’t as interested in the cakes’ appearance as in the cakes’ taste?

A mother; that’s what kind of masochist.

The closure of Beebe Bridge delayed the birthday celebrations for Curlytop, who turned four on August 19th; Pepper, who turned thirteen on September 3rd; and Snugglebug, who turned three on September 13th. After more than three years, the adoptions for Curlytop and Snugglebug finalized on September 22nd, and Pockets turned 15 the day after.

Clearly, a party of epic proportions was in order, once the bridge reopened and all our beloved friends and family were able to reach our home with minimal inconvenience.We decided on a Saturday, so as not to interfere with Pockets’s football games on Fridays. Pepper, of course, wanted a slumber party. How could we deny her? A girl only turns thirteen once, and if she wishes to celebrate by having seventeen girls stay the night, so be it.

I stocked my pantry with flour, sugar, food coloring, sugar, cocoa powder, and more sugar. My plan was to bake the cakes during the day on Friday, and decorate them Friday night. Of course, my plan failed to allocate time for the appointments I’d scheduled on Friday and the football game that night. As a result, I started baking at around 10:30 p.m.

Curlytop and Snugglebug each needed a birthday cake, of course, as did Pepper and Pockets. What about the adoption? Surely we needed a cake to celebrate the adoption! That’s how I found myself, at 4:00 a.m., baking a fifth cake and mixing up ten pounds or so of vegan “buttercream” frosting.

Curse my vegan principles, which prevent me from using a standard cake mix and canned frosting! After all, why spend all night making cakes I can’t eat?

Deciding on the decoration for Pockets’s cake was a no-brainer: football, of course. I dyed a batch of frosting green, fashioned goal posts out of pipe cleaners, and placed a small toy football in the center. Done!

Pepper plays volleyball, but I had no idea how to draw a volleyball, let alone frost one. In a stroke of brilliance, I mixed two more cakes at 4:15, planning a glorious tower of alternating chocolate and vanilla layers, with strawberry filling and raspberry frosting, with rosebuds creeping from the bottom to the top of the third layer. It took about three hours, and the resulting creation looked not unlike a matrimonial monstrosity.

(Indeed, upon seeing the finished product, one of Pepper’s friends exclaimed, “I want my wedding cake to look just like that!”)

Okay. Maybe I got carried away.

Determined to keep things simple for the “adoption cake,” I brainstormed what I could do with the heart-shaped strawberry cake I’d baked. I mean, a heart is just a heart, right? What can a person do with a heart? Unless…

I turned the cake upside-down, placing the point upward. Two hours later, two chubby-cheeked princesses with pointed hats meeting at the tip of the heart, complete with trailing satin ribbons, resided on top of the cake.

(I have a step-by-step how-to with photos for this cake here)

By 9:30 a.m., the sun was glaring in my kitchen window. The kids were up. Mr. Wright was up. Me? I was on my seventh cup of coffee, covered in flour, with two more cakes to frost and quite a few clumps of frosting in my hair. I covered the two small star-shaped cakes for Curlytop and Snugglebug with pink frosting, piped their names on top, and collapsed into bed.

It’s inevitable that, when I decorate custom cakes for my kids, some party guest will ask me if I’d be willing to make the cake for their kid’s birthday.

Yeah, right.

This special kind of self-torture is something I only perform for my own kids, thank you very much.

By the way, can anyone tell me how long leftover cake can be frozen? Or rent me some freezer space?

Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House

Raising kids is like living in a frat house. There are too many all-nighters, there’s never enough coffee or Top Ramen, the toilets are never clean, it’s no surprise if someone is puking, and you never know who is going to be in your bed when you wake up.

I find myself falling back on old college tricks to survive raising my kids. Convenience foods, acceptance of messy living quarters, questionable laundry guidelines, tolerance for sleep deprivation and development of self-degradation may not be featured on the glossy college brochures, but they are invaluable post-secondary educational offerings for any future mother.

Naturally, I want to prepare wholesome, organic, additive-free meals for my kids, but sometimes a bowl or three of Puffs-o-Sugar is the best I can do at 7:00 a.m. Maybe I’m too tired from a late-night research session for a freelance article. Maybe I’d rather sleep in or actually get a shower before noon. Whatever the reason for not providing my children with a hot, nutritious breakfast, I rationalize it by pretending that I am giving them the gift of autonomy by allowing them to pour their own bowlfuls of chemicals to start their day.

When I’m working on a deadline, I provide the kids with a box of four-for-a-dollar macaroni and cheese mix and don’t even gag when they add sliced hot dogs to it. I have, however, managed to encourage them to add frozen vegetables to their ramen noodles. Nutrition, after all, is the stuff of healthy development.

While we’ve never had a food fight of National Lampoon caliber, you’d never know it by looking at my house. I am arguably the world’s worst housekeeper. The dust bunnies behind the big screen television require their daily feeding, and I hate to think they might starve. I am, if nothing else, an advocate of animal rights. There is no housemother here, though I am thinking of applying for some sort of accreditation so that I can hire one. The Wright School for Wayward Children, perhaps.

The laundry that piles up from seven children is unfathomable for those who haven’t either been foolish enough to collect seven kids or owned a laundry service. Even though I don’t have to dig around on the floorboards of my car for quarters to wash a load of clothes anymore, I still find myself administering the “sniff test” to clothes that might make it through one more wear before laundering. I’ve found, as my boys have become teenagers and my girls have begun playing sports, fewer items pass.

When Mr. Wright and I started out, we had a king-sized bed that all too frequently bore the burden of two adults and five kids molding it into submission. When the kids got too old to sleep with us, we downsized to a queen mattress and, in short order, found two more kids to fill it up. Even now that the littlest ones sleep in their own beds, I can’t get a decent night’s sleep without a knee in my ribs and a foot in my face.

By “sleeping in their own beds,” of course, I mean that the toddlers are placed in their beds at 9:00 p.m., scream for Mommy until 9:30, and are finally rescued by Daddy at 10:00, who brings them to our bed and pops in a Disney video for them to watch. I tell myself that this routine is acceptable, because, as I learned in Child Psychology 201, “routine” is important for children’s development and stability.

If I’d known how little sleep I was going to get as a mother, I would have spent more time sleeping in Professor Drone’s Intro to Theater class my freshman year. If no one is teething or throwing up, someone needs help with a science project they forgot about that’s due in the morning or someone is late for curfew or someone is going to wake me up at two in the morning to inform me that they need a costume for the school play. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with the nearly irresistible urge to rouse each of my kids and ask, “What are you not telling me? Why am I awake? What do you need?”

Motherhood feels, at times, like a particularly sadistic type of hazing. Who else but a mother or a Greek Week pledge would allow another human being to vomit into her cupped hands? Who else would march down Main Street dressed like a clown, balancing a wheelbarrow and wielding a shovel behind the 4-H ponies? Who else would willingly become a slave to a group of boisterous human beings under the legal drinking age?

To those women who have graduated college, only to find themselves with an unmarketable degree and a student loan to rival the national deficit: Take heart! Motherhood is always hiring, and your college experience makes you more than qualified.

I've Got a Bad Gratitude (I Hate Mondays)

Monday Monday, can't trust that day,
Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way...
Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be
Oh Monday Monday, how could you leave, and not take me?

Every other day, every other day,
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah
But whenever Monday comes, but whenever Monday comes
You can find me cryin' all of the time...


Does anyone like Mondays? Seriously? "It's Monday... YEAH, BABY! I've waited all weekend for this!" Does anyone actually say that?

I'm going to make the best of it. I am going to be grateful today, even if it kills me. My Monday Gratitude list:

1. I have until Friday before I have to put on stage makeup again. This is a good thing, because I am seriously allergic to Max Factor's wonderful contribution to theater arts. You may not have heard, but I have the most sensitive skin in the known universe. (Thanks, Elaine, for the pic, which I shamelessly stole from LipstickDaily.com!)
   
2. BELLY DANCE! Mondays are belly dance days, and I missed last week's class because of tech rehearsal. I can't wait to go to class tonight, shimmy and undulate!
3. Coffee! I can drink coffee again for a few days! I've been off the java juice all weekend because of my show... caffeine is not so good for the voice.

What are YOU grateful for today?