the card i was dealt

I hate to pull rank, but it's my blog, and if I want to post fifteen pictures of the Valentines day card my kids gave me, that's my right. And if I want to get really emotional as I post them, and cry a little, so be it.

But seriously, I am the luckiest mama in the world.

the envelope. please note the dixie chicks at the bottom:


Rei holding the card:


please excuse her stepford expression:


they personalized some of the hearts. rainbows are my favorite:


on second thought, he's my favorite. and MY valentine, so back off:


my monsters with hearts of gold:

i heart you with all my heart

(Please insert superbly-worded diatribe about the corruption/commercialization of holidays here, paying special attention to the fact that shitty, worthless greeting cards cost $5.00 apiece!!!)

Thank you.

That said, I am every bit a slave to commercialism. Well no, I'm amending that. I'm a slave to sentiment. There we go. Sentiment. That's it. My kids want for nothing, save someone to get rid of some of the extraneous shit in their room so they can play with the same raggedy form-less stuffed animals they've had for ninety three years. And yet here I sit with Valentines day breathing down my neck, and far be it from me to let it pass without some measure of fanfare. Now, I say I do these things to make my kids happy, to show them I love them, and it's true. But there's a serious disconnect when I find myself in Fred Meyer for the THIRD time in one day, just to make sure everyone has a trinket, a thing of candy, and strike me down, one of those blasted heart-shaped mylar balloons! People, it's those balloons that get me. Their simplicity and charm cast a spell on me, and pretty soon I'm buying heart-shaped candy, heart-shaped erasers, heart-shaped bath mats, whatever. It's worth mentioning that these festive little treasures are only a dollar, so I don't have to dig very deep to drag a handful of them home to remind my kids that I love love love them.

I'm a little embarrassed about my attachment to holidays, but in my heart-of-balloon-hearts, I defend it. Granted, I need to manage my time a little better so as to spare myself the maddening jaunts to Fred Meyer at eleven o'clock, whereupon I buy the balloons in secret, forced to wedge them under the Obama rally signs in the back of my Jeep, and hope they don't pop up once I pick up Reilly, who is busy at my mom's, putting the finishing touches on surprises of her own. I'm sure a better mom would observe Valentines day by watching the story of stuff with her kids, before taking the recycling out, and dusting all the PLAN toys, but damn it, those balloons get me every time. In fact, they are so important to me that tonight, I attempted for the first time in history, to go to the store in pajama bottoms. (buries face in hands) I was even undeterred by the absurdity of my clown-sized clogs juxtaposed against my sheer, never mind way-too-short, and definitely not passing as regular pants, pants. I had fully succumbed to the pajamafication of America, a movement I have passionately opposed, all because I needed the balloons. (Oh, and was too freaking lazy to put my jeans back on.) I got as far as the entryway when Todd asked, rather incredulously, "Um, isn't that a wee bit, um, casual?" His words were like a smelling salt, and I quickly retreated to my room to lug out the jeans.

What I am trying to say is that Valentines day, like its cousin holidays, is a total pain in my ass, but the sentimental benefits outweigh the dark side (ie- spending $8.00 on balloons I may forget to recycle, and trying to wear lingerie to acquire said balloons.) It's worth it to see my kids' faces in the morning, and to know that amidst the INSANITY that is our life, they can count on Mama making a fuss over these silly little days. And they know I love them...even when I'm screaming as I trip over the sagging, days-old balloons, with my feet caught in the strings.

Happy Valentines day everyone.

rainy days and mondays always get me down

No carafe, not to laugh. Just a little reminder.

park it

Picture it: Yesterday after rendering myself nearly comatose by consuming five times my share of carbs at breakfast, I was just nestling into my couch when I received a fateful, and rather unwelcome phone call. It was Brandy, oozing with energy and motivation. She had walked seven hundred miles to find a new park with her kids, and insisted that we drive over and meet up with them. When I balked, trying to stretch my carb-induced lethargy into some real-sounding maladies, she only got perkier, which I resented. She then proceeded to throw down the ultimate mother-to-mother gauntlet, and reminded me how good it would be for my kids to get out and enjoy this exceptionally beautiful day. I was defenseless against this admonishment. I thought I might try to injure myself to validate my selfish, lazy need to stay home, but that too would require getting off the couch. You cannot imagine how badly I did NOT want to go to the park, but I looked into the faces of my children, and was totally convicted by her words. I s-c-r-a-p-e-d myself up off the couch, grabbed our coats and a soccer ball, and went. What began as sheer torture at the hands of my closest ally, ended up as a splendid day in which our five kids ran and ran and laughed. I concede that she was correct in prodding me to come, but I will say this.: Next time I flop down onto the couch, I'm silencing my phone.

Giddy up Quinn!


The one time Reilly stopped running.

First time on a merry-go-round.

Quinn, Reilly, Addison, Rose, Maia, and Brandy

can't wait to call her first lady!

death by dexter

For anyone who has emerged from their cave after I did, and has yet to discover Showtime's critically acclaimed drama Dexter, I am here to laud its genius from the rooftop. Except, I am actually under my bed, shaking uncontrollably, with images from this brilliant show flashing through my mind, and I have no idea when I will be able to come out. You see, embedded into the series' wickedly smart plotline are ghastly crime scenes, which render me almost catatonic for days and days. Each time I watch an episode, and then spend the night rocking in the fetal position, I vow never to watch again. This resolve lasts until daybreak, when I become so preoccupied with the storyline that I find myself back at Blockbuster, shelling out four dollars to scare the (beep) out of myself yet again.

It began innocently enough. Brandy, Adam and I were looking for a new series to watch, as Big Love failed to win us over, and all of our friends were raving about Dexter. We were told, correctly, that he is a blood spatter expert who is also a serial killer. And we were told it was pretty graphic. I'm rather sensitive when it comes to grisly murder scenes, being that I wrestle with a vast array of phobias, but this wasn't always the case. I was heavy into true crime back in the day, devouring every Ann Rule book ever written. I even considered forensics as a career after visiting the Oregon Crime Lab in high school, and being fascinated by the severed hands in plastic bags, and how they linked the perpetrator to his crime. But halfway through my first pregnancy, I became pathologically averse to all things macabre and beyond. I theorize that my maternal instinct kicked in, and tried to insulate my baby from the unconscionable atrocities running rampant in the world. I then had another baby, and became completely unable to stomach any gore (except Al Gore in 2000).

This makes Dexter a dicey little dilemma. The tautness of the story is enthralling, but when I watch it, it's all I can do not to pee my pants. I've lost hours of sleep revisiting his crime scenes and murderous pasttime, only to find myself tingling in anticipation of the next episode. Last night I bravely endured the horror for two solid hours, and then spent the next four trying to find a happy place so I could get some sleep. Making matters worse is the fact that the storyline has just taken a hair-raising twist and I will think of nothing else until I can watch more. On the other hand, the sun is starting to set, and palpitations are starting. The ones borne of my fear of this show. I'm so afraid I'm going to pick up the next disc tonight, binding myself to another four-episode minimum commitment. My co-viewers aren't fazed by the barrage of severed parts, nor by the copious amounts of blood, so I suspect I will just have to be big and soldier on. So please don't judge if you see me sucking my thumb, or dragging a blanky around. And whatever you do, don't spoil the ending!

the oh reilly factor

While watching some riveting campaign videos online tonight, my daughter Reilly started asking me some questions about the candidates, and this begat a rather lengthy discussion about politics in general, including the differences between Republicans and Democrats, the war in Iraq, September 11th, oil, delegates, and more.

As I became impassioned about our current president, and what a disaster he has been, Reilly interjected coolly, "And let's not forget about Cheney..." This was no lucky guess for her. Reilly is an extremely active wildlife advocate, and she knows that the animals are in danger specifically because of the Bush/Cheney monster. She got a terribly upsetting email all about it a few months ago, and literally gives every dollar we allow her to give to save those animals. It was important to her that I not prance about my soapbox without naming all the names.

Later, as I tried to paint a picture of the exciting time we're in with the election, and how it all works (minus the mind-numbing super delegates), and how either Democrat will serve us well, and why I care so much, Rei asked me, "George Bush can only be President twice right?" I nodded. Then she added, "Is it possible for him to sneak in and become President again? Is there any way he would be able to do that?" Honestly, I wasn't sure what to tell her. I talk to my kids truthfully, but I'm in no hurry for them to become conspiracy theorists. I figure that will happen in due time, if they use their eyes and ears on any sort of regular basis. So I told Rei that it would not be possible for George Bush to sneak in and be President again. She seemed pleased.

I just hope I'm right...

obama-nation

Strange bedfellows indeed. A lifelong nemesis, I never thought I'd get within an inch of math of my own volition. (Yes I know that an inch is a mathematical term.) But last night, with the pundits ready to coronate Hillary for taking California, math was all I had to keep me warm and hopeful that Obama could close the gap by morning. And what a worthwhile tryst it was! With those oh-so-baffling super delegates trickling in, our boy not only closed in, but he has pulled ahead! As I type, Obama has 910 delegates to Hillary's 882, and I am trembling with excitement.

Of course, math is no slave to sentiment, nor does it make promises. And don't forget that pledges aren't carved in stone.

But there is a surge of hope rising up in me the likes of which I've never felt. Hope that he can restore America's luster, and her shine. Hope that the majority will vote for change. And hope that math will make it a reality.

He has already shown that he has what it takes to lead us to victory.

California who?

Yes We Can

From Karen. I'm too emotional to describe it, just watch.:

obamarama

Turns out our humble little house party was just a cover. Tonight was electrifying. Granted, we weren't exactly turning people away at the door, and our donations won't make any headlines, but I can feel the inspiration in the marrow of my bones, and I have never said that in all my years as a voter.

I've known for weeks that I'd be bidding adieu to John Edwards, and was fully prepared to shift my support to Obama, but in preparing for this party, listening to our guests, and re-watching some kick-ass speeches online, I have been infused with a fervor that almost defies description. You see, I am a half-hearted Democrat who believes that the system, justice, even the voting process, are all so corrupt as to belie the freedom we hold so dear. I think even the good politicians are crooked, that the ones who might actually make a difference die in small plane crashes, and I have serious doubts as to many of events we are taught as historical fact. I think we're in it pretty deep, and it's going to take a lot more than some shiny Democrat to muck us out. So you could say I have a pretty thick crust of apathy around my heart these days, and that is what I brought to the table tonight.

We on the left have some serious barriers to contend with if we're going to conquer what has become our collective voice of cynicism. The media's for sale, the voting is rigged, the good guys aren't much better than the bad guys, everyone's in it for the oil, and so on. Enter Barack Obama. While I applaud Hillary Clinton's global strategizing, I am moved almost to tears by a man who has a plan to strengthen the bodies, minds, and homes of every American, so that before long, we are the voice of power, not the elites, that we may see a restoration of the America that once was. His focus is on building up our rapidly deteriorating country one inner-city street at a time, and giving voices back to those of us left reeling and empty by the haves.

Ordinarily I would hesitate to say this because I try not to lose credibility by the gallon when I can help it, but I believe Obama's words. I believe that he is about more than a platform, and I can honestly see him rolling up his sleeves to fight for what he's promising. He's not being compared to and endorsed by the Kennedys for nothing. This guy's the real deal, and I encourage everyone whose apathy has paralyzed them to take a gander here.

Read it. Repeat it. To anyone who will listen. Thanks.