The Big Piece of Cake

It's Just Like "Mr. Mom" Except I'm a Girl...

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:00:00 +0000

I'm over at DC Metro Moms today talking about how I'm channeling Michael Keaton in one of his most memorable roles. NO - not Beetlejuice. Although that is the face I see in the mirror most mornings these days... I mean his stay at home dad movie. Drop by and let me know if you see any similarities.

UPDATE: Apparently this post was controversial. Didn't see that one coming... But I did get a "shame on you comment." I tried to follow up by apologizing, but maybe I'll wait to read the rest later when I've had time to thicken my skin... So if anyone else is offended - sorry in advance.

Fine Feathers

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:10:00 +0000

Continuing with my Friday fiction posts... As usual - I'm sitting down with little idea of what I'm going to write. Still with Vivi - but I think it's time to bring Ivy back in. Let's see if I can make it happen this week.

I set up a post that consolidates all of the posts so far HERE. So for the sake of context - you may want to read what you missed first.

Of course it wasn't easy - but it was a start. And then each day, getting out of bed sounded just a little bit better. The world came back into focus and even the sun shone brighter.

Though the latter may have had something to do with finally opening the shades...

Emerging from that cocoon of blankets, bourbon and tears made her feel like a brand new butterfly in truth. A little fragile, but ready to test her new wings. And while corny metaphors typically made her snort in derision, this was the exact image she held in her mind as she walked out her door for the first time since the funeral.

Vivi put a great deal of thought into her choice of clothing that day. She wondered whether she was expected to wear black or gray. Were somber colors still considered more appropriate for a recent widow?

Well screw that. Black was for evening and gray was for secretaries. She selected her favorite teal silk. Paired with matching heels and the pearl cluster earrings Sam gave her for their last anniversary, she was ready. But ready for what?

Having not really considered where she was going, Vivi paused in the foyer to think about that. And a good thing too. The natural light streaming through the front windows had thrown the dark circles under her eyes into high relief. The hall mirror showed her a shadow version of herself that was rather disconcerting.

"Well," she thought, "that's what God made sunglasses for."

She decided to go to the National Gallery. Then maybe she would have a cup of coffee by the fountain.

The idea of being with people, but not having to talk to them was very appealing to Vivi. Regardless of how fabulous she looked, there was still the very real possibility that she might burst into tears, and that just wouldn't do. She would ruin her makeup and possibly soil her lovely clothing if she cried.

Vanity aside, it was these fine feathers that were holding her together. The thinnest of barriers, her looks were no more than an egg shell. Just one crack, and she might truly fall apart.

She wasn't ready for conversation. She wanted to be seen, and that was all. To announce her presence to the world at large. That she was back.

And who would have thought that any comeback Vivi Rogers made would be so quiet. Certainly not her. But that's what it was. A quiet day of walking through galleries and people watching on the Mall.

It was just like any other day. Except Sam wasn't with her...or there when she got home...or expected to walk through the door in time for dinner...or just on a business trip... That was her favorite one - to pretend he was on a business trip.

These little fancies - pretending that he wasn't really gone - never did go away for Vivi. It was an indulgence that she refused to give up. Maybe someday. But not yet, and certainly not then.

Back then she had an excuse though. She had to start small. Just leave the house. Think about what to wear. Thinking about how to live the rest of her life without Sam would have to wait until later when she was stronger.

So every day her first thought was about what to wear. Frivolous or not - it was an unconscious morning ritual. Some people had coffee...she had her closet. And strangely enough, clothes became so much more than the beginning of her daily routine. They started her career. They introduced her to some of her most treasured friends. And because of this, the first thing she noticed about anyone was what they were wearing.

She liked to tell this to people so she could see their reactions. Some just chalked it up to her being shallow. Others took it personally. But everyone thought about it.

Ellen was horrified. Nancy laughed. David looked smug. And Ivy had to smile.

If you wanted to catch up on the fiction posts...

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 16:46:00 +0000

I've been doing this weekly fiction thing (refreshingly SHORT posts in comparison to what I typically write) and each time I provide back links for anyone who wants to catch up on what came before.

This is getting to be more than a couple of links...so I thought I'd create a place where I could keep everything together. I'll just update it each time I write more.

Sorry if this keeps popping up in your reader each time I update, but I'm not technical enough to come up with another solution.

Look for my next fiction post momentarily...

10/5/09: The Wrong Shoes

Ivy hated her shoes.

They were navy blue with a delicate heel. The slightly pointed toes were much like those of the shoes her mother wore to work, and there were two tiny straps on each that fastened with pearly blue buttons. They looked like something from another time. Old fashioned.

The minute she saw the shoes she wanted them. She loved them. And they were navy which was an approved color for her school uniform.

She could tell her mother was pleased with the selection. The approving smile seemed to say, "what taste my nine year old has."

And that should have been the first warning sign. Because her mother's idea of good taste didn't quite fit in with the styles and trends rocketing in and out of her soon to be fourth grade classroom.

But on a hot August day, when memories of the previous semester were faded and limply tucked away between the leaves of old schoolbooks, Ivy forgot herself. Full of anticipation for the new season and its accompanying wools and plaids, she forgot that her love of all things "antique" was not shared by the other girls her age.

They went to soccer practice and sometimes ran faster than the boys. They loved feeling the wind in their hair. They were effortless and unstudied. Their braids were perfunctory while Ivy's were painstaking.

They wore the sensible brown shoes their mothers purchased. The ones held up to them for approval while they sighed and wilted with boredom. Then they scuffed them on the playground without a second thought. They let the laces fray and the pennies tarnish. Shoes were admired for their wear, their down at the heels proof of a life well lived.

"Do you love them?" her mother had asked as the sales woman rustled tissue paper and searched for a pen. This was the scripted question preceding all transactions related to Ivy's wardrobe. By the time this juncture of the shopping trip had been reached, only the affirmative was expected.

"Yes," Ivy said, even as she could feel the boulder of self doubt starting to roll. It's descent truly picking up speed when it was too late to turn back. That initial shifting of the earth beneath her feet should have sent her back to the shelves and the safety of shiny brown loafers and sturdy boat shoes.

But she told the truth, sealing her fate for yet another year of expressing that so little valued good taste.

And now on the playground watching the blur of effortless grace whirl around her, Ivy felt her folly keenly. She now hated her shoes. The art of ancient foot binding sounded no less painful than this bitter regret (and foot binding technically was old fashioned). She was her own worst enemy and was now thoroughly disgusted with herself.

When Melissa approached, her already scuffed loafers and slouchy hand me down sweater just rubbed salt in the self pitying wound. Oh to have Melissa's older sisters...to have them make these clothing decisions in advance. The tall girl's lanky angles and sloping gait were a study in confidence and the knowledge that others had already paved her way.

Right then, Ivy would have given anything for holey Weejuns.

At close range though, Melissa's grey eyes wistfully hinted at a contradictory green. She looked down at Ivy's feet and mournfully said, "I like your shoes."

10/9/09: Vivian's Roots

Do whatever you want Vivi, but for god's sake don't be boring.

Even as a young girl, Vivi found this party line of her mother's to be the height of irony. Between all of the lounging and the cocktail sipping, Mama was quite possibly the most boring woman on earth.

But Ethel Clinton nee Chambers was also the most beautiful woman on earth - or close to it - so she didn't think she owed the world too much else. At least that's the way Vivi saw it. And Vivi got to see quite a bit of Ethel during the day, because in spite of "the child's tedious questions" and "unnecessary theatrics," Ethel didn't like to be alone.

So young Vivi spent her days watching Mama wilt on couches while putting on airs that only a Southern woman who came from money could claim. Which she could not, since she was neither. At least that's the way Vivi's Daddy saw it, and said as much.

To this, Ethel took great affront since she most certainly did consider herself to be Southern woman. But in spite of her Virginian birthright, her own daddy was a Yankee - and a middle class one at that - and it was only her dark eyed glare that kept people from reminding her of that fact.

Vivi didn't take after her Mama in any way. She was a Clinton through and through, and her blue eyes twinkled more often than they narrowed at people. She was far more observant than Mama and learned early on that you get much further in life by laughing than glaring.

And she laughed. A lot.

She laughed at Mama when she went off on one of her tirades about...anything. She laughed at her sisters when they told her she couldn't climb trees like the boys. She laughed at everyone who lamented over her not inheriting her mother's beauty like her sisters did.

She especially laughed at that. Because she was plenty beautiful on her own.

In fact she didn't give two hoots about having a Yankee Granddaddy since she fully intended to be a Yankee herself one day. As soon as she was old enough, she was taking her red curls and long legs to New York. She was going to be a fashion model.

The rest of the women in her family could faint on couches all they liked. She was going to be someone. Not just someone's beautiful wife.

Now at age 59, Vivi had to laugh again. Because she never did move to New York. She never did become a real "Yankee" as they used to call them. And she did in fact become someone's beautiful wife. But she wouldn't change a thing, because whatever she did or didn't do, she made sure it was on her own terms.

Looking at her red curls in the mirror, she thought two things. First that it was time for a touch up. Her roots were showing. Mental note: must call Claude for an appointment. And second that her Mama did teach her something very valuable all those years ago. Vivi may have been many things in life - but she was never boring.

10/16/09: Just a Little More Vivi

Sam often claimed that this was what he loved best about her. He said that she always made everything fun, and that he liked a girl with moxie.

Vivi liked a man with a good vocabulary. And she loved it when her husband would gift her with one of these gems.

She delighted in hearing what others thought of her. She lived so very much in her own skin that it was hard to see herself from the outside. Some might consider her unquenchable thirst for definition to be a sign of extreme narcissism, and they wouldn't be half wrong about that... But truly, Vivi just liked to feel special. And Sam made her feel like the most fascinating woman in the room.

So she admired her sparkling "moxie" in the light and then tucked it carefully away with the rainbow strands of words that made her Sam's Vivi. While she had many sides to show the world - and she often boasted that she didn't have a bad side - this was her favorite. It was the one that she most wished to see. To see herself through Sam's eyes was precious and private, and one of the things that she missed most now that he was gone.

10/30/09: The Role of a Lifetime

Losing Sam at such a young age was one of Vivi's greatest regrets. And it was the only one that ever made her feel bitter. To her way of thinking, if you didn't have any regrets in life, then you didn't expect very much for yourself. And Vivi's child bride expectations could have eclipsed the grandeur of Notre Dame at sunset...of the New York skyline at twilight...of any helicopter ride through Hawaiian rainbows. She had see all of those things. With Sam. And not one of them compared to her hopes for their future.

At the very least, she had expected that they'd grow old together.

When your husband drops dead of a brain aneurysm at age 49, you can't help but have a few bitter moments of regret.

But Vivi chose not to linger over long in those melancholy moments. As much as she would have given anything to rewrite that one piece of history, she was far too committed to her own life to live for Sam's death. Limbo wasn't a place for the likes of her.

She never did anything halfway and she gave grief her full attention when it was new. She stayed in bed for weeks on end and planned to follow Sam within the year. Mama of course rolled her eyes and said "Vivi honey - do you have any idea when first act will be over? As soon as it's intermission, I'm going to need a drink."

While this would have sounded shocking to anyone outside of the family, it always made Vivi throw back her head and laugh. A deep belly laugh. Another off kilter response that bonded them as mother and daughter...I'll see your insensitive quip and raise you an inappropriate peal of laughter.

Ethel was never known for her brains, but it was just this kind of comment that hinted at her considerably sharp wit. And not for the first time, Vivi wondered what Mama would have been like in life if she actually cared enough to participate.

Fourteen years ago, Vivi's surprised laugh was dry and brief, and it flew into a thousand papery wisps as soon as it left her throat. There is no music in bitter laughter.

But it did wake her up a little. And she realized that no amount of overly dramatic posturing would make the terrible truth any less real. She couldn't play the tragic heroine or victim because this wasn't the stage. There was no audience save herself, and she preferred something a bit lighter.

She who was always said to be so full of life then made the predictable choice to go on living. It wasn't what she had wanted or expected for herself. But Mama was right - the show must go on. So she got out of bed, made the old bitch a drink and started considering her next twist of plot.

Studies Show that Excessive Viewing of My Little Pony Videos Can Cause Brain Bleeds in Overindulgent Parents

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 23:46:00 +0000

Remember when people used to joke about getting stoned and watching the Teletubbies? Well, I've never actually seen the Teletubbies since they were a bit before my time - but I think that people who are drunk should check out some My Little Pony episodes.

Because anyone who attempts this while sober may lose their mind and require immediate hospitalization. And heavy doses of anti-hallucinogenic drugs.

My Little Pony screenings should really be included in accepted U.S. torture techniques. I would take five days of sensory deprivation over five hours of the ponies. (Okay - so that's not really true, but you get my point.)

You may not be familiar with My Little Pony due to a lack of daughters or the great fortune of giving birth to them prior to this particularly odious phenomenon. If that is the case, I would ask you to imagine everything that has ever been annoying about girls. Then add a purple and pink color scheme, cloying lesson-based story arcs, squealing, giggling, slumber parties, dance contests, fashion shows, make overs and a dash of glitter. All with tinkling chimes for every scene change. Oh yeah - and ponies.

I was first introduced to My Little Pony movies when my daughter, Eleanor received one of the ponies for Christmas last year (not from me) and it came with a little "Meet the Ponies" DVD. It's been almost a year, and we only JUST started watching this thing.

You see, unfortunately for Eleanor, our house is outfitted for boys. She's simply outnumbered - Thomas Trains and Matchbox Cars prevail.

Sure we have plenty of the gender neutral Disney and Nick Jr. DVDs - but if we ever err on the side of "boy" or "girl" toys, Barbie eats G.I. Joe's dust.

Until the ponies... Eleanore LOVES those damn ponies.

The first time she watched a My Little Pony episode, it was late at night and she was up with some kind of ailment (I think it was the night she burned one of her hands). In attempt to distract her from her discomfort, Chris looked for something girly for her to watch - something that she typically misses out on in this house of boys.

So he turned on My Little Pony. And she didn't blink for the entire 45 minutes. She was rapt. It was like the mother ship was calling her home.

And now we live in fear of those dreaded words: "I want ponies." Because she's brainwashed her twin brother into thinking that he likes it too. George asks for ponies almost as much as Eleanor does. As you can imagine this thrills Chris to no end.

But back to getting drunk and watching My Little Pony... I have to admit - it is kind of hilarious.

The very first one I ever saw had me in total hysterics (and I wasn't even drunk). That particular episode opened with a pony rock concert. Complete with screaming groupies and a hunky front man. It was quite possibly the most bizarre thing I've ever encountered. I couldn't stop laughing. Eleanor was very serious about her pony enjoyment and gave me sidelong looks of disdain.

Lucky you! I found the clip:

Really my biggest question here is "who set up the mics?" The absence of opposable thumbs presents far too much suspension of disbelief for my liking...

Then the other day, we caught this little gem. A pony love story with bad advice from both the girl ponies and the boy ponies (very Summer Lovin' in spirit):

But if you can't stomach the undiluted syrupy sweetness, here is a version that anyone can enjoy:

Hey - even Pink likes ponies...

Kathlin Argiro Sample Sale in DC this weekend!

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 16:14:00 +0000

I've written before about my friend Kathlin Argiro and her beautiful dress collections.

Well - she's going to be in town (that is if you live in my neck of the woods) this upcoming weekend for my high school's Esprit de Noel Christmas Bazaar.

I have purchased a few amazing pieces at this annual event - all at a fraction of the price she typically charges.

Here are the details:

Annual Esprit de Noel Christmas Bazaar

Friday, November 6th, 8:30 a.m. - 9:00 p.m.
Saturday, November 7th, 9:30 a.m. - 4:00 p.m.

Georgetown Visitation
1524 35th Street (at Volta Place)
Washington, DC 20007

No admission fees and free parking on campus!

And here are some images of my favorites:

And that doesn't even include her gorgeous wrap dresses (which for some reason aren't on her website at the moment...) But here is an old image from my archives:

I'm feeling inspired to pull out the art box and sketch some of these lovelies... We'll see if that ends up happening - but I'll definitely be at the sale to admire the real thing. Hope to see you there!

The Role of a Lifetime

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:00:00 +0000

Due to some other posts that took precedence last week, I didn't write fiction. As usual - I'm sitting down with little idea of what I'm going to write, but I'm staying with Vivi. Who knows if I'll ever get to her connection to Ivy... But that's still my intention.

You should probably read Vivian's Roots and then the continuation for the sake of context.

Losing Sam at such a young age was one of Vivi's greatest regrets. And it was the only one that ever made her feel bitter. To her way of thinking, if you didn't have any regrets in life, then you didn't expect very much for yourself. And Vivi's child bride expectations could have eclipsed the grandeur of Notre Dame at sunset...of the New York skyline at twilight...of any helicopter ride through Hawaiian rainbows. She had see all of those things. With Sam. And not one of them compared to her hopes for their future.

At the very least, she had expected that they'd grow old together.

When your husband drops dead of a brain aneurysm at age 49, you can't help but have a few bitter moments of regret.

But Vivi chose not to linger over long in those melancholy moments. As much as she would have given anything to rewrite that one piece of history, she was far too committed to her own life to live for Sam's death. Limbo wasn't a place for the likes of her.

She never did anything halfway and she gave grief her full attention when it was new. She stayed in bed for weeks on end and planned to follow Sam within the year. Mama of course rolled her eyes and said "Vivi honey - do you have any idea when first act will be over? As soon as it's intermission, I'm going to need a drink."

While this would have sounded shocking to anyone outside of the family, it always made Vivi throw back her head and laugh. A deep belly laugh. Another off kilter response that bonded them as mother and daughter...I'll see your insensitive quip and raise you an inappropriate peal of laughter.

Ethel was never known for her brains, but it was just this kind of comment that hinted at her considerably sharp wit. And not for the first time, Vivi wondered what Mama would have been like in life if she actually cared enough to participate.

Fourteen years ago, Vivi's surprised laugh was dry and brief, and it flew into a thousand papery wisps as soon as it left her throat. There is no music in bitter laughter.

But it did wake her up a little. And she realized that no amount of overly dramatic posturing would make the terrible truth any less real. She couldn't play the tragic heroine or victim because this wasn't the stage. There was no audience save herself, and she preferred something a bit lighter.

She who was always said to be so full of life then made the predictable choice to go on living. It wasn't what she had wanted or expected for herself. But Mama was right - the show must go on. So she got out of bed, made the old bitch a drink and started considering her next twist of plot.

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?*

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 12:00:00 +0000

As a family primarily populated by small children, we're really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say "we have three kids." They are finally all able to understand Halloween - or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word "pumpkin" must be included in every other sentence - at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh - and if there aren't any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a "must have" on one of our trips to Harris Teeter - LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, "what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?" Why not? Because it's now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I'm starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately - George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother's costume:

If I don't hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously - we've had some BIG fights about that). I've written before about George's tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we'll have two Supermen this year. I don't care - at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn't demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is "decorating the ceiling." What - you've never tried this? Well let me tell you how it's done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time - but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can't peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They're like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes... And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don't have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn't in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don't usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons' misbehavior. It's all about example setting at our house.

Anyway - the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling.

But orange and black is festive for Halloween...and it makes the ceiling look old...like in a haunted house... Oh who am I kidding - it looks like crap. And I'm fairly certain that it won't be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey - but it's true).

So here it is October 30th, and we're all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we'll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn't deviate much from everyday life a "the house of kids" - where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

EPILOGUE: It is now a year after I originally wrote that. And yes - the ceiling has of yet to be repainted. It's like I don't even see this stuff anymore...

*ANOTHER re post - but I do kind of love this one since it really gets to the heart of what it's like to live in my house... And I've updated the pictures since back then I didn't realize that you could select larger images OR add more than five per post (my ingenue period). Happy Halloween week!

Why I Hate Halloween*

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 11:36:00 +0000

Hate is a very strong word - especially since it's only one half of my bipolar feelings for Halloween. So to pre-empt any self righteous indignation on behalf of this annual dress up party, I'll first state some of the things that I LOVE about Halloween.

I love candy. I love little boys and girls in pirate costumes. I love little boys and girls in princess costumes. [Okay - so the little boys dressed as princesses are just hypothetical since their fathers won't allow it. But those that settle for being princesses in their hearts will eventually have their day in Key West.] I love chilly nights with glowing, grinning pumpkins. I love the sound of a neighborhood party and the sight of men unafraid to wear tights in public (even some of the aforementioned censorious fathers). I love the idea that for one night you can put on a costume and pretend to be someone else. Because don't we all entertain the idea of being someone else every once in a while? Even just for a minute?

So with that out of the way... I must confess that I also hate Halloween (at least 50% of the time). Why? Um - because it's scary.

I have mentioned previously that I do not enjoy horror movies. The Ring did not give me thrills and goosebumps. It made me want to throw my TV out the window screaming, "never, never, NEVER do that do me again! How am I supposed to sleep at night now that I've seen that?!" I'll stick with Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin thank you very much.

But how can you avoid the truly scary stuff in these October weeks? I live in fear of channel surfing in the evening. You may be clicking through, looking for something entertaining - perhaps a Will & Grace rerun, or maybe one of those Danielle Steele movies on Lifetime - and out of nowhere you are confronted with Linda Blair screaming obscenities and spewing green slime. That is just not something I'd like to see. Especially as a surprise. I don't particularly like nice surprises, let alone those of the demonic variety.

Another thing I don't like about Halloween: the undead. The whole premise of this day is that the dead come back to visit, and my very least favorite droppers by are the ones that don't know how to stay dead. At its very core, the idea of the dead coming back to life is decidedly NOT fun. Yet every year, people strap on their fake gore and find each others' missing heads and terminal wounds delightfully amusing. Exactly when and how did the undead become festive?

But then there is this whole other world of candy corn and superhero costumes. It makes me feel so conflicted... Especially when I find myself talking to people who are entirely against Halloween. One coworker told me that her kids passed out candy, but did not dress up like their friends. The reason being that their grandmother felt very strongly about Halloween and called it the "devil's day." My response was that "it's not if you go as a fairy princess." But given my own aversions to Satan and the undead, I can see her point.

In the end - I do not ban Halloween, and OF COURSE I encourage my children to dress up and have fun. But there will always be that part of me that says, "wait - why are we doing this again?"

No need to give me a history lesson - I know the background. But I kind of think that the Hallmark corporations of the world have made us forget about those very serious superstitions and instead, turned the day into a Disney themed party where both lovely and horrifying creatures coexist with only theoretical bloodshed.

My own unreasonable fears and phobias will never allow me to fully buy in though; and I'll be more likely to avoid the dark basement at night than to gleefully festoon my front lawn with fake corpses. I think I'll just stay home and pass out candy to three year old ladybugs. And I'll stick to Netflix movies until November first.

*Sorry for the repost - but it's a busy week - and this is so old you're probably reading it for the first time anyway. Happy Halloween week!

When being a mother means choosing between a pee-soaked shirt or a possible call from child protective services.

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 12:26:00 +0000

Scary Mommy has thrown down the gauntlet and asked for other scary mommy stories. As in "mirror mirror on the wall, who is the scariest mommy of them all?"

Okay - so I don't think she's an evil queen or anything (or is she...), but she claims to be the kind of mom who is "scary." This refers to "the anti-perfect mommy. The mommy who despite adoring her children to death, will admit to wanting to wring their little necks. The mommy who forgets to shower until bedtime. The mommy who drives through Chic-Fil-A to get fruit for lunch rather than deal with schlepping the kids to the grocery store."

My first thought is, "you can get them to eat fruit? I'm intimidated."

It would be hard to come up with a comprehensive list of what makes me scary. You can just click on any one of several labels on my sidebar (Oliver, George, Eleanor, Little Ones, World's Best Mom...) I've covered everything from refusing to buy my kids toys that would drive me crazy (for their own good), to bribing them with candy (for my own good), to refusing to let them help decorate the Christmas tree (because a perfect tree makes Christmas even more special for children), to comparing my daughter to Mr. T (because I can), to letting them run around town looking like the cast of Oliver (they're own fault for outgrowing perfectly good clothes)... I even wrote a list of reasons why I'm a scary mommy (although I called myself "that mom"). Twice. So as far as scary mommy status goes, I think I've really covered my bases here at The Big Piece of Cake.

But Scary Mommy isn't asking for links. She's asking for something new. And I do happen to have a rather cringe-worthy story that hasn't been told as of yet...

A year ago, we visited my Aunt and Uncle in New Jersey. They live on a block of lovely little houses that happens to be positioned behind a large public high school. And directly across the street from their front door is a driveway that leads to all of the playing fields and tennis courts. A perfect venue for entertaining your three year old while your two year old twins take an afternoon nap.

So on that Indian Summer Saturday afternoon I walked hand in hand with Oliver down the driveway and into a wonderland of bleachers and dusty pitcher's mounds. While it was already quite a distance for Oliver's little legs, he heard the siren call of tennis balls hitting clay. So we went even further into the school grounds to watch the tennis lessons and recreational matches going on.

At this point, any games that may have taken place had ended so aside from the tennis courts, the fields were fairly deserted. We (he) could run up and down pathways between the chain link and exclaim over the very exciting ball smacking going on everywhere we looked.

After an hour of tennis, we took an abandoned ball over to the bleachers and played a complicated game of catch that involved jumping down, climbing up and throwing the ball far out of the catcher's range just to watch them (me) run.

Needless to say, after an hour and change, we were exhausted. It was time to go.

About halfway across the playing fields, Oliver's stubby little legs gave out and I was given the option of sitting down on the ground with him or picking him up and carrying him. Since I was used to hauling that big boy around on a regular basis (mainly to make him submit to my will - but same-same), I scooped him up with ease and made my way back down the driveway that led to my Aunt and Uncle's house.

What I didn't expect was to find an almost 6' tall chain link fence blocking our path. Apparently, the gate is locked for the day once school activities conclude, and that time must have passed while we were climbing bleachers. I was feeling rather nonplussed since I didn't even realize that there was a gate. But there it was...

And there we were... Tired, hungry and wet. Although Oliver had been potty trained for a while, I realized that I must not have taken him to the bathroom before leaving the house (a rookie mistake that I still make on a regular basis). So of course, he had an accident. Which was at that moment soaking through my shirt.

The only other way to exit the school grounds was on the other side of the tennis courts. Which would require about a mile walk around the huge block back to our destination. Holding an exhausted 50 lb. three year old. With pee pee soaking through my shirt...

I looked at Oliver. Then I looked at the chain link. Then I looked behind us at the tennis courts. Then I looked again at the chain link. Then I finally looked at Oliver, let out a long resigned breath and said, "yeah - we're going to have to go over."

And how does one go about hoisting a small child over a chain link fence? In my case, not very well...

First I explained the process to him, "okay Oliver - here's how it's going to go down. I'll hold you up as high as I can over my head, and then you are going to throw your legs over the top of the fence. Then I'm going to dangle you over the other side, and count to three. When I get to three, I'll let go, and you will jump to the ground. Sound good?"

After receiving a blank stare for confirmation, the plan was set. It was go time.

As it turns out, lifting 50 lbs of dead weight over your head is not as easy as it sounds. And Oliver was no help at all. Seriously, no initiative whatsoever - you'd think he was a child or something... But somehow, I managed it. And in less than a minute with only minimal scratches from the jagged fence top, he was dangling just a few feet over freedom.

I'll admit that he didn't quite stay on his feet when I dropped him, but he scrambled back up quickly enough (mommy's little trooper) and received me with open arms - the better to climb me with - as soon as I joined him on the other side.

The rest of our walk home involved a very short trek through some underbrush due to ANOTHER chain link fence. Honestly - what are they keeping in that high school? The Hope Diamond? But this one seemed to just block cars from the driveway and much to our relief, we could make our way around it.

As soon as we arrived back, we changed into clean clothes and told our story to a spellbound crowd of admirers (or to a few horror struck relatives...potato-potahto...) But alls well that ends well, I say.

I did consider fudging the truth, but we scary mommies wear our poor parenting moments like badges of honor. Even if they just serve as a reminder of where improvement can be made, "right - never doing that again."

And no - I have never lost my mind and tried to toss a child over a chain link fence since. But not to worry - I fall short daily, serving peanut butter sandwiches for dinner because that's all they'll eat...pretending that I'm not aware of them disobeying orders in the other room since it's just easier that way...letting them skip teeth brushing because it will just provide another 15 minutes of evasion opportunity to an already late bedtime... A scary mommy's work is never done. And I never leave my post.

Motherhood opened today, a movie about a mom/writer/blogger. Also, the director is a woman and a mom, too. We should really try to support this movie and show the studio heads that there is money to be had by making movies for US. I'm going to make an effort to get out there and see it - which is pretty huge considering that I have seen the inside of a movie theater about three times in the past four years.

And yes - I do owe you an update on the conference call with Uma Thurman...but I'll try to do that next week (as usually, I've stayed a bit long at the party and this post is a beast). But here's a spoiler: I could barely hear her, she got cut off several times, and I spent most of it running away from my whining children (thank god for the mute button). So yeah - it will be REALLY exciting.

My Children and Gross and Annoying - The Final Chapter

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 14:15:00 +0000

I felt I needed to do one more of these since Part II focused almost entirely on "gross." And my children are far too annoying not to give them equal time in that arena.

So let's just jump right in shall we?

Oliver? Shreds paper. I mean, like all the time. And not only is this strange, but it's also messy. As if my house isn't a disaster as it is...

It all started with him realizing that he could use tissue paper to make snow for one of his little Thomas Train scenes. Then he found he could also use it to simulate soap suds for "the wash down." And THEN he cut out the middle man altogether and started shredding it just for the sake of creating little piles.

The saving grace is that he only does this with tissue-like paper. Paper towels are about as thick as he's willing to go. So at least 50% of the paper we own is safe from his machinations.

Now, I know that this is all tied in with his sensory issues and it's somehow soothing for him, but having to keep anything tissue-related out of reach is ANNOYING. Seriously - it's like living with a gerbil.

Also? He will trail me around the house asking me for the same thing over-and-over-and-over-and-over... Like:

Oliver: Mommy - I want some milk please.

Me: Okay - just a minute honey.

Oliver: Mommy - I want some milk.

Me: Okay - just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Me: Just a minute.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk.

Oliver: I want some milk. I want some milk. I want somemilk. I wantsomemilk. Iwantsomemilk. IwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilkIwantsomemilk.

Oh my god (insert Chandler Bing's signature tone here) someone make it stop.

This one probably doesn't have anything to do with his Spectrum issues. Instead, I think it's a direct result of my inability to maintain focus for more than 30 seconds. You see, it's a very common occurrence for one of my children to ask me for something, and then for me to say "you bet!" and walk purposefully out of the room...only to get sidetracked by something else and never be heard from again. So this is probably his way of making sure I follow through. Proving that I have only myself to blame.

Still very annoying though.

Then there are the twins.

For a long time I found it seizure inducing when they would scream the same thing in stereo. But now I get the pleasure of listening to them argue. And make simultaneous yet opposing demands.

If one of them wants the lights on, the other wants them off. If one of them wants butter on their rice, the other wants it plain (and god help the woman who doesn't make it crystal clear that their servings were prepared separately as ordered). If one of them wants to watch The Wonder Pets on TV, the other one wants to watch Diego.

Don't get me wrong, they play wonderfully together and they are the best of friends. But they're learning how to assert themselves just like any other three year olds. So it's inevitable that they'd seek out opportunities to clash.

The best is when they do this in the car. Because you know, I can't escape. It usually has to do with keeping the windows up or down. And compromising with one up/one down doesn't work since from what I understand, wind can reach you from either side.

So I hear "I want-a window DOWN!" and I put the windows down. Then I hear "NO! I want-a window UP!" and I put them back up. Then "NO! Down!" - and they go down. Then "[howl] NOOOOO! UP!" - and they go up. And this continues until I decide that it's kind of funny to mess with them and start rolling the windows up and down as fast as I can.

This would be when they join forces and either hate me or think I'm the funniest mom ever. On a good day it's the latter.

Another precious little habit of theirs is to turn a short bedtime story into an hour-long activity by demanding to take turns reciting their version of the text on EVERY PAGE. And if I try to turn the page without each of them having their full moment in the spotlight, they make "the noise."

I put "the noise" in quotes, because that's what I've starting to call it, saying "don't you MAKE that noise or I will put this book away." A tactic that is only partly effective since they generally switch to writhing around on the floor howling "NO!" in an attempt to squeeze my brain until it literally explodes.

It's very hard to capture "the noise" in writing, but I guess you could call it whining. Phonetically, it would be something like "Eh! Eh! Eh!" Which doesn't sound that bad as I reread it...but believe me after five storybook pages of that, you will start scanning the room for sharp objects to drive into your eardrums.

And if they're really on their game, they will battle each other for the last word. Each making "the noise" after the other takes their turn - making it impossible for me to turn the page until I finally lose it and say "that's it! Lights out!" That's usually when they drop to the ground and pull out another signature move that I like to call "sizzling bacon." That one looks a lot like demonic possession (I mean - from what I've seen on TV), but the exorcism is far more simple. It just requires assurances that we WILL in fact continue the story if they just stopstopstopfortheloveofgodpleasestop.

So yeah - that's kind of annoying.

This has gotten rather long, and any other parents reading this know that I could go on forever. So I'll end with a new favorite.

Eleanor has decided that she is only a part time three year old. The rest of the time, she is thirteen. This manifests in her angsty practice of being frequently wounded by something innocuous that we do or say. She will immediately leave the room and then settle in a spot nearby where we are sure to hear her whimpering tears.

At first I thought this was hilarious. It brought back so many memories of sitting alone in my self inflicted misery, just waiting for someone to happen upon me and realize how wronged I have been by such a cruel world...

But then I remember that she's only three, and isn't slated to become an angsty teenager for another 10 years. So does that mean that we will get more of the same until 2019 when she officially takes office as the resident teenage girl? Or is she just starting to hone her skills ensuring her black belt in emotional blackmail by age nine?

I'm afraid to speculate. Hopefully, I'll be too busy cleaning up shredded tissue paper to notice.

Belated Monday Muse: Making Lemonade

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 18:50:00 +0000

No - not like Country Time. I mean like making the best of what you've got.

I've had a hard time catching up since we got back from the wedding this weekend (I'll post a picture or two soon), so no time to write.

But in the meantime - I'm pretty inspired by THIS - something I just read on Chris' blog. What an amazing woman...

Don't forget to grab a button and add your Monday's Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

Just a Little More Vivi

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 13:07:00 +0000

This is a continuation of last week's fiction. I have no idea what I'm going to write - but it will be short because I still have a lot of packing to do!

You should probably read Vivian's Roots first for the sake of context.

Sam often claimed that this was what he loved best about her. He said that she always made everything fun, and that he liked a girl with moxie.

Vivi liked a man with a good vocabulary. And she loved it when her husband would gift her with one of these gems.

She delighted in hearing what others thought of her. She lived so very much in her own skin that it was hard to see herself from the outside. Some might consider her unquenchable thirst for definition to be a sign of extreme narcissism, and they wouldn't be half wrong about that... But truly, Vivi just liked to feel special. And Sam made her feel like the most fascinating woman in the room.

So she admired her sparkling "moxie" in the light and then tucked it carefully away with the rainbow strands of words that made her Sam's Vivi. While she had many sides to show the world - and she often boasted that she didn't have a bad side - this was her favorite. It was the one that she most wished to see. To see herself through Sam's eyes was precious and private, and one of the things that she missed most now that he was gone.

Again - I still haven't gotten to what I had initially intended to write about Vivi... Maybe next week.

A Few Updates and a Major World Event*

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 11:21:00 +0000

We're leaving early tomorrow morning for a wedding in Cleveland, so I'm going to be offline until next week. In the meantime, I thought I'd sneak in a quick update.

First - I'll definitely try to do a short fiction piece for tomorrow (for all three of you who are enjoying them). It's been fun, so I don't want to drop that.

Second - I DID actually write something of substance for this week - so if you have time, you can find that HERE (and leave me a comment so I know you came by).

Third - I owe you one more My Children are Gross and Annoying post. I haven't forgotten. That should be up next week.

Fourth (maybe I should have used bullets...) - I had the opportunity to participate in a conference call with Uma Thurman yesterday. She talked about her new movie Motherhood that's coming out next week. I was also privy to a little online marketing controversy, so I have some thoughts on that as well. More on this next week.

Finally - don't forget to visit Vodka Mom HERE to learn about an amazing program as well as your opportunity to win some great prizes.

Now - with "housekeeping" notes out of the way, I do have one major update.

We finally got Eleanor off the junk.

We were going to wait until after our trip since there is nothing worse than being trapped in a car for six hours with a toddler jonesing for her pacifier. But as it turned out, the last two that we had went missing on the same day last weekend. We really did look for them too (believe me - we looked). But they never did turn up.

Bedtime was rough. There was a lot of screaming which made bedtime stories a bit challenging. Have you ever tried to read a Thomas the Tank Engine storybook while a 30 lb. banshee shrieks in your ear? As if the tedious story line and creepy humanoid faces on the trains weren't bad enough...

Then when I turned off the light, she pulled out her best Linda Blair and shook the room with seizure-like thrashing and mattress kicking. Before she started foaming at the mouth though, she had one of those crying-related coughing fits that of course ended with me cleaning vomit off of her in the bathroom.

Fortunately - this all seemed to exhaust her (and I suspect it kind of grossed her out as well) so she went back to bed quietly with a refreshing sippy cup of water.

Three days later, we're letting out a collective sigh of relief. Next up - potty training!

See you next week.

R.I.P. Paci. Gone but not forgotten....(she does still ask for it now and again)

*Okay - not exactly a "world event" but it was fairly earth shattering for us.

It's Like They Just Know...

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 12:00:00 +0000

Ever wonder if your children are reading your mind? I'm talking about this over at DC Metro Moms today. I know a lot of you claim to dislike the sci-fi genre - but don't worry - this isn't an "X-File" or anything. For those of you who were first in line at I Want to Believe, sorry to disappoint.

Monday's Muse: "I'm going to lost weight and then I'm going to steal all of your boyfriends."

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:47:00 +0000

This is a very loosely quoted line from one of my absolute favorite people in the world. And it's a sentiment that only she could pull off with such three-snaps-in-Z-formation** style.

Before she had her blog GwenniePie, Gwen guest posted for me (part I over at Amy in Ohio and then part II at The Big Piece of Cake) about her incredible weight loss and life reinvention story.

But the inspirational part isn't about her running the Marine Corps Marathon or meeting the man of her dreams. What really makes her muse-worthy is that even when she was overweight and thinking that she needed a change, she STILL thought she was pretty fan-fucking-tastic.

That kind of self confidence is rare and exactly what makes Gwen EVERYONE'S favorite (I'm not particularly original in this). So she is my Muse* this week.

I strongly suggest that you read her wonderful guest posts (see above for links) and start reading GwenniePie which will now chronicle her year of getting back into running AND planning her wedding which I'm sure will be the party of the century.

Need more convincing? Read THIS.

Love you Gwen!

*I find that almost all of my inspiration comes from people. So you can expect all of my Monday Muses to be about people that I think everyone should know.

**If you have no idea what I meant by that Z snap thing - it's the "Zorro snap" from Men on Books. I know - anything from In Living Color is now almost obscurely old school, but I've had that in my head all day and couldn't resist.

Don't forget to grab a button and add your Monday's Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

More Fiction: Vivian's Roots

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 16:00:00 +0000

What do you know? I'm actually following through on something I said I was going to do here. I've written another fictional piece (again in one sitting - keeping it short) and I honestly think I'm going to do this every Friday. If I didn't fear jinxing myself, I'd name this theme something like "Fiction Friday" - but then I'd absolutely let it fall off the radar. Too formal.

Instead - I'm keeping this open. I'll try to do something like this weekly - and we'll see how that goes. I'm also going to try to keep all of the writing connected and see if I can get an actual story out of it. Just to create some direction. I just wrote this story (or piece of a story) and had to stop before I got to the part where it connects to Ivy. But it will. Possibly next week.

Vivian's Roots

Do whatever you want Vivi, but for god's sake don't be boring.

Even as a young girl, Vivi found this party line of her mother's to be the height of irony. Between all of the lounging and the cocktail sipping, Mama was quite possibly the most boring woman on earth.

But Ethel Clinton nee Chambers was also the most beautiful woman on earth - or close to it - so she didn't think she owed the world too much else. At least that's the way Vivi saw it. And Vivi got to see quite a bit of Ethel during the day, because in spite of "the child's tedious questions" and "unnecessary theatrics," Ethel didn't like to be alone.

So young Vivi spent her days watching Mama wilt on couches while putting on airs that only a Southern woman who came from money could claim. Which she could not, since she was neither. At least that's the way Vivi's Daddy saw it, and said as much.

To this, Ethel took great affront since she most certainly did consider herself to be Southern woman. But in spite of her Virginian birthright, her own daddy was a Yankee - and a middle class one at that - and it was only her dark eyed glare that kept people from reminding her of that fact.

Vivi didn't take after her Mama in any way. She was a Clinton through and through, and her blue eyes twinkled more often than they narrowed at people. She was far more observant than Mama and learned early on that you get much further in life by laughing than glaring.

And she laughed. A lot.

She laughed at Mama when she went off on one of her tirades about...anything. She laughed at her sisters when they told her she couldn't climb trees like the boys. She laughed at everyone who lamented over her not inheriting her mother's beauty like her sisters did.

She especially laughed at that. Because she was plenty beautiful on her own.

In fact she didn't give two hoots about having a Yankee Granddaddy since she fully intended to be a Yankee herself one day. As soon as she was old enough, she was taking her red curls and long legs to New York. She was going to be a fashion model.

The rest of the women in her family could faint on couches all they liked. She was going to be someone. Not just someone's beautiful wife.

Now at age 59, Vivi had to laugh again. Because she never did move to New York. She never did become a real "Yankee" as they used to call them. And she did in fact become someone's beautiful wife. But she wouldn't change a thing, because whatever she did or didn't do, she made sure it was on her own terms.

Looking at her red curls in the mirror, she thought two things. First that it was time for a touch up. Her roots were showing. Mental note: must call Claude for an appointment. And second that her Mama did teach her something very valuable all those years ago. Vivi may have been many things in life - but she was never boring.

That's all I have time for today. But this isn't what I was planning to write about Vivi. It's an intro gone wild. My verbosity always gets the best of me... I'll have to pick it up again next week.

Make Mine a Double: Part II

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

*Did you get to see Nie Nie on Oprah yesterday? If you weren't at home and weren't able to DVR it - here is a short clip. As if her writing wasn't inspiring enough...

Continuing my birthday tribute to George and Eleanor who turn three tomorrow, here is part two of their birth story (a re-post from last year). Last we left off my water broke while I was getting my hair did, and I had to borrow a cell phone to call my doctor. For the full version of Part I, go HERE.

We last left off the evening of October 9, 2006, with me driving to the hospital with amniotic fluid soaking through my pants and into my car's upholstery. How's that for an opener? Didn't catch the "Part I" post? Maybe you should read that first.

Back to the story. I was very lucky in that I didn't start having painful contractions until I arrived at the hospital. It was only when I was sitting in some light traffic, that I started thinking about the fact that I might not be able to drive if my barely perceptible contractions became more intense. I was definitely rethinking that decision to let Giacome finish my blow dry before leaving for the hospital.

Ideally, Chris would have been driving me - but it was important that I go to the hospital immediately since I was definitely going to have a c-section (George, "baby A," was breech). And Chris had to drop our 18 month old, Oliver off with friends before coming to meet me.

It was a little anti-climactic when I first arrived. I drove around for a bit looking for a good parking place, and then I stopped to give someone directions on my way into the building. Once I reached the reception area, I had to wait in line behind people who were interrogating the receptionists about whether it was possible to order vegan meals from the cafeteria. Okay - I just totally made that last part up. But I did have to wait in line behind a bunch of people that did not have blood pouring out of a gunshot wound OR amniotic fluid streaming down their legs.

Eventually I was sent up to Labor & Delivery where I finally got a little service! Actually - it was a bit disconcerting because when I provided my name, the nurse said, "oh - your doctor just called. She's very worried about you." I asked if I should be worried about me. She clarified that since surgery was necessary, they wanted to check me out right away. So off I went to triage.

Here is where the pregnancy crazies come into play. The young nurse who "checked me out" said, "oh yes - I can feel that head." Now - this made me very excited because last I heard, George (who was positioned to be the first one to come out) had his little heiny jammed firmly into my birth canal. Could he possibly have turned? Could I skip the whole major abdominal surgery thing and have the twins the old fashioned way? I was really getting psyched about this.

Then my doctor arrived. She is great and I trust her implicitly, but that woman is strictly no nonsense. I told her about the miraculous head sighting (or feeling), and she gave me one of her famous looks. "Kate," she said, "it is almost impossible for that to happen now. They have very little room to move at this point." But I wanted my fantasy to be real, so I begged her to check - just to make sure. She agreed to go get the ultrasound equipment, and I could literally feel her eyes rolling as she walked away from me. Long story short, the nurse gave me false hope. She felt George's butt, not his head.

Shortly after my disappointing news, Chris arrived looking like he had just parachuted onto the front lawn of the hospital. He was excited though and I needed some positive energy in my little corner of triage. Then I noticed that he only had one bag with him. I had packed two. Was it the bag with my skincare products and my toothbrush and my comfy socks? No - it was the bag with my DVD player and my books and magazines. I asked him if the other bag was in the car, and he said, "what other bag?" I said, "um, the one sitting right next to this one?" Nope - didn't ring a bell. I expect that when I called to tell him my water had broken, he didn't register anything more than, "water broken...blah blah blah...hospital...blah blah blah...Oliver...blah blah blah...bag." Oh well - at least I could watch some Gilmore Girls if I got bored.

As much as I really was dreading the surgery part, I was happy to see my anesthesiologist and get the news that it was go time. The contractions were becoming more than uncomfortable. And Chris was starting to get on my nerves, all windblown and positive with only one suitcase... Men.

Since I had expected to have a c-section, I knew what to expect. I kissed Chris and told him that I'd see him in the OR. He had to scrub in. Then the anesthesiologist and I walked down the hall together. Which seemed weird. I was kind of expecting to be wheeled in on a gurney. Or to at least be pushed in via wheelchair.

The next thing that I remember finding a little unnerving is that when I lay down on the operating table (which was so thin I thought I might fall off - is it me or do you picture something more along the lines of a dining table?) I was completely stripped below my chest. I don't know why this would surprise me since I'm familiar with the area where they make the incision. But I just didn't picture being naked. Especially with strange men wandering around talking about sports. Everyone seemed a bit too jovial for my liking... What did they think this was, Gray's Anatomy? Were they going to be too busy flirting across my blood and guts to notice that I was bleeding out? No - I wasn't overly fond of the banter. I wanted them to come to MY surgery with their A game.

Anyone who has had a c-section before may have noticed that I skipped the part about having a needle poked into my lower back to administer the spinal block. It wasn't my favorite part - but it was over quickly enough. Let's leave it at that. But the actual effects of the spinal block made me want to jump up and run screaming out of the room (if I could actually move my lower body that is). They had positioned me so that my knees were up in the air, and then suddenly my lower body just disappeared. But I knew that my feet were on the table and my knees were bent. BUT I couldn't feel them. This made me ca-razy! But once they moved my legs back down so that they were on the table again (couldn't feel it - but I knew they were doing it - eeeeww!), I felt better.

I also noticed that the numbness reached up to my chest and I was finding it hard to breath. Of course that could have been due to the general sense of panic, but the numbness didn't help. Finally I couldn't stand the jokes and the sports and the numbness and the tiny table and that fact that I was AWAKE for all of this, and I pulled off my oxygen mask and clutched the arm of the closest nurse. I dragged her down so her face was right next to mine and said, "listen - I just need to tell someone...I'm REALLY SCARED." She kindly patted me on the shoulder, replaced my oxygen mask, and told Chris who had just entered the room to come hold my hand.

And then it started. I of course couldn't see what was going on since there were about ten inches of sheet screening my view. But Chris had to actually avert his eyes since he was sitting up. He was given instructions to stay facing me if he didn't want to "see anything." Chris and I are pretty much in agreement when it comes to the inner workings of the human body. We never want to see anything.

Most of the procedure was a blur - but suddenly, there was George with a full head of dark hair. He was pink and screaming - and he looked nothing like my first baby. So it was kind of like having my first baby - if that makes sense. I had never seen anything like him. Chris went to go look at him as they started to pull Eleanor out. She looked a little bizarre since she was up in the top of my uterus and didn't get washed off the way George did when my water broke. She was covered in vernix - but she looked more like Oliver did when I had him (just a little light brown hair on her head). But she was a girl and that was new to me. Chris watched them clean her off and saw both babies get weighed. Born at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) George was 5 lbs. 11 oz. and Eleanor was 5 lbs. 12 oz. They were so tiny.

It was at this point that Chris decided to come back and talk to me. Big mistake. Or it wouldn't have been if he turned back the way he had come: facing me. Instead he went in the other direction, and got a perfect view of the intern inspecting my uterus (outside of my body) and then shoving it back in. A nurse had to grab his arm as his legs started to buckle. He didn't actually faint, but he almost did. Now that's an image that will haunt your dreams. And he wasn't too keen on what he saw during the "regular" birth of our first son. You know how the doctor says you have to wait six weeks before you can have sex? Six weeks after I had Oliver, Chris looked at me and said, "I'm not ready."

Stop making faces Chris - that last line is crucial to the story. Well maybe not - but it's really funny.

So that's it! We got to hold our babies and take a picture and then all kinds of drama began the next day. But that is a story for another day. Today is a birthday. And while I've never been one to get sentimental the miracle of birth - I'm VERY sentimental about the birth of my own little angels.

Happy Birthday George and Eleanor. I love you so very much.

Make Mine a Double: Part I

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 05:04:00 +0000

So there I go announcing that I'll be a fiction writing machine, cranking out stories every Friday - only to realize that this Friday is George and Eleanor's third birthday!

But I think I can get away with skipping the heartfelt tribute. It's not like they can read (thank god I didn't buy that infomercial product that teaches your kids to read by the time they are 8 months old - close call!)

No - I don't think they'll notice. And I doubt my readers won't mind one less "three years ago today a little angel entered this world and my heart" post. Does that sound cynical? Sorry - I just spent an hour talking George down from the "I want to sleep in YOUR bed" ledge. We have GOT to stop that madness... No - I love my twins to pieces, but I'll sit that hokey pokey out this year.

Instead, I'm reposting their birth story. Which was kind of epic and full of thrills (spoiler: my water broke in public). Part I today and Part II tomorrow.

Since the twins won't be tuning in to The Big Piece of Cake on Friday, I will attempt another little story. So check back to see how that goes.

And now...Part I of "Make Mine a Double":

Exactly two [now three] years ago (give or take a week), I looked like this:

And yes - it was just as uncomfortable as it appears. And what is even more outrageous is that I remember looking at that picture and thinking it was "flattering" - that it made my stomach look less gigantic than it actually was. So apparently, I was even bigger in real life. People who have never been pregnant before can pick themselves up off the floor now. It's not like that happens overnight. You do have some time to get used to it.

Enough about my enormous stomach though (shut up - I mean then, not now!). I am showing embarrassing pictures of myself as an opening for the story of the birth of my twins. It's their birthday! On October 9, 2006, at 9:23 p.m. and 9:24 p.m. (respectively) I gave birth to George and Eleanor Hood. They looked like this shortly after they departed my body:

And no - they were not nearly as angelic as they appear. Actually, they were perfectly sweet babies - it's just that there were two of them. And having had one newborn already - I knew the difference between one screaming baby and two screaming babies. It's simple math: 2 x 1 baby = 1 seriously deranged mother. But that's another story.

On the morning of October 9, 2006, I had a feeling that the end was near. While my scheduled c-section (my "baby A," George was breech) wasn't supposed to take place for another week, I just didn't feel right. And of course I was already four centimeters dilated and showing some "signs" that are TMI for even this blog. Also, we had just moved into a new house three weeks prior and I was still carrying my 35 lb. 18 month old up and down the stairs. This probably helped to speed things along.

The bags were packed and waiting by the door and I was finally resigned to the fact that George was not going to turn over for me, and I would have to have my first experience with surgery. Awake. One word: barbaric.

We were as ready as we were ever going to be - and I decided that I would spend the day trying to wrap things up at work, even though it was a federal holiday and the office was closed. It's like I knew...

I won't get into the details of the day - mainly because I barely remember them. But at about 5:00 p.m. I was ready to leave. I felt the urge to do some errands, so I called Chris and told him that I would be running late, and that he'd have to do Oliver's bedtime routine (which he was more or less covering already in preparation for my post surgery limitations). Then I was off to the mall.

First stop - the cosmetics department at Nordstom. I was running low on concealer, and you know - this is a huge priority for someone that expects to be sequestered to their house for several months. I have to look good for the mail man and all. Then I headed over to Suissa, a hair salon where I had a history of success with random stylists (I'm notorious for being a walk in client).

When I arrived, the receptionist smiled at me and told me that I was the third expectant mother to come in that day. My first thought was that I hoped the others were as far along as I was and also sporting ill fitting maternity clothes that hinted at a penchant for inappropriate belly baring. I didn't want to be "the big one" when they talked about the run on pregnant ladies that day. She told me that Giamcome would be able to take me immediately. (I don't remember his name - but I once had another stylist named Giacome, and I think it suits my no name guy.)

Giacome? Not that much of a talker. But that suited me well enough, as my mind was racing in fifty different directions, and I didn't mind NOT playing 20 questions with him as he pretended to be interested in my pregnancy. But one persistent thought running through the rest was that I was starting to worry about incontinence (don't worry - this isn't a story about incontinence - but it's relevant in context). All day, I had been feeling a little...well, loose - for lack of a better word. I had never experienced incontinence before, and I was wondering if this was an early sign.

It was while my hair was being washed that I had the first pang of concern. There was definitely something going on down there - and I was feeling extremely grateful for the long black gown that covered my legs. At this point, I was thinking that I might look as if I had just had accident - or more accurately, that I looked like I HAD had an accident. But at the end of the day, I'm an optimist, and I hoped that it either wouldn't show once I was standing up - or that maybe it would be dry by the time I had to unveil myself.

The haircut was uneventful. It was looking exactly like what I had requested and Giacome continued to play the strong silent type. But about ten minutes into the blow dry, something rather significant happened. I suddenly knew that I was not experiencing incontinence. I had my water broken for me in the hospital when I had my first son, and while this was not the same, there were definite similarities. It finally dawned on me: I wasn't peeing my pants - I was going into labor.

I had never spontaneously gone into labor before. My 9 lb. 2 oz. first born was a week late and I had to be induced. And I was expecting a scheduled c-section for the twins. So I was completely unprepared for the slapstick situation of having my water break during my blow dry at the Tysons Corner Suissa where I was a goddamn walk in for god's sake. Oh my god! Damn!

But I'm nothing if I'm not practical. And I never panic. So I quietly weighed my options as Giacome continued to smooth and straighten my hair. I had done this once before, and I knew that I had some time before I actually went into real labor. At this point I wasn't even having contractions. Oh what the hell - my hair was only half done, and I figured that it wouldn't hurt anything if I just let him finish. I deserved to have perfect hair for my first surgery. Awake. BARBARIC I tell you!

Plus - I kind of needed time to figure out what I was going to tell Giacome. I couldn't imagine that this was something that happened every day at Suissa. So when he finally finished his last flicks and fluffs, it was time for me to break the news. I said, "so Giacome...I have to tell you something. I THINK that my water may have broken." He looked at me blankly - and if he did say anything, I don't remember what it was. At this point I was beginning to wonder if he was actually mute.

Then I stood up and he removed the vinyl drape. And that's when I realized that my water hadn't really broken yet - it was just starting to break. It was only when was vertical and gravity took over that it really BROKE. All over. With sound effects. I was truly in a sitcom from hell. And as an added bonus, that morning I decided not to wear the black pants that I had sported every day for the past two months. No - I was feeling “khaki.” And there was no camoflauging the river of amniotic fluid running down my legs.

Giamcome looked me. I looked at him. And then as if we had the same thought at the same time, we both looked at the chair where I had been sitting. Thank god it was the usual fake leather. I can't even imagine the humiliation of leaving a soggy chair in my wake. I guess I expected more of a puddle - but maybe my pants absorbed most of it. All that was left was what you might find after a very sweaty person in shorts got up from a vinyl seat. And in silence, stoic Giacome switched on the hair drier and commenced to cleaning up my mess.

The receptionist's desk was conveniently located directly behind me, so I grabbed her attention and explained that I'd have to settle up rather quickly. And I would have to use her phone because - of course - I left my cell at home that morning. I called Chris - told him to get the bags, make the necessary calls, take Oliver to our plan A person, and if she wasn't home, to our plan B person. And then I was ready to go.

The receptionist was incredibly sweet and asked if there was anything she could do for me. I couldn't really think of anything... She wasn't a doctor, and she had already helped me with the walk in appointment... And a pedicure was definitely out of the question. So I said that I thought not. But then she offered to get my car for me - and that sounded like a great idea since I seemed to be losing gallons of amniotic fluid with every step I took. And I was pretty sure that I'd needed to keep some in there for another hour or two.

After some discussion about where I may or may not have parked (pregnant women NEVER remember where they park), I told her to "walk in that direction and just start clicking." Eventually she'd hear the "beep-beep" noise.

While I was waiting outside for her, strategically covering my soaked pants with my purse, it occurred to me that I hadn't called my doctor. Rookie mistake! And I didn't have my cell... so had to again rely upon the kindness of strangers. The only person in speaking distance was a touristy looking guy who I think I remember as being Japanese (I know that there were characters on his phone screen instead of letters/numbers). Either way - he definitely didn't speak much English, and I could only hope my appearance made up for any confusion over the translation for "broken water." Apparently it did since he handed the phone over without any questions.

Just as I signed off with my doctor's answering service, the receptionist peeled around the corner in my car. I handed the man back his phone and realized that I had never said goodbye to Giacome. Seems like we should have hugged or something. But it was too late, and it didn't seem appropriate to hug the Japanese tourist. We didn't have quite as much of a history, and you know - I was really wet.

With effusive thanks to the receptionist and the tourist, I was finally on my way to the hospital. As I drove off into the twilight, I wondered what my story's cast of characters would make of my cameo appearance in what seemed to be just another ordinary day at the salon. Would they reminisce about me in months to come? Would they wonder what happened to me and wish me well? I didn't know - but I didn't have time to think about it. My real journey was only just beginning...

Cool ending huh? Like something from a really bad romance novel. Yeah - I just kinda went with it.

What's that? Yes - I said "ending." Have you noticed how LONG this post is? It's definitely a "to be continued." I'll finish up tomorrow. And here are a couple of spoilers: I realize that when you have surgery you have to be naked, and Chris almost faints. In that order. But the two are not related. Till tomorrow then...

Convenient Fiction

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Last Thursday I had to come up with a guest post for Christy of A Lil' Welsh Rarebit and was at a complete loss of what to write. So feeling somewhat inspired for a talented aspiring fiction writer, I decided to try some yarn spinning of my own.

I actually really enjoyed it and it's been on my mind all weekend. So that's my Monday Muse: fiction writing. I think I might try to do more of it here. Maybe make it a Friday thing. So check back on friday and see if I actually follow through (and feel free to join me!)

In case you missed it last week, here is the piece I wrote (in one sitting - which was a challenge for me):

The Wrong Shoes

a rough depiction of "the shoes"

Ivy hated her shoes.

They were navy blue with a delicate heel. The slightly pointed toes were much like those of the shoes her mother wore to work, and there were two tiny straps on each that fastened with pearly blue buttons. They looked like something from another time. Old fashioned.

The minute she saw the shoes she wanted them. She loved them. And they were navy which was an approved color for her school uniform.

She could tell her mother was pleased with the selection. The approving smile seemed to say, "what taste my nine year old has."

And that should have been the first warning sign. Because her mother's idea of good taste didn't quite fit in with the styles and trends rocketing in and out of her soon to be fourth grade classroom.

But on a hot August day, when memories of the previous semester were faded and limply tucked away between the leaves of old schoolbooks, Ivy forgot herself. Full of anticipation for the new season and its accompanying wools and plaids, she forgot that her love of all things "antique" was not shared by the other girls her age.

They went to soccer practice and sometimes ran faster than the boys. They loved feeling the wind in their hair. They were effortless and unstudied. Their braids were perfunctory while Ivy's were painstaking.

They wore the sensible brown shoes their mothers purchased. The ones held up to them for approval while they sighed and wilted with boredom. Then they scuffed them on the playground without a second thought. They let the laces fray and the pennies tarnish. Shoes were admired for their wear, their down at the heels proof of a life well lived.

"Do you love them?" her mother had asked as the sales woman rustled tissue paper and searched for a pen. This was the scripted question preceding all transactions related to Ivy's wardrobe. By the time this juncture of the shopping trip had been reached, only the affirmative was expected.

"Yes," Ivy said, even as she could feel the boulder of self doubt starting to roll. It's descent truly picking up speed when it was too late to turn back. That initial shifting of the earth beneath her feet should have sent her back to the shelves and the safety of shiny brown loafers and sturdy boat shoes.

But she told the truth, sealing her fate for yet another year of expressing that so little valued good taste.

And now on the playground watching the blur of effortless grace whirl around her, Ivy felt her folly keenly. She now hated her shoes. The art of ancient foot binding sounded no less painful than this bitter regret (and foot binding technically was old fashioned). She was her own worst enemy and was now thoroughly disgusted with herself.

When Melissa approached, her already scuffed loafers and slouchy hand me down sweater just rubbed salt in the self pitying wound. Oh to have Melissa's older sisters...to have them make these clothing decisions in advance. The tall girl's lanky angles and sloping gait were a study in confidence and the knowledge that others had already paved her way.

Right then, Ivy would have given anything for holey Weejuns.

At close range though, Melissa's grey eyes wistfully hinted at a contradictory green. She looked down at Ivy's feet and mournfully said, "I like your shoes."

*Just in case you were wondering, this isn't entirely fictional. I did once have shoes like that and it did kind of bother me that I could never master that sporty, messy private school kid look that everyone else had as a matter of course. But everything else is made up. Although I do suspect that my mother was pleased with my very girly clothing preferences...

Don't forget to grab a button and add your Monday's Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

The Wrong Shoes

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 10:01:00 +0000

I'm not here today. Instead I'm telling stories over at A Lil' Welsh Rarebit.

I've never written fiction before but was inspired by the lovely and talented Ann of Ann's Rants. Her fantastic piece, "Date Night" was a recent runner up for the WOW-WomenOnWriting Flash Fiction contest. You can read an interview she gave to the WOW blog, The Muffin, HERE.

I love the idea of conjuring a story, but have never actually tried. Let me know what you think!

My Children and Gross and Annoying - Part II

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 17:30:00 +0000

I hadn't originally planned to do a part II for this, but since I wrote the first post, I've noticed about five billion things that I should have included.

Then Jill from Scary Mommy continued my train of thought by writing about how gross her kids are. So I decided that I needed a second installment featuring more of those special moments that I've shared with my children.

Let's start with gross. I didn't mention eating habits in the last post (aside from the booger eating of course), and that is kind of a big one in my house.

I've mentioned before that my oldest, four year old Oliver has a lot of sensory issues. For him this translates into extreme messiness. He can't just eat a quesadilla - he has to peel it apart, extract the cheese and mush it around a bit for good measure. And if he's had enough to eat, the left over food is perfect to use as a prop in one of his many Thomas the Tank Engine tableaux. Mushed up cheese can be pretty much anything featured in a train crash, from a mountain to a pile of...well, mushy cheese (hey - it could happen).

And he doesn't even have to try to make a mess. A perfect example is the way he eats peanut butter. Given his druthers, Oliver would just eat it straight out of the jar. But since that's not happening on my watch (though it often does when I'm looking the other way), it is usually spread on a rice cake.

The very first thing he does is lick as much peanut butter off of the rice cake as possible. And once he makes a thorough job of that (which can take an ungodly amount of time), he'll finish off the remaining rice cake. Then he's ready to eat all of the left over dregs on his siblings' plates (he REALLY likes peanut butter).

And there are always dregs because almost three year old George, who mimics the peanut butter licking portion of Oliver's procedure will never actually eat the rice cake. For George the rice cake is strictly a vehicle for moving peanut butter into his mouth.

By the end of snack time both Oliver and George are covered in peanut butter from forehead to chin. And Oliver tends to have it all over his stomach and thighs as well since he hasn't quite caught on to this napkin trend that's been sweeping the nation.

George's twin Eleanor isn't quite as messy of an eater as her brothers are - possibly because she enjoys food so much that she doesn't like a speck of it to miss her mouth - but she really outshines them on "the back end" so to speak.

I've already mentioned Eleanor's love of potty humor. Oliver and George could care less about the fart noises that send their sister into paroxysms of giggles (they're probably too busy rubbing peanut butter all over themselves to notice). But that's okay, because Eleanor is gross enough for all three of them. And the other day she took it to a whole new level.

I was enjoying a peaceful moment at the computer while Oliver played on the floor at my feet and George watched Noggin in the basement. Unfortunately, Eleanor was not on board with the whole quiet play thing. Instead she leaped about asking me questions, singing unintelligible songs and whining about her non-existent boo-boos.

While she looked pretty adorable spinning around in nothing but a diaper (yes - I have almost three year old twins who still aren't potty trained - what of it?), I hoped that semi-ignoring her and suggesting she go find favorite toys might encourage her to entertain herself for a while.

Finally, in a last desperate attempt to get my attention, she proclaimed that she wanted to be "nudie" like Oliver (my children are naked about 70% of the time they are at home regardless of season, room temperature or the presence of non-family members in the house). And in one sweeping gesture she ripped her diaper off, brandished it over her head and sent about fifty poo balls of varying sizes flying in all different directions.

I think I screamed. I know Oliver laughed. And I believe that Eleanor was just as shocked by the turn of events as the rest of us.

It was at that moment that George came meandering around the corner (also in nothing but a diaper), and ignoring the poo balls that I was now frantically trying to pick up before anyone stepped on one, announced that he wanted some milk.

Since I was too busy crawling around yelling, "DON'T touch anything!" he took matters into his own hands and yanked the half full gallon bottle out by himself, sloshing milk all over the floor.

Sometimes you just have to laugh.

But annoyance set in about an hour later when I could still smell poop. And it took me several more reconnaissance missions to locate the hidden stray next to the refrigerator.

THEN a while later, I realized that in spite of copious amounts of Fabreez sprayed into all corners of the room, it STILL smelled like poop. With "linen and sky" top notes perhaps...but poop nonetheless.

I was able to forget my irritation briefly during another moment of quiet computer time (what a surprise...all my children seemed to have disappeared...) I even forgot about the smell. That is until George wandered upstairs to visit (hey - HE wasn't the one who flung poop all over the kitchen).

He looked at me and said, "poopie!"

I said, "yes, I know - that was a big mess."

Then he repeated, "no - poopie!"

I acknowledged that, "yes - it does still smell like poopie."

Finally he pointed and said, "NO - POOPIE."

It was then that I looked behind the computer and saw the hidden stink bomb left over from the first explosion. Ah - the one that got away...

I would have closed my eyes and taken a few deep calming breaths, but couldn't since the room literally smelled like ass.

Luckily, that really was the last of it, and the stink is entirely gone. But it's just another nudge to my mental cocoon of denial that we really need to start potty training boot camp asap. Which opens the door to a entirely new world of "gross"...

Since I have barely touched upon "annoying", I'll save that for another time. Look for Part III sometime next week!

Monday's Muse: My Friend Renee

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Today is not just another Monday - a return to work - a rush to make school lunches, locate clothes that "look" clean, and drag unwilling scholars to the bus stop.

Today is not just a day like any other day - one that starts with a challenge to go for the oatmeal when you really want the donut - one that includes active avoidance of responsibilities that can be addressed tomorrow (it's not like the bills are going anywhere).

Today may include all of those things, but it could never be just another Monday - just a day like any other day - because TODAY is Renee's birthday!

In honor of the occasion, I baked cupcakes (from a box), whipped frosting (from scratch) and lit a candle in honor of the birthday girl. Okay - that last part's a lie. I thought I might do that - but then realized that we didn't have any birthday candles in the house. But hey - it's the thought that counts (it think).

When I first "met" Renee of But Why Mommy fame, I was pretty new to blogging and just starting to find people who made me want to de-lurk. Sure I read many of the popular blogs already (since they're far easier to find), but there is no community in a sea 500 comments.

Renee was one of the very first bloggers that I could imagine knowing in real life. If she was my neighbor, we would have long conversations in front of our houses, letting our groceries wilt and melt. If we had children at the same school, we'd sit in the back of the room and whisper about celebrity gossip during boring PTA meetings. If we knew each other in college, we would have many stories to tell involving late night pizza and too much cheap beer (you should see the pictures of my moon face at graduation - yikes!)

Renee isn't just someone who writes a blog that I read. She's my friend. And today is her birthday. So happy birthday Renee! Thank you for welcoming me into this very strange, funny, lovely bag of mixed nuts called the blogosphere.

Don't forget to grab a button and add your Monday's Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

When in Doubt - Wear Pajamas

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 15:00:00 +0000

This is my son Oliver.

He has been Superman for Halloween two years in a row. And no - it's not because he loves superheroes. It's because he would NEVER abide any kind of "costume" that involved head gear, make up, heat trapping fabrics or accessories that must be held or clipped on. Basically - he wouldn't wear costumes. Of any kind.

So I tricked him.

Target sells pajamas that look like superhero outfits. Superman was the only one that didn't necessarily look like jammies though (the detachable red cape that he only noticed and ripped off 50% of the time was a nice touch). So Superman it was!

That was my solution. It was a win-win for all. I had a cute little costumed toddler/preschooler and he got to be comfortable.

It was such a success that we even suited up George (18 months younger than Oliver) in the same pjs last year.

Not what we'll do this Halloween... Now that he's four, Oliver likes costumes, and comfort may not be as much of an issue.

He's pretty big - so I could possibly dress him up as the Incredible Hulk.

I wonder if he'd let me paint him green. Probably not. But maybe if I let him paint himself....

This post is part of Better in Bulk's Give Me Your Best Shot! Friday. Lolli is another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 16:00:00 +0000

Okay - I'm totally cheating. I wrote this a long time ago - but who remembers it right?

Since this is Moxie's Around the Blogosphere in Five Days week, I'm trying to keep up with the writing carnivals (apparently by re-posting old material...). And I don't have time to whip something up for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop Thursday, the theme of which is travel, moxie and superheros." While this does deviate bit from the specific prompts, it involves both travel and a little moxie.

SO - here it is. An oldie but a goodie....

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions
March 13, 2009

Have you ever been in a foreign country and found yourself wondering if your cab driver might be kidnapping you? Well - this did happen to me once. And I suspect that it's not all that uncommon (the suspicion as opposed to the actual kidnapping). I mean, with language barriers, unfamiliar scenery and standard issue paranoia - it seems like this could happen to the best of us.

Or - maybe it's just me. Either way, here's my story.

In September of 2000, Chris and I got married and then flew to Spain for a two week honeymoon in Andalusia. We stayed in Malaga, Marbella/Puerto Banus and Seville. And while we were in Puerto Banus, we decided to make a quick trip to Great Britain.

Yes - you read that right - we left the sunny beaches of the Costa del Sol so that we could enjoy an cool, overcast day in the city of Gibraltar. This British territory shares a border with Spain, and was just an hour drive from our hotel.

Our hotel was beautiful, but after a few days relaxing by the pool with a book, I got at little bored with my sedentary pursuits. Not the kind of bored that made me want to fly home and leave the fun filled vacation of suntanning and tapas bar hopping of course. But the kind that made me feel the need for a day trip.

So that morning at breakfast, I pulled out our trusty Andalusia book and said, "I'm tired of looking at topless German supermodels at the pool - I have to have an activity today." And while Chris probably didn't quite agree about the topless German girls, he was happy enough to leave the hotel to have a little adventure.

One of the reasons that we selected Gibraltar was that we would get to enjoy a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful day and the hour long cab ride felt more like minutes as we took in breathtaking views of sun sparking on sea.

Then we saw "the rock." It's almost shocking to see Gibraltar looming on the horizon. It is literally a giant rock under an ominous looking cloud. We immediately dubbed it, "Danger Island."

While it's not technically an island, it does kind of look like one as you're driving down the coast.

I won't go into detail about our arrival at Danger Island (where we brushed elbows with armed soldiers), or the time we spent there (purchasing hand stitched lace pillow cases and hearing jokes about Monica Lewinsky from the locals). But I will say that my only regret is that we didn't take the cable car up to the top of the rock for a view of Africa. Oh well - maybe next time.

When we departed Gibraltar later that afternoon, I was very ready to put my shopping bags at my feet and close my eyes. Between the walking and the overcast sky I was feeling rather sleepy, and within minutes of entering the cab, I had dozed off.

At some point I felt sun on my face, and peered out from under my sunglasses to see that we were in fact, back in Spain proper. But the expected view of sun sparkling on sea had inexplicably been replaced by green hillside vistas.

While groggily trying to make sense of this new scenery, I realized that my husband was engaged in an animated conversation with our cab driver. This was no surprise since he feels the need to "chat" with pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius. But the fact that we were so obviously NOT driving back up the coast, made me extremely curious. I thought that if I could hear what they were saying, I would surely be clued into where the hell we were going.

Unfortunately, I don't speak Spanish - so I was going to have to ask Chris to translate. Right before I sat up and announced my confusion though, the city girl in me held out a cautionary hand. Something wasn't right. I mean, we were being chauffeured by the Spanish equivalent of a gypsy cab driver, and we were obviously not taking the familiar route back.

My first thought was that it might be a short cut. But in researching our day trip, we did look at a map which clearly showed the coastal road was the most direct route. I may be map-challenged, but Chris is practically a human GPS system. So he would be aware that we were taking the long way.

I had to conclude that we weren't going back to the hotel - or at least not directly. And the fact that Chris and the cab driver were now BFFs indicated that they had made a decision to...well, I wouldn't know would I? Because I was asleep when said decision was made.

At this point City Girl started fuming. What the hell was Chris thinking? This stranger could be a criminal for all we knew. To let him drive us into the hills of Spanish no man's land and to not even consult with me about it was inexcusable. I would NEVER agree to this. What if he planned to take our credit cards and passports and then leave us miles away from civilization. He could be a serial killer. He could be planning to sell me into white slavery. We didn't know anything about this guy! City Girl was irate. I was a little frightened.

So I decided to feign sleep while I worked out what could possibly be going on. And soon enough we seemed to have reached our destination. The cab pulled up to a small group of buildings and parked in what could only be described as a rural ally.

I sat up an started to ask Chris, "exactly what the hell is going on?" But I never had a chance. Within seconds, my companions were out of the car and too busy talking and laughing to give me any explanation. Chris barely glanced over his shoulder as he said something about coming in with them and that we would "only be a minute." Whatever that meant.

City girl and I huffed as we picked up every bag in the cab and dragged them over to the big wooden gate through which the two men had disappeared. There was no way I was leaving all of my beautiful lace napkins and pillowcases in an unlocked cab with open windows.

I'm not sure what I was expecting to see when I followed them in, but I couldn't make any sense of the scene that I encountered. I seemed to have entered a courtyard. To my right were rows of kennels and cages. Dogs barked and birds squawked at our intrusion, and flies buzzed around my head. The general effect was something like a barnyard pet store. Directly in front of me was a paddock with a huge brown horse - apparently, the source of the divebombing flies. On the left was what looked to be the side wall of a house.

Our host had opened a door to the house and gestured for us to stay where we were, saying something that seemed to indicate that he'd be right back. Again, there wasn't time to interrogate Chris about where we were, let alone why we were there. Before I could open my my mouth (which was already agape), the man was back, now holding a box.

He looked at me and asked Chris something in rapid fire Spanish. Chris looked in my direction, and then with a smile shook his head. He laughingly held up his hands and said something that involved the words "no" and "gracias." I couldn't imagine what he thought I didn't want - but I was happy to finally hear Chris say "no."

Then it suddenly came to me. It was so obvious what was going on, I couldn't believe that I didn't figure it out earlier. I gasped internally as I silently articulated to myself, "oh my god - he's trying to sell us drugs."

But before I could begin to puzzle out why Chris would have even agreed to this detour trip, I was being ushered back to the cab. In a cloud of unintelligible banter and every fly previously stationed on the horse's butt, I followed them.

Safely back in the car and surrounded by my shopping bags, my anxiety began to fade. City Girl was back and mapping out the tirade the Chris would hear as soon as we were alone. At this point, I was certain that we were in fact, on our way back to the hotel. And I let out the last vestige of the breath that I was holding when that sparking sea came back into view.

We finally arrived in Puerto Banus, and the minute the cab pulled away I rounded on a happily waving Chris. "What on earth were you thinking? WHY did you let him take us to that, that...whatever that place was? Did he try to sell us drugs?"

Chris just stared at me in utter bafflement and said, "What?"

Exasperated, I replied, "that weird farm-like place! What were we doing there? He came out with a box and asked you something. Then you said, 'no.' Was he asking you if we wanted to buy drugs?!"

Still dazed, Chris said. "He asked if you wanted a ride on his horse. And we stopped there because his radio had died and he needed to pick up another one. That's what was in the box. I figured that you were sleeping and we weren't in a big rush to get back, so it wasn't a big deal. He didn't charge us for the extra time or anything."

Oh.

Well - that didn't sound quite so bad, the way he explained it. I may have overreacted just a little bit. But I'm still a city girl at heart, and don't assume that I'm safe with a stranger - no matter how nice they may seem.

I doubt we would encounter a situation like this again - and now that we have kids, Chris would be far more likely to take a conservative view of friendly strangers with cars. But either way, I like to think that he would remember my feelings on the subject, and at least give me a vote the next time we encounter the unknown.

We were newlyweds - and with every year of marriage, you get to know each other better. I now know that Chris is a good judge of character, and would never have put us in a situation that seemed like it could be dangerous. And Chris now knows that I prefer to be be informed of what's going on - AND to be asked for my opinion before it is assumed.

But Chris did get one thing right all those years ago... You couldn't have paid me enough money to sit on that fly-covered horse. Especially if it meant that I'd have to abandon my shopping bags.

Hope Floats...and Flutters

K8Hood@gmail.com (Kate Coveny Hood) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 18:04:00 +0000

Last summer we thought we might lose my mother. I flew down to Key West with my son Oliver on literally a day's notice.

Her cancer came back after nine years of remission.

It was sudden and terrifying and full of uncertainty.

And darkness.

But on an island that practically trademarked sunlight and sparkling water, it's impossible not to look for hope.

Hope is something I do well. And of course my talent for dissociation doesn't hurt...but I'd like to think that hope is the dominant of the two.

Pretty much everything we did that week involved entertaining Oliver, and what could be better inspiration for hope than a child?

From pushing my father into the pool (thanks Dad - great idea for a game!) to walking up and down the docks looking at fish (luckily the Push Grandpa in the Pool game didn't seem to translate), Oliver kept everything light. We lived in the moment and were thankful for the distraction.

By far, Oliver's favorite activity was visiting the Key West Butterfly Conservatory. It felt like we went every day, and I didn't mind a bit. There is nothing more uplifting than walking into a room filled with fluttering butterflies.

It's very hard to capture pictures of butterflies, especially when they are in motion, so this picture my father took seemed like a mini miracle.

As did my mother's recovery. Something that wouldn't have been possible a year or two prior.

Hope isn't always easy to capture - but maybe it's not meant to be held too terribly close. Letting it surround us without trying so hard worked best for my family.

Our hope didn't just float - it also had roots. Ones that grow stronger every day. My hope now constant, and it's both solid and lighter than air.

This post is part of 7 Clown Circus’ Wordful Wednesday. Angie is another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.