Pee pee.

Today, Thing 1 decided to take a nap with her little sister, Thing 2. I liked this because as of about four weeks ago, #1 decided she had officially outgrown naps, leaving me to entertain a raucous four-year-old for seven hours straight, without the advantage of swats from a meter stick, slotted wooden spoon, or any of the other objects my mother or father would have chosen (love you guys!)

After story time, I excused myself to go "do big girl stuff" such as crush up a Xanax tab into my water and try to forget the previous four days of work. After a while, the peeps and whispers melt into silence and I figure I'm home free...

I'm one hundred pages into The Diving Bell and the Butterfly -enjoying the slow drain on my emotional taps as I follow the burden of Bauby- when I hear feet scampering across the bedroom floor. The girls are awake and #2 is naked, her wet diaper on the nightstand.

I take #2 to put on a dry diaper while #1 supervises the proceedings and also divulges to me that #2 peed twice. NO! Three times!

"She peed three times in her diaper?" I ask.

"No. Only once in her diaper."

I am just this side of fearful as I begin to dread the possible answers to my next logical question, but I inquire anyhow:

"OK. Where else did she pee then?"

"One time in the twashcan and another time on the fwoor next to the twashcan!" My, my, my what a kind informant.

The beauty of children at this tender age (let's face it: maybe the only one) is that they pretty much don't lie ever. It's like the honest truth just tumbles out of their mouth; a tight-rope walker falling to a swift, messy death. While I admire this fact, the adult in me is still thinking, Really? Why the hell would anyone ever pee into a trashcan? Sure, I peed in a dark parking lot once but I was a too-drunk adult and I really, really had to go but there was nowhere in sight, plus I was wearing a dress so at least I didn't have to mess with the trickery of pants. But I digress...but seriously, in what universe does it make sense to piss into a trash can? A two-year-old universe apparently. Furthermore, #2 is not fully potty-trained, which begs the question: why -in the name of all that is good and holy- can she not get her crap to land in the toilet (she prefers her pants on occasion- fun for me!) but she can make her urine trickle perfectly into a wicker garbage receptacle. WHY?

"But don't worry," #1 says. "I cleaned up the fwoor with mommy's shirt."

Well, kid. There's that.
Thanks.

The great outdoors.

I'll just go ahead and stop apologizing now for my continual re-lapses into blog comas. Anyway, the weather in Austin has been perfect: sunny, cool but with a tinge of warmness, sometimes breezy. And while the ravenous mosquitoes have not heeded my pleas to kindly eat shit and die, they have at least slightly calmed themselves...probably lulled into a deep winter sleep from their summer feeding frenzy.

The weather and buzzing predator count is good enough for the girls I nanny to finally "play outside." Now, this is not quite the playing outside I enjoyed as a tiny thing in northern Virginia: long before the days of GPS, cell phones and microchipping (my dog has this in her neck, has the technology moved to children yet? anyone?) my parents more or less tossed us five kids outside and assumed we would return at the end of the day mostly in one piece. If we got lost in the woods, we had to rely solely on our wits and ability to sob loudly enough for a pigeon to get the message, fly home, and relay it to the neighbor's cocker spaniel -Muffin- and hope she could bark the message to a trustworthy adult.

I now work at a house in the most popular and expensive zip code of south Austin. Everyone has a privacy fence leading to locked homes and no one has a screen door. The kids can't walk down to the stream to catch crawfish or minnows, but they can walk to Flipnotics for a cafe au lait (best one in town, btw).

So I was in the kitchen loading dishes, I told the girls to go outside and play. They blinked. "You have to come with us! Mommy always comes with us!" I told them I'd be watching from the kitchen window. They considered this for a moment and -emboldened by their new freedom- both stripped naked and ran out the back door.

I remember The Mother telling me early on that the girls should always be supervised in the backyard. Honestly, by the way she talked you'd think the place was littered with landmines and war heads, with child molesters lurking in every tree branch. As I watched from the kitchen window as #1 picked up an 8 foot piece of bamboo and started swinging it wildly at the hanging hurricane lamps, I felt fulfilled. Here is what every kid needs: the ability to be out of doors, naked as a jaybird, taking their four-year-old lives into their hands, and perilously dangling it at the edge of impending doom and physical harm. This, dear reader, is what we call learning experiences. Character building. In the end, both girls kept their appendages and eye balls and I had an hour of time to read quietly.

Yup, my mom and dad had it right.

Oz.

First morning in Australia. Here's my bullet list:

• I struggle with remembering to look right when crossing the street. This makes me think that a plane crash will likely never kill me, but I might very well kick the bucket if getting hit by a car that drives on the left side of the road.
• Staying in Rose Bay, a suburb of Sydney. Sitting on the patio feels like being on the Discovery Channel...these birds sound much nicer than our Texas grackles. Oh, and a cockatoo just flew by.
• Sydney is expensive. This most hurts the boyfriend, who hasn't been here in 13 years...times they are a'changin! Also, we picked a stellar time to visit, as the Aussie and US dollar are on parity for maybe the first time in recent memory. Joke's on us, folks!
• Apparently, you drop the end of basically every word and replace it with an "i" or "o." Breakfast is now "brekki," mosquitoes "mozzies" etc.
  
• For the (14 hour) flight from San Fran to Sydney, Phil and I chose the seats in the middle, against the toilets --the ones that *don't* recline -- disproving conventional wisdom that two brains are better than one.

Jet-lag shot me out of bed at 6:00 this morning, and I feel absolutely famished...it's lunchtime back home. Going to rustle up some herbal tea and see if I can't get myself back to sleep.

Also, had a request from the States to investigate the toilet situation south of the Equator: have not been able to determine if they do indeed flush opposite of northern hemisphere toilets, but will keep you all posted....

Free wheelin'

Today is Tuesday, which is automatically good because it's not Monday. Also, I had a morning so splendid, I simply had to write about it:

After getting up for an early walk with my dog, followed by strategically organizing my guest bedroom closet, I enjoyed my peanut-butter-honey-wheat-toast with African roobois herbal tea. I refinanced my car (I'm saving $40 per month!) and mopped my floors. But even better: I had the best bike ride ever....

About a month ago, I made the commitment to forsake my car for the ol' Fuji road bike. My reasoning had several prongs:

• By my calculations, my poor-graduate-student-self could save about $35 a month in gasoline
• I could also cancel my monthly gym membership...doubling my savings
• My shrinking carbon footprint would be the envy of all my bearded, granola friends

I always enjoy my friendly waves to fellow cyclists, fellow fighters against the evil of motor vehicles. There's a camaraderie. Unity. Solidarity in the battle. I've also learned a few lessons:

• Hills are not your friend. My vintage Fuji is uber-cool, looks great but also somewhat impractical for a bike commuter...the bike is so old, the gear shifts are actually at the center of the handlebar stem. Shifting is not graceful, or easy. This is compounded by hills.
• Traffic lights are not your friend. Rather, hills with traffic lights are your worst enemy. By far, stopping at a red light at the crest of a hill (Stassney and I-35, I'm talking to you!) makes me want to weep...just imagine if you will the trickery of pedaling enough to maintain upward momentum, but not too much that you cruise into the intersection and get yourself flattened.

Oh, and a word to non-cyclists with whom I share the road:

• don't shout at me to get on the sidewalk. Seriously, I don't shout at you to get on a treadmill, do I?
• don't honk at me as I struggle uphill. I mean really, throw me a bone here.
• as you fly by me, gently grazing my arm with your side mirror, please keep in mind that my Fuji and I have a combined weight of oh, say, 140 pounds. That's about 1/bazillionth of you and your tank. I don't want to die.
• also, yes, I am allowed to ride in the middle of the lane. In fact, that's where I'm supposed to be so that ass clowns like you can see me better.
• if you're that bothered by bicycle commuters, you should probably move to Dallas.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.

Wait for me! Wait for me!

Holy hell, when did it become September? And where did my blog go? Ah, here it is! Yowza. As a writer, my personal commitment was to blog every day for no more than 20 minutes...the challenge was to make my everyday, mundane life something interesting -and sometimes funny- to read about, with very minimal editing/re-writing.

Well, here I am after a two week dry spell and I'd like to explain myself: You see, about two weeks ago is the moment when Nugget #1 decided she had outgrown naps. This means gone are the two hours of midday freedom, where after I clean up the zoo -I mean, house- I can sit down for a tiny sliver of time and free write. Now that time is spent inventing games like "vacuum snacks" and (the not so cleverly named) "scrub the sink" in order to have a productive day before I leave.

The realization of my neglected blog also makes me marvel at where this year has gone. It seems like just yesterday I was running down 6th street, in purple tights, sequin top, and red heels and counting down at The Red Eye Fly...but that's another story.

So why is it that time flies if we're having fun, but also seems to positively soar the older I get? Sure, I'm having plenty of fun but geez, does it really have to be going so quickly?! NPR has a great piece on some different theories for this phenomenon.

Currently, I'm looking into solutions for manipulating time. Thus far, some sort of time machine seems the most logical means to this end. Particularly, I would like to add a few more hours to my day that is already full of interning, working, and night school-- slow down nights, so I can get a full seven hours of sleep, speed up the time it takes to receive my spring tax return, and slow down the fine lines appearing on my forehead.

Unfortunately, I've scoured Craigslist and Ebay and my time machine dream may never be fully realized (although I did find this little ditty, the price is right but it's not really my style)...looks like my best bet is a pesky thing I keep hearing about called "time management" which involves making "to do lists" and "monthly goals" and "five-year-plans." Blah.

Maybe flying by the seat of my pants ain't so bad after all.

Sneaky.

OK, obviously I've lost track of time which means I have no clue how many days of freedom I have had, or how many days I've been nannying, or how many days since I've showered or changed my underwear. That's childcare for ya...

Recently, #1 (the older child) has gotten into the habit of shouting out, "you didn't see that!" whenever I have my back turned. To her, this is positively hilarious and is followed by a shower of giggles. To me, this is a special brand of terrifying. Positively incredibly how a four-year-old with 74 pink barrettes in her hair can cause the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.

Generally, when I hear this exclamation she's actually doing nothing, but still I expect to turn around and see one of the following scenarios playing out:

a) #1 juggling a chainsaw, two tennis balls, and a bottle of vodka

b) #1 and #2 running naked while allowing a wild squirrel into the house

c) the dawn of World War III about to begin at the hands of a four-year-old who is quietly plotting nuclear warfare

This all brings to mind my mother's constant refrain that she had "eyes in the back of her head." Somehow, she managed to catch me doing absolutely everything I was never supposed to do. I mean really, the woman could be downstairs in the master suite, sleeping like a log while I was upstairs in my bedroom, crawling out the window and onto the roof and before I could get my hot little feet back on solid ground, I'd already be bending over for a spanking. Respect.

Truth be told, there were times when I was living in Maastricht...or Bangkok...or Buduburam and still feared those eyes from the back of her head, that would come right over and slap that bottle of Absinthe or other illicit substance right out of my hand.

Come to think of it, I may have found my secret weapon....

Deuce.

Day 41 of my freedom, day 4 on the job. I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise in my living room: poopy explosion #2 (please see post below from my first day on the job, for reference) this time, of the doggy variety. Not sure if it was Schatzi or George, but it had clearly happened during the night, as most of it was dry-crusted to the floor. mmmmhhhhhmmmmm.

I get to the house and the family decides to throw me a wild card: potty training has been brought to a whole new level and we're going entirely sans-diapers! (I added the exclamation point so as to appropriately communicate my extreme excitement!!!!) Wow. Little Bit has a delightful way of announcing she has peed...please note here the use of past tense. As in, I can sit her on the toilet (to no avail) and then five minutes later she's standing in a puddle- and not the kind with tadpoles, mind you.

...Never thought I'd miss poopy diapers, but poopy pants have changed me in the worst way. I mean, it wasn't quite on a Chernobyl level, but some sort of meltdown happened. Seriously, I don't get paid enough to deal with this shit (pun intended). Truly amazing how much waste a 22 pound child can create.

Finally got the girls cleaned up and packed up for a walk to Town Lake. Because the Universe loves a good joke (and also because birds are gross) a pigeon shat on the stroller, which landed squarely on Little Bit's shoe (as an aside: absolutely incredible a bird's ability to hit a small, moving target...I mean, of aaaalllll the cars driving down the four lanes of Barton Springs Road *we* get bombed on the sidewalk in a tiny stroller) and before I could grab a tissue from the diaper bag (no longer an accurate name, now I think of it) she's put her finger in the poo, and proceeded to lick it off.

Ugh. I hate that shit.

4x4.

Day 39 of my freedom, day 2 on the job. The house was a teensy bit chaotic: in addition to the usual milieu of clients, architects, musicians, and neighbors coming through, there was also a guest chef from Durham here to develop new recipes, some painting guys, and another man in a baseball hat that was doing something involving bunches of wires coming out of a hole in the wall.

So. Needed to get the girls out of the house and out of the way. Fortunately, we are within walking distance of lovely Zilker Park, made even lovelier by the fact that currently, there are *not* eighty billion sweaty, dehydrated music fans stomping around while trying to figure out who's on the main stage at 8:00.

This marks my first experience with a stroller in, say, ten years. My god, they've come a long way! Truly, this thing was the way of the future. It was a two-seater, with a braking system so complicated it had to be explained to me by the Mrs. Honestly, I had an easier time navigating a mountainous foreign country in a popsicle of a rental car. This stroller actually had a spare tire. I mean, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Wouldn't I need a pump or inner-tube or patch or something in order to fix a flat? And when did strollers start boasting spare parts? I'm pretty sure that when I was a child, the wheels on my stroller could have caught on fire while rolling over a bed of flaming-hot nails, then flown off after being shot at by a drug kingpin and my mom *still* would have jerry-rigged the damn thing with a piece of bubble gum, some baby wipes, and a freakin' bobby pin. Respect.

That's another thing...what's with kids always wanting you to "go faster!"?? Listen tyke: I'm pushing you uphill, in a stroller that also converts into a single-engine airplane, in strappy sandals (they're cute, yet impractical, a hanger-on from my old life), in 100 degree August heat, while my sunglasses ever-so-slowly slip down my sweaty nose...don't you know that slow and steady wins the race?

Tomorrow we make an "adventure trip" to Walgreen's. Can't wait to see what the car seats are like...