So I had planned to write at length about the glorious day we had at the beach today. Yes, we went back to the scene of the crime, where the waves knocked me down again and again. Even as we were in the midst of jumping waves and trying to get sand out of every crack and crevice on Co’s body, I was thinking, “Oh, I can’t wait to write about this”.

Then, something even better happened, effectively wiping the slate. Late this afternoon, while we were waiting for my folks to come over for dinner, DH, Mo, Co and I were hanging out with our neighbors, K and C, and one of their kids, H. H is a freshly turned four year old, and a boys boy from the top of his fireman helmet head down to his ubiquitous fireman boots. Most days, we see him and his little sister, R, careening down the sidewalk, just being kids the way kids are supposed to be — carefree, laughing, dusty from playing so hard.

He and Mo were digging in K and C’s front flower bed, running in the front yard, down the sidewalk and back again. As per her usual, Mo had her pink blankie (lovey, wubby, security blanket) with her, trailing behind as she chased H down the block. Somehow or another H managed to get her to part with it and he laid it over his face, over his stomach as he lay in the grass. As K and I talked about this that and the other, C and DH compared favorite restaurants in Richmond. H and Mo were in the backyard, pulling toys out of the garage to play with. Several times Mo would run back to the front, just to make sure we were still there, before running back to whatever mischief there was to be had with H.

She and H returned to the front and continued to dig up the flower bed, spraying mulch and dirt over the grass and one another. I turned to Mo and, I asked her where her blankie was. No answer. At the same time I was asking her that, C asks his son H, “Hey H, what’s that in the front of your pants?”

All eyes on H and the curious bulge that has suddenly inflated his shorts. “Well,” he begins, unconciously jutting his pelvis forward, “Mo asked me to hold her blankie and I don’t have any pockets, so I put it in my pants.”

Oh. . . .my. . . .goodness. . . . Such a thoughtful little boy, that H.

Note to self: Before you ask someone to hold something for you, check to see if they have pockets.

One thing I didn’t have to really deal with when we lived in an apartment were bugs. There was a silverfish chilling on the wall one time and another doing laps in the tub, but after that, I’m hard pressed to come up with any ideas. I’m no entomophobic (yeah, say that three times fast) or anything, but I just prefer that my multi-legged friends keep to their side of the tracks and I keep to mine.

When I was 13 years old, I did a summer program at W&M for about two weeks in the middle of July. The girls all stayed in one of the dorms, which oddly enough became my freshman hall four years later when Mom and Dad stroked a check to the bursar and kicked me out. The dorms were the stuff of stereotypes — cinder block walls, prison cell beds, and I’m pretty sure, army issue desks, circa 1920. Anyway, the dorm also played Holiday Inn to a rather large family of cockroaches. This family liked to congregate at night by the pool (a.k.a the communal bathroom down the hall from our room). Honestly, not a night went by when some poor teenage girl was seen hugging the wall on her way to the toilet for fear of tripping over, stepping on, falling in step with, or even be seen by a towel clad cockroach on their way to party.

Those jokers were all over the place and really, there was nothing we could do but co-exist. Still, a line had been crossed when one night, my roommate and I come back from dinner only to find a little bugger in our room talking about, “Got some messages!” and handing us a While You Were Out slip. WTF? I’m sure this is how Joe’s Apartment got started.

Anyway, back to the here and now (the roaches all migrated to DC; Sorry, Lil’ Sass). Maybe it’s a “city bug” versus “suburb bug” kind of thing. These bugs over at the new house are as brazen as the apartment bugs were hermitic. I open the door to the house and there are about four flies with our storm door propped open like, “Man, didn’t you hear us knocking?”.

I step outside to put out the trash and the mosquitoes settle around me like powered sugar on a cake because yes, I am that sweet. Having grown up in New Jersey, I’ve seen skeeters as big F-16s; they’re not called the New Jersey Air Force for nothing. Here in the VA, though, the skeeters are small, so they attack in droves. In the five minutes it takes me to put out the trash, I’ve been eaten so badly, I look like the post-lunch rush at a Chinese food buffet. And my poor Mo and Co! The bug-spray clearly isn’t working because Mo’s got one right next to her eye and Co’s got one on the corner of her mouth. And see, here I thought we’d kissed all the sweet right off of their faces.

Oooohhh and the itching. All this talk about bugs and bites has kicked up the urge to run a cheese grater or swatch of sandpaper over my arms and legs. There is NOTHING better than scratching the crap out of a mosquito bite. I gotta go; there’s a block party tonight, the hardware store it about to close and I’m all out of Craftsman Assorted Grit.

So, this past Saturday, we loaded up the car and spent some time at the beach with the a colleague of DH and his family. DH realized that he hadn’t been to this particular beach since 1995. After a more thoughtful introspection, DH decided he’d spent more time on foreign beaches since being married to me, than on US beaches. *Ahhh, stick with me kid, I’ll show you the world*

So, I’m realizing that while blogging about my misadventures in parenthood is all fun and games, there are definitely times when I want to pull back from regaling you with stories of Mo asking (more like demanding) Alicia Keys when we drive to the YMCA or stories of Co flinging herself like a kamikaze into a percariously perched mound of pillows on the living room floor.

I think at first, when I started this blog, I wanted to be all Erma Bombeck and just spout off about motherhood, playgroups, and all things BabyGap. Yeah, that hasn’t really happened.

I used to journal every day, even when I really didn’t have much to talk about. Back then, circa 2004 was the last entry I think, I chronicled my thoughts in embroidered, cloth bound books with a very nice pen. Now, I can type WAY faster than I write; forget about writing checks, I barely want to sign the credit card slip. Anywho, I’ve been using the blog as my cyber journal, but because I have no clue who is reading this and because I have some idea of who is, I’ve got to be a little careful with what I choose to impart. Sure, I’ll drop an F-bomb here or there, and sure, I’ll tattle on myself about what a headache motherhood can be sometimes. Sure, I’ll admit that Christian Bale tops the list of my mommy-crushes (the line starts HERE, ladies. Oh and to Wentworth Miller — out of sight, out of mind, babe), but that’s about it.

So, I say all this to say, I’m not talking about the kids today. Boo-frickety-hoo. . . I’m not really cranky today, it just sounds like I am.

That pretty much sums it up. . . .

It’s Monday and we’ve hit the ground running. Thankfully, DH is taking off the next couple of days to get down and dirty in the trenches with me, running hither, thither, and yon for the sake of toddler entertainment.

Today was Mo’s first ballet class. I have been looking forward to this more than she has, let me tell you. Her interest ebbs and flows like the tide. For instance, when we went to sign up, she was all about it. No doubt that fire was fanned by our instructor, Miss M, who insisted that Mo try on some ballet slippers “just to get an idea” of what dance is all about. Gee, thanks Miss M. We planned to sign up, don’t get me wrong, but once those slippers went on, Mo was like Dorothy minus the gingham dress. Those shoes weren’t coming off. And it was as if she realized she was Judith Jamison or something. All of a sudden, she was demanding an ensemble to go with the slippers.

Off and on until today, I would gently remind Mo that she would be starting dance class in July. This often elicited a response of, “I don’t want to” or something to that effect. Rather than get insistent, I just told her that that was okay and maybe she’d change her mind when the time came. Yes, I was breaking my own arm patting myself on the back for keeping it together like that.

Anyway, today was the day and both DH and I were trying to impress upon Mo the importance of listening and following directions. A conversation like that, of course, is best described as shoveling shit against the tide (thanks, Mom, for such colorful euphemisms). Mo was resplendent in her pink tights, leotard, and skirt, and you would think she’d be eating it up. Sadly, no. This little biscuits decides, “I need to wear my green tutu. I need it. I need it. “And, like any good parents, we try to explain, rationalize and paint a broad picture as to why the green tutu stays at home, only to be used for dress-ups. Yeah, that went over like a lead balloon. Hence the pitiful pucker on our prima ballerina.

Despite the face, the class was a rousing success. Moms get to observe via a one way mirror. Six little cotton candy clad dancers with no sense of rhythm twirling more into eachother and the wall than in any one fixed spot is hilarious. Mo, despite our best efforts, really gave Miss M a run for her money as far as listening goes. More than once, Miss M reminded Mo that she (Miss M) was the teacher and not Mo, no matter how many times or how loudly Mo said otherwise. Oy, I’m shaking my head just thinking about it now. I hated to see her called out like that, but I was glad Miss M teaches with an iron fist in a silken glove. It couldn’t have been that bad for Mo, either. She didn’t want to take off her dancewear (big surprise) and said she’d probably go back next week.

Probably. Well, it’s a step. Maybe even one from first position to second.

The girls are up in MD with my in-laws for the week (don’t hate), and I’m trying to put the house together, and pretty much do all the things that I can’t do when I’ve got two in tow. The first two days were busy, but I’m taking it easy today. I’ve stayed at home all day, miracle of miracles.

I started unpacking some boxes, moving stuff around and what not and came across some things I haven’t seen since we packed up back in ’05. Old photo albums, pictures, books, posters, general junk and what not that is like being reunited with old friends. Oh! So there’s my yearbook from the third grade and my photo album of my high school graduation. Oh look at this! Here’s my wedding dress — good Lord, let me put that up in the attic before Mo gets back, sees it and wants to try it on! Awwww, here are my china place settings! Oh and here, here is that silver spoon and that porcelain baby plate and mug set Mo got as a baby present. I’m still wondering what I’m supposed to do with those. I mean, it’s a porcelain cup and plate from Tiffany’s; is she really gonna eat off it? Am I really gonna give it to her to mess with? That’s a resounding no.

This move has been our 6th in 7 years and no, we aren’t military. We just go where the jobs are. But, I’m taking a page from a friend of mine who recently moved to Minnesota. She said she’ s just going to unpack everything, every single box until there are no boxes left. It’s time to see what we’ve got, spread it out, keep some, toss the rest and don’t look back.

It’s been far too long since some of this stuff has seen the light of day. If I haven’t seen it in 3 years, I clearly haven’t missed it or needed it, but I like to know what I’ve got. I’m getting really good at parting ways with things I don’t need. I’ve got 800-Got-Junk on speed dial and several routes mapped out to GoodWill, so I’m good to go. In the interim, I’ll blow the dust off of my old friends and reminisce a bit.