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.

BBC running down the QB

My brother is a player. No, no, not a “playa” like that, I mean, he likes to play. To hear my mom tell, that’s all he did growing up. Play, play, play. Given the generation, it makes sense. He’s one of the kids who played outside from dawn ’til dusk with the neighborhood kids. They went from yard to yard, playing Tackle or Touch Football, Capture the Flag, Manhunt, War, and whatever other games that 10 or 12 ten-year old boys play when they have lots of open space, no rules, and nothing to worry about except getting home by the time the streetlights come on.

Fast forward about 30 years and we still find BBC playing. Aside from being on various other teams, whose names I can’t remember, he currently is playing defense on the Baltimore Brigade, which is part of the Maryland Flag Football Association. Blaze made the Spring 2008 Championship this year and BBC had a hand in that success bringing home 3.5 sacks for the season and 5.5 sacks for the playoffs thus far.

I will admit that when he first started playing football, way back at G.L., I could have cared less. I was what? 8, 9, 10 years old? I do remember the 8×10 photo of him that kept turning up around the house. There he was on one bended knee, in full uniform (maybe #44? Our dad says 42, BBC says 44), helmet resting on his bent leg, and that teenage gaze, full of entitlement that said, “I’m meant to do it.”

The last couple of years that he’s been playing, I’ll admit, I wasn’t all that excited either after seeing a couple of games. They kind of blended into one another after a while. One game on one team from several seasons ago had BBC on offense, playing QB no less. He was stiff-arming, cutting quick, airing the ball out, doing all of those things I’d make my players do when I played Tecmo Bowl on the Nintendo. As the game progressed and he advanced his team downfield, I realized, for a QB, he was doing quite a bit of running towards the goal line. Sure, he would pass, zinging the ball to it’s intended receiver, the pigskin nothing but a swirly spiral of brown and white. But every third play or so, he took the ball down field himself. And then it hit me. Sure he had good receivers, but if BBC could find a way to throw the ball to himself and score, you can bet your a-double that he’d do it. And of course I told him as much.

He wasn’t offended. He laughed — ’cause it’s true.

Anyway, BBC goes out week-end after week-end to play, to ref, to just do his thing on the field, sending back photos, video clips and highlights of his successes. He single handedly is keeping Under Armour in the black, I’m convinced. I keep telling him to make sure he’s well stocked in Ben Gay and Tiger Balm, but he just gives me the equivalent of an over the phone middle finger before lacing up his cleats.

This is how you win games, son!

#30 doesn’t know it, but his life is about to flash before his eyes

P.S. (according to BBC himself) “There was this one time, when you were about 3 years running with joyful abandon, down the slope of our backyard in Easton. You were running towards me, and a split second later, I tackled you, just taking out your legs. You went up in the air, doing your impression of an Olympic diver and then went face first into the ground trying to see if you could get into the center of the earth. Needless to say, your nose was spraying like a fire hydrant on 125th Street the dead of July. I don’t know how in the hell I got out of that with mom and dad. “

I don’t know if it’s the terrible twos or girls being girls or if she has been possessed by Chucky, but my sweet little Mo has become Mo-zilla as of late. If she doesn’t get what she wants when she wants it, if we redirect her from one activity to another before she is ready, if her sister looks at her funny, she is screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs, kicking and flailing her arms and legs as though she’s being electrocuted, and generally making us want to jump in the car and leave no forwarding address.

I have thumbed through parenting books, asked other mothers whose opinions I respect and value for their advice, I’ve turned to my mother, in short done just about whatever I can to figure out how to weather this storm. I’ve on it so much, my prayer has become a simple, “God, you know. Just. . .please. . .”

In the midst of these Mo-zilla attacks, there have been some moments of bliss. Yesterday afternoon we found ourselves at my parents house and the dog needed to go out for a walk. Mo and I walked Sage down and around the cul-de-sac, let her do her thing and headed back to the house. Usually after her walk, Sage is taken off of her leash to run around the yard. Mo likes this part, chasing after the dog, the dog chasing after her and it’s funny to see them playing together. It was hotter than blue blazes yesterday and Sage wanted no parts of running around after her walk — she is 13 years old after all, but Mo was not to be deterred. Miraculously, an afternoon wind kicked up , so she and I ran around on the grass, blew bubbles and just enjoyed the latter part of the day.

We ran to the gate that belongs to the neighbors, ran back to the porch, then ran to the middle of the yard where I picked her up under her armpits, her little hands folded over mine. “Hang on! Hang on, Morgan,” I said as I swung her around and around, faster and faster. I set her on the ground and she tilted and whirled until she fell onto the ground laughing, laughing. She looked the smallest drunk you ever saw, swaying this way and that, laughing so hard she was snorting. This was our afternoon and it was wonderful.

I just want to hold onto that moment, all of great moments that make me relish being a mother to such an exceptionally beautiful child. I need to draw from them when I’m feeling like I’ll be one whose face you’ll see on a milk carton ’cause I’ve up and left from frustration. That afternoon, in the cool breeze and shade-dappled grass, we were a mother and daughter just playing. As I swung her around and around, again and again, I told her to “Hang on! Hang on!”, but now that I think about it, I was reminding myself to do the same.