Cords and Fleece

The Supernanny scares me. I don’t dislike the woman -- just the show. Jo seems like a decent woman doing her best to help others and make a living. But I never feel better after watching the show, except to be grateful that I don’t have 5 kids who hit me and beat each other up, which I think ultimately is the true value of the show -- to appreciate what we have. I never quite understand the lessons I’m supposed to glean from the show. Am I supposed to make charts for everything? Schedule every activity? Girls, you may go the bathroom.... now! Most days I just don’t feel that clever. Besides, I think that many of these families need therapy -- not charts. Their issues seem greater than learning how to distribute stickers for good behavior and teaching Skippy not to knuckle-punch his little brother. Or perhaps they just need an actual nanny. In one episode I watched a woman with 4 children obsess over house-cleaning. “I have four children. I have to keep everything clean or this house

I guess I’m having a Ghost World moment. We had a garage sale Saturday, and it didn’t go as I’d hoped. Today I’m just sad and drained. We worked really hard on a hot day to fix and clean everything. I went through the girls’ old clothes and hung their pretty dresses on hangers. I accepted that the toys in the garage were unnecessary and put them out for sale. We polished Elizabeth’s first toddler bed and the girls’ crib. Everything was beautiful. We sold a few things, but very few of the girls’ items. In the end, I practically gave the toddler bed away which was one of the hardest items to give up. As Michael said, “I read a lot of stories to Elizabeth in that bed.” I feel like a dirty, desperate whore selling it for a mere $20. (To any whores who might be reading, please forgive my exaggeration, but I’m on my period and, well, you know how it is...) I keep telling myself that it’s all “good karma” -- that the woman who bought it for her little girl will have many good memories in it,

It’s not easy being a teenager when you’re only two years old. Nobody in my family seems to understand me. In the morning, Mommy treats me like a baby. She tries to put my own shoes on my own feet -- even though I can do it myself (at least most of the time). She tries to put me in the car seat, even though I can climb in myself; and she tries to buckle me in, even though I can do it -- almost. I just need a little practice, is all. But how will I ever get better if she’s always butting in trying to do it for me? Sometimes Elizabeth treats me like a baby, too. Or worse, she treats me like I don’t exist. I try to tell a story, but then she’ll start telling her own story, even though I’m not done. Sometimes I’ll be singing a song, and she’ll start singing it, too; or she’ll start singing a totally different song which, besides being RUDE, makes it hard for me to remember the words to the song I was originally singing. It’s so frustrating! When I get really frustrated, I start to yell;

While folding the laundry... Elizabeth: “Hey, Mommy. You can watch TV and fold laundry at the same time!” Me: “Yes, I can. I can do two things at once.” Elizabeth: “So can I! I can watch TV and lay down at the same time!” ----------- It’s morning and we’re waking up the girls. Elizabeth turns over, sleepy-eyed, sucking on her pacifier. She plucks it from her mouth and asks: “Mommy, if someone gives you a real gun at Christmas, then what?” Elizabeth, is there something you’re not telling me? ----------- Me: “Are you going to yell when we go through the [train] tunnel?” Samantha: “No.” Me: “Well, I think I’m going to yell. Hoot! Hoot!” Samantha: “You don’t have to yell.” ----------- Elizabeth (on toilet): “Mommy, I love you even when I poo-poo.” Awww. ----------- Elizabeth (loudly at a Chinese restaurant): “I want to go to the Chinese bathroom!” As if using the Chinese bathroom would somehow involve chop sticks and lazy susans... ----------- Songs that are better through misinterpretati

It’s pretty pathetic when my confidence comes from feeling superior to teenage girls. I’m walking towards the line at Subway, thrilled that it’s so short, when a gaggle of teenage volleyball players gets in line ahead of me. That’s OK. The line’s still short , I tell myself. But I quickly become impatient with their lack of focus and inability to make quick decisions. Instead of chatting and giving each other high-fives, shouldn’t they be selecting their bread choices? When the weary looking sandwich assembler asks them what kind of cheese they want, shouldn’t they shout “Provolone! American! Cheddar!” instead of saying the unthinkable, “Um... I don’t know, what do you have?” Didn’t they see the sign 12 inches in front of their cute little noses with labeled photographs of, you guessed it, cheese ? Apparently not. Next, two new girls walk over to the group. “Hey guys! Why didn’t you wait for us?” I knew what was coming -- they wanted to cut in line. But I looked right at them. They wer

Ravi Shankar once said: “I have come to believe that sound is God. One should be able to give, and to give really as much as possible to make other people aware of feelings which are very clean and very spiritual. One can do it through talking, one can do it with his art...” Or, one can do it through sand. Meet Albert. Wearing an old black suit and carrying a broom, Albert creates art with sand on the streets and sidewalks of San Diego. But while he holds the broom, God provides the skill. “Look at those proportions. See how big it is,” he says, marveling at his own work. His skin is the product of the sun; his hair is black and unwashed; his few remaining teeth are distant neighbors. “Everything is drawn in proportion. But it’s not me -- I can’t do that. You have to be up high, and I can’t see it from down here. But God can -- from up there.” He points to the sky and smiles. On Sunday mornings we often travel to Coronado beach to boogie-board, play in the sand, and collect seashells.

It's quiet. The girls are napping. I walk into the kitchen for a snack. The table is smiling at me. Elizabeth Gail Weber April 18, 2007 It's quiet. The girls are outside. I walk into the living room to read a book. The couch is smiling at me. Elizabeth Gail Weber June 30, 2007 At least they're smiling.   Previous Comments  

I'm fascinated by church billboards. I’m not sure if "billboard" is the right word, but it’s the sign in front of many churches that promotes the upcoming sermon. Some of them are funny, some of them are intimidating, and heck, some of them make me want to go to church. I will always regret not taking pictures of church billboards post 9-11. You could learn a lot about a church’s predominant philosophy by the phrase on the billboard. For instance, during that time I saw the following phrases on billboards around town. What do they tell you about the church’s perspective on government policies? Justice is in the Hands of God The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth An Eye for an Eye, a Tooth for a Tooth Interesting stuff. I vow that as soon as I get a good camera and lots of spare time, I’ll take pictures of my favorites billboards and post them here. Until then, here are some of my recent favorites in text form: Walmart -- Not the Only Saving Place. Prevent Truth Decay -- Brush u

Well, that didn’t take long. It has been 4 months since either of the girls vomited in the car. In that time, we’ve lulled into vomit-free complacency. While we didn’t dare utter these thoughts out loud, we hoped that perhaps the weekly (sometimes twice weekly, sometimes thrice weekly) moments of stripping down and cleaning one of the girls in the closest parking lot were over. With renewed optimism, my husband came home Sunday afternoon with two shiny new black car seats for our ever-growing girls. They played hide and seek inside the enormous boxes while he assembled and wrestled the seats into the car. On Monday morning, we happily strapped the girls into their “big-girl” seats, and demonstrated their new cup holders and padded headrests. I can only blame too much homemade lemonade for what happened that afternoon. 10 minutes into the car ride home, Elizabeth complained that she had a tummy ache. She then proceeded to complain that she had a toe ache, a nose ache, and a finger ache,

Most days I smile at the male custodian at the University where I work. He smiles back and occasionally we chat. He’s a friendly fellow. People know him and like him. But I can’t ask him his name. Because if I do, I’m afraid he’ll misunderstand my question as an invitation for sex. So I don’t ask. The custodian is a nice, normal human being as far as I can tell. He’s never pinched my ass or placed a lascivious love note on the windshield of my car. He’s never leered at me from behind a bush or even glanced at my boobs (at least not when I was looking). Our relationship is based on weather talk and waiting for him to reopen the bathrooms. But still, I can’t ask his name because he’ll think I want to have sex. I know it sounds crazy. But for some of us girls, this is what it means to be raised without a dad (or brother, or any male influence). I just don’t know how to react around most men. My ignorance of them, combined with what I’ve learned from television and Hooters ads, tells me

By Elizabeth Gail Weber, Age 4 Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She had nails in her back. But they didn’t hurt. She found some mice who were her friends. She tied a rope around the mice, and then tied the rope to the nails on her back. The mice walked behind her when she walked. One day she found bunnies trapped in cages. She dragged the cages back to her house. She had doggies and kitties at her house, too. The cats were tied to the dogs with ropes. The little girl won all of the animals playing a game called Animada . The little girl’s name was spelled: i-i-l-d-d-e. The little girl lived with her family who looked liked bears. But they weren’t bears. The End. ----------------- Was she a nice girl or a mean girl? Oh, she was a nice girl. Of course. I am dizzy trying to understand this strange world of bondage, where nails naturally extend out of little girls' backs, and animals are rewards for a mysterious game of Animada . Meanwhile, I'm having a hard time concentr

  You might be a domesticated rebel if: - You like BoohBah and Black Flag . - You played in the band at your own wedding, a la Barb Schilf from House of Large Sizes . - You’re Amy Sedaris . - Your kids think the singer from Mastodon is the Cookie Monster. - You removed your belly ring when you were pregnant so it wouldn’t go ping! across the room. To embrace our domesticated rebel status, I designed some Domestic Rebel t-shirts. The maternity t-shirt almost makes me want to get pregnant again just so I can wear it. You can check them out a CafePress . What makes you a domesticated rebel? 

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Samantha stayed home with a fever today. No, no. Save your “aw’s” and “poor baby’s”. She is full of some mysterious energy and has become quite expressive -- quite . Apparently a fever can jump start a child’s ability to communicate. Here are some of the conversations we’ve had over the last two days (keep in mind she’s only two ): Me: “Sweetie, let’s go inside and I’ll give you some medicine so you’ll feel better.” Samantha: “No! I don’t want medicine!” Me: “But it will taste good. Fever medicine tastes much better than nose medicine,” (which is true, by the way.) Samantha: “No. I’m gonna run away from you!” Me: “But it will make you feel better.” Samantha: “No. I’m not gonna take it. No.” Does this sound like a child who’s feeling badly to you? Inside, as I prepared the medicine, she said, “I’m not gonna take it. I’m gonna stick my thumb in my mouth like this.” I looked over to see her cross her arms tightly in front of her chest and jam her thumb into her mouth. And frown. I managed

Elizabeth just finished telling us one of her stories. As always, it was odd, dramatic and ended abruptly. Everyone applauded. Then she suggested that I make up a story. “Oh, no. Not me. I’m not good at making up stories. Not unless I’m sitting alone in front of the computer.” “Yes you can. The computer is in your head , Mommy.” -------- “Mommy, you’re Jesus.” “I am?” “Yes. Everybody is Jesus. Didn’t you know that?” “Who told you that?” “Nobody. I just know.” -------- (crying and screaming at midnight... I run to her room.) “Elizabeth, what’s wrong?!” “There are monsters in my room!” “Where are they, sweetie? I don’t see them.” “The monsters came into the room with you.” 

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You really shouldn’t be talking to me. Technically, I’m still in Time Out. At least I think so. It’s hard to know when Time Out is over with Samantha as the timekeeper. I’m not sure what I did wrong. I think I was singing or dancing. Whatever it was, I must have been bad or bad at it, because she sent me to T.O. quite sternly. “You’re in Time Out!” she said without explanation and pointed to the chair. I went to the chair because that is what I am supposed to do. I did as I was told, but I didn’t smile about it. I glared. Maybe I’m still in T.O. because I haven’t apologized, which is what we taught the girls to do. They must show sincere remorse before ending their sentence -- or at least be good at faking it. But I have no remorse and no intention of faking it, even though I know everything would be better if I did. Samantha would be happy and I would be free. But I’m not going apologize -- no way. My dancing (or singing, or whatever) wasn’t that bad. I have my pride. Which tells me

“Can we plant these?” Elizabeth ran up to me when I picked her up from daycare. Her eyes were wild with excitement as she held a paper cup, taped together at the top. Inside rattled little black seeds the size of large peppercorns. “Can we plant them tonight? Please!” What a wonderful school project, I thought -- a great way to introduce children to the joys of nurturing a small plant. Dutifully, we went home, found a terra cotta pot, filled it with dirt, then planted and watered the tiny seeds. “What are we planting?” I asked. “Beans!” Of course. Beans are the fast-growing seeds of choice for school projects everywhere. Two days later, Elizabeth pulled another little cup from her cubby at school. “We have to plant these,” she insisted. More seeds? We went home, found another pot and planted these as well. Over the next several weeks, this became routine. Wow , I thought. They’re very excited about beans at Elizabeth’s daycare. More and more pots lined the retaining wall in our back

I keep a pad of notepaper on my vanity in the bedroom. After all, there's nothing like drying my hair to get those creative juices flowing. One Sunday morning, as I stepped from the bathroom after a relaxing shower, I saw this drawn on my notepad. No one else was around, but I knew -- Elizabeth had been there. Wow. I LOVE this guy! I love his crazy eyes and spindly hair. I really dig those wacky teeth. I'm intrigued by his mysterious persona. Is he evil? Is he a super-nerd? A punk? Did he survive a nuclear accident? I hope Elizabeth draws like this forever -- not that I don't want her to develop as an artist or try new styles. But I'm going to miss the day she discovers that eyes are usually the same size, teeth don't usually extend past one's lips, and hair usually goes down instead of out (unless you're Buzz Osborne , of course). 

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Goodnight, sweet Exene. Remember when we first met at the pound? All the other kittens hissed at you when you walked by. You were an outcast, our little rebel, so we named you after a punk and a poet, Exene Cervenka . You leapt out of the cat carrier and claimed our tiny garden apartment as your own. You were so confident, so bold, but I still worried when we left you alone with Klaus for the first time. Thankfully, you were still alive and unharmed when we returned from work, and thus began our 14-year life together. Do you remember your lusty cravings before we spayed you? Remember howling at the windows and doors, spraying the furniture, and slinking in front of Klaus, hoping he might satisfy your desire for kitty sex and kittens? Poor Klaus -- at least he tried, right? How many homes did we live in together? Six? From cold Chicago apartments with steam heaters that hissed and warmed you, to San Diego houses that fired your desire to sit in the sun. You were a steady comfort to us t

“You’re chocolate milk.” “I am?” Like a picture from a Norman Rockwell painting, our family sat together at the dining room table eating our colorfully-wrapped food from Wendy’s. (What? You haven’t seen that painting?) Then Elizabeth began to compare us to her favorite fast-food meal. Apparently, if I was a tasty beverage, I would be chocolate milk. Elizabeth likes chocolate milk, so I took that as a compliment. “Yes,” she said. “You’re cold chocolate milk, and everybody drinks from you.” Well, ain’t that the truth , I thought. This was getting interesting. “So, what are you?” I asked. “I’m chicken nuggets!” Ah, perfect -- she has self-esteem. That's her favorite part of the meal. It's what she asks for when she wants to be happy. Can I have chicken nuggets, please?! “And Samantha?” “She’s French fries.” That makes sense. In Elizabeth’s eyes, Samantha is the favorite salty side dish. You can’t have nuggets without the welcome accompaniment of fries. They go hand-in-hand -- frie

One of Elizabeth's early words was "project", as in "Don't bother me -- this is my project ." Throughout the house, we are often surprised to find these little works of art. I'm creating a new category for them: Lizzy's Projects . I would love to hear your interpretations of them. This one in particular is especially evocotive. Enjoy. July 1, 2007 Age: 4 

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Tell me: why does the fair bring out the stupid in me? Is it the smell of cotton candy, fried foods (on sticks), and really bad pizza all blended together into a pungent and dizzying aroma that numbs the brain cells? Does complete and total visual overload short-circuit all logic? Or maybe it’s the pig races. Either way, at the fair I tend to spend too much money, make bad decisions, or both. On the surface, we all had a great time at the fair -- especially the girls. There were Llamas, the aforementioned pig races, bovines, and foul of all shapes and sizes. There were puppets and monster trucks and salsa makers. And there was kiddy-land. Elizabeth has now surpassed the magical 36-inch mark and could enjoy most of the rides this year. Her favorite ones included long slides that whisked her downward at warp speed. She ran from one to the other, waving her tickets and being picked up and buckled in by strange (but very nice) carnies. Samantha, who is a sweetheart, enjoyed watching Elizab

While dining out, our girls demand top-notch entertainment. Good food, a nice atmosphere, and stimulating conversation is not enough. They want to laugh, laugh loudly, and laugh often. It’s party time. One of my favorite dining moments was when we took them to a restaurant that served fresh lobster. Elizabeth had seen the lobster tanks at the grocery store and for some reason still wanted to eat one. Once we were seated, she shouted at random waitresses walking by, “I want my lobster!” Yes, I apologize -- we were that family. That’s what happens if they’re not properly entertained. If you don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves. If you haven’t guessed, that’s not good. Pretty soon the girls start disappearing under the table. I take a bite of my salad and when I look up, they’re 3 tables over and playing with spoons. While talking to the server, they start pouring salt in my iced-tea. So let me emphasize once again -- they must be entertained. Grandma (my mom) is a natural