Life Happens

Isn't it true that life doesn't slow down for very long before something new pops up?

Sometimes it's a good pop up (like a Pop Tart - warm and sweet). Sometimes it's more like a pop out (like poop). But pop-ups are always complicated. And when we think we're catching up (though whatever that illusive "catching up" really means, I'm not sure), we're not.

Over the weekend I had an extremely crabby two-year-old.

I was pretty sure she was getting her molars and this was normal molar behavior.

But when she screamed and thrashed all through Saturday night and held her mouth and screamed "Owie!" and when every question I asked her resulted in, "NO! Nu-uh! NO!" ... well, I started to wonder if it was something more.

Yesterday morning I noticed a new sore on her lip. She'd had one on the side of her mouth, but I thought it was just a pimple. I asked her to stick out her tongue ("No! Nu-uh! No! -- but then she did it anyway) and saw more sores speckling her tongue.

Turns out my baby contracted the oral-version of the herpies virus, a.k.a. cold sores. The dashingly handsome sidekick also contracted this as a young child (and before you freak out, it's not related to the herpes STD at all) but he hasn't had a sore in ages and ages.

We're not sure how she got it, but I guess at this age when little hands go everywhere, she could've gotten it anywhere.

I've managed to avoid the virus for more than eleven years. (Once you get it, you have it for the rest of your life. Small children have the worst reaction. When she gets older, she'll probably get cold sores from time to time, like the DHS.) But I'd been kissing and holding her so much these last few days, I wonder how much longer I'll have to enjoy a cold-sore-free mouth. Did I mention that oral-herpes is highly contagious?

So, I keep washing my hands. And I've been praying that maybe the other kids and I will be miraculously immune. In the meantime, I'm doing a lot of holding and rocking. The only foods she'll eat are soft things like Jell-O, pudding and yogurt. But at this point I'm just glad she's eating something. We're watching a lot of Little Einsteins because that's the only show Sophie will watch without crying. I'm wearing old clothes, washing a lot of laundry, and doing a lot of praying for presymptomatic healing.

It's Nutcracker week for my older girls, too. So let the fun (and the insanity) begin.

Someday I may get around to writing a more interesting post. Someday....

Thanks for sticking with me through the doldrums, folks.

And I'm Off ... Almost

I've been slightly stressed about the idea of flying off to this conference tomorrow, for several reasons.

1. All the scary, really smart, new people! ... Will they like me, or will they think I'm weird? (This is why I write YA, people. I can relate to teen-aged insecurities ... This is where I start my mantra: "Focus on others, focus on others, FOCUS ON OTHERS!")
2. Will I remember everything I'm supposed to take? (I'm going to try to squeeze everything into a carry-on and hope my clothes don't get too wrinkled.)
3. Will the family be okay while I'm gone? Did I stock enough food in the freezer? Will the Dashingly Handsome Sidekick get ANY sleep?
4. Why did I leave all the house cleaning for TODAY, the last day, when I also need to pack, and do all the last-minute shopping, and make sure my children feel loved and provided for? (ugh)
5. Do I have time to write my Story A Week today? (Sure, I do! There's always time for writing! HA!)

So, how do I handle stress?

Well, today I'm handling it by posting pictures of cute animals and children on my blog. Here are a few of my grandcat, Midnight, and my almost-two-year-old, Sophie. Midnight is Sophie-sized, which is great, except for the times she tries to haul him around by the hind leg. Midnight is the perfect addition to our family because he's a luxury cat ... and enjoys a good book when he gets a chance to fall asleep on one.

I'm going to miss my babies while I'm gone.  *Sob*

Obviously, I'll be MIA for a while. But please keep your google-reader-eyes peeled for my return. I'm hoping to bring a few books to share back from the conference ... maybe even SIGNED books. I never had a 100 follower give-away, so I need to make up for that. (YAY!)

And hopefully I'll have some useful nuggets of writing wisdom to share, too, if I'm not so star struck with all the smart, important conference attendees that I lose my brain entirely.

Take care, everyone. I'll *see* you when I get back.

Amy

Boring, Not Boring, & Sweet

Yesterday I felt boring.

Clarification: Not BORED. I didn't feel BORED. I had plenty to do. I just felt boring.

Have you ever had a day like that?

I tried to work on my WiP, but I think I was doing more harm than good (because I was boring).

I switched over to edit my dad's novel instead. Ripping another person's creative work apart was no problem, but attempting to do anything creative myself was an exercise in fruitlessness.

I officially knew I was boring when my husband and I got into bed and I talked to him for fifteen minutes about something boring. It bored me, but I kept talking. What I was saying made hardly any sense -- did I mention it was boring? -- but I persisted until I was so bored I was almost comatose.

My husband deserves an award for his patience. Seriously.

Are you bored yet? Is talking about being boring, boring?

But, in totally UN-boring news: I'm sure you all know this already, but Lisa and Laura Roecker are having an EPIC contest on their blog. I was not a follower up until now (I don't know why!), but today that will change. Maybe some of their amazing creativity will rub off on me. I mean, just look at their prizes! Sheer brilliance.

And now, a sweet Easter treat:

Note: I just posted a new family picture in the sidebar. The old one was taken Easter 2009. Hard to believe it was a whole year ago! Time for a new one.

Celebrity Children

Anna and Sophie got their two seconds in the spotlight last night. They actually made it onto our local news after dancing out on the court during half-time of a Prosser Mustangs basketball game.



Yes, if you're wondering, they take after their mother.

Sophie or Sammy?

I should start a series called "I Thought that Only Happened in China."

The subtitle for today's post is: "Why do people think my daughter is a boy?"

Today two different people thought Sophie was a boy.

Granted, she's fifteen months old. Boys and girls don't look very different when they're this age. And she does have a mullet. Not by choice, mind you.

In China, babies of all ages walk/ride around in split pants so their private parts show. That's how you tell if the child is a boy or a girl. The clothes the children wear don't tell you much.

For instance, a little boy could be wearing a frilly pink shirt and a white lacy bonnet, but you look at the gap in the split pants and you see, nope, it's a boy.

A little girl could be wearing a baseball cap and a shirt that says (in English), "I'm the little brother," but you look at the gap in the split pants and you see, nope, it's a girl.

Because my kids didn't wear split pants, my Chinese neighbors were often confused. Even if my baby daughter was in a pink dress with frilly socks and Mary Jane shiny shoes, they still asked me if she was a boy or a girl.

Actually, I take that back. They'd call her a boy and let me correct them. That's the polite thing to do. Assume boy, that way you don't offend anyone (because girls are, well, second best, right?)

I thought I was leaving all that behind when we left China.

It's true, I did leave most of it behind: the split pants and the overt sexism. But today, in America, I was surprised.

To help you understand, I'll describe Sophie's outfit. She was wearing a red long-sleeved shirt that said "Sweetie" on it. On the shirt was the picture of a gingerbread girl with little sparkly bows and a dress. Sophie was also wearing jeans, red socks and little brown shoes. When she was outside she wore a red coat with a fur-lined hood.

Twice, people referred to her as either "my son" or "Gabe's baby brother."

I guess they didn't see the "Sweetie" or the sparkles. I guess little boys often wear red coats with fur-lined hoods. Maybe I need to incorporate more barrettes into her outfit. Apply makeup, jewellery, a wig, maybe?

Do people just assume that if a baby is wearing jeans, she's a boy?

I'm seriously considering getting out a pair of split pants so that if people call her a boy I can lift her up to their eye level and say, "She's a girl. See?"

Actually, I don't think I'll try that. Child Protective Services would be all over me like cheap cologne. And I don't want my new carpets to be soiled with baby pee either. I seriously doubt Sophie would be able to tell me at her age if she had to "go." And I never learned to whistle like Chinese care-providers. They use the whistle to train their babies to urinate on command. That's how they keep their clothes, floors and sheets kind of/sort of urine-free when their two-month-olds wear split pants.

I guess I need to do more to feminize my daughter. Or else, I could just decide not to let it bother me.

After all, it doesn't bother her.

Don't Feed the Dog

My sister-in-law has a miniature dachshund named Sadie.

She's cute.

She's sweet.

She's little.

She's also a little bit stupid, considering she failed obedience school.

And she drives my mother-in-law crazy because she goes to the bathroom on her new carpet.

Sadie doesn't like going out in the cold. Yesterday I put her outside to relieve herself and she stood at the door with her tail tucked between her legs, trembling and looking up at me with her limpid brown eyes.

She prefers being rolled up in a blanket on the sofa. But, then again, so do I.

Sadie, like any small dog with a big appetite, is a beggar. She sits ram-rod straight on her hind legs with her front legs tucked up like a rabbit's and waits for you to drop something. It's nice, though, because I don't usually have to sweep up after dinner. Doggy-vacuum.

Because of her begging habit, Sadie struggles with her weight. She's a small dog with a barrel stomach. The vet told my sister-in-law Sadie was two pounds overweight. When you only weigh twelve pounds, that's a lot. Practically dachshund version of morbidly obese. Because of this, we have received strict orders: DON'T FEED THE DOG!
So, Sadie looks on jealously.

But Sadie has a friend, a small compatriot who sometimes finds herself bored at mealtimes and entertains herself by dropping food over the side of her high chair tray. Sadie knows where to stand at dinnertime to get the best meal.

And when it comes to Oreo cookies, she and her best friend both know where to stand and beg.