Monday Merriment

I suppose I could explain to you exactly what series of events lead to the oddness you see above, but I suspect you can suss it out for yourself. Let's just enjoy a chuckle, shall we?

Love,

Geek Wife, Mother of Geek Girl 1

The Big Easy

So, GH and I took GG3 and went to New Orleans for a few days last week. Instead of boring you with the same old shots of the Big Easy that everybody takes, I'll share with you some highlights of our fambly vacay.

This is what GH looked like our whole trip. Saints hat on head, smart phone in his hands, trying desperately to figure out where we were, where we were going, and how we walked sixteen blocks in the wrong direction when clearly the navigation app on his phone was working just fine last time he checked. And oh yeah, we should turn around now and walk that way. 

Not that any of you have asked or were possibly even wondering at all, but this statue here is of the literary character that I most closely identify with: Ignatius J. Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces. Ignatius slays me and let's face it, we do favor one another.

Here's GG3, doing her best Lambie Pie face, to make up for the fact that she did not nap the entire time we were in NOLA. I'm too cute to hate, Mama!

All of her character traits clearly stem from one source: her father. They are both pretty adorable, though.

This picture is an apt description of what I did the entire time on our mini holiday. I ate. I drank. I ate some more. And for a bit of variety, I ate and drank a bit again. Note the powdered sugar on my nose. Guess where we were when this pic was taken?

Although I am not eating in this pic, I clearly was right before it was taken. Note the satisfied grin on both my face and GG3's. Court of Two Sisters, catfish roulades, a vat of bacon, coconut buttercream cake, and there you go: heaven.

Oh, yes, GG3 got a balloon while we were there...I thought this pic accurately captured a childlike nature. And a child. (ba da bum!)

This Tshirt was GH's souvenir. Just be glad he didn't get the one he wanted, which had something offensive on it. I won't repeat it here, since this is a family friendly blog. Needless to say, I was happy with this one.

Here I am, eating a croissant the size of my head whilst sitting on our balcony. We stayed a block off Bourbon in this really fantastic hotel. I have a horribly embarrassing story to share with you about the hotel, but I'll save that for another day. Yes, I ate the whole croissant. No, I don't feel guilty. Ignatius J. Reilly wouldn't feel guilty, so neither do I.

Finally, this is the view from our balcony. That cross street right up there is Bourbon. Close enough to enjoy the music and all the weird people that walk by, but protected from the music and all the weird people! We had a really good time. I'll post more pics later, maybe...I have another one of me and Ignatius that I know you're dying to see.

Breakin' my heart

This little Lambie Pie, Momma's Precious Pea Pie Baby, Geek Girl 3....this tiny dollop of adorableness has absolutely shattered my heart into a million pieces this week. She abruptly and with no warning weaned herself on Monday. I have been a hormonal basket case all week, compounded by a stomach virus that filleted everyone's guts and left us all shaking wrecks. I took her to the doctor because I was convinced that the end had come and there was something dreadfully wrong with her. Nope, perfectly healthy and declared a "turkey" by the doctor. GG3 blew spit bubbles at her and smiled cheekily. 

Please explain to my overwhelmed body and brain that this petite morsel of deliciousness does not need her Mommy's milk anymore but she does need her Mommy. I almost can't bear it.

Here I am, in all my postpartum glory, hormones gearing up for a super long nursing relationship like I had with my other kids. But no, GG3 is her own person, bound and determined to do things her way. And in this battle of wills, I am clearly the loser. I am grateful for the 11 months of nursing that I had with her, but I am not ready to give it up yet. However, GG3 is done, and you know how the old saying goes...you can lead a horse to water but you can't make an 11 month old nurse if she doesn't want to. Or something like that.

Although, in the grand scheme of things, I suppose GG3 not nursing anymore is no more or less painful than the fact that this one, GG2, is almost five years old. She nursed for 18 months, only weaning when MOS was on his way and Mama had had enough.

Or that MOS will be three soon. Goodness gracious, three years old. Although I am looking forward to him potty training. A kid as big as he is does not wear diapers well, if you know what I mean.

And finally, this girl, my first born, my heart, my longest nurser....forcibly weaned at age 2 1/2 years, legs draping to the ground, arms entwining around my neck as she enjoyed her nursing sessions, requesting mimis in complete sentences. Regrettably forced to wean because I was so sick with GG2 in utero, GG1 mourned the loss of nursing far more than I did. I was already preparing for GG2's imminent arrival and was physically unwilling to nurse GG1 anymore. I was touched out and needed a few months of freedom before I had the next baby. GG1's big eyes and pleading requests for mimis hurt, but the thought of tandem nursing hurt worse and so I weaned her.

Maybe this whole weaning thing has come full cycle...my first weaned so reluctantly and I didn't hurt very much when the nursing ended. My last baby has ended the nursing against my wishes, yet she seems to suffer no ill effects from it. Or perhaps there is no grand pattern to any of it and I am simply a mother, suffering the pains and joys that all mother experience.  GG3 is most likely my last baby, unless GH figures out a way to be pregnant the next time. Thanks, whoever has made it this far in my most maudlin blog post. Just keepin' it real although this week, real hurts quite a bit. Here's hoping that weaning this baby will make my weight plummet and I will miraculously be a size 6 again.

Love,

Geek Wife

Hyperbolically speaking...

I am aware that I am dramatic and also that I tend to speak in hyperboles perhaps more often than is absolutely necessary or desired. Still, even a cold-hearted Grinch couldn't deny that the following scene is THE MOST PITIFUL EVER!

A stomach virus has come to call at Chez Geek and the misery is palpable. The washing machine has not ceased whirring since early this morning. Wish us luck. We'll be better tomorrow. Hopefully.

What she's not doing....

Lambie Pie here is sleeping. In real life, at this minute, Lambie Pie is not sleeping. Not at all. She is doing the exact opposite of sleeping. And also the exact opposite of what I want her to be doing. Instead of sleeping, or playing quietly, or even cooing gently as she gazes on my face in wonder, she is trying to take off her snuggy warm winter tights that I have put under her footless sleeper. I didn't want to put socks on her because she takes them off. All her footed sleepers are dirty. But it is chilly so I put her in a footless sleeper and snuggy warm tights. Which she hates. And is trying to rip off her feet. Unsuccessfully. So unsuccessfully, in fact, that in her violent ministrations to her own foot she has knocked herself over backwards and hit her head on the cabinet. Life is not fair here at the Geek Family compound. I must go and comfort her and hike her tights back up on her chubby little feet.

Favorite Things....

What are the Geek Family's Favorite Things?  Well, for starters, Geek Wife (that's me) enjoys moments that I capture on film. Like this one: 

I really enjoy pictures that tell a story; I think in pictures and the words come after. That's why a blog is nice for me; tons of pictures, some words, and I have expressed myself for the day. So that's what this post is: pictures that tell me a story and will hold a memory for me for as long as blogger hosts my blog. I like the fact that GG1 and GG2 are having a conversation while MOS sits on GG1, fiddling with her hair. I also like that GG1 has on a ton of those silly bands that the kids all love and parents don't understand; reminds me of my own rubber bracelets as a child.

These worn out shoes were GG1's first shoes that she had a definite opinion on. She had seen them on someone's feet and wanted a pair. I took her to the shoe store and made the mistake of saying, "Pick out whatever ones you like, baby." And she did. Twinkle Toes, these were called. They didn't twinkle too much at the end of their lives, but they made her happy the whole time she wore them.

Scuffed toes, torn edges, worn out soles: these shoes are childhood itself, messy, rough, and well-played. And it felt nice being able to buy her the exact pair of shoes that she wanted, unlike my mother, who repeatedly ignored my requests for velcro Kangaroos and instead bought me bubble toe two button Mary Janes and one time, horror of horrors, saddle shoes. However, she has since purchased all three of my children who can walk the exact pair of tennis shoes that each wanted; apparently, her fascist attitude toward footwear choices ended with me.

MOS's favorite thing, aside from chicken nuggets, is this abominable stuffed creature you see here. His name is Tailio, although MOS can't say that so he says Totie. 

I called him Tailio because MOS sucks his thumb and rubs his lip with the tail. The damage that Totie has suffered over his short lifespan is evident. He is much loved and much washed, although always at great costs to MOS's happiness. "Totie! Totie! Wash! No! No! No!" he screams as I pry Totie's ragged and blackened body out of MOS's arms and fling him in the washer. Hot water and Borax and a flood of angry tears precede the spin cycle. The dryer is even worse, because MOS has tearfully kissed Totie's face before consigning him to that whirling dervish of hell to be dried.

I, too, was a dedicated thumb sucker and I can still remember to this day the great delight that was my nightly ritual of grape juice, Strawberry Shortcake doll, and the ol' right thumb. One of the worst days of my life was when the orthodontist, grinning wickedly, uttered those most foul words: "We'll get the retainer in next week." Thus ended my own thumb-sucking career, but I can live vicariously through MOS and Totie.

And here we have Baby Jojo, GG2's favorite thing. Grandpa bought this doll for GG1 on her first or second birthday, but she was never a fan of dolls at that age. GG2 came along and latched on to Baby Jojo at an early age. My fondest memory of this doll occurred when MOS was ten days old. It was late, he wouldn't sleep, and I was almost giddy with exhaustion. GG2 came padding out into the living room. I sighed, glanced at the clock, saw that it was after 10 o'clock, and said, "Sweeheart! What are you doing out of bed?" 

    She looked at me, in all her two year old preciousness, and said, "I don't know." 

    I said, "What, sweetie?"

    She replied, hands outstretched, palms facing up, "I don't know where my Baby Jojo is." And there you have it, a month after she turned two, her first complete sentence. You have to understand, GG1 did not speak in complete sentences until she was almost three, so I thought GG2 was an absolute genius. Come to find out, most kids speak in complete sentences before they turn two, but I was blissfully ignorant and thought "I don't know where my Baby Jojo is" to be the equivalent of a Noble-prize deserving speech.

Baby Jojo is a favorite thing and when I see her dirty doll head and stuff her faded cloth body back into a dress or sleeper or shirt yet again, I am reminded of GG2's first complete sentence. She has not stopped talking since that day. Her life is an endless stream of external processing, but I suppose it's exactly what I deserve, since I talk a fair amount as well.

Here is one of my favorite things: my wedding and engagement rings. No, not because it's the day I married GH and blah blah blah romantic crap blah. But because it represents adulthood to me: here I was, 21 years old, getting ready to take a huge leap into adulthood. I felt horribly immature, completely unprepared, and like a total impostor. Surely someone would stop me before we actually bought a ring and he proposed and I said yes! I was waiting for an authority figure to step out of the shadows and shout, "You there! Yes, you, trying on diamond rings! You aren't old enough to be doing this sort of thing! Go back to junior high! You're missing French class!"

       But instead, it was just me and GH at a jewelry store, him laughing and joking with the jeweler as I sat, having a panic attack, and tried on rings that were more expensive than my car. GH was so blase about the entire thing; he might have been having his own panic attack, but he's an internal processor so I'd never know. I tried on a plain little ring with a tiny little diamond and glanced at him; he raised one eyebrow, looked at me, and said, "My wife will have whatever ring she likes on her finger. Is that the one you like?" I admitted that no, it wasn't, perhaps one a bit fancier? More elegant? A bit retro even? He shrugged and went back to running his mouth to the jeweler, making observations on the current economic situations in the gold and silver industries, in which I am certain he is an expert, because he knows everything.

    I wandered to another case and gasped a bit. Here were the empty rings, the ones that were artfully carved, engraved, etched, and filigreed. Their prongs stood empty, like arms outstretched, waiting for the perfect diamond to be fitted into place. These rings were not the pick-em-up and slap-em-on rings of the other case. No, these rings needed time, thoughtfulness, and most importantly, a custom diamond. These were the rings for me! I tried on several and chose the one above; GH wanted me to get a much bigger diamond but I liked the more modest one that I picked. Plus, I wanted to be able to lift my hand. 

    My engagement and wedding ring are two of my favorite things because there was so much freedom in them: freedom to be an adult, make my own decisions, and the freedom to choose the next stage of my life, which was to start this Geek Family with a Geek Husband. And have four Geek Children. Although the day I picked out my ring I could never have imagined we'd have four kids. And that I'd drive a minivan. (shudder) So there you have it, some of our favorite things. GG3's favorite thing is me, but I didn't put a picture of me up here today, because lemme tell you, I'm a sight. You'll just have to imagine.

Be Afraid....

Reason #1 to be afraid. Time. She is a flyin'. Which baby do you think this is? Note the eye color. Brown. Not blue. The current baby has blue eyes. This iteration is the second iteration.  Yes, GG2. For the love of everything, where did this baby go? Plus, all her teeth are kinda scary.

Reason #2: GG3, the current baby, is on the verge of walking. Sob. Gnash teeth. Cry. Boo hoo.

Reason #3: Return this baby to me immediately! I am afraid because he is no longer a widdle man!

Plus he looks much too old when he sleeps. 

Reason #4: I am afraid because this little dollop of perfection is now seven years old and it's KILLING me! And I cut her bangs unevenly in this picture. I hope I evened them out later on. 

Reason #5: This is me a year ago at a Halloween party, pregnant with GG3. I fully expected to be back in my wedding dress this year at this time. Really, GH and I were going to go as newlyweds to the party this year. However, I am two toddlers and a teacup poodle away from that weight. Maybe next year? Mom, can you get my dress cleaned? I'm gonna wear it next year. Really, I am. 

(In case you were wondering, that's a pregnant wienie dog balloon I'm holding that my clever friend Katie made me. My costume? Oh, I was a pregnant pause. Get it? Paws? Pregnant? Nope? Not funny at all, huh? Nobody but me thought it was funny. Sigh.)

I wish....

Right now, these are the things I wish for:

1. I wish I could be as beautiful for one day of my life as this child is every day of hers:

2. I wish I could sleep like this on my parent's bed the entire day:

3. I wish I could eat a caramel apple that's as big as my head:

4. I wish that somebody would do all of my laundry:

5. I wish that I could kiss those fussy baby lips. This is MOS when he was a widdle man. I'll go do that right now and be back. Of course, he's a big two year old now, but he still has those lips. Hang on....wish fulfilled. 

6. I wish I had even a small percentage of this kid's creativity and artistic ability. She's only 7 and she astounds me regularly. 

7. And finally, I wish GH would do some yard work again. He's right sexy when he works an auger, isn't he? Plus, we have a drainage ditch that needs some work....

Old Boy

This Old Boy is my First Love, my Dream Horse, my Beloved...actually, not really. He was absolutely horrible as a youngster, a terror as a teenager, and it is only recently, with the commencement of his late 20's, that he is anything resembling bearable. 

Some parts of him have aged well....his blind eye, the one shown below, still looks blue but it's a pretty blue. His rich chestnut coat is still attractive, as long as you ignore the odd hairy bits that poke up in random places that probably shouldn't be quite so hairy, like his hip bone and lower legs.

His name, in case you were wondering, is Sirr John. He is not noble, nor does he behave like a prince. My father used to call him a one-eyed hay burner. 

His muzzle doesn't look too bad, considering that the man is 28 years old. Oh, I'm sorry, does this picture make you uncomfortable? So sorry. He's a Space Invader...he has no concept that he is a huge smelly horse and that perhaps you, the nice clean human, wouldn't like his giant horse schnozzle in your face.

 

Sadly, his left ear has not fared well. He had a hematoma in it five years ago and well, I won't go into details for fear you might lose your lunch all over your keyboard. Suffice it to say, if he was younger, this ear would have been amputated. But he's ancient, so we get to live with its deformed self. Poor guy.

When he was a young whippersnapper, I was, too. However, he was B. A. D. He threw me off at least once a week. The tossings were not innocent little tumbles, either....he had the unique ability to do a downward spin shoot dodge doo-wop move that never failed to dislodge me from his back. People told me, "When he's 12 years old, then he'll calm down." When he was 12 he rolled on me and broke my collarbone. It wasn't until his 20s that he began to show a few signs of relaxing his attitude a bit; when he saw a butterfly, he merely spooked and leapt sideways instead of bolting for the nearest low-hanging branch. He prepared me for motherhood quite well.

However, if I had known that this Old Boy would one day tolerate and even enjoy the ministrations of my children, then perhaps I would not have been so rage-filled as I flew through the air once again, landing smack dab on a fence, rock, tree stump, gravel driveway, etc. while he ran for the hills.

I love you, buddy boy.  Please don't die any time soon because I am too old to fall off a new horse repeatedly until he gets seasoned.

And also, some other people love you just a little bit, too.

Key

My mom is awesome. And I'm not saying that just because every blessed day of my life I look more and more like her. Witness this startling picture below. My mom is the one in glasses, in case you can't tell.

Granted, I was the kid in junior high and high school who would try to fit in and do the whole "Man, my mom is such a..." complaining thing, but I never got past the "a" part because my friends would all chime in, "No way! Your mom is awesome! Don't say anything bad about her!!!" And then they would call me all the bad names that I was about to call my mom. No one ever indulged me in my bad opinion of my mom. So now I pay my therapist to listen to me complain about how she made me wear lace socks with two-button Mary Janes even though I clearly preferred velcro Kangaroos.

But I got even with my mom because I produced these absolutely monkey grandchildren for her that don't cooperate for pictures, rarely wear matching clothes (and sometimes no clothes at all), and shun seasonally-appropriate footwear. However, she will not be shamed. She seems to even enjoy their unruliness. And the fact that they call her Key, or Key-Key, or Keykeykeykeykeykeykeykey, LOOK AT ME! Keykeykeykeykey.....

I think GG3 looks a bit like my mom; with that familial evidence in mind, I forgive you, Mom, for not letting me drive across the Biloxi bridge until I was 16. I was the ONLY person at the high school who couldn't go to the mall by myself, but I forgive you.

I think MOS has my mom's sense of humor; he's pretty charming, just like she is, and has a tender heart for others, just like hers. He does not, however, appreciate her efforts to dress him in john john pants and smocked shirts, preferring instead T-shirts that prominently feature Buzz Lightyear. Sorry, Mom, you lose with him, even though you were successful for years at stuffing me into those abominable dress things with the ruffles and frills and matching hair bows. I still suffer.

My mom and I have been through a lot together. There was that whole cancer thing, that whole young adolescent teen angst thing, all those horse shows, my run as president of the Math Club, that one time I drove her car straight back out of the driveway instead of angling it and the muffler fell off and I just picked it up and put it in the trunk and went to school, and, of course, she will never let me forget that time I got engaged in February and told her we were getting married in August and oh yeah I want a formal wedding and can we invite 500 people and you have five months to plan this whole thing while I go back to work and don't answer my phone or make any decisions. Thanks, Mom!