That Little Man wants to play with Bean’s Barbie, and insists on her being naked?

For the first time they’ve asked for a pet. I can just see it. (Imagine wavy dream sequence)

It starts innocently enough, a trip to petsmart for a goldfish and fish bowl. But we can’t resist the cute little aqueous play park for our new friend. Before long Goldy needs a fishy friend. And then 2. And then more friends of the non-gold variety. As our fishies pass on to the fishy netherworld we conduct hours upon hours of research to find which fish have the longest lifespan, are hardiest, and bring the most spectator-fun. 50 cent goldfish make way for $400 rare species with a multiplicity of colors and abilities. Surely we need a playscape complete with live starfish, pearl weilding oysters, and some type of Aquarium-worthy super water filtration contraption that’s synchronized to our home’s wi-fi network and satellite uplinked. Before long we have a giant fish tank built into the wall complete with every species of tropical fun-filled fish we can find at local specialty fish stores and we’re making major life decisions based on the health and well-being of what started as one unassuming goldfish.

Note to self: Sock puppets make great kid companions.

Remember those morning exercises from George Orwell’s 1984? Those bastions of communism? My father in law does them every morning on my back deck. And my mother in law tries to teach them to Bean. I’m sure they’re really very healthy, I just can’t get over the Orwellian imagery.

I listened as hubbs taught his mom how to make microwave popcorn. It never seemed so complicated before. And she expressed awe in the technology.

My father-in-law seriously talking about how we should all change our religion and language, because Hebrews are all wise and rich.

My mother-in-law being paranoid about the neighbor’s 12-year-old son - “What’s he doing outside?!?” (as he walks home after the school bus drops him off)

My kids asking me to pretend to be their grandmother, with a continuous stream of “Be careful! Be careful! Slow down! Slow down!” coming out of her mouth (in another language, of course).

Answering the phone in my home and having to dig rusty Russian out of the recesses of my brain.

Trying to explain the importance of keeping a well-kept lawn in American suburbs, as well as the neighborhood deed restrictions, to someone whose concept of land involves pure farmland space.

Listening to my father-in-law, a neurologist telling me that Little Man’s medication dosage should be adjusted based on the fullness of the moon.

Having to convince the grandparents that the sand and water table on the back deck really isn’t a death trap - in spite of the fact that sand could actually get in someone’s eyes.

We’re getting ready for a beach outing tomorrow and Bean asked today - very politely, I might add - which swimsuit I’ll wear. We launched into a discussion about swimsuits… The brown one, the black one, which is more comfortable, which one she likes better, which one is more suitable for a fairy very godmother, etc. At which point she said, “Mama, you won’t be able to wear a swimsuit. Your tummy is too big.” Hm. thanks. (Watch my self esteem shoot through the roof after that one.)

I’ve been consoling myself with positive self-talk that she just thinks of me as perpetually pregnant. (And when you see me walking through Target with 3 kids 4 and under, it would seem that I probably am perpetually pregnant.) But really, I don’t know what’s worse. That my child thinks (and says) that my current post-pregnancy belly is big, or that she may not have even noticed that when baby #3 was born I took on a new, non-pregnant shape. You’d think that shedding 30 pounds in a few weeks’ time and regaining a lap for the kids to sit on would have at least registered with my 4-year-old who even notices that I didn’t wear earrings today.

It’s official. My semi-professional business-mobile minivan has been christened. It is now a soccer-mom taxi. Ages ago when I was an SUV-driving suburbanite hip mom I posted this lovely bit of YouTube-dom. For those of you who don’t want to click over, it’s “Mom my ride” - a tongue in cheek play on Pimp My Ride, only for minivan driving moms. A few short months later I tragically traded in my super-cool SUV for a white minivan. Yes, white. As if there weren’t enough white minivans on the road already to populate an entire nation.

And I kept my minivan mostly clear of any kid-related mess. No spoiled milk. No sippy cups. Crumbs cleaned up quickly, no soccer ball dents or diaper-related clutter. My minivan was for business use (well, and personal mom use too, to be fair).

But yesterday I came back to my minivan after it had been parked in the hellish heat of a parking lot for 2 hours in the middle of the day only to find melted crayon. On my leather seats. Melted yellow crayon. That’s it for me. The tide has turned. Next thing you know I’ll be cleaning up curdled milk and spilled juice boxes, picking up little plastic action figures (and their body parts), bemoaning the fact that the back seat is littered with clean diapers, coloring pages, and the occasional stale animal cracker (I say occasional only because my 2-year old is bound to find them and eat them off the floor before they go stale). The melted crayon is only the beginning.

Is Mudlark these days? Good question. Most of the time I’m reveling in the fact that I’m getting my family back. Back from where, you might ask? Well, let’s just say I’m regaining control of my kids. Over the last 6 months I sank into working-mom-dom, followed by overdue pregnancy blues, and then into blissful new mom-hood. Blissful new mom-hood brought with it the realization that I wasn’t a stay at home mom for 4 years just to turn my kids over to someone else and let them teach them all the things I don’t want them to learn.

So lately I’ve been reclaiming my children. They like it, I think. Except for the fact that reclaiming them means re-instituting rules that they’ve gotten away from. And the sudden onset of discipline (which they’ve lacked for, oh, about 6 months). But I have a secret to tell you… shhh… (if you’re under the age of 15 stop reading here)… here it is… kids like discipline. They like to know the rules and understand where the boundaries are. So I may be the heavy right now, but my kids are happier. And they’re becoming the sweet, respectful, well-mannered children I thought I’d lost.

Wanna know what else I’ve been doing? Watching Lost. Lots of it. Fast and furious. Hour after hour. The minute we get the kids in bed we camp out on the couch and watch pirated creatively-obtained episodes of Lost, accompanied by popcorn or ice cream. We’re half way through season 3.

No worries - I’m not wasting time. I’m nursing. Which is good because we found out today that Bruiser (baby #3 - we decided that his earlier coined nickname, Peanut, definitely didn’t fit him) isn’t gaining weight. As in, in 2 weeks’ time he’s only gained an ounce. He’s quite a bit longer, but he’s getting skinnier by the day. (Note: this is probably not due to my stellar diet - note the popcorn and ice cream course enjoyed nightly with Lost). So I say, Moms, ignore the docs. You know your kid best. I called to schedule a weight check and they hesitated to let me come in - ’silly mom, don’t be so paranoid… your kid is probably just fine!’ But I was right. I knew my kid wasn’t gaining, and I’m so glad I found out now rather than waiting until his next appointment in a month!

The lactation consultant said he’s lazy. No news to me! That would explain why he stubbornly refused to heed my pleas to exit my womb on time. And his reluctance to respond to the pitocin in the hospital and just. come. out. Lazy kid. That’s okay though. There’s grace for that. And lots of nursing. Which very well might bring more Lost. And ice cream. And popcorn. It’s a rough life…

In sticking my head in the sand and ignoring the troubles of running a business (while hiding out in my room to escape the chaos of my house), I’ve discovered - courtesy of hubbs - the absolutely awesome-ness (is that a word?) of the TV show Lost.

That’s right. I’m 4 seasons behind. We’re just about half way through the first season. And we’re loving it. This baby will be known as the Lost baby, because all day long while I nurse him, rock him, wait for him to nurse, you’ll find me and hubbs in front of the screen glued to Lost. And all I can say is, thank goodness we don’t have to wait a whole week (or more!) between episodes

I called my stylist yesterday because I was desperate. As in, ready to beg and plead for an immediate appointment. But to my great chagrin, I was told that my stylist no longer works there. Devastation. On a mass scale. Especially when this pregnant, hormonal woman was getting ready to go see the pediatric neurosurgeon. I was fragile, and this was very bad news.

So today I stopped in at a salon on the way to work, and thankfully a very nice man named AJ fit me in and gave me a very nice cut. Stylish, fun, easy - all the things I like in a haircut.

And I didn’t realize what a saint I’m married to until I got home (after driving with the windows open) and he greeted me with a cheerful, “You got your hair cut! I like it!” Nearly an hour later I happened to see - in my peripheral vision - a glimpse of a St. Bernard in a mirror. Who on earth is that? Oh wait! Oh. My. Word. That’s me! Apparently when driving home with the windows down and your hair full of professional strength styling products, one should look in a mirror before exiting the vehicle. Because now I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket. Exhibit A:

(note: picture doesn’t do justice to the ridiculous sight of my electrifying hair - it really is much worse than it seems)

My only question now is, would my saint-like hubby have said something about it had I not eventually looked in a mirror? Or would he have allowed me to show my face (crowned in all its chaotic mess of hair glory) in public? Perhaps that question was best answered by his prompting of “Honey, I was going to take a shower. Would you like to take one first?” That was, in fact, what drove me past the mirror and what resulted in me spitting my coffee across the bathroom vanity as I gasped “OH! myword…” when I saw the uncanny resemblance I bore to a St. Bernard… It takes a special man to look at a sight like that and offer a genuine comment. Had I been in his shoes, I probably would have been rolling on the floor laughing.

Signing off for the weekend.

I’m going on a womens retreat with my church, and I expect to be fully rejuvenated by Sunday when I return.

Here’s hoping the house is still standing by then.

Well, the Mac is at least. My beloved  Macbook had an unfortunate encounter this morning with a full glass of water. And, surprisingly, my Mac doesn’t like to drink water as much as I do.

But it’s all good. Hubs is a genius and he was able to resurrect my Mac with finesse, and rather quickly too. I’m afraid the Macbook may have a hangover though. Or at least I hope it’s as temporary as a hangover. The I and O buttons don’t work and the mouse button isn’t playing nice with others. I’m using a bluetooth keyboard and USB mouse now, but hoping my Mac will fully recover if I give it enough rest in a dry land…