What I Am: Music Video Edition

More music that is turning me on lately.

I rushed home from soccer practice this evening and downloaded the Ting Tings’ album (thank you, H, for the fantabulous suggestion). It is going into heavy rotation in the car and while washing dishes.

Vampire Weekend has become extremely popular with my girls based on “Mansard Roof” and this song:

Flora thinks Ezra Koeing has a “nice voice”. HA! The indoctrination continues.

Soccer and Poop

Yes, two things that should not go together. But you don’t live my glamorous life.

Flora had her first soccer game on Saturday. And although the red team (to be named the Penguins, I believe) was outscored by the white team (the Dolphins) something like 48 to 6, it looked to me like everyone was having fun and that’s all that counts in my opinion.

In the meantime, Kate was pretty good. She didn’t try to escape from the field, like she did at last Wednesday’s practice, and — shockingly — she did not try to get in the game.

However, there is one aspect of having Kate at soccer that is going to be muy, muy unpleasant.

The Port-o-Potty.

In a bid to get her potty trained, I have gone the hard-core route. When Kate is at home with me — or even not at-home but nonetheless with me (or her father) — she is in underpants. I carry one or two extra outfits with me now, and a few plastic bags for the, er, fallout.

Her resistance to pooping has ended (for the most part — thank you Miralax), but she is still not asking to go to the potty when she has to go. (This goes for pee, too.)

We’ve had some accidents, as you can imagine.

However, one place she simply LOVES to go potty is when we are at soccer with Flora. Oh, the magic of the port-o-potty. Its siren call lures Kate in two, three, four times for the magical experience of pooping in a stinky, hot box with blue water and more germs than I care to contemplate.

And I stand, door propped open at my back, begging her to “really finish pooping all the way this time” [because I swear I’m going to hurl my Starbucks’ pastry right here beside the port-o-potty if I have to spend anymore time in this box with you and that sucker cost me $5, so don’t make me do it].

We have been, over the course of one game and one practice, in the port-o-potty up to seven times.

And, to add insult to injury, on Saturday, instead of going to the port-o-potty ONE MORE TIME, Kate decided to poop in her pants because she couldn’t be bothered to interrupt her hard-won time on the playground.

I mean, really, people.

I threw those underpants out, by the way.

Best of 2009: Best Trip

(based on Gwen Bell’s Best of 2009)

I’m not 100% sure of the guidelines to this Best of 2009 Blogging (I was unable to access her website when I posted this — will update later), but the one site I saw said the Question for Dec. 1 (that would be today) was: What was your best trip of 2009?

As much as I enjoyed our trip to New York wine country for Dr. Sis’ graduation, the best trip we took this year was our week-long sojourn as a family in Cape Cod. It was not without its challenges (conclusion: next time we’re flying), but it was a great, great time.

The girls’ favorite spot was undoubtedly the Trampoline Center. And, really, can you blame them?

I suspect Dan’s favorite spot (aside from his daily symposium) was Arnolds.

My favorite thing? I can’t decide.

That the girls were not sick.
Exploring. Finding fun stuff to do. (Even if I got us lost a little bit.)
Having our own little cottage to ourselves.

Actually, I think the best thing about the trip was that we were on vacation as a family of four (instead of an extended family of 10 or 50). Don’t get me wrong: I have vacationed with Dan’s family, and with my own family, extended and otherwise, and I have NO complaints about doing so. It was just a change of pace to be on our own. A good change of pace.

I had my guidebook, and I wasn’t afraid to use it. We weren’t waiting for anyone, and we didn’t have anyone waiting for us. Aside from picking Dan up each day (usually after lunchtime), there was no co-ordinating, no synching of watches. That was nice.

Really nice. It was, definitely, the best trip of 2009 for me.

(Updated to add: The guidelines of the Best of 2009 are here. I am wavering about doing them all, although I think a “Best of” or “Year in Review” would be fun for me to do in December. I just don’t feel like committing to anything. I’m overcommitted as it is!)

Same Ol’, Same Ol’

Monkey tested limits this weekend, and found out where they are. It was just great. She threw a fit for being asked to pick up her toys, then threw even more of a fit when we made going to see her cousins (for ice cream) contingent on picking up her toys, and then threw the biggest fit of all when — after about 20 minutes of this — DearDR and I pulled the plug on ice cream altogether. Because she wasn’t listening to us. (Bun and I went. DearDR picked up the toys.)

I really hope it’s a typical almost-5-year-old thing, or a “I’m-really-ready-to-go-back-to-preschool” thing (she doesn’t start until next Wednesday), but the not-listening combined with the fly-off-the-handle meltdowns have got to come to an end.

Here is Monday night’s conversation:

Monkey: Kennywood is the funnest place on Earf … Earth.
RPM: It is pretty fun. (thinking: too bad we didn’t get there this summer.)
Monkey: Bun, Kennywood is the funnest place of Earth. You’re going to love it. Mom, can we go there tonight?
RPM: No, it’s too late tonight —
Monkey: No, Mom, really, can we go after dinner?
RPM: Monkey, we can’t go tonight —
Monkey: You mean we CAN NEVER EVER GO AGAIN?
RPM: No, Monkey, that’s not what I said, I mean —
Monkey: So we can go tonight?
RPM: We can go on a Saturday, soon. (thinking: Oh dear Lord, please tell me Kennywood is open weekends for a couple more weeks.)
Monkey: Can we go tonight?
RPM: Monkey! No, we will–
Monkey (wailing, complete with tears in her eyes): WHY CAN’T WE EVER GO TO KENNYWOOD AGAIN?? WAAAHHH! (stomps off to wail in another room)
RPM, thinking: WTH?

(Video taken live at the Green Day concert in Pittsburgh — not by me. I thought of Monkey during that whole first of the last two songs. Sigh.)

DearDR advises that I have to stay even-keeled during these conversations (which, DearDR, that’s pretty ironic. You know what I’m talking about). I am trying: breathing deeply, talking softly. If I get upset, the girls just get more upset. But attempting to reason with an unreasonable creature… Well, it sure is challenging.

The worst part? I keep picturing these conversations when Monkey is 15, and we’ve added hormones to the mix. (Okay, more hormones. Never let it be said that I don’t have my crazy, PMS-induced moods.)

Help. Send beer.