Eight Years

March 18, 2006

Yesterday was Chris’ and my eighth wedding anniversary.  I can remember some of the previous seven, but not all of them.  On our first anniversary, we celebrated by taking a long weekend to Bull Shoals Lake in Arkansas.  We stayed in a little cabin on the lake and because it was off-season, we had the place mostly to ourselves.

Year old cake with a kiss.

We went on a couple of hikes, played board games and cards, and watched a movie or two on the little box TV mounted in the corner of our living room.  We ate year old wedding cake and day old Oreos.  We relaxed and talked and enjoyed each other’s company.  We were 25 and child-less, and although we had jobs and bills and a one bedroom apartment to tend, we were care-free.  It still felt like we were play-acting at being adults.  I cooked and cleaned and diligently put away money into our savings account; Chris worked his 40 hour work week at Boeing and maintained our cars and appliances.  We fought over whether we should stay in or go out, and how much of our free time should be spent together or apart.  But we would always make up, make out, move on.

By our second anniversary, we had Allison.  She was just four months old and a truly horrendous sleeper, but we were already enamored with her.  We no longer fought about free time, because there wasn’t any.  We were no longer playing at being adults, but learning how to be parents.  I asked my Aunt Pam to watch Allie so we could go out to dinner to celebrate year two of marriage, just Chris and me.  We dropped our baby off in her pumpkin seat with a bottle and the diaper bag and drove the few miles to Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse.  I can’t remember what I ordered or what we talked about (probably Allie), but I remember feeling both liberated and lonely.  I had done my hair and make-up and squeezed into a pre-pregnancy dress.  Chris and I were just a young couple out on a romantic date and I felt pretty and lucky to be with my handsome husband.  But by the end of dinner I desperately needed to nurse and we wanted to see how Allie was doing, so we rushed back to my Aunt’s and Uncle’s.  Allie fell asleep on the way home and miraculously stayed asleep when we carried her into the apartment.  Her anniversary gift to us was sleeping an unprecedented six hours straight.

2nd Anniversary

We moved from Florissant, Missouri to Renton, Washington in the Fall of 2008.  Chris’ job with Boeing required the move, and I couldn’t have been happier.  He was working 60 hour weeks and often weekends, but I was surrounded by friends and family.  My mom came and spent the day with Allie and me every Tuesday, and she babysat for us after Chris got home.  We had date night every single week, and we knew we were spoiled.  For our third anniversary, we spent our first entire weekend away from Allison.  My mom and dad kept Allie while we drove down to the Oregon Coast.  We stayed in a hotel right on the beach of Yachats.  Chris, exhausted from working long hours, was content to stay in our room and read or nap.  I had a spa treatment on the third floor and soaked in the whirlpool overlooking the ocean.  We walked along the beach and into town.  Mom called to tell us Allie had her first ear infection, and while we were concerned, we knew she was in good hands.  She also said her first clear word, ‘yes,’ which she enunciated carefully and slowly: yee-esh.

The view from our 3rd anniversary hotel room.

Our fourth anniversary is one I can’t remember clearly.  It would have been 2009; we were still living in Washington, though we had moved from our apartment to a rental house we found on Craigslist.  I was two months pregnant with Nicole, but we were still reeling from the miscarriage we had in November, hoping that this baby would be okay.  My morning/afternoon/evening sickness was so bad that Allie spent an inordinate time in front of the TV watching Sesame Street, Word World, and Sid the Science kid while I lay on the couch eating corn chips and drinking coke to keep from throwing up.  I’m guessing we celebrated our anniversary by going out to dinner or to a movie, but I honestly don’t remember, and I can’t find any pictures that commemorated the event.

In June of that same year, Chris’ job moved us to Maryland.  We had decided to drive, and I can remember tearfully piling into our SUV and pulling away from my parents’ house.  Allison had an ear infection, an eye infection and a bad cold, but she handled the drive like a champ thanks to our portable DVD player.  I was six months pregnant and miserable with a cold and the remnants of morning sickness.  I was in a cough medicine induced fog until about the 5th day of our trip when I finally felt well enough to realize what an incredibly long drive it was.  Chris drove the entire time, all nine days, from Arlington, WA to Lexington Park, MD: almost 3,000 miles.  When we reached our destination he was rewarded with an incredibly cranky two year old and equally cranky wife.  We both spent the first week and a half alternately crying and complaining.  Sorry, hubby.  But that’s what you get when you take your fairly pregnant wife away from her family and transplant her into a state with 105 degree heat indexes and no relatives.

Nicole was born in October, a week late but perfectly healthy, and we settled into life on the east coast as a family of four.   By the time March rolled around, we had a few friends in the area that I trusted to watch the girls while we went out to dinner at a locally owned restaurant with a bay view.  However, Nicole and I both woke up sick on the 18th, and we exchanged our night out for a night in with early bedtimes for the kids and a mediocre dinner cooked by yours truly.  I actually would have been hard pressed to remember this anniversary, our fifth, but I mentioned it in a blog.  I also made Chris a movie compilation of our first five years together, which can be seen here if you have six minutes to waste.

The next three years passed in a blur of moving (again--this time back to Missouri), buying our first home, pre-school, kindergarten, holidays and everything else that keeps a family of four ticking along.  Though I have vague recollections of the St. Pat’s parades that must have preceded our anniversary each year, I really couldn’t tell you what we did to celebrate years six and seven of marriage. 

Anyway, this brings us to yesterday, March 18, 2014, our 8th anniversary.  We knew it was coming and we spent some time reminiscing the night before, but we didn’t discuss any plans.  At about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I called Chris to deliver the happy news that we were, for the second time, victims of credit card fraud.  Because that is the kind of phone call you make when you’ve been married for eight years.

At the end of the call, I asked what Chris wanted to do for dinner.  He suggested going somewhere in Historic Downtown St. Charles, and I agreed readily.  I debated doing my hair and getting dressed up, but it appeared that both kids wearing pants would be the priority.

Look Mom, we are wearing pants!

By the time I finished cajoling kids into pants, socks and coats, Chris was home and we were able to leave for dinner.  Nicole talked the entire way, and Allison kept trying to fall asleep.  We joked about how we spent the first three years of her life trying to get her to sleep only to have her fall asleep at the most inopportune moments now.

We picked a restaurant at random and walked in.  It was completely empty but for us, so we had our choice of tables.  We all squeezed into a booth, but not before the girls had a nice long fight over who would sit by mommy and who would sit by daddy.

While we waited for our food, we had a rock, paper, scissors tournament.  Chris came in first followed by Allie, then Nicole.  I came in dead last.  Which is fine because despite being a pretty obnoxious winner, I’m a very graceful loser.

After the tournament, Allison and Nicole took turns singing “Let it Go” at the tops of their lungs.  Nicole in particular has just the one volume: loud.  Very loud.  You may not understand what she is saying, but you can be darn sure she is saying something.

When dinner was over and Nicole had asked for ice cream for the umpteenth time, we decided to make our way back to the car.  The river was just about fifty yards from the car, so we walked over to take a look.  We passed the, and I kid you not, “Never Die Garden.”  Apparently the garden had survived both the drought of 2012 and the flood of 2013, but it looked like the winter of 2014 had pretty much finished it off.

Never say die!

Our last stop of the evening was at Dairy Queen for blizzards for Chris and me and cones for the girls.  Nicole won the prize for the slowest, not to mention messiest, ice cream eater in the history of the world, a title I believe she held with pride.

1st Prize.

Our marriage has changed over the last eight years.  There is less romance.  Fewer grand gestures of love.  Chris eats sunflower seeds in bed and leaves his socks in little balls on the floor of our closet.  I let the water run the entire time I’m doing dishes and am prone to irritability and crankiness.  My palms no longer start to sweat and my heart doesn’t race every time that I see my husband.

But we have acquired much in the last almost decade.  We have a shared history now, inside jokes.  We are at ease.  Comfortable.  Happy, mostly.  I still think Chris is kind, smart, hilarious, and good looking.  So much so that I’ve always thought he’s a bit out of my league.  I see him in the line of Allie’s jaw and in Coco when she raises one eyebrow.  It has been eight years since we said ‘I do’ and it hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been worth it. 

Go ahead, tell lies on Facebook.

Lately I’ve seen an article trending on Facebook about how we all lie through our status updates and pictures.  We only post snippets of our day: smiling children, adorable pets, selfies of us dressed up and posed to look our best, and lunch and coffee that looks too good to be true.  Apparently, it makes other people feel bad when they see that our lives are so perfect.

Except when did Facebook need to become an accurate representation of our entire lives?  I post pictures and anecdotes mostly so that my long distance friends and family can keep up with the happy and precious moments of our lives that they may otherwise miss.  Also so that I can remember those moments.  I have a very poor memory.

The type of picture I usually post.

Of course I post the pictures where the kids are smiling.  Of course I update my status only if something funny happened or we are doing something interesting.  But I don’t consider it a lie by omission so much as a public service.  For instance, Nicole pooped on the floor during bedtime three nights ago.  I did not update my status.  I did not post a picture.  You’re welcome.

Relaying our best moments isn’t new.  Back when I wrote emails, I tried to fill them with mostly interesting and optimistic news.  Before that, I wrote notes to my friends during my more boring classes.  I tried to make them entertaining.  And if I was going to go to the trouble of writing an actual letter and spending money on a stamp, you can be sure it had something worth sharing in it.  Well, mostly.  There was a brief time in my pre-teens when I sent a ton of letters to a friend that pretty much all said, “Hi, how are you?  I am good.  I am having dinner now.  I have to go.”  Sorry, Kelsey.

I like to think that even cavemen are guilty of sharing only the good stuff.  That cave painting of Grog killing the mammoth with his spear?  He probably sat on a rock for three weeks poking the dirt with a stick when he suddenly looked up and saw a really old Mammoth keeling over.  That’s not exactly the kind of story you want to tell around the campfire though, so go ahead, Grog.  Tell it like you wish it was.

The type of picture I usually take.

Also I take these.

I’m not saying use Facebook as a place to build your house of lies.  But if you want to share just the good stuff, go ahead.  If you want to share the more mundane happenings, do that too.  I promise I won’t assume your life is perfect if you only post pictures of your family that look like they belong in a JCPenny catalog.

I know your kids are not smiling all the time.  I know that sometimes they are chasing each other with blankets wearing nothing but underpants on their heads and last night’s spaghetti on their faces.  I know your cats and dogs are not always sleeping sweetly in boxes that are too small for them.  Sometimes they are peeing in your shoe when you don’t pet them and leaving hairballs on your pillow.  I know that your significant other isn’t always making you pancakes or fixing your sink.  Sometimes he is just ‘helping’ by lifting his feet so you can vacuum under them.

Sometimes my kids are cranky.

Often my kids don't wear pants.

Maybe instead of “stopping the lies” by posting “real (and shitty) family moments” on Facebook we can just acknowledge that no matter how many perfect-happy-shiny posts we make, nobody is perfect.  We can concede that Facebook, like Fox News, rarely has the whole story.

Please, keep posting all your sunny-happy-perfect-life-is-good pictures.  Keep posting all your epic-fail-I-should-have-stayed-in-bed status updates.  Keep sharing hilarious memes and serious news stories.  Because let’s face it: the more you post the more time it takes me to catch up on all of it.  And the more time I can waste on Facebook, the less time I have to do things that are actually productive.  It’s pretty much win-win.

The Book of Allison

I have long considered myself to be agnostic.  I’m not ballsy enough to disagree with the six billion people plus that believe in some higher power, but I’m also not willing to join the one billion plus atheists of the world and say that without a doubt there is no higher power.  Is this a cop-out?  Maybe.  But whatever.  I’m reserving judgment.

When it comes to the question of the existence of a god (or gods) my short answer is, “I don’t know.”  Because who am I to argue that roughly two billion Christians are wrong?  Or that one and a half billion Islams are right?  Or that one billion Atheists are right?  Or that any number of supporters for any given religion or non-religion are right or wrong? 

What I will argue is that the question is moot.  Whether or not there is a higher power should not affect the way that we live here on earth.  We should strive to be good and kind.  We should treat others in a way that we would like to be treated.  We should help others when we are in the position to do so.  I intend to teach my children these values without the aid of any specific religion.  I want them to aim to be good and kind not in the hopes of being ‘saved’ or of a rewarding ‘after-life’ but because they are human beings and they are capable of making their choices responsibly.

Anyway, my point is, my kids and I don’t spend a whole lot of time discussing religion.  We’ve spent countless hours talking about and demonstrating kindness, manners, tolerance and respect.  We speak about valuing ourselves and others in an effort to raise kind little girls who will become passionate and considerate women.  We spend even more hours answering the girls’ numerous and varied questions about everything under the sun.  And sometimes those questions, or the answers to those questions, involve God and religion.

The first time God entered our conversations was about two years ago, when Allison asked where humans came from.  Though I’m sure there are abundant explanations throughout the world, I’m really only familiar with two of the theories.  I explained to Allie that some people believe that God created the first two humans, named Adam and Eve, and that other people believe that humans evolved from apes.  Allison looked skeptical.  It’s funny; when I simplified our origins down to those two choices, I could see which one my four year old, in her world of Disney and Santa and magic, found more plausible.

That’s when it dawned on me: being a Christian had the potential to make my life as a parent much easier.  Instead of blundering through lengthy-sort-of-correct science based answers to questions like “Why is the sky blue?” and “How did Audrey’s guinea pig have babies?” I could simply say, “God did that.”  When the kids inevitably ask why Haley/Kayley/Skyler from school can have a puppy/x-box/piercing I could say vaguely, “Well, God works in mysterious ways.”  And one day when my teenage girls are crying that life is not going the way they thought it would and that they don’t know what to do, I could comfort them with the knowledge that God has a plan for them. 

Having God around is kind of like having an elf-on-the-shelf all year long.  Because if you hit your sister, God is watching.  If you throw mommy’s antique drawer handle down the heater vent, God knows.  And if you even think about calling that mean boy at the skating rink a name, God hears.  Oh, and when you are finally old enough to go out on a date with a boy?  God is watching that too.  Obviously I get that Christianity, and any other organized religion, is not about easing the difficulties of parenting.  Still, you can’t deny the perks.

Allison’s religious information as of yet has really been on a need-to-know basis.  If she asks a question, I try to answer it as honestly and correctly as possible.  She knows that many people believe in God, and that we should be quiet during the before dinner prayer at her grandparents’ house.

This past Christmas, her knowledge of Christianity grew exponentially.  Every year, our neighbors set up a gargantuan Christmas light display complete with Santa, The Grinch, candy canes and a nativity scene.  It was an unusually warm December morning before school that the girls ran across the cul-de-sac to see ‘the baby’.

“Who is that baby?” Allie asked.

“That’s baby Jesus.  He was born on Christmas; a lot of people celebrate his birthday,” I replied.

“I have a birthday too,” announced Allison.

The short ride to school was peppered with questions.

“Will you tell me everything you know about the Baby G-fish?”

I explained that Jesus was a man who lived a long, long time ago and that he did many very kind things for all different types of people.  I added that many people believe that Jesus is the son of God.

Allison thought for a moment.  “Did Geee-zus ever get married?” she asked.

“No, he never did.”

“Oh.  I bet there were a lot of women who wished they could marry him.”  She paused.

“And men,” she added fairly.  That’s my girl.

It was a few nights later that Allison, while we were all seated at the dinner table, announced that, “We could do a pray this year at Christmas Eve!”
“Do you mean a prayer?” I asked.

“Yes!  Well, it doesn’t have to be a pray.  We could say the pledge of allegiance.”

I’m not proud of it, but I burst out laughing.  Chris laughed too, until we noticed Allie hiding her head in her arms, clearly embarrassed.  He recovered first.  “Do you know the pledge of allegiance? “ he asked her, trying to coax her back out from behind her arms.

She recited the pledge flawlessly, and we praised her exuberantly in an attempt to make up for having laughed at her moments before.  I think it was the abundant praise that resulted in the whole family joining hands around the Christmas tree practicing for the big night.

Allison and Chris looked up at the tree, straight faced, and began, “I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America....”  I glanced down at Coco, who was swaying back and forth slightly and mumbling, but staring respectfully at the tree.  To my credit, I did not laugh audibly.

Later, while Allison worked diligently on creating our Christmas Flag, Chris pulled up a scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas on youtube which mirrored our ‘Christmas pledge.’  It was just as funny when it happened to them.


The latest anecdote from the Book of Allison happened just a couple of weeks ago.  We were in the car listening to the song, “You can’t get to heaven on Roller Skates.”  Allison was singing along until she wasn’t:
    “Well of course you can’t get to heaven on roller skates!  But you probably can in a car.  With a trailer...in case you want to spend the night.”

Clearly, my daughters' religious information is not complete.  But that's okay.  They may decide to become Christian, agnostic, atheist or something else.  And that’s okay too.  I would love for the girls to one day take a class that examines some of the world’s religions, and heck, maybe I’d take it with them.  Like my parents told me, “Education never hurt anyone.”

Education.  See?  Painless.

‘P’ is for Piss

Study after study has touted the benefits of a family sharing at least one daily meal together.  It should be a time where everyone can delight in good food and conversation; a time for modeling table manners and healthy eating habits while enjoying each other’s company.

But the line between ‘should be’ and reality is pretty blurred at our house.  We do manage to all sit down together for dinner on most nights, and sometimes the food is good and the conversation is enjoyable.  Other nights, the food is hotdogs, milk gets spilled, Coco talks with her mouth full, Allison tattles on Coco for talking with her mouth full, and Chris and I spend half our time telling the kids to be polite and the other half wondering why we insist on this ‘quality’ family time in the first place.

Last night, dinner was one of the other nights.  Thursday nights often are.  Allison has swim lessons and Nicole has pre-school, so we pretty much all roll in at the same time, hungry and tired.  Well, Chris and I are usually tired.  The girls, having somehow acquired boundless energy, make up for not seeing one another all day by chasing each other in circles around the table and alternately laughing and screaming like banshees until dinner is served.

Fortunately, we are usually guaranteed at least two solid minutes of peace at the beginning of the meal while everyone digs in.  It was just after this two minute reprieve that Coco finished pushing her macaroni around her plate and announced that she was ‘all done.’  “Allie done?” she asked hopefully.  (We make the girls wait for each other before being excused from the table.)  Allie shook her head.

“Awwww, wait Allie,” said Nicole, resignedly.  Of course, Nicole has never actually waited patiently for her sister to finish eating.  Most nights, she just repeatedly asks, “Allie done?” every 17 seconds until Allie is, in fact, finished.

Coco had only asked twice before she suddenly stood up in her chair.  “Me WHOAA Daddy!” she shouted (which translates roughly as, “I’m as tall as Daddy!”)

“Yes, good for you.  Sit down, please,” I said.  But from her ‘whoa, Daddy’ vantage point, she spotted the capital letter ‘P’ magnet on our fridge.  This was clearly an exciting find for our three year old.

Coco leaped out of her chair and galloped over to the fridge while shouting, “Hey!  P!  My P!  My school!!!!”

“Did you learn about P at school?” I asked.  “Is P for Papa?”

“NO!” she shouted back.  “P piss!!!!”

I looked at Chris.  “Did she just say P is for piss?”  We figured we must have misunderstood.  “Is P for please?” I asked, because I thought that made more sense.

“No, P piss!” she shouted again.  Chris and I exchanged another look.  “P is for push?”

Nicole was beginning to get aggravated at our slowness.  We continued to guess P words--”Pear?  Piece?  Pick?  Pig?” but to no avail.  Even Allison had a few guesses (Pumpkin!  Paper!!!)  Coco got madder and madder.  She sighed.  She yelled.  She screamed, “No, P piss” over and over again.

We asked her if she could act it out; she’s an extraordinary mime.  No good.  I tried a few more p-words, but Chris pointed out that I was making her even more agitated.  He tried a different tact--lying.  “Okay, P.  We got it.  We understand.”

Nicole saw right thought that one.  “NOOOOOOO,” she bellowed.  “P PISS!!!”  Then she  rolled her eyes way back into her head and hurled the P across the floor.  She grabbed her blanket, plopped down on the couch and popped her thumb in her mouth.  It’s probably pretty stressful having such dimwitted parents.

Little Miss Misunderstood

On the bright side, Nicole had her speech evaluation at the early childhood center, and we are hopeful that she will qualify for speech therapy.  Maybe soon she’ll be able to tell us what P is really for.

In the meantime, we’ll continue to have our expert prescribed family dinners.  It may not always be peaceful, but dinner at the Claussen’s is certainly never dull.

How I broke my foot, and Other Lame Stories

Last Tuesday I broke my foot.  I’ve tried to come up with a good story about how it happened, but nothing really stuck.  Me playing sports is pretty unbelievable, as is me rescuing someone or performing some other heroic act.  There really aren’t any other ‘cool’ ways to break your foot, so I’ll just stick to the truth:

I was walking.  I had put Allie’s swim clothes in the washer in the mud room, and I turned around to go back into the kitchen.  All of a sudden, I was sitting on the floor in excruciating pain.  My best guess is that I somehow miss-stepped and instead of using the bottom of my foot like most people, I stepped on the top of my foot.  I realize this implies that it was my own weight that caused two bones in my foot to break.  Believe me, if there was another way to tell it, I would.

Anyway, as I was sitting on the floor in tears because of the pain, Chris was on the phone and the girls were running around gleefully.  Allie stopped her gleeful running long enough to say, “Why are you sitting on the floor, Mommy?”

I told her I hurt my foot, to which she replied, “Oh,” and continued running around like a crazy girl.  A few minutes later she stopped in the doorway again.  “Mommy?  Why are you still sitting there?”

It was at this point that I decided Chris wasn’t going to get off the phone anytime soon, and that I would receive little sympathy from my daughters.  I crawled to the couch and asked Allison to bring me a bag of ice.

Only I should have been more specific because about ten minutes later she arrived proudly holding a gallon ziplock with two lonely pieces of ice inside.  By this time, I had done some research on my phone and found that the urgent care center near our house was open for just 30 more minutes.

Chris got off the phone and found me in a whole lot of pain on the couch.  I told him the happy news about still being able to make it to urgent care if we hurried.  He looked at my foot and said, “Are you sure we should just rush right in?  Why don’t we wait until the morning?”

I would have kicked him except I was in too much pain.  Instead, I crawled up the stairs, took a couple of Advil, and begged for more ice.

The next morning, Chris stayed home from work to watch the girls, and a good friend of mine took me to urgent care.  I told her she could just drop me off, but sweet girl that she is, she insisted on staying.  Three hours later, after urgent care, x-rays, and orthopedics, it was confirmed that I had fractured my 3rd and 4th metatarsals, and I was given a walking ‘boot’ to wear for the next six weeks.  The doctor said that I could walk on my heel, swim, and ride a recumbent bike if it was tolerable.  It definitely could have been worse.

I might have scoffed at the idea of swimming or using a recumbent bike except for the fact that I had joined a gym a month earlier.  I didn’t want to waste the money I paid for the membership, so I packed my wildly unattractive swim suit and headed to Gold’s Gym.

After 20 minutes on the bike (which is harder than you’d think for a machine that keeps you in the exact same position you’d be in if you were on the couch with your feet on the coffee table), I checked out the pool schedule.  Water aerobics was starting in just 5 minutes.

I had planned on swimming laps, though I use the term ‘swimming’ loosely.  I can’t really swim in the sense that I use alternate arm strokes while keeping my face mostly under water except for taking breaths.  I swim more in the sense that I can be in water that is over my head without drowning.  I do this weird modified breast stroke where my head is always above water and I kick both my feet out at the same time.  I imagine I look like a large frog, only more awkward and, well, less green.

I figured water aerobics couldn’t be any worse than that, and it might even be better.  I joined about 30 others in the pool.  As anyone who has witnessed a water aerobics class may guess, I was the youngest by about 40 years.  Also, I had the perkiest boobs, a title I certainly couldn’t claim in the larger gym population.  Score.

The class was really pretty fun, and at times, even strenuous.  The truly fabulous part was that due to the acoustics in the pool area, I couldn’t understand a word the instructor was saying.  I’m pretty sure everyone else, whose ears were 40 years older than mine, couldn’t hear anything either.  So for the whole hour, we all just sort of flailed our arms and legs about in our closest approximation of the instructors’ demonstrations.  It was such a hoot that I may even continue to attend the classes after my foot as healed.

Speaking of things I may continue to do after my foot has healed: I LOVE my walking boot.  At first I thought it was really uncomfortable, but it turns out that it just felt uncomfortable because walking on a broken foot hurts.  Go figure.

As my fractures have begun to heal, I’ve come to adore my boot.  Around the home, I wear my boot on my right foot and an Eddie Bauer ‘wicked good clog‘ on my left, and I have to admit, the boot gives the clog a run for it’s money.  It is just so spacious, what with it’s velcro straps and all.  Also, it extends a good inch and a half past my foot, which means it has saved me, on several occasions, from stubbing my toe on the kitchen island.  What more could one ask for in footwear?!?

I’m thinking of ordering another for my left foot.  Of course, after the overalls incident of 2003, the fashion police probably won’t allow it. 

The Unintentional Lock-in

I know I said I would try not to wait four months before blogging again, and I didn’t.  I waited five.  But something happened today that is, most definitely, blog-worthy.  Facebook saved my life.  Or at least about 5 or 6 hours of my life...

Today is Thursday, so Allie is at pre-school.  One of the main perks of pre-school (aside from Allie getting an education and all) is that I have Nicole’s nap time completely to myself.  I can do whatever I want:  Read.  Clean.  Watch TV that does not include weirdly-intelligent monkeys.

You can imagine my excitement when noon-thirty rolled around, and I announced to Coco that it was nap time.  She grabbed her blankie, two stuffed puppies and her sippy cup and headed upstairs with me.

After I changed her diaper and she had set up her ‘lovies’ in the exact right place, we were ready to read her story.  For the last three plus months, the only story she has asked for is, “Jingle, The Husky Pup.”  It’s a sweet story, but anything read two times a day for three straight months can get a bit old.  Especially since Nicole is so particular about the way we read it.  She has several items on each page that she must point to, and if we miss one, she will insist on going back so it can be properly pointed out.  Also, the door to her room must be closed while we read.

I thought nothing of it when Nicole got up and carefully shut the door as I hurriedly read her story.  When we made it to the end, and Nicole had pointed out the last item in the book (candy cane), I covered her up and gave her a kiss.  Then, as I do every day, I closed the blackout shade and walked to the door toward sweet freedom.

The Perpetrator: 2'6'' tall.  31 lbs.  Brown Eyes, Blonde Hair.

Only sweet freedom was nowhere to be found.  Because the door knob wouldn’t turn.  Coco, who has never until this day successfully locked or unlocked a door, had locked us in.  I turned it a little more fiercely, and panic began to set in.  I had left my phone downstairs, and the only key to our doors is kept above the bathroom door in the hall.

I turned on the light, which is about when Coco noticed something was up.  She got out from under her blanket and walked over to the door knob.  She did some fierce turning herself, and then looked at me and said, “uh-oh Mama.”  Uh-oh indeed.

I tried to think of something long, thin and pointy that might be in the girls’ room.  But the girls are 5 and 2, so we spend a lot more time making sure pointy things are out of their room rather than in.

Thankfully, Nicole had been doing some thinking of her own.  She grabbed one of her favorite board books and shoved it between the door knob and the frame.  This technique, as you may have imagined, was quite unsuccessful.  She abandoned the attempt and went to Allie’s nightstand where she retrieved a pair of sunglasses and a flashlight.  Helpful, that one.

In the meantime, I found a single artificial flower on the girls’ dresser.  I popped the bud off, and hopefully poked the stem into the lock.  No such luck.  The hangers in the girls’ closet were too big, and the posts in the door were too tight to move.  I had pretty much exhausted all hope of getting out of there without assistance.

This was pretty problematic for several reasons.  First, Chris was supposed to be working late, and he wouldn’t be home until 6:30 pm.  Secondly, Allie’s pre-school closes at 6:00, and they would have been pretty worried if nobody came to get her.  Thirdly, I had to pee.

I looked over at Coco, who had apparently given up on escape and had decided to take a nap.  I turned off the light and then remembered something which would become crucial to my getaway:  Allie has an iPhone.  My dad gave her his old one so that she can listen to music at night, play games, and take pictures.  It doesn’t have a sim card, but it does have wi-fi.  Thank goodness for spoiled five year olds.

I turned it on and began face-timing every one of her contacts.  It didn’t take long because she only has three: her Grammy, Opsi, and her Auntie Laura.  Sadly, none of them answered.  I sent a few iMessages as well before recalling my most favorite app in all the world:  Facebook.

It only took a couple of minutes to download the app and login, and just like that, I was connected to the world again.  I posted this plea for help:  Umm--Coco just locked me in her room (we have the lock turned around for Allie). I have nothing but Allie's iPod. I need someone to call Chris or if you live near by let me out!!! Message me if you can and ill get you his number or our garage code. Facebook world don't fail me now!! ;)

I tagged a few friends who live in the area in the hopes of expediting things a bit.  It only took a couple of minutes before the comments and offers of assistance began coming in (thank you, fellow Facebook addicts, thank you).

I guess I should note that my Facebook status was not particularly well-worded.  Mainly because it made it sound as if I was inside the room while Coco was running pell mell about the house.  Had this been the case, I think she would have a) gobbled up all of the jelly beans she could find b) brought me my phone, or c) managed to unlock the door.  But this was not the case, so my apologies to anyone who was worried about my child’s safety during this whole ordeal.

I should also note, before anyone calls the Child Abuse Hotline, that we never lock Allie in her room.  Well, hardly ever.  We haven’t even had to threaten it in ages, but it was pretty effective in getting Allie to stay in her room at bedtime.

Anyway, some good friends of mine called Chris almost immediately and explained my predicament.  They also stopped by the house and tried to use our garage code to open the door.  But fate was against me, and the door wouldn’t open.

The attempted break-in.

Being the marvelous friends they are, and after checking for any unlocked windows, they headed to Walmart to get a new battery for the keyless entry on the garage, or a screw driver or something to toss up to me through Cole’s window.

At that point, there was not much to do but wait.  I perused Facebook a bit and discovered a pretty cute way to make a birthday cake.  I messaged a bit with my sister and browsed Pinterest.  I even searched for ‘locked in.’  The results included a heart shaped egg on toast, a pair of earrings and a tub of beer.  Huh.  Who would have guessed?

Then I heard a door open and footsteps downstairs.  I have never been quite so overjoyed to hear an unknown person inside my house.  The girls’ bedroom door opened seconds later, and there stood my hubby, Chris.  My knight-in-shining-armor (or rather my knight in jeans and a polo shirt).

Thanks to good friends and spouses for making this a blog about how much I love Facebook...and not a frightening tale about how I yelled for help out the window for three hours only to have to pee in one of Nicole’s diapers while Allie sat forlorn and seemingly forgotten at her preschool.  Yes.  Thank you.

Coco the Two Year Old

I realize it’s been a very long time since I’ve last written.  I think it’s mostly because it has been very hard to top the Costco/Penis incident of July.  But if something that eventful hasn’t happened in the past four months, it probably never will.  Knock on wood.  I may as well get back to blogging the more mundane details of life at the Claussen’s.

Nicole turned two on October 6th, and while her vocabulary has not significantly grown, she has.  The doctor claims that at 34.5” tall, she is taller than just 55% of her peers, but that can’t be right.  The kid towers over her fellow two year olds.  She can open door knobs.  She can reach the TV in our entertainment center, and she turns it off and on at will.  But her height is nothing compared to her weight.  Her pediatrician bluntly told us that she weighs as much as the average three year old (she’s 28 lbs 9 oz).  Add to that a shriek that can shatter windows, and you have a force to be reckoned with.  A very cute force.

Nicole, the not-so-terrible-two-year-old

Cole still sucks her thumb and has a purple ‘blankie’ that must go everywhere with us.  Anytime she is hurt, gets in trouble, or receives a stern look, her lower lip begins to tremble, and she pulls her hands up to her chest, the sign for blanket in ASL.  I know eventually we’ll want to break the thumb-sucking-blankie-carrying habit, but right now it has its definite advantages: A.  She sleeps like a champ (12 hours a night, 3 hours for naps)  B.  She is easily placated and C.  It’s just really darn cute.  Not everyone can pull off the ‘Linus’ look, but Nicole definitely can.

Cole, with her thumb, her blankie, and her Allie.

A few more of Cole’s favorite things: babies, Tow Mater, football and cheese-balls.  She loves carrying baby dolls around, and she has a few favorites.  Mostly, the naked babies.  Nicole loves to undress her dolls, and few things make her happier than carrying a naked baby around by its ankle.  

Tow Mater, the push toy Nicole got for Christmas last year, is her very favorite mode of transportation.  She can really fly on that guy too; she motored all the way to the elementary school and back, which is close to a mile.  No easy feat, and Mater is looking more and more like Mater everyday.  

Coco with her faithful steed.

Her love of football may really just be a love of staying up late watching TV with Mom and Dad, but she does raise her hands in the air and yell, ‘ball ball’ at the top of her lungs every time a game is on.  

Oddly, ‘ball-ball’ is also her way of saying cheese-ball.  Fortunately for me I can differentiate the two because when she is talking about cheese-balls she always points at the neighbors’ house, where she and the spherical cheetoh were first introduced.  Almost every time we walk by, she points at their front door and says, ‘ball ball’ in a hopeful sort of way.  

Not quite as revered as the cheese-ball, but still pretty good.

“Curious George” has become a source of constant background noise in our house, as Nicole adores him.  She throws her hands in the air and makes monkey noises until we turn it on for her.  I think she can really relate to him as their communication skills are almost identical.  She gets particularly excited whenever the man with the yellow hat comes on; she will come and get me yelling ‘ooh, ooh, aah, Dada!’  Allie always jumps in at this point and explains that George’s real daddy is not a man but a monkey.  She is almost five and is an expert in most things.

In fact, Allie is an expert in so many things that I simply don’t have time to get into them all now.  That, my friends, will have to wait for the next blog entry...which will hopefully not be four months from now.