Lost in Translation

This evening, Klara brought me her stuffed puppy and asked me to clip a hair bow to his ear. “Thanks!” she said. “He looks super cute. His name is Gratula Puppy!”

At first, I was just thrilled she’d given him an actual name. Most of her toys have names like “Bunny” or “Klara’s Dolly” or, for the doll whose eyes close when you lay her down, “Sleepy Baby.” Gratula was at least a name…of some sort. I was sure she’d gotten it from TV, mostly because she gets everything from TV. Curious, I asked, ‘Is Gratula from a TV show?”

“Uh huh.”

“What show is Gratula from?”

“You know. The TV. Gratula. From the show.”

I started racking my brain the way parents always do when their child is saying something they can’t quite make out but which they’re sure will make perfect sense if they just think about it from a 3-year-old point of view. When I was pregnant with Joanna and had to go to the hospital for non-stress tests twice a week, Eric would stay home with Klara in the evening. I always got at least one text asking me to interpret what she was asking for by Eric’s phonetic spelling. “Nati” was Make Way for Noddy, some strange British animated show about some kind of toy elf or something – my kid likes weird stuff. Oya? Olaf – Frozen, of course.  And my personal favorite:

Eric: She keeps asking for something…it sounds like Teamazoomi?

Me: Team Umizoomi. It’s on Nick Jr.

Eric: Oh. She was actually saying that pretty well, then.

Continue reading “Lost in Translation”

A pinch of this, a dash of whatever

So for those of you who don’t follow the Mommy Blogosphere (yes, it’s a thing) one common type of post is a recipe post, wherein the blogger posts details of a delicious recipe she’s recently whipped up, complete with stunning photography and detailed instructions on how you, too, can be a domestic goddess. (See: The Pioneer Woman, i heart nap time, Casey Leigh.)

In the spirit of expanding my own blog, I decided to jump on the bandwagon. Having promised dinner to a friend who recently gave birth to twins, I figured why not document my endeavor and share it with my loyal following?

Oh wait I forgot. I can’t cook. Continue reading “A pinch of this, a dash of whatever”

2 beds, 2 baths, 2 kids

So after months and months of planning and talking and wishing, we finally bit the bullet and put our townhouse on the market. Which is really exciting and frustrating and nerve-wracking and exhausting all at the same time. And even though we do have the option of moving in with Eric’s parents temporarily, we decided it would be preferable if we could show our home while still living here.

Pros: We won’t have to pack up and move twice, we won’t be intruding on his parents, they won’t slowly start to resent us, question our parenting, question their parenting, question our marriage or question America’s future after seeing the state of kids television programming these days.

Cons: Trying to sell a house while living in it with an 8-month-old and a 3-year-old is like trying to sell a house while living in it with an 8-month-old and a 3-year-old. That’s it. That’s the analogy, because that’s the benchmark for craziness.

The only reason right now we are able to have our house an hour or two away from showing-worthy readiness is because about 80% of our worldly possessions are currently in boxes in our basement.  I deal with at least six tantrums a day because Klara asked for something I can’t produce because Daddy shoved it in one of 67 boxes in the basement. This morning he whispered to me, “Do you think she’s even noticed her table and chairs are gone?” Yeah, you were at work for that tantrum. I think she noticed. She’s also been forbidden from going in the basement because 1. she likes to feed the cats five times a day and 2. she keeps “finding” things down there and bringing them up so I have to round them all back up at the end of the day and bring them back down like some kind of house-keeping Sisyphus.

Then there’s this: before our open house last weekend, Eric vacuumed every room in the house and ran the carpet shampooer carefully over the family room rug before forbidding any of us to eat, drink, play or breathe on it. Within 48 hours that rug had gotten the following things on it:

spit-up (Joey)
tomato soup (me)
poop (NOT me)
chocolate chips (Klara. Ok fine, me.)

I’m starting to think living with my in-laws sounds kind of nice. I wouldn’t have to leave the kids strapped in their carseats where they can’t touch anything while I do a final sweep of the house before a showing. Klara would stop asking me, “Is Daddy going to be so mad?” every time she spills something, like he’s Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest, ready to erupt at the slightest provocation – a question that’s more indicative of my reaction to spills than his. I wouldn’t have to pretend I live a simple, minimalistic life with a reasonable amount of stuff and the real extent of my dysfunction isn’t crammed into old diaper boxes and stacked up to the basement ceiling.

So if you know anyone looking for a townhouse in South Carver, send them our way. Just maybe don’t mention the rug.