Step into the heart of darkness. Or as I like to call it, vacation with my kids.

It's been a busy couple of weeks 'round these parts.

Mr. C. took two weeks off in a row for vacation - something virtually unheard of for the man who is looking into having his Blackberry, Macbook AND iPad surgically attached to him, kind of like Iron Man for geeks - so we decided to make the best of it and scheduled not one but two separate vacation trips. First up, Story Land in the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Don't know about Story Land? It's an amusement park best suited for the under 10 year old set that's been in operation since the 1950's. It's quaint, it's heavy on the Mother Goose motif, the only way out is through Ye Olde Gift Shoppe of Doom. It's awesome. I went there as a kid, as did Mr. C., and by jeebus our kids were going too! So we went. Along with half of New England.

Okay I'm exaggerating. Only a third of New England was there. We went mid-week when it was slow.

The kids loved Story Land and we're planning on going again next year. Because next year, poor CC won't be stuck in a stroller most of the time. Maybe. She has a tendency to wander and a stubborn streak as big as Texas and shut up, husband of mine, she DOES NOT GET THAT ENTIRELY FROM ME. At least I only wander when there's something shiny to look at and not every time we encounter something that plugs into the wall.

CC had a good time, though. We threw her in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls and she was happy as a toddler in a germ-infested pit of plastic balls.


One of the highlights, for Chicky at least, was Cinderella's Kingdom:



A place I thought for sure would be skipped. My daughter loves pirates and beating up little boys, but she can take or leave a Princess. But on this occasion, bring on the sparkles! And I mean that almost literally.

Want to see something that strikes fear in my heart and wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat?

*shudder*
Look into my eyes. You will buy me a $15 soft serve ice cream and there's nothing you can do about it. And I'll take that row of stuffed Humpty Dumpty's too.

Dude. Just... DUDE. When we saw the face painting stand I thought for sure she was going to ask for the SpiderMan or the one that looked like a snake was eating the wearer's face but no, she went for... that. Whatever that is.

Come to think of it, sans fake gold crown on her forehead and that was me in high school. Only I wore more blue eyeshadow.

She had to be coaxed to sit on Cinderella's lap. To be fair, I'm pretty sure she took Cinderella for what she was - an underpaid, blond teenage girl in a dress that look suspiciously like the one I wore to a prom in '87. So she just stood next to her. All the better to make a quick getaway from.

Cinderella needs more blue eyeshadow.

Later in the trip we took the girls to Santa's Village, another place I had been to as a kid, and I'm not going to get into that trip except to say there was a very large cross and a huge nativity scene there and I'm sorry but you're not going to rationalize that away enough for my heathen liking.

I'd show you pictures of my children posed on sleighs and standing next to fake penguins and elves, just as I had a wee child, but I lost most of them in the great iPhoto crash of '10. They may still be on my memory card or they may be on my hard drive or I may have been ready to start shooting tequila at that point so let's move on.

The next week after barely any rest from four days in New Hampshire we set off for my sister's house on Cape Cod. If you have a relative who lives near an ocean and happens to own an eating and drinking establishment, I highly recommend you take them up on the offer to stay with them. Especially if that relative has extra bedrooms so you don't have to spend another week with your beautiful but non-sleeping children and has a seemingly never-ending reserve of wine. I'd show you pictures but I don't have many. Much too busy sleeping and eating and drinking and laying in the sun and Story Land who?

Which leads me to today - A mountain of laundry and a house in questionable condition, I still haven't caught up on my sleep and three days until I leave for BlogHer to get it all done. And no never-ending supply of wine.

Dude.

What I need is a pig's head and a stick

Captain's Log - Day 19:

We have been stranded in the "no school zone" for what seems like forever and yet still days away from any scheduled day camps that will bring necessary relief. The natives are getting restless.

The weather, I'm afraid, has not been cooperating. Dreary, gray skies threatening rain almost every day has forced us to be inside on most days. Four walls are starting to close in on us.

We have watched all our videos, been on multiple playdates, made high calorie treats with much sugar, and endured many tantrums and still, there is nothing to satisfactorily break up the monotony. In the middle of the night I hear sounds of tribal drums and then... Silence. An eerie silence occasionally broken up by sounds of metal on stone. Could it be weapons are being made?

Communication with the outside world is almost totally cut off by small people and their unreasonable demands for food and entertainment. When communication does become available, sheer exhaustion stops me in my tracks. I'm afraid soon I will be completely overwhelmed by their need.

I fear the end is near.

Send gin.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

Crazy going slowly am I

Have you ever had one of those days when life is just too overwhelming and every day obligations have pushed you to the edge of insanity and then your children, whom you love and hold more dear than any other being on the face of the earth, so much so that you would willingly step in front of a bus to save their precious little lives, collectively pick you up and toss you over that cliff into a deep, dark pit of despair so that you're left sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom hugging your knees, rocking back and forth, singing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", and plotting your escape from this life you've created for yourself by running away with the guy who runs the Tilt a Whirl in one of those traveling carnivals that set up for the weekend in the local bank parking lot - you know the one, the guy with the missing front tooth and acid washed jean jacket - because residing in a beat up pop up trailer with some guy named "Hacksaw" and cooking Chef Boyardee on a camp stove in a housecoat while chain smoking Pall Malls sounds far more pleasurable than having to deal with one more whiny preschooler meltdown or wiping one more shitty ass?

Just me?

Yeah, thought so.

Santa Claus and other lies we tell our kids

(No, no baby yet. I'm about to start doing jumping jacks to get this baby moving. And if one more person says to me "Oh, no baby yet, huh? What are you waiting for?" I'm going to bump them with my incredibly firm belly. Until then, I need something to take my mind off of my discomfort and pain so I'll write about other stuff. I do this for you, to save you from having to read my bitching. You can thank me later.)

There are plenty of things I have no problem telling Chicky.

Eat your vegetables. Brush your teeth. Don't hit the cat. I'll always love you. Things like that.

But there are other, more abstract concepts that I have an amazingly hard time talking with my child about.

Your grammy, my mom, is in heaven. Your grandma and grandpa go to church on Sundays to pray to God. God? He's up in heaven too. Uh, yeah. That's what we're supposed to believe, I guess.

Religion, in general, is difficult for a woman like myself who made a conscious break from it years ago to talk about with an impressionable three year old. But I believe that children need something to believe in, whether it be religion or fairy tales. Or religion based on fairy tales.

Immaculate conception? Really?

Children need something to hold on to in times of stress or turmoil. They need something to be happy about and to look forward to. That's childhood, for chrissake. So in the past year we've started using the concept of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'm not sure if my husband has a position on this because we've never really discussed it, at least not without much eye rolling on his part, but I made a conscious effort to incorporate these made up characters into Chicky's vernacular. It's not like I bring it up all the time. You know, it wasn't some random Thursday in February when I said, Have I told you the story of the big rabbit who leaves chocolate eggs for us to find? I think I waited until two days before Easter this past year to even bring it up. I could almost see the wheels turning in Chicky's head. Especially since the only thing she's ever seen a rabbit leave is little pellets of poop. And I've made it perfectly clear those are NOT edible.

But in much the way I have difficulties discussing a higher power with Chicky I find myself tripping over the words "Easter Bunny" and choking on the stories of the fat man in red coming down the chimney to bring good little boys and girls presents. It feels like I'm lying - hell, I am lying, let's be honest - but I will continue to keep up the charade even if it doesn't come naturally to me because my children deserve the wonderment that accompanies these deceptions. And I need an excuse to lord power over my children with a simple threat of "Santa won't come if you don't clean up your toys".

The way I see it, my kids will have less than a decade in their lives to believe that benevolent bearded men bring gifts just for eating a few more peas from their plate. That's pretty cool. I wish someone could make me believe that there was a spa fairy or that, maybe, there was a giant fuzzy beast who magically left bottles of wine at my doorstep.

I say less than a decade because most kids don't really grasp the idea of Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy until they're over the age of three. After that there are few precious years before television or some bratty kid on the playground (or an older sister, maybe. Not that I'm pointing any fingers) teaches my kids their mother and father were responsible for taking baby teeth and leaving a buck under the pillow. And honestly when that happens, it was probably time anyway. At some point they need to know that life is kinda sucky and disappointment is something they need to learn to deal with.

Which leads me to the reason for this post. Finally.

Mr. C works with two people who have daughters who are well into puberty and, as far as their parents are concerned, the kids STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA. These people see no reason to start telling their eleven, twelve, fourteen year old kids (uh huh, fourteen years old) the truth about who was leaving presents under the tree. Call me cynical, but if you're old enough to have a menstrual cycle I think you're old enough to deal with this cold hard fact.

It makes me wonder who is worried about who would suffer more? Kids are resilient and they roll with changes, for the most part. But parents can live for the rest of their lives with the guilt of disappointing their kids just once. It makes me want to shake these people. Deal with it! I want to yell at them. It's just like ripping off a band-aid, we don't want to cause our kids pain but it needs to happen and sometimes the faster or sooner the better.

Is it just me? Is it my hang-ups stopping me from being happy for these kids who still get to live a bit of the fairy tale? Or is there a cut off point, an arbitrary age depending on the child, where they need to grow up a little? When do we as parents stop perpetrating the myth that magical beings exist and teach our kids that it's okay to start believing in what's real, even if what's real is kind of crummy sometimes?

And don't even get me started on the Holy Spirit. To me it's like ROUS's. I don't believe it exists.

The signs are all there, you just need to know what you're looking for

I've said it before - I believe in signs. I think it goes back to my Catholic upbringing. Something about all those saints finding the image of Jesus or Mary in a tree stump or loaf of bread and seeing it as the sign to give their lives to God. I saw a dragonfly. I see it as a sign of good things to come. I may be deluding myself but I think we all need something to believe in and since I gave up religion for the time being, it's going to have to be insects.

Or this! This weekend is National Alpaca Farm Day. It's a little strange that a "day" is actually being held over two days, but when you're living the farm life I guess you can be a little loosey goosey about those things. I don't need someone to hit me over the head with a tree stump with the image of Jesus riding an alpaca on it. If this weekend is National Alpaca Farm Day and I just so happen to have been thinking of starting my own alpaca farm then someone's trying to tell me something.

But I think it's this sign I should be paying attention to:


You don't have to beat me over the head with a stump. Right now you could knock me over with a feather. I guess fate had a plan for us all along.

The meta and the frog

One of the things that I've always found so fascinating about blogging is the feeling of intimacy that comes with sharing your words with thousands of strangers. Stories and feelings you might never share with people who are standing in front of you, bloggers willingly share with the nameless, faceless mass of readers that come to their blog through happenstance or regular following. I'm not quite sure what it is that makes us bloggers - especially parenting bloggers - feel secure in sharing these raw feelings but I do hope that many of you that I read continue doing so.

Your words have become an important part of my support team. If I question myself over this or that I very often turn to blogs to see what others have encountered in their lives with children. And sometimes, when I'm fence sitting on a particular subject, it's nice to read a real person's first hand account of what they went through and how they came out the other side.

One subject that I'm fascinated with is the two-child family. In the past I've have made no secret of my desire to stop at one child, but I will admit that lately I've been waffling. Could I do it? Could I make a two-child family work? Would I lose my mind in the process?

I have come to no hard and fast conclusions, but I have to say that after reading this post by Julie of MotherGooseMouse the answer to those questions are all yes. And because she was so candid with her words I'd also have to say that even though it would be really difficult at times, it's okay to admit that sometimes having two kids is no picnic.

No, I haven't yet decided to have another baby but Julie's post about her feelings on having two children is the most persuasive argument yet that I've seen and I thank her for sharing her experience. That's why I nominated her for a Perfect Post Award.

Julie, if I do have another baby you'll be the first person I call while in labor. I'll be the one shouting expletives into your ear. Probably something about how you got me into that situation.

Thanks to MommaK and Suburban Turmoil for hosting these awards. Go to their sites to see the full list of nominees.

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Now for something completely different. What's the most disturbing thing you've seen? Well, forget that. This is now the most disturbing thing you've ever seen.

It's almost blasphemous. If you can get past the part where Kermit shoots heroine, believe me, it gets worse.