Time is short...

I thought we had three more years—years where my Halloween vision would go unchallenged. But, it’s started already. E is REFUSING to don his costume.

I can’t understand it, really.

First of all, he never gets ideas about what he does or doesn’t want to wear. Which pants, shirt, hat, shoes, jacket/no jacket…it’s all the same to him. So, why would this be any different than anything else I dress him in?

Second, he has no “better” idea of what to be. This is what I thought would someday end my Halloween rule. “You’re going to be Marty McFly!!!” “I don’t want to be Marty McFly. I want to be a hamburger.” But E has no clue what he wants to be.

Finally, it’s not like I’m dressing him up in a generic furry animal costume. What’s he got to complain about?

This is really causing me a lot of worry because we are doing a theme and E is sort of what I would call “the anchorman.” His costume is the best and the cutest. Without him, the remaining costumes look quite rag-tag. Pretty much, we SHOULDN’T do this if E bails. But if we can convince him to do this for the family, we are going to look pretty awesome.

I realized this problem a month and a half ago when I pulled out his costume and wanted him to try it on, just to make sure it was going to work/didn’t need any modification and so that I could see how cute it was. I hoped that if I just pulled it out the next week, he would be fine with it, since, as I said before, he never cares what I make him wear. No go. Week after week, no go. So, finally, this week, in desperation, I have been having B wear the hat/headpiece in the evenings. E adores B, so it’s our best shot. I’ve worn it too during the day. Still, E refuses to have any part of the costume near him. We’re running out of time. I still have work to do on the remaining three costumes, and I’m putting it off, wondering if I should even go through with it, since we may have to can the whole thing. Curses.

Adler Kai

October 5
8lb 13 oz

It's a Motorcar

No, it's not a minivan. That would have been overkill. Plus, although I was turning 30, a $30,000 gift, though fitting in way, was not something I was comfortable accepting. Went with the Mazda 5. Much better. Almost the ideal car, really. Two seats in the front, two seats in the middle, and, theoretically, two seats in the back (we won’t be using those). So, it’s basically perfect for a family of four.

I mean, think about it. If you have two carseats, you WILL lose the third seat in any vehicle bench. And, who wants the middle really. Why even make five seater cars? But back to the M5. Here, we don’t have to have two car seats squished on either side of a three-seater row. There are just the two captain’s chairs. Perfect.

And, get this! As the marriage of a car and minivan, we get the best of both worlds when it comes to the kids’ doors! They slide—like the minivan—so you don’t have to worry about chipping the car next to you, or about having someone park so close that you can’t get the door open enough to get the infant seat in. But, they are REAL windows. You know, ones that can go up or down like the back seat windows of a car (not like the fixed windows of a minivan).

So, after those two captains chairs, there’s a big cargo space (provided you have the two rear seats out of commission) for groceries, strollers, surfboards, etc.

It’s dark, sparkly blue with dark tinted windows. And it’s just about perfect.

Words of caution:

First, if you did want to use more than four total seats, you would have NO cargo space. Seriously, you get two more passengers OR stuff. Not both.

Second, my only disappointment is in how few places there are to put stuff (like sunglasses, Kleenex, etc.) up front, and how “uncontained” everything in the back is. The babies in rear facing car seats with tons of groceries, etc. hanging out loosey-goosey in the back is kind of unsafe. They’d be hit with all sorts of projectiles in the event of an accident. We’re working on a solution (net or something) to this problem.

And now, is anyone looking for a 2003 Nissan Sentra? Runs good…

Smaller, Older, Dumpier

[This is not the post where I recount my 30th birthday.]

Think of the rent/mortgage you pay monthly. Now, just for “fun,” imagine what sort of living space upgrade you could get if you DOUBLED that amount. I know you don’t have the flexibility in your budget to do so, but just imagine that you did (or that you were FORCED to double it). You probably don’t know exactly what the market offers at that amount, but certainly it’s something bigger, newer, and nicer, right?

Well, here in San-D, our doubled rent has us in a smaller place, one with no garage (bad news for people like us with 5 strollers, three bikes, two large RC planes, a kayak, an elliptical trainer, and camping gear for five…). Additionally, the place was built in 1967. A blessing and a curse. I instantly liked the “charm” that such an “established” property affords—very different from the last couple places we have lived, all of which were built within five years of our occupancy. However, during our first month, we spent two weeks wearing headlamps after dark in the upstairs because of an electrical problem; water has been leaking through the cupboards and floors in the kitchen for who knows how long, which is nasty and produces a crop of mushrooms growing out of the baseboard in front of the kitchen sink almost daily; and the “original” appliances (fridge, oven, W/D)—don’t even get me started. But after weeks of nagging, these troubles have each slowly been addressed.

Recently, we visited some friends who are living in a suburb community in the type of place we would usually live in (that is, new). It seemed SO NICE. Nevertheless, I’m very, very glad we live where we do, because the location COULDN’T be better.

Beach: 5 minutes
Sea World: 6 minutes
San-D Zoo (and a dozen museums in Balboa park): 10 minutes
LDS temple: 5 minutes
Airport:13 minutes
Brett’s office: 5 minutes
Library: 1 minute
Church: 1 minute
Cross the street (I walk it) and you’ve got TONS of shopping (plus a DMV).
Head the other way—into the condo community—and you’ve got the nicest pool I’ve seen in as long as I can remember, plus a separate kiddie pool, a basketball court, recreation room, weight room, exercise room, club house, sauna, reading room, playground…

So, come visit. Only, remember that you get what you pay for. And although staying with us will be cheap, it will not be comfortable. (Plus, remember that lodging with us will be the ONLY cheap part of your visit.) More on the topic of San-D, both the good and the bad--read:expensive--(there is no ugly) later…

30

Highlights (or "everything that happened that was remotely celebratory") :

• Receiving all birthday packages in the mail on the very day.


• B arriving home from work with a BR ice cream cake, which was a) delicious, and b) an impressive feat seeing as he was on his bike ("How in the world did you climb up here?").


• Finding a set of mission style rockers at a garage sale for $50!!!!! (This is the highlight of the highlights.) Aren't they sublime? Don't worry, the ugly stained and faded fabric is just wrapped over the original leather seats. I'll fix this...someday...soon...I hope.


• Seeing "Inception" and going to Coldstone. These were on separate dates with different guys (B and E, respectively).


• Getting a new car!

Pretty good birthday, if you ask me.

San-D's Finest

(Yes, I’m talking about the firemen…and the 911 dispatchers. We were introduced today…)

The move is half over. We are in San-D, as I like to call it. Our belongings and our cars are en route. This is the part during which we enjoy the “pleasures” of hotel life and the pains of having everything entirely out of our control. When will the stuff arrive? No clue. A one million item long to do list? Just looming right now. But, I have said for a year that this move will be easier than the last one—the one with the three week old baby, the fly-by-night moving company, and no home in CS. And has this one been easier?

Clearly, it is a bit too early for us to call the move a definite success, but so far we have had to call poison control and 911 just once (each), so I’m feeling pretty good. Or maybe it’s the box of Sees candies next to me.

The poison control thing was last week, still in CS, and B’s call, so I will let him tell that story on his blog (no, he still doesn’t have one). The 911 call was mine, today, here in San-D. I was a bit conflicted (to call, or not to call, that is). It was almost time for E and I to pick B up from work. We were going to be a bit early, but I was long out of entertainment for the kid (we’ve been in hotel quarters for many days), so when I put him in his car seat and he seemed happy and entertainable, I just sat next to him and made him laugh for about 15 minutes. We played with all sorts of toys and nontoys. He had the rental keys at the beginning of the session and pushed the buttons repeatedly. When he became interested in something else, I took the keys away and dropped them onto the drivers seat and we continued playing. Several minutes later I decided we should head out before he became tired of the car seat, but, as I tried to get in the front seat, I found the door locked and instantly knew what had happened.

I’ve never called 911 before and I felt bad that it was a locked car incident, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’d have to look up a locksmith, they take over an hour to arrive, it’s now “rush hour” etc. I was parked next to the hotel’s open air Laundromat, so I quickly asked the young tattooed guy and the middle aged biker chick if they had any experience locking kids in cars and, more importantly, freeing them. The tattooed guy said to call 911. The biker chick said to too. A baby trapped in a car is an emergency. Luckily, the car was in the shade.

911 was very nice. I had limited information as to my location, but it took them no time to figure it out. They somehow even knew the layout of the hotel parking lot. I almost wanted to look up in the sky, expecting to see them (or rather a huge satellite) looking down at me. I felt stupid about making the call—the same way I feel stupid for going to the doctor (before I go…and sometimes after), but they handled it as if it were an emergency they knew right what to do with. They were sending the fire department for the rescue. Just DON’T break the windows. I have to say that although the fire department was quicker at getting there than a locksmith would have been, it was still TOO LONG if the car had been in the sun. Also too long if E would have been crying. Even in the shade where he wasn’t going to die, if he had been crying all that time, I really might have broken the window. I can’t believe how well he did. Strapped in his car seat, he just looked at me (and the biker chick) staring in through the windows. He even waved a few times.

I, on the other hand, cried the whole time. In fact, when I made the call, I was almost unable to speak to the first 911 lady. After they let me off the phone (with instructions to call 911 back if I were about to break the windows) B called. When I said hello, there was silence, stammering, then silence. I knew he didn’t recognize my voice and was checking to see who he had called. “Lyndsey?” “Yeah.” “I didn’t recognize your voice.” “That’s because I’m crying because the baby is locked in the rental and I had to call 911 and they’re sending the fire department.” I’ll be a little late picking you up…How was your first day of work?

Four fire men suited up in the red suspenders and yellow waders piled out of the truck—the ladder truck—to work on the car. They were middle aged guys, built like refrigerators (I find refrigerators to be solid—not fat—which is exactly how I think firemen should look). Maybe it’s the waders that make them look solid. Anyway, they were nice and quick and one even had a fun curly mustache that I thought was perfect for a fireman. Very nostalgic. Like pin striped baseball uniforms. We had a firefighter friend in CS who just didn't look the part. He looked just like a regular guy. Not solid. He should seriously consider growing the mustache. Anyway, people were watching from windows and balconies. Hotel security was hanging around to ask me after the firemen left if there was anything the hotel could do for me. The words “mini-bar” did not come to my mind in the moment. I wonder if they’d accommodate me now…

--ok, so it’s probably time to sign off. I just got back inside after running out on account of an earthquake. We need to be quicker. Practically the whole hotel was out of their rooms before we were. As it started, B and I looked at each other, then I went for the baby as B sat and realized aloud, “I don’t think those people above us can shake this whole building.” Nope. This is an earthquake. 5.7. Same latitude as San-D, but east. Welcome to southern California. Although actual earthquakes are scary, I look back with fondness at the time I spent huddled under my desk for monthly earthquake drills in elementary school. I was good at those.

But back to my 911 emergency from earlier today… It is nice to finally get something for that 911 cell phone tax—and to get it for something as benign as this emergency.

I'm prepared to pay you twelve. [aka B Versus the Wetsuit]

Preface:

I admit that I succumb to the siren song of garage sales and thrift stores. At least, I succumb enough to stop—whether I purchase anything is another matter. Luckily, I don’t like junk and I don’t like “stuff”. So, when I come home with something, it’s usually something that we have been waiting to find at a deal. Seriously, nearly everything we own is second hand.

Back when we were living at the Holiday Inn Express in CS, we were looking at the brochures in the lobby for ideas of things we might be able to do. Among the myriad of advertisements was one for the CS flea market! I’d never been to a flea market, but it sounded like a great way to entertain oneself on a Saturday morning, and, since our baby was turning 4 weeks old that day, river rafting and the like were out of the question.

I have been back to the CS flea market four or five times. I would have gone more, as I can think of no more enjoyable way to pass a Saturday morning, if we hadn’t been experiencing CS’s 11th coldest winter in its 115-year recorded history. That’s right, it’s STILL snowing weekly; we never got a fall or a spring. Anyway, a couple Saturdays ago, B came with me—his first trip back since the one last June.

B was—how shall I say—happily surprised at how awesome the flea market is. Apparently he had forgotten or simply not noticed last year. A kid in a candy store, verily, this time around. We each stop to look more closely and ask prices of the things that interest us. I say nothing to any of his inquiries or purchases, as I expect the same of him.

With that, I give you B Versus the Wetsuit.

A man selling primarily an entire van-full of boots and shoes (seriously, hundreds of pairs) also had a two-piece wet suit. B picked it up and asked a price. We all keep walking. Then B stops to try on and try out a pair of roller blades. E and I keep walking. B will catch up. After about 25 minutes, I call B to find out where he is.

"What's going on with the roller blades?"

"Uh...they're good."

"Where are you?"

“I decided to try on the wetsuit.”

I tell him where we are and hang up, wondering how on earth that wetsuit try-on is going. Is he putting it over his clothes? Is he taking off his clothes in the middle of the flea market? He had sounded a bit preoccupied, so I had not asked. Whatever. E and I keep walking.

About 40 minutes later, still no B, I decide to head back to the wetsuit/boot-selling man’s area. I get there. No B. What is going on here? I eye the van. Could he be trying on the wetsuit in the van? I call him again.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom. This thing is like a Chinese finger trap!!!! I’m rolling around on the floor and I can’t get it off.”

Yes folks, B was rolling around the restroom floor, completely trapped in the wetsuit. He needed a rescue. He mentioned the fire department because as he told me “you can’t come in here.” The fire department? Watch me come in there. I mean seriously people, the fire department? You want them to rescue you from a wetsuit on a bathroom floor at the flea market? We’re getting that wetsuit off if it takes buying both it and a sword to cut it off him right there in the bathroom. This is a flea market; there's bound to be some garden tools or something.

In the end, he was freed without the assistance of the fire department and without damaging the suit. He did not opt to purchase the wetsuit. He did, however, purchase the roller blades and several other items, including a drill press which he has since tasked me with selling on Craigslist. (“I don’t know why I bought it.”) Don’t judge him too harshly. He is still a novice.

Announcing

THE TULEY BABY GUESSING CONTEST 2010

Because, seriously, the only thing better than two babies under the age of two is two babies under the age of 18 months.

Into the second trimester, we are now beginning in earnest to prep E for the new bundle of joy that will soon be dethroning him from his ruling baby status. We encourage him to walk everywhere and we are teaching him how to treat a baby softly using a singing goat puppet. Mostly E just looks at us like, “Give me a break, I’m 10 months old.” We anticipate disgust when the baby turns out to be nothing like a singing goat puppet.

If you played last time, then you know the drill. Email, call, or comment your guesses. As for dates: mid September to mid October is right on time.

And to the winner goes a free ticket to the San Diego Zoo!!!! Yes folks, this baby will be born in San Diego (but hopefully not at the zoo). You must get to San Diego in order to redeem the prize (no word yet on whether you can stay with us—our living room floor may already be occupied by the resident Mr. & Mrs.). If you turn down this grand prize, you will receive some sort of free merchandise that we will be given when we become zoo members—perhaps something along the lines of a San Diego Zoo calendar.

Best of luck!

Cooking with L

I do not have an entrepreneurial bone in my body, nor am I an inventor. However, I have a gadget in mind that would really come in handy in the kitchen. Ask yourself: How many minutes do you spend sweating and silently swearing in an effort to cut open a spaghetti squash or a butternut squash, or an acorn squash? It takes all your strength to get a knife into the squash, and then it’s stuck there. It will not cut. So you have to muster up all your strength again to pull the knife back out, which, surprisingly is even harder than getting it in. It must also be admitted that throughout these maneuvers the squash cutter is the very picture of how NOT to be a good scout. Knife safety techniques simply will not get the job done. This perilous in/out struggle must be repeated at least 20 times. It’s enough to make people decide not to bother with squash, which is a crying shame.

And so, my friends, I give you the “kitchen ax”. Sold with the kitchen chopping block, naturally.

Seriously, I’ve thought about this a lot. Sometimes I get B to cut open the squash before he goes to work so that I won’t have to deal with it. I have wished that we had a run-of-the-mill outdoor chore ax that I could cover in plastic wrap and use for this purpose. I have also considered before-and-during my squash-cutting episodes whether there is a way I can get myself to such a height that dropping the squash onto concrete would bust the thing open. I don’t know how high that is…certainly higher than for a comparatively hollow pumpkin. I have even considered opening the garage, backing out the car, and running over the squash to break it open. No joke. I had it all planned: I’d put E in his stroller in the garage so he could watch. Then I’d back the car out and put the squash on a metal pizza pan, with another on the top forming a sort of ramp. I was a bit concerned about the possibility of E being hit in the face with flying raw squash, which I am convinced would be significantly more dangerous than being hit in the face with flying strained squash. So I haven’t tried this yet.


B has just entered the room and I have told him my grand idea.
His first remark: “How is this different from a cleaver?”

[silence]

What’s a cleaver?



After hearing his cleaver pitch, I still believe the ax would do a better job. It sounds like a cleaver (lighter weight and shorter-handled) would get the job done after several hacks. The ax would take care of it in one blow. B is worried about the kitchen counters and floors of the ax wielders. I have promised to use the kitchen ax in the garage.

Thanks for the mammories...

Not really.

To commemorate E’s eight-month birthday, I gave him what he’s been wanting, hoping, begging, asking for and demanding: I weaned him. He is overjoyed. So, I guess I will allow myself to be too. It’s no secret that I hated nursing. After just one week I said that I’d rather go through the natural childbirth again than continue to nurse. (I’m not kidding either. Natural childbirth, though horrendous, is OVER when it’s over. The nursing torture just keeps on coming—every two hours… it never ends… )

Mantra 1: My comfort is of no importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a parent would I be? At worst, unfit and incarcerated.

In light of Mantra 1, I, of course, endured.

After two months of this agony, things eased up and I had one enjoyable month, during which I could READ while nursing. I could have gone on like that for months. As it was, I did go on for months, but without the reading and with a new obstacle. See, when E turned three months old, he made it very clear that he was through with nursing. From that time on, he was a terrible eater, taking in very little, or refusing all together, and always putting up a huge fight.

Mantra 2: E’s comfort is not a matter of importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a person would he turn out to be? At worst, spoiled and insufferable.

And so, he endured as well.

For several months he ate [drank] very little (though always lots of solids; he thinks he’s a grown up), and I commented to B often that he was obviously NOT into this and I should stop. B followed these complaints up with separate pep talks for E and myself. I have to say that it was more than a little offensive on a personal level when after all the pain and trouble I went through and was still going though to have him completely reject the nursing for an inferior product—one he didn’t even know existed.

So, I now am doing my best to focus on the positive of the entire experience: that it is over. So wonderful. While nursing I often wondered how bottle feeding would be. If you are wondering too, let me tell you, it's at least 500 times better. Will I try nursing ever again? See Mantra 1 and Mantra 2.