Adios, Amigos

Look at us, trying so hard to move to Mexico.

If anyone peeks through the windows these days, they'll witness extensive list making. I'm the Hunchback of the Central District, curved over my notepad and computer addressing the myriad of details necessary to get this thing off the ground. You never realize how many details are involved in the daily function of a family home until you have to change them all.

The window peepers would also witness much document scanning. The immigration attorneys need this document, the relocation people need that document, and the school to which we're hoping to gain admittance needs five hundred documents in the next five minutes -- or else adios, amigos.

The only computer in the house that has the proper driver installed for our ancient scanner is my old laptop with the cracked screen.  I tried installing the driver elsewhere and ended up with malware so I gave up and am instead squinting at an old screwed up blinky screen that is doing fascinating things to my eyes.  Now I see blinky blinky everywhere.

In scanning Lucien's file from his current school to send to the school in Mexico, I realize how many head injuries he's sustained so far in his schooling career, most of them incurred on the blacktop of the playground.  It's mind boggling (ha) to see all those head injury reports stacked in one place, all the medical advice over the years such as "keep an eye on him" and "don't let him fall asleep for four days." It's a miracle that kid still knows his own name.

The kids are not thrilled with the Mexico move, though they remain at least partially cheerful and optimistic because that is their natures. I can't blame their reluctance. They are both happy where they are now, each in class with their favorite teachers and surrounded by solid, funny groups of friends they've known since they were all babes. Lucien is especially sad because it means his time at his school ends in less than two weeks; he's a fifth grader now and will be moved on to middle school upon our return.

In truth, for many reasons, this move is a gamble -- and not just because we may get walled into Mexico thanks to Señor Trump --

I'm apprehensive about all the unknowns but am hoping to model an appropriate balance for the kids in their own apprehension; they should know I am also nervous and sad about leaving our familiar, tight-knit community but they will also hopefully learn from me it's OK to take risks and make changes, even when comfort is so damn comforting.

(They can't know exactly how nervous I am, though, because then they'd probably mutiny. I shouldn't have given them those swords for their Halloween costumes.)

I wonder if I sound off balance as I try to address my own conflicted feelings yet remain a strong, reassuring role model: "I'm scared but I'm not scared! Full lives involve risk-taking but agreed, this could be a gigantic mistake! We're gonna make so many new friends from all over the world but I'm definitely gonna cry every day!"

There's also the issue of Natani.  We have a couple responsible and well-liked house/pet sitters willing to take it all on but still, it's not going to be easy to kiss that crazy animal goodbye...

...or maybe it will?  

The desert dog attacking Dad with a viciously wagging tail

during my family's relaxing Thanksgiving holiday in our home.

She just loves so much, she can't hold herself back.

My family was indeed here for Thanksgiving.  My dad is a photographer so set up his nice camera in our front hall to take some long overdue family pictures. 

It's a kiss train with The Loosh wearing his favorite cat t-shirt.
The cat is shooting lightning out of its paws.

The Loosh knows how to Thanksgiving.

Mom said people always have their hands on each other in professionally posed photos so we decided to do that in our post-Thanksgiving photo shoot -- 

I love us.

(Is it just me or does Alex look a little "over" my family?)

Now it's Christmas and what a hectic one it will be.  I hope I remember to buy the kids some presents but honestly, won't they be happier I remembered to cancel The Seattle Times subscription, stocked up on the infrared lightbulbs Bobo needs to stay alive, and managed to get all our prescriptions filled for six plus months after many, many discussions with our insurance company?  Priorities, kids.

We had our Christmas tree delivered by a couple dads and one of their daughters from our school's Christmas tree sale.  They went above and beyond, set it up in my tree stand since Alex is once again down in Mexico, even delivered it alongside a plate of cookies and a quart of eggnog.

These days everything is double edged, every happy thing is also a little sad, so their commitment to us and to our school made me teary, which probably confused them terribly. Transitions blow.  Leaving what you love blows. But it's also exciting and awesome!  Help me.

The near future holds much change; we're hoping to be in Mexico City by the new year, which feels like only a handful of hours away. I'm not sure how long we'll be gone, at least six months, likely a little longer, and we'll be in touch after that.

Oh yes I'll be in touch, blog, in fact may be more present than ever.  If the Paris years taught me anything, it's that I won't know many people down there and will make an ass of myself on the regular.  Much processing, and for me that means writing, will ensue.

Seattle friends, this one's for you -- come playoffs, I may be a very lonely 12th Woman but promise to sport my blue and green every game just like this --

I am going to fit right in as usual

You all still have permission to come into my house, as we've always done in playoffs past, and Rusty, you better sit in your special seat so we win.  Seahawks 4-ever.

¡Vámonos!
MJ

Mary in a bell

This is a preschool field trip I recently chaperoned.  We used the city bus to get there and back because we love the environment at fancy preschool.  Yee-haw.  

We may love the environment but we chaperones don't love the anxiety and logistics involved in putting 20 kids on a city bus already full of people and getting all 20 back off again.  I had a nightmare the evening before the field trip and you guessed it, I left my entire group up in there somewhere.  As of my waking, they hadn't been heard from since.

Yes, we preschoolers may love the environment but I'm not sure our fellow riders loved us an equal amount.  That was evidenced by the face of the one guy who got pinned in the back corner.  His expression turned from genuine friendly smile into frozen mask of terror as tiny kids piled all around him and asked his name repeatedly.

It's Lucien and a gigantic snake.  Just be cool. 

Let's talk holiday.  Christmas is my favorite holiday but it's gotten harder.  Christmas as a kid was about twirling in circles in new holiday dresses and sucking on candy canes. Now it's about sitting bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night nursing the panicked thought, "I forgot to put the speech therapist on the thank-you holiday gift list!"

(I then go downstairs and write her name on the list immediately, lest I forget to purchase an Amazon gift card for the woman who made my unintelligible daughter somewhat intelligible.)

I miss being young at Christmas.  Gone are the days of lying under the Christmas tree with my brother, staring up into the branches at the lights and giggling. We had large-bulbed brightly colored lights on our tree back in the early 80s, not the chic tiny white lights of today.  Those giant hot lights could burn your nose off if your face got too close so lying under the tree was flirting with danger.  In addition to the potential injury, the lights blinked maniacally giving our living room the constant feel of a disco.  It was a 1980s Christmas and it was glorious.

My mom was often baking things.  She probably felt the same way I feel now when I'm trapped in the kitchen baking things.  Had I understood back then that Christmas could be stressful, that it was often an agonizing month-long preparation purgatory, my six-year-old self surely would have helped Mom or at least patted her on the back reassuringly.

Or maybe not, because I was busy.  I was busy grabbing Mary, the blessed mother of the baby Jesus, from our nativity set, sticking her head inside a bell-shaped Christmas tree ornament and declaring her "under the hair dryer at the beauty salon."  Mary was more often dangling from that "dryer" than resting in the manger with her newborn son.  My mom suspected this activity was sacrilegious but Mary's head fit so perfectly inside that bell there's no way it was wrong.

In other holiday news, Thanksgiving happened.  My parents flew in to join my sister Raba and sister-in-law Zee at our table. It was a warm and happy time but we missed my sweet brother who couldn't get the time off work to make the trip. He probably misses simpler holiday times, too.

We added a stray to our family Thanksgiving, a French man from Alex's work who had never experienced Thanksgiving before.  French Man is outgoing, warm, excited to sample everything Seattle has to offer.  He smiles all the time.  He bounces up and down a little when he talks.   His hugs are like being enveloped by a psychotically happy octopus (How can he have so many arms?). He's such an enthusiastically positive force for good, Alex once said, "It's like he's not French at all!"

(our stereotypes are expressed with the greatest affection and we miss you, French people...)

French Man's presence at Thanksgiving upped the ante.  I would normally have foregone many traditional staples for more contemporary options but instead felt the need to stick with the oldies, most of which sound unpalatable to foreigners.  Pumpkin pie?  Cranberry sauce?  Potatoes covered in so much brown sugar and butter they should be classified as dessert?   Crunchy curly things on the green beans, what?

I expected at the very least some hesitation but French Man dove into everything and pronounced it "amazing!" and "incredible!"  I wonder if there's anything I could have thrown his way that would have broken his can-do spirit.  Maybe Jello with suspended sliced bananas?  Easy Cheese on Ritz crackers?  Marshmallow Fluff eaten out of the jar with a spoon?  I'll have to invite him again to try these things and will report back.

I forgot to take pictures at Thanksgiving but here are a couple of Mom tickling Coco's feet --

Speaking of French people, Alex and I attended the Beaujolais Nouveau event, sponsored by the French-American Chamber of Commerce, a couple weeks ago.  It was a fancy event held on the top floor of our tallest building downtown.  It was an impressive location for a wine that's widely agreed to be awful.

Thankfully there were other things to drink besides the B.N.   I accepted a glass of rosé from the roving servers when we arrived and immediately said, "Alex, we've got to ask the bartender for the name of this wine, it's incredible."  Alex walked away to do just that and returned a few minutes later with a kindly Frenchman who kissed my hand and said, "I hear you like my wine, Madame."  I asked Alex to get the name of the wine and he returned with the winemaker.  It was well played, Al.  

The Beaujolais Nouveau fête was full of "somebodies," a few of whom I didn't like.  Once they've reached "somebody" status, some people stop being authentic and start being schmoozy to an uncomfortable degree.  They should also lay off the tanning beds because it's Seattle in winter and they're orange.

Orange folks aside, the view of my city was awesome

Most of the people I met were great.  I made a new friend at our table when he leaned over and asked, "Why are you sitting there laughing all by yourself?"  I was indeed laughing all by myself because two elderly people had begun dancing right next to my chair.  It would have been a sweet moment but for the nature of the Serge Gainsbourg song to which they were dancing.  Alex is a fan of Serge so I know most of his songs, including the English translation of his oft-salacious lyrics.

I'm pretty sure those sweet silver-haired people aren't as familiar with Serge as I am.  I leaned over to my new friend and said, "Do you think they know they're dancing to a song about doing it in the butt?"


I'll be under the tree if anyone asks.
MJ

Happy Wife Happy Life

Happy 2014!  Hope you all had good mornings at the gym and you haven't yelled at your kids in 48 hours and your diets are thus far looking very promising.

My parents and brother came to Seattle for Christmas this year. The weather was cold and gray during their visit, the neighborhood fireworks on New Years Eve kept them awake much of the night, and all of them caught colds thanks to my germ-ridden kids.  They may never return.

The arrival of my parents and brother was a surprise for Lucien and Coco. I spent the weeks before Christmas moping around the house, sighing and lamenting the fact I wouldn't see my parents for the holidays this year.  I thought laying it on thick beforehand would heighten the joy when the kids saw Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Bala standing on the front porch Christmas morning.  I stopped my charade when Lucien began rolling his eyes and yelling in frustration, "Geez, Mom, just invite them next time!!"

Mom, Dad and Bala appeared on our doorstep that morning wearing Santa hats.  The kids opened the door and bam! -- fistfuls of fake snow thrown in their faces. 

The situation didn't compute for the kids even after they realized who was behind the snow assault. They were dumbfounded and seemed slightly perturbed we'd gotten the best of them. 

Much transpired this holiday season.  For one thing, I discovered a man camped in the Honey Bucket in our driveway.  I'm not sure what life circumstances led that man to possibly spend the night in our construction crew's port-a-potty but I think we can assume they aren't good.

The time for sympathy came later.  But in that moment, he freaked me right the hell out.  I heard a rustling sound inside the Honey Bucket when I took out the recycling that morning.  After jumping a mile straight up in the air, I picked up a stick and poked the Honey Bucket.  I didn't necessarily think the stick would help me in any confrontation situation, I just felt strongly about not touching the Honey Bucket with my hand.

I yelled something like, "Is there somebody in the Honey Bucket?" Nobody answered but the rustling stopped.  Emboldened by the fact no one had yet jumped out to fight me, I yelled in a deeper voice, with much bravado, "You gotta go now, person in the Honey Bucket over there" and ran back inside to watch from the safety of a window.  The man eventually left and we are now locking the Honey Bucket when the crew isn't working on the house.

This was my first year hosting my entire family for Christmas so much of December was spent making lists and calculating how many days in advance I could make food items without serving everyone old and moldy food.  My personality demands I get as much out of the way as possible so I don't lose my sh*t on the actual holiday.  That's why I'm grateful for the miraculous yet terrifying properties of corn syrup -- it allows me to bake the pecan pie a worrisome number of days/weeks/months/years in advance.

The Christmas meal went quite well except I overcooked the Brussels sprouts.  I also threw the carrots in the garbage when no one was looking because they cooked down to an embarrassingly small portion.  I knew laughter would erupt and fingers would point if I placed what appeared to be one carrot in the center of the table and told everyone to share it.

Anyway, I made cinnamon rolls from scratch and who cares about vegetables when you have cinnamon rolls.

My sister recently married her girlfriend, Z, at the Shotgun Wedding Chapel in the Pioneer Square neighborhood of Seattle.  There were costumes involved.  I wasn't invited to the wedding but it's not because Raba and Z don't like me.  It's because it was supposed to be a secret, a way to quickly make the thing legal for insurance and tax purposes, months before the party we're having for the happy event next summer.

It turns out Raba and Z can't keep secrets very well so we all found out about it right away and then we saw the pictures and were like, "Raba, why are you dressed like a saloon girl and sitting on top of a piano?" 

Anyway, we all feel immense joy for the two of them.  Z has integrated flawlessly well into our family.  She's kind and warm and helpful and thoughtful.  She also tends to sit back and be cool when the rest of us begin talking loudly and incessantly over the top of each other.  Lord knows we've needed one of her kind in this family a long, long time.

 As a sign of welcome, our tribe presented the newcomer a fuzzy blanket.

I bought Raba and Z some "Happy Wife, Happy Life" dish towels for Christmas.  That adage must be harder to live by when there are two wives involved.  They may have to draw straws to decide who gets to be the happy one on any given day.  My Al has never fully embraced the wisdom of "Happy Wife, Happy Life."  When I mention it, he says, "Why?" and I'm like, "WHY DO YOU HAVE TO QUESTION EVERYTHING?"

I love having my parents around.  I wish they would move to Seattle but they hate Seattle weather so it's not likely unless I can convince them "gray" equals "happy."

 Coco adores them all

 Me and my beautiful mama

 

 Mom is very enthusiastic about the Space Needle

 

Our beloved pet praying mantis, Mantisy, died a few days after Christmas. We knew the end was approaching weeks ago because she began moving very slowly and sometimes fell over for no reason. We felt a little better when Alex pointed out we should feel good about ourselves because very few praying mantises get to die of old age, but were still desperately sad each time she flailed in vain trying to catch her food or stumbled over her own gangly insect legs.

I was late picking Coco up from preschool one day because I thought Mantisy was dying at that very moment and I wanted her to hear my voice and know she wasn't alone.  I explained to the teacher I was late because I was accompanying a praying mantis into death.  The whole incident likely earned Coco an asterisk next to her name on the class roster. 

The day Mantisy finally collapsed and didn't get back up, we all felt shockingly sad about it.

Lucien made a coffin for her out of Play-doh

So now it's 2014 and life goes on.  My parents and brother have returned to their Colorado blue skies and well-rested schedules.  Al, the kids and I began 2014 by burning Christmas trees with our friends on Alki Beach.

We were not the only group on the beach with the idea.  Several members of the group next to us stripped down to sequined hot pants and dove into frigid Puget Sound.  When they emerged from the water, they stood on the beach naked and guzzled whiskey.  They certainly gave us some good ideas for next year.

Happy wife, Happy life 4-ever,
MJ

Goonies

I'm not sure why we keep thinking it's a good idea to go away for long weekends.  It seems like a good idea beforehand but usually ends up a mess of screwed up schedules, screwed up sleep, cranky hungry kids and bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I guess we keep doing it because when we return home (often more tired than when we left) and start looking through the pictures, we usually say things like, "Gosh, that was fun!"

Vacation amnesia sets in quickly and thankfully (usually) leaves the good parts. 

We went back to one of our favorite spots for the long Memorial Day weekend -- the Oregon Coast.   Alex and I have visited the Oregon Coast many times throughout the course of our relationship.  In fact, here's a photo of Alex on the Oregon Coast, on the very beach where we stayed this time, fifteen years ago -- 

Our relationship was in its infancy at that time but I knew he was special, the zany French Canadian with the thick accent who said ridiculous things.

And now, here's a recent picture of Alex on the Oregon Coast --

Not much has changed except Alex looks more batshit crazy now, possibly due to the hoodie/fedora combination.  Plus there's a strange Alex-like kid addition running around screaming behind him.

We rented a first-floor condo right on the beach in Seaside so we could shove the children out the door easily and regularly.  It would have worked well but the weather was not our friend.  While we did have some periods of incredibleness, we also had some rain and some cold and some wind.

As we sat indoors staring outside, Coco tried out her knock-knock jokes.  She's pretty into knock-knock jokes.  They all go like this:

Coco:  KNOCK-KNOCK
Me:  Who's there?
Coco:  poo poo
Me:  poo poo who?
Coco:  poo poo pee pee

Sometimes she'd mix it up a little --

Coco:  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Me:  Who's there?
Coco:  pee pee
Me:  pee pee who?
Coco:  pee pee and poo poo on your head

I told her the jokes were the worst jokes I'd ever heard but it didn't seem to faze her.  After the hundredth time being told a joke involving some combination of poo poo and pee pee, most of it ending up on someone's head or (god forbid) in their mouth,  I told Alex we had to get out of there, that I couldn't take any more.

Thankfully, we stayed in Seaside, an old beach resort town fully equipped with things like covered tilt-o-whirls and bumper cars.  We made Lucien ride the tilt-o-whirl by himself.  He did not look healthy by the end of it.

Seaside is most famous for being the end of the Lewis and Clark trail.  Seaside is where those two badass explorers (plus badass Sacajawea) finally emerged from the wilderness and dipped their toes into the Pacific Ocean.

They paved the way for many, many timeshare condos

We went to an arcade where, upon her first pull of the wheel at the first game she played, Coco won 1000 tickets.  It took ten minutes for our tickets to fully dispense from the machine, during which time we drew envious gazes and knuckle cracks from all other vacationers.

We decided to get a voucher for our tickets and come back to redeem them the next day.  As we walked back to the condo, I cleaned out my jacket pockets, absentmindedly throwing fistfuls of wrappers and receipts into a boardwalk trash can while looking out over the water.  I realized a millisecond later I'd just tossed the voucher for our tickets, procured not even one minute earlier by a pimply-faced employee who told me to guard it with my life, into a large cement trash can with a bolted-on lid.

I dove into the boardwalk trash can headfirst, trying to wriggle my way under the nasty bolted lid ("I'm small, I can do this!") while Alex lounged on a bench a short distance away, pointed at me and yelled, "homeless, uh-oh!"

I didn't care so much about the tickets, more about how my family was going to react.  They were never, ever going to let me live down the loss.  If I didn't find that voucher, I was going to have to hear about it every single day until the blessed moment I drew final breath.

I eventually fished the receipt out of the garbage using Lucien's new plastic clamming shovel.  Lucien was like, "Mom, why are you using my new shovel to dig through the garbage?" He looked to Alex for explanation but Alex just hugged him and said, "There's something not quite right about her, son, and the sooner you accept it the better."

Success, but I have less respect for myself now

One of my favorite beaches on the Oregon Coast is Cannon Beach.  We planned to spend a full day on Cannon Beach but when we arrived, the wind was so strong we were afraid it was going to blow Coco up into the trees.  We took refuge at a nearby coffee shop and debated what to do.

Alex, who tends to be a save-the-day type of guy, said, "Has Lucien ever flown a kite?" and I said "no" and he said "then that's what we're going to do."  We found a kite store and were advised on the proper kite to buy, one that wouldn't be shredded by the gale force winds currently out on the beach.  We chose a blue one that Lucien creatively named "Blue Kite."

When it's as windy as it was that day, it's easy to get your kite up in the air -- you just hold your arm up and the kite is immediately ripped away from your hands.  The force of the wind pulled Lucien across the sand as he held onto his kite string.  Impressively, he didn't lose the kite because he, like his mother, is freakishly strong.

 

Coco got one, too

As we walked up and down the boardwalk back in Seaside, we noticed this house.  And we immediately began wondering if it was for sale and if we could buy it and if we could fix it because THERE IS OBVIOUSLY SOMETHING WRONG WITH US.  The pull of an old pretty house in desperate need is like a siren's song and we, someday, are going to crash into the damn rocks.

An elderly woman resident heard us speculating and stopped to give us some history.  The house is owned by a very wealthy family in Portland who no longer cares about it.  There are six bedrooms on the top floor and six bedrooms in the basement.  It's hard to tell from the angle of this photo but the house is quite big with a sprawling front sun porch and great architectural details.

She told us from the turn of the century up through the 1920s, '30s and '40s, the family regularly vacationed in Seaside with an entourage of butlers, cooks and servants.  They threw lavish parties back in the day that spilled out into the front yard and down onto the beach.  For some reason the family stopped coming to their cottage decades ago and the house has been slowly dissolving into the ground ever since. 

I have absolutely no point to make about this house.  I just want it on the record this house existed, it was beautiful, and it LIVED, dammit, it LIVED.

It's a miracle this kid still has a scooter since he ditches it every few minutes and wanders off

He could dig in the sand for hours

We went back to the arcade on our last day to redeem our tickets.  After hearing the chorus of whiny voices clamoring for candy and only candy, I made an executive decision -- two gummy candy pizzas, five whoopie cushions and a monkey hat.  The kids protested but, in my defense, the monkey hat was awesome.

Our plan was to stop in Astoria, Oregon on our drive back to Seattle.  It's a great little town and famous for the many movies that have been filmed there -- the best, obviously, according to me, being The Goonies.  The entire movie was filmed on location.  Quite a bit of The Goonies was filmed up the road on Cannon Beach, too, though obviously on a much less windy day or else Corey Feldman would have ended up in the Pacific Ocean.

I wanted to find The Goonies house.  Badly.  The hard driving rain, however, had other plans.  After a quick lunch and a short drive through the town, we were tired and wet and miserable and decided, "Eff it, this isn't fun." We turned for home.

I'm bummed we missed it.  Really bummed.  That movie was one of my very favorites growing up and now that I've introduced it to Lucien, it's on heavy rotation in our family once again.

Wait for us, Goondocks.  Wait for us, Mikey's house.  We'll return to do the Truffle Shuffle outside the gate someday soon.

Andi!  You GOONIE!
MJ

Cat Stevens and Jesus Mouse

Since I started my writing class, I have less time for the blog.  Heck, I have less time for showers.  It's been three days now, people.

Perhaps I'm in over my head with this writing class.  I'm in there with "real" writers who have done a "publish."  My teacher's former job was literary critic for the Seattle P.I.  My writing assignments are returned with red marks all over them.  I'm pretty sure it's my teacher's pen, though I like to think he was just eating Twizzlers and got sloppy.

My assignment essays, strictly bound by a 300-word limit, have me awake in the middle of the night, writing in fits of sleepy inspiration.  I'm quite proud of my most recent essay and look forward to reading it aloud to a roomful of critics who will have no idea what I'm talking about.

Spring has sprung in Seattle and not a moment too soon.  Winters in the Pacific Northwest, as most people know, are chilly gray and dreary.  But in the past week of warm sunny days, we've come out of hibernation.  Everyone's back outside, stretching and squinting up at the mysterious yellowish circle in the sky. 

My favorite runner is back, running through our neighborhood for hours at a time.  He's my favorite because, while most runners look straight ahead and pound the hell out of the pavement, he gets more vertical with his strides and looks around the whole time.  It gives him the appearance of bouncing, near skipping, down the sidewalk.  He looks thrilled to be running, which is a strange concept to me.

I was sitting on the front porch when I saw him again.  I ran inside to yell to Al, "Ole Bouncy Black Pants is back!  Ole Bouncy Black Pants is back!"  I probably should have been taking a shower instead of sitting on the front porch watching the passersby but we all make questionable decisions sometimes.

The days when all the mountain ranges are out -- Olympics to the west and Cascades to the east -- and Mount Rainier is standing crisp and clear to the south, those are the days we Seattleites live for.  On those days, we are all convinced we live in the most beautiful place on Earth and feel smugly satisfied with our life choices.

photo www.seattlecenter.org 

 

We're now facing another string of cold gray days but last week was enough to give us all more patience.

Coco had a nightmare last night that woke her (and me) at 4:00 a.m.  She was bolt upright and crazy-eyed, screaming that something was in her bed. As I tried to calm her, she seemed to catch sight of something out of the corner of her eye.  Her eyes widened and she screamed again, then bolted to the end of her bed.

She convinced me.  I nearly yelled,  "Holy sh*t, girl, there IS something in your bed!" and hightailed it out of her room.  Instead I gathered my wits, pulled all her blankets off the bed, shook them out, and quickly became hopelessly entangled in the middle of them.  Lucien woke up and said sleepily, "Mommy, are you doing an April Fools joke?"

There was absolutely nothing in Coco's bed but don't bother trying to convince her of that, it's wasted breath and time.  She came back to bed with me where she spent the rest of the night kicking Alex and I in the kidneys.

As usual, for those of us with no family nearby, friends were family for Easter.  We gathered on the Street of Dreams for an egg hunt and mimosas (one was for kids, one for adults, you decide).  The kids watched in horror as Seattle Mom and Dad's cat attacked and nearly killed a mouse in the backyard.  Seattle Dad had to put the mouse out of its misery because there was much suffering.  Happy Easter, kids, and no worries, maybe that mouse will resurrect just like Jesus.

Then there was a ton of food including homemade cinnamon rolls and a psycho jello mold --

Want some candy, little kid?

It was a beautiful day so we headed down the street to an empty parking lot to ride bikes --

"Daddy, why doesn't my bike work anymore?"

When we got back to Seattle Mom and Dad's house, the jumping began --

 

It's not Easter until someone jumps over my head, scares me and makes me spill my mimosa. 

This one's for the ladies

There was some singing involved in our Easter celebration, which reminded me of a classic Alex tale.  When I first met him, Al loved Cat Stevens and sang his songs regularly and loudly.  His favorite song was "Peace Train."  But instead of understanding the chorus for what it was -- "Ride on the Peace Train" -- Alex misunderstood (it's hard to decipher foreign language song lyrics!) and sang, "I love to be straight." 

I love my foreigner.

I was flipping through a catalog full of useless items recently when I saw this --

How is this better than a dog pooping in your yard?  Instead of an occasional left-behind pile of poo, you're going to stare at a fake dog in full poo position, with fake poo coming out of its behind, every time you step out your front door?  Catalog people, go home, you're drunk!

Everyone jump on the be straight,
MJ

Everyone make it through that one?

Our holiday season was happy but a lot of stuff got away from me this year.  I didn't send Christmas cards like I usually do, and the present I bought two months ago for my brother is still sitting here on the floor.  It's wrapped and ready to go, has been for weeks, but getting to the post office is hard.

While I'm in confession mode, might as well alert my sister and my mother, one of whose birthdays was almost a month ago, that their birthday cards are still on my desk.  It doesn't seem to be my year for handling mailing details.

Our holiday was full of good family times.  Al and I took the kids to the Washington State History Museum in Tacoma for the model train fair.

Tacoma, we are in you

Our kids love tiny trains so came armed with millions of questions about how they were made.  They didn't get many answers, though, because model train enthusiasts tend to be rather introverted people who can't speak or answer questions in any coherent fashion. From my observations, they appear to avoid eye contact and interaction because it frightens them.

Alex, with his customary loud voice and larger-than-life bravado, was frustrated in his attempts to communicate with the choo-choo artisans.  He couldn't understand why they skittered away from him and hid under tables.

Fortunately, I speak Introverted Model Train Nerd and was able to coax them out by speaking softly with a singsong tone to my voice.  They liked me so much I was granted backstage access through a swinging door that said KEEP OUT so I could look at the model buildings along the back wall.  One was a candy factory; the people inside were making tiny almond roca, delightful!

This is the kind of incredible picture a choo-choo VIP can take

My kids looked pretty disappointed on the other side of the plexiglass but I just pumped my fist in the air and yelled, "Kids, look, mama's finally a SOMEBODY."

Even as I celebrated my VIP status, I was preoccupied.  My beloved Parisian houndstooth coat was in the unattended coat check downstairs and I was convinced someone was going to steal it.  Halfway through our visit, even as Alex yelled after me I was being paranoid,  I ran downstairs to retrieve it and held it close to my body from then on.

I see you, sneaky model train enthusiast coat thieves

Santa came to visit the kids at the museum.  We'll get the official photo in a couple weeks but until then, this blurry one will have to suffice to preserve the memories.

My mom warned me about taking the kids to see Santa Claus too late.  She said kids will always ask Santa for something at the last minute, something you didn't see coming, and you'll be unprepared.

Boy was my Mama right.  Lucien has talked about nothing but "Beyblades! Beyblades! Beyblades!" for months but when he sat on Santa's lap, the only thing he asked for was a goddamn remote control helicopter.

The model train geeks startled and dove back under tables when they heard me yell, "What the F*CK???" from Santa's Jolly Christmas Corner.

We left the model train exhibit and drove directly to Toys-R-Us where I told Alex to keep the kids distracted in the parking lot (he attempted cartwheels, it was terrifying) while I went inside to fight a giant toy store three days before Christmas.  In a related thought, people are goddamn insane and I don't know what's wrong with any of us.

It was bumper carts in the store and everybody was grumpy/scary.  I'm from Ohio, though, so automatically smiled and chirped out some cornfed "Thank You"s when somebody decided NOT to decapitate me for taking the last Etch-a-Sketch. (Because Coco apparently suddenly loves Etch-a-Sketch, what the HELL happened with Santa?)

There was time spent in downtown Seattle before Christmas.  It reminded me of our Christmas last year when we lived in Belltown, right after we moved back from France.  That was a bittersweet memory.  A year ago already?  It feels like just minutes ago we were celebrating Christmas in light-strung Saint Germain and being firmly reprimanded by the Parisians (as per my usual).

We went to Seattle Mom and German Seattle Dad's house Christmas Eve for dinner with friends.  Quite a few of us decided not to travel this year so the crowd was a sizeable, stress-free one.  The food was delicious and the company pretty drunk.  Thank God for the drinks, though, because the kids put on a "play" that was directionless and seemed to go on forever.  Only one kid cried, though, so that was good.

He's dancing again

Back at home, Alex and I attempted to play Santa through the haze of champagne cocktails and food coma.  I stared at the directions to Coco's princess castle and thought, "Man, I am not gonna make it through this."  Alex wrestled with the parts to an artist's easel next to me, hissing the "F" word periodically and saying things like "this damn easel has 47screws."  It's impressive what parents endure to keep the magic alive for their young kids at Christmas.

The next morning, the kids' eyes were big as moonpies (Coco's especially, Lucien has always been a bit of a skeptic) when they saw the loot under the tree.  Coco could barely speak, could only point and stammer "San..?  San..?  San....?" with a rapturous look on her face.  And that's why we do it.

Hope everyone had good holidays.  Or at least made it through with a sigh of relief.   

Finally a somebody!
MJ