“It's the inflation story, it's there and it's got implications going forward.”*

Dudes, my brain is mush. I have a gigantor book post to write, about good stuff I have been reading and what I have lined up, but I. CAN'T. THINK. And, well, I have to go play Scramble on Facebook. And, what, I can't hear you, I have a baby attached to my boob. So, here, have some photos:

This is the boys' second day of getting their own breakfast. I like that someone even went out on the porch and retrieved the newspaper.

I know it LOOKS like he is worshiping the cake, but really, he didn't even like it all that much. A chocolate Guinness cake is probably best reserved for the adults from now on. (What? He liked it at the St Pat's party! And the alcohol bakes out!)

One of the most successful presents (I had to peel it off him today and insist on washing it). Although Seg is my boy whom, if I wrapped up an old rag and a bar of used soap, he'd hug me, tell me he loved me, and say thanks. (And then he'd ask his dad what the hell...)

These are all the boys from Seg's preschool class walking home from school today, to our house for Seg's cupcake party. At the top of the steps, Seg turned to his followers and said, "Now, everybody, we'll see my brother Terzo. Be nice to him. And remember, he's littler than you, so if you hit him, let him hit you back."

I am not permitted to vacuum the house ever again. Just in case. Damn Germans.

Note to anyone who has ever, or will ever attend a five-year-old's birthday party: This? Should have been left on the shelf. Thanks, M! WHAT were you thinking, woman?! Am I not ENOUGH of a nervous wreck?

I leave you with cute baby socks! Well, I would have but he twisted and turned and stuck out his tongue and stretched, just before he let out an enormous fart, and moved, and the camera clicked. So here's my living room rug.


Here, here are the cute socks:

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*Drew Matus, Lehman Brothers

"Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles..."*

The boys MADE THEIR OWN BREAKFAST TODAY.

Without blood, or any incident whatsoever.

Primo got English muffins out of the freezer, toasted them, put Nutella on them (“Don’t worry, Mom, I used a butter knife, not the steak knives.” Ohhhh, gooood) , and then cleaned up. They were so proud of themselves, my little Nutella-slathered guys.

They neglected to wipe the kitchen table, but I am the only person in this house who does that on a regular basis – and once every few weeks, I scrub it down anyway, and take a knife to the crusty grout (which, incidentally, would be a fabulous name for a band).

Primo pointed out that if I move the cereal down from the top of the refrigerator, they can get their own breakfasts every morning.
Leaving Mama to loll in bed with bonbons and trashy novels until 10 a.m.

I am off to my 6-week post-partum check-up, and to grocery shop for Seg’s family birthday dinner tomorrow. I will try to fit in a run later. I will go to the library, too - although I am deliberately not returning books I know to be overdue, so that I may finish them (there's holds on them, so cannot renew. Bad library patron.) I am feeling remarkably cheery today.

How odd.

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"Miracle of Miracles," Fiddler on the Roof

“If you were to ask me if I'd ever had the bad luck to miss my daily cocktail, I'd have to say that I doubt it."*

Who was it who said, “It’s five o’clock SOMEWHERE”? Blackbird, dear, was it you? Because if ever I needed that sentiment, today was one of those days.

The Remora cries – a lot. Colicky-a-lot.

[Side note: I am developing this theory that a baby’s labor and birth is indicative of traits that will emerge later in the child; it fits my boys fairly well. My high-maintenance man, Primo, was a finicky, fiddly, endless, and painful labor: induction, hallucinations, epidural not working, the works. Seg’s was dogged and steady, just like him: my reliable, to-be-counted-upon boy. Terzo was what I call a drive-by, and so is he: easy-going and relaxed. Unfortunately Quarto’s labor was a repeat of Primo’s, complicated by some medical issues, the perfect storm of labor and delivery, only culminating in, thank God, a healthy baby. A cranky, colicky, screaming baby, but healthy. Any other moms care to weigh in here on this theory? I think it’s got legs.]

My brother was here this weekend so I am recovering from the orgy of eating that always occurs, because I have NO self control. I swear I could feel my thighs and butt growing by the minute (even though I went for my first run in ten months on Tuesday). Does fat itch?

I cracked a molar on one of those ridiculous cinnamon candies I am addicted to and the dentist can’t fit me in till next Thursday – since I am not in any pain and therefore it’s not an emergency. There’s a substantial chunk of my tooth gone missing, and I can eyeball the silver filling inside, but it’s not an emergency.

I am yearning to vacuum my filthy floors, I have a dissertation to wrap up tomorrow morning, I can't seem to finish a novel, and I need a shower desperately.

[On the other hand, Seg spent the morning with a friend so the two youngest and I strolled outside in the sunshine with Terzo’s new Easter-egg-shaped chalk, leaving colorful trails of flowers, smiley faces, Penguins logos, and other artwork throughout the neighborhood, in a path leading to the coffee shop and the most delicious brownie I have ever eaten (shared with a most delicious two-year-old), accompanied by a nice steamy latte for me and hot chocolate for him (with TWO helpings of whipped cream). Then after school I took all four boys plus one of Primo’s friends to the park where they ran wild for two hours, The Remora slept in his carseat, and I stood around and chatted with my mommy friends, all of whom had had the same idea. Also, H and I have hockey tix for tomorrow night. Also also, my new Nigella book (How to Eat) came in the mail today, along with the newest Mary Doria Russell novel. So. Life is not all bad. It just makes for more interesting copy...]

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Bonus round: Reason number 16,346 why I can’t be bothered to watch TV anymore - “Jon & Kate + Eight.”

Are these people for real? Tonight’s episode featured the pancake breakfast and potty training, complete with photos of the kids with their poop. Please. I am as inured to poop talk as the next mom, but honestly, why? The parents are beyond annoying, and the kids weren’t much better although one can hope they’ll at least grow out of it. Oy.

I turned off the TV, propped The Remora on my chest, and attacked the latest round of Scrabulous instead. Now I am off to bed with Devil in the White City.

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* Luis Bunuel

“Lisa, vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and eskimos” *

Now, please, if you are a little old nun, a Transylvanian, an Eskimo, or a vampire, don't take offense. This is one of my favorite jokes of all time, and H told it at dinner tonight, making me nearly choke to death on my Easter ham.

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Two nuns are driving through the mountains of Transylvania.
A vampire leaps from the side of the road and plasters himself to their car’s windshield.

“Oh my!”gasps the first little old nun.
“Swerve left!” directs the second little old nun.
The first little old nun frantically jerks the steering wheel left. The car swerves all over the road but the vampire hangs on, laughing maniacally.

“Swerve right!” directs the second little old nun.
The first little old nun frantically jerks the steering wheel right. The car swerves all over the road but the vampire still hangs on, laughing louder.

“Turn on the windshield wipers!” shouts the second little old nun.
The first little old nun turns on the windshield wipers. The vampire grins his toothy grin at her and hangs on.

The second little old nun, inspired, shouts, “Show him your cross!”
And the first little old nun leans out the window, shakes her fist, and screams at the vampire, “Get the fuck off my windshield, you fucking asshole!”

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*Homer Simpson

"We are bad bears. We are not to be trusted."

I have clearly been slacking.
But I did manage to format a bibliography, proof a resume, and start editing a 100-page dissertation draft – without seriously curtailing my Facebook Scramble activities. Hey, something’s gotta give…

Mostly I haven’t been feeling very clever or funny or anything close to approaching my normal witty and erudite self – not to mention I have been amazingly cranky and nasty with the boys and there’s truly nothing funny about THAT.

Although I believe I have good cause to wonder: is it possible that I indeed have the world’s most annoying child (Primo), the world’s whiniest AND loudest child (Seg), and the world’s most stubborn child (Terzo)? It seems like way too much of an – ahem – honor to truly believe I have all three. But I FEEL like I do.
So enough about boring, cranky me. Let’s talk books, that always makes me feel better.

Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons - Shirley Jackson. If you, like all the rest of creation, were required in high school to read Jackson’s morbid short story “The Lottery,” or later ventured into her creepy novels We Have Always Lived in the Castle or Haunting of Hill House, you will have a tough time believing that the same woman penned these dry, witty, somewhat tongue-in-cheek accounts of her life with husband and four children in a ramshackle old house in a small town. They read like early Erma Bombeck, or, for those of you lucky enough to have read it, Theresa Bloomingdale’s laugh-out-loud funny I Should Have Seen It Coming When the Rabbit Died. They have been perfect reading while my four children wail and cry and whine and beat on each other the first few days of spring break.

Devil in the White City – Erik Larson. Loving it. More when I am done…

Prompted by an amazingly delicious, dark and velvety chocolate Guinness cake brought to the party Saturday, I purchased Nigella Lawson’s How to Eat yesterday from Amazon. I originally bought Beth Gutcheon’s new novel, not due out till July, and Mary Doria Russell’s newest novel, but to qualify for Supersaver Shipping, I would not receive the Russell till July, when the Gutcheon comes out. So I had to cancel that order, reorder the Russell, and find something else to buy. Hence, Nigella. I love Nigella. I own How to Be a Domestic Goddess and have never, not once, cooked anything from there that wasn’t incredibly delicious and mostly pretty easy. Victoria sponge has become a staple in my baking repertoire.

Oh, and I also bought Bad Bear Detectives. Because those little stinkers Irving and Muktuk have wormed their devious way into my heart and make me smile. Just like...my obstreperous children. Sigh.

"Couches are good for one thing."*

...and that would be for lying upon (while H takes all four boys to his parents for an hour or so, God bless the man), with a drink close to hand, a nice bowl of cashews, my laptop (12 ongoing games of Scramble), and Devil in the White City which I am finding surprisingly (to me) readable. It reads like a novel. It's fascinating.

And Vicki Glembocki told me to read it.
Yes, THAT Vicki Glembocki.
I talked about her book The Second Nine Months, remember? I was enjoying it very much. And she found me and emailed me. Before I could email her to tell her how much I liked it (well, really, before I could - via email - throw myself at her feet, arms wrapped around her ankles, sobbing, "Yes! Me too! Me too! I loooooove you! Can we get our babies together and have coffee? And do you truly not care if I have showered or not?")

And again, we all know how I am with Real. Live. Authors. (Right, Rebecca?)(I wonder if I should have used my favorite sycophant quote for this post..)

So - read her book. in fact, BUY her book - this sort of honesty should be rewarded. It's funny. And spot-on. If you've had a baby to care for 24/7, you'll get it; if you haven't (and plan to), consider yourself (truthfully) forewarned. It's straight up, it's not Girlfriend's Guide (which lost me when she told me to basically starve myself while breastfeeding to get my bod back SIX weeks after birth). It's not What to Expect (which basically yells at you for eating anything that's not wholesome and wholegrain - she says, drink in hand). It's just real. And funny. And heart-wrenchingly accurate. I may very well make my husband read it - or maybe not. As he has already experienced one woman's baby crazies.

In other book news:

- reading Lucinda Rosenfeld's What She Saw. I was speeding through it, thoroughly engrossed, and then the protagonist's affair with a jerk of a professor threw me - and her - off track, and Phoebe has emerged as this whining, narcissistic, bulimic, insecure bimbo - and I am having a tough time continuing. Which is sad because I really liked Phoebe in the first half of the book.

- also reading Revolutionary Road. Gina's description of it as the novel form of Virginia Woolf is accurate. Frank Wheeler is an asshole; his wife April is a twit. And yet I keep reading because I must know what happens.

- just bought a hardcover of the inestimable David Mitchell's Black Swan Green which I remember liking very much but don't remember much else. Plus, I read Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and Nigel Slater's Toast around the same time and am sure I have it confused with one or both of them.

- bought Greg Bear's Quantico for H's birthday. I read and liked Darwin's Radio (but I was pregnant at the time and it freaked me out pretty badly).

- bought a Titanic book for Seg's fifth birthday coming up in a few weeks. Wonder of wonders, to find a Titanic book we don't already own!

- restrained myself from buying Terzo a little stuffed puppy dog he was playing with at the bookstore (he was "ruff! ruff!"-ing at Quarto). Oh. My. God. He was so dang cute, and he kept talking about his "friends" (what he calls all his stuffies he must sleep with). I did buy him a book about backhoes, though. Because that boy has me wrapped right around his little finger. And everyone knows that backhoes ROCK.

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* John Wayne