I Met Hell and Punched it in the Face

Between moving, suffering through the most hellatious flu EVER, a flooded laundry room, a broken dishwasher, and Better Half Ben's broken back, last week blew chunks. Our little family teetered on the precipice of a sulfurous abyss for days on end, but I'm happy to report that we avoided the gaping maws of hell (except for the dishwasher) and have moved straight into purgatory, an otherwordly waiting room filled with boxes and paper and dirty dishes. It's all good though, because it's QUIET here. And I don't HAVE to do anything. I could stare at these boxes forever... and ever... and ever. Maybe I will. Honestly, it's looking ok at the new house. Tons of projects to complete, and lots of pictures to share as soon as I can clear away the dirty laundry lurking in every corner. We've even mangaged to catch up on some tv, and I'm very glad that we didn't move into this house:

If you're watching American Horror Story, you know what can happen when good real estate goes very bad.

Apparently the Alfred Rosenheim house was for sale in January and it's a stone cold fox, no doubt. Too bad about all the dead people in there.

Yeah, I know It's just a tv show but now I'm going to have to get out my ghostometer (or whatever equipment they use in those dumb movies) and check all the closets and attics in our new house... Cross your fingers and toes and eyeballs that it's dead body free.

Happy Halloween!

[Alfred Rosenheim mansion]

Happy Birthday to My Number One Love

At 5:27am, October 29, 2010 a little overcooked baby changed my life forever.  I love my little guy more than words can express, I am honored to be his mommy and am simultaneously excited and sad to watch him develop into a little man.  Eero, you have my heart forever.  Happy Birthday doodlebug

October 29, 2010

October, 2011

(and just so you can get a sense of scale)

oh yes, he walks

And because I'm great at saying silly things about furniture but not so great at writing about motherhood, I'm letting Tina Fey sub in for me.  Admittedly, this was written for her daughter, but I think it says what all of us mommies feel:

A Mother's Prayer for Her Child By Tina Fey

“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.”

Occupy Diningroom

Just wanted to give you all a quick glance into Erin's new crib.  This is the scene I left behind Wednesday night after helping her unpack her kitchen (btw, Erin, no one needs 20 cans of stewed tomatoes).

So, which is more offensive, the 5' stack of paper and boxes or the light fixture?  There is a very clear winner here.

P.S. I am delighted to mark this post with an "Erin's House" tag.