Moo-oohving on uh-hup...

We were going to move to a bigger house this summer.  The deal fell through, and while I am disappointed, I am also relieved.  But we will be moving in a different sense, more of a shuffling than an actual "moving."

Right now, Baby Tuna shares our bedroom.  She sleeps in a pack-n-play and has for the past 10 months or so.  (For the most part, she sleeps in bed with us, too, but always starts out in her pack-n-play).  Zane shares a room with Nora the Horrible, who refuses to sleep.  She refuses to leave the light off.  She refuses to keep the godforsaken toys out of her bed.  (However she decided that sleeping on multiple Barbies is comfortable, I don't want to know.  The two older girls share a big bedroom upstairs.  Rudy and Eli each have their own room.

Recently we decided that Tuna has to move out.  And Eli and Rudy will have to double up in the basement room, at least until the wall gets put up down there and there is another bedroom.  Nora is moving into Eli's old room because the light turns off not only at the switch, but at the fixture too.  Tuna will then move in with Zane, who sleeps like an angel.  I hope everyone can get more sleep with this arrangement.

I know Rudy and Eli won't be happy about this, but they have to realize that Eli won't be in there forever.  He may not even stay long enough to see a second bedroom in the basement built.  But everyone is doubling up and they will have to get used to the idea.  I don't give shit one if 16 is too old to share a room with 13...they are both gross teenage boys whose rooms smell like sports equipment and old socks.  They can wallow in their mire together. 

Keeping Nora solo may turn out to be the wisest thing we have done thus far.  In a room with no closet, no lights, and no siblings, perhaps she will be able to get some sleep too. 

No, the changing of rooms does not substitute for moving.  But we are shovelling out the hovel and having a garage sale, so maybe some of the same effects will be achieved.  Fingers crossed.

FLA

Vacation approaches. I have been dreading this for a long, long time, and procrastinating on payments and tickets and all things Florida. Now it is right around the corner. YIKES!

We rented a house in the Keys. We are flying to Orlando. Anyone with any sense better pray to the heavens above they aren't on the same planes as we are. Yep. I said planes. As in more than one. Because it is IMPOSSIBLE to fly with two adults and seven children. An adult, according to Delta Airlines, can only be responsible for three children. Which means that Brian has to take two children, I have to take three children, and Eli, the biggest child out of all of them, has to be in charge of one of his younger sibs. Yes, Delta, you will regret that policy.

So having said that, we had to purchase airline tickets in three seperate reservations. Makes perfect sense. So we are actually flying out on two different airplanes. Same airline, close times. Brian and the three middle kids have a short layover in Atlanta, and I have a direct flight with the three little kids and Eli. I guess we will meet up when we get there. So far, we are all on the same flight home. Subject to change at Delta's discretion, of course.

Once we get there, we have to rent two cars. None of the rental car places in Orlando offer a vehicle that seats 9 people and 9 backpacks. Two cars are actually cheaper than the 15-passenger van, which I am terrified to drive, for tipping purposes. So two cars it is. Carseats extra, of course.

I wonder what driving from Orlando to the Keys will be like with kids who are excited and ready to see the ocean and touch palm trees and catch geckoes. I am guessing it will be hell. I am hoping to stop somewhere and spend the night, since even if we do make the entire drive in one shot, we cannot check into our rental house until Saturday.

The kids want to pick mangoes and oranges off the trees. They want to swim in the pool, play in the sand on the beach. I want to sit my ass in a chair, read a book, and forget my life for a few days. Not worry about moving and the new house and the old house and the rental agent and school and work and all the things that course through my brain on a moments' notice.

Drink a fruity drink or two, maybe get a little tanked and go swimming. Eat seafood with no regret. Watch my family be a family. And maybe even have a little fun, while I am at it.

Shameless

I am hardly one to be addicted to television. Quite frankly, I don't have time. Good TV is hard to come by, in a world where MTV doesn't have a single video on anymore, and CMT is ruled by Wife Swap and Hillbilly Handfishing (ok, I don't know what channels that shit is on, but CMT seems logical.)

However, I have recently fallen under the spell of the Showtime series "Shameless." William H. Macy plays a glorious drunk in Frank Gallagher; who wouldn't be drunk as much as possible with six kids and no woman to take care of them? Viewers come to learn, though, that there is good reason Frank's wife left. (He was a drunk before.)

We find a hero in Fiona, Frank's eldest daughter, who has taken over as mother-figure to the five younger Gallaghers, each of which is their own brand of broken. She is sexy and sly, street-smart and savvy, yet even the most timid viewers tend to relate to her. After all, all she really wants is love. And a semi-normal family.

I'm not going to give away any of the plot here, so don't fret. Watch it yourself, and become just as hooked as I am. (Sunday nights, 8C, Showtime--channel 600 for Duluth Charter subscribers.) And know that you can go forth in this world without shame, because your life cannot seriously be as f*cked as these folks.

Mom vs. the Bird Brains

You have to admit, people are dumb. Or maybe just ignorant. So today, as I forge out into the world filled with people, I find myself forced to remember that it isn't their fault. It isn't their fault they don't know that you don't put an apostrophe in a plural. It isn't their fault that they don't know which "their, there, they're" to use. They are victims of poor teaching, or not caring enough about the language to not look like morons. (Or is it moron's?)

I've always loved language, and I am just nit-picky enough to learn all its rules and exceptions (I before E except after C and in "ay" sounds like neighbor). To not abide by these simple, simple rules just advertises one's stupidity/ignorance. I cringe when I read the uneducated sentences, often without correct punctuation, sometimes even without subject AND verb. It makes me shudder to think these people are out in the world, representing America and our "superior" education system. What makes me want to tear my hair out and writhe in agony, though, is when folks who ARE educated make these mistakes. They blatantly post signage with misplaced apostrophes, which I am certain has gone past more than one set of eyes. These are corporate bigwigs and managers, who get paid significant amounts of money to what? Look like boobs?

I will leave my red pen at home, as I often must when I go to work. No one likes to see their mistakes, after all, the ones they put out on their advertisements. But inside, my heart is breaking, one misplaced semicolon at a time.

Deer Camp-iness

Brian has been gone since November 5. Minnesota women know what deer season does to families, and we have learned to live with it. Men disappear into the woods with their fellow men; to kill, play cards, eat meat, burp, fart, shit in the leaves, and beat their chests. A few brief stop-ins for dinner and a quick shower have reminded me that I love my husband very much, but he drives me crazy! He makes messes and does what he can to get the children wound up and out of their routines I work so hard to establish.

Brian has been gone since November 5, with only a few brief stops at home. He watches the kids when I have to go to work and daycare is closed. He leaves me money in an envelope with a short love note on the front of it, with specific instructions of what to do with the contents. It is very much the life of a single parent, but it is like he is dead, not just gone. His family stops by at inconvenient times, I think just to make sure the kids aren't tied up or starving. They try to make it look like they are trying to help, but it is awkward and tense.

Brian has been gone since November 5. He hasn't seen many deer, and he hasn't shot any. He hasn't fired his rifle once. He is getting antsy and impatient, and as deer season winds down, his impatience escalates. He becomes short-tempered (unusual for him) and moody. I have nicknamed this condition "Deer Camp PMS."

Brian has been gone since November 5. He has not shot a deer, and his mood shows it. I hope, for the sake of my sanity, my marriage, and my children's love for their father that he shoots one before this week is over. Because there is a reason PMS doesn't last all month, and certainly not all year. Men would murder us if we acted like that all the time. I don't know if I can take a full year of him having not killed anything. (Garbage-picking raccoons DON'T COUNT!!!!)

Its been a while...

Its been a while since I was here. There has been lots of goings-on in my little world. I did a reading at College of St Scholastica (a paying gig!), been working (not-so-diligently) on my schooling, and dealing with the teething devil-baby. Good times. Someone posted something not too long ago that made me laugh, about how living with toddlers is like being at a frat party. How true that is! Multi-colored plastic cups in the bathtub, half-naked girl crying in the corner, the plethora of vomit, and my favorite, waking up with someone in your bed who wasn't there when you went to sleep, and all you can think is "gosh, I hope those underpants are clean!"

Really, though, I've missed this. Blogging gives me the chance to be inside my head, but not in the clouds like poetry. I can ignore the screaming baby, the dinner that won't cook itself, and my ever-present friend, Mt. Washmore.

My husband made a suggestion the other day that I quit my job. I entertained that notion for a while, since I would both love and hate to be a stay-at-home mom. I would have to give up my few luxuries that I enjoy: permanent hair removal, designer purses, and shoes. I thought about it, but then just decided that not having the ADULT human contact with other folks who are just as angry and educated as I am would drive me to suicide. I have learned to love them all, my co-workers. We are delightfully miserable in our situation. Although now I feel like I have a leg up because I could leave at any time and not be any worse for the wear.

I won't ever leave. That's not the point. The point is that I could if I wanted. Makes it just a little more bearable, I think.

Take the Power back

I got an anthology that I participated in through the mail today. In reading some of the poems in it, I was struck by how angry our youth is. No one writes complacent, happy poems. They are all vicious! These women have been scorned. I don't know by whom or what, but I am certainly glad I am not the object of their disdain.

I began thinking then, about the things I dislike in my world. Are they things that I can change, or will I be forced to accept these maladies without fight? Well, knowing me as well as I do, I won't go out without a fight. I ponder words that can direct views, I try them out while facing myself in the bathroom mirror. They are scary words, but I feel stronger and happier having said them, if only to myself.

I say them now, and to you. Don't be afraid to repeat them. "BEAUTY FADES, DUMB IS FOREVER" "IGNORANCE IS ONLY BLISS IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE BEING IGNORANT." I smile now, pen in hand. I create. I touch lives. I save lives. I will not die forgotten or forgettable. I will live as long as those I touch, and those they touch. I am a wave in the sea, but the sea would be nothing without its waves.

Does the color of my skin change me?

I am white. I do not profess to be anything but. Lately, however, I have been being discriminated against for the color of my skin. You see, I have tattoos, and lots of them. Clearly, that makes me unfit to work in the public eye, and a delinquent for sure.

My employer hired me with my tattoos. I believe at that point I was hired for my knowledge and ability to perform specific job duties. Somewhere in there, though, things changed. Essentia health bought SMDC a while back, and since then, there have been some policy changes. One such change is that tattoos will no longer be allowed to be exposed.

I now have to wear long sleeves at work, which is fine 9 months out of the year, but in August, it really sucks. It also poses a moral issue. Is Essentia health telling me I have to cover up the color of my skin? That is the only way I see it. They want to exude a certain image, and the color of my skin doesn't jive with that. Hmmmm....that seems closely aligned with the KKK.

So I may or may not wear long sleeves to work. I'm still debating whether or not this is worth pissing folks off who can ultimately take away my paycheck. But, if that were to happen, would that not be a glorious lawsuit?

Conductivity

I like to think that all things are somehow connected. There is a certain electricity each individual possesses that connects or disconnects them from others, and there are a kind of invisible spiderwebs that interlink all our lives.

I find this to be true on a pretty much daily basis. I connect with people I would never have thought I would connect with in ways I rarely expect.

For example, just in random chit-chat with one of the nurses I work with, I discovered that she lives in my sister-in-law's old house.

I cared for my first boyfriend ever the other night in the ICU, even though I now live 400 miles from where I grew up.

I meet people with whom I am connected in bizarre ways, and some would argue that is the curse of the "small world." I agree that, yes, it is a small world. But Duluth is also a smaller town in a big, big world, and in order to maximize the benefit of this underlying system of links, we must behave in a way that is always becoming.

Because you never really know who you are going to find yourself connected to next, and you want to be looked upon favorably at all costs. Which makes it hard for folks like me, who sometimes come off as brash. But Nicki Minaj said it best "To all the bad girls, I can see your halos."

Hey Pops!

My dad has finally got himself on the internet. I think he read my blog, and now I feel like I'm grounded. He is upset about some of the content here, and though he didn't cite anything in particular, I think he is referring to my name-calling my children. Freeloaders, ankle-biters, the gamut. I didn't think I would offend anyone with those names, as I certainly have more explicit ones.

He told me everyone can see everything I am posting. He told me that once its in cyberspace, it never goes away. I guess this would freak me out if I were running for Governor, but I gave up that goose after my 6th DUI.

Ha! Just kidding, Dad. I never got a DUI, even though sometimes I probably should have. Governor's out, but President isn't... Besides if I'd have gotten a DUI you would have been the first to know, in spite of your inability to forget or forgive any of my mistakes.

Now, my dad's usually right. I'll give him that, but he still has yet to stop me from doing something I really want to do. I must get that from some strange and distant relative, cuz I sure don't get it from him OR my mom.

Name your baby something smart, He'll have it all his life.

In the past 5 years, I have heard a lot of baby names. We have tried a lot of names out, as we have had 3 babies in the past 4 years. Ultimately, the name you pick sticks, and the child has the name for all his days. That is a heavy weight to bear.

For Zane, I loved his name before he was even conceived. It is short, masculine (no question if he is a little boy or a little girl, even before you meet him) and suits every age, from infancy to adulthood. There are few shaming nicknames that can come from his name. It was perfect, and luckily my husband agreed.

Nora was more of a challenge. For the longest time, we thought of naming her Linnea, after Brian's grandmother. Those were some big orthopedic shoes to fill, though, and I wanted her to have her own identity. She was nameless for a while, too. All the girl names he liked were too flowery, all the ones I liked were too androgynous. We did not agree on any of them. I don't remember agreeing to name her Nora (though he swears I did) but when I arrived back to my hospital room after my c-section, there she was in her bassinette, a card propped in the front proclaiming "Nora Louise Erickson." I didn't have any better ideas, so I went along with it.

Luna's name was the last name of a villian in a YA novel I read while pregnant. Actually his name was Gabriel Luna. And since I was forbidden from naming her Gabriel/Gabrielle, I settled for Luna. Luna has morphed into Luna Tuna, an unfortunate nickname that I should have forseen, but I don't mind. She will only mind after she is 13 or so, so I think we are good.

I have heard a lot of really dumb names in my day, though, working in Pediatrics, and formerly in Pediatrics in a Ghetto Hospital.

One woman had twin boys and had no idea what to name them until she looked at her menu selections: Lemonjello and Orangejello (said l'mongelo and o'rangelo) were born. Jesus.

Optimus Prime is a friend of a friend's little boy. I wonder if they are that big of nerds, or if they just thought that was the coolest name ever. Yes, I was named after a Transformer. Not any Transformer, but the leader of the Autobots. THAT CHILD WILL HAVE TO GET A JOB SOMEDAY!!!

My neighbors, who are whiter than white, have a little girl named Beyonce. I refuse to call her that, and my kids won't either. Its just too embarassing to say. We all call her Bea.

The best one, though, was the little boy who came to the ER many years ago. Shithead. Sure, they said it "She-they-ed" but it still read Shithead. The shit of it was, they had beaten him to death. So somewhere out there, there is a little headstone in a graveyard that reads "Shithead Smith." Jesus.

People really need to consider connotation and denotation when going through the baby name book, is all I am saying.

Private questions

I'm thinking about private school next year for Ava. She is competitive in her academics, yet we are too poor to send her to the 15K a year (that's college, people!!!) prep school. The private we are looking at is about 1/3 the cost, and the test scores are the same. The thing is, she can start next year. Should we start her next year so she doesn't have to have the turmoil of going to middle school AND high school? (This is a k-12 private.) Should Casey go, even though she is enjoying her middle school? (She is going for H.S.--I see this in only a cost-effective way.)

I am perplexed by these questions, and think of them only in my own selfish ways. I want to do what is best for these girls. Any suggestions?

Odds are...

Today is my friend Kate's wedding. She has been so excited and so wrapped up in planning this day, I have hardly heard from her in the past 5 months. I can't be there--the wedding is in Florida--but I wish her the best. She will be a beautiful and happy bride, and I hope she and her spouse have many, many anniversaries.

The thing is, Kate is marrying a woman. I don't care, but so many people do, I can't believe it. Who would deny someone as sweet as Kate the only happiness she has known on THAT premise? It seems so selfish and silly.

I have come to know Kate's partner, Nicole, over the past couple months vicariously through facebook and her responses to Kate's posts. They seem truly in love. I have never thought her to be gruff or harsh, like so many husbands are to their wives. I have always been an "ally" but up until the past month only thought the term was "fag hag".

I just don't care what goes on in other peoples' bedrooms. That is of no concern to me. It doesn't affect me or my relationship with my husband, so I don't know why anyone would care. I also consider the odds. I have seven children. Odds are pretty good that one or more of them might be gay. I hardly think I would love them any less if they were. I might love them more, in fact, for their adversity.

Take that, gay bashers. Throw some rocks in your glass houses. Everything looks convoluted through the spiderwebs of broken glass. And if that's how you want to see the world, fine by me. But please keep your hateful "Marriage = Man + Woman" bumper stickers to yourself. They seem so immature and offensive. That would be like saying "Only blondes can have babies" and I think there was a little German guy with a funny moustache who tried that once.

Try loving the folks you don't understand. It makes the world that much of a nicer place. And it takes far less energy, so you could conserve your efforts for truly important causes like preventing child abuse. Just sayin'...

Anniversary

Where were you when the Twin Towers crumbled?
If you are in your late 20's or older, I am sure that day resonates in your memory, especially today, on the 10th anniversary of this disaster. I remember being in RT school, in a fog, and trying to muddle my way through my ventilator lab with my partner, Theresa Fanara. Our instructor told us that the World Trade Center had been hit by an airplane, and the only thought that I had at that moment was "Damn, it must be foggy in New York today." I lived in such a bubble that even after he announced the second airplane had hit the towers, I still thought this was an innocent thing, but that these pilots must have some serious troubles if they are crashing into buildings that everyone knows are there.
I was oblivious to terrorism or to the broad label of "terrorist activity" that encompasses still today, anything destructive done by anyone of Muslim descent. I still kind of am. I like my bubble, but the walls have become a little clearer lately.
No, I don't panic when I see anyone of Middle Eastern heritage like some people. But I guess I am a little more aware of the world and the things that are going on around me. In fact, just yesterday, I had a perfectly sober conversation with a complete stranger about the droughts in Texas and how they were affecting the prices of beef.
What 9/11 taught me was to pay more attention. I am sure that wasn't the lesson the "terrorists" were aiming to teach us Americans. I'm certain it had something to do with learning our place in the hierarchy of our world, but I didn't get that. Not many folks did. It was just another reason to hate another ethnic group.
I feel for the folks who lost people in 9/11. I feel for our country as a general whole. Yes, it was a blow, and yes, it was met with blind opposition ala George W. Bush. But I firmly believe if we had paid more attention to what was going on outside our own little bubble, the whole thing could have been avoided and/or deterred.

On this, the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I will remember. I remember where I was and what I was doing. Those are things I will never forget. But I also realize that it was the "Me" and the "I" mentality that brought on these attacks, and that is a lesson most refuse to learn, even at such great cost.

Right Wing Clowns

I rarely use places like Facebook or my blog to tout my political views, but there is a face on the horizon that looms like Pennywise the Clown--you remember the fanged clown from Stephen King's "It"? Possibly the scaries motherfucker ever, aside from maybe this Michelle Bachmann. She is terrifying.
This woman thinks we can "pray the gay away." Ok, so lots of right wingers believe this. But it goes beyond this. She also thinks the hurricanes our coasts have been enduring as of later are the result of the U.S.'s crumbling economy? I have a very active imagination, and I cannot fathom any way that these two things can even be related, much less one the direct result of the other.
Just the fact that there are folks out there who support this kind of fruitcake is scary enough. The fact that she is a political front-runner does not speak well of Americans' education or common sense. Its not so common, after all, it turns out.
No wonder all the sane nations out there in the world think Americans are all morons. Look at who we vote for. Look at who we vote against. Why can't we get a politician in office who has a firm grasp on the reality of our problems and some real solutions, instead of these cockamamie dimwits who think "We all float down here"?

Drunken ramblings

I'm trapped in a sandy bed with a 2 year old, a 6 month old sleeping in a pack-n-play 3 feet from said bed. The walls here are so thin you can hear someone (who shall remain nameless) fart in the next room, even with the door shut. The lights are all off. The sleep sheep is set on "rain" mode and there are probably ten minutes left until it turns off by itself. I ate cheese quesadillas with jalepenos for supper at the bar next to the resort we are staying at after a long day of drinking tequila.
The room is spinning, but only a little. There is a mosquito buzzing in my ear. The four older kids are outside the window playing baseball with a neighbor boy.
So, NO. I don't want to have sex with you right now. I want to read my book by the light of the booklight. I want to fall asleep without a wet spot on the sheets for the sand to stick to. But I want you to love me like you did before all these babies and all this fat and insecurity took over. I know you won't leave me. I know you won't hurt me. I know you will do what you can to make life good for me and for the babies. They won't be babies long, you know. But I want it to be out there that I love you more now than I did yesterday, even if I don't feel like a little booty. I love you more than last week or last year. It just keeps growing, but I wonder if you see that.
I wonder if you realize I'm not glamorous for a reason. I wonder if you care. I see how you look at me and some days it just breaks my heart. Other days its all I can do to care. I know you love me. I just wish you'd tell me sometimes.

The gift of Imperfection

Valium. I'm not on it, but maybe I should be. It was the drug of choice to make housewives of the 1950's complacent. I could use a little complacency. No, I'm more like a 60's/80's mix--all jumped up on white crosses, cocaine, coffee...whatever it takes to get me through. My blood sometimes feels like its on fire. Definitely an upper kind of girl, opposed to the other end of the spectrum.

I don't really take drugs. Well, sometimes a Tylenol Allergy-Sinus when things get out of control with the pollen...but other than that, I'm not lucky enough to be an addict. Addicts seem to get all the breaks. Their addictions define them, and whether or not they realize it, they become a tool of their addictions. I tried for a long time to be a pot addict, but unfortunately, the only addiction forged between myself and Mary Jane was a purely psychological one. Maybe that is how all addictions start. Maybe if I would have stuck with being a pothead, or maybe would have gone at it a little harder, there would have been some physical repercussions. But what can I say? I'm a quitter.

I'd like to have a coke addiction: sniff a little powder and be all energized and motivated. Get skinny. I've heard that gets expensive, though, and can't stomach the idea of spending money on myself like that. Meth isn't my gig, I treasure my teeth way too much, and I have awesome skin. Why would I want to fuck that up to be a tweaker? Heroin would be ok, I guess, but I dislike the idea of shooting up, and could see myself O.D.ing way too easily. I guess I can just reason with myself that all these imperfections are just too imperfect. I'm too fucking smart for that.

I'll just stick with the addictions I have: purses and school. Because a girl can never be too smart or have too many cool bags.

Britney who?

The other morning I was at work and the "new" Britney Spears video came on. While my co-worker Sara and I commented on how she was trying way to hard to be "bad" these days, I was thinking how much Brit looks like a confused 12-year-old. Um, yeah, she was cursing, and then making out with random folks, which I was thinking was really relevant to her song (not) and how proud of this she will be in ten years when her boys are watching it with their friends. Who wants their mom to be shower-masturbation-material? NOBODY! Ew.

Then, the true icing on the cake. The mighty Ms. Spears had already appealed to as many demographics as I thought humanly possible. The badasses, the wannabe badasses, boys everywhere, and skanks looking for inspiration. But lo! One more! She is a true genius. Zombies. Now nerds everywhere can relate to her too!

Jesus Christ, her marketing team must have a combined IQ of about 42.

Popsicles are a sonofabitch!

So Zane and Nora love themselves some popsicles. They eat them like they are going out of style. I don't mind much. They keep them happy and hydrated on the few hot days that we have. Sure, they leave the sticks laying about, but how hard is it to pick those up and throw them away, since they lick them dry each and every time they have one?

My beef is with the freezer. More than once, after a popsicle raid has occurred, I have found the freezer not quite shut, with frosties growing out the door. I yell. Well, more like bellow. We have a little "lesson" on how to close the freezer. I tell them they have to close the freezer EVERY SINGLE TIME they get something out of it. They say they understand, and I think they do, because I haven't found the freezer open again.

I did however note a funky odor coming from the basement. I peeked. Freezer shut, check. Over the day, the odor became fouler and fouler. I investigated further and found that the reason the freezer shut was that the infamous Not Me had been at it again. Sixteen pounds of steaks shoved in the lego bin, fully defrosted and turning grey. No one knew anything about that. But they were both adamant that they had closed the freezer tight.

You just gotta love em, because otherwise, you will lose your mind.

Doctors make me Sleepy

Today, being my only day off this week that is not a recovery day from a night shift or a day off in between a night shift and a day shift (affectionately known as the "fake day off"), was the day reserved for Zane and Luna to visit their pediatrician. My day-care provider was back in full-swing after her week off for her vacation, so I ditched Nora for the day.

How does one little girl make everything so hectic? Hanging with Zane and Luna was fine. Relaxing, even. Sure I had to make Z lunch, had to feed LunaTuna her lunch and comfort her a little following her immunizations, but it was fine. Nothing like the madness that ensued as soon as Nora walked through the door.

The screeching and cackling. The running and tormenting of others. I found myself yelling at Zane, too, for the first time today. He was totally feeding into the madness. She would lay across him on the couch, he would respond with "NOOOOR-a." She stole the blanket away from him on several occasions.

Now they are both in bed. LunaTuna too, but I don't know how long she will sleep. Going to the doctor is apparently a big day when you are 5 months old. And it wiped her out. I kinda hope she stays asleep so I can soak in the tub upstairs and shave my legs without having to listen to her crab or complain. I would like her to stay asleep, but only if it lasts til morning. I kinda doubt it will. I forsee getting up at 3, but I will take my chances, I guess.