cat named pig

Siena has taken to saying “what the heck” in response to just about everything. A simple “Come get your shoes on; we’re leaving for school” will be met with “WHAT the HECK?!? Get my SHOES on?!?” like it’s so outrageous she can hardly believe it.

And woe betide the person who expresses a hint of frustration with her — her father’s characteristic defensiveness (if you’ve ever criticized or teased him, you know what I’m talking about) is revealed in her immediate and angry “What the HECK — I’m just [fill in the blank]” in defense of her actions.

Sometimes, just to mix it up a little, she limits it to “WHAT the,” which is not really much of an improvement. Like how rubbing my arm instead of, say, my leg, with a cheese grater would not really be much of an improvement.

And it grates on me, this constant eruption of shock and outrage. Especially when I can tell that she’s just repeating it because she enjoys the sound of it, or maybe because she senses that it’s getting to me. It really grates. So much so that I’ve asked her several times to find something new to say, to use a different expression for a while.

Every time I’ve asked her that, compliant and helpful child that she is, she immediately switches to “What the FUNNY?!?”

And that really doesn’t sound good, especially not when said slowly. I am anxiously expecting to hear from concerned teachers and soccer coaches, not sure how I’m going to respond. If they catch me at a bad moment, I’ll probably go with a defensive-sounding “What the HECK?!? At least she’s not ACTUALLY SWEARING.”   

About the time we bought our MacBook and started spending every possible spare minute online (for we now had his and hers laptops and mostly reliable wireless), we stopped getting the local paper. I didn’t miss the extra clutter one bit, especially since our home decor still includes end tables made of stacked New Yorkers and other magazines. No shortage of reading material lying around here. 

I didn’t realize this meant our kids would grow up not realizing that newspapers are traditionally a source of important information and interesting stories. That people read them to find out what’s happening in the world or the neighborhood. I also didn’t realize the extent to which I would utterly fail to impress Siena when I showed her, today, an actual newspaper article with my name next to it.

I agree with her that writing five-hundred words for a local weekly publication that a handful of people might read is not, in fact, all that impressive. But still, I thought my kid might be like, “Cool, Mom, you wrote that?” Instead she just rolled her eyes and said she would look at it when she checked her feed reader. And then rolled her eyes even more when I explained that it wouldn’t show up on her feed reader, it being only a print publication at this point. She shrugged and said, sorry, she didn’t know how to read hieroglyphics but the cave-painting graphics that accompanied the piece were nice, and could I get back to her when I found a more modern writing job? And could she please have an iPhone? 

Anyway, if you’re in the Twin Cities and come across El Heraldo in the doorway of a coffeeshop or something, check it out. Spanish translation courtesy of Google, not the classes I took in high school. In the Paleolithic Era.  

Siena came out of music class tonight with a large watercolor painting she had made. In addition to some colorful explosions, which I assume are the visual depiction of the percussive instruments they explored in class, there is also a girl wearing a dress, and the words “SIENA AVERY.” The only thing that differentiates this painting from every other work of art she has created in the last two months? Lipstick. Just kidding; doesn’t even make sense. The fact that she painted their names with watercolors instead of writing their names with crayons or markers. Otherwise indistinguishable from a thousand-billion-hundred* other recent pictures of girls in dresses that say SIENA AVERY.

…..

*Actual number, recently discovered by Siena. Like new species of insects, if you discover them, you get to name them.  

Because if you lived through this particular photo-taking nightmare experience, you’d deserve to show the world your results, too. My therapist says it’s good for the PTSD. Actually, my therapist, Dr. Netflix, doesn’t say much of anything, but we have been watching a lot of Six Feet Under lately. (Last disc should arrive any day now!)

On to the photos. None of the following will be on our family holiday card, although Rob Mueller is a genius and did manage to capture some that involve all of us looking relatively normal — just not this first one:

You can’t see Elliot’s face, but you can see two of my chins. 

Elliot quickly lost interest in the whole process. (Quickly being, like, thirty seconds into it.) 

Here he sees an opportunity to make a break for it, while Siena smiles patiently and tries to hold onto him.

And here’s Elliot having a diva moment, demanding his sippy but actually sitting still for a second, while Siena continues to patiently hold onto him:

Talk about your diva moments — Siena demanded a wind machine for this one:

She wanted to try out some stuff she saw on Top Model, apparently.

And finally, another family portrait: 

I clearly thought that the sheer force of my enthusiasm was the only thing getting us through this photo session, which explains why my gigantic open-mouthed smile is about to shatter my face in so many of these pictures. I may even have been singing as this was taken. Apologies to everyone at the Walker that morning, including the homeless person sleeping right behind us in this shot. No one deserves to wake up to that. 

 And too tired to post anything but this:

Pink pajamas, s’mores, and a moonlit lake in the background. Not a bad evening. (Photo by Catnamedpig.com’s Lead Staff Photographer and Vacation Planner, Sara Lefebvre. All rights reserved.) 

I’ve made much of the fact that Matt and I celebrated our anniversary this week. I love any excuse for celebrating, and to be honest, each anniversary feels like more of an accomplishment as the years rack up. (Not to say that being married is such hard work, except, well, sometimes being married is hard work. Balancing our roles as individuals, as a couple and as parents of a family takes effort, and marking another year together is a good way to celebrate that effort. Also a good excuse to order a nicer bottle of wine than we normally would.)

So this year, like every year since we got married, we celebrated our anniversary on the eighth. And this year, like every year since we got married, our nation marks a horrible anniversary three days later. September Eleventh has been so politicized and talked about that at times it’s almost possible to detach from the huge, overwhelming reality of what happened. Almost. This morning, once again, I am caught off guard when something on the radio breaks through any detachment and the emotion really hits me. This really happened. Doubled over, punched in the gut, gasping for air. How? And why? And one of the central themes of my online ramblings (not the exhausted/frustrated parent theme, but another one): how to reconcile our amazing good fortune with the horrible suffering experienced by others? How can one of the happiest times of our lives be so closely associated with such sadness?

It’s my aunt’s birthday today. She lives in Manhattan. I can’t imagine how her birthdays must feel now, compared to eight years ago.

Seven-year-olds are celebrating birthdays today, too. And today people are having babies, going to work, getting their teeth cleaned. Siena has soccer practice tonight. I have yoga this morning.

I will be going about my Thursday, doing all the things I normally do on Thursdays, plus packing for a fun weekend at our friends’ cabin. But part of me will also be doubled over in pain, gasping for air. And all of me will be acutely aware of how lucky I am that this is what I’m doing today.  

From our family photo session a couple weekends ago:

What I like about this picture is how naturally we’re smiling, despite our discomfort at the fact that there was a homeless person sleeping just on the other side of that wall we’re posed in front of. Also, the way the sculpture lets just a little crack of light through to illuminate the side of Matt’s face, running down his cheek into his stubbly facial hair. 

Overall, it’s probably a better picture of us than this one, in which we might be having a squinting contest:

(I think I am winning. Matt will never stand a chance against the bags under my eyes.) But whatever. This is what we looked like at the end of Summer 2008, just shy of our seventh wedding anniversary and eleventh anniversary of meeting each other.

We did end-of-summer family pictures last year and plan to continue the tradition every year, or as long as the talented (and patient) Rob Mueller is willing to photograph us. Judging from this session, with two kids who are fully mobile and mule-stubborn, it will probably get harder before it gets easier.

The kids were busy trying to wake the homeless person  looking at art  eating Cheerios as these were being taken, but there are some of all of us. I’ll post those once I finish my comparative analysis of the degrees of not-looking-at-the-camera — with luck, I will find a few where it’s not totally obvious that someone is trying to escape and sprint to freedom.

Eleven years ago today, Matt and I met at a college party. I had an eyebrow ring and green Birkenstocks. He was probably wearing his letter jacket. We’ve been perfecting our blend of hippie and sporty, vegetarian and carnivore, city mouse and “small town values” ever since.

We both love to travel, read, and eat (agreeing on everything but the meat). We both hate cold butter; it’s impossible to spread. We also both hate getting up early, but love the kids who wake us every day. We share a laid-back attitude towards yard work (and by “laid-back,” I really mean “apathetic to the point of forgetting we have a yard until one of our kids gets lost in the overgrown weeds or cuts their foot on the sharp, dry blades of dead grass”). We also (most of the time) share an ability to find humor in frustrating situations, which comes in handy as parents. More times than I could count, we’ve looked at each other as we choked back laughter over something Siena was ranting about.

I could go on, but there are also plenty of differences:

I cry at sad movies and on the first day of preschool. Matt cracks jokes in these situations. But he also patiently puts his arm around me. I often get all freaked out about things that don’t even remotely phase him. But then he will spend twenty minutes detailing the benefits of squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube while I try not to go blind from rolling my eyes so many times. He loves listening to, watching, and talking about sports. Try as I might, my brain shuts down almost immediately when a game comes on or the conversation shifts to how someone’s fantasy team is doing. I love lingering at the table and talking; Matt eats like a predator in the wild, devouring his food before another animal can steal it. He then fiddles with his clean plate and anything else in sight, growing visibly agitated as the kids and I continue to eat, and finally bolting from the table the second we’re done.

I could go on about the differences too. But overall, I’d say we complement each other more than we drive each other crazy. We laugh together more than we argue. And after eleven years of being together, after seven years of marriage and on our fifth year of parenthood, now living with two kids and a cat who might be possessed by the devil, I guess that’s pretty good. 

Happy Anniversary, hon. I got you a box full of Crazy:

And a babysitter.    

The creative team at catnamedpig.com just held a meeting (Me, to Pig: “What should we write about today?” Pig: [Attempts to stand on keyboard, then settles into a position mostly supported by one of my arms.] Me: “Yeah, good input. We’ll just post some photos since you’re so fat you don’t fit on my lap. At least I can do that with one hand. Now stop licking my arm.”)

So photos it is. Team Catnamedpig is pleased to present this Late-Summer/Early Fall Style Spectacular, starting with what to wear to a backyard pool party:

A swimming necklace, of course! Preferably shaped like a cat and borrowed from your sister. Best worn with swim diapers and a round belly. A smattering of dirt on the legs sets it off nicely. 

But what if you’re hanging out inside, maybe doing some arts and crafts? How to look cool and keep the hair out of your eyes?

Underwear! Preferably clean, swiped from the laundry basket on its way upstairs. The perfect addition to any outfit. (And yes, that’s a vintage Caboodle circa 1988 storing the beads and art supplies. Creative style abounds at catnamedpig.)

But say you’re playing outside, where anything could happen to you at any moment. How to combine style and safety in a look that goes anywhere?

Helmets: not just for biking anymore. Also great for those dangerous games of BALL! and even for just sitting around on the sidewalk.

We carry an extra one just to be safe. You can never have too much protective headgear.

And finally, what the well-dressed bilingual preschoolers are wearing this fall:

Solid gold sneakers. Blinding in their awesomeness. What’s more, they even promise to be dirt-and-stain-resistant and lined with antimicrobial/deodorizing material. They are also machine washable, college-educated, and will load and unload the dishwasher while you’re asleep at night. (I might be confusing that last bit with an amazing dream I had last night, which was probably influenced by how many times I load and unload our pocket-sized dishwasher in a given week.)

Sneakers seen here with full outfit: