I'm not suggesting they'd be sexy

Now what I really want are a pair of thigh-high Uggs.

(Also, the T-shirt in the picture looks like it's ruffled, which is really not my style, because I first put two little boob marks to show that it was a fitted outfit, but then they just looked weird. So there you have it.)

They do not seem to make them taller than knee height. Perhaps they think the demand would be low? Or perhaps it has not occurred to them?

Nick said this was a bad idea because they're not actually all that flexible (he stated with authority, having never even stuck a toe into one), to which I said, waving my feet in the air, "Au contraire! They're like butter!"

Like soft, furry, sheepy butter. Which, uh, sounds disgusting. But I mean it in the best possible sense.

And I would never swipe it on your nose. I promise.

My Uggs just feel so good I wear them all the time. But they feel best when I first get out of bed and am wearing them with my boxers. It's too cold outside not to wear pants.

But! But if they made thigh-high boots, then you actually could wear them with a skirt or a dress because you'd be wearing fleecy sheepskin almost up to your hoo-ha, which doesn't typically get all that cold.

Although my butt gets very cold. Does yours? My hands, my nose, my feet and my butt tend to get ice cold. But really, it's my hands and feet that bug. My nose and posterior, not so much.

In fact, I often don't know they're cold until I touch them. Which I don't do on a regular basis. In case you were worried that I walk around in public monitoring my butt temperature.

Actually, I would like an entire Ugg bodysuit. I think that would feel fantastic. 

And on a sort of related note, we were explaining to Jordan that our house used to be a hotel and that our kitchen used to be a bedroom. And so he asked what his bedroom used to be.

"A fart factory!"

Unlike the fartsadillas, this one went over very well. A fart factory! Just imagine!

You'd definitely want to wear your Ugg bodysuit if you visited, no?

Parenting help! Help! He-e-elp! HALP!

My India is basically the cutest thing I have ever seen except for when Jordan smiles at me so sweetly and then I'm pretty sure I've never encountered anything more adorable and so it goes.

They are always the most amazing children I have ever laid eyes upon as I imagine yours are for you and this is as it should be and we are all correct.

India has started saying, "No, tank ou!" when she does not want something. And if she bumps into you, she will say, "Sorry!" in her little tiny girl voice and this I also think is the sweetest thing ever on the planet forever.

But.

Just like a hippopotamus, she can turn on a dime, and when she is angered, oh, the rage. The RAGE.

In fact, I have a Very Terrible little video of her shreiking like a banshee, and I would happily share it with you but for the fact that 1. she is all nakey, and I fear that someone creepy might come across it while searching Youtube for naked shrieking babies, and 2. you might sue me for causing hearing loss.

But in any case, if you have ever been to Target and seen a kid on the floor of an aisle, back arched, mouth open, terrible, hideous, evil screams emanating from his or her mouth, you will know what I am talking about.

And if you have not, well, how nice for you.

So here is where I need some help. Because we did not and do not have this with Jordan. Jordan is a sleeper.

When he was small, I would sing to him and put him down and he would stick his little thumb in his mouth and put his butt in the air and he would sleep. He still naps on the weekends, and he sleeps hard.

He doesn't necessarily want to go to bed, but once you are in bed telling stories in the dark (which are now, as directed by him, about Lego Jordan, Lego Goldilocks, and Lego Sophie, who go on adventures and fight Lego giants. Yes, it is a bit cumbersome to have to insert Lego before each name and object. "So then Lego Jordan got into his Lego car and rolled down the window." "Was it a Lego window, Mama?"), he winds down and then he goes to sleep, generally without protest.

Beelzebub, on the other hand, is now infuriated by having to go to bed.

Even if I lay it out for her ahead of time. Every night. Because we have the same fucking routine every night.

"We are going to read two (or however many) books, and then we're going to turn off the light and sing, and then we're going to go to bed. OK?"

"OK."

Liar.

Every night, when we get to the bed part, even if she's fine when I put her down, she commences screaming when I close the door.

Sometimes at the end of singing, when you ask her if she's ready for bed, she says, "Bed!"

So you think she's all ready to snuggle in with her friends doggie and lion and graff and blankie.

She is, until you leave.

Sometimes she begins wailing before I go, and then I stay and try to pat her back but she is all, "NO, ASSHOLE. PICK ME UP OR LEAVE ME ALONE TO HOWL IN PEACE."

Last night she said, "Bed!" And then we got up to go to bed and she said, "Sit!" Which means, "Mama, plant your butt firmly back in that chair and keep rocking me."

And then she said, "NO BED! NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I rocked her a bit, then went and put her down, and by that time she was kicking and screaming and when I set her down she really let me have it. No, I could not touch her. No, I was not allowed to do anything to try to make her feel better. No no and no.

She can maintain this level of rage for a long time. Like, over an hour. Last night she yelled for two hours. TWO HOURS.

If she hears your footsteps approaching, she'll quiet down. If you don't go in, all hell breaks loose. If you go in, it's all sweetness until you get ready to go.

And she screams and screams.

Then she falls asleep exhausted, and typically sleeps the night.

We've gone in and patted her, gone in and rocked her, gone in and soothed her until she was sound asleep. But the more we go in, the longer she keeps it up.

I am a cry-it-out parent, and I leave her be when she's having a tantrum. I have let her rage on many a sidewalk when she isn't getting her way.

But this is different.

I don't want her this upset every night. But I also feel like the more we go in, the more she knows that if she yells, she will summon one of us.

She used to fuss in bed, but not at this level, and not for this long. And then she went through a period where she'd be all calm and sweet, and sometimes even say, "Night night!" when you put her down. And she'd go to sleep.

We've had this nightly caterwauling for a good week or so now.

What do we do?

What's left

So when my mom went to France last year, she brought back this Tour de France-y clyclist.

I so wish I'd taken a video of him in action, or even pictures of him before, piece by piece, he and the bicycle got destroyed.

I found this woman on the Internet, which is what he looked like on his bike.

His little feet stuck on the pedals with the posts you see at the bottom of his one remaining leg, and then you stuck him on the bike seat, and his, uh, penis held him in place. (I assume the woman cyclist also has a penis, unless they got a little more creative with her bike-seat attachment bits.)

Nick is convinced the designers had a good laugh over his design.

You put the hands he used to have, which were attached to the arms he used to have, around the handles. And then you turned a switch, and he pedaled the bike around in crazy circles while playing, oh, what was he playing? It was Pop Goes the Weasel or Yankee Doodle or something completely unexpected.

It was delightful in the kind of way that I imagine mild hallucinogens to be. And then rapidly annoying because honestly, there's only so much tinny music you can listen to while watching a crazed plastic biker careen around.

(I have done a bunch of searching in my limited French and am unable to find this guy in a store. Otherwise I would have more accurate facts and perhaps even for you.)

In any case, his bike broke because someone not quite four feet tall but way to big for the bitty plastic bike sat on it.

And then he lost an arm up to the elbow. And then the rest of it. Just a flesh wound! Come back here, you coward!

But Jordan still carried him around. We lost piece after piece, and still, there was something compelling about him.

And then the other day we found him - or rather, what was left of him: head, torso, leg, and penis.

At this point, he had to go.

Bye-bye, bike guy!

How to talk to someone who is grieving

Recently I was in a conversation about how so many people do not know what to say to the loved ones of someone who is ill, or who have just lost someone dear.

I understand this. I used to be so uncomfortable with loss. I would panic, and I would avoid. How do you talk to someone who has just lost a parent, when you still have both of yours, and life isn't fair? How do you make them feel better?

And then I learned that they do not expect you to make them feel better; in fact, the odds are you will not, in any large way. You might momentarily, though.

And here I should note that I do not mean to sound preachy, and if you have anything to add, I would welcome it.

Because here's the problem with not saying anything, or with crossing the street to avoid talking to someone you would previously have chatted with: it comes across as uncaring, unkind. Maybe even rude and weird.

I know from my own experience with my dad's suicide attempts, and then from his death, that many people do not know what to say. There were people who weren't close friends, but who I knew cared about me, who did not say anything.

By then I knew that it was lack of knowing what to say, rather than not caring about me. But it still creates some awkwardness.

Sometimes they will avoid you. Or if they don't, it would be easier if they did, because there is this big THING hanging there unspoken, and your conversation is all kinds of trivial and odd.

A couple people said something like, "I feel weird..." or I just don't know what to say..." and that works perfectly. Grieving people understand this. Nobody really knows what to say.

It just fucking sucks.

You can also say, depending on the person's profanity tolerance, exactly that: It just fucking sucks.

But the simplest thing to say, I think, is this. "I'm so sorry." If you are a hugger, and you want to give the person a hug, ask if they would like one.

If you don't know the person well, but well enough that bumping into them and not saying anything would be awkward, you can say, "I heard the news. I'm so sorry."

You don't need to ask any questions. You don't have to offer to cook them dinner. You don't need to share your experience or feelings.

I would add that unless you are friends and you know the grieving person is religious and will be in agreement and be comforted by this thought, do not say, "They are in a better place."

Because that can make a person stabby, because they are probably feeling like, no, in fact, the better place would be STILL HERE WITH ME.

Also do not say things like, "You're strong. God only gives people what they can handle."

It turns out that I can handle a fuck-ton, but I don't believe God has dished out extra helpings to me because I'm strong enough.

So if you're someone who gets flustered, who wants to run away, just remember: "I'm so sorry."

That's all you need to say.

Because caulk never gets old

I mean, talking about caulk never gets old.

Because there is, of course, that terrible caulk problem from schools built between the 1950s and 70s. The deadly, deadly caulk! The toxic caulk!

Old caulk, it turns out, can be a problem.

So yesterday Nick went off to the hardware store and returned with, among other things, a big tube of caulk sticking out of the pocket of his pants.

Because of course, our up-upstairs bathroom is currently being held together with caulk. Nick intends to just keep caulking the crap out of it until we can get the whole thing redone.

We should buy stock in caulk. Caulk stock.

I was standing in front of our house with several neighbors. We were amassing our kids to go to the park and enjoy the lovely weather.

So the caulk. How can one resist? And then once you begin with, "Is that caulk in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" how can you not continue?

The answer is: I do not know.

In other words, there was a lot of caulk talk. So much caulk talk.

I cannot contain myself.

That is me, faced with caulk. Just like those poor schools and their PCBs.

Uncontainable.