Today, I decided to buckle down and find out the who/how/why/what of Huck's dad's murder conviction. It took a few hours to get anywhere, since I only knew the when-ish, but I did, and about thirty seconds after I found the victim's name, we'll call him Devon Davis, the phone rang.

"Hi, Maerlowe," the man on the line said, "This is Devon Davis. Is The Hub there?"

Stomach dropped, cause there's a dead man on the phone, and he wants my soul. Or my kid. But first he wants to know if my husband's home?

So, silence on my end of the phone.

"Maerlowe? This is Devon Davis, is The Hub available?"

Brain starts working again. Devon Davis is also my husband's boss's name. No beyond the grave phone calls today!

I'm still shaking, though.

Huck is riding my ass.

We're one week removed from a long vacation with tons of family, and he's making me pay for taking him away from all the out-of-state relatives, racking up dozens of losses for him in one swoop.

There are tantrums because he can't join Great Grandpa in picking up sticks and putting them in the wheelbarrow, because Great Grandma's pink cake isn't in our kitchen, because we don't have a garden he can check for green beans and raspberries, because there isn't a lake and a boat in our backyard, because we "took his birthday party away" (we left the decorations up for days after the party so he could see them each morning, it wasn't until we left that they came down, and half of them came home with us and are in his bedroom), because Great Grandpa Josh isn't stealing his nose, because (my cousin) Claire can't read him a book. The list goes on, and is added to, twenty times a day.

In so many ways, this vacation was a wonderful thing for him. He met so much of my family, did so many things, and had so much time to become a part of the clan. But it was hard on him, too. He was homesick. The night of his birthday party he sobbed for two hours, saying that "the girls are going to take my party away" (which is why the decorations stayed for almost a week), that he hated himself, that he didn't want to be himself, that he was bad, that he was mean, that our dogs were dead at home, and that all his presents would be gone in the morning because we hate him.* We pulled shifts staying with him from 9 PM to 3AM because he woke up every ten or twenty minutes crying. First me, then The Hub, then my mom, then my grandmother, then my cousin. He got up at 7 AM, ran out to the courtyard, and started screaming and laughing because (some of) the balloons, streamers, banners, and decorations were still up (the majority survived the elements and the wildlife), there were still about 15 relatives in the houses, and all his toys were still there.

So, there was massive heartbreak, both for him and us, up there, and back down here, too. And I'm tired. And I just wanted to mention that.



*Huckle used to say things like this all the time, but it happens very rarely now. I'm so used to it that when I had him asleep and I rejoined the group (Huck slept from 7:30 to 9 without incident), I recounted the bedtime upset, didn't varnish it, and had 6 women in tears before I was done. And it surprised me that other people don't realize that an almost-four year old can have all those feelings inside of him, not to mention be articulate enough to express himself. I am still shocked that this is my life, if that makes sense.

M: Does that water hit the spot?

H: No, because I didn't have surgery today.

So what do you get when you cross a Maerlowe in the shower, a Huckle who's shoved his hand down his throat "because he's sleepy," and a missed appointment for a bikini wax?

Yup, questions about pubic hair!


At Huckle's nap time today, I read him a book, scratched his back, and snuggled him up. He promptly stuck his nose in my armpit and said, "Peee-Yooo, you're stinky, Mommy."

Yeah, I was. He beat me waking up this morning, so I hadn't made it into the shower yet. I asked him if he'd be okay falling asleep by himself, he said yes, so I went off to my bathroom.

A few minutes later and with a headful of shampoo, I heard yelling from the other side of the door. "Mommy, I'm DIRTY!"

That is never a good sign. Water off, hunt for towel...

"How are you dirty?"

"With the brown stuff in my bed!"

"Where did it come from?"

"My mouth and it was nasty!"

Great. "Did it come out of your mouth?"

"Yeah."

Find a towel, cover up, open door. "How did it happen?"

"I spilled it when I put my hand in my mouth."

He's covered in semi-digested raisin, broccoli, grilled cheese, and milk. There is a trail of semi-digested raisin, broccoli, grilled cheese, and milk as far behind him as I can see. I put him in the shower, told him to take his clothes off, hunted for a bathing suit for myself and for him, stripped the bed, picked up the solids from the carpet, sprayed the stains with pre-treater, put on my swimsuit, noted the "underbrush" but decided Huckster was getting a shower anyhow, since I wasn't about to make Vomit Soup in the tub.

I helped him into a swimsuit, too, and turned on the water. Turns out he's a bit phobic of the shower. Didn't like it at all. Ran face first into the glass wall. Stunned him a bit. Gave me time to soap him up without his wiggling.

Rinsed him off in spite of his protests, then told him to stay where he was while I got the shampoo out of my own hair, then told him many many times how much I like showers while I conditioned my hair. I thought he was starting to buy it, but instead, "How come you have hair there?" and a swift grab to my ladybits.

My turn to be a little stunned, no? I told him that when you grow up and get older, you start to grow hair in different places than before. Safe, maybe?

Not so much.

For the last half hour, he's either been saying, "I'm old, I have hair on my peepee," or "Show me your front butt hair!" or "Can I pet you?"

Maybe he'll forget after his nap. Nap time, take two.

For the love of pancakes.

Yay! I finished the new Harry Potter book around 3 this afternoon (I did sleep for 6 hours last night, so no crazy readathon here), so now it can't be spoiled for me. When I woke up this morning on page 500ish, my husband took a look at me and my bookmark, and much smirking took place.

At the moment, we're trying to explain to Huckle that cats don't wear boots. Or sandals. Or sneakers. Or flip flops. Or water shoes. Or socks. We've been at it about fifteen minutes, and every so often he pauses and comes back with another type of shoe to ask us about.

Ah. Now, galoshes. Not those either, kiddo.

Huck ate about seven meals a day while we were on vacation. Mostly this was the fault of the Blonde Posse (my mother, sisters, grandmother, aunt, and cousins) that he had wrapped around his little finger (seriously, they're all platinum blonde at darkest), but he was asking for food, and larger amounts of food, much more often than at home.

Kinda obvious what the problem was, right?

Here at home, we have a large mudroom/laundry room/pantry off the kitchen. I watched Huckle wander in and out of there no less than twenty times today, take a look around, and then continue with whatever he'd been doing.

No pantry in the vacation houses, just cabinets above the counters. No way to survey the supply, no way to know that there'd be more, no way for him to reassure himself that he'd be fed.

Next time, the pots and pans get moved out of one lower cabinet and it gets restocked with applesauce, granola bars, bananas, all his snacks.

Silly adults.

Just before leaving for vacation, I had my hair colored and cut for the first time since November. My roots were about five inches long, not a look I recommend, but oh well.

Turns out, half of my hair fell out sometime in the last 8 months, and it started to grow back around May or June. Not bald patches that would mean alopecia, but a mass exodus from my scalp, every other hair (or so) abandoning ship, deciding it would have a better life down the shower drain or in the carpet. "You out of here?"

It might be a thyroid condition, but since it is growing back, it is most likely from stress.

Imagine that.

I think that was the longest vacation I've ever taken. 19 days in Montana. The three of us, my parents, my siblings and their hubs/girlfriend, my grandparents, my aunt and uncle and their kids and bf/gf. 17 of us in all. Nearest source for dialup was a bar 30 miles away, nearest cell reception was a twenty minute drive. We had a great time, but we're all happy to be home. Four days ago homesickness really started hitting Huck, which we were kinda happy to see. He's rolling around on the floor with the dogs now and demanding a taco, so I'll be back later. In order, he missed his dogs, daddy's office, the family room, and tacos.