Wednesday, February 25, 2015


I'm way overdue for this post, but that's what happens when your life is being run by a two year old.  They're terrible.

Or so I've heard.  Mine is amazing.  You haven't lived until Edie has informed you via song that it's all about the bass, 'bout the bass, no "twebble".

Her "Mama Mia" that elegantly segues into counting from 5 to 10 is sick, as well.  The girl has jams far beyond her two years.

Happy Belated Birthday, little girl!  I alternately can't believe it's been two years since I was huddled under a blanket, shivering, on the day that you came home from the hospital suffering from post-partum Daddy flu, or that it's ONLY been two years since that day, given that the recent flights with you to and from Florida felt like five years each.

However the math works out, know that you're one of the three best things that have ever happened to me and that I can't wait to hear what songs you're going to sing next.

Hopefully they're about something other than your butt.

Friday, February 6, 2015

The Mad Pooper

Someone is pooping in our toilets and I can't figure out who it is.  This mystery is frustrating not just because I have cameras in each of our bathrooms (in addition to most public restrooms in the Greater Seattle area), but also because this Mad Pooper either does not know how to, or simply does not care to, flush.  Or use toilet paper.

I'd accuse Edie, but I know exactly where her poop ends up.  I'd accuse Kitty, but we all know that grown women don't poop.  I'm pretty sure it's not me, so that leaves Finn.

He insists it's not him.

And why would it be?  It's not like I watch him walk out of the bathroom without washing his hands, only to walk in 2 minutes later and see a giant piece of poop in the toilet, right?  I mean, I would expect this if I also watched him sit on the toilet after waking up in the morning and magically pee out from under the toilet seat all over the bathroom floor.  But who would do that?

Because that would be crazy.  And really gross.

As Finn was cracking a joke last night about how no one needs to be taught how to poop, I couldn't help but think of those toilet-paper-less poops in the toilet.  

I'll unmask you at some point, Mad Pooper, I swear.

But first I need to clean up this mysterious puddle of pee on the floor...

Friday, January 23, 2015


There is nothing funny about being woken up on successive nights to the sounds of your kids puking in their beds.  Stripping wet sheets, finding big bowls, running the washing machine for 48 hours straight.  Add to that multiple days off work due to the ejection of bodily fluids from the other end, and it ain't a pretty sight.

On the other hand, there's nothing NOT funny about your almost-two-year-old daughter adopting "diarrhea" as her favorite word - screaming it at the dinner table, in the car, at passersby.

It's impossible not to crack up when she yells DIE-REE-AH!  at the top of her lungs while you're out at dinner, until you realize that everyone in the restaurant is looking at you laughing at this, in the midst of the piles of food that your kids have thrown all over the table, floor and empty beer bottles, slowly understanding that you're now "that" family.

And then immediately not caring as soon as another cry of DIE-REE-AH! echoes out across the dining room.

I'm sure it'll get old eventually, particularly now that her method for getting our attention is to interject, "die-ree-uh?" into any conversation that we're having.

But then again, I'm over 40 and giggling as I type this, so....  I won't hold my breath.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

New Year's Rockin' Eve

There was a time in our lives when New Year's Eve meant glowsticks, tie dyes and epic Phish concerts - sometimes running all night - but those days are long gone.

Or so I thought.

I present, The Ninja Family New Year's Rockin' Eve 2014:

Yes, those are both of our children, rocking out to Phish live, via the wonders of the Intertubes.   And that was the mellow moment.  The rest of the evening was full of family glowstick drum circles...

... and dance parties - during which Edie would spin like a veteran Deadhead and Finn would approach and kindly offer, "Shall we dance?", which was my cue to pick him up and throw him onto the couch.

While we fully expected them to immediately lose interest in their parents' weird hippie obsession, Edie made it through the second set and Finn made it the distance, through East Coast New Year's and to the encore.  And he wasn't fakin' it.  I mean, look at this face!

As the night was winding down and Finn and I were laughing and messing each other's hair to our favorite mangled Phish lyrics ("I saw you with a chicken sub in your hair!"), I realized that this was what it was all about.  Being able to share an experience like this - one that was so formative for their mom and me, and such a part of our lives for so long - is transcendent.  Even if they were sober like a couple of losers.

One of these days, these guys are going to grow up, hop into a Virgin Galactic shuttle and head off to a Phish show on Mars for New Year's Eve, ditching us to watch alone on our couch (which will probably be made with GMO's; stupid future), but until then, I'm going to savor every New Year's Eve we have together.  We're going to buy as many glowsticks as we can afford, watch us some serious Phish, and turn our TV room into a crazy "mush pot," as Finn would put it.

Shall we dance?

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Should auld acquainta... NO RACCOONS!

As another year winds down and as my lovely children have finally been stuffed forcefully in their beds with peppermint popcorn crammed lovingly in their cry-holes, it's time for reflection on the important question that I must imagine all parents ask themselves this time of year:  What did I yell more in 2014, "lean over your plate!" or "stop screaming or you're getting a time out!"?

And is it appropriate to immediately follow an exclamation point with a question mark?

The answer to both questions, of course, is "who freakin' cares?"

Whether it's Edie's adorable demands for everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) within 10 square feet of her, to "READ A BOOK!" or her oddly persistent fear of raccoons, it's been a great year.  Whether it's the fact that Finn is finally gaining confidence in his reading and writing or the fact that he hasn't taken that opportunity to write "BUTT" on everything we own, it's been a great year.

Yeah, we failed in our second attempt at organized sports and spent way more time (and gambling money) at the hospital than anyone should have to.  And yeah, there's still WAY too much poop in this house not ending up in toilets and/or getting flushed, but screw it.  The kids are healthy, they're happy, and I'm so utterly spent that I don't even get to update this thing as much as I'd like.

Even if I haven't written it down, at least I'll remember it - with the three brain cells that I haven't killed by drinking myself to sleep each night in total exhaustion.

So here's to a roller coaster 2014 and to new adventures and challenges in 2015!  Even though we've turned many corners this year, I know that we've still got a long & exciting road ahead.

We're gonna need more beer.

Monday, December 1, 2014

'Tis the season... for Raccoons!

It is fair to say that among the Scrooges of the Ninja/Rookie household, I am typically the Scroogiest.  From my rampant disdain for glittery junk that does nothing other than stick to my cheek inappropriately before important meetings and clog the vacuum cleaner to my disregard for dressing up for costumey occasions in anything more than a different colored baseball hat, I much prefer to spend my holidays sitting in the corner feeling superior and judging you all.

While drinking Egg Nog.  Because Egg Nog is the bomb.

Case in point, while Kitty starts Christmas planning in March, with "Stocking Stuffer Season" in full swing by July, I hold fast to a No-Christmas-Before-Thanksgiving rule.  This means no Christmas Lists get written, no Christmas Carols get sung and certainly no Christmas Lights go up until after the turkey is put away and both the gravy and Daddy are drank/drunk.

But it was harder this year to resist the draw of Christmas in the fall.  I don't think it was the October Christmas displays at Rite Aid (though those are getting better), I think it was the ridiculous explosion of Halloween and Thanksgiving lights that everyone in Seattle has suddenly adopted.  Thanksgiving lights?!  We even had a neighbor that had a giant inflatable turkey in their yard, holding a knife & fork... What does that even mean?!?  Is he eating turkey?  Or is he implying that he's going to eat people?

I have no idea, but we had to go down nightly to analyze & debate it.  Unfortunately, we may have broken our daughter of holiday lights in the process.  On one trip down to the giant inflatable cannibal turkey, we ran into a gang of ruffian raccoons that tried to run us off their turf.   I thought we handled it well, with few "We're not scared of you!  We're leaving because we want to, not because you're making us!" back over our shoulders, however now whenever Edie sees Christmas lights, she just starts repeating, "No raccoons, no raccoons" like a soldier with PTSD and won't let us go anywhere near them.

It would be a shame for someone who has shown herself to be a big animal lover to develop a critter phobia like that so early on, particularly one that impacts our ability to rock out to some Christmas lights, so we'll need to work on it.  And apparently we'll work on it by buying a life sized stuffed tiger that we'll name Mr. Pickles and that will also terrify her.  We like to fight fear with more fear.

Nothing is more adorably sad than hearing your daughter yell, "No Pickles, No Pickles!" over and over again at your enormous stuffed tiger.

Whatever.  She'll get over it, eventually.  She's already gotten up the courage to punch him in the head, so hugs are the natural next step.  Right?  Right.  Finn currently drags Mr. Pickles all around the house with him and sleeps with him in his bed every night, so it's not like she can avoid him.

So while we work on that, at least we can enjoy our own Christmas lights, since I went against type and put them up weeks ago.  Given how ridiculously sore I now apparently get from the act of putting up Christmas lights, I'm extremely happy that I did it so early.  This whole holiday would not at all be worth it if I had to climb up in that stupid tree and take them down again just a couple of days later.

Here's to Christmas lights in July!  Ho! Ho! Ho!

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

From the hip

Greatest.  ER picture.  Ever.
Do you know what Toxic Synovitis is, aside from the most kickass punk band to ever crawl out of the Athens underground?   You should, because according to the internets, it's a very common ailment affecting children between the ages of 3-10.  And I had never heard of it before last Friday either.

The good thing is that Toxic Synovitis can be treated with Ibuprofen and rest.  Or, alternately, it can be treated with a trip to the ER, surgery under general anesthesia, and two days in the hospital.

Being concerned about money, we opted for the latter.  Of course.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

After being home sick on Wednesday, but making a full recovery on Thursday and going to school & karate, we were surprised when Finn suddenly announced that he couldn't climb the stairs as we were going to bed Thursday night.  Assuming that this was just Standard Finn Manipulation protocol, I sighed, picked him up and carted him off to bed.

When he was still complaining that he couldn't walk on Friday morning, we went into full on parent-mode, deploying the most effective tool in our arsenal:  fear.  We told him that if he couldn't walk, we'd have to go to the doctor, assuming that he'd snap right up and start brushing his teeth.  When that didn't happen, we were out of ideas and we scheduled the doc appointment.

While waiting for the appointment, his condition worsened, his fever spiked again and he began crying about pain in his groin with any shift in his body position.  The doctors ruled out a groin strain and recommended we get x-rays done at Children's Hospital, just to rule out a bone issue or infection.  No problem - it's across town, but we have 3 hours before we need to pick up Edie, so should be plenty of time to get some x-rays and get back.

This is how parents who have never had to take their children to the ER think.  It's all sunshine and roses, until it's 12 hours later and you're in an abandoned, dark, surgery reception area in an empty hospital, pacing holes in the floor because the surgeon was supposed to contact you 30 mins ago and your son is under general anesthesia and it was only supposed to be a groin strain and you only agreed to this whole stupid procedure because the doctor scared you into it with fears of infection, even though there wasn't much fluid in the ultrasound, which followed the x-ray, which followed the blood test and christ you're tired and your wife looks like she's about to throw up and you hope that your sister-in-law is still OK watching your daughter while you silently freak out, worrying that the last time you're going to have touched your son is when you were helping him hold his wiener steady so he could pee in the bedpan, in this dark, empty hospital with its ghostly footsteps echoing in the distance.

Or something like that.

When the surgeon does finally call and tell you that everything is fine, that he extracted a little bit of fluid from his hip and it's not infected and while you're not supposed to see him, because he's still sleeping, hell it's two in the morning, so come on over and we'll get you into a room - that's when you exhale.  And you promise yourself that you will never, ever take a single minute with your son for granted and you chuckle about that whole "holding his wiener" thought, and you smile and head home to let your sister-in-law off the hook while your wife spends the night in the hospital.

The next day, as you and your wife switch places, you have the most amazing day with your son.  He's completely healed and you race around Children's Hospital - which, incidentally, is THE hospital to be in if you can choose, where mac & cheese is always on the menu, where there's a Starbucks on every floor and where they bring you free unopened Legos if you but ask - chasing & tickling each other until you're both exhausted and making your son laugh so hard he pees in his pants instead of in the bottle they're trying to get him to use.

It's heaven.  And it lasts about two hours, before you're yelling at him for some small offense like spilling his juice or neglecting to flush the toilet.  Just like that, everything returns to normal, except you're still stuck in the hospital.

Now we're home and Finn wishes we were back at Children's, where the bed is adjustable, the TV is always on, and his Dad buys him cake pops from Starbucks whenever he asks.  And his Dad is reading articles like the one linked above stating that Synovitis can be cured with Ibuprofen while he waits for the hospital bill and wonders what kind of kickback the surgeon gets for recommending all of the tests.

But that doesn't matter.  His son is healthy and happy.  Or at least he was healthy & happy until he faceplanted running down the street last night with his ams zipped into his jacket, leaving nothing but his nose to break his fall.

Luckily it was just a little bloody - no lasting damage - and we were able to bypass a second trip to Children's.  Better luck next time, Finny.