The First Noelle

Much fanfare has been made (by me) about the miraculous birth of the extremely premature Anarchist. Admittedly, her birth and subsequent thriving-ness does make a pretty good story. But every year I realize that I have once again neglected the Dictator. Her birth was, by normal standards, unremarkable. But if she's going to take over a small Central American country someday, someone is going to have to write her biography, and that someone should be me. So without further ado, the otherwise neglected birth narrative of a Dictator:

Dictator Noelle

One early Christmas Eve morning, a young, beautiful, and totally pure virgin close-enough-to-a-virgin left her small apartment for her job managing a bagel shop. It was an unromantic job, and one for which she was clearly overqualified, being that she was also a genius. But she was a hard-working martyr with aspirations of graduate, or maybe divinity school. She was also heavily addicted to bagels.

The girl was childless, and as her no-skid shoes crunched  through the new-fallen snow, she congratulated herself for staving off her maternal urges, making the wise choice to put off childbearing until after she had earned her Ph.D. and could selflessly grace the world with her many gifts. Then, she assured herself, she could move into a quaint, craftsman style home in some nice college town, and set about being probably the best and most humble mother ever. And also a genius.

It wasn't until halfway through her arduous work shift, while scraping salmon cream cheese from the side of a broken toaster, that a startling thought occurred to the girl: the time of her uncleanness was nigh. (Shut up. It's a totally natural thing. I'm allowed to put it in the story.) In fact, the time had come and gone and--what, with her work feeding orphans watching HGTV in her pajamas--she had hardly noticed.

The girl took no breaks at work, because she was a martyr and such, but paused long enough to call her humble, hardworking husband on her gigantic cell phone to request that he run an important errand for her before the many church services they were to attend that night. (No. For real. Like, we went to three or something. It was insane.) 

And so it came to pass that the noble Bureaucrat marched purposefully to the Meijer checkout line and confidently purchased a snow shovel, cat litter, tampons (shut up), and a set of inexpensive pregnancy tests. "Rough day?" asked the cashier.

Upon her return to the modest apartment, the young, beautiful genius girl of humble purity fell upon her bed, exhausted, and certain that she was mistaken about the time of her uncleanness. She was just so pure and also so good at planning things and doing everything just the right way. It was all certain to be a silly mix-up.

But curiosity got the better of the girl and she made her way into the inner sanctum of the apartment. And lo, the angel of the pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, confused one! You may or may not be pregnant! This little blue smudgy plus-ish sign is really difficult to read! The Lord may or may not be with you this day!"  And so the girl tried again and again. And again it came to pass that the urine yielded no clearer sign. Panicked now, the girl called her sister, the Pretty One, and screamethed unto her, "HELP!"

And so it came to pass that the Pretty One, risking her own lily white reputation, made her way to the nearest Target and bought the priciest, most top-of-the-line, fancy, gold-embossed, ridiculous pee stick money can buy. And she brought it unto the girl. And the girl peed upon it.

And the angel of the fancy pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, terrified one. You are totally, unambiguously pregnant. Like, you are super, obviously, clearly with child. You should be totally terrified because you have no health insurance, no respectable career, no graduate degree, and no second room for the baby to sleep in. You are totally screwed. And now you will conceive in your womb (where else?), and bear a child, and you will name it Dictator Noelle. It will be the offspring of the most underemployed. The child shall reign over everyone who crosses its path forever, and its control over its environment will have no end."

And the girl said unto the fancy pee-stick, "How can this be, since I am not yet a Ph.D.?" And the girl also said all of the expletives.

The fancy pee-stick said to her, "Were you aware that the birth control pill is only, like 99.5% effective? Statistically speaking, someone's gonna get pregnant while on it, sister! What made you think you were somehow immune? For nothing is impossible with God."

And the girl said, "Here am I, the servant of my circumstances; let it be with me according to your blinking digital "PREGNANT" indicator."

In those hours, the girl set out and went with haste to pretty much all of the church services. And in every sanctuary, a picture of another more-perfect, more-beautiful, younger, and even-purer girl was displayed. And in every sermon, the terrified genius girl was reminded that the perfect/beautiful/young/even-purer girl had to give birth in a dirty cave, with no access to health insurance, child birth classes, or clean sheets. That even though she was giving birth to  the Son of the Most High, she probably had to squeeze rocks, or bite down on twigs, or something to deal with her birth pangs. And the genius girl cried out, "Woe unto me! For I am very, very screwed!"

And, financially speaking, the girl was correct. But little miracles abound, and the girl did not have to squeeze rocks and bite twigs alone in some cave. She got insurance, and a doctor, and a hospital with clean sheets and a nice nurse who gave her morphine (don't judge). And she gave birth to her firstborn daughter and wrapped her in a hospital blanket and named her Dictator Noelle, because the girl would never forget that fateful Christmas Eve when her life changed forever, and unto her was born the most beautiful, unexpected, terrifying, wonderful gift she could ever receive. Her beautiful Dictator. The one who made her a mommy.

A Morton Family Guide to Navigating the Windy City with (Violently Ill) Children

It's the dead of summer. The children have cabin fever. You just want to get out. Everyone and their mom is heading "Up North" for a fun family weekend of clean, crisp air, towering pine trees, immaculate Great Lakes beaches, and wholesome, natural relaxation. So obviously, you don't want to do that. You would be such a follower. "Pure Michigan?" Psssht, whatever. Who needs Gwen Frostic, Petoskey Stones and Mackinac Island fudge (both kinds), when you can have feces-scented trains, endless walking and crowds of rabid museum goers? That's right, folks. I'm talking about Chicago. I know, I know. You've done Chicago before. You've taken the kids to see Sue at the Field Museum, snapped touristy photos at Millennium Park and drained next month's mortgage payment at the American Girl Place. Chicago's old news. So why not spice things up a bit? Why not go to Chicago, but this time do it up right.  This time, why not opt for a fully immersive urban experience and bring along a violently ill child? Like, I'm talking nastiest stomach virus ever. As in, coming out both ends...with reckless abandon. Take that American Girl Place!

A picturesque place to bring the
entire (sick) family.

 Naturally, the Morton's have experience with just such a vacations, so we've prepared a handful of helpful tips to help you to make the most of your family weekend (with a violently ill child) in Chicago. You're welcome.

1. Stay in the suburbs. You can get a fantastic hotel in Schaumburg for about a third of the price of a similar hotel in the city. Not only will you avoid the crowds, but your child will have plenty of commute time into the city in which to work up a really nice bout of nausea. Choose a hotel with a terrible view (ours was of the IKEA). That way, you won't be reminded of all the fun you aren't having. Bonus: you can use all the money you save to pay for your subsequent doctor's bills. 

The Anarchist and the Dictator enjoy
our room with a view...of IKEA.

2. Choose a hotel with the right amenities. If your child is violently ill, she probably won't give a hoot about the heated, saltwater indoor pool (but that might be a fun way to spread that nasty little virus). You will, however find that she has a new-found concern for the softness of her pillows, the availability of complementary plastic laundry bags, the presence of a mini-fridge in which to store the electrolyte water, and access to child-friendly cable channels (although we found that the Weather Channel was okay in a pinch). You will be glad you chose a hotel with a coffee shop and a bar onsite. The Bureaucrat had a fun little run-in with a particularly chatty drunk man in our swanky hotel bar one night while the rest of us slept like (sick little) babies. Nothing like meeting new people to keep vacations fresh!

3. Take advantage of public transportation. Why risk getting vomit all over your own car when you can take the train into town? The combination of fecal-scented seats and lurching/swaying cars is sure to churn your child's already fragile stomach. Let her work it out on the Blue Line and not in your second-hand Saturn. They have people to clean that up, right?

On the train, keep your kids entertained with a rousing game of
"Don't Lose Your Lunch"

4. Take a stroll. Chicago neighborhoods are full of tons of culture. Bust out your running shoes and take to the streets to immerse yourself in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. Try getting off the train a few stops before the one closest to your destination. That way you can explore local parks and landmarks really over-exert your weak and nauseated child. Try a photo op at Millennium Park with your ailing family member, and then work up a sweat yourself as you haul your hot, whining child a bajillion and one blocks and up a massive flight of stairs to the Field Museum. Just be sure to save money for physical therapy when you get home! You're going to need it.

5. Be mindful of the time-change. (And then promptly ignore it). If you're a Michigander, you're in for a time-change when you head to Illinois. We found that our children tended to wear out quickly near the end of the day and needed to recharge a lot sooner, especially since the Dictator was so unwell. We handled this situation beautifully by heading to dinner especially late. We recommend you do the same. Choose a nice deep-dish pizza joint for authentic pie and be prepared for a substantial wait as your pizza bakes--about 45 minutes. Don't bother ordering for your kids. They'll fall asleep on the table before the server brings that second round of garlic bread...which is perfect. After all, kids are expensive, and the sick one shouldn't be eating anyway. Plus, you've just bought yourself an entire two hours of blessed whine-free adult conversation time...and a whole extra basket of garlic bread.

6. Hit up the mall. Yes. That mall. The one with the American Girl Place that will eat your soul, your life-savings (if you have any), and your parental dignity. Because otherwise, you don't love your children. Be advised that your sick child will not seem to appreciate this trip nearly as much as she should. Note her ashen-faced blank stare as her doll's hair is detangled for an exorbitant fee, the unresponsive stance she takes as she forces you to buy that stuffed pet cat that costs more than a real, live, prize-winning pure bred Persian. Understand that she can't help her lack of gratitude. She is violently ill, after all. Just know that she really is thankful. And that she's well-aware of how well her sickly state is working in her favor. Poor baby, you think to yourself as you write a check that could have covered her private college tuition, maybe this hundred dollar plastic replica of a chunk of cheese will cheer her up. No? Still frowning? Poor baby. I know, have a five-hundred-dollar photo shoot with your doll. Your pretty green face and glazed-over eyes really capture the spirit of our trip!

Even sick kids will smile when you buy
them their weight in fancy toys.

7. Bring friends. What's the fun of a violently ill vacation if you can't share it with friends? Be sure they're childless. That way, they'll get an exciting glimpse into all the fun of traveling with sick kids, and you'll have a couple extra sets of helping hands to carry vomit-soaked children, dispose of barf-bags and babysit while you and the spouse sneak out to the indoor, heated, saltwater pool or to the skeazy hotel bar full of chatty drunk guys. We didn't take nearly enough advantage of our childless vacation friends. Maybe because they were smart enough to make themselves scarce as soon as we let them know that we had desecrated the museum with nasty chunks of kid puke.

What you will have to do if you don't
make your childless friends carry
your kids for you.

8. Get an education. Chicago is full of fantastic cultural opportunities. From aquariums to planetariums, there are any number of exciting places for your children to learn and vomit. Don't expect to get to them all. Sick kids have a surprising lack of stamina. Instead select your favorite one or two museums and really take time to take in the best exhibits. Don't save the best for last, otherwise you might never make it. Chances are, you'll get asked to leave once your kid manages to be sick all over the Ancient Egypt exhibit. 

The Anarchist recommends the jade
exhibit. She likes jade an unreasonable
amount. Like, we had to physically carry
her out of that place.

9. Make time for photo ops. You'll want to treasure the memories of your adventurous time in the city. Wouldn't Sue the Dinosaur look extra special covered in a layer of your kiddo's projectile vomit? That would be a backdrop to remember! Or find a nice piece of fine art at the Art Institute of Chicago with a color scheme that really complements your child's sickly green complexion. Or why not try documenting the places where you spent most of your time on your trip, like the museum bathrooms, for example? This will make for unique and memorable photos of your family time together.

The Dictator got sick right next to the narwhal exhibit. 

10. Be social. There's nothing people in the city like more than knowing that they are trapped in close proximity to an incredibly nauseated child. Be sure to communicate. We found that our museum/hotel elevator-mates were very responsive to the Anarchist's joyful announcement that, "The Dictator is really sick, but we won't get it unless we touch her throw-up, right?" Really responsive.

11. Make it your own. Every family (of sick people) is different. And every family vacation (with sick kids) should be different. Tailor your family vacation to your sick family. Maybe you want to take your little sicko swimming. That's okay. That's what chlorine is for, right?  Or maybe the American Girl Place just isn't for you. Don't worry. I'm sure your sick child can guilt you into spending unreasonable amounts of money at the Lego Store or any number of other fun locations. Not interested in Millennium Park? What about a nice trip to Navy Pier to ride that giant Ferris Wheel. I wonder what would happen if vomit fell from the top of that thing...d'ya think it would fall with enough velocity to kill someone? Why not find out? And no one says you're restricted to the Field Museum or the Art Institute. I hear that Shedd Aquarium is a very nice place to have lunch lose your lunch. The possibilities are endless. Go out there and create the family vacation that's right for you and your queasy offspring. You won't regret it.*

*Or maybe you will.**

**Yeah. You totally will.***

***But not because of Chicago. Chicago is awesome. I love that place. Even the trains. I love the trains. You'll regret it because sick kids make terrible travel companions. I mean, they're just awful. Plus they're heavy. And they're miserable. And they don't like it when you have to throw out their favorite cardigans at the museum because the cardigans are covered in vomit and you have nothing to carry them home on the train in. They really hate that. Poor things.****

****Also, it turns out the healthy siblings aren't that much fun either. As in, "you don't like me as much as you like her because you're cleaning up her vomit instead of doting on me so I'm actually jealous of her vomit and now refuse to enjoy any part of this vacation" unfun.*****

*****On second thought, just find someone to watch your kids and spend a romantic weekend alone. Just avoid that chatty guy at the hotel bar. He will totally compromise your whole evening. Seriously.

The Dictator and the Anarchist Throw a Parade...of DEATH!

Yesterday, people everywhere celebrated Father's Day with backyard barbecues, festive downtown running races (that just sounds awful), dinners out, and  neckties. We encourage the Dictator and the Anarchist to be free thinkers, so they chose to celebrate Father's Day in their own unique way. While the fathers in the house passed out and drooled while watching golf on TV, and the ladies roamed the garden and discussed weddings like Edwardian Jane Austen characters, the Morton children were busy at work writing, cutting, constructing and choreographing a lovely parade to crown the Father's Day festivities. The Dictator and the Anarchist were so busy putting together the exciting event that they almost missed dessert. Adorable!

My father, the Leprechaun,
watches golf intently while the
Bureaucrat drools.

Now, the Dictator is practicing hard to someday become the successful ruler of a totalitarian regime, so not only was there going to be a parade, but attendance would be somewhat compulsory, as we were made aware by the numerous flyers posted in every square foot of the house.

 

Yeah, that's right. Or else.

While my mom explained to the Dictator that false advertising is cause for legal liability, the precious children handed out homemade cloth tickets and jumped up and down in eager anticipation. Ah, the innocent joys of childhood!

Thump. She totally didn't make me rich or famous.
False advertising. Thump.

 After being herded welcomed upstairs into the "parade" room, the delightful ceremonies began.  In the recesses of the sweet little bunk bed that my parents keep for the girls we could make out a well-constructed parade of Zhu-Zhu Pets and stuffed animals, replete with miniature floats and banners. How cute are my kids?!

An adorable parade...

And then, my young, sweet girls began their sweet little parade...of death.

A festively morbid banner.

"Have a fun time in hevan, Nugget!"
Apparently, you won't be missed.

We miss you. (We're pretending)

A painstakingly-crafted float.
Because we miss you...just not that much.

So, apparently, in a move vaguely reminiscent of exultant Munchkins at the death of the Wicked Witch, my children's toys staged a victorious parade in celebration of the untimely demise of one of their less lovable fellow-toys. Ding-dong, the hamster is dead, etc.

Dead Nugget on parade. With flowers. And blood spatter.

I don't know what atrocities a motorized hamster could have committed to invoke such an extreme response to its very existence and maybe I don't want to. I think that the larger question here is really this: why are my children being so darned creepy?

The Anarchist laughs in maniacal delight
after dropping an effigy (yes, effigy) of
the mean dead hamster in a fit of zeal.

So...happy Father's Day, Bureaucrat and Leprechaun (and Pastor Grandpa, who was mercifully spared this unholy terror...until now). Your (grand)children got you a dead hamster...on parade. You're welcome. 

Just remember as you are forced to watch this macabre spectacle, these are at least partially your creepy, creepy morbid genes at work in my adorable little girls. So...maybe this horrific Father's Day Parade of Death is your own fault. But you have to admit, it could be worse. They could have just bought you another necktie.

Not another necktie.

Nerducation: Part I, History of a Future Nerd

When the Dictator was not yet two, she would spend hours obsessively, meticulously, methodically, and absolutely symmetrically lining up her Dora Memory Cards into perfect patterns on her bedroom floor while anxiously sucking on her "yummy" (pacifier). If interrupted, she would grunt irritably and panic if the interruption persisted. This endeavor was followed by nearly an hour of story time, in which the Bureaucrat or I would read story after story, and the toddler Dictator would become hysterical if we missed or changed a word in any of them...even the ones she had heard only once before.Yeah...she memorized them...within one reading. Then, back to the cards, just to make sure they were still perfect. This routine was what we, in the Morton house, called "Bedtime."

The Dictator reads to the Anarchist amidst a pile of books.
Nerds love piles of books.

Those were our nights. Our days were filled with carefully crafting replicas of toddler TV stars out of  Play-Doh. I would model tiny, perfect hands and feet for the Wiggles characters to shrieks of, "NO, MAMA!  The shirt collar is POINTIER than that! His belt doesn't have enough holes! It's WRONG! It's all WRONG!!!" We still have Dictator-commissioned bathtub crayon likenesses of each member of Yo Gabba Gabba indelibly etched on our shower wall (with "FOUR eyelashes, Mama! Not FIVE!!"). This insanely observant (obsessive) attention to detail, her excellent memory, and her complete lack of emotional responsiveness (to anything other than imperfection, of course) caused us to consider that the Dictator might be a savant. We asked her pediatrician about autism. He assured us that she was being perfectly normal for a toddler with a tone that implied that he thought we were most certainly making most of this up. By the time she was three (and reading like an eight year old), we conceded that she might not be autistic as much as obsessive-compulsive...or at least nerdy-smart.

The Dictator, with some of the Play-Doh characters that she
commissioned. This time it was Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.
You can tell from her face that she was less than pleased
with the results of my efforts. I swear that my Wiggles replicas
were better.

The Bureaucrat was delighted. If his daughter was both smart and obsessive, she would grow up into the perfect nerd. She might not even wash herself or pay attention to her appearance. Then we wouldn't have to lock her in the closet when she became a teenager because there would simply be no boys to worry about. Take it from one who knows: nerdy teenage girls aren't exactly tripping over attractive male suitors (and the nerdy boys who may actually go for the nerdy girls aren't there to be tripped on...they're stalking--and mouth-breathing--from a distance in a totally socially inept way).


The problem is that recently the Dictator has become somewhat pretty and is behaving much more...um..normally. While not wildly popular (she doesn't bother ingratiating herself to people because then she couldn't control them properly), she is at least well-liked by her classmates. She is polite and pretends not to know certain things that she does know...just to fit in.* She wears clothing from the elementary-mean-girl-approved store, Justice. She insists on looking "beautiful." While she "adores" the solar system, she loves dance class more...and she doesn't give a hoot about spelling or handwriting.

This current state of affairs has made protective daddy Bureaucrat nervous. He has begun talking about locking people in attics again. And he has launched a more immediate plan of action: the utter nerdification of our lovely Dictator. The plan involves, for the Dictator, complete and utter immersion in nerd culture. I find this completely terrifying. Let's just say that the phrases "D&D" (as in Dungeons and Dragons) and "chess club" have come up. I'll elaborate in my next post. Suffice it to say that, while I think a certain level of geekiness is fantastic, I think lines are being crossed left and right. And I'm scared. I'm so scared. Because I want grandbabies (never thought I'd say that until I was at least 50)...lots of grandbabies. And not the kind of grandbabies that are actually just cats that my daughter has forced to wear sweaters. Real grandbabies...the kind that weren't conceived at Comic-Con. More next time. Right now, I'm off to Justice to buy some pretty mean-girl clothes for my future (fingers crossed) non-nerd. Wish me luck! And may the Force be with you. (Oh my goodness, the Bureaucrat has managed to infiltrate even my mind with the nerdiness. See how completely insidious his plans are! Help!!!)


*A recent class project in which the students listed each other's positive  attributes might detract a bit from this argument. The pictures her class drew of the Dictator mostly feature pictures of her doing math with phrases such as "Math Superstar," "Smartist Studnt" and "Math Wizz" scrawled beneath them in crayon. It must also be pointed out, however, that more than one picture described the Dictator as "Fancy," "Fashunabul," and as having "Good Stile." Yikes. 

Esquire Daddy and the Bad Barista

So Thanksgiving was this past week. Everyone was thankful for stuff. We ate turkey and mashed potatoes. We were thankful for that. Then we all went out and bought a bunch of stuff we didn't need. We were probably not as thankful for that as we should have been. Then we stopped worrying about being thankful and turned into the holiday consumers we were meant to be.

But the thing about me is that I have a tendency to be a touch slow about processing things. So while the rest of the world camped out in front of Walmart or whatever, I started having profound thoughts about thankfulness (maybe because I was at work, and hadn't slept much, and things just feel profound when you're sleep deprived). 

Wait! Work?! 

Oh, yeah. That's right. When I last left you I was desperately, but not very actively, seeking employment. I had made a snarky resume and everything. So I guess I owe you an update. I haven't written in almost a year because we've been a little busy. In case you've been living under a rock these last few years (or just don't know us that well), I should let you know that the Bureaucrat has been extra busy pursuing the pinnacle of bureaucratic careers, and is now a card-carrying (literally...he has a literal card that looks just like a health insurance card...classy) member of the Bar. Bureaucrat, Esquire. Or, as the Dictator dubbed him, "Esquire Daddy." He now is a hardworking attorney and we're all very proud.

Back Row Left to Right: Esquire Daddy, Aspiring Trophy Wife
Front Row Left to Right: Anarchy with a Blanket,  the Dictator

I, at the same time, have been actively pursuing the pinnacle of liberal ed major careers and am currently working my dream job as a (bad) barista.* It turns out that clumsiness isn't an asset when your job involves working with piping hot liquid at 5:30 in the morning. That's okay. I consider this a transition career. I am really an aspiring trophy wife, and I have the credit card debt to prove it. 

Generally, we're all very happy with this arrangement. Despite three years of a family dynamic that would have made  most marriage counselors' "What Not To Do If You're Not Interested In Divorce" lists, our family is still very much intact. Granted, most of my conversations with the Bureaucrat involved a bunch of Latin words I didn't understand (mens rea just sounds a whole awful lot like something discussed in a chapter of What's Happening to My Body?, for example). But I feigned interest while looking at the top of his head bent over a book every night of my life for three years straight. If that's not love, what is?  

And now he's graduated, I'm working, he gets the kids off to school, I pick them up from the bus stop, we see each other at night, and all is well...that is, if you consider our children going to school looking like characters from Lord of the Flies "well." It turns out the Bureaucrat, while usually having an eye for detail, fails to notice if the Anarchist has dreadlocks or the Dictator has decided that a shirt, see-through tights, and tennis shoes are a complete, school-appropriate outfit. The price we pay for success! 

The Dictator is still a good student, despite her continued lack of concern for handwriting technique. The Anarchist is a card-carrying (not literally) kindergartener. The Fat Assassin is still fat and ornery. I am still neurotic (albeit, less so). And we're all very busy. So that, of course, completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. (And also, I was trying to spare you, but I've decided I don't care anymore...tough. You're the smart one who clicked the link, and now you have to live with the consequences). 

Okay. That almost completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. As it happens, it's a little more complicated than that. It turns out that there had been something that had kept me writing, compulsively, week after week (besides, of course, the very gratifying ego-boost of watching the little graph chart all the hits each post would get...mostly from my mom, I'm sure, but gratifying nonetheless). And I thought that the something was gone/over/completed. And so I didn't need to write anymore...like...ever. But it turns out I was a little bit wrong. Things are never all the way gone. The things that happen to you reach out in a million different directions, spin off out into years and years later, touch everything and everyone you come in contact with, whether you want them to or not. You don't just get to be "done" with things. That's not how it works. And for that, I am thankful. Which is what I was originally going to write about. Which is what I'm still going to write about. Later. Maybe tomorrow. 

Right now, I'm going to be a good American and get back to my online shopping. I have my future trophy wife image to think about. 

*At what other job could I find a copy of Orthodox Psychotherapy in the men's bathroom and spend 10 minutes a day reading it? (Okay, maybe the library; but librarians don't get tips...and I like tips). Also, I should mention that you'd better not ask where I work, because I had to sign a lengthy legal-sounding document promising not to reveal too much via social media, and I have no idea what "too much" is, but I felt like I was signing on to work for the CIA, and I think that means that if I told you, I would have to kill you, so let's just pretend it's Starbucks ('cause it's not), and move on with our lives.

The Fat Assassin's Tacky Sweater Party

Yesterday, my favorite person made all of my wildest dreams come true.  Yesterday, I was thrown my very own, super festive, glorious-er than glorious tacky sweater party.  It was truly phenomenal.

The neckline of my perfect new garment of clothing makes
speech a touch challenging.  Oh I do so love a challenge!

Some of you may have seen pictures that were prematurely leaked to the internet on various social media networks.  You may also have encountered false allegations that I was less than pleased with my new woolen attire.  Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight.  These accusations are completely false.  Not only was I delighted to wriggle into my brand new, brightly colored, form fitting holiday cat sweater, but I was devastated when the party ended early, due to a tragic misunderstanding.  It turns out that the ever-so-flattering turtleneck of my favoritest new article of clothing wreaked havoc on my vocal chords (havoc, which was, by the way, entirely worth every moment of gasping and retching), and I may have accidentally hissed instead of purred with pleasure while luxuriating in my fabulous get-up.

An astute observer, such as the Female Person, would have immediately understood that I intended to communicate only praise and gratitude for my sweater-having situation.  Unfortunately, she was not present, and the less-adept Male Person, wrongly perceiving my ecstasy to be suffering, tore my beautiful sweater from my gorgeous furry self before I knew what hit me.

Let me be absolutely clear.  I am eternally grateful to my People for throwing me such a wonderful tacky sweater party.  I have never longed for anything more than a tacky sweater party.  My tacky sweater was completely worth every cent of the $2.50 the Female Person was so insistent that we spend upon it.  She made the right choice.  She is a genius.  I will always cherish her gift, her intellect, and her desire to see me in a sweater.  Not only did I thoroughly enjoy my very first tacky sweater party, but I excitedly anticipate my next tacky sweater party.  Female person, you made all my dreams come true.  Thank you for cramming me into a paralyzing sweater.  Thank you from the bottom of my furry heart.


I love you.

So what if I couldn't stand upright in my couture sweater?
I'm madly in love with it.  Look at how it slims my torso,
and accentuates my beautiful pear-shaped figure.

All Photos Courtesy of the Bureaucrat, 2011.

The Demon-Witch-Monster and the Late, Late, Day

I grew up in a family that was never late.  Never.  Sure, we rushed around at the last minute like everyone else, but if being on time meant diving headlong (shoeless and with unbrushed hair) into the Dodge Caravan as it backed out of the driveway, then dive headlong we did.  It was never okay to be late...and we never were.  I spent my entire childhood without once having experienced tardiness.  I was pretty certain, though, that being late would result in immediate spontaneous decapitation, fire and brimstone, and the annihilation of the human race.  Thusly, I avoided it like the plague.  The first time I was really truly late for class in college I was too terrified to go in.  I had already missed five minutes; surely entering now would end my life.  I continued this pattern of behavior throughout college...if I was going to be late, I simply wouldn't go.  Problem solved.  Still never late for anything in my life.

Then I got married and had kids.  The  Bureaucrat, it turns out, is never late for anything either, but this has more to do with the fact that he has a loose definition of "on time."  If he gets there when he intends, and hasn't missed the entire thing, people should understand that he was "on time."  After all, having a sense of urgency would totally kill that "meticulously thorough" vibe he has going.  "No," he 'll stubbornly and--irritatingly--calmly announce as I desperately try to get the family to church in time in the morning, "I'm not leaving until I drink my coffee, read this article, go to the bathroom (again), clean the kitchen, put the rest of my coffee in a to-go mug, find the right socks, and turn off this iron so the house doesn't burn down." (whatever)

The Dictator putzes around with a
spoon on her forehead.  I wish I could
say that this behavior was unusual for her.

The Dictator has inherited the Bureaucrat's utter lack of urgency.  "I'm not going to hurry, Mom," she'll announced as I try to herd her out the door in the morning, "I have to button my raincoat, check my umbrella to make sure it still works, untwist my backpack straps, adjust my tights, line up my toys in order of height, drink more water and  wash my hands first.  THEN I can hurry!" (Kill me now, kill me now, kill me now).

And of course, the Anarchist thwarts any attempts at respecting the hallowed social more of timeliness with the simple application of anarchy.  "I don't WANT to go to the four-year-old preschool!  I HATE doing the Jolly Jamboree!*  I'm going to sit on this potty FOR 100 MINUTES so I can be LATE for preschool and MISS the Jolly Jamboree!" she'll shriek from the bathroom, five minutes after we should have left and I've begun throwing random things around the house in a vain attempt to convey to my offspring how serious the situation is becoming.

Needless to say, I stand dumbfounded in the face of such blatant disregard for the importance of urgency, of being on time, of consideration for rules/regulations/the rest of humanity/my extreme neuroses regarding tardiness.

Well...not exactly dumbfounded.

See, the problem is, I may or may not turn into a shrieking demon-witch-monster when running late.  I start off patient and understanding enough.

"Okay, guys," I'll say, urgently, yet oh so patiently, "We're running a little behind, so we need to get moving and follow directions really well without whining, okay?" 

(Subtext: "Please don't turn Mommy into demon-witch-monster, please don't turn Mommy into demon-witch-monster).  

"Let's get to the bathroom and then we'll put these clothes on...no, not after Super Readers (Super Readers ends AFTER we're supposed to be there.  What's wrong with you people?)...NOW!" 

(deep breath) 

"Okay.  I'm turning off the television.  You need to put the Cheerios down.  You've had 45 minutes to eat them and now it's time to go.  Anarchist.  Put the Cheerios down.  NOW."  

(demon-witch-monster slowly surfacing...long black tongue and creepy opaque white eyes starting to form)  

"Anarchist...what did I just SAY to you?!  Put the Cheerios down." 

(grabs, violently, bowl of Cheerios and slams them on coffee table...Cheerios fly everywhere...demon-witch-monster's presence is becoming more obvious now)  

"WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN?!  Come HERE and put your pants on.  No.  DON'T dance around like a monkey!  Anarchist!  Singing the Smurf song will NOT help us to be on time!  Anarchist!  Mommy's starting to lose it!  Please!  Cooperate! "

(catches sight of Dictator putzing around in nothing but tights and a Smurf hat in front of the mirror, humming to herself)

"DICTATOR!  It.  Is.  Time.  To.  Go.  Get.  Your.  Clothes.  On.  NOW!!!!!"

(Dictator responds with, "I'm going as fast as I can!  I'm just slow.  Like Daddy.  I can't help it."  Demon-witch-monster--fully formed and out for blood--is unleashed in all her terrifying splendor)

"IT IS NEVER OKAY TO BE LA-A-A-A-A-ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(The sheer quantity of exclamation marks in the previous sentence does little to capture the essence of demon-witch monster's rage at the Morton family's lack of urgency.  Picture that scene in Lord of the Rings where the white witch gets all crazy with the ring, and her eyes get all creepy, and her voice gets supernaturally psychotic; now pair that with the head-spinning green vomit scene from the exorcist and any scene from any B-movie horror flick you've ever watched in your pajamas on Halloween night because you were just too lazy to get dressed up for that Halloween party, and you'll get a vague sense of the scene in my home most mornings...it's not pretty.)

To say that I'm not proud of this impatient streak in myself would be an understatement.  I die of shame every time I get the kids safely dropped off to school and watch all the patient parents who (even though they are late) smile and chat and actually let their kids put their shoes on and button their coats before getting them into the car, even at the expense of the potential destruction of the entire cosmos (yup, being late can get that serious).  Meanwhile, my kids are scarred for life, traumatized by demon-witch-monster and her undying hatred for all things putzy.

My only consolation is this:  while I've seen plenty of angelic, patient parents with their oblivious spawn pull up to school ten minutes late with not a care in the world, I've also seen my demon-witch-monster-haunted peers throw children from still-moving SUVS as tardy bells ring, heard her evil shriek surface in their exasperated "HURRY UP!"s, and known that I, and my children, are not alone.  A small remnant of children will grow up set apart from society by their fear of all things tardy, their reverence for urgency, and their ability to save the human race from utter annihilation and spontaneous decapitation one skipped college class at a time.


*The Jolly Jamboree refers to a happy little preschool song designed to help children "wake up their brains."  The Anarchist recently launched a full-scale protest/boycott of the Jolly Jamboree out of solidarity (over-identification) with a small boy who cried during the Jolly Jamboree the first week of school because he missed his mom.  The Anarchist felt his pain...and wanted to share in his drama.  Thus the Kill the Jolly Jamboree Movement was born.  

The Many Fine Paternal Qualities of the Bureaucrat

Let me just say that, short of my own father, I believe that the Bureaucrat is the most perfect daddy on the planet.  And I'm not just saying that because I don't have a Father's Day present for him this year.  I swear.

In honor of Father's Day (present-less though it may be), I would like to take a moment to reflect on all the outstanding fatherly qualities that we find in my loving husband, the Bureaucrat.

 Sense of humor:  The Bureaucrat has the sense of humor of a 4 year old.  Hence, the Anarchist and the Dictator find him absolutely hilarious.  After all, he was the one who taught them to laugh uproariously every time someone "makes a fart."  I'm so proud.

Gentleness:  The Bureaucrat may not be a rough-and-tumble wrestling-on-the-floor type of father, but who needs that anyway?  The Anarchist does enough wrestling for the whole family.  Instead, the Bureaucrat is known for his gentleness.  Just look at how he holds that preemie.  He didn't crush it or anything!







Responsible with Money:  As in, he pays the bills...on time...without forgetting  a single one.  To me, that's fairly impressive.  I have such high standards.  (Notice that in this picture the Bureaucrat is looking a little concerned about how much money is being spent on souvenirs.  Notice how I am oblivious to his concern as I peruse more neato things we can buy).

Awareness of his Surroundings:  Play Where's Waldo? with me for a second.  Do you see the Bureaucrat in this insane crowd of people?  I bet he didn't lose a single child that day.  Yet another way in which the parenting skills of the Bureaucrat  balance out my...umm..parenting skill-lessness.  I mean, he notices super subtle things like, if he's walking through a puddle of battery acid, or if one of the children is stuck under the couch, or if something has inadvertently caught on fire.  We can't all be as observant as you, dear Bureaucrat (and here I'm speaking mostly of myself and the Dictator).  Thank goodness you're around!

Patience/Steadiness:  The Bureacrat quells the neurotic tendencies of the Dictator and the manic qualities of the Anarchist with his calm, steady, non-frenetic demeanor.  He has the patience to do things like build toys out of cardboard without once flying into a fit of rage and pitching the cardboard out the window/at the cat/into the face of the nearest bystander.  I call that good parenting.

Appreciation for who his children are:  The Bureaucrat himself probably never had any loft ambitions of his children being ballerinas/cowgirls/race car drivers/gymnasts, but he'll support them no matter what.  He'll even sit in a hot sweaty gym on Father's Day to watch his kids attempt cartwheels and one-footed hopping.  Now that's love.




The Ability to Teach:  Despite the fact that the Bureaucrat has now officially left the profession of teaching, he retains his desire to instruct everyone...about everything.  Just the other week, he couldn't resist teaching the Dictator all about tornadoes and hurricanes.  She's already building a storm shelter.  And a few days ago, he saw fit to explain to the bug-phobic Anarchist that the only ants that bite you are red ants, like the ones he grew up around in Louisiana.  She now lives in holy terror of "red ants from Louisie,"  And of course, he's also a stickler for vocabulary.  He still trying to get the Dictator to use "dichotomy" in a sentence.  Afraid of losing all friends for all times, she's wisely chosen to ignore this request.

High, yet Obtainable Standards:  The Bureaucrat sets the bar high: "Of course she can read...she's three," "I want to hear you ask for that cracker without screaming," and "I think you're old enough to use a fork when eating spaghetti," are commonly-heard phrases in our house.  Guess which accomplishment is the only one that either of our children has actually achieved (hint: it doesn't involve food or basic civilized etiquette).

He's a "Good Finder:"  Okay, I may have exaggerated this trait in an attempt to avoid having to look for small, missing toy dinosaurs myself, but that doesn't negate the fact that the trait exists.  Do you know how many times this heroic man found the Dictator's pacifier in the pitch dark black of night as she screamed bloody murder?  I'll tell you how many...too many.




He's the World's Best Role Model:  Whether it's showing his children the value of a strong work ethic, working calmly through problems, or the importance of relaxing with a "bottle," the Bureaucrat is always living out his values to the utmost.  And his children are the better for it.  We love you, Bureaucrat!  Happiest Father's Day! 

 P.S.  This was your present.

Aftershock: A Postlude, Part I (Can you have more than one part in a postlude? I can!)

So the trauma is ended, the Anarchist is born and released from the caring arms of the NICU and all is back to usual in Mortlandia (which sounds cooler than "Morton Land," I've decided).

Well, not exactly usual.  It turns out that even traumatic experiences that end well have lasting effects...on every member of the household...for a long time...like, maybe, forever.

The Bureaucrat:

After meeting this little miraculous bundle of
anarchy, nothing else mattered as much to the
Bureaucrat.  Aww...he was just a baby, here!
(As was she)

The Bureaucrat had the unpleasant position of attempting to continue life-as-usual at work during the whole prematurity crisis, all the while juggling a hospitalized wife (and then, baby) and a displaced toddler.  Not so fun.  But he handled it beautifully.  I'm sure he dealt with a lot on a deep, psychological level, but as the Bureaucrat is a cool customer with little show of emotion, I'm not going to venture a guess at all the emotional turmoil raging deep below the surface.  I'll just tell you what I noticed.

To be blunt, the Bureaucrat became somewhat less worried about money.  This is a big deal.  The Bureaucrat has always been obsessively worried about money.  Most likely this is because we are dirt poor and he is very responsible (I never worry because I operate under the misapprehension that money grows on trees).  But the poor Bureaucrat used to worry to excess.  Now he just seems to worry an appropriate amount.  Maybe things have been put into perspective?   (Alternatively, this is entirely unrelated and he just gave up caring because we're so poor it's absolutely futile to even attempt to do anything about it.  Maybe he's already resigned himself to our living in our parents' basements...)


The Fat Assassin:

At first, the effects on the Fat Assassin went unnoticed.  This is probably because she has always been extra-neurotic, even for a cat.  But we soon discovered that the Fat Assassin had developed trust issues.  For about three years after the birth of the Anarchist, the Fat Assassin became decidedly uncuddly.  Not that anyone ever dared cuddle her in the first place (she's a biter), but she had--in her earlier days with us--often climbed on our laps, chests, beds, laptop keyboards, important documents in order to cuddle us.  During the whole Anarchist fiasco, she was often left alone until very late at night when the Bureaucrat would stumble into the house and she would get to curl up next to him for a few hours and assure herself that people still existed.  Then the Anarchist came home, surrounded by plastic tubing essential to her very life and breath, and the Fat Assassin (who had a propensity to gnaw on said plastic tubing) was kicked out of any interesting area of the house.

The Fat Assassin keeps her distance.  Humans will just
break your heart, anyway.  (One of these days we're going to
discover her journal of angsty cat poetry from this period).

Cue trust issues:  humans aren't to be counted on to be present; when humans are present they bring with them tasty tubing and then deny tasty tubing to sweet kitties; sweet kitties are apparently no longer welcome in the vicinity of nice-smelling babies or tasty tubing; no one loves sweet kitties; sweet kitties might as well turn aloof/vicious/or throw sweet kitteny selves off of cliffs; sweet kitties aren't feeling particularly suicidal and (sigh) no one would even notice sweet kitteny absence anyway; sweet kitty chooses aloof/vicious, but remains very much alive.

Thus, a three year period of uncuddliness ensued.  Just recently, we have been accosted by excessive displays of affection from the Fat Assassin.  It appears she's getting her snuggle back.  It takes a while to process trauma, and even cats aren't immune.  Luckily, even felines can overcome.

The Dictator

Many people speculate that the reason our Dictator is, much like our pet, so neurotic, is that she was semi-separated from both her parents for a period of time at a very young age (whereas it is theorized that the Fat Assassin's initial neuroses stem from her lack of lady parts).  While I don't disagree that witnessing your mother wailing, "Please, God, no!  Don't take my baby!" in the middle of the night and then vanishing into the mist for three months might potentially trigger some sort of deep emotional scarring, I also wish to point out that there was never a point at which the Dictator wasn't neurotic.  Recall, she came out of the womb skittish and suspicious.  She trusted no one.  She still doesn't.  This is not because of some sort of traumatic separation, but because she's utterly convinced that she is the only competent creature in the universe and that everyone else is going--to sound utterly British--to muck everything up.  She doesn't trust me to make her sandwich correctly, for heaven's sake!  What all this preemie business did do was create a completely justifiable situation in which not to trust.  Now we can point to those traumatic three months and say, "she's been through a lot," whenever teachers/friends/neighbors/perfect strangers raise their eyebrows at her dictatorial behavior.  Little do they know!

The Dictator returns to her room (or, kingdom) after a three
month sojourn to the place of the grandparents.  She now
attempts to reestablish authority over her plush subjects.

 *****

Now, these souls have been through quite a bit.  I won't deny them that.  But let's be honest.  I am a whole lot more screwed up than any of them.  Mind you, this is not because I somehow have suffered more (there are many perfectly sane people who have been through far worse trauma than I), but because I have frail nerves...like a mother from a Jane Austen novel.  The Anarchist, too, has experienced several lasting effects of all this because she is the actual preemie in the situation.  She is completely justified in having been impacted to such a degree...me, not so much.  But what can you do?

I will delve further into the psychological depths of the Anarchist and myself (lucky you) next time.  Until then, should you encounter an obese and overly-affectionate cat with a tendency to bite, or a kindergartener who insists upon overseeing your every move as you make her lunch/shop for your own clothing/get her sister dressed, cut them some slack.  They've been through a lot.

The Bureaucrat's Busy Birthday Bonanza

How the Bureaucrat spends his birthday: good food,
semi-decent wine, and a Toy Story alien party hat.

So, I have a husband.  I know, I know, I never mention the poor guy.  It's because he's never around.  Not because he's avoiding me--I don't think, although I might not blame him--but because he's working like crazy as a painfully underpaid high school teacher while going to law school on the weekends.  Yup, the Bureaucrat is going to be a lawyer...fitting, no?  You can read more about his hardworking escapades here: thereluctantmichigander.

The good news is, the Bureaucrat had some time off this week to be with his family...not just look at his family for a brief moment between commuting home from work and burying his nose in Torts, or Contracts, or whatever the law topic du jour happens to be...actually be with his family.  The first two days were given by his school in the spirit of a semi-midwinter-break.  The next day was taken by the Bureaucrat after returning to work for just one day, as a belated birthday present to himself.  You can't blame the poor guy.  He never sleeps.  And when he does sleep, he tosses, turns, and negotiates legal contracts while he dreams.  His mini-break is much-needed and well-deserved.  And so were his various birthday festivities.

On Tuesday, the day before the Bureaucrat's birthday, the girls insisted we throw him a full-fledged birthday party, replete with Toy Story themed "everything," as the Dictator put it.  She even designed him a Toy Story cake, featuring a Jessie the Cowgirl's Shirt motif.  She insisted I use my frosting "expertise" to make her creation come to life.  Good thing she's an adorable dictator...

Sylvie's Toy Story cake vision becomes a reality...kinda.

My parents came to the "party," and we had dinner, cake, presents--"TWO presents?!!!" asks the outraged Dictator, "Daddy only gets TWO presents?!!--and an elaborate song and dance show to Toy Story music by the Dictator and the Anarchist.

The Dictator and Grandpa don their festive hats.

The Anarchist is festive, too.

Grandma somehow makes it look so natural.

On his actual birthday, we had friends over for our usual super-nerdy, super-fantastic Book Club (and lest you think this is some girly thing that I somehow dragged the unwitting Bureaucrat into against his will, I'll have you know that it was the Bureaucrat and our (male) friend the Scapegoat who dreamed up the whole thing, and that, for the vast majority of said book club's existence, I have been the solitary girl in the group).  Instead of discussing Annie Dillard, whom we have deemed un-discuss-able anyway, we had a nerdy game night/snack fest featuring excessive amounts of beer (thanks, Dads), overpriced cupcakes, over-sized glasses, and a Snuggie.  Delightful.  I think the Bureaucrat was in law-school-nerd-on-vacation heaven.

The Bureaucrat in his birthday glasses
and "designer" Snuggie, perfect for
reading, using the remote and fishing...
obviously.

The birthday glasses make the rounds.
Stunning.

Our friend, the Scapegoat.  What can we
blame him for this week?

The Dictator also looks amazing in the glasses, although
we didn't actually let her come to the nerd-fest that was
her father's second birthday party.  This shot
is from the morning after.

Today we took the Anarchist and the Dictator to Cranbrook to see some dinosaurs (we met friends there...remember the Ambitious Mom?)  Insanity ensued.  If you want to see my awful foray into photojournalistic documentation of our family trip, you can sate your curiosity here.

Happy Birthday, dear Bureaucrat!  You look
so excited to be celebrating it in this way.

During our family museum outing, the Dictator
pointed out that chickens are distant cousins of
dinosaurs.  She illustrated this point by growling
and roaring like a predatory dino-chicken.

 During our little family adventure, the Bureaucrat got one more special birthday surprise: an email stating that tomorrow's school day is canceled due to impending snowy doom.  We may have had a minor celebration in the midst of the prehistoric tools exhibit upon discovering this great good fortune.  Because sometimes I forget I have a husband.  And it's nice to have time to remember that I do.  Because he's pretty fantastic.  And we like him a lot...even if we only do get him two presents on his birthday.