Motor-vation

Joe says he'll buy me a shiny new mom taxi if I can run a 6:30 mile.

My first thought--beyond wondering whether my husband is growing weary of the ol' love handles--was, Oh Good!  Now I can get the giant, tricked-out, gas-guzzling SUV I've always secretly wanted (but outwardly scorned).

"They see me rollin'/ They hatin'" -Chamillionaire Family Taxi

Then, a few minutes of internet research revealed the price of a giant gas-guzzler to be much, much too high for the likes of us.  Even the sensible one, without the spinners.  Oh, well.  On to the second choice...that schoolmarmish Honda minivan with the built-in vacuum.  Yesssss.

"You spilled something?  Vacuum it up RIGHT NOW.  Yes, while we're driving.  Need I remind you what our last minivan looked like on the inside?"  -Me, to anyone under age 12

But....dang.  Who would have thought you'd have to buy the Touring Elite (read: the most expensive one) to get the HondaVAC?  Frickin' Honda, you are really bumming me out, man.

So now I am a little sad.  And that's to say nothing of the kidney selling we'd have to do to afford any vehicle whatsoever (new or pre-food-encrusted) at the moment.

But hey, at least my love handles are shrinking.  :)

And here's another tally on the positive side of things:

Zach-in-the-Box, for real this time.

Comic Book Artist

Here's a comic James made of his dad's life.

Notice the montage of scenes from Joe's life, each likeness with spiky hair and a smile.  There's Joe scoring in water polo (bottom left).  Top right is Joe winning a Junior Nationals event when he was 17.  Bottom right: looks like he's underhand serving a volleyball?  Top left: Joe with undisclosed female (me?). And top center, the family man with wife and gaggle of children.

My favorite is the "TM" indicating James is trademarking this idea.

Metal Dads!

This is so cool.  I want to tell every guy I know how "metal" the dad life can be.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/31/dad-life-is-metal-photos_n_5424234.html?utm_hp_ref=mostpopular

Will's Words of Wisdom

Words of Wisdom (A Fill-in-the-blank assignment)
by William B., age 8


A penny saved is:  "a penny lost"

Absence makes:  "work to do"

An apple a day keeps:  "growing"

Beauty is:  "amazing"

Children should:  "always be friends"  [Awww...]

Money is:  "not all that matters"  [Good job, Will!]

People who live in glass houses shouldn't:  "be teased"

There's no place like:  "home"

Two heads are:  "better than one"

You can't teach an old dog:  "tricks"

Yet Another List of Kid Quotes

"I'm so over first grade."  -Elise

"You don't want to continue swearing because it makes you sound like an idiot."  -James, gently reminding me why I need to stay on the "no-swearing" wagon

"[Funny Neighbor Kid], You are being such an 'A-S-S Hole'!"  -James, at the park playdate this week, when said-neighbor-kid threw a water balloon at Will

"We already know that, Mom.  Please stop telling us."  -Will, whenever I tell him that it's okay to lose when you play sports

Zach cruises for the first time.  He may have skipped the whole crawling thing.

Chewing Gum

(Actual Conversation. Setting: living room)


Funny Neighbor Kid:  Hey Joe!

Joe:  (in the middle of changing a poopy diaper).  Hello, (Funny Neighbor Kid's name).

FNK:  So....Did you cut off the tip of baby Zach's penis when he was born?

Joe:  (Holding back shocked laughter)  Well, kind of, but not exactly.  It's called 'circumcision.'

FNK:  I heard that's where chewing gum comes from.

Ides of May

Some pictures from the last few months...

James at the air show.

Joe, with the chillun'

Will (throwin' up gang signs?), Elise, and Joe

Elise, with Poopsie.

Why so serious, Will?

Latest Kid Quotes

"Ahh!  I can feel his little piranha teeth!" -Will, putting his finger in Zach's mouth

"Well, do you want me to do it, or not?" -James, when I lectured him about the "mo' money mo' problems" aspect of inventing a teleportation machine/ becoming the world's richest man

"They were making me do little tiny floaty things with my hands, and it, like, wasn't doing anything!" -Elise, on learning to scull in her first synchro practice

"Gog!" -Zach  ["He's religious!" -Aunt Linda]

--

Kid news:  James starts water polo tomorrow.  Will's playing flag football and scored two touchdowns during each of his last two games.  Elise started synchronized swimming today.  Zach got his first two teeth, 'round the cape of a sudden.

The school year is quickly wrapping up; it's already almost May.  The big boys did science fair (Elise decided hers was just a practice this year) and had a weeks-long argument over who first came up with the idea they both used.  James refused to document his results on his poster, citing embarrassment that only one marigold seedling survived the 6" of rain we randomly received in one day.  Will's poster was more complete, but decidedly less legible.  Note to selves: make kids type it next year.  Second note to selves: find out whether brothers in the same grade are allowed to collaborate on a project, the way real scientists do.  Then, they can fight over which of them gets first authorship, like real scientists do.  Hah.

I can't wait to start Zach's mommy & me class this Friday.

And now, for a random photo.

Daddy & Zachy.  Zach is in a rare moment of not smiling.

Magic Joe

I just read that a sequel to Magic Mike is a go.  So, I've decided to take this opportunity to randomly and obnoxiously brag, brag, braggity brag about my husband, Joe B.

Spoilers:  He's hot.  He's a terrific dad.  And he's the most optimistic, positive person I've ever met.

Sexy Pose #001: Wearing the baby.

As I was obnoxiously bragging to some of my momfriends yesterday, when I met Joe he was an almost-21-year-old captain of the swim team and dual sport athlete (he also played club water polo).  I, then 18 and uncannily career-minded, thought he was simply hot and fun to kiss and hug.

I had no idea he was also smart, responsible, and sensitive, and that I would want to have infinity babies with him.

Why am I writing about this?  Because every once in awhile it's a good idea to count your blessings, and I am glad to call him my guy.

Channing Tatum, eat yer heart out.

Poppies

We drove to the fields west of Lancaster/Palmdale to see the California Golden Poppies.  It was late in the day, windy and cool, and the sun was going down, so the flowers were closed and not nearly as spectacular as they could have been.  It also wasn't as splendid a showing as in spring 2010, when the hills were ablaze with orange flowers.

Couldn't get a picture of all of us at once without taking the risk of trampling the flowers.  Joe and I had to take turns taking pictures of ourselves with the kids.

In order to make this mini-trip happen we had to bribe the kids with ice cream and getting to sleep in their pillow fort they'd made this weekend.

Still a pretty cool experience, though.  We'll try again soon, earlier in the day and when it's less windy.

Poopsie: The Happy Ending

Well, Poopsie's "mother" turned out to be a man named Rick who lives nearby and was at his daughter's volleyball tournament all weekend.  The little dog actually belongs to Rick's college-aged son, who is away at school and blissfully unaware of any of his beloved Poopsie's misadventures this weekend.  I figured all of this out by taking Poopsie to a local vet, where they effortlessly scanned him for a microchip and made a few short phone calls.  So much for making flyers, taking to the streets, or dealing with the pound!

So, yay.  He was reunited with his grateful owner(s).

But not before he made himself at home in my house.  I had to let him inside for a few minutes before his peeps came to claim him; apparently Poopsie has "mad ups" and can jump over our fence somehow--I discovered this by answering a gentle rapping at the garage entry door, and there he was, despite my having secured all backyard exits!  ("Tis the wind, and nothing more!"  -Poopsie)

" 'Sup?"

Oh, and Poopsie's real name is Sly.  Like a fox.

Somehow, I doubt this is the last we'll see of Sly.

Poopsie

Last night, Joe and I went for a walk for our date night.  We found a dog.  He was trying to commit suicide 'neath the fast-moving tires on a busy thoroughfare.

None of the other good samaritans involved in talking him off the proverbial ledge would bring him home for the night.  "My dog would eat him!" was one lady's excuse reason.  So we're stuck with him for the moment while we plaster our entire community (including the virtual community, via Craigslist, and local Facebook/Twitter Found Pets pages) with FOUND DOG posters.

We're tentatively calling him Poopsie.  The name came from Joe's spot-on prediction that he would thank us for rescuing him by pooping in our garage.

Also, he's a Poopsie because he's clearly somebody's Little Poopsie of a dog.

Incredibly well-groomed and clean (at least, until he rolled in something in our backyard).  Strawberry blonde fur that is glossy like a fox's.  Pert, pointed little fox ears.  Collar but no ID tag.  Curly little tail that hangs ever just so.  And the sky-high, largely unfulfilled expectations of sitting in my seat, sleeping in my house, and/or finding a dog treat in my hand at any given time.

And did I mention that Elise is obsessed with him?  He's been on so many walks today (well, I guess she alternated between carrying him and pulling him in the wagon, so it doesn't really count as a walk) he must be exhausted, dahlings.

I hate to bring him to the local, high-kill animal shelter, so hopefully his owner will respond to the queries soon.

Poopsie, where is your mother?

Gypsy That I Was

I bought Zach a new toy from the children's secondhand store.  It's something I always stuck my nose up about, swore I would never buy, and I made it all the way through three kids' infancies before breaking down and getting one.

"I entertain myself!"

The beauty of the exersaucer (or whatever the heck it's called) can't be denied, though.  Due to its orbiting "sidecar" configuration, this gigantic baby-holder contraption allows him to amuse himself for a few full minutes by satisfying his wanderlust and containing him.  No, I'm not getting paid to plug this thing.  It's just cool.

In other news, James and Elise got awards at school this week; James for social studies and Elise for math.  Will didn't get an award this time and was totally happy for his siblings anyway less than thrilled.

However, that awards ceremony was right after the Y-Guides Olympics, in which Will won three medals, Elise got one, and James got none.  James was making the same face as Will stood atop the podium, decorated with all the bling and glory a gold medal in the 3rd grade boys' hula hoop competition can bring.

Ah, it's hard being an almost-Irish twin.

Hashtaggery

It's come to my attention that, when you type certain words with high frequency, Blogger automatically adorns your post with custom hashtags of those high-frequency words.  It's probably an algorithm that somebody at Google thought up.

Ordinarily this wouldn't be a problem.  "Cool," I'd think.  "They're making my life easier for me, over at Google."  But my last post (entitled "Science Fair: You Are Entering...") *may* have contained the word "diarrhea" a few too many times for comfort, discretion, or general good-taste, because I just saw the following adornment that I did not (I repeat, DID NOT) personally add to my Google plus post:

#diarrhea

Once I noticed this ill-advised "auto-hashtag," I laughed until I cried.  The end.

Also, on a hopefully unrelated note, P.S., if your name is Sarah V., I am totally on the frickin' edge of my seat to hear what you are thinking of naming your upcoming BABY BOY!  I am also excited to hear what the Hemsworth-Pataky family is naming their sons, but WAY more excited for Sarah.  Yay!

Science Fair: You are entering a world of feces

The kids are doing science fair projects this year!  Exhausting, but yay!

Adding to the exhaustion: Zach has had an absolutely ridiculous odyssey of diarrhea lately.  Diarrhea in the middle of the night, several times a night.  Never-ending diarrhea.  No-sleep diarrhea.  I've taken him to the doctor FOUR TIMES in the past month--twice to the regular pediatrician, twice to urgent care.  All they did was give me an Rx for butt cream (poor, chapped little butt!) and mumble something about trying to change his formula (stool sample for rotavirus and/or other nasty infections was negative).

It finally ended on Sunday; I've never been so glad to see a diaper full of normal feces in my life, save for when James did his first BM ever.

Would it be horrible if I let one of them look at slides of Zach's poop under a microscope and draw what they saw (if anything)?  I don't think it's a powerful enough microscope to see anything quiiiite as tiny as anything that would cause such havoc.  If I'm wrong, the headline will read, "Local Kids Find Giant Virus in Baby Brother's Stool; Mother Held For Questioning."

Don't worry.  We'd wear gloves and throw away the slides once we were done.  And the junior microscope, and we would probably have to powerwash our kitchen with bleach.

Do they sell hazmat suits at Costco?

Nameberry: Dr. Seuss Names

March 2nd is Dr. Seuss' birthday, but I’ll never forget the day I heard Ted Geisel had died; I was eight.  Mom was crying a little, and I asked her what was wrong.  She said that she’d never written Dr. Seuss thank him for teaching her children to read.  In fact, in my early childhood we pored over Dr. Seuss’s ABC so many times I can still picture which page was torn (the one with the Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz).  As an adult I’ve wanted to thank Dr. Seuss, too, for the wonderful, untold hours I’ve spent reading his books with my own kids.

Everyday Seuss-isms: I’ve angrily called our elder two sons “Thing 1” and “Thing 2” when they’ve Sharpied the carpet.  And as kids, we siblings Laura and Max were often collectively referred to by our dad as “The Lorax.”  The perfect Seuss sibset, we were!

Anyway, I wrote a Nameberry (Berry Juice) post about Dr. Seuss names in celebration of his birthday.  Here's the link:

http://nameberry.com/blog/dr-seuss-baby-names-the-complete-guide-from-bartholomew-to-ziggy#more-31779

Overheard At The Helm

Snippets I happened to overhear from the driver's seat of my Mom Taxi today:


"Fiona [the dog] likes to be surrounded in hotness, so that's why she climbs in Aunt Sophia's purse."

"The cafeteria burgers are either raw or horsemeat.  HORSEMEAT, Mom.  That's illegal."

"I was like, Jeez.  Enough Olympics."

"Bob Costas?  He has pink eye."

One, Two, Seven

Aught

One

Two?

Three.

Four...

Five!

Six!!

Elise is seven today!!!  That sentence needs more exclamation marks.  I'll take her seven-year-old picture this evening after we have cake and ice cream, IF she stands still long enough for me to take it.  She is sprinting through life.

Zach in the Box

Or should I say, Zach in the Bask...

"Mommy bought the insanely expensive digital file, but she still insists on taking a cheap-looking snapshot of the print for her blog!"

 "I promise I will give you back these overalls you wore as a baby, Uncle Max.  But you have to come visit first.  Muahahaha!"

----------------

Now, for a game of Guess Which Older Sibling? (Photos A-C by our dear friend Jeanne Wood):

A. 

B. 

C.

Answers:

A. Elise (duh, she's wearing pink!)

B. Will

C. James

Bonus Question:  Who does Zach resemble most closely?

Getting Pretty (FAIL)

I tried to take Zach to a popular portrait studio today for some littleness pictures.  You know, before he's no longer little.  He is getting longer and more triple-chinny by the day, and I know I'm not taking enough pictures to have a clean conscience.  For it is prophesied that one day will come the hour of RECKONING of the COMPARISON of the BABY BOOKS among siblings (Isaiah 13:44).

Once upon a time we took James' first formal portraits at about 3-4 months, Will's at about 5-6 months, and Elise's at about 2-3 months, so I figured we were due for Zach's.  Round two is traditionally at 12 months of age, so as long as we go before that, we're good.

But today's attempt failed gloriously.

I'd gathered all of the flotsam and jetsam necessary for baby portraits--cute clothes, extra clothes (in case he were to Hot-Karl the clothes he was wearing originally), diapers, wipes, drool cloth, decorative baby shoes, etc. Then, I remembered that I also need pictures of myself--headshots.  Non-hideous headshots for bloggery and garden-variety vanity.  A lovely opportunity to make an effort, appearance-wise.  I threw on some ill-fitting clothes that I didn't used to muffin-top out of, applied eyeliner, mascara, and chapstick, and blow-dried my hair.  Wow, was I getting gussied up now!  Zach obliged by screaming his head off for the duration of the prepwork; he might be getting a tooth and is very, very mad lately when I dare attempt to put him somewhere other than in my arms.

Then, despite our having napped generously this morning, he fell asleep just as we pulled into a parking spot at the mall.  No matter!  I would have my headshots done as mine-angel slept angelically in his carseat, I thought.

Nope.  He woke up in the middle of my session.  Right when I was crossing my arms in front of me for a sassy, no-nonsense, cute Mom Blogger pose.  Dang it when kids get in the way of your sassy, no-nonsense momming!  Also, in case you are wondering, it's impossible to "smile with your eyes" or whatever it is they want you to do when they take your picture, when your five-month-old is yelling boldfaced apocrypha and obscenities in baby language.

But the picture lady persevered and got 'er done.  She probably deserved a medal for how quickly she got me in and out of the portrait area.  And the pictures themselves weren't half bad.  It was just....the subject matter.  I looked...pissed off.  And not at all sassy and authoritative and cute.  So, despite the picture lady's heroic efforts to squeeze me into the schedule and portrait me rapidly and everyone having to listen to Zach scream while Mommy tried to Smize, I didn't buy squat.

We're going back on Friday afternoon, Zach and I.  I might have to bring backup staff (i.e., our older kids) to entertain Zach so I can attempt to prettify myself again.  Gosh, it's hard being a woman of the leisure class sometimes--scrapbooks and blogs don't create themselves, you know.

Edit: I forgot the best part.  I ripped the @ss and crotch of my skinnypants (the ones I had to forcibly put on; that should've been my first hint that they didn't fit anymore, I suppose!) as I was bending over to pick up Zach-attack.  People heard the fabric ripping over the angry Zach noises, I think.  Well, at least I got some mild exhibitionism in that day, if nothing else.

Here's the portrait that Joe took of me later, with his cell phone, once the kids were in bed and it was the hour in which all mothers rejoice.

Say, "Nobody is screeeaaming!"

Biceps

James:  I don't like it when you swear.  How about this--every time you swear, you have to do ten pushups?

Me:  That's a good idea.  Do you think I'll get really big "guns?"  (Flexes arms)

James:  (smiles patronizingly)  Nowadays, they're called "biceps."

MORE Things My Children Are Never Allowed to Watch (And Why)

Sam & Cat:   My not-quite-seven-year-old daughter has adopted protagonist Cat Valentine's annoying, overly-breathy voice and insipid persona for everyday use.  Also, why should two eighth-graders be living by themselves?

Rabbids Invasion:  Because it isn't nice to laugh at the frustrated, speech-delayed bunnies.

Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat (2003):  A bastardization of a classic in children's literature.  And WTF is going on with your creepy, botoxed cat face in this movie, Mike Myers?

Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas (2000):  Same reasons as above, but it's Jim Carrey in Grinchface for this one.  Woulda been better if it were just Carrey's own Grinchy facial expressions, without the latex joker jowls.  Also, G-d dammit, Cindy Lou Who is supposed to be aged 2, not 6.  You just don't mess with a masterpiece.  Ted Geisel might have appreciated the Martha May Whovier sidestory, though.

Sid The Science Kid:  Too inane for even its 3-5 year old target audience.  Something awry with Teacher Susie's eyes.  Unintentionally hilarious explanation of food decomposition in episode entitled, "It's Not Scary, It's Decayed" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCD4h8Pp7qM).

Sanjay and Craig:  I'm from the Ren & Stimpy era of kid TV shows, and I still find this show to have a disgustingly large amount of vomit humor (not that a bit of well-placed vomit humor is necessarily a terrible thing, but snake-vom shouldn't be a recurring gag).   Not sure what the deal is with "Baby" Richard.

Annoying Orange:  Reasons too obvious to list here.

The Other L-Word

We have lice.  LICE.

There.  I've said it.  Of course, it had to happen right after we bought a brand-new set of couches (our very first real furniture that didn't come from Goodwill or someone else's garage--please note we'll have been homeowners for 10 years this coming fall).  Now back to vacuuming, doing a metric ton of laundry, slathering a little baby's scalp in preventive oils, and forcefully raking a tiny comb over people's heads.  And nit-grabbing.  And shuddering in disgust.

See you in, like, a longity long time.

MSU Baby Names

*Update: Joe's cousin just welcomed a gorgeous little baby girl with an adorable MSU name: Breslyn.  Go Green!*

I tried to write another article for Nameberry but they rejected it (*hangs head*).  I wrote it because I got really excited about MSU-inspired names while we were at the (cough! cough!) ROSE BOWL, in ROW SEVENTEEN, watching one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever seen.  In case you didn't hear, somehow we won.  Must've been all the team spirit demonstrated by the fans, methinks.

Amazing seats courtesy of Chuck and Kay; amazing weather courtesy of Pasadena.

Anyway, here's the article.

Spartan Spirit!  Notable MSU Names

Michigan State University beat Stanford in a 24-20 nail-biter at the 2014 Rose Bowl.  In honor of this spectacular upset, here are some wearable, MSU-inspired names for little Spartan fans.

Boys:

Malcolm (G. Malcolm Trout):  George Malcolm Trout was a renowned dairy researcher, emulsion chemistry expert, and developer of the process by which milk is homogenized.  He was a food science professor at Michigan State for half a century.  Could his last name, Trout, be worn on a boy, as could Bear, Fox, or Wolf?

Izzo (Tom Izzo):   Well-beloved basketball coach who has led the Spartans to six Final Four appearances and 16 consecutive runs in the NCAA Tournament.  Mateen Cleaves, Plaxico Burress and Earvin “Magic” Johnson are other high-achieving Spartan men’s athletics names.  Speaking of sports leadership, on the heels of Finn and Flynn could be the last names of venerated former athletic director and football coach Clarence Lester “Biggie” Munn and Olympic sprinter Savatheda Fynes. 

Willie (Willie Laurence Thrower): The first black quarterback to play in the Big Ten, Willie Thrower was said to be capable of hurling the ball over a distance of 60 years.  His skills were instrumental to the 1952 national championship win for the Spartans.  Although Connor Cook and Mark Dantonio were the major names of the 100^th Rose Bowl Game, maybe the nickname name Willie will catch on in the U.S. as well as Freddie and Alfie have in the U.K.

Brody, Wilson, and Mason are dorm-inspired names that enjoy a healthy popularity outside of the MSU crowd.  The enormous Brody Neighborhood consists mostly of freshman living quarters, but on the upside, it is close to the iconic Red Cedar River.  Red, Cedar, and River would be much better names for contraband guinea pigs smuggled into a Brody Complex room than for triplet boys, though.

Vim: In the fight song refrain “Spartan teams are bound to win/ we’re fighting with a VIM (Rah! Rah! Rah!)”, there is a word of relatively recent (1843) origin.  According to Mirriam-Webster online, vim is “robust energy and enthusiasm”.  These days, it seems to have little usage outside of lyrics and poetry (as in Dr. Seuss’ “vigor and vim” in Horton Hears a Who), but vitality is an attribute that is hoped for by many parents.  See also: Johnny Spirit (a.k.a, John Sheldon), legendary body paint enthusiast and die-hard MSU sports attendee who has embodied superfandom since 1993; Eli Broad, cum laude graduate, billionaire, and arts philanthropist.

Girls:

Linden: A tree, a famous East Lansing street near the intersection of Michigan Avenue and Grand River, and an excellent place to party.  If you adore your Aunt Linda who went to Michigan State (I do!), consider naming your little girl Linden and calling her Lindy for short.

Maude Gilchrist, Elida Yakeley, and Mary Anne Mayo are three important women in early MSU history for whom the West Circle residence halls are named.  (Elida may be a variant of Elidi, which is thought to be related to the Ilida Valley in Greece.)  Accomplished female graduates also include HGTV and Food Network founder Susan Packard (’79, ‘81), an advocate for women in business, and Julie Aigner-Clark (‘88), 2009’s Entrepreneur of the Year.

Lou Anna (Lou Anna Simon):  This sweet double-barreled name consists of the cute Lou paired with the evergreen charmer Anna, and President Lou Anna Kimsey Simon has been a boon to the university with her aggressive support for research in the sciences.  (Full disclosure: Dr. Simon is my distant relative.)  Names with a farm and country feel, like Lilah Mae and Lulah Mae, are all the rage for baby girls in mid-Michigan right now (at least among my large extended family and that of my husband).  Another name with notable family ties is Clara Bell Smith, late mother of NBA player and former Michigan State All-American Steve Smith; the Student Athlete Support Services center (Clara Bell Smith Center) was named in her honor.  Perhaps Clara Bell or Lou Anna will inspire the names of the next generation of women in the MSU family. 

Hannah (John Alfred Hannah): An administrator and longest-serving president of the university, Hannah is largely responsible for having brought MSU into the research age.  He also served as president of the USAID and as an administrator of the UN World Food Council.

Aggie: Agricultural College of the State of Michigan was founded in 1855 as the first land grant university in the United States.  Owing to the school’s agricultural science roots, “Aggies” (farmers) was its original nickname.  This evolved to “The Michigan Staters”, and ultimately, the Spartans, after the school transitioned from Michigan Agricultural College (MAC) to the names of Michigan State College and Michigan State University, respectively.  Texas A&M, Utah State, and New Mexico State currently share the Aggies nickname.  Aggie is decidedly girly, but the retro Mac might make an adorable unisex nickname for a baby born into a family with an affection for East Lansing.

Me, Joe, and James, at the alumni meet in 2004.

Zach, rooting for the home team in 2014.

Photo Book

Click here to view this photo book larger

I made a photo book thingy for my mom, my Grandma JuJu, Joe's parents, and my dad.  Happy early Christmas, if you're peeking at this, and sorry for spoiling the surprise.  Never could keep a secret.

Nameberry Blog Post

I got to do a blog post for Nameberry!

http://nameberry.com/blog/science-geek-chic-names-biology-department

In case you aren't already obsessed with it, Nameberry is a highly addictive name site.

Misheard Lyrics: Kid Version

"Two turtle-dogs, and a partridge in a pear tree!" -Elise, singing

"Go right thru for MSU, watch the people growing..." -James, singing and banging a drum, when he was about two and-a-half

"Up above the world so high, like a dinosaur in the sky..."  -Will, singing, when he was about two

"It's CACK-tivated, not captivated!" -Elise, correcting her friend as they stared at Zach on the car ride home from school

Zombified!

"I just blew a booger out of my nose and it was white!" -Will, bemoaning an apparent drawback of white grease "zombie" makeup

"Guess what that song's about?  Wetting the bed!"  -James, on the Violent Femmes' Blister in the Sun

Scary zombies were all the rage in our neighborhood this Halloween.  While our kids were regular, run-of-the-mill, Martha Stewart Everyday-wear zombies, one of their buddies was a 'rock & roll' zombie with a guitar prop.  And another zombie friend seemed to have the blood spatter and oatmeal gore thing down to a science.

Zach wasn't a zombie, though.  Couldn't bring myself to put grease makeup on a two-month-old baby, so we Goodwilled it until we found something in the 0-6 months size range.  He was, quite charmingly, a baby pumpkin.

But I'm seeing a theme costume in our family's future: zombie football players, zombie referees, a zombie cheerleader, and a baby zombie football.

Will and James, looking more Charlie Sheenish than I'm comfortable with.

Zach attack, calling it a night after handing out candy with me.

Left to Right: James, Faded Scarecrow stolen by the men's swim team that was accidentally moved with us to the West Coast, Will, Elise's BFF, and Elise.  F. Scarecrow has seen better days.

My Little Pony

Zach farts a lot.  Most of the time, whether he is awake or mostly asleep, he is farting or trying hard to fart.  The result is that he sounds like a grunting, straining, whinnying little pony.  Poor, gassy little baby!

"Za--a--a--ach Baxter!" [whinny whinny whinny]

It is weird.  Our other kids' repertoire of noises at 6 weeks old included "Donald Ducking" (James), bleating like Stevie Nicks in a South Park Episode (Will), and saying "Nah!  Nah!" in ultra-feminine fashion when crying (Elise).  But not sounding equine.  I am starting to wonder if something is wrong with him.  He coos, rolls over from front to back, cries, eats, poops, and pees just fine.  He smiles (and my heart doth sing!).  He is gaining weight well and growing tremendously.  But seriously, most of his time is spent grunting and whinnying and trying to expel something'r'uther from his bottom.  Should I look into whether the Guinness Book has a record for this sort of thing: most farts per kilogram of infant body weight in a 10-consecutive-minute period?

I do remember James farting a lot, too, and it was shocking and hilarious because it usually sounded so deep that it should have been coming from an adult's anus.  Thus began one of the primal bonding activities between father and child(ren).  Nowadays, farts are the comedic glue that holds our family together.  But We The Parents have long since stopped laughing at Zach, because he does it so often!  How can so much bad air come from such a tiny digestive tract?

One of my favorite things to do with my husband only forms of recourse against Joe's ubiquitous farts is to immediately tell him what his most recent emanation sounded like.  My God, that sounded just like a towel ripping in half.  Jeez, that was totally just like someone stomping on an empty juice box with both feet.  Air letting out of the stretched neck of a giant, "punching bag" balloon.  Marbles hitting a tile floor.  Lotion being pumped out of an almost-empty bottle of Jergen's.  Somebody squeezing a cat.  A note blown into a recorder with all of its finger holes uncovered.  A full cup of Top Ramen being thrown at the wall.  Marge Simpson's moan of skepticism.

Zach's farts sound like Marge Simpson's voice actress blowing bubbles through a straw into a jar of spaghetti sauce.  Or Donald Duck playing the "cat bagpipes" while Huey, Dewey, and Louie wail in protest.  Maybe I will switch him to some kind of formula, because apparently my breastmilk is filled with helium bubbles or whatever offensive liquid it is Marge Simpson is gargling with.

Fourth-in-command

"He's about the size of Cragger's Command [LEGO] Ship." -Will, when he saw Zach for the first time

"Smells like scrunched-up diapers with poop inside." -James, when Will waved an old pair of shorts in his face

"I'll have a beer." -hilarious neighbor kid, nonchalantly, as we hit the McDonald's drive-thru while carpooling home from school

"Are you going to be a witch for Halloween?  Because you look like one." -Elise, to a lady we know

"Let's double-douche these guys!" -James, tragically misappropriating the word while playing Nintendo

"MOM, Will just said the C-word!"  [WHAT?!]  "Yeah, he said 'Crap'!" -James

Zach Attack!

He's heeeere!

Zachary Allan B.
8/22/13
6lb, 5oz, 18"

Had to be induced @37 weeks because of stinkin' cholestasis.  Then, the induction was exciting--too exciting for my taste.  Will post more once I have time (HAHA, not sure when that's going to happen).

xoxo,
Laura, Joe, James, Will, Elise, and Zach

Weekend Weddin'

"I know why you wanted to have kids: so you could boss them around!"  -Will, in an eerily insightful moment

"It smells like banana slug poop."  -Elise, as we drove around Santa Cruz and admired the trees

"This is Laura.  She and her husband have twenty-five children." -my new friend Matt, introducing me to another wedding guest


Our dear friends got married this weekend and it was awesome, awesome, awesome.

 Elise strikes a pose; James and Will affirm that they are more twin-like than Irish twins.

Whale skeletons!

A beautiful day for a wedding in coastal central CA.

Grade 3 Summer Heartache

"It's summer.  That means no homework.  Do you understand?  I am BETRAYING work." -James, protesting his summer reading tonight before dinner

                                       James, betraying his homework at the local theme park

O Frabjous Day

The kids are all (except for the one I'm gestating) at camp for a solid twelve hours today.  Oh, the thrill of watching them drive away on a bus, sunscreen pre-applied, immunization forms in hand!  They won't be back until 4:30 this afternoon!  Callooh!  Callay!

If this is such an amazing experience for me, why are we having another baby?  Like, totally-on-purpose, I mean?

This is a really hard thing to explain.  I can't speak for other mothers, whether they have large or small  or medium-sized families, but I happen to live in a conflicted state of momhood.  This state is especially impossible to describe to a person who isn't sure whether or not to have any kids at all.  If I can't wait for the chillun' to be out of my hair so I can spend a summer's day internetting and/or trying to decide whether to make a trip to Walmart to get a haircut, then how can I possibly claim to love my job as a stay-at-homer?  How can I be stoked or even slightly willing to tack on at least another 4-5 years before all of my kids hop up the steps of the camp bus with hardly a backward glance?

The 'conflictedness' of being a mother of young kids is one of those things that doesn't translate well in English or any other language of which I'm aware.  If you are not a mother (and, perhaps, even if you are) I can only speak in the Jabberwocky-Lewis-Carroll-ese of my ambivalence.  It sounds like English, but it is nonsensical when you examine it.  Or possibly German.  BTW, the Germans have some excellent and difficult-to-translate abstract words, such as kummerspeck ("grief bacon").

(See also: http://www.cracked.com/article_19695_9-foreign-words-english-language-desperately-needs.html)

It comes to this: having kids is utterly mimsy and frabjous at the exact same time.  And when they all grow up and fly out of the parental nest, this experience will taste exactly like grief bacon.

****Update****  It has come to my attention that Lewis Carroll, a.k.a. Charles Dodgson, apparently enjoyed drawing and taking pictures of naked children and is widely considered by modern biographers to have been a pedo.  Oy.  This is NOT the undertone I was hoping to have with this post.

In any case, grief bacon.

That is all.

Letter to Our Fourth Child

Dear Zach,

First of all, I am so, so sorry for all of the stress hormones.  I hope they do not shape your tiny, developing brain into something that only soaks in sadness once you are born.

You are wanted; you are loved.  All of our kids were (are) wanted and loved deeply, but judging from the amount of crying I have been doing during this pregnancy with you, one could easily be forgiven for thinking it's not so.

I am worried, and probably depressed.  Depression and anxiety don't have to have a reason, but there are many.  For starters, what if your brothers and sister don't feel like I care about them anymore once you arrive?  What if I can't be my best mom self to you?  Your dad is, blessedly, gainfully employed in a field he loves.  But for twelve hours a weekday, it is all me as far as parenting goes.  So I am frankly and panic-strickenly terrified that I won't be able to do what I was once so confident I could do--smile into your face, and cherish you and the three kids who came before you to the full extent that you deserve it.

That list of affirmations in the bathroom--I am writing and reading and re-reading them for me and you.

One thing you could do, if you are so inclined, is to happily comply with swaddling and breastfeeding (or bottle-feeding) and sleeping.  Ideally you would do these things in perfect tandem with your siblings' needs.  And in perfect harmonic oscillation with the times the Helper Lady is going to be around in the afternoons.  But in the mornings, when we drop off James and Will and Elise and whomever we are carpooling with this fall, perhaps you could ramp up your hunger, thirst, diapering needs, and needs for stimulation within the time period between 8:20 am and noon, wherein I will shotgun a Red Bull and deftly exceed your wildest baby dreams.

Also, could you please not have anisometropic amblyopia that requires glasses and occlusion therapy in your infancy?  The pediatric opthalmologist down in the valley who treats James and Elise wants to see you when you are a newborn to determine whether you'll need infant glasses and/or a patch over one of your eyes.  Oh my God.  I know it's probably entirely my fault, anyway, were you to have the condition.  But maybe you can, like, wait to develop it until you are about twelve months old, and then we could neatly discover it at one of your siblings' regularly scheduled checkups.  That way, you may be old enough to be bribed against clawing at your own face to remove any foreign devices.

Furthermore, maybe you could figure out how to induce lactation in your dad with your infinite cuteness.  Yes, that would be very helpful.

That's all for now.

Love,
Mom

Quotes I Can Relate To

"Some people are that--more than a parent, more than a role model, more than anything less than a religion."     -Margaret Cho

"There is no agony like bearing an untold story inside of you." -ZNH

"I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough." -M.C. Escher

"I was born without the gland in my asshole that makes me care what your political affiliation is, so this...isn't meant to be partisan in any way.  Morons should offend us all, not just those of us who vote the same way morons do, or those who vote against them." -Felix Clay

"Only those who attempt the absurd can achieve the impossible." -Albert Einstein

"I just saw all the animals in the neighborhood running in circles, so I guess that means your mother will be arriving soon."  -Dan from Roseanne

"Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do...but how much love we put in that action."  -Mother Teresa

"I'm on low-battery right now." -James, when he woke up this morning

"I am confident that nobody will accuse me of selfishness if I ask to spend time, while I am still in good health, with my family, my friends, and also myself."  -Nelson Mandela

Things I Could Never Have Imagined Prior to Parenthood

Or, notes to the "myself" of nine years ago.

10.  When a toddler swallows a raisin and it makes its journey through the digestive tract, the raisin "arrives" completely intact, waterlogged, and approximately the size of a kidney bean.  Don't be afraid; nobody secretly fed beans to your toddler in his Cheerios.

9.  Elementary-aged boys (and girls!  But, extremely often, boys) will find it important to caveat their affection for others.  I don't care how sexist it is to point this out; it's true of my sons--and my statistical sample size is growing every day--so clearly it is true of yours, your neighbors' and everyone's.  Take, for example, the following letter written by my eight-year-old son:

"April 25, 2013

Dear Mateo,

I can't beleav [sic] we thought of the same business journal.  Well I want to have a playdate on Saturday, after the Star Test.

Love As A Friend,
James"

8.  Coffee or other mood-improving substances (okay, legal ones) are required for functional parenting.  See also: Regular Breaks From Your Children.  Don't try to be a hero.  People who strive for absolute purity in parenting, people who never, ever compromise on anything, people who never, ever separate from their kids for even small intervals, in my experience, tend to be assholes of the tightest order.  I used to try to be one of those people, and a wise pediatrician once took a glance at me and offered to write me a 'prescription' for getting the hell away from my children for a few minutes per day.  They were infants and toddlers at the time.  I finally listened to her and we hired some helpers.  Was I significantly happier?  No.  Happiness has a different definition when you have toddlers and infants.  But at least the kids were exposed to someone else, not all whose neuroses coincided with mine.  That turns out to be important.

7.  On the Other Hand...People who can't be bothered to hang out with their kids for more than a few moments a day, on the account of it being hard and everyone needing to recharge one's batteries after a long, hard day at work, etc, etc, etc, and it happens this way every day, are also assholes.  The floppiest, most emotionally bereft ones.  Your career, your triathlon, your favorite sports team and text messages and mojo are all important; so are your kids' feelings!  Take more than a minute to look them in the eyes and recognize that they have souls to feed, not just mouths or brains.

6.  The carpool is the deep end of your parenting resource "pool".  If someone is willing to carpool with you, especially to preschool, early elementary, or KinderBasketWeaving Class, glom onto to that fellow parent like a remora to a shark.  Swim alongside them!  Bask, bask in the commensalism!  This person is a better friend to you than most of the ones you made in college.

5.  Childbirth kind of sucks.  It's supposed to be all 'spiritual' but honestly, in twelve months you probably won't remember it.  And that, my friends, is a good thing.  If you feel the need to write down your baby's birth story, that's great, but just realize there is probably an evolutionarily favored reason that your brain is burying all recollection of the intense pain and other (*cough*) indignities.  A hypothesis for future investigation:  If you try to thwart the childbirth memory snatchers, you'll be less likely to do it again.

4.  Note to would-be hipster parents, or maybe just hipsters in general: Read Dan Zevin.  Specifically, Dan Gets a Minivan.  Even more specifically, the chapter entitled, On No Longer Giving a Shit.

3.  Speaking of giving a shit, in human infancy, all fluids exiting the body have the potential to be projectiles; plan ahead.

2.  No matter how heroic or great your own parents were, you may discover that, upon the closer examination that comes with parenting, your folks were actually astonishingly incompetent.  This is especially poignant and disorienting for those who were emotionally abused as kids.  Please note, however, that there is hope.  There are self-help books and therapists and things you can do to nurture your inner child, and there is also the rare friend who is candid enough to admit that she hates her mother, too.  Plus, it will be years before your kids realize the extent of your suckitude.

1.  It's worth every bit of the difficulty.  

Name Game

My husband and I are playing an epic game of Name the Baby.  Here's how it goes:  I suggest a name, he shoots it down by suggesting a rhyming or otherwise ridiculous middle name to go along with it.  Or just a negative association.

Ready?  Go.

Me:  Theodore.
Joe:  Teddy Rup-skin. [editorial note: he means Teddy Ruxpin]
Me:  Arthur.
Joe:  Arthur Barthur [Last name].
Me:  And Andrew is out for sure?
Joe:  I don't really like Andy.
Me:  Well, what about Drew?
Joe:  It's kind of...douchebaggery.

Me:  Samuel?
Joe:  Mmmm, maybe.
Me:  Richard?
Joe:  Richard is Dick.

Right now I really like Matias (or Mattias, or Matthias, as long as you still pronounce it with a "Tee", not a "Thigh", in the middle).  Matias Charles.  That's my pick right now, as of this very moment.  Meets all the major requirements, as far as I'm concerned.  Family names?  Check.  Fairly traditional?  Check.  Mostly pronounceable?  Check.  Gives me a good feeling?  Check.

But Joe says that he can't tell what the spirit-of-the-baby is calling himself yet.  This is an inside joke.  For those of you who aren't from California or have never overheard a conversation between new-parent hippies, the spirit-of-the-baby is an unintentionally hilarious construct that tries to suss out a newborn's....I don't know....spirit?  Like, in early infancy, or even before the baby is born.  In any case, it's when they're still at the cherished, sleeping paperweight stage.  Without having too much derision for the idea, I can say with some amount of confidence that babies are notoriously difficult to get to know deeply until they're at least a few months old.  Before then, they don't do much except eat, sleep, poop, pee, and require things.  From my fuzzy recollection, there is one defining characteristic of a newborn: they often get pissed off and cry a lot, just because it is developmentally what they are supposed to do and for no other reason.  All of them do, not just some babies.

Naming a child, then (at least for us), is a blind act of faith, as is bringing a child into the world at all.  Who could have known that James is undeniably a James, even though my first reaction to that name when Joe suggested it was, "Uh, no!  That was the name of a strange neighbor kid who stuck two green M&Ms up his nose!"  Or that Will would be perfectly named because of his absurdly strong will?  Little boys grow into their names as gradually and irrevocably as they grow out of a squished, impossibly small, and frail infancy.

In other news, we have our anatomy scan tonight.  (They took a peek last time, and that's when we saw peen).  Hopefully all is well with this little one.

White & Thirty

I turned 30 the other day and finally feel like a grown-up, despite having been initiated into suburban middle-aged life over nine years ago.  Now that I am celebrating my 'white & thirty' (as in, 'white & nerdy' by Weird Al) birthday, I can appreciate that this particular mundanity is awesome, and I could not be luckier.

Laura's List of Other Things That Are Decadently Mundane, Nerdy, and Awesome:
-Will and Joe's competitive hand-clap games, during which Will never says die
-James and his excitement over starting soccer, as he kicks his new ball around the house in his socks
-the fact that our babysitter is engaging and reliable (knock on wood)
-Elise and her willingness to wear an eye patch for four hours a day, so her weak eye gets stronger
-the kids' total enthusiasm over buying me a rice cooker for my birthday
-the fact that we have good health insurance
-the fact that we've met a great local postpartum doula
-the fact that the pool is open for the season, and it's April
-the price of red delicious apples today (97 cents a pound!)
-my blood calcium level, which is currently stable (knock on wood)
-talking with the kids about baby boy names
-the wonderful, hardworking teachers at our kids' school
-Joe's stable, rewarding job
-the good health of Joe and the kids
-knitting
-library books
-leftover BBQ
-the new brakes on our minivan

It's gangsta to be thankful for stuff.

On Kids and Religion...(Spoilers!)

Elise:  Mom, am I Jewish?
Me:  Nope.
Elise:  Well, what am I?
Me:  Hmmm.....I guess, if you want to call us something, you could say we are UU's.
James:  I know what that means.  Ultimate Underpants!
Will:  No.  Unexpected Umbrella!
Elise:  Haha!  Unexpected Underpants!
Me:   UU's means Universal Unitarians.
Elise:  What does that mean?
Me:  We pray for people to be kind to each other?

---

In other news, it's a.....BOY!  We found out today, kind of unexpectedly, at my (17 week) doctor's appointment.  They had warned me that they would probably make us wait until 19 weeks, but I harassed them to take a peek.  Peen and balls!

We found out fairly early with James, at 16.5 weeks.  Will, I don't remember exactly, but I think it was around 16 weeks as well that we knew he was a dude.  Elise was like 20 weeks by the time they even saw me, for some reason, so it took forever to find out her sex.  This time around, I am shocked.  Not that I really had an inkling either way with our other kids, but the pregnancy with Elise seemed different than the first two, with worse nausea.  And this one has been way more along those lines.  Apparently that's no indicator of sex, though!

We told James tonight when we got home from the appointment, since he was still wide awake.  He was absolutely beaming when I went in to kiss him goodnight.  Will was passed out, still wearing today's clothes--must've been that kind of night.  But I am assuming he will be somewhat pleased, because he has been suggesting boy names.  We haven't told Elise yet, and she has been requesting a girl so she might be disappointed.  But we've talked about it lots of times, that it's pretty much up to God, so hopefully she isn't too mad at us.

And You May Find Yourself

"You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automo-minivan,
You may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful fam'ly,
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"

-Talking Heads

--

A Capital-C Confession:  Once, I wanted to have a child because I longed for my mom to take delight in something I had done, someone I had made.  I wanted my parents to love me and nurture me, and maybe they would care deeply for me like I'd always hoped if I had a baby.  Was this healthy, and did I admit it to myself at the time?  Not remotely.  But I did, we did; we had three children.

They are exquisite.  And much of the time, I can't imagine how any of them actually came to be.  I am not talking about sperm and egg, friends.  I am talking about longing for someone who is yet to be, hoping for someone who isn't here yet, wanting someones, and these people actually coming true.



The gratitude I've felt lately doesn't have words, especially since I was such an undeserving asshole in the first place for trying to fill an unexamined void with innocent human beings.  And so, the usual platitudes like "children are precious" and "children are a blessing" are almost irritating in that they are so inadequate.
My astounded gratitude takes the amorphous "shape" of what the Double Rainbow Man might try to express if he saw a triple 'bow (and wasn't wacked out on wacky tobaccy).  Or Kate Farrell's unclassifiable but universal imagery in anticipation of her wedding:
"The Cosmos was Laughing with Lasting Love and Light".

Lasting love and light?  It is only in ourselves, and we can't find it when we project it onto babies.  But still, I found something better than what I was hoping for all those years.  I figured out how to love people other than sad, needy self-absorbed me (not that needy, self-absorbed me didn't deserve love, but this was no longer my only goal).  Some days I am more successful at demonstrating this love to my kids than others, but  most of the time, I make good work of mothering them.  And I figured out how to accept, along a dynamic, grief-filled path, the regrettable fact that my parents will never love me the way I had needed as a baby, as a child, or as a young adult.  The latter realization wasn't from the kids, directly, but has come from therapy and lots of work and searching that was inspired by them.  This is the miracle--the goddamned miracle!--I am talking about.

Same as it ever was.

Predictions and Postdictions

I'm going to be super dee duper surprised if this baby is not a girl.  Like, Barney the purple dinosaur flaps his feeble little arms in the air surprised.

"Hey there little baby!  You have different genitals than I expected!"

First of all, in case I have not been whining about it quite enough, the NVP (nausea and vomiting of pregnancy) is outrageous.  With James and with Will, it was just a matter of a little queasiness.  With Elise, the nausea was similar and terrible but not quite this bad.  So if I didn't know better--read: weren't getting ultrasounded every two weeks--I would go so far as to be convinced it was g/g twins or g/g/g triplets.  Thrice the symptoms, thrice the babies, right?

And then there's the chinese gender chart thing.  I do not believe for one hot, hormonal instant that this thing could possibly be accurate, even as I type this.  But it was tripping me out today, as it correctly "predicted" (postdicted) all three of my previous kids' sexes based on age at conception and month thereof.  And so when it decreed that this one will be a girl, too, I kind of sort of believed it.

I brought James and Elise to the eye doctor the other day, in one of the first times I've ventured out of our neighborhood in awhile.  While we waited for the doctor, the kids were making requests as to the baby's sex.  James wants a boy; his top name picks are Phineas and Ferb.  Elise is demanding a girl baby.  (Will didn't get to vote because he has freakishly good eyesight and was at karate, but he seems neutral.)  I told them it was "up to God, and daddy's sperm".  In hindsight, this was not the best answer.  I think they came away from my confused, rambling, overly-caveated explanation with the idea that there's some kind of godlike quality to Joe's sperm.  Not that I personally disagree, or that sperm are taboo per se, but it might be slightly wrong to talk about daddy's particular splooge.



Pictured: More than you need to know about Daddy.

And Now, Some Memes

Baby's Named A Tasty Thing

There's this new Indian food place by my house; it's so close that I could bike there if I were nonpregnant and nonlazy.

So much appreciation do I have for this food. I went there twice yesterday, and made a lunch date with my friend for future deliciousness. Their food is currently the only real-meal food that doesn't make me violently ill, and I start sweating when we run out. This is progress, though, from an entirely cracker-based diet of the last few weeks.

The compulsion to Google search 'intense food craving pregnancy' led me to discover that there is a blogger (Heather Flett of RookieMoms) who has already addressed the funny premise of naming one's child after the particular cravings that prevailed (ruled!) during the gestation.

James would be Colby Jack Cheese and Matzoh (nn Jack).
Will would be Campbell's Chicken-with-Rice Soup, or perhaps, Funfetti Batter (I don't have a good nickname for that one. 'Fetti?).
Elise would be called McDonald's Hash Browns Right This Minute (nn Mickey Dee).

This baby shall be known as Chicken Tikka Masala with Basmati Rice Oh Dear God Please It's So Good.

Another gem unearthed in this Googling: Wikipedia claims that there is something called Taste Addiction Disorder, which is:

"a psychological condition with a biochemical basis in the brain where the person develops an obsessive/compulsive relationship with food...the brain produces more dopamine, which drenches the brain in 'happy hormones'. Other [non-food] ways of giving the brain a dopamine bath include, but are not limited to, singing, running, dancing, laughing with other people, or engaging in sex."

Ehhh, sex? Kind of a tall order right now. At this point I could be more easily encouraged to do a full reenactment of The Sound of Music.


Not pictured: sex.