Zzzzzz...

Aaargh.

This sleep thing is becoming a classic case of "Two steps forward, one step back." Except those that forward motion seems to come in babysteps, while the backsliding is more of the leaping-with-all-your-might variety.

On Sunday night, the kid collapsed at 8 p.m. and slept without incident until 6:15 a.m. That's before dawn, yes, but I still got up feeling closer to normal and well-functioning than I have in a long time. Plus, she greeted with me with a very coherent, "Mama!" What's better than that?

I can tell you what's worse: Last night. She stayed up, happy and talkative, until 9 p.m. Then she woke up crying ... at 11, 2, 4 and 5:30. We still managed to oversleep -- that happens when you're trying to squeeze every last possible second of sleep out of the evening -- so getting everyone dressed, fed and out the door was another kind of nightmare.

Is this more teething? Another ear infection? Somebody's idea of a cosmic joke? A strange and sinister experiment by the Bush administration? Payback for all the nights I kept my mother up with my sickly baby ways?

This weekend, we're trying tough love again. TheGirl loves her pacifier. But we're going to stop using Super Binky to help her fall back asleep. She's just going to have to learn to fend for herself after dark.

It's sad, yes. But she's tough -- much, much tougher than her mommies at this point.

All aboard

TheGirl had a rough night. She screamed between about 4 and 5:30, then was happy and chipper and ready to confront the day at 7. TheBoy, who crawled into bed with us and then expanded to twice his normal size at 6, woke up shortly after that. So I herded them upstairs, and we watched "Thomas the Tank Engine" until I felt human enough to make toast.

I love Thomas. He's an obnoxiously chipper little son of a gun, but his buddies are always cranky and whiny and complaining about something. It feels sort of like my own life in that regard. Plus, Alec Baldwin does the narration, and there's just something so right about Jack Donaghy molding little mind grapes.

And now I have to go vomit from lack of sleep.

Happy Turkey Day

I hope all of you are having a great day. Here in the Little Green House, we celebrated by getting no sleep (another tooth perhaps?), braving the grocery store to buy far more booze than I intended and watching football while trying to stuff Legos in our 1-year-old mouths. No thank you, baby!

I've got an awful lot to be thankful for, yet again. The kids are reasonably healthy -- or as healthy as two little germ magents can be -- and happy as long as we're giving them everything they want. Judybat and I still don't get anywhere near enough quality time together, but we're at least awake enough these days that we can spend an hour or so after the children are asleep to watch TV together. (We're making our way through "Freaks and Geeks," and I'm troubled to find that I relate to the parents a lot more than the children. Can I really be that old?) Work is as stable and fulfilling as it can be, given everything going on in the newspaper business these days. Plus, neither of the dogs has rolled in anything stinky recently. And my new favorite beer was on sale this morning.

Apparently the secret to life is having simple needs.

TheGirl at 1

Amazingly, we made it through the past year. TheGirl turned 1 on Friday. We celebrated with pink champagne -- thank you, Sarah -- pizza and antibiotics TheBoy is taking for strep throat. Yes, it's always something around here.

What to say about our big, sweet, blue-eyed baby? She still isn't sleeping through the night consistently, although last night she did make it all the way to 6 a.m. She's still got that blonde hair, only recently she's developed few little ringlets in the back. Could this possibly stick?

She's a serious eater. Pizza. Crackers. Soy yogurt. Bread. Grapes. Banana. Apple sauce. MyGirl loves the food.

She's on the verge of language. Over the past three weeks, Judybat and I have heard "hi," and "OK," and "mama" come out, although we could be fooling ourselves. But she's clearly trying to say something.

Sometime before first grade, she may learn to walk. Right now, she's making good time scooting across the floor on her rear end, back straight, arms and legs pumping. When she gets really excited, she looks like she's rowing her way to us.

She'll be upright soon. This morning she was standing in her crib when I went to get her. It's still scary and new, but she seems to be getting the idea. And she is so pleased with herself when she does it on her own.

She still looks like me. Especially when she's mad. It's jarring.

She loves her brother more than anyone or anything else in the world. When he enters the room, she breaks out her heartiest full-body laugh. She cannot keep her eyes off him and, increasingly, cannot keep her hands off either him or his stuff. She likes to pull his hair and pat his back and stick his Legos in her mouth. We're on the verge of days spent responding to calls of, "Moooooommy, Iiiiiima, get her out of my room!" The problem: They share a room.

To summarize, she is delightful. Sweet and funny and smart as a not-quite-toddler can be. We'll keep her, I think.

Drip, drip, drop

The rain started today. Sure we've had a few drizzles here and there since October, and it seems over the last week at least a couple storms raged while we slept. But each morning we wake up to wet pavement and - surprise! - blue sky.

Blue sky is always a surprise here this time of year, but now that it has been swept away by the grey, I'm not quite registering the fact that this is what it's going to be like until May. And for the first time since we moved here, I find myself bothered by that fact.

It's not a bad, driving-rain-that-keeps-you-inside kind of weather; it's just an incessant misting and dripping ocassional pouring that makes you forget what it's like when the sun shines. But now that I mention it, I'm feeling a kind of protective endearment toward our clime.

The guy checking out my groceries at Trader Joe's had this to say about it: if the rain didn't fall like this in Portland, think of how overcrowded this city would be.

Notes from the bath

TheGirl loves bathing with her big brother. How do I know? Because twice this week, she's gotten so excited about the prospect that she's pooped on the floor before I can manage to get her naked little tush into the tub. Which of course prompted TheBoy to announce that he's never bathing with her again. I understand completely.

Last night, he got out just before she got in. After he finished drying himself, he stood up, buck naked, and pointed to his tiny Boy nipples.

"These are my chestnuts," he announced.

I must have looked confused, or maybe disturbed at the thought that he and his playmates had suddenly leaped forward to the stage of naming their private parts, because he quickly explained:

"They look like nuts. And they're on my chest. So they're chestnuts."

I'm not sure whether this story is amusing or disturbing.

Reasons to love Portland, #435

As I dropped TheBoy off at school yesterday, one of his little classmates looked at me and said, "He sure does have a lot of mommies."

I nodded and smiled, but the teacher clearly saw the opportunity for a lesson. In Spanish, because we sent TheBoy to a swanky-danky immersion school, she asked the class, "How many mommies does TheBoy have?"

Everyone in the room gave the right answer -- "Dos mamas!" One kid added his own happy "mi tambien!" Me too.

Ah, Portland. Where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children have lesbian mommies.