Statcounter, how do I love thee?

Judybat? Where are you Judybat? Are you out there somewhere? Can you come out and play?

Oh well. Taunting isn't working, people. I know she's hiding out here in the Little Green House, because clean laundry keeps appearing in my drawers and my dirty socks keep disappearing from the very logical yet completely inappropriate places where I like to leave them. Sigh.

Her absence has not affected traffic, at least not according to my favorite Internet gizmo: Statcounter.

Statcounter is like my secret boyfriend. He tells me how many people have visited, he tells me where they came from, he helps me track down the occasional troll and he gives me my favorite little piece of info of all: How random and sometimes troubling Internet searches land complete strangers to our little corner of Blogger.

For example ... in the past week, we've been hit by someone from Leicester, England who was looking for details about "excessive gift-giving mother in law"(sorry, Mom!). We had a new friend from Warrington, Pennsylvania, who wanted to know about "penis pee" (yes, they go together). Someone from Ankara, Turkey, found us through a search on "flaccid tubes" (that's just sad). A guest from Mandeville, Louisiana, was interested in "little boy bowl cuts" (we prefer the #4 Air Force Officer). And we made a new friend in Ottawa who wanted to know all about "scary cakes.

Yes, yes, we've had some of those.

First Blood

At some point soon, Judybat might resurface to give you a Christmas/holiday roundup. Until then, however, a little horror story.

We've taken to putting the kids to bed at the same time, which is great because it means we get them both down around 8 p.m. and give ourselves an extra hour of adult time. To do important things like pay the bills and watch "Family Guy." A nice thing about brother and sister hitting the sack together is that they entertain each other until they reach some sort of mutual understand that it's time to get serious about sleep.

That's also a problem, however. Last night, for example, both the munchkins were so worked up that bedtime turned into a giggle fest. TheBoy kept popping up in his bunk bed to say something silly, and TheGirl responded by standing up in her crib -- yes, standing -- and cackling at him. Which was vaguely amusing until still laughed so hard she cracked her chin against the top bar of the crib. When I picked her up, there was blood all over her face.

When TheBoy suffered his first major injury -- a similar blow to the lip that left a huge bloody stain on one of my dress shirts -- I freaked out. I was halfway out the door to the hospital when Judybat made me stop and actually assess the damage. Apparently lips bleed a lot.

I'm proud, in a twisted way, to say that I did not lose it last night. There were no aborted trips to the ER, no tears on my part at my baby girl's first brush with her own mortality. Instead, I managed to calmly pick her up, clean her off and rock her back into her happy place.

Still, this morning I'm having flashbacks. The blood! The blood!

The dairy is closed

I've been thinking a lot recently about where we were a year ago at this time, with the holidays bearing down and the days as short and dark as possible and the sky an eternal slate grey. That was not a good time. Post-partum depression was a killer, that constant feeling of impending doom that had everything to do with my anxiety over feeding TheGirl and all those ounces she lost during that first week home. And hormones, of course. Out of control hormones.

For maybe four or five months, I worried 24/7 about whether she was getting enough to eat, about whether I would ever get comfortable nursing, about whether it would ever stop hurting. In the depths of that emotional hole, I couldn't imagine ever feeling good about myself or my world again.

Now, a year later, I'm officially finished feeding the girl. And to my surprise, I'm a little sad about it. Over the past few weeks, the kid has taken to biting as her new little nubbins turn into actual, food-ripping, mommy-injuring teeth and squirming more. She's not quite done with me, I think, but she's close. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but ... I am ready to have my bosom back, to put the girls back to other, more recreational uses. And I love the idea of being able to sleep in when the grandparents visit rather than having to leap up for that first morning feeding.

Still, I'm going to miss those stolen little moments, TheGirl curled up like a little bear cub in my lap, one little hand shading her eyes, the other locked tight around my shirt, lost in a place of pure bliss and perfect security. When will she ever feel so safe, and will I ever find a better way to show my love?

I'm ready for the end of separation anxiety, for a time when she doesn't cry every time she realizes that I'm in the room but not holding her. At the same time, it feels like something is ending, as if this is the first step toward that day not so many years from now when I look up and realize that my little girl doesn't really need me anymore.

My mom likes to remind me sometimes that, "You'll always be my baby." I usually roll my eyes at that kind of sentiment. But today, at least, I understand exactly what she means.

A kick in the pants

Oregon is weird. Don't get me wrong. I love it here. The scenery is unbeatable, from the majestic views of Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens to the rocky coastline that's only an hour away to the comforting veil of gray that fell over us on Dec. 1 and won't pull itself off until, oh, May. The people are great, warm and funny and just as passive-aggressive as I am.

But the place is wacky. We don't, for example, have a sales tax. How do we pay for schools, you might wonder? Dumb luck, mostly. And then there's the oddest things of all, at least in terms of how the place is run: The kicker.

A few years ago, voters in their infinite (and strange) frontier-style wisdom decided that if the state collects more in income taxes than it can use in any given calendar cycle, taxpayers should get a refund. It seems like a great concept, right? That's our money, not the government's. Yeehah.

Of course, the more fiscally responsible among us might wonder whether government should be stashing some cash away for a rainy day. I had that thought until this year's kicker check arrived. Between the two of us, Judybat and I got back more than $1,000. And just in time for the holidays.

I do so love living in the wild west.


p.s. Eagle eyes in the room might note a slight change up top. I decided nonviolent protest was better than another writer's strike.

The festival of lights

I've been on strike for the past week and a half, determined not to post again until Judybat gets off her duff and puts something up here. But apparently that's not going to happen anytime soon, so ...

These are crazy days. We're both working hard, TheGirl still isn't giving us all the sleep we need and the holidays are upon us. Back in Raleigh, we threw a nifty Hanukkah party every year -- partly because we love our friends, partly because it was a wonderful excuse to get rid of all the crap we'd been collecting all year as dreidel prizes. This year, we decided it was time to resurrect the tradition. But something has happened to our happy little band of partygoers: It's grown. A lot.

Between my job and Judybat's job and our neighborhood friends, we're expecting 80 people tomorrow night. That's bigger than our wedding.

It's not quite as expensive. But Judybat has spent the past two weekends pre-making latkes (she's up to 150, with more coming tomorrow). And I took the day off today for a list of errands that ran like this: Home Depot. Costco. Wild Oats. Fred Meyer. Safeway. Liquor store.

Given the stress we're both already feeling, that might have been the most important stop.