Saturday, January 30, 2010

So, what CAN'T he do?

So my three-and-a half-year-old, Tom, has started telling me all the stuff he can do that the new baby will be quite unable to achieve. I think he's trying to remind us both that Beeson Boy 3.0 has clearly got skillz-slash-hit his stride. Not only that, he asserts the (yet unnamed) 4.0 version, coming out the end of March, is clearly an inferior product, obviously no upgrade, and so I should totally think twice about replacing the old one. (Not a direct quote.)

Tom will be playing outside, and climb straight up a block wall. Mom, look!, he waves, from about 10 feet off the ground, The new baby can't do this! Or as he does laps of the cul-de-sac on his two-wheeler at approximately 50 mph, he'll slow down just long enough to yell: you know, that new baby is gonna need training wheels!

He reminds me that the new baby can't use the potty, snap his own pants, run fast like a superhero, brush his own teeth, or go to primary. (I didn't think it was the right time to comment on his poor oral hygiene or the fact that instead of attending his class, he prefers to spend the third hour of church with both his arms wrapped tightly around my left thigh, deep under my dress. (For those of you who joined us in the middle here, we are talking about Tom, not Jake.) And since I don't own any dress flats, and I am already just barely staying vertical with my giant belly, tall boots, and big primary-lady bag, there is a real question as to whether we are going to end up sprawled across the foyer carpet (not hygienic), me with my one attractive black taffeta maternity dress up around my waist, my ample, panty-hosed bottom in the air.)

(Please say the word panty-hosed with 4 syllables. It is more enjoyable and Shakespearean that-a way).

But yesterday, while we were driving all over town, trying to buy all the bits and pieces of hardware and fabric that go into making my bedroom drapes, returning all the bits and pieces I bought the day before that totally didn't work at all (what was I thinking?), Tom asked me: You know what the baby can't do?

And then he proceeded to hum the theme song to Beverly Hills Cop.
(aka Axel F, aka something the kids call Crazy Frog.)

Tommy, I said, true 'nuf. This baby will be hard pressed to do that.

(I put it on my player over there, in case you haven't heard it since 1984.)

Friday, January 22, 2010

Weather, Elaine hair, previa, a quick nap, then more weather, peeping toms, curtains, cake for breakfast, ennui, and a Pulitzer.

We've got rain. Lots of it. Am very thrilled, because desert people like me grow weary of sunny, 70 degree winter days, and feel like rain on the ground is an obscene but delicious display of luxury and waste, as if we could afford to let water fall onto the dry, bare earth, pool on our lawns, or run in the streets, when we normally have so little and it is so precious a commodity. My hair is very fuzzy, though. Is not quite wet enough to make it look super great like when we were on the Maid of the Mist. I am quite puffed with pride about this fact, because who's hair looks good at Niagara Falls? That's right. MINE.

(Sister Jen, Ross, and me, in the back)

And that was before the boat ride. It just got bigger and beautifuller from there. No, that isn't sarcasm. I genuinely think it looked good. In an Elaine from Seinfeld, but not quite Felicity sort of way.

But anyway. Like you care about my hair. But really, I got nothin else for you.

Just sitting here, itching (no, I didn't forget the 'B'). I'm pretty tired cause I had book club here at the house last night (and into this morning.) We talked (among other, secret, lady, things) about Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, cause everybody was reading it anyway. I found it less offensive than the Da Vinci Code (I'm not Catholic, but I felt they were unfairly vilified, plus it took me like 10 hours of research to figure out what was true and what was not), but also more boring. C'mon, Robert Langdon, get your rear in gear. Two hundred pages into Da Vinci, you'd cruised halfway across Western Europe, but in Lost Symbol, you are still poking about the bowels of the U.S. Capitol building. His themes were interesting (Noetics, Freemasonry, Washington architecture), but his characters' motivations are completely unbelievable. Completely.

Still, if you are could read it. The bad guy is creepy and violent, though. You are warned.

Went to the baby Doc yesterdee and found out my placenta is clear of my cervix, so no previa, no (scheduled) C-section! I'm cleared for take-off. In you know, eight weeks. Or really nine, cause I've gone a week over with everybody but Sam, who was 5 weeks early, for no reason that anybody could figure out.

We still can't figure him out. The other day Sam came in from playing outside. He was shirtless and breathless. He yelled: Mom! I'm skins! So I asked: Oh? Who are you playing with out there? And he replied: Nobody.

I just took a moment to stare off into space and nap with my eyes open. There might have been a small amount of drool involved.

This rain is fantastic. The swimming pool looks like it might overflow. I wonder what I could do about that? Plus, nobody walks along the canal/plays on the golf course behind the house because it is too wet and/or muddy. So I don't have any peeping toms (just, you know, actual Toms, who are my son) staring into my still uncurtained bedroom window (I know, is not the peeper's fault, I should go to the fabric store today. I am thinking just some thick upholstery-type fabric with blackout lining with rings on a pole, very practical, and will fulfill Jake's desire to have it "hotel room dark" for his Sunday afternoon naps. But then I also kind of want to make some 24 inch tall cornice boxes with an eyebrow arch and gold cording. The thing is, I'm not sure my back is up to handling this big a project just now).

I'll get to it, just after I eat some more of this leftover lemon cake. It is tasty.

Boy oh boy. I'm all sleepy and ennui-y and boring. Someday, when they give me the Pulitzer for writing the best blog in the world, I don't think they will point to Friday, January 23 (who knows if that is the real date, and I'm too lazy to go look it up), and say THIS! This here post represents the blogger phenom who is Beeswax, in all her literary glory.

I can live with that, I'm fairly certain.

Monday, January 11, 2010


Saturday was my Grandma Taylor's birthday (Verna Pauline Oswald Taylor, just in case there is somebody out there googling her). She was born January 9, 1911.

She is 99.
I'm not lying.
Here's the cake to prove it.
Nobody lies on Cathy's Rum cake.

We had a party on Friday. Had some chicken salad croissants, that broccoli/bacon salad, fruit and punch. There is a reason they are classic lady lunch foods. It is because they are delicious.

We used my snack trays. Did you know I collect 50s/60s/70s snack trays? They are all pressed glass, but in all shapes and patterns. Rectangles, ovals, round, fans, apples. Most have tiny matching punch cups, and some even have a little ashtray included. (I know, is awesome.) I have about 70 or so. If you are ever throwing a wedding or baby shower, you can borrow them. I'm totally serious. I have an entire buffet cabinet full of them, and they need to get some use. And we used Grandma's own wedding silver, Towle Candlelight. I like to visit sets of it on Ebay, cause someday I want some, too.

One of the tables. That's grandpa on the left. Hubba. See that little empty bowl? It used to have chocolate covered raisins in it. I ate them all.

We all tried to match each woman with her baby picture. That's my mom (#1), and me (#14)

Opening gifts

Daughters and granddaughters (who live here in Phoenix).

Grandma, Mom, Me, and Jane

Grandma's parents, Ludwig Friederich Oswald, and Mary Christine Klingler Oswald. (Both were born in Germany, but were married in Logan, Utah, 1897.) When I looked on just now to make sure I spelled their names correctly, I noticed one of the submitters was Gerald Lund. So maybe he's an Oswald cousin? Maybe I should finally read his books?

Last night, Grandma saw this (above) photo at my parents' house and said: That picture makes me homesick.

To read more about Grandma, go here.

In other news, Jake's birthday was last week, too. Jake isn't 99. As a matter of fact, from now until July 19, Jake must refrain from calling me his 'old lady,' since we are both 36.

Totally stole it from his sister Jane's blog. I also made it my computer wallpaper.

Thursday, January 07, 2010


I am 30 weeks pregnant. I am very, very large (have already gained more than recommended for entire pregnancy), and so I feel like humpty-dumpty (except nobody tried to squeeze humpty into too-tight sweat pants, which would have put him into very poor mood, believe you me.). My back is in bad shape, so I waddle and limp. I itch. Everywhere. Can't treat it with the corticosteriods I normally can. I got rashes that even my OBGYN declined to see (Although, he was very helpful in treating the second degree burns I gave myself while making strawberry jam for my neighbors a couple weeks ago, when everybody told me fudginity wasn't a good idea). My feet and ankles like to swell up to twice their size and stay that way until I lie down for two days. I haven't had a haircut or color since May. I have acid reflux. I can't sleep, so I am up reading novels every morning from about 2-5. Plus, my hormones are all wacky, so I'm whiny (as you can see), mean as snot, and mildly depressed.

Does anybody else get this way during pregnancy? Cause normally, I have this special gift (I call it a tender mercy) that allows me to look in the mirror and see something better than the actual reflection. Remember how I like to think I'm medium foxy? Well, no more. Now, I have no delusions. I am the anti-fox.

The funny part is, it all goes away when I have the baby. Within a week of the birth, I am strutting about like a supermodel. Just a couple days after Sam was born (he was still in the NICU, which should have been depressing in itself)), I remember donning a pair of big, stretchy pants and going to Sunday dinner at my parents' house, thinking: I look GOOD. Who's going to notice this giant jello belly, when I got this fabulous rack (really, was a very nice, if temporary, rack, but I did NOT look good)? (And somehow, I weighed more leaving the hospital after Sam was born, than when I went in. How this occurred is mystery of the universe.) (As is my weird talent for beer-goggling myself. Without the beer.)*

Anyhow, you know all that stuff I just whined about? Multiply it by three (even the double decade weight gain), then ask me if I'd trade it back for all the nausea and the puking.

The answer is NO. No way. Big, itchy, tired, and mean is WAY better than sick.

(Oh. And about the post title. I have a thing for colloquial speech. I love me some slang, or even better, a new idiom. I collect them like one might stamps, or shoes, or snow globes. Whinge is an especially lovely verb because, to me, it sounds even a bit more onomatopoeic than its cousin, the whine. And if you you called someone a whinger, well, it sounds a little naughty. Not sure why.)

* If you attended the University of Arizona (or any other party school) like I did, you'd think this was hilarious.

So, do you feel down during pregnancy? Or after?

Do you itch? What kid of lotion do you use?

When you look in the mirror, is the reflection you see better or worse than, or exactly true to, life?

Friday, January 01, 2010

While you start to work on your happy new year...

I'm still uploading Christmas.

See, now? Sometimes I take pictures. On special occasions, like Jesus' birthday. But these first few are from Aunt Jane, who takes lots of photos. Better ones than mine! Plus, when I opened the camera bag just now, I found a whole box of Whoppers. Talk about positive reinforcement. Now whenever I see the camera, I will salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs.

My Jane, at the Beesons on Christmas Eve.

And Sammy, with a fresh new haircut.

Ross and some cousins. There are 19 more kids not photographed here, who are likely busy braining each other with nerf swords. Which are not as soft as you'd hope.

Christmas morn. Anticipation.

Jake got some new Nikes.

Unwrapped, but not cleaned up.

RC helicopters. Mostly busted by sunset Christmas day. And check out our winter lawn. Overseeded that myself. We had a little bit of frost on it. We call that "White Christmas."

Tom is still wearing Ross' batting helmet.

On the Rhino with Gramps.

Cousin Will.

Aunt Jen

These go-carts say they are for kids 12 and up. So we told Grandma to go ahead and get one for Tommy. Who is three. That's what we like to call "good parenting."

Sam, trying out Charlie's hog.

Jake, who wants his own go cart. One that goes 100 mph. He's been checking them out on Ebay.

And me. Thanks again, Aunt Jane!