Perhaps once or twice a quarter, Tom has to jaunt off on a business trip within the country. These trips are usually rather easy–leave on a Sunday morning, return late Friday night, and remain in the same time zone for easy Skype sessions with the girls. Our weeks are full and exciting (for the girls; I find the sand table at the local special needs playgroup unfulfilling) and so with a fridge properly stocked with healthy convenience foods, I sail right through.

Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was because it was the week immediately following a long road trip vacation. Maybe it was the separation anxiety typical for Moira’s age and her tendency to upend anything that isn’t firmly nailed down (up to and including her sister). Whatever it was, my children totally and utterly lost the plot.

Sunday: This is easy! Delicious fresh pasta and sauce left for us by Daddy in the fridge? No squabbles? A call with Nana and some quiet movie time? Simplicity itself, all. I’m mother of the year.

Monday: Moira discovers her upper body strength, launching herself onto the bay window ledge and scaling her toy kitchen. Maggie takes solace in her new yoga practice, but they begin to irritate each other. Overheard on Skype: “Are you smirking? ARE YOU SMIRKING AT THEM SCREAMING?”

Tuesday: Everything goes swimmingly well until the post-nap/pre-bedtime hour. What is it about then? Lots of families report issues around this time; they’re the little-kid-witching hours. Blood sugar amiss? It’s just endless bickering and crabbing and sniping, with lots of hitting and kicking for good measure. Nobody eats a proper dinner. Finally at 6:45pm, Maggie announces “I need to put on my pajamas.” In the immortal words of Mrs. Tweedy from Chicken Run, “Finally, something we agree on.”

Wednesday: Longtime readers of this site know that I have a condition called optic nerve hypoplasia, which in layman’s terms means that the optic nerve in my left eye didn’t develop correctly. It doesn’t connect to my brain; I don’t even have light perception in that eye, rendering me effectively half-blind with limited peripheral vision. I tell you that so you’ll understand why I no longer can use checkouts at the grocery store that make me face right: Moira figured out how to undo the strap on the shopping cart, stood up, and LEAPT into my arms…which were not waiting for her. I didn’t even realize she had stood up until the cashier screamed, but managed to catch her before she hit the ground. This was after we got sucked into a conversation with an older woman who was also named “Margaret” and whom I didn’t realize was quite racist until well into our talk. Maybe I should have named Maggie something modern and new, like Madysyn and older racist women won’t talk to us.

Later that evening, Moira sprang from her tiny potty, ran into the hall, peed, and then ran into Maggie’s room beelining for the pillow. Let’s add “DO NOT RUB YOUR GENITALS ON YOUR SISTER’S PILLOW!” to things I never thought I would, but have now, said.

When I got into bed myself, I discovered a flashlight, Maggie’s favorite book, and a personalized Scrabble-tile pendant emblazoned with “Maggie” in my bed. Child, if you want to illicitly sneak out of your room at nap time that’s your business, but watch an episode of “CSI” next time to avoid rookie mistakes.

Thursday: Today was our day of mystery. Somehow, without using a knife or scissors and with me in the room and her father on Skype not noticing, Maggie made two vertical tears in her t-shirt of equal length and of perfect straightness, going straight through the hem. Maggie doesn’t put things back where she found them, and all our knives and scissors were accounted for. “Did you use a knife or scissors?” “Scissors.” “Which ones?” “The red ones.”

We don’t OWN red scissors. Asking for a reenactment is pretty sophisticated at Maggie’s language level, so I didn’t bother. A friend theorized that perhaps cuts or tears were made at an earlier time (perhaps at school) and Maggie just exaggerated them with her fingers. It is the most plausible but doesn’t account for the cleanness of the cuts, nor the slice through the hem stitching.

In other news, Moira is climbing on and subsequently falling off everything, and refusing to eat any of her meals in favor of throwing her dishes to the floor in great splattering crashes.

Friday: After a week of smashed dishes, climbing children, and shirts torn to ribbons, I post this status update: “The kids haven’t destroyed any furniture or electronics yet, but there’s still a full day left to this ridiculous business trip. Aim high, my children. I have faith in you, and we could use a new TV cabinet.”

5:45p.m.: Moira, in an attempt to scale the dollhouse, cracks part of it. Good job, kid. I knew you could do it.

6:30p.m.: I no longer care. Bounce around, children! Daddy will be home to handle the morning shift.

You know, they have totally worn me out this week, the little feral devils. But I haven’t stopped laughing for a second. They just crack me up. I adore them shamelessly.

…Even if I still can’t find the knife and/or scissors used.

I’m a little exhausted. Not in general, although the kids are off their routine this week and in need of extra love…which is FINE. Just…Mommy’s an introvert, guys. Please give me a little space every two or three hours or so.

Anyway. As a feminist, I’m exhausted by the Oscars. As a feminist, someone who is opposed to racism, a mother, and a human being in general I’m exhausted by The Onion. I’m exhausted by arguments I’ve had over using racial slang and being told that I’m too easily offended. I’m exhausted by people who still use the word “retarded.”

And you know what I’m MOST exhausted by? People who hide behind “I just don’t see why we have to be so politically correct. Just get a sense of humor.”

Hi. Welcome to Entitlement ‘n Privilege Village. Population: you.

You know what I hear when I hear that? I hear “I know this language is offensive. I know I’m demeaning a certain section of the popluation. But because I’m part of the majority group not being offended, with the privilege that goes with it, I know I’m not going to have to change how I think or act. So the rest of you can get over it.”

Let’s be honest: most people who are part of a majority are not used to being told “You can’t.” It makes us uncomfortable; it happens so rarely. We can go where we like, say what we like, without people casting aspersions on our intentions or our character because we look/act/ARE the accepted majority. When someone says “You can’t say that” they want to know why.

Because you can’t. That’s all. Because you can’t.

Do you need more of an explanation of why all that sexist nonsense at the Oscars isn’t right to say? “He has the right to say it.” Sure. And we have the right to hate it. Think that The Onion tweet was “just satire” and people need to “get a sense of humor, gosh”? That’s your right, just as it’s my right to say you are using your privilege to ignore the fact that the tweet could be written because our culture is pretty used to treating minorities like crap without any penalties at all. (See also: thinking that there’s more than one side to the Trayvon Martin case and that people “Need to get over it.” Here’s your train ticket back to your village, marked “CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE.”) Think it’s not a big deal to say “That’s retarded”? Great. Cool. I think it’s not a big deal to call you an ignorant ass.

But maybe I just need a nap. Or a sense of humor.

There. This new layout looks a bit cleaner. Thoughts?

Maggie does better with binary questions: yes/no, true/false, choices. Narratives and open-ended questions are still hard for her to work out, especially if she’s tired. So bath time went like this:

“Maggie, are you smart? Yes or no?”"Yes!”

“Are you a sweet and kind girl? Yes or no?” ”Yes!” 

“Are you a tough cookie? Yes or no?” “Yes!”

“Are you beautiful? Yes or no?” “Yes!”

And don’t you ever fucking forget it, kid.

We’re going stir-crazy here again. Somehow our (and Maggie’s) great fortune in avoiding illness during the fall term has boomeranged around on us for winter term, and we’re in the throes of another batch of viruses. I think I had the flu; I had a cough and the sniffles and then about 48 hours of up-and-down fever. It would have been better if we hadn’t been on the road for a few appointments that required our presence at an American base hospital three hours away during that time, but what can you do?

You can go test drive cars!

…Now, who thought that would be the answer? But since we had to go to our appointment at the hospital in Lakenheath, where there’s a Volvo Military Sales dealership, we decided to make lemonade out of this lemon of a trip and try some cars out.

The first thing we noticed when we walked in (aside from the showroom-shiny luxury cars–it was also a Land Rover and Jaguar dealership) was a sour-looking young family of three who, frankly, appeared to not be enjoying their car-buying experience in the least. I returned the toddler’s winning smile only to be glared at by the mother so I hid my face in an SUV trunk until I no longer felt her searing gaze.

The second thing we noticed was that there was a beverage station with coffee and water, and a small clear refrigerator meant to hold a variety of soft drinks. As this was a military sales outlet, the fridge obviously only held energy drinks: dozens and dozens of cans of Red Bull. Obviously, they know their military market.

We were there to look at two cars: the XC60 and the XC90. The 90–a seven-seater family hauler–was my choice. The sleeker 60–a five-seater crossover–was Tom’s. From the very start of our new car search he’d maintained his steadfast disapproval of the XC90 and I couldn’t wait to prove him wrong.

Yeah. Stop me if you know where this is going.

Even just coming down from a fever that had reached near-hallucinatory states, I couldn’t deny that the XC90 was flat-out disappointing. Call me a snob but for a starting price in the high $30Ks, the interior was dated-looking and the handling somewhat stiff and truck-like. And oddly enough for their only seven-seat model, it wasn’t that family-friendly: it had one integrated booster seat for older kids and two top-tether car seat positions for seven seats vs. the XC60′s two integrated boosters and three top-tether positions for five seats. I asked the salesman for an explanation for that and he completely sidestepped me. Maybe Volvo just thinks that because so many families are looking for seven seats they’ll take a sub-par setup; I’m sure a few years ago the XC90 was top-of-its-class but it hasn’t been redesigned in a while and it looks it.

The XC60, on the other hand, was a total joy to drive. So much fun, and I’m going to give the highest compliment someone with a bad back who was once trapped for nine hours in a Honda Fit can give: it’s a bum-cuddler. Yes. I said that. A heated-seat bum-cuddler. The seats were soooooo comfortable. It’s the superior vehicle in every respect…except it doesn’t seat seven.

Why does a family of four need a seven-seater car, anyway? Well, we technically don’t, but the girls’ car seats turn any five-seat car into a four-seater. And we do have guests, and the girls will have friends, and the convenience of a smaller seven-seater with the third row down most of the time is unbeatable.

Me: The third row doesn’t look very comfortable.

Tom: I think the third row comfort is one of those things where we get to say “Suck it up and deal” to whoever is back there.

Me: Works for me.

In the end, we decided to strike the XC90 from the list entirely and to agree that if the XC60 made it to the final round it was because it is the fun, emotional choice and not the practical one–fun and emotional meaning that it would end up being Tom’s car upon our return to the States and we’d probably have to go through this process again, and I’m starting to sense his master plan here. We have two Fords to test-drive this summer when we’re home. One, the Flex, isn’t available on base for test-drives and the other, the Transit Connect Wagon mini-minivan, won’t actually be released until later this year. Both seat seven and both bear more than a passing resemblance to toaster ovens that have mated with box trucks, but the Flex is renowned for its, uh, family flexibility and the Transit Connect Wagon is reportedly going to pull 30MPG with the eco-boost engine. That, we cannot ignore.

But oh, I will miss you, my bum-hugging XC60. And the XC90? Yeah. Step up yo game, Volvo.

She is the sun; she is the air.

I have a confession to make: Infinite Jest did not happen.

It’s the weight, I think. That book is a veritable door stop; about 20 times the size of my Kindle. Technology may have made us more efficient, but it has absolutely weakened our wrists.

Aside from my Infinite fail, a LOT of reading was done in 2012. 52 books worth? Not quite. I fell short of my goal and read a mere 34 novels, epic poems, anthologies, and works of nonfiction; I only failed to complete one on that list (I’ll get to that).

Considering how much we travel (and I never do read on vacation; if I get a moment of quiet I’m normally asleep), the medical nonsense of 2012 that ate into my conscious-focusing time, and other time-consuming hobbies like making fun of survivalists I’m impressed that I got that far. I began but did not finish most of Charlotte Mason’s first volume on homeschooling. It drags a bit. I also read two sewing books but since they’re mostly patterns they don’t count. Ditto cookbooks. Overall, I’m really pleased that I undertook this exercise. Having both a Kindle and a Kindle app on my iPod Touch were critical for achieving this list; sneaking 10 minutes here and there in the car while waiting to pick someone up or reading late at night without keeping Tom awake wouldn’t have been possible if I was lugging a typical book around. It’s nice to have physical print but for convenience the e-book format can’t be beat.

And now for the superlatives!

Least favorite book that I couldn’t bring myself to finish: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I spent as much time trying to drag myself through this book as I did actually finishing others, so it has a final place on the list.

Least favorite book that I finished: three-way (naughty) tie between 50 Shades of Grey, 50 Shades Darker, and 50 Shades Freed. Why so much hatred? I’ve gotten into it before and I could write volumes more, but I’ll let this stand for itself:

So there.

Book I didn’t expect to enjoy much and loved: The Thirteenth Tale. Total book hangover after that one, and I plan to reread it soon.

Best memoir: Kitchen Confidential. I LOVE Anthony Bourdain.

Most conflicted reaction: I Am In Here. This book about a young autistic girl, as written by her mother, had occasional moments of “Oh. YES. THAT.” sprinkled in amidst about 20,000 other words of “No. NO. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, WOMAN? Your daughter is not sick or broken; stop trying to fix her.” Maggie is verbal; she struggles less with her communicative and sensory challenges than other children. We are still waiting on an official diagnosis, so we can’t even say autism for sure (even though we’ve been led to expect it). But she, and other children like her, are whole and well and capable of valuable contributions just as she is. “Fixing” her is not an issue because she is not broken; the author praises her daughter for her hard work learning to communicate at the same time that she despairs and rends her metaphorical garments and even brings her nonverbal daughter to a faith healer. Yeah. I can’t. I just can’t. Readjusting your expectations is hard and I know what it is like to be scared for your child; I can’t pretend to know much about her life. But I believe her daughter would be better served by a mother who accepts her without trying to force her into a role that goes against who she is.

Favorite laugh: Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. If you don’t know who Beyonce the Chicken is, you need to.

Most helpful: The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. It really is as good as they say, and not just for business. This changed how I parent and communicate with the girls and how Tom and I evaluate our progress and where we want to go. It’s excellent.

Favorite overall: Millennium Trilogy (you know it better as the three-book series that begins with The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo). Interesting, well-plotted, enjoyable, and went fast. That’s my kind of book(s).

Onward for 2013! What are you reading these days?

From the Maggie files, at the playground:

Me: Maggie, what are you going to do?

Maggie: I will run, I will fly; chase der wind and touch der sky.

It may be time to turn off Brave.

Sometime in the nights before Christmas, someone invaded our house.

Does she look familiar to you? She should. As my friend T observed, “It looks like Cindy Lou Who defected and joined ranks with the Grinch.” Then my friend A provided a helpful graphic:

I spy Grinchy plotting.

This child. Oh my goodness. Moira may be the first 13-month-old ever who learned “Yes!” before “No!” except she uses it to thwart us. Example: Moira climbs onto the couch and starts to ascend the bookshelf. “Moira, no no, don’t climb the bookshelf!” Moira squeals “Yes! Yes” and nods her head vigorously…and keeps climbing. Her enthusiasm for life is infectious; all of our friends and relatives have completely given up any pretense of trying not to laugh when she gets up to mischief.

Like Tabby Wheelwright in A Prayer for Owen Meany, Moira does not appear to be manipulative. She just does what she wants to do, but is so charming and funny and loving that you forget why you were angry. How can you be angry at a face like the one above when you find her in a cabinet you told her not to touch, or when right after she does the opposite of what you want her to do–nodding and shouting “Yes! Yes!” the whole time–she throws herself on you in a gigantic bear hug? You can’t. It’s impossible.

Moira also inherited the super-extrovert gene from her grandfather. In a family of introverts, Moira is a standout. Today she skipped her nap until 2:30 and took a truncated car version because of Maggie’s playgroup, and I’m here to tell you that she was fine. Awesome. Life of the party, and she ate sand and snacks and giggled and danced with the other playgroup kids like someone put Pixie Stix in her water bottle. She’s just that kind of a kid.

Unfortunately, she does not enjoy being alone and is a really light sleeper. She usually wakes at the end of a REM cycle and immediately starts wailing like she’s being cut with razor blades. Then…this is what I see when I open my eyes enough to check, except in her bed wearing a blanket as a hat:

She’s just so HAPPY to see me! I can’t be mad. Well, at 3am I often am irritated, but it doesn’t last. That smile just kills me.

Moira says things other than “Yes! Yes!” now, too. She’ll point and ask “What dis? What dis? Nuz [nose]? Bubble? Up! Up! UP MUM-MUM.” She calls me “Mum-Mum.” It’s so charming and British. Moira can also put away close to half of a roasted chicken with singular determination and efficiency, and if your fingers get too close to her mouth while she’s enjoying her meal she will bite you. 

Not kidding, either. This one? She’s got a temper.

This one has been suffering from teething since five months old, when she broke two teeth, and then the lead-up to age 9 months when she cut six teeth in ten days. If that last sentence didn’t scare you into celibacy, you didn’t read it carefully enough. She’s popping four new teeth again and her first instinct when hurting or exhausted is to bite. It’s rough, but it’s really her only flaw–that, and the sleeping, but that’s getting better.

Moira’s just so FUN. She’s a gregarious, extroverted, mischievous ball of energy and she’s on the go constantly. She’s into everything. If Moira wants you to be her friend, she sits on you until you pay attention. If you rub her belly, she literally purrs! Like a kitten! A giant ginger kitty!

Do I just love and adore her madly? 

Yes! Yes! 

We survived! The girls are, after a week and a half of misery, on regular sleep schedules and are ready to move and be active again. Moira’s cutting more molars (How many teeth does she need? Surely not all twenty) but other than that things are better. Tom and I never did get sick, but Tom’s poor visiting dad got slammed. How he made it onto the plane and back to America, I will never know. I mentioned to a friend today that the girls hardly ever get sick, which I thought was true, but Tom reminded me that Moira’s had a constant low-level runny nose with occasional coughs for…well…she was born in Yorkshire, okay? That comes with a certain amount of perpetual lung crud.

Maggie’s Hawaiian-to-English transplanted constitution is fortified with high early levels of tropical sunshine with a cast-iron finish of northern England resilience, so for her to spend a full week and a half sick instead of a day or two here and there is a rare event and one that we can actually just about set our calendars to expect. We have noticed for two Decembers now that she gets sick in the lead-up to the darkest day of the year and then also that two Marches running have seen her fallen with vicious viruses (roseola and swine flu, respectively). We joked about her having seasonal affective disorder but after last week it isn’t as funny as it was. Once is an event, twice is a repeat occurrence, three times is a pattern–we’ll see if we spend next Christmas aiming her head toward a bucket and soaking her face with cool cloths.

The best news is that they were feeling well enough for Tom and I to start seriously discussing travel, which is something we can’t fathom when they’re sick. When both kids are sick at the same time we stare at each other with slack, resigned faces and wonder how people did it before pizza delivery. Now that they’re well we can contemplate life outside of our house beyond the radius of the supermarket two miles away and the Domino’s up the block.

First up: Malta. Malta was an impulse, thanks to cheap hotels and affordable Ryan Air flights. Next is Belgium for seven days, to which we will be traveling by ferry! Maggie doesn’t know that yet, so we anticipate great excitement and hope to whet her appetite for sea travel (more in a moment). We may try to sneak something in for the Easter term break. And then…

…a cruise! Our first cruise!

Yes, we are going to become boat people. As internet rabbit holes go, cruising is almost as scary to me as those survivalist canners I mentioned before. The forums and discussions dedicated to cruising as a way of life are vast. Endless. I’m doing a blog for Tripwolf soon about why we chose to cruise instead of doing four our five little trips as some friends suggested we do instead for the same amount of money, but the short version is this:

1. Four or five little trips mean lots of flights, whereas the cruise leaves an hour and a half from our house. Flights mean people in a tin can, breathing recirculated air, which means pestilence and WE HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THAT THANK YOU. Ahem. 

2. Maggie needs the continuity of her speech therapy, so one block where she’s gone is better than several.

3. Two small kids. 24 hour buffets. Amen.

7 countries in five months. 2012, I’m not sorry to see you go. Bring on the year of exploration. This is going to be our year.