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Archive for March, 2009

Junglemom escaped the jungle! About frikin time, yo. I’ve been having daily meltdowns over the monsoon rains and needed relief in the form of a long weekend, or “mini-break” on the warm sunny dry beachy side of the island. As Bridget Jones would say, “A mini-break means true love!”

But is a mini-break possible with 1yr old twinnies?

Turns out yes! It was marvelous. Admittedly, everything that could have possibly gone wrong on the drive over did go wrong, but you know- I think that only made us enjoy the trip more when we got there. What’s up with my new Zen? Honestly, I don’t know. I can’t account for it. But I DIG it.

So it was a last minute dealio. Hotwire.com-ed at night, hit the road in the morning after a bit of last minute, somewhat traumatic, packing. Zoomin’ along the big terrifying motorway that cuts through lava fields, deserts, volcanoes, prairies, and ranches to the sandy beaches on the other side. Got about an hour down the road, almost to the desert, when the car starts making terrible sounds and smells. Oh, S$%#! Mother F$#&%*. Not happy. The gnomes were reeking havoc once again. Manage to pull over and the cops show up. By this time the SUV is completely dead. This marks the 2nd time in a year and a half I have seen a cop car on this island. There are cops on the island, but they spend most of their time on helicopters scanning for fields of the wacky tabaccy. The first time I saw one (a cop that is) was when we were in a 3 car pile up- while I was prego. Not even opening that can of worms. Sticking to the Zen like a fly on fly paper.

So the cops and Jungledad stand outside and stare at the engine, all 3 admitting that they knew nothing about cars, and all 3 looking like they are really enjoying staring at the engine. I have noticed this behavior before in men. I had this crazy job once in the middle of nowhere in Ireland, and my friend Tony’s Land Rover broke and about 12 dudes just stood there staring at the engine for days, happy as clams. But I digress…

We got the engine started again eventually, and after running several red lights and stop signs managed to limp into the dealership/repair shop just before it died again. It was all very dramatic. The peeps at the dealership apologized profusely, as we had just brought the SUV to the shop TWICE complaining that it was overheating and making weird noises, and they kept sending us home saying they couldn’t find anything wrong. Anyway, they were kind of expecting us to lose our shiz, since we’ve had this car less than a year and we’ve been to the repair shop like 6 times. Normally, I would lose my shiz. We coulda died out there. Coulda got stuck out in the desert, eaten by mongooses! But for some reason, I was all Zen. Is someone slipping Zoloft in my mango juice?

Anyway, many apologies, a promise to switcheroo the car for another if it couldn’t be totally fixed once and for all, and a heavily discounted rental car later, we were back on the road. 2+ hour delays are not ideal when travelling with tots. Girls got fussy, some stressful moments, a sunset dash to Walmart for pack n plays when the resort turned out not to have any, all added tension.

BUT

Then it was wonderful wonderful wonderful. Huge lovely condo at a resort. Big fun swimming pool and kiddie pool that the girls loved. A short drive to 3 lovely beaches, one of which had a huge coral reef in shallow water. Yellows tangs darting through our legs, babies squealing, it was so damn great. We played in the sand, chased the waves, baked cookies, made pizza and mac n cheese, tossed babies in and out of water. We all had a blast. Yea, we lost the first day due to the travel delays, but that seemed to make the second day even better. The weather was gorgeous, the babies were happy. Who could ask for more?

Kind of eating my words on the resort thing, I admit it. I’ve never been a resort girl. I’ve always found them artificial and creepy. And yes, I did do some serious smack talking about a super fancy and famous resort on the island (waaaaaay fancier then the resort I just went to). But in my own defense, my dander was up because of an encounter with a mean woman by the pool. Also, the girls were a lot younger and refused to play ball, and I had ZERO help with them because this was a “work” trip. We weren’t there for vacation. We were there so Jungledad could be brainwashed by an organization banned by the French government.

Yea, I know. My life is weird. But sometimes its wonderful :)

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I’ve been thinking a lot about brain cells lately because a team of scientists has contacted Jungledad via email, wanting to scan his brain. Its not as flattering as you’d think. Actually, its down-right insulting. They want to scan his brain because they think or hope its been damaged… by the volcano.

Did you know that the biggest volcano on my island, the one Jungledad disappears to every month or so, is actually the tallest mountain in the world? Taller than Everest! How can this be, you ask. Why haven’t I heard I it?. Well. Technically, the base of the volcano is underwater, and mountain peeps are real sticklers and say the underwater bits don’t count. Those bits aside, its still bloody tall. I’ve been up there. My head felt like a balloon about to pop. Not going back.

People who’ve been to the top of Everest have seriously damaged their brains. Even if they were only up for a very brief period, the damage will show on an MRI. The scientists who emailed Jungledad theorize that they may be able to find the same kind of damage in Jungledad and his fellow Astronomers.

I say, “Hmmm, this isn’t good news.”

Jungledad says, “Cool, free MRI!”

Anyway, this got me thinking about how our brains have changed since we had the twins. Since the girls were born, we’ve gotten less sleep, had more distractions and drama and less spare time than ever in our lives, and yet we’ve never got so much done! Its the oddest thing.

I’ve developed superpowers. I read really really fast. I write really really fast. Is there time to ponder Ulysses? No. Am I writing Shakespeare? Certainly not. But who cares! I’m getting things done. I’m reading more, writing more, and completing more projects than I ever have. Thanks, babies :) And Jungledad? Despite his monthly hemorrhaging of brain cells and purging of grey matter up on the summit, he’s actually publishing more papers and writing more proposals than ever in his career. When we were childless, we never saw this kind of productivity. I keep asking myself, what the hell did we do with all that time?

Twins have restructured our brains. They are sleeker, faster, more fuel efficient. No more wiffle waffle. When we want to do something, we damn well do it the moment we have a moment, knowing full well that the chance will never come again. I like our new brains. I do. I’ll admit to missing one aspect of the old brains though. I miss the lingering. Lingering over a book, lingering over coffee, ahhhhh. Remember those days? I guess that’s where all the time went.

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Had a hot date with the Maytag Man yesterday, who was here again about the gnome situation. Different problem, same gnome. No flowers, no chocolates, just a stern suggestion that we extend our warranty. Those gnomes aren’t going anywhere apparently. Grrrrr.

The carburetor gnome is back as well. Despite the fact we have a brand new carburetor, we’re losing coolant and overheating again. The Jeep has been hooked up to those fancy shmancy diagnostic machines and everything, but neither the machines nor the mechanics can figure out what’s wrong. Well I know what’s wrong- GNOMES!

Oh, and my dryer has started smelling really bad recently- Dryer Gnome!

Junglehouse has become a hotbed of gnome activity. Its a veritable warren of gnomes. Why me? Am I the only one with a gnome problem?

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We celebrated St. Patrick’s Day in style by going on a Guinness bender, and by bender I mean we split one bottle and were too tanked to drink the second. Its embarrassing. What am I, ninety-two? I worked in a pub in London for 4 years- I used to have an unbelievable tolerance. No longer. Early bird special for me. In bed by ten!

Our modest celebration was the only one on the island I’m sure. Not really a leprechaun kind of place. Actually, the natives have their own version of leprechauns (so they say). Based on the local commercials I’ve seen, the little guys love to do household chores when you’re not looking . Guess they haven’t found my house yet!

Actually, it was a great day, because I managed to capture the girls walking on film, and it filled me with pride. Go superpreemies! I had them do a million laps in the living room because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I guess technically they’ve been walking for a few weeks, but now they’re like- professional. He he. That reminds me, I have to fabricate a photo, apparently, of the “first step” for the in laws. I don’t understand the “first step” thing. What counts? They’ve been stepping in between furniture for months. I didn’t really call it walking until they hit  14 straight steps. No idea why I picked that number.

Anyway, so the babes were pooped and passed out in their cribbies and the Guinness was flowing and Jungledad and I decided to revise our velcro baby suit plans; plans we made last time we were tipsy. At the time, we were exhausted from carrying both twinnies at the same time and thought the answer might be to dress them in head to toe velcro suits and stick them together. Its always easier to carry a cluster! Triplet Moms take note ;) On further review, however, we decided that the real ticket would be for us to wear full body velcro suits. That way, the babies could cling to us like little sloths, and we could walk around town and go about our business. Right?

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Ahh, Dylan. Great song. Class.

But this post isn’t about that. Its about real hurricanes, or rather, lack there of. Absentee hurricanes cost a fortune, let me tell ya.

For once, we did our taxes early and got our refunds back early, and now their all spent…..on hurricanes that don’t exist. Our mortgage company mandates that we buy unbelievably expensive hurricane insurance, 2 years of insurance upfront, for the price of several yummy bottles of Cristal, and I’m rip-shiz.

I know what you’re thinking- Hey Junglemom, you live on an island in the middle of the ocean. Hurricane insurance is not unreasonable.

YES IT IS!!!!!

I don’t live in the freakin Caribbean, I’m not downing mojitos in Key West or Cuba. I live in the Pacific, on an island that has NEVER BEEN HIT BY A HURRICANE. I repeat, NEVAH NEVAH NEVAH. So why why why?

I am truly baffled. We have constant earthquakes. Do I need special earthquake insurance? Nope. We have had legendary tsunamis. One hit in the 60s and wiped out half the town. There’s a museum downtown dedicated to it that I should visit one of these days. There’s bullhorn type things everywhere that do “practice tsunamis drills” at random times during the year. Tsunamis insurance? Nope. There are large, dangerous lava flows that have wiped out entire subdivisions. Lava insurance? Nope.

EXPLAIN!!

And while you’re explaining that, could you please float me some advice about what I should do with Lulu? She’s started having occasional tantrums. BAD ones, and I’m kind of at a loss as to what to do. I thought toddler tantrums started at 2, and she’s only 13 months. Obviously I am a naive idiot, and I haven’t a clue how to handle it. Lulu’s behavior that is, not my idiotness, which is kind of incurable at this point. I’d do a time-out, but isn’t she too young to comprehend time-outs, let alone stay put? Help!

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There was trouble in the air at the organic market, and this was unusual. I go there fairly frequently for organic milk. There are no dairy cows on the island, so milk must be flown in from thousands of miles away and it costs as much per once as platinum. But you drink it. Actually no, I don’t drink it, the fancy milk is for the babes. I drink regular old milk from cows scarfing down a happy diet of antibiotics, melamine, arsenic, asbestos, (am I forgetting anything?) etc., but no growth hormone! I guess that’s something.

Anyhoo, the organic market is usually a happy place. The staff is always smiling ear to ear, their protruding clavicles bulging in delight, their adorable blond dreadlocks just a swayin’ in the tropical breeze. We once pulled one such staff member aside to ask where we would find citric acid and rennet to make homemade mozzarella and she just about wept with happiness. WHY don’t MORE people make their own cheese? ! she wailed. She was being earnest, but based on her twiggley little body, I don’t think she’s been making or consuming much dairy fat lately. Those bony hips were made entirely of lentils, no doubt.

So there I was in the checkout line with my two half gallons of rubies organic milk, jungledad and jungletwins, wondering if I would need to take out a second mortgage to pay for said caviar organic milk, when I overheard a conversation one till over. A customer was chatting away to a cashier about the state of the economy. This struck me as extremely odd because usually reality and all subjects pertaining are blissfully absent from the organic market. Where is he going with this, I thought to myself. He better tie it into a cute anecdote about the pluckiness of free range chickens, and fast!

But he didn’t. The monsoon rains we’ve getting on the island for the last week must have clouded his judgement. The lack of sun made him forget himself and his locale. I knew then and there, this was not going to be pretty.

“The way things are, we’re lucky to have jobs” the man said.

Seemingly innocuous comment? Not on this island, yo.

The cashier’s head whipped around. “What do you mean? You don’t like it here? You don’t like it on this island?”

As the words left her lips, the heads of the entire staff snapped up in perfect unison. The man looked up to find an angry sea of hemp cloth and organic cotton closing in.

He furiously backpedaled, “No…..no……..I love it here! I do! I just meant…. that there aren’t as many opportunities for young people.”

I grabbed jungledad’s arm. We could feel the place start to go nuclear. The entire staff had smoke pouring out of their ears. Tumbleweeds were rolling past. If I were a better mother I would have grabbed junglefamily and sprinted for the door before the birkenstocks and tofu started flying. The thing is, since we can’t get cable in the jungle, this was the most entertaining sequence of events we’d witnessed in some time. We stayed put.

The silence was deafening. My organic truffles milk started curdling in fear. I was waiting for renewable rubberwood planks to be lashed together with jungle vine and the man nailed to it. In my mind I was screaming- DUDE, have you learned NOTHING! The first rule of the island is : you NEVER dis the island. It doesn’t matter if you’re telling the truth, or if its not really a dis by most people’s standards. If you use the word “island” in a sentence it better be followed by “sunshine,” “puppies”, “rainbows” or “paradise of sustainability” if you know what’s good for you. That is, if you’re speaking to the blond dreadlocks brigade. The native islanders could care less what non-natives have to say about their island. Can’t say I blame them.

The poor Dudeman found, to his chagrin, that the employees of the market do not consider the island an island. Its not a land mass, a real place with real problems; its a dream. A magical place with no pollution and a year round growing season and oodles of diversity. Its the state of being they’ve been trying to achieve their entire lives, and now that they’ve found it, no amount of rain or flying cockroaches or foot long centipedes or schools with wretchedly low test scores, or earthquakes, or hazardous volcanic fumes or astronomical milk prices will dampen their enthusiasm. To suggest that the island is anything less than perfection- well that’s cruisin for a bruisin.

He would have gotten one too, if jungletwins hadn’t saved the day. Lulu made an adorable squeal which broke up the tension. Everyone took a deep yoga breath and the Dude beat a hasty retreat. One of the cashiers smiled at the girls and said “So they’re……sisters?”

Yes, they’re twins.

How is that possible? They don’t look anything alike.

True, but twins nonetheless.

The cashier furrowed her brow in concentration and looked back and forth between Lulu and Mumu…. for about a year.

The EARS! she finally announced.

Huh?

The ears are similar, but I still don’t see how they could be twins.

Yah, its a mystery!

And junglefamily left the building…

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It’s my 100th post boys and girls, and this one’s going out to Mark Twain. In a roundabout way, I have the twinnies to thank for that. They’ve been keeping us so dang busy we haven’t had time to read all the New Yorkers that have been piling up on our bookshelves- until now. We made a deal not to renew our recently expired subscription until we read said back issues, and I have to say, its been an unexpected pleasure. Without more piling up, I’ve been able to savor the issues I have left, and one of the yummiest things I’ve read recently is Mark Twain’s essay The Privilege of the Grave, from the December 22nd issue.

I’ve long felt the world is a fickle pickle where no one gets to speak their mind. Say the wrong thing, they don’t love you anymore. Say the right thing at the wrong time – same dealio. Mark Twain’s essay addresses this (with far more wit I might add!) when he says that free speech is a privilege only the dead can enjoy. They can’t be punished for it. For those living, he equates free speech with murder :

As an active privilege, it ranks with the privilege of committing murder: we may exercise it if we are willing to take the consequences. Murder is forbidden both in form and in fact; free speech is granted in form but forbidden in fact. By the common estimate both are crimes, and are held in deep odium by all civilized peoples. Murder is sometimes punished, free speech always- when committed. Which is seldom. There are not fewer than five thousand murders to one (unpopular) free utterance.

After several more clever paragraphs, Twain basically concludes that we should all write down our true beliefs in diaries, so that when we’re dead, people will finally know what we’re all about. But I’ve found a shortcut….

BLOGS!

If Mark Twain were alive today, I suspect he’d have at least a dozen anonymous blogs where he could talk smack to his heart’s content without fear of reprisal. His essay has made me realize that I’m not talking nearly enough smack. I’m anonymous (mostly). I should let rip. But I don’t. Much. I can only think of a few entries out of my 100 where true smack talking has been featured. Prius Driving Rich People Diapers are Poop and Dangling Babies over Dobermans come to mind, along with my recent entries about the local Mother’s Group that both confuses and terrifies me on a regular basis, but really, out of a hundred, that ain’t much. I need to work on that.

So let’s see….

Okay, got one! I don’t understand this whole home birth phenomenon, I really don’t. I think its cuckoo for coco puffs. I personally know (not blog know) 2 women who have given birth in the last few years, having both had the kind of uneventful, complication-free pregnancy I can only dream about, who almost died in the process. Loads of bleeding, loads of transfusing, priests were called- that kind of deal. Why on earth someone would want to forgo doctors and life-saving equipment for themselves and their babies is beyond me.

On a lighter note, I did once ask a home birth Mom why she felt home births were the way to go, and her answer was….well, priceless. She said:

“Because I labored in my own bed, and I got up in the middle of it and made myself toast.”

Oh, TOAST!!! Nobody mentioned toast! NOW I see!

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There are too many choices nowadays. That’s the problem. That, and the fact that I am too easily seduced. Not by people, by places. Its time we started looking to our next adventure, and we’re torn as to where it will be.

We’ve never feared starting over. And over. And over. But at some point, especially now that we have children, we must ask ourselves: Is it time to put down roots? Are we finished with our travels?

Its not a simple question. Just ask The Clash.

We both feel that eventually we will end up in New England. That is where we will settle. It is where I was born, grew up. Its not an easy place, but I understand it, I love it. My husband is British, but born for New England. He loves the winter. We had such fun in Cambridge MA. He misses it, and wants to return. But when? Next year or in 5 years? Will we go somewhere in between?

Jungledad’s Britishness means we can live anywhere in Europe. We don’t wish to return to the UK though. I love England. Its where we met, fell in love. Its full of beautiful places, and wonderful friends, yet we feel no pull to return. The pull is coming from other places : Ireland, France, Italy. There are jobs in my husband’s field there. The girls could learn French or Italian. Hell, I could learn French or Italian. And there would be no more shifts on top of volcanos. Lots more vacation time (Europe, yo) and no solo twin duty.

But…

By the time the girls are 5 I want to be settled. In New England. In a good neighborhood with excellent schools. Do we settle now? Or step back into the travellin’ shoes? When I was a kid I felt trapped in a small town and desperately wanted out. My girls may feel the opposite, but they are too young to tell me. I just don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.

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