Sweet Pea, taking a rare dip in the front loader.

As the entire family embarked on its nightly, tearful search for Sweet Pea, my four-year-old’s smelly, raggedy, über-comforting “lovey,” my husband and I spewed our usual amount of frustration:

“YOU are in charge of your doll! WHERE DID YOU PUT THAT THING?”

“Ruby, we do this EVERY NIGHT. When will you learn to KEEP TRACK OF SWEET PEA?!”

“That’s IT. Off to bed. You’ll be fine without her.”

And Ruby, between sniffles, wailing, “I’ll NEVER find her again! I want Sweet Pea! HER PURPLE COLLAR SMELLS SO GOOD!”

(Uh, for the record. This “collar” — or what’s left of it — definitely doesn’t smell good. But don’t tell her that.)

“Sorry, honey. We’ve looked everywhere. It’s time for you to learn to sleep without her. To bed!”

Oh, the wailing! Oh, the drama! Oh, the mean, mean parents!

Ohhhh, THAT’S where she is — tucked under the pillow fort, behind the sparkly fire hazard Christmas tree. Of course. We should have known.

Whew, that was a close one.

Now, with children snuggled in bed, I’m laying out my grown-up clothes and big-girl high heels. Tomorrow I’m starting a brand-new work adventure for 2011, and I’m feeling excited… and very nervous. A little unsure. If I could just get me some leftover holiday comfort & joy…

Think she’d mind if I borrowed Sweet Pea?

It’s MEA break (no school-teacher conference) in Minnesota and somehow they’re not even asking for TV, which I am entirely prepared to give them in the name of getting some work done.

However, for now they’re organizing a dolly tea party in the next room… Uhh, who ARE these children? Anyway, let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, let’s cup a hand over an ear, lean in and have a listen, shall we? Just duck if you see an object hurtling toward you…

Scene 1:

R (age 4): Oh, this one is really my frave-rit.

O (age 8): Did you just say “frave-rit”?

R: Yes, she’s my frave-rit. I think she’s just bee-yoo-tiful.

O: (patiently) Don’t you mean FAVORITE?

R: Yes, fave-it.

O: (slowly) FAV-OR-ITE.

R: (dancing & twirling, with a smile) Yeah, favorite!

No hard feelings, just two little girls getting clear on the one mispronunciation we haven’t bothered to correct our youngest on… she’s otherwise an articulate kid, but we do let some of these things go out of pure cuteness.

Scene 2:

R: All moms ALWAYS have a phone. Do you like my phone? (rings, over and over and over again; still twirling)

That’s my girl! I haven’t heard much nurturing going on with the baby dolls, but at least she has her telecommunications sorted out.

Annnnd… don’t blink, but the spell is already breaking.

Scene 3:

O:  Mom, don’t you dare put that photo of me on your blog! I don’t want to be famous.

R:  (Posing nicely for a photo before breaking character and screeching) Liviaaaaghhgh! Give me that dress! It’s mine!

I wonder what’s on PBS Kids right now?

My old, sticky, silver minivan is sitting in the driveway, not being driven. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think she’s looking a little sad. Forlorn, even.

Hurt, alone: giving me the cold shoulder

“Oh sure, go ahead — walk right past me,” she taunts. “Don’t think I don’t notice you, Miss Thang, zipping off in that OTHER car.”

*A sob escapes her carburetor*

“Are the girls making HER all sticky, too? Grinding cranberries into HER plush carpeting? Sprinkling HER with enough crumbs to feed a family of four?”

Fine. I admit it. The guilt is killing me.

I’ve been cheating.

See, I’ve been driving around in a sleek, silver Volvo V70 for the past few weeks. Ignoring the reproachful glances from the driveway. Ignoring the guilt… but REALLYreallyREALLY enjoying having an operational A/C system, a sunroof, and — get this — a real, working RADIO! That plays music and news whenever I want it to! (It’s only been a year and a half of driving in silence. Punctuated by screams and bickering, of course.)

It all started back in Colorado, before we moved. I was innocently changing the clock in my van for daylight savings, when suddenly there was… nothing. No clock, no radio. Soon after that, a complete transmission overhaul. Then, here in Minnesota, another squillion dollars in repairs.

We stopped short of the $800 for a new A/C condenser — so earlier this summer, I had the pleasure of driving with all the windows open to avoid cooking the children. I always arrived looking wild and windblown, with sweat marks in all the wrong places. I began wearing my beloved baseball cap daily.

And that’s when the love affair with my van ended.

Oh, it had been going downhill for awhile before that, if I’m being honest. I’d started feeling dowdy when I rolled up to my destination. Kind of Wal-Marty. I stopped caring about how close I was parking to other cars, because what are a few dings? My Blue Book was already nil, so even trade-in value stopped mattering much.

How did my sense of self get so wrapped up in a means of transportation?

And like I said, I suppose I should be thrilled to be driving a Volvo. We had a bright yellow, 1974 Volvo station wagon as kids — I even took my driver’s test on that sucker, despite the stick-shift and parallel parking — so I guess I’ve always felt nostalgic about the brand. I like the boxy look. I like the safety record. And this one is zippy. A 2005, but with only 30,000 miles on it.

Dream come true, right?

Maybe my guilt comes less from my sticky friend in the driveway — and more from the owner of the V70.

It’s my father-in-law’s car, and he wants us to drive it while we decide what to do about our car situation. He’s not driving it because a tumor in his brain stem has slowly, methodically and cruelly stripped him of all that matters to him in his life. Independence, the ability to care for himself, the ability to give to others as he’s done all his life.

It’s not fair, it sucks, and I think of it every time I lower myself into the leather seats.

I guess I knew why I wasn’t doing flips over my long-anticipated farewell to the sticky van. I’d imagined trading it in, then driving off into the sunset, laughing gaily in my sportier used vehicle as my gauzy scarf flapped in the breeze.

But life doesn’t always work out the way we plan. Just ask my father-in-law.

I’m fresh out of my Marie Veronique Organics Gentle Cleanser, and I guess I’m having a moment.

Who knew I’d develop feelings for an Anti-Aging Kit? I don’t usually review products — I’m more of a sporadic, when-I-feel-like-it kind of blogger. But when Catherine, an amazing woman I’d interviewed for TwitterMoms, told me about her new gig as Business Director for Marie Veronique Organics (@MVOrganics), a Berkeley-based start-up dedicated to producing “ecologically responsible, natural and transformative anti-aging products,” I thought the company sounded interesting and told her so. She responded with a free Anti-Aging Kit. Awesome!

This just in: My MVO Anti-Aging Kit!

(Uh, is this where I disclose to the FCC that I got free stuff in exchange for an honest review of the product?)

Let’s cut to the chase: when I started my new MVO 4-step routine (Gentle Cleanser, Anti-Aging Mist, Anti-Aging Oil+ and Moisturizing Face Screen), I kept my expectations in check. I was excited about the company’s mission, sure, but I knew better than to expect miracles on my 40-year-old skin. Even so, off I went.

From the get go, I loved the way the products smelled, which is important. And I loved the idea of using natural, safe products on my skin (something I’ve been dedicated to for my daughters, but for some reason not for myself). What I didn’t bargain for was the way they made my skin feel: super soft and… what’s the word? Flexible? Supple? I don’t want to sound like a commercial here, but I think “supple” wins. (Better than “rubbery,” which also came to mind. But in a good, bouncy, youthful-feeling way.) The big difference is that my skin didn’t feel dry and tight, like it does after scrubbing with my usual industrial-strength cleanser from Target. It felt clean and healthy.

Like I said, I ran out of the cleanser sample first. So for a few days after that, I figured my little experiment was over, and quit doing Steps 2-4. Instead, I settled for all the usual suspects in my cupboard. Until today.

Today I woke up and realized: I missed the mist. And the oil and the face screen (which is like tinted moisturizer with SPF protection). So I did my steps 2-3-4, and I can honestly say I feel like my face looks better today than it did yesterday. Can I use another overused, commercial-y adjective? Brace yourself: luminous. (I know — gag.) But without looking shiny or sweaty. A very good thing if you ask me.

Maybe it has something to do with the MVO ingredient list being completely different from that of most commercial brands. Check this out from the website:

“Intelligent Ingredients” is more than just a tagline. It’s the overriding principle that guides every formulation at Marie Veronique Organics. That’s because science tells us that what goes on your skin ultimately penetrates your skin and goes into your body. The right ingredients can do a world of good and the wrong ones quite the opposite. Before an ingredient gets added to a product we make sure it does the right thing, efficiently and without causing harm to you or the planet.  From argan oil to zinc oxide, find out what’s in our products and why it makes such a big difference.

I love this page of the site, because it lists every ingredient they use and what it does. Also worth a read: the News & Research page, which lists the research behind all of their product decisions. I’ve never heard of a company doing that!

To celebrate my supple skin — and give you a chance to develop some of your own — MVO is allowing me to offer my readers this special:

Buy a Desert Island Duet (or Desert Island Vegan Duet) and receive a 1 oz Anti-aging Mist free.

Yahoo! Just enter LEAMVO as your coupon code at checkout, and you’re set.

Enjoy!

For example, this morning I ran up against all kinds of blocks and hurdles in my quest to squeeze in a workout instead of focusing on my business. After much effort getting everyone fed/dressed/brushed and dropped off at school, I arrived at my gym to find the pool teeming with swimmers — 2 and 3 to a lane (an adult master swim club), plus a tots’ group. No one appeared to be finishing up, so I knew I didn’t have a prayer of getting wet. I stood on the pool deck in my swimsuit, flip flops and goggles, hesitating. I’m all ready to go. Should I smile and charm my way in?

No, not worth it. I imagined circle-swimming in a crowded lane, trying to keep my pace up and avoid being lapped repeatedly and/or smacked in the face… none of these things sounded fun, rewarding or satisfying in any way. I was outta there.

Feeling doomed to another day of chubbiness, I spun on my heel and headed back to the locker room. But I wasn’t that angry somehow, because it felt like I was being redirected, put back on track. I put my sweats back on, ripped off my swim cap. (Ouch.) On my way up the stairs to the front entrance, I even tripped and fell. (Awesome! At least I’m still cool.) Harrumph. The pool is NEVER that full — why today?

I had an inkling I knew the answer to that question (aside from the obvious, which would have involved something silly, like checking the pool schedule). And I’m pretty sure that if the Universe could speak, it might’ve said something like this:

Yo, Lea! Come on, don’t act all mad. Remember how you skipped your 5:45 AM spin class yesterday? The one you drag ass to, so you can work during the day? Yeah, that one. Make sure you go tomorrow. I know, I know, you’re a freelance copywriter — and yes, yes, you have flexible hours. But listen, you committed to something here that will someday bring you untold joy, satisfaction and financial freedom! You will get out of it what you put into it. Now get your butt back to work.

Aye, aye, Captain Universe-pants.

And so here I sit, exercising my writing muscles and considering the signs I’ve observed. Which reminds me, another kind of sign appeared in our house yesterday:

My second grader's bedroom door.

At least I don’t have to wonder about the meaning of this one. (I happen to know she posted this after being banished to her room for uncooperative behavior. Life is so hard! And dramatic!)

So what do you think about signs from the universe? Or is that all a bunch of hooey? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Fun stuff.

• The stinky, not-advisable-to-consume ice made in our very own freezer (circa 1983)
• The severely overloaded humidifier, which dropped a snowball-sized lump of sediment on my foot upon opening it to check the pad (which is like a water filter, for you non-technical-but-still-lovable folks)
• The incredibly productive colony of all-but-invisible spiders that rebuild cobwebs in a matter of hours (so why clean, I venture?)
• How, in a rain storm, our house without gutters will pour water in sheets off the front entryway: Free Shower for All Visitors!
• The strange, hidden little cubbies the former owners created (they told us in a letter after closing), for the purpose of hiding jewelry & prescription meds. (What?! I need to check the police records & see if they were robbed or something.)

The offending door.

Best of all, we recently discovered that the sliding, pocket door leading to the master bath can quite easily get Good And Stuck — in the closed position.

We all snickered a bit (well, I did) when our oldest daughter got stuck inside the bathroom after her big-girl shower. Un-sticking the door from the outside wasn’t too hard, and she wasn’t in there too long.

But very early this morning, with my husband away and my 3-year-old playing on the bathroom floor, I dared to take a shower. This meant a minute or three of semi-supervised time for my daughter (I could see her through the shower door). By now you’ve guessed it — she took that opportunity to slide the pocket door completely shut, locking us in FOR ALL ETERNITY. (Having just read to her about Aladdin getting trapped inside the Cave of Wonders by the Evil Jafar, I’m pretty sure this was her mindset.)

From there, I found it entertaining to observe my own reaction to our little “emergency.” (I am notoriously No Good In An Emergency – just ask my calm, cool and collected husband, who pretty much saved our lives in a violent windstorm 10 years ago in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. I, on the other hand, was hysterical and utterly useless. Sigh. A post for another time.)

At any rate, my thought process went something like this:

1. Damn it!
2. Okay, let me just put on some lotion before I develop any more wrinkles.
3. Hmm. I can’t bend over in front of my daughter naked. She’ll have nightmares. Put pj’s back on.
4. Grip tiny door handle and pull. Grunt, pull again.
5. Switch from pulling to pushing, using door insets as leverage. Owie! F***.
6. Get down on the floor and try lifting under door. Doesn’t budge. Try it again, harder. Nothing.
7. Look around for tools to use, settle on a new Clorox squeegee. Slip it under door, try to use as a lever to lift door.
8. Squeegee breaks.
9. I’m starting to sweat.
10. Turn around, realize I have my iPhone. Call husband (who is 300 miles away), leave ridiculous, laughing message about being locked in the bathroom, inquire about any tips he may have for unsticking door. Don’t worry about us, honey. Have a great day – love you!
11. Who else can I call? Our friend Charlie lives nearby, and is a remodeling contractor (which clearly qualifies him to unstick this door… or at least chop it down or something heroic). If I could get my oldest daughter to wake up, she could open the front door for him.
12. Start banging on door, yelling for daughter #1, who is an excellent sleeper and will not possibly hear us through 3 doors and a white noise machine. Help! We’re stuck in the bathroom! Heeeeelllp!
13. A quick smile and a giggle for daughter #2, to reassure her that all is well. Look, isn’t this fun? Mommy’s so funny!
14. Apparently not reassured, daughter #2 begins to cry, expounding in between sobs on her feelings of hunger and her hatred for this new house.
15. Imagine the day ahead of us, locked in the bathroom. Missing all my meetings. Missing school. Calculating the hours until my husband gets home. We have a place to pee, so that’s good. Naptime will be hard, though. How will we eat? Daughter #1 could slip bread under the door while I yell math questions at her…
16. One last try: slip fingers under door again, only this time pull toward me. Door slides easily open. FREEDOM IS OURS!

I guess it wasn’t really a moment of zen, not exactly. It was more like the world, shrunk down to bathroom size, with only our wits to guide us (only we did, of course, have internet access). Anyway, maybe my little girl learned something about problem-solving.

Or maybe she just learned not to shut that stupid door all the way. You’ve gotta leave it open a crack.

Hey. If I were trying to pass this off as a happy, skippy New Year-New You post, I’d not only be six days late, I’d be fooling no one.

All aboard the Cranky Train…

If I sound a little up-in-your-face, let me first apologize. I’m pretty sure it might be related to this being Day 6 of Me, Sugar-Free*.  As in, no cookies, candy, pastries, cake, brownies, fudge, chocolate… nothing good. Nothing that had previously made my taste buds sing (and my rear end widen). The idea is that by eliminating refined sugar from my system, I’ll reduce my cravings and, thus, my consumption of all those empty calories. Sounds like a good plan, right?

Actually, after the sugar rush of the holidays, going cold turkey was fairly easy to do at first. It was like a cleansing purge, running in the opposite direction of my overindulgence to make up for my misdeeds. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised at how good it felt for awhile there. I even felt a little bit powerful. Snap! goes the whip as I beat my sugar cravings into quivering submission…

Now, six days into it, I just want some f***ing chocolate. Snarl.

I suppose this is where I’m expected to draw several clever parallels between, say, my sugar cravings and my desire for a quick and easy fix for all that needs fixing in my life. Or maybe that sugar represents my mother’s love? Or my fear of success? Of heights and enclosed spaces? Huh?

Well, I’m not gonna do that. And you can’t make me because I just don’t feel like it. Have I mentioned that I’m cranky?

Anyway, I’ve just decided that this will be more of a recreational post — where I can write what I want, without fear of it sucking or not being funny or good or entertaining or worth your time. It’ll be my “treat” for the day… even though I’d much rather have a bar of Dagoba dark lavender-blueberry organic chocolate (available in most health food stores, oddly enough!). Here goes.

Ahhhhhhh, freedom! After one deep, cleansing breath, Lea runs back into her pen, tail between her legs, and burrows into the straw.

I’m not sure what animal I was trying to evoke there, but I trust you get the picture. This is hard! Writing is hard! Not caring is even harder!

Well, I can’t stop caring. I love words. I love to make them flow and sing. I love to work and re-work a sentence, then a paragraph, then a whole blog post (or client website) until it sounds just right. I live for the feeling of dumping all my intention and energy into written words, so that the reader understands exactly what I mean — and leaps to her feet, with a “Yes! That’s exactly the way it is!”or even a “Yes! I will buy that product immediately and send you an extra $100 just because I like your words!”

The very, very best thing, though? It’s when I know I’ve made someone laugh really hard. Someone outside of my immediate family, I mean. (My daughters, mother and sisters just may think I’m about the funniest gal on the planet, bless their biased souls.) I don’t think I’ve done it very many times yet, but maybe I should try for more of that in 2010.

Not that I’m making a New Year’s resolution, mind you. No sirree Bob, as my 7th grade science teacher, Mr. Bauer, used to say.

Maybe I’m just saying that I want to have more fun writing on this here personal blog-o-mine. Save all the worrying and perfectionism for my business blog (which will be seeing a lot more action in 2010, mark my words… and that wasn’t a resolution, either!).

It’s about time I relocated my blogging voice, and jumped in with both feet. Without a care in the world.

* Me, Sugar Free is not a trademarked name, weight-loss program or virtual seminar that will change your life in 37 easy steps. I made it up. I think it sounds pretty good! So if you’re a nice, honest entrepreneur selling miracle diets that really work, feel free to use it. This one’s on me. I’ll take the good karma as payment, just this one time.

Though I’ve always considered myself the polar opposite of June Cleaver, lately I’ve been a cooking WIZARD.

Well, maybe “wizard” is overstating it a bit, since I’m just following a magazine’s plan for a month of simple dinners. But for a gal whose previous culinary stylings were limited to heating and serving whatever I happened to find in my freezer… I’m kicking some serious ass.

The weird part is, I feel oddly and immensely satisfied by this tiny accomplishment — instead of conflicted over finding myself in such a traditional role (something I never expected, but somehow fell into). I’m finding that when I cook for my family, I feel a little like Wonder Woman:

• My house smells like a home-cooked meal at appropriate, predictable times.
• My husband and kids gather around our table to eat — simultaneously.
• If I leave the house after dinner — whether for a PTO meeting or just to take out the garbage — when I come back in I smile, because my house smells like good food love.
• I can dodge bullets, at least figuratively. When I know a meal’s going to be ready at 6:00, the rest of our schedule seems to fall into place. Homework? Check. Cleaning up the day’s clutter, so we have a place to sit down and eat? Check. Baths? Check.

Maybe this is the way the rest of you feel all the time — you confident, vibrant stay-at-homers who’ve embraced your roles from the get-go, knowing that what you do is valuable and worthwhile. A valid choice. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to get here. Is it because I’ve quit railing against what simply is? Is it because I’ve quit caring so much what others think of me and my choices? Is it because I don’t currently have freelance jobs falling out of the sky?

Hmph.

I still consider myself a feminist. I know that another career awaits me in the near future, when the girls are older.

But, for the moment, I feel happy as I whip efficiently around my kitchen. I feel energized as I blow through mountains of laundry. My heart bursts when I see my girls playing nicely together, looking out for one another, their bellies full of good food that I made.

Much as I’m loathe to admit it, June has me pinned. Round One goes to Beaver’s mom.

I guess that’s why lately, I’m finding beauty in the darnedest places.

The other day on MPR, the announcer closed a segment with a musical clip and accompanying statistic about the Owl City song “Fireflies,” saying it was the most-viewed video on YouTube. (Or something like that — I did note it had over 10 million views at one point. That’s a lot, right?)

I immediately liked the sound of it and wanted to hear more — especially since they said it was written in the artist’s parents’ Minnesota basement. So off I went, in the middle of a hectic school-day breakfast, on a merry hunt for what is now our New Favorite Song.

I say “our” because my girls, ages 7 and 3, are now obsessed with it. We downloaded it and play it constantly, and both of them now know it word-for-word. And I have to say, even though it’s simple, the melody is catchy and the lyrics are sufficiently angst-y. But most interesting of all, it seems to have a beautiful, almost transporting effect on my girls. Concentrating, singing, dancing, twirling, asking questions about what this or that phrase means. If nothing else, this song has provided us with a welcome artistic break in the mundane tasks of living.

(Here’s my older daughter, completely absorbed as she sings along, while the younger one rolls her fists, disco-style, and aims a cheesy grin at the camera. Yeah, when you’re three the whole world’s a stage. I guess she’s not too concerned with any deeper hidden meanings. If there are any.)

Listening to "Fireflies."

Now I’m remembering this summer when we took a trip to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (one of our city’s greatest free attractions). It was a rainy day, and I was inspired by a fellow blogger to bring along our sketchpads, crayons, pencils and markers. My goal was to let the girls lead the way, and stop wherever they wanted to sketch what they saw, write a story… or just whine for food. (Let’s be real here, shall we?) I wanted them to experience art as only a child can — without any preconceived notions of how to do it, whether a piece was “important” (and why), or any hang-ups about not knowing “enough” about art history to really “get it.” (Cripes, can you tell who does have hang-ups?)

Sketching in the Japanese garden.

Should I use the blue or the orange crayon?

We had such a great time, and it was eye-opening to let them call the shots about where we went and what we looked at. I could never guess what would capture their attention next — what is beauty to a seven-year-old, or a three-year-old?

I’ll tell you what the smaller one regards as beautiful. (Cringe.) She took this shot on her own. I’m going to call it “Still Life: Cinderella Takes Her Vitamins So That She Can Work Her Way Through College and Begin a Brilliant Career in the STEM Fields.” Or maybe, “Who Needs a Stinkin’ Prince to Save My Sorry Ass?” Sorry, I digress. More on that another day.

(I think she’s wearing Sleeping Beauty’s dress… so I guess that means all the Disney princesses of the household are now getting along, sharing nicely. Of course, I did see a headless body under the couch the other day. So I can’t be sure.)

Not quite sure how I got from fireflies to sexism in fairy tales (in a post about beauty in the little things, no less), but there you go. Where do you see beauty unexpectedly?