Six years ago, this night, in a nesting frenzy that may never again be equaled, I cut, colored, pasted and embellished sixty Christmas cards while waiting for the pains of labor to grow strong enough. At 2AM I finished the last of the cards, bent over at the waist and sweating, yanked Delta out of bed and headed for the hospital. My little Phi-Phi, two weeks late already, was on the way. She made her grand entrance at 9:27 and she didn't make a sound. Having been there before, I waited, panting, for the doctor to put her in my arms, but nobody did. A hush fell over the room. I looked forward to the doctor, wondering, and in one long, dragging, heart breaking moment I saw my tiny blue baby girl, wet and still, engulfed in the blue surgical scrubs the doctor wore. I looked over at Delta, saw a tear in his eye and wondered again why nobody moved. And then the room erupted in ordered chaos. In one continuous motion the doctor found her scissors, cut the cord and whisked my Phi-Phi over to the NIC cart brought in for high-risk babies. My eyes ceased to function. I could hear the swishing crinkle of the gowns the doctors and nurses wore, murmured instructions,sucking sounds and rubber soled shoes on hospital linoleum. I could feel Delta's hand on my forehead and on my cheek, could feel the shivery heat and emptiness that immediately follows childbirth. But I can't remember seeing a single thing. Then from the corner of the room came the tiniest, reediest little lamb-cry, slow at first but gaining confidence. I don't remember the moment my eyes worked again, but it must have been when the doctor brought Phi-Phi to me, barely wrapped in a blanket, eyes squeezed shut and mouth working overtime. Her entrance was quiet, but in true Phi-Phi style. Full of drama, with a couple of twists, and done completely her way. And that's the way it's been ever since. Happy sixth birthday little one.

I recently discovered the magical world of itunes. That fact, coupled with pounds of cut-rate CD-RW's from a brother-in-law who manages a certain store specializing in such products has turned me into a song burnin' machine. I burn so many CD's that itunes feels it necessary to remind me from time to time that I must pace myself lest I succumb to the underworld of piracy. I've spent the last 2 hours re-discovering all the songs that ever moved me. How could I have ever forgotten them? A forgotten song is truly a vehicle of time travel. Having 26 songs, all from distinctly different instances, is an overwhelming buffet of memories. I can't tell if I'm happy or sad or nostalgic or relieved. Not that I would know or anything, but I kinda feel like the eighth hour of an acid trip. Lord have mercy.

I would write but watching a clip of K-Fed's performance at the Teen Choice awards has left my brain physically and chemically incapable of forming a complete

Besides, I just found out my Phee-Phee, at 5 years old, can add double digits in her head. The Gods have smiled upon

Strange Things Happen to Me.

I was flipping through my dayplanner today, searching for the place where I wrote out the battle plan for Phee-Phee's upcoming birthday party and I noticed that between today and July 20th (Where I eventually located the SMEAC) some pretty weird things have happened.

One day in July I went on a picnic here with OHM. Phee-Phee wanted to see the inside of this chapel on the way back from the porta-potty. I accidentally broke in, set off the alarm, summoned the Framingham Police who came screeching into the parking lot, weapons at the ready, while I stood there looking both sheepish and guilty and Phee-Phee screamed "My MOMMY DID IT!" at the top of her over-competent little lungs.

Then the other day, yesterday actually while we were on our scary book buying errand (thanks ALB) Our new gecko escaped from it's box. (Our old gecko died despite our hand feeding - may he rest in reptile peace) He wedged himself inside the door frame. While I was standing outside assessing the situation (Listening to Ya-Ya wail and watching my father cower like a little girl -sorry Dad, but it's true) a well-dressed, impeccably groomed man walked by.
"Need some help?" he asked.
"Are you afraid of gecko's?" I answered.
"OOOOOOOOOH I wish you'd said that was a dog. No matter. Tell me what to do."
"Well, when I open the door you catch the gecko and put it back in it's little box." I said.
"What is that? A take-out box? Gecko's come in takeout?"
"Yeah, it's the number four lunch special at Lotus Flower."
"Ok. Wait a minute. Let me go all the way back to my car six blocks away and get the special box I use to trap reptiles and snakes."
"Okay, thanks."
***Ten minutes Later***
"Ready. Open the door," he said, positioning plastic shoe box under threshold. I opened the door, the gecko leaped into a puddle and the man captured him in the box.
"HOORAY!!!" We all cheered. (By now a crowd had gathered. Thank God I cleaned my car last week.)
But then our cheering gave way to perplexity. How to get the gecko from the upside-down box to the take out box? The man decided to lift up the box and grab the gecko.
"It is kinda cute, afterall" he said.
BUT, the gecko we bought is a gecko of alarming speed. Perhaps the speediest, shrewdest gecko of all creation. He hauled his little ass across the parking lot, the crowd erupted in shrieks.
"Oh God DAMN IT!!! Shit, shit shit shit shit DAMN!" the man cried. I ran to the next car over, where I'd last seen him go, the man ran to the other side and my father ran to the front. We had the gecko cornered. My own fear of actually having to touch the thing made me chase it with my arms over to the man who was determined not to let him get away a second time. He grabbed him, held him squiggling but triumphant over his head. The sun broke through the clouds, a chorus of angels sang hallelujahs, the crown gasped in awe. The gecko was caught. The I bought the man a tea and a cookie, thanked him, knighted him, announced him to the crowd as a hero amongst gecko's, everyone clapped and we all went on like nothing happened.

So, thanks for not shooting me FPD and thanks for rescuing the gecko, Well-Dressed Gecko Man.

I'm off to get Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark because the Angry Little Bitch said so. And it's wise to obey anything an angry little bitch says to do. I'm really excited, got a good feeling about this one. Usually I make up my stories, but this time I'm going to memorize one from the book. Ya-Ya is excited too because I told her that I'm going to scare her back to the womb. But then I thought about that. Having a nine year old of exceptional height climb back into the womb would be only slightly less comfortable than disemboweling myself with a plastic fork. Probably wouldn't help much with mine and Delta's race to lose ten lbs either. Unless she brought with her a kidney and a couple of ribs on her way back out. Or, in accordance with (K) Angry Little Bitch's comment, my liver.

We're some camping fools now. For us, the word weekend is synonymous with "sleep outside of house." We only say weekend because it's shorter. I realized that my favorite part of camping is the part where I tell a story or two that scares the living shit out of my children. I wonder if this is a character flaw on my part. My girls like what they call "scared silly" stories, the kind that are real scary but then end up with someone shooting off their big toe or finding a pink jellybean and then everyone goes "AWWWWWWWWW" and slaps their forehead. Or they would, but I always seem to forget the silly part so my people usually end up in tears with their hands over their ears. That being said, does anyone know any good campfire stories?? We're going camping this weekend.

Tonight I went on a ghosthunt with the Ghosthunter. I'd write about it, but I think I'm possessed.

Yesterday I went mountain biking for my first time ever. It is, by all outward appearances, deceptively simple. It's just riding a bike, right? Right. Riiiggghhhttttt. Perhaps if one is not towing a thirty plus pound human behind one's bike in a rickshaw built for roads over tree roots and boulders and massive lumps of earth surrounded by four foot moats of hellish sand. A small measure of cardiovascular endurance would also have come in handy. At least Tiarra found ways to amuse herself, most of which were at my expense. "Oh dear," she would lament from time to time, "Didi is in front of us again." Then she would sigh loudly and make a big show of using her brakes.

The kids did remarkably well. My Phee-Phee is supernatural. How else could I explain the cliffs she flew over, completely unseated during the soaring potion yet pedaling strong when the tires hit the rocky earth? (Also, from time to time her head spins. That's the real clincher.)And Ya-Ya? She was nowhere to be seen, off racing into the sunset with her dear friend Tee. Oscar survived too. She was by far the most encouraging person, saying things like "Slow DOWN Mommy!" completely amazed by what seemed like throttling speed to her but in reality was, well, in a word, pitiful.

Also, I am reading the BEST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ IN MY LIFE! It's this one, and I highly recomend it.

Go ahead and try to find scotty dog fabric. You won't be able to because I bought the only fabric left on the planet earth and used it to make curtains for our new camper. And you know, it had to be scotty dog fabric since we are upping the kitsch factor in our scotty highlander camper. Which is really funny since it was made in 1976, the year I was born and Delta's real name is highlander and he's a Sotsman. Kind of like, serendipity.