Bunnies don't wear glasses

My daughter was just eating carrots. Without being asked or prompted or begged or bribed. Her sixth birthday was last week and it's as if some switch was flipped; she's proud of being a Big Kid, and she voluntarily seeks out situations where she can demonstrate her new Big Kidness.

She knew I'd be thrilled and so she skipped over so I could watch watch her chomp down happily.

"Look, Mom!" Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

I told her how happy I was, because carrots are so good for you.

"They are good for your skin! And your hair! And your eyes!" I blathered on.

She nodded.

I decided to dial it down a notch, so I said, "I mean, bunnies like carrots, right?"

She nodded again.

"And have you ever seen a bunny with glasses?"

She shook her head, crunching on her carrot.

"So, carrots MUST be good for your eyes, right?"

She nodded and bounced away.

Oh, my. She nodded. And bounced away.

She usually catches me when I try to pull a fast one over on her like that. I thought she'd roll her eyes and say, "Mooooooooooooooom! That's silly!"

But she didn't. She nodded.

And bounced away.

Someday, not tonight, but someday, it will be the last time she buys my goofiness. I won't know it at the time...but it will happen.

I'm glad it wasn't tonight.

Horse Manure!

The other day my twenty-one year old (FBNOML) was enjoying some quality time with my nearly five year-old; they had out my childhood set of plastic horses. I couldn't resist joining them for a couple of minutes, even though my younger one kept asking me if she could have her sister to herself.

I agreed to leave, but not until I showed them the very specific ways I would arrange them when I played with them.

"See," I said. "The Mommy horse goes like this, and the foal is nursing. This one is from a different set, but I always pretended he was the Daddy and I'd kinda curl his head around the Mommy's, because they love each other."

"And this white one rearing up, this one is the playful big brother. I'd always set him here. This other one is the uncle who visits sometimes, his saddle is broken but that's okay. The galloping Appaloosa, he'd be the neighbor."

When I was done, I gazed at my display, remembering how much I loved playing with them as a child. I was never one to play with dolls, but these horses were my babies. At one point I had a beautiful white stable with green trim...the stall doors opened, and the roof came off for a bird's eye view. When it broke during a move I was devastated.

My little girl snapped me out of my reminiscing when she grabbed one of them and announced, "I don't want him to be the uncle. He's a sister."

She continued, "When Emma is here and we are playing with the horses and we want to make the boy horses be girl horses, we just pretend that their penises are poop."

Really, what do you say to that? Moreover, how can you say anything when you are failing miserably at not laughing hysterically?

So I managed a, "Oh, that's very inventive of you two!"

All the while I was thinking, The horses are anatomically correct?

I was also thinking, Man, I wish I would have heard that conversation as the two little girls muddled through the conundrum of just how to explain that little plastic bump on the underside of the boy horses.

Another part was questioning, If you're going to pretend, why don't you just pretend the horse "penis" isn't there?

And yet another part was marveling, How awesome that you two use the word "penis" without hesitation!

But mostly I was wondering, Aren't you afraid the pretend poop is going to fall off?

Ten things I learned from my kids...

1. Take a picture; it lasts longer.
2. You don't need music to dance.
3. Getting the mail is very exciting!
4. It's okay to take two baths a day. Even if you don't need either of them.
5. Sometimes throwing a fit does work.
6. I'm not the perfect parent I thought I would be (see number six).
7. Why my mom drank the milk that I accidentally poured into a glass of ice when I was eight and grossed the rest of us out.
8. That Sesame Street is funny on a whole different level.
9. I spend too much time on the computer.
10. The meaning of life.

Stranger Danger?

When my son, now closing in on ten, was three years old, I had many intense discussions with him about strangers.

Stay away from strangers.

Don't trust strangers.

If a stranger approaches you, run away YELLING even if they know your name!

We even did some role playing; my husband or I pretended that we were the stranger and we used all the best lines on him:

"Hey, kid, wants some candy?"

"Hi, little boy, your Mommy is sick and she wanted me to drive you home."

"Hi there, your Daddy wanted me to pick you up, because he and your Mommy had to take your cat to the doctor."

"Remember me? I work with your Daddy! He wanted me to pick you up and bring you to his office so that you can hang out with him! How fun is THAT?!?!?"

"Hey! I can't find my puppy! He's probably scared; can you help me find my lost puppy?"

After a bit of work, and a few tears, he got it. He learned to be wary of strangers. I was ever so proud of my parenting.

But months after we started our indoctrination, I had a very interesting discussion with a trusted friend of mine. It was one of those moments, one where in one concise statement on her part, I realized that a lot of the "truths" I'd held dear were actually never thoroughly examined.

My friend said, "I don't believe in teaching stranger danger; it's more probable that my kids will need the help of a stranger than it is they will be approached by someone malevolent. It's a more likely a scenario that one of my kids will get lost in a grocery store and need to find an adult to help them."

Whoa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was in preschool, I remember being very comforted by the fact that my mom or dad always picked me up early. For whatever reason, I dreaded the idea of being the last kid waiting for their parents.

And then, one day, it happened. Not only was I the last child waiting, but pick-up time came and went. The sun started setting, and I sat at the big window facing the street waiting for my ride. Eventually the teachers left me in the care of the cleaning lady who'd recently arrived.

(I know this sounds unbelievable by today's standards, but this was the early seventies...times were different.)

It was dark outside, and I continued staring out the window, willing my ride to arrive. I was over the burning shame of being the last one picked up, and starting to be afraid that I was forever forgotten. The cleaning woman was done cleaning the facility and ready to go home.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We were both confused as to how to proceed.

I don't remember much of the ride in her car to her home, other than thinking that my mom would never find me now. When we walked from her front walk into her home and directly into her kitchen, she asked me if I wanted a cookie.

"What kind?" I asked. Even then I was.

"Lorna Dunes," she answered.

Yippee! Lorna Dunes were and are my favorite cookie (I know...BORING).

Once I had my Lorna stash, she asked me if I wanted to watch television.

Uuuuuummm, yeah.

Guess what was on?

MARY TYLER MOORE! Yes, my favorite show. I don't know what it says about me that I was a preschooler whose favorite cookie was (is) Lorna Dunes, and that my fave show was Mary Tyler Moore (okay, that's not true...she was (is) second to Mister Rogers).

Nevertheless, I was a happy little lost girl. I had my favorite cookie and my (second) favorite show. Not long after the show started, my mom arrived. My reaction?

Oh, no, now I can't watch MARY TYLER MOORE!

Turns out that the person who was supposed to pick me up...well, forgot. When this was discovered, a bunch of freaked out adults converged on my preschool. They found a note taped to the front door by the cleaning woman detailing what had happened, and where they could find me.

Find me, they did. They found me all happy with my Lorna Dunes and Mary Tyler Moore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, anyway, after the discussion with my friend, and upon some reflection, I started to wonder how much of a disservice I had done to my son over the past months, what with teaching him that the world is full of bad people that he should avoid.

After that, my stranger danger talks with him (and in more recently, with my daughter) have been far more precise. I haven't taught them that every stranger is dangerous.

I've taught them that, if they are ever in a situation where they need help, there are the strangers they should seek out first.

In my opinion, they should first look for someone in a uniform. For example: policeman, grocery bagger, postal worker, crossing guard, whatever. In all likelihood that person is working, has many eyes on them, and will readily be able to guide a child to a safe place that is set up to help lost children.

My second stringers, so to speak, are moms with kids...especially, moms with strollers and babies. Nothing is a sure bet, but I'd rather my lost child reach out to another mom (in the absence of a person in uniform) with her own passel of kids than the lone person sitting on the park bench reading a novel. For one thing, that mom is probably the safer bet. Also, they are probably more familiar with the procedures for taking care of a lost child, and will know how to comfort them as well.

But I comfort myself by knowing it is far more likely that they will experience the kindness of strangers than the worst that humankind has to offer.

From the I-should-have-known-this Department

This morning my husband told me that our son, who is fast approaching ten, was complaining of a tooth being loose. I checked out the accused chomper which was midway back on the right side, and sure enough, it was loose. Hmmmmmmmmm, I thought to myself, I thought he was done loosing his baby teeth.

I know, having gone to med school that one would think I'd have this type of basic knowledge of the human body. However, I am pretty sure I recall this lecture, and during it I sat in the back playing my Tetris on my GameBoy. Like I always did when forced to go to lectures. Another story for another day.

Anyway, back to this morning. I called out to my husband, "Honey, "does he still have baby teeth to loose?"

"I don't think so," he responded.

So that settled that. One of our our son's adult teeth was officially loose. He recently had a palatal expander removed and the offending tooth was one to which the device was attached, so I figured it was related to that. Just to be a safe and thorough mom (patting self on back), though, I called the orthodontist and they squeezed him early this morning.

I was working in my daughter's preschool (it's a co-op, all parents must participate), so hubby took him to the appointment. As the first couple of hours ticked by, I cooked quesadillas for the children's snacks and worried about my son's teeth.

At just past ten, my husband called.

"It's a baby tooth! You can see the other one coming in behind it. Man, that orthodontist is nice. Oh, and he needs to be more diligent about his brushing and flossing."

(Our son, not the Orthodontist.)

First thought: Phew.

Second thought: How could I not know that my sweet son hadn't lost all of his baby teeth? Forget the medical school bit...how could I, his Momma, be that oblivious? When did those details start slipping out of my grasp? Away from my attention?

Have I been so wrapped up in worrying about money and moving and laundry and whatever to pay attention to the details? The beauty is in the details!!!

And I'm letting him slack on the brushing and flossing.

No longer patting myself on the back.

And they ain't Popeye!

Before I had kids, I had visions of serving healthy meals full of organic produce to my family who would, of course, be thrilled and gobble down every bite.

Yeah. Didn't turn out that way.

If your kids are like mine, they aren't very into a lot of fruits and veggies; in particular, leafy greens. And no amount of pleading, "But they are so GOOD for you!" helps. However, I've devised a sneaky way of incorporating them into their everyday diets without them even knowing! Bwahahahahahaaaaaa! I'll let you in on my secret, but only if you promise not to tell my kids!

I take fresh spinach, or any cooking green such as collard greens or kale, remove any tough or stiff stems, and then chop it up SUPER FINE. That's the key, you need to get the the leaves need to be just this side of pulverized. Actually, I don't literally chop it, I puree the dickens out of it in my food processor. I've also thrown whole spinach leaves into the freezer and crumpled them once frozen; the pieces get pretty small that way, too.

Then I just add it to whatever I'm cooking that's savory: scrambled eggs, soups, pasta or rice dishes, etc. Since the pieces are so small, the spinach flavor is lost amongst it's culinary companions (as long as you don't use too much!) and it is easily overlooked by little ones.

The first time I pulled this fast one on my kids, it was sort of accidental. I'd put some spinach that I'd pulled from the freezer into a stew I'd made. When my son asked, "What's this green stuff in the soup, Mama?" I nonchalantly answered him as vaguely as possible, "Just flavoring and decoration, like parsley." He's used to seeing green flakes in canned soups and whatnot, so he totally bought it. My daughter did, too.

I'm thinking about trying it in their mac-n-cheese.

That might be pushing it.

By the way, I linked this post here...there are other fun and informative tips to be found there! For example, while clicking links, I found this amazing one about self-defense. Coincidentally (or eerily, I dunno but I sure hope not), I was at a similar lecture myself earlier this evening. This post is full of great information...check it out!

(ps...I got the spinach photo from stockxpert. My camera is broken. Nooooooooooooooo!)

Rust Colored Bridge with Barge Passing Underneath...ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter 'R'

Yes, I know it's a stretch...but the Golden Gate Bridge IS a rust color. I am really striving to have each post this month be relevant to what is happening in our lives, so here it is! We spent yesterday at the Bay Area Discovery Museum...I thought about having Clifford be the honorary 'R' (he is the big Red dog, donchaknow)...but as this blog is at its core narcissistic, I chose to go with a symbol more meaningful to me.

I love a lot about that little museum, the least of which is not the unique view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The kids are running around, learning without realizing it...all the while taking in one of the world's most beautiful scenes. MY jaw is open the entire time.

The road to hell, best intentions, blah blah blah

For some reason, I thought tonight would be a good night for my son to have a sleep-over.

And as tomorrow is my daughter's birthday, of course I decided to plan a birthday party. Here. At the new home we've been in for less than a week.

My hope was to keep things as normal as possible, and to quickly create lasting, fun memories in the new house. What I managed to do was create an atmosphere where things -and traditions- were broken.

Must go repair what was broken, and prepare for the party tomorrow.

From the peanut gallery

My son's kindergarten year was just over a month along; I was at pick-up, waiting for him to come out of his classroom, walk under the rose covered trellis in the center of the kindergarten courtyard, and run up to me for a big hug and flash me one of his broad grins.

I was chatting with the other moms, still getting to know this new world of School as Parent Not A Student. Another mom came up and thanked me for some graphic design work I'd done for a charity dear to her heart, a physical and behavioral therapy center for children handicapped either physically or mentally. We went on to discuss my pregnancy (I was seven months pregnant with my daughter) and her other children.

Her youngest had just started preschool. She loved the place, but was considering switching schools, "We got a notice in the mail just before school started; the preschool campus is peanut free because some kid has an allergy. That's ridiculous! My daughter loves peanut butter and jelly. Why should I be inconvenienced because of someone else's kid's problem? I don't care. I'm still sending in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

The words are burned into my memory because I was so incredulous. This is a woman who's middle child, most unfortunately, was born with a constellation of issues which left her developmentally disabled in a variety of ways. This is also a woman who is extremely wealthy, and whose other children attend a very expensive, elite, private school. This is a woman who put her disadvantaged child into the public school system and lobbied heavily (to the point of a lawsuit) for said school system to provide this child with every possible intervention. This is a woman who put this child into kindergarten before this child was remotely ready, with the full intention of having her repeat kindergarten. This is a woman who understood that her child was disruptive in the classroom and whose private aids were a huge financial drain, but felt it was important for her child to be mainstreamed because the other children learn compassion.

This is a woman who told me all of the above. I didn't disagree with her decisions...every parent needs to be an advocate for their children, and needs to follow their conscience to that end.

But in response to her peanut allergy outburst, I said, "You do understand that while it might be a matter of inconvenience to you, it might literally be a matter of life and death for this child, right? A peanut allergy isn't something to mess around with."

"Whatever. It's not my responsibility."

Yup. Hypocrisy incarnate.

During this conversation my hand went protectively to my belly, hugely swollen with pregnancy. This reflexive gesture is one innumerable women throughout the ages have lovingly performed as they carry babies in their wombs, silently and ever so fervently wishing for them to be healthy and happy forever.

My daughter is healthy and infectiously happy.

She does, however, have a peanut allergy (we have no family history, so it was quite the surprise). It sucks so bad.

I'm not one to ask others to sacrifice for my sake. I chose a preschool for her because it is a cooperative and I am allowed to be there with her every day; as I signed her up I knew I could monitor what the other kids ate. I would be there with an Epi Pen if she suffered an anaphylactic reaction and couldn't breath. I could watch her, take care of her, be responsible for her.

As I walked through the gate on the first day of preschool I was thrilled -and nervous- to see a sign loudly proclaiming, "THIS IS A PEANUT FREE SITE."

I had checked a box on one of the bazillion of forms that yes, she has an allergy. I'd noted in the blank, peanuts. That's it, that's all I'd done. Had I raised a red flag that had altered this preschool campus? I didn't want that.

As it turns out there are two other kids at that site with peanut allergies, kids whose parents had advocated for them and requested that peanuts be restricted from snacks served. The school went further than that and asked that on the rare occasion food is sent in with a child that it be peanut free. I cannot tell you the piece of mind that this has brought me. I still am there at snack time, every day (I am almost always there, all day every day)...just in case.

Peanut allergies just aren't seen as serious, for some reason (links are from a blog new to me, these posts of hers prompted me to write about my daughter's peanut allergy). I have my theories as to why that is, but I'm sure it is a conglomeration of issues. That being said, I simply want my daughter to be safe in school.

I hate feeling defensive about my daughter's condition. As if it weren't real. As if I was just being hysterical. It's just Skippy, right?

Series of Fortunate Events

Our little town has an abundance of single lane roundabouts. I love zipping around those traffic circles...the dance of cars merging, rotating, and exiting is just plain fun; it's the mom-in-a-minivan version of a doing donuts in a snowy parking lot. I know, that's pathetic. But I take me thrills when and where I can.

Today as I was circling one of those center islands, I saw a car getting ready to merge. What I DIDN'T see was the driver looking to his left to see if he needed to yield to cars already on the roundabout (that is, ME). Nope, the dude just cruised right into in intersection, arm dangling out the window, face staring straight ahead. I had to slam on the breaks and was forced to stop in the middle of the circle. As I sat there, he slowly turned his head and gave me a look like, "What? Why are you looking at me with your mouth hanging open? And why are you stopped in the middle of the road?"

If I hadn't stopped, if I weren't a paranoid driver that is always anticipating others to be boneheads, that guy would have plowed RIGHT INTO the passenger side of my minivan. Right exactly where my daughter was strapped into her cow-printed car seat, singing to her stuffed animals. I looked back at her and an image flashed in front of my face: that car seat smashed towards the center of the car. Right exactly where my son was sitting engrossed reading The Grim Grotto.

For a split second, my world was over.

But I turned back around and exited the roundabout, my world intact. The worries (financial, financial, and financial) of the moments before Mr. Stupid Driver blithely cut me off were forgotten.

So thank you, Mr. Stupid Driver, for reminding me to put it all in perspective.

Now I need to get back into my exercise routine

When I was in third grade, a girl in my class came up to me at recess and asked me what was wrong; why didn't I want to play on the playground?

"I'm tired," I said.

"Mentally or physically?" she asked.

Mentally or physically? That brought me up short. I hadn't ever thought about the distinction. "Mentally," I realized out loud.

That's how I was yesterday. Utterly drained. Emotionally spent. Just fucking EGGS-hoss-ted. And I haven't had much in the way of reserves left for my son, my daughter, my husband, or oh, yeah...myself.

As I stated earlier, FBNOML has been going through some serious stuff and is facing some big decisions. Since that post her situations has become more convoluted, more wrenching, more weighty...which actually clarifies her situation to me, but complicates it for her. Her future will be bright someday no matter what, but I just want for her to need those shades sooner rather than later. I can advise her, and I do when she wants me to..but ultimately as much as I'd like to I can't make the decisions for her. It's like letting go of that bike seat for the first time your child doesn't have training wheels; you know they can balance, but they just *might* fall. Especially when they realize you aren't holding on anymore.

Not that I resent a second of it. It's the essence of parenting, this worry, this visceral love that elevates your kids and their needs above all else.

But, it is hard sometimes.

There is more than just this situation that has left me yesterday a quivering protoplasmic mass of psychic fatigue. One of my closest friends has had some issues of her own; I've stepped in the past couple of weeks as a part-time nanny for her two children (10 months and 3 years). I don't mind this a bit, either...for isn't that the essence of friendship, to swim through the bad times together as well as the good?

Anyway, all of this has left me with too little time for myself and my youngest children, and also without the resources to provide them with A. FUN. SUMMER! which had been my hope. Instead, I have been letting them watch too much TV and play too much GameCube while I too often turn to my computer for some Brain Candy Downtime (like my new header?) while I try to recharge.

This morning I woke up while my husband was still home; I hopped in the shower (I KNOW!) and decided my son and daughter and I were going to have a mini-excursion. Not a big deal, just some simple summer fun. We donned our sunblock/helmets/harnesses (oh yeah, we brought the cutest puppy EVER as well)/gear as appropriate and headed a mile or so to a local, independently owned coffee shop. They know us there, and always manage to find a croissant in the back for my daughter even if they are sold out. We sat outside, chatted and laughed and fed the cutest puppy EVER our scraps.

Life IS good. Everyone will be fine. This I know.

CPQ (no, it's not a new shopping channel)

I have more than one...oh, let's call them Cute Personality Quirks. Today I was faced with one of them. Maybe more, I'm not sure.

My son was was not just bored, he was BORED!!! He'd reached the screen time cut-off (that is, no more TV, GameCube, or computer for the day). He'd read for a couple of hours. He'd jumped on the trampoline. There was NOTHING TO DO, as apparently all of his toys are BORING.

Then he gets a call from a buddy; his father wants to take the two of them golfing.

Gulp.

The thing is, I get weird about my kids being in cars with other people. More than weird; I get anxious. What if? What if? What if??? I have driven on every single field trip of his, from Kindergarten all the way through third grade (except the few in which my husband participated), just to avoid this scenario.

But my son and his friend are taking golf lessons together, and this boy's father and I have carpooled to and from the lessons; the course isn't too far away and so it's within my comfort zone. I sucked it up and said, "Yeah, sure."

Then the father follows up with this one, "We're going to try a new course, over in Town-Twenty-Some-Miles-Down-The-Highway."

I didn't sign up for that. It's one thing to take my kid three miles away, but on the highway? AT RUSH HOUR? How's a paranoid mama like me supposed to deal?

A friend was with me, a friend who knows me well. She's mouthing at me, "Let him go. He'll be fine. Let him go. He'll be fine. Let him go. He'll be fine. Let him go. He'll be fine"

I told the dad that before I gave a final okay I'd need to check with my husband. HA! As if that's how our family works! I was really calling him to see if he could come up with a good excuse to get me out of the pickle into which I'd cornered myself. He just said, "I am sure it would be fine, but if you aren't comfortable with it just say no." Thanks a helluva lot...I need a better excuse than that. I mean, Just Say No? How 80's!

Ultimately, I knew I was being selfish and overprotective and unreasonable, so with a lump in my throat I told my son he could go. And how much fun you're going to have!

As we waited for him to be picked up, I put sunscreen on my boy's face, helped him get his golf gear in order, hugged him and kissed the top of his head, handed him his baseball cap, told him to wear his seatbelt (to which he looked at me as if I was insane; it would never occur to him to NOT wear it), and kept saying, "HAVE A GREAT TIME!"

I can't tell you how incredibly thrilled I was when five minutes later as the dad was picking him up, he informed me that he had decided to stay in town...traffic and all, you know.

Once I was back inside, my friend told me about how it was for her, growing up with a paranoid and overprotective parent. Her mom was always so concerned about something horrible happening to her kids she didn't allow them to do a lot of fun things. Like golfing with a friend, for example. The more I thought about it, the more I knew it was the right thing for me to do, to override my Cute Personality Quirk...to shed my selfishness and ignore my discomfort in order to allow him to HAVE SOME FUN.

As I typed the above, the phone rang. It was my son (ThankGodheisokay); he told me that they are on the eighth hole and then he exclaimed, "Can we have a sleepover?" My son, who just turned nine, has had literally over a hundred sleepovers here, but only once has he been willing to spend the night at someone else's home once...and not this Friend's home. So when he asked for asked for a sleepover I assumed that he meant at our home, so I answered, "Yeah, sure." See a pattern emerging?

My suddenly independent little boy said, "I don't care, but Friend wants to sleep at his house." This friend is a nice enough kid, but I don't know him or his family very well. Is this another Cute Personality Quirk, or just me being a good parent?

Really, how am I to know?

All we want is a pepsi, just one pepsi

There is someone I haven't told you about. I have a daughter who is twenty. I met her dad when she was five; I met her when she was six. The past couple of weeks for her have been laden with major decisions about the path her life will take. They have consumed me. And her.

Us.

I understand her like I understand few. She gets me as well. My FBNOML, which is the temporary pseudonym she and I concocted for here (first to figure out that acronym will win the prize of knocking my socks off, and I will give you the hint that there could be a comma after the "B"), and I can look at each other across the room and *know* what the other is thinking. We can have whole conversations without speaking a word.

FBNOML read my blog for the first time this weekend (and thrilled me to tears when she laughed out loud as she went through it). She had a blog years before I started my first; it would just be wrong for me to write about her in this forum without her being properly introduced.

My friends, this is FBNOML. FBNOML, this is my internet gang.

Smell my fingers

There has been a whole lotta pukin' goin' on in this house this week. First my son, now my daughter. Me, I've been tired and a bit under the weather, but so far nothing projecting from any of my orifices which I usually consider to be a good thing.

More than a couple of times today I had to use my hands as an emergency bowl when my daughter was caught unawares of emanating puckage. Unfortunately, the cup runneth over so I have a ton of laundry to do.

On other appliance notes...our dishwasher broke down yesterday. YUP! The warranty *just* expired! We had considered renewing the extended warranty, but if we had the thing would still be working so no worries.

No horses were harmed in making this post

"Hey Mom! Look at what I can do! It's so cool!"

My daughter proceeds to wipe her nose on the palm of her hand, slap said palm down onto one of the playing cards spread out in front of us, and then waves at me like a prom queen on a parade float, "My boogers are glue!"

"Hmmmmmm..." is all I can come up with, because I am trying not to laugh.

"What did she say?" my son asks as he sits down to join the game.

"You don't want to know, honey."

The (First*) Cable Guy

The other day we switched our phone lines so that we had cable, internet, and phone from one provider (plus it saves money! Yippee!). When the cable guy arrived I opened the front door and was greeted by a lovely plume of second hand smoke so strong I thought for a second he was squirreling a lit cigarette behind his back.

I let him in and lead him where the Ethernet fraternizes with the cable and phone and cap this and thats and say, "Have at it; I will be upstairs with my daughter. Call me if you need me."

Fifteen or so minutes later I hear, "Ma'am?"

Ugh, Ma'am'ed.

I scurry down to see what the matter is, and he proceeds to tell me how our house isn't correctly wired for the job. We'd need to rewire EACH individual phone jack, and he isn't allowed to do that. We'll have to hire an independent electrical company to come in...shouldn't run us more than a few hundred.

Our house is four years old, and we paid a ridiculous amount so that ANY wiring needs we might ever possibly, conceivably, potentially have in the future were already in place. So, I ask him to explain EXACTLY how it is that our house isn't up to snuff. My swell cable guy went on to explain how yadda this wire yadda that wire blah that blah not correct ahem.

What he was saying didn't make any sense to me, but then I not the most fluent in Wiring Speak. So I admitted that I just didn't know what he was talking about (my polite way of saying YOU ARE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE).

He said, "Well, like I tell my daughter, you're beautiful so you don't need to be smart."

I can't tell you how incredibly relieved I felt to hear those words. What a burden lifted off my shoulders. I don't NEED to be smart. I am a female (which is what he meant by beautiful, believe me) and so I'm off the hook.

But wait! There's more!!! Later as he was leaving he felt the need to reiterate, "My wife always slaps me when I say this, but I am going to go ahead and say it anyway. If you're not smart, it's hard to understand."

Inwardly I just rolled my eyes. I didn't care what this guy thought of me and didn't feel the need to defend myself. He wasn't trying to be a jerk and in fact was trying in his ass-backward way to make me feel better about not understanding what he was saying. But my nearly nine year-old son was nearby; I didn't want to leave the impression that it was okay for people to talk to others that way. However, I *knew* the guy was just being folksy in the best way his one and a half standard deviations below average IQ would allow him.

So I just handled it the way I would have if my son hadn't been there. I smiled and nodded, thanked him, and showed him the door. Then I used it as a "teaching moment" (more rolling of internal eyes) and we discussed the difference between the words smart and ignorant, and the irony in the cable guy using the term incorrectly. We also talked about the whole sticks and stones vs. breaking bones theory and when to apply it, and a few other things as well.

I'm glad I didn't alter my behavior because I had my son as an audience. I've always trusted my instincts and they have generally served me well; parenthood isn't the time to stop. At least that is what my gut tells me.

*More irony: the cable guy totally messed up the wires when he as here. He managed to not only NOT install our new phone service, but to disconnect our old one. I discovered within thirty second of him leaving that were left without phone and internet (!!!) service. We managed to get the cable company to come back later that evening and the new cable guy had everything up and running in less than half an hour. Seems we didn't need to rewire EACH phone jack after all.

Des Kids

Detroit 1992, give or take a year. Penn & Teller had just performed; at the end of the show rather than exiting the stage to the wings, they instead hopped off it, walked up the aisles and out into the lobby. There they hung out chatting and autographing whatever surface was thrust at them. Me, I had the clichéd reaction of being caught off guard when I first heard the ironically named Teller speak.

At that time when I met a celebrity I usually pretended I didn't recognize them, but this time I decided to put my false pride aside. I fished around my purse and pockets for something that could be written on for an autograph; I came up with a cigarette. When I held it out to Penn to sign, he gratefully looked it and said, "I'd love one. Just let me finish up with these."

After the last person walked away, he came over with Teller and happily lit up the no-longer-meant-to-be-a-keepesake cigarette. We puffed and laughed; eventually I fessed up to them that I had originally hoped they would *sign* the cigarette, and asked if they'd mind doing so now.

That was a few lifetimes ago...but throughout the years and all of the changes I have kept that Marlboro Light that with the red felt-tipped marked PENN and Tell~~ (the -er were just a couple of squiggles as the pen slipped off the cylinder).

I tend to be pretty sentimental, and so I am constantly struggling with paring down drawers and closets full of mementos. Suffice it to say I have saved things I should have tossed, and tossed things I wished I had saved.

Somehow this little ciggy with PENN and Tell~~ has survived many purges. I'd moved many times: in college as an undergrad then grad school student (with and all of the apartment hopping/roommate switching inherent therein), and then later after I married and we upped our living quarters a couple of times ultimately culminating in a cross-country move. The ciggy survived. I stuck it in an old wooden pencil box I'd bought at an estate sale, and rarely thought about it unless I stumbled across that box. When I did the PENN and Tell~~ was such a concrete reminder of a different time that it always made me smile (plus it was proof that yes, I did make the comedians laugh).

Earlier today my daughter stumbled across that pencil box while I folded laundry just a few feet away. Ordinarily I keep that most special pencil box out of reach of the kiddies, but today was the day our cleaners were here (YES. I have a cleaning service come once a week. I KNOW.) and things get shuffled around...generally not a problem other than aesthetic. But today I heard my girl apologetically sing behind me, "Sah-reeeeeeeeeeeee."

What I saw surprised me nearly as much as hearing Teller speak; she got her hands on that decade-and-a-half-old Marlboro Light and promptly made waste of it.

Ruined. A NATIONAL TREASURE.

Gone.

I had three random irrational thoughts in rapid succession: (1.) I might have well as smoked it that time in med school when I was totally stressed out and jonesin' for a ciggy (2.) I wonder if I can tape it back together and save it (3.) CRAP! What if this was actually valuable and I could have sold it on ebay and paid off my student loans.

I took the cigarette shrapnel and carried it to our master bedroom bath. I threw it into the toilet. Flushed. My low-flow toilet rejected it (I know I shouldn't have flushed it but I did). I added some toilet paper, flushed again, and waited. This time it worked. I literaly watched PEN and N and Te and ll~~ each one! swirl away down the ceramic funnel. Good-bye momento.

Our lives change when we have kids...those of us who have had them know how much, those of us who haven't think we are being dramatic or perhaps indulgent when we say as much. I had my son at the early age of 32; it was early for my Detroit crowd, many of whom are just starting families. Having him meant my husband and I were no longer able to spontaneously meet them at the Magic Bag for a Brew 'n View, or decide to catch a show at St. Andrews Hall, or any one of those things we did when our time is our own. It's all good, just different.

Who we once were pre-breeder is still us, and the mementos that remind us of that are important. We don't cease being person who thought, "I wonder if I will have kids, and if so...WHAT kind of a parent will I be?? WHO will my children be?" WHERE? WHY? HOW? WHEN?

That silly little cigarrette was a reminder of who I was before I knew what the answers to those questions were. When I flushed it, I didn't mind saying good-bye to the freedom those questions represented. I just felt bad I no longer would have that concrete reminder of the girl I once was who wondered who I would be today.