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?

More from the Peanut Gallery (or, Peanut Allergies Suck)

When my daughter was eighteen months old, I left her with a friend while I ran a couple of errands (had to pick up my eyeglasses, and zip to the local running shop to buy some paraphernalia for my upcoming half marathon). It was the first time I was leaving her with someone other than a family member, and I was ridiculously nervous.

My friend, whose daughter was (and still is) bestest friends with mine assured me that she'd hover over my girl as much as she does hers. I thought to myself, It's only thirty minutes, she'll be fine.

Twenty-five minutes later, as I hopped into my minivan, heaving a sigh of relief because I was headed towards my girl and could scoop her into my arms in mere minutes, my cell phone rang.

It was my friend, "Does your daughter have a peanut allergy?" she asked.

"I don't think so; we've never let her have peanuts. Why?" I answered.

"Just wondering. I have some granola bars here that have peanuts in them. Wanted to know if I could let her have one."

"No, please don't. I am keeping her away from peanuts until she is three. I have food allergies; I am super paranoid!"

At this point I was nearing her house, so we hung up.

When I got inside, the rest of the story was made clear to me.

My friend, who loves my daughter dearly, asked me, "Does her lip look swollen?"

Sure enough, my daughter's lower lip was swollen, just on the right side. My friend had given the girls a granola bar to share; as soon as my daughter put a bite to her mouth, her lip swelled up.

Thankfully my friend was savvy enough to know what was going on. She confiscated the bars, and watched my daughter with a hawk's eye. She's CPR trained, was at one time a First Responder, so she knew what she was doing, and what was going on. Her call to me was as much about finding out my location and how soon I'd be arriving as anything.

We watched my girl for hours; I called the pediatrician and followed their instructions. Later that week a trip to the allergist confirmed that not only did my daughter have a peanut allergy, but a severe one.

How could that have happened? An allergic reaction never happens on the first exposure to a substance. It takes at least one prior exposure for the body to build an immune response...the first time is always a gimmee. I had never given my daughter peanut butter, or any peanut product in the past.

Or had I?

Peanut oil is widely used in a variety of products, and machinery that processes peanuts also processes other products that don't have peanut ingredients. Clearly my sweet girl had been exposed to peanuts at least once prior.

Labelling has come a long way. Now companies are required to inform consumers if their product has peanuts in them; many go beyond that requirement and add if the product shares equipment with peanut products, or if the facility processes peanuts. I am eternally grateful for that; reading labels has become FIRST nature to me.

I understand that peanut butter is a staple in most US households. It's a great source of protein, most kids love it, it's convenient and inexpensive. I'd urge you, however, to hold off on serving it to your young children until they reach an age where you are certain they won't develop a sensitivity to it.

What is that age? It's unclear...I'd say six is a fairly safe bet. Not for sure, but probably fine.

The problem with a peanut allergy is, one time the child might have symptoms that are so mild they go unnoticed. The same for the next ten times. Or forever.

Or, they might get a swollen lip. The same for the next ten times. Or forever.

But...they might get a swollen lip, and then the next time go into anaphylactic shock, be unable to breath and suffer other serious system failures.

And die.

There is just no telling.

Peanut allergies are notorious for being totally unpredictable. They can come out of seemingly nowhere, and there is no way to know what will happen with the next exposure. Might be fine. Might not.

Next year my daughter is supposed to start Kindergarten. I don't know what I will do...frankly, with a life threatening allergy, I can't say I'm all too keen on the idea of assuming that she'll be fine.

The last time I did that, we discovered her allergy. She was in good, loving, capable hands.

What if the next time, she's not?

If I'm not mistaken, today was the first time I kissed a French woman

This morning was the last day of my daughter's preschool class; as it was a special day, and a bittersweet one at that, it was a session primarily without restraints. The kids needed it, the parents needed it, and the teachers needed it.

A lot of the parents worked; I took the reigns in the kitchen. Instead of a set snack time, the kids were allowed to wander into the kitchen and nibble whenever they wanted. I scoured the cupboards and the refrigerator, gathering foodstuff that wouldn't survive the lonely summer months without the laughter of children echoing beyond the closed door of their dark shelves.

I set a table as if I were entertaining company; because really, I was. In the center I arranged bowls overflowing with pretzels and popcorn and sliced apples and goldfish and raisins and all manner of yummy preschool delights. In a nod to being a bit fancy, I schmeared generous amounts of cream cheese on flour tortillas, rolled them up, cut them sushi style, and decorated a platter with them (the kids weren't impressed, but the other volunteering parents gobbled them up).

As I scavenged, cut, poured, rolled and decorated, I watched through the kitchen windows at the children playing outside. There were games played, faces painted, tokens liberally handed out which were then exchanged for "prizes," and of course plenty of cameras flashing.

My daughter flew around the yard, her golden hair (which, par for the course, she refused to allow me to capture in a a pony tail as we got ready for our day), flying behind her. She clutched a paper bag with her name on it; when she first found it in her cubby she wanted nothing to do with it, but once she understood it would soon be filled with trinkets, she was all over it.

She had a rainbow painted on her forehead; that fact made me thrilled because it was a testament to how she's blossomed over the past months. The shy little girl who had started in this school last fall, no matter how much she might have wanted to join in, would have never gathered around a table begging, "Me next! Me next!"

When the morning was drawing to a close, I cleaned up the kitchen and joined my daughter and her class on the big carpet, to gather round for one last time to sing songs and say good-bye. Almost every child was sitting on the lap of a parent; as I looked around I realized how lucky these children are to be in a community with such active and involved parents.

Songs were sung, dances danced, smiles and hugs exchanged.

When it came time for the last song, it was one I hadn't heard before at our school. At first it seemed like another sweet preschool song, which it is...but it isn't just another sweet preschool song. As I listened to the teacher sing, and I allowed to words to seep in, I realized it was a love song she was singing to each and every one of our children, and the class as a whole.

"I remember when you couldn't count to three.

I remember when you were only as high as my knee.

I remember when you were learning how to sit.

I will always love you, every little bit."

Her voice was cracking, and she was putting up a valiant effort against the tears that were straining to be released. The tears were coursing down mine as soon as I looked at her and understood how hard it was for her to let this class go. Around me a lot of the mothers and fathers were also reaching for tissues.

I stayed around late, along with some of the other working parents, to help clean up. When it was time for us to leave, I hugged my daughter's teacher good-bye, and gave her a smooch on her cheek. I resisted the urge to go all European on her and kiss her other cheek, and back again,

"Thank you so much for all you've done this year," she said in her gorgeous Parisian accent.

I think I was able to squeak out my own thank-yous without shedding too many tears.

Schmorgasboard...that's right. Schmorgasboard.

Things that have been going on in my little neck of the blogosphere:

1.) A few nights ago, while traversing the stairs, my feet forgot that they were navigating the darkness of our new home...muscle memory took over and they thought they were in our old house, which had far deeper steps. My heal landed on the step rather than my entire foot. I landed with a resounding THUD on my coccyx.

That's right, I bruised my tailbone. Man, it hurts to sneeze.

2.) My husband was out of town on Mother's Day (he was back in Detroit enjoying some quality time with his own Mama and siblings). My nine year-old son, being the sweetheart he is to the core, surprised me with breakfast in bed.

Now, honestly, it isn't a surprise when I get breakfast in bed from Hubby & kids on Mother's Day. They do surprise me randomly throughout the year, however. I KNOW! I am very lucky.

Anyway, my sweet boy brought me the most wonderful breakfast in bed EVER. Buttered toast, a waffle lovingly cut into bite-sized pieces with a lavish dose of syrup, and a big old glass of Ovaltine (yyyyuuuuummmmm...Ovaltine. I'll take that over chocolate milk any day).

Then my four year-old daughter wanted in on the action, so they went downstairs together and came back up with a tray with a glass of apple juice for each of us. On the count of three we toasted, "I love you!"

3.) I googled FBNOML's new boyfried while she and I were on the phone. She was fine with it, and expected no less of me. Sigh. I crazy miss her.

4.) Yesterday, I decided to splurge on myself for the first time since I bought those jeans, an took my kids to a bookstore with the intention of buying a book by an author I recently discovered (it seems I have been living under a bridge). I can't tell you what an indulgence this was...I just don't spend extraneous money ever. They had at least a half dozen of her novels, and I literally walked away with each one of them at one point or another during our time there; I couldn't decide which one I wanted.

Would you believe that today, I went to a friend's house and she handed me that book and told me she thought I'd like it? The same book I'd just bought? After a gut-wrenching decision to spend a measly fifteen bucks???

Yeah, I'm returning the book. But now, I have to figure out if The Universe is telling me that I made a mistake to spend that money, giving me a mulligan, and thus I should take a refund, or giving me the thumbs up on indulging myself in this way by giving me a bonus novel.

5.) My daughter (the four year-old) broke her collarbone. Typing those words is like nails on a chalkboard to me. She was playing with her big brother and one of his friends. It seems his friend forgot that she is five years younger and fourty pounds lighter than he is. He's a sweet kid, but...anyway, one three hour ER trip later, and my princess (Is it horrible that I call her princess? I know it has all kinds of sexist over- and under-tones, yet I say it all the time. What can I say? She is my princess.) is sporting a sling. A sling we decorated with beads and hearts and all kinds of other wonderful stuff.

But still, it's a sling. On my little girl.

6.) I've wondered if I should have pseudonyms for my youngest kids...FBNOML has hers (although despite the fact neither one of us are certain as to how that would actually be pronounced), but the two young'uns have been outta luck.

7.) Three out of five Painted Lady butterflies in their little habitat on our counter prefer to be out of their chrysalis (including the one I thought would be the runt!). Thus far. I'll keep you posted.

Destroy Words

My four year-old is soooo post-modern.

Earlier today I was on my elliptical, and my four year-old daughter kept asking me how to spell the words "destroy" and "words." She was playing on Word Paint, and frankly I was getting a bit annoyed having to spell and respell the same words over and over.

Hours later, I found this on my laptop screen:



See what she did there? She destroyed words. Including the words "destroy words."

In the words of a former filibusterous acquaintance (who unendingly bragged about how advanced her children were, but would cut you off and roll her eyes when you mentioned the fact that your kid, oh I don't know, stopped eating their own boogers), "Oh, Chris, I'm sure your kid is a genius."

(She still eats her boogers. I'm proud of that, too.)

Sigh.

Remember FBNOML? I haven't talked about her much recently...mostly because as she's twenty years-old, I kinda I figure I owe her some privacy. FBNOML is my first born; although I didn't meet her until she was six. She is my daughter from my husband's first marriage but there is nothing step about our relationship...we have such a tight bond that sometimes WE can't believe we aren't related biologically. We understand each other so well that it's borderline scary. We can and do have lengthy conversations merely by locking eyes. It freaks my husband out. FBNOML and I just laugh. She's amazing.

She'd been going through a lot of stuff this past summer, facing big decisions. No, not just big, but HUGE life-altering decisions. It is so hard to watch your kids struggle and be unable to fix things for them. For her, gone are the days when a kiss on a boo-boo and some snuggle time can make it all better (although, sometimes, that's what a mom NEEDS to do...she lets me. I told you she's amazing).

Some of her choices went against my best judgment, other times they broke my heart, usually I was in total agreement, but always I was proud. One of her decisions took her across the country; she's going to a university in another state, living with relatives, repairing some relationships. It's been difficult, to say the least, not having her around, but she was right. She made the right decisions. Every last one of them. To say I am proud is such a gross understatement it's comical.

She just spent a week staying with us; early this afternoon my husband drove her to the airport. My four year-old daughter was sobbing because her big sister was leaving; I was barely keeping it together. My son went in the other room and began to play Pink Panther on the piano.

Ugh.

I miss her already.

I am a whore.

Lookie at me as a baby! As my old bio thing over there -----------> used to say when that picture was my avatar, I feel the same way today as I did when that picture was taken.

Anyway, if you click on the humongous image, you be redirected via the magick of the interwebs to my long-neglected CafePress shop. There you will find some of the photos you've seen here (or not) plastered on fun stuff like cards and mugs and even the occasional tee.



Check back there often (do I need to remind you who's boss?)(how many times can I bring that up and not be annoying? Oh, I've already crossed that bridge? Tough! Refer to last link) as I'll be adding stuff regularly. At least, that's my plan right now. I'll keep you posted (Get it? Posted? Because this is a blog post?).

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

In other news, my daughter is hooked on the notion of making me a Special Snack...she begs me to let her make on daily. Today's concoction was especially enticing. It composed of a salad, a drink, and a side of bread with cream cheese and butter. The drink was freshly squeezed orange juice (I cut the orange for her, she squeezed the orange halves...that was my only participation; otherwise I wasn't allowed to look), a handful of cheerios, and some carrot sticks. Yes, I sampled it.

Ahhhh...but the salad. That was the show stopper. My little sweetie knows I love spinach salads, so she started with that as the foundation. She threw in some cheerios, because who doesn't LOVE CHEERIOS, plus as she'd used that in my drink I'm sure she wanted to coordinate the flavors. Similarly, the salad had some orange juice and carrot sticks. Actually, now that I think of it, perhaps it was a stew? Or soup? Regardless, the dish also had some cream cheese, mustard, and apple slices left over from an earlier snack of hers. Delish (No, I only pretended to eat that)! I'm thinking I should send the recipe to Pioneer Woman so she can use it in one of her recipe posts. It's all about supporting my fellow bloggers.

P.S.: My daughter just took my drink and is adding ketchup to my drink, not that I peeked.

I've been so busy...

...I feel like I'm reliving NaBloPoMo. Except that the things that are keeping me so cRaZy busy are totally NOT related to blogging. I've been so absent from blogging that my mom started to get worried.

I think I've mentioned that I chaired my daughter's preschool auction...it was last week (the week before? after?). A crap load of work but SO fulfilling and exciting. And successful (yippee!).

I'm pretty sure I also mentioned that I've been doing some home staging. Super exciting...and I get PAID for it. Quite well in fact. DUDE (that's so funny, I just misspelled Dude as Duce, now I get it), don't tell anyone but I'd do it for free! Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

I know I've also mentioned my new gig at Domestic Divas. Now, I don't claim to be domestic nor a diva, yet I'm cocky enough to take on the challenge. I am their Health Editor (note the CAPS...who's fancy? I'm fancy!). Wanna go check out my first two efforts?

*Channeling my inner Chuck Norris*Why are you hesitating? Go read it!

MOST Delicious. Snack. Ever

A couple of hours ago I was trying to cook dinner (yes, husband...if you are reading this it's true! I am cooking dinner tonight!) and my four year-old daughter and her friend were playing around on a counter near me. I was only half paying attention to what they were saying, but I was catching snippets like, "Take out the banana; she's allergic to banana," and, "Don't look, Mommie. It's a surprise."

I was starting to get frustrated...I needed the counter space and my kitchen isn't nearly as spacious as my last, which sometimes irritates me irrationally. I was about to ask the girls to take it someplace else, when I thought to myself that I really ought to figure out what it was they were doing. So, being the cool mom I am, I eavesdropped and spied on them.

*giggle*
"More butter!"
*giggle*
"It's MY turn to stir!"
*giggle*
"Mom, don't look, it's a secret snack for you!"
*giggle*
"Where is the salt?"
*giggle*
"Mom, bring us the salt but don't look!"
*giggle*
"Put some candy in there."
*giggle*
"MY turn to stir now!"
*giggle*
"More grapes."
*giggle*
"More grapes."
*giggle*
"More grapes."
*giggle*
"Mommie, we need salt!"
*giggle*
"And un-yee-ons."
*giggle*

This went on for quite some time. I had to pretend I wasn't watching the creation. I faked not noticing the humongous (at least three tablespoons) fingerprint-laden pat of butter snuggled next to smooshed banana, some papery garlic skins, a lemon-skin punch biopsy, and shrapnel from lacerated grapefruit remnants.

While I watched, my memory whisked me back when I was in lower grade-school and would gather flower blossoms and crush them into a bowl filled with water. I would create a thick emulsion that I would then strain into an old ketchup bottle...and call it perfume. I remembered how proud I was of my "perfume," and how excited I was to present my mom with my offering. Her response was invariably enthusiastic; she would carefully tap my concoction behind her ears and on her wrists, and then sniff with what was clearly a discerning nose. Imagine my pride when my creations were greeted with approval!

Those memories flooded in, and I readjusted my perspective. I went from pretending I didn't know what was going on to full-on participation. Ignoring the dinner preparations for a mere five minutes or so, I indulged them. I even ate a butter-caked grape (gack)(I mean, Super Delish!). Once I was done with my performance, they were done with me and went on to dress the Cutest. Puppy. Ever. in clothes that no self-respecting Havanese should have to endure.

This Mommy learning-curve is...unpredictable.

Happy birthday to my brother (and other super important things I've neglected recently)!!!

I have been so out of it it's not even funny. Saturday was a HUGE day for me; I chaired the fundraising auction at my daughter's preschool. Five years ago I wouldn't have known what that meant, but ever since my son started school I've been intimately involved in them, and even chaired one two years ago.

I worked fifteen-plus hours straight on the event Saturday. Twelve hours the three days prior, and it the time commitment dwindles backwards from there (all the way back to when I took on the gig back in August).

Eggs. Ahhh. Sting!

It was a resounding success, and we made tens of thousands for our little cooperative school. I need tens of thousands of hours of sleep to make up for the deficit I've created...and me loves me my sleep.

There are also more irons in the fire for me...I've been doing some home staging for Realtor friends who need a boost in this buyer's market. I'll tell you more about that later, but for now I'll just say that I can't believe people pay me to go into their homes and decorate (I'd do it for free...shhhhhhhhh!).

And (I do know you aren't supposed to start a sentence with "And"...I am so rebellious) there is this exciting new venture:



Who's Fancy? I'm Fancy! I'm an *ahem* Editor (note capitalization); I'll be writing about health and related issues. Might as well make use of that neglected medical degree! It's a great site, and there are other bloggy names that you already know (and if you don't, you're in for a treat) contributing. Come join us! It's a great community.

For now, sleep calls.

But first...Happy Birthday, Bro'. I love you tons! You are The Great.

YUUUUMMMMMM!!!...ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter "Y"

Guinness. For strength!

I took this photo on a trip to Ireland a few years ago; I did a whole series of pub fronts; I loved this one for its ancient Guinness ad, and for the beautiful blue of the facade.

Here's another:


There is something about Ireland that is magical, whether you are in a city or the countryside. I've often said it's no wonder it's the land in which leprechauns live...if I were a magical being, I'd pick Ireland as my home as well.

This driving across town to post is getting old already

And I'm brain dead. So, for today, enjoy this year or so old scan of the first time(s) my daughter wrote MOM. Probably only my mom will really enjoy it, but I'm not NOT posting this month.

P.S.: Note the cute li'l MOM inside the "O" of a big MOM. It's all in the details.

Surprise package...or, the real Sicko

Thanks to gross Karate floor mats, last December my son had a lovely wart on the bottom of his foot. After the easy remedies didn't work, we pulled out the big guns and went to a podiatrist for an application of the miraculous Blister Beetle juice. The Blister Beetle secrets juice that causes blisters when it comes in contact with skin (how fortunate it's called that, huh?).

The podiatrist also happens to be a friend of ours; this was our first visit to her office and the kids were having a great time chatting with her in her white lab coat just like they did in everyday life. The three of us left the exam room all happy and giggly.

Upon returning to the lobby, we were greeted with a big old man who looked just like Santa Claus. He was an elderly guy with a bushy white beard, long silvery hair, red suspenders over a plaid flannel shirt, and big black boots. Being the holiday season, and as we 'do the Santa thing' here, my kids were enthralled, especially my little girl. She was young enough to think that maybe, just maybe, this was the real Santa. The guy was working in, too. He asked her if she'd been a good girl this year, what she wanted for Christmas, where she thought Rudolf was (one the roof, of course!). He was charming and I was all in the holiday spirit; I was as into it as my kids were. My daughter talked about it for days, telling all she met how SHE MET SANTA AT THE DOCTORS!

If you're a regular reader, you know we're moving. Not far away, but to a different neighborhood in the same town. Being a rather paranoid mama (not to mention one who spends too much time online) one afternoon not too long ago I went to California's Megan's Law website to check out our new hood.

Podiatry Lobby Santa was on there. For LEWD OR LASCIVIOUS ACTS WITH CHILD UNDER 14 YEARS. That guy was intentionally dressed like Santa to lure kids. He looked at my children. He talked to them. And I, all bubbly and sparkly, called him Santa and played along.

*shiver*

My friend's old neighbor is on that website; he was eighteen and having sex with his girlfriend who was seventeen (or was it seventeen and sixteen). He forever has to carry that around with him, explain it to new neighbors, etc. That would suck and I do feel bad for the guy; yet I wouldn't let my kids play with his kids, even though when I was seventeen I had sex with my eighteen year old boyfriend. Hypocritical, yes. Mamabearish, yes. I will do whatever it takes, however paranoid,to keep my kids safe.

This flipping Santa dude came out of the woodwork. He looked so harmless (and isn't that what I've tried to teach my kids...bad guys can look good)! Frankly, it wouldn't bother me ONE LITTLE BIT if that Blister Beetle juice was used on whatever body part of his was necessary to make sure he didn't harm another child.

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?

Oh Chris, I'm sure your kid's a genius

I was going to start a post earlier, but was interrupted by...a bunch of shit. Anyway, I just sat down in front of my computer to do a little email reading and was greated with the below post.

My daughter, at a few months shy of her fourth birthday, has composed and published her first blog entry. Gonna go write that in the babybook (or I would, if there was anything in that after week six or so).

Hopefully I'll get that real entry finished tonight.

Lunching

My daughter, after watching me spoon minestrone into two bowls for her and her friend, attempts to assert her authority and competitively exclaims, "I want the same bowl Emma wants!"

She meant the color of the bowl, which is a very important issue in our home these days. I'd used one blue and one pink bowl; but I have duplicates of each, so I let it play out.

"Oh, you do?" I respond.

"YES!" My three and a half year old then turns to her friend and asks, "What color bowl DO you want?"

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.

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."

Apples, trees, whatnot

"Mama, remember you said I could get a lollipop today?"

"Okay, we'll stop on the way home and get you a lollipop."

"But I don't meant the big food store, I mean the one with chips. We went there and cleaned our car, and I went there with Daddy and we cleaned the car. Not the big store. Not the big store! NOT THE BIG STORE!!!"

Eventually I realized she meant the mini-mart at our local gas station. My girl was crying to hit THE MINI MART AT OUR GAS STATION to get her lollipop fix. She's only been there the two times, but I guess it made an impression.

Oy. What have we done?