The Other Parent

If I'm going to start delving into my relationships with my parents, it should begin with my mom. She is the one from whom I have always been able to gather strength; she is my confidante and friend, my trusted adviser, my counselor, and one person with whom I can always be myself. To this day, if I am conflicted about anything, my hand reaches for the phone and my fingers dial her number.

But I'm not going to tell you about her, at least not right now. I've had some of you ask me about my father, as I've mentioned him once or twice here and on other blogs. I'll start answering your questions now...

When I was in first and second grade I lived in rural Pennsylvania; we had a couple of acres and my life was as perfect as any child could imagine. I could run and play all day with my little brother...down to the stream, into the fields, on the trails in the woods. My father had built a beautiful playhouse that was in our backyard; it was complete with windows and doors and green trim moulding. We had cats and dogs, my bedroom had a beautiful golden bedspread with matching pillowcases and a glass (or was it a diamond?) doorknob...and once, after I was supposed to be asleep, I heard my parents say that maybe we can get that horse Chrissie wants.

Then, suddenly, we were moving; my father had gotten a promotion, and we were relocating to the suburbs of Detroit. That put into motion a cascade of events that would change our family in countless ways.

Soon after the announcement that we were moving, my father went to Detroit ahead of us to get acclimated and find us a house. During that trip he was mugged by eight guys - including being beaten about the head with baseball bats. He spent a while in a coma, and when he woke up he surprised everybody by being able to talk, to remember snippets of the past; he eventually returned to work.

But he wasn't the same. He didn't really remember us; he had to learn who we were. We were strangers to him; he looked like 'Dad'...but he was different.

As the years went on his personality became more and more volatile. He was prone to fits of rage. And violence. It was unpredictable; we were never certain day-to-day who he was going to be, how he was going to react.

Ultimately we realized that all the therapy and medication in the world wasn't going to help him, he wasn't going to get any better...in fact, he was spiraling downward and we couldn't let him take us with him. The day he moved out we celebrated with pizza in the family room and great sighs of relief. I still saw him frequently and did my best to play the loving daughter, but I was afraid of him.

Sadly, he did continue to decompensate over the next several years...he lost his career (he had once had a corner office in Manhattan overlooking Central Park), then embarked on a series of increasingly less prestigious jobs until he couldn't hold one down at all. He would go months without letting us know where he was. He met my husband for the first time at our wedding ceremony. The last contact I had with him was a phone conversation where I regaled him with stories of my son, who was 8 weeks old at the time. I told him I'd just finished compiling some videos of the baby for him, and that I was sending it out to him that week.

When he died he was homeless, and was literally found in the gutter next to his car.

The tape I'd sent him months earlier was in that car, along with photos, letters, and other memorabilia. When I think of my dad, I try to remember the real him, the him before his closed head injury and resultant brain damage. My mom always told us, "He doesn't want to be this way."

When I see a homeless person, I remember they were once a baby cradled in their mother's arms. I think how they were probably once a teenager flushed with those first thrilling blooms of love. I wonder if they might have once been a parent, cradling their own infant in the middle of the night. I wonder who loves them and is worried about them.

I wonder about their life before.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

All in all, I'm probably more content now than I've ever been. My life isn't perfect...well, actually, the ONLY thing I would change is our financial state. Other than that, I wouldn't change a thing about my present circumstances.

And according to this UK study, I'm right on target. But my poor husband...it seems he's smack dab in the middle of an early mid-life crisis. We didn't realize that, but thankfully these researchers have set us straight. What a relief! I also learned that, "People's employment status also had an effect on their well-being." Who knew! Money well spent, researchers!

It reminds me of this study of a couple of weeks back. Because who knew that most people have sex because it feels good?

Maybe I'm just officially old and crotchety

Does everyone have that moment where they think, what is up with kids these days? I seem to have them frequently.

One of my son's friends was being dropped off today at 9:45am. The plan was for them to hang out here for a couple of hours, for me to take them and my daughter to a movie, and then drop the boys off at their golf tournament. All was going well (the boys played with Legos and my daughter was with me) all day until after the movie. As we were getting into the car, the boys asked if they could play GameCube when we got home. I quickly nixed that idea, "We just left a movie...enough screen time for now. Go outside," I suggested. "Jump on the tramp, walk the dog, ride bikes or scooters. Get some exercise."

The kid turns to my son and complains, "That's not fair. We didn't play this GameCube at all today. We should be allowed to play now."

I heard his indignant lament repeated to my son all the way home from the theater. Instead of being thankful that I just took him to a movie, this kid complained loudly that it wasn't FAIR that he couldn't do what he wanted when he got back to our house. My son just sat there and didn't do much more to shrug to his friend; we met eyes more than once in the rear-view mirror and he had this look on his face that simultaneously made me proud and sad. He knew his friend was being unreasonable, he knew it wasn't going to work with me, he was a little afraid I might respond to his friend like I would to him (that is, call him on being ungrateful), he was embarrassed that his friend was being so rude, he wished that I wasn't more strict than his friend's family and didn't limit his screen time.

I wanted to yell at his friend, "Dude, I'm right here. Go ahead and complain about me later, but to bitch about me while I am is so disrespectful my head is spinning!"

When we got they all went upstairs to play. Pretty soon I hear my daughter crying...that kid locked her out of the playroom. Where her toys are. Where I had told him she was allowed to be.

I go upstairs, tell them to unlock the door. The kid starts to complain about having her in the room, "She's not bugging you; leave her alone and she'll leave you alone."

He rolls his eyes and turns away.

Five minutes later she's crying again. He wouldn't let her in the room again. My son was in his room, and this kid was pushing the door shut and not letting her back in (but he DIDN'T LOCK IT!). When I let her back she headed over to the Lego table; he watched her and as soon as she picked something up he snatched it out of her hand. "Hey! Let's not grab!" She picks something else up and he tries to wrench it out of her hand AGAIN.

I'm standing right there; I'd just told him not to do that. Now they're engaged in this tug of war over a little bit of plastic. "Let go." I told him. He looks at me and continues to struggle with her. It's not until I say his name THREE TIMES does he let go.

So, there's more, but you get the idea.

Can you imagine talking to the parents of one of your friends when you were nine years old? My son actually has a pretty nice group of friends for the most part, but there seems to be a fundamental lack of respect for us, their elders on the part of a lot of these boys.

Why is that? Why is their behavior trending in this way? Is this everywhere, or just my little academic town full of privileged kids who think that they *deserve* everything they want?

----------------------------------------------------

(Added Wednesday)

So, I was just talking to a friend and told her about this post...she burst into song ('Kids' from Bye Bye Birdie):

Kids!
I don't know what's wrong with these kids today!
Kids!
Who can understand anything they say?
Kids!
They a disobedient, disrespectful oafs!
Noisy, crazy, dirty, lazy, loafers!
While we're on the subject:
Kids!
You can talk and talk till your face is blue!
Kids!
But they still just do what they want to do!
Why can't they be like we were,
Perfect in every way?
What's the matter with kids today?
Kids!
I've tried to raise him the best I could
Kids! Kids!
Laughing, singing, dancing, grinning, morons!
And while we're on the subject!
Kids! They are just impossible to control!
Kids! With their awful clothes and their rock an' roll!
Why can't they dance like we did
What's wrong with Sammy Caine?
What's the matter with kids today!


Yes, it is official. I'm just old and crotchety.

The telephone game

I'm not usually good at following through on meme's but this one is fun. Thanks Treadmillista!

Remember when we were kids and at every opportunity, some adult would have us play that silly Telephone game? You know… the one where the lead person comes up with a sentence or statement, whispers it into the ear of the next person in line, and the sentence is passed from person to person until it reaches the end of the line. The last person then repeats the sentence out loud, the first person announces what it actually was, and everyone gets to laugh about how goofy it got by being passed from ear to ear and being altered because of mispronunciations and hearing ability.

Of course I realize that the game was simply a means for adults to keep us in line while we were waiting for something or killing time. Haven’t we even now as adults, tried to use it on our own kids?

Being the silly kind of fracas that I am, I’ve decided to create an internet version of the game, and use it as an opportunity for link-getting. Everyone wants links, and yet lots of people I know, prefer to get their links in a non-obvious kind of way. We’ve all done the “copy this list and create a post and you’ll get links” type of tag…at least once, but most of us don’t want to fill our blogs with those posts. It may get links, but eventually will chase readers away.

This is a fun way to give your readers something entertaining to read and get a few links too.



Instructions:
If you’ve been tagged, check the last entry on the list. Copy this entire post, add your name and link to the end of the list, copy the sentence in the previous person’s entry and change ONE word in it to try and change the meaning of the sentence for your entry. Name and link only ONE person to tag and then post the whole thing as a new entry in your own blog. Please make sure to transfer all the links to your post otherwise you aren’t providing fair linkage to the people before you. Although this will take longer to get around, by tagging only one person you will avoid making mass enemies by having to tag many people, and it will also guarantee only one true version of the game is circulating out there. Fracas, the creator, will attempt to keep tabs on the game and periodically report on it.
Please try not to tag someone you see is already on the list. If you’re on the list, have been tagged again by someone who didn’t pay attention to the instructions and you don’t want to do another turn, please leave a comment at this post over at Fracas, and Fracas will take your turn for you in order to keep the list going.

1. Fracas - http://fracas.wordpress.com/
writes:Never continue dating anyone who is rude to the waiter.

2. Mark @ Blogitude - http://www.blogitude.com/
writes:Never continue dating anyone who is nude to the waiter.

3. Wiggy - @ http://damewigginsoflee.wordpress.com/
Forever continue dating anyone who is nude to the waiter.

4. Froggy @ The Road Less Traveled - http://froglette79.wordpress.com/
Forever continue dating anyone who is nude under the waiter.

5. InTheFastLane@ That's Life - http://thatslifev2.blogspot.com/
Forever continue dating anyone who is nude under the water.

6. Treadmillista @ Just Treadmilling Around - http://treadmillinginplace.blogspot.com/
Forever continue dating everyone who is nude under the water

7. Christine @ http://watchmenowatchme.blogspot.com/
Forever continue watching everyone who is nude under the water

I tag...Candace @ http://notthatidontlovemykids.blogspot.com/

Ooooooooooh, Spooooooooky

*cue supernatural-sounding music here*

The following is a story about some weird shit that happened to me many years ago:


I was 20 and rooming in Southern California with a friend who had an eighteen month-old daughter. Due to a cascade of events she was doing the single mom gig, and I helped her as much as I could with her little girl. That was my first glimpse into the love that comes with parenting; I haven't seen her since she was six, but I feel that I know her in a way that few can.

Anyway, one weekend afternoon my roommate and I were meandering along a beach; at one point we stopped and spoke face-to-face,trying to decide if it was time to turn around and head back to our towels. I was facing my friend with the ocean behind her, my back was to the rolling dunes. The little girl was propped on her left hip and the waves calmly lapped at her feet while I wiggled my toes in the dry sand.

Suddenly, OUT OF NOWHERE a wave that must have been five feet high engulfed her and her daughter.

And then they were gone.

The ocean was back to looking calm, and there was no sign of the two of them. I stood there for an instant, stunned, and then (here is where it gets weird) I ran out about five feet into the water, stopped, abruptly made a left turn, ran about 10 feet parallel to the beach, stopped, bent down, put both of my hands out, and waited. I couldn't see anything, I just was acting without knowing why. A few seconds later the baby emerges from the water, still being held by my friend (one hand under each of her armpits)...all I could see of my friend was about half of her forearms. She then released her grasp on her daughter, who was now in my hands as well (I grabbed her by the waist).

Her arms disappeared and my friend was gone again.

I stood still for a second, checked on the baby girl who was now on my left hip who was sputtering but fine, and inexplicably I started running parallel to the beach again, about 15 feet from where I had been standing. I stopped, bent over again, put out my right hand...and waited. Then, out of the water and directly into my waiting hand, my friend's right hand appeared. We clasped and I pulled her out, and the three of us stumble back to the shore and my friend and I discussed what we had separately (yet somehow together) experienced.

She said she was tumbling and turning and didn't know which way was up; she just clutched her baby as tightly as possible. Then, she didn't know why as it was counterintuitive and against all of her maternal instincts, she pushed her daughter away from her body and extended her own arms as far as she could...and then let go of her little girl. She didn't know why she was doing so, as she couldn't see me didn't know I was there; she didn't know I'd grabbed her daughter any more than I knew what she was doing. She just acted without thought. As I had been doing.

She tumbled around a bit more, then stuck out her right arm, felt my hand in hers. The rest you know.

If this hadn't happened to me I wouldn't believe it. If I hadn't written it down at the time I would doubt my recall. If this friend and I hadn't over the following years occasionally rehashed it I might think I had exaggerated my memory.

I don't know what was at work there, but something was.

(We came to understand later that this was a particularly dangerous beach with an odd shelf and these types of waves happen occasionally. So that explains that. The rest...your guess is as good as mine).

Times When Christine Really, REALLY Had to Pee (A Trilogy); Part I

(This is part one in a three-part series detailing in mind-numbing depth three separate occasions where I, Christine, had to pee very, very badly and managed to inconvenience strangers and family alike)(Oh! I just thought of another...perhaps this shall be a tetralogy).



Picture it, Madrid 1997 (prize of nothing given to whomever gets that reference). It was well after dark and I had just arrived in Madrid. As I exited the train I managed to get myself robbed; I freaked out for a few minutes wondering what I was going to do without cash, credit cards, or the map to the hostel at which I had a reservation. I sort of remembered where the hostel was relative to the train station, so I started walking. Pretty soon I was lost and wandering around a poorly lit warehouse district (yes, not creepy at all). Eventually I stumbled upon my hostel; it was 11 pm at this point, way past their curfew.

As I rang the doorbell of the hostel, I tried to convince myself that the owners would take pity on me; I was a girl traveling alone who had been robbed in their beautiful city. They would understand why I was late and would be okay with the fact that I didn't have my credit card with me; they would take me in, perhaps give me some tea and a warm rag to wipe off my dirty, tear-stained face, console me, and do all they could to help this scared girl.

Uh, no.

I had to beg them to let me in; I started thinking that perhaps I should have taken my chances with the two slimy American guys who had "felt sorry for me" and offered to buy me "some beers" and let me "stay with them." I pleaded over the intercom and explained my story and after many protestations they let me in. Then they wanted payment. Up front. Now. "They took my wallet; if I can call American Express they will wire you the money from my bank account in the morning," I explained. "I just need to make one phone call."

"No. Phonecalls are not allowed after 8pm. It disturbs our guests."

I was beyond on the verge of tears. Ultimately they capitulated; I called AMEX as the two owners of the hostel sat five feet from me sighing and coughing and rolling their eyes. Finally, they got confirmation of their payment and I got to retreat to my room. I have little memory of going to bed, just the recall of a vague uneasiness all night.

In the morning I decided to high-tail it out of Madrid. I had wanted to go to the The Prado, but I was so freaking jittery I needed to get out of a humongous city and into a more manageable small-scale situation where I'd feel safer.

Thus Toledo it was. Less than an hour south of Madrid and home of El Greco, Toledo had been on my itinerary anyway...I was just bumping up my visit.

After leaving my hostel, I ran into a shop and grabbed some bread and a one and a half liter bottle of water. I hadn't eaten since I left Barcelona so I was famished. And thirsty (AHA! YES! Where the pee part of the story starts). I chugged the water and ate the bread as I ran to the station.

Once I arrived, I bought my ticket and located my platform. I had less than ten minutes before the train left...I was starting to feel the urge, but the closest lavatory was a bit of a sprint away. Could I hold off until the train was out of the station to hit the john (in case it was a Hopper Toilet that just dumps onto the tracks)? Yeah, I could make it; I didn't want to risk going to the bathroom then and having the train leave without me.

So, I hopped on the train and wiggled in my seat as I wait for us to exit the station...and when the time came I made my way to the back of the car, full of that feeling that relief combined with urgency that comes as you know are finally going to go.

Nothing. No bathrooms.

I zipped out of that car into the next, and then the one behind it, all the way to the end of the train. Nada. I worked my way back to the front of the train...no bathrooms anywhere. I went back to my seat, wondering what the hell I was going to do? I'd been traveling around Europe for well over two months at this point and I had never encountered a train that didn't have bathrooms. It hadn't occurred to me that this could be a possibility.

The conductor came by and I asked/mimed him how long until we arrived in Toledo. He pulled out a map; we weren't even a quarter of a way there. I was screwed; there was NO way I was going to make it. I tried to explain this to him; he wasn't getting my broken Spanish, my fairly good French, my English. So I used the international symbol for having to piss in the worst way: I locked my knees together, grabbed my crotch, and bulged out my eyes.

He got it. He put a sympathetic hand on my arm; once again showed me the map, pointed to his watch...NOW...pointed to the map, pointed to his watch again to show me the time lapse until we arrived in Toledo. Another half hour at least. There wasn't much between where we were and here; no other cities, no other stops. "Gracias" I said with a smile I plastered on my face. I knew I wouldn't make it.

I hummed, bounced, and squirmed. The minutes elapsed as the crop fields passed by my window. The motion of the train only seems to serve to swoosh the urine around in my bladder; waves of pee knocking against my urethra. I sat on my heal, hoping it would somehow act as a cork. I assessed the seat in which I was sitting; a bowl-shaped resin type thing. I *might* hold *some* pee, at least prevent it from sloshing onto the floor. I wondered what I could pull out of my backpack that would be sufficiently absorbent. Not only did I consider that, I actually thought it would come to that.

Suddenly, in the middle of what seemed like endless feilds, the train came to an unexpected stop. Outside my car there was a little platform, a dock only as long as my car and half the one before it and after it. There were two little buildings on it; the large one had a window covered by shutters. "Great," I thought. "This will help my situation - a delay."

Then right outside of my very window the conductor's face popped up. He waved for me to come down! Come down! He pointed to the little building, and to my extreme joy I saw those wonderful silhouettes of a male and female. BATHROOMS! I looked back at the conductor and he had backed away from the train, continuing to beckon me to detrain. So I did. And I RAN towards those bathrooms, carrying my huge backpack on my back.

"HEY!" I heard. I turned around and the conductor threw a key on a stick to me; I caught it, chucked my backpack to the ground and fumbled my way into the bathroom.

It seemed forever long, that pee. I realized as I was in there that someone could be grabbing my backpack and hopping on the departing train. It's worth it, I thought.

But I didn't hear anyone shuffling away with my bag, and I didn't hear the train chug away. I exited the bathroom, handed the smiling conductor the key and thanked him in as many languages as I thought we might have in common, but mostly with "Gracias, gracias, gracias." He stopped the train for me, a girl who didn't know better than to not guzzle a liter of water before boarding.

I picked up my backpack and as I headed towards my car I thought of how I had discovered a new Walk of Shame. The Ugly American who inconvenienced a train full of people; maybe made some late for work, or for getting home to their families, or disrupted their day's activites because I hadn't bothered to do my homework.

But then I heard a funny noise;I looked up, and out of each train car window were as many heads as could fit through; they were clapping, smiling, and waving.

Within twelve hours I'd experienced some of the worst and some of the best we as humans had to offer each other.

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.

rgv cffvvuggffswvbgggiewww44569-style="font-weight:bold;">m

Sorry, dooce

I have arrived.

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.

What you would probably hear if you spent 24 hours in my home

"Have you lint-rolled the finger puppets?"

"NO HORSES on the trampoline!"

" 'Out of Area'...eat malaria."

"Hola! I'm Dora! Do you know my family and friends?"

"What do you want to do for dinner? I dunno, what do you want to do? I don't care. I don't either." (yes, ONE person generally recites in its entirety every evening)

"Does this help you poop, Mama?"

"What happened to the cat yack?"

"The dog ate it."

"Freak."

"Insert Simpsons/Family Guy/Greg the Bunny reference here."

"Watch me! No, watch me!"

Sarcastic apples

"Mom, can you get some medicine for Daddy? He has a headache."

"Where?"

".........uh, his HEAD!"

My boy has a firm grasp on the sarcastic.

I walk into the other room and ask my husband what kind of a headache it is that he has (I am so nurturing!). "Behind my right eyeball," he answers.

"Does it hurt when you move your eyes?"

"No."

"Oh, I had one earlier in the week behind my left eye that hurt when I moved my eyeball around."

Never one to pass up on an opportunity to make me the butt of a joke, he says, "It's always about YOU, isn't it? We're talking about me and MY eyeballs here. Why do you ALWAYS have to turn the conversation back around to youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu?"

"Yes. Yes, I do that often, don't I? I DO tend to bring the conversation around to myself often. I wonder why that is? What do you think?"

FBNOML says, "Well done, Mom. Nicely played."

Thankyouthankyouverymuch.

SobHer '07

I feel like the little sister whose big sister just came home from a date and told me she DID IT. Lost her virginity. I'm thrilled and want to hear ALL ABOUT IT, but I am also envious.

You see, I didn't go to BlogHer. A lot of my bloggy friends did...and the photos and stories are trickling in. Dammit, some of them make me SAD because I am so bitterly jealous. I'm not too proud to admit it, even if I should be. I totally missed out on what was not only a fun time, but a great learning opportunity.

And I'll make sure I get a pedi.

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.

Hope you like it

So, I spent some time this weekend creating a custom header. I used this <-- photo that I took at Alcratraz (you can see the Bay Bridge through the remnants of the window). I love the texture of the weathered wall...I played with it in Photoshop, used some freebee brushes from Design Fruit.

The thing is, it was fun. I thought once I'd finished a header I'd be DONE. But I am already looking at other free brushes out there and dreaming up ways to use them...including different headers.

Like I need one more excuse to spend time in front of the computer. My kids know the back of my head too well as it is.

* WARNING * THIS IS NOT A SPOILER *

My prediction for the Harry Potter series ending:

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny are sitting at Hogwart's Main Dining Hall eating a meal. People and ghosts and whatnot are coming and going around them, in and out of the room, passing through walls, etc. The four are discussing random things; just another day at Hogwarts.

But you KNOW something is coming; it's the end of the last chapter. Will Harry live or die? You turn the page and...

it's blank.

Was it a printing error? No, just a lame-ass ending. Or a brilliant ending. Whatever.

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?

Things I learned on my summer vacation

Well, rather, our long weekend in Napa:

1.) After my initial disappointment when my husband told me our laptop wouldn't work with the hotel's internet system, I actually enjoyed the break. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all (or is it, "Out of sight, out of mind?").

2.) You can, in fact, pay $20 for a mediocre GLASS of Cabernet Sauvignon.

3.) My kids still want to watch TV at hotels.

4.) 50% of the people in our family have been known to pee in public pools.

5.) Just because you're "on vacation" doesn't mean it's all fun. Well, I already knew that, but my son figured it out this trip.

6.) When lounging poolside, I would much rather eavesdrop on the conversations of strangers than read the book I am holding in front of my face.

7.) If you go to a hotel bar without your wedding ring on (it's faster and cheaper than calling for room service), gross people will talk to you.

8.) I can make it all the way back to our home from Napa with the gas gauge warning light on the entire time. I hate pumping gas.

9.) I don't check my cell phone's voice mail nearly enough.

10.) There's no place like home.

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?"

(*Ahem*) Me Me Me Meeeeeeeeeee!

The lovely and erudite Blog Antagonist has tagged me for an eight things meme. I love her, you should too.

The eight things meme goes as follows: enlighten us with eight newish things about yourselves, tag eight people to do the same. DONE!

Here I go:

1.) I used to don a bikini at a moment's notice. My only concern was that I didn't fill out the top as much as I would have liked. Now I actually have nightmares (literally, NIGHTMARES) that my post-baby abdomen is exposed in public.

2.) I've lost exact count, but my best estimate is that I've had 37 roommates; the male:female ration is close to 50:50.

3.) I procrastinate. A lot. I have been known to use a bathroom knowing it didn't have toilet paper because I figured I'd deal with that problem later.

4.) If my husband and I heading somewhere in a car, I always drive. Unless we will be:

5.) Driving on curvy mountain cliffs WITHOUT GUARDRAILS while on the outside lane (hugging the inside wall is fine for me). My hands are sweaty just thinking about it. I never want to go to South Lake Tahoe again, or to Yosemite for this reason. A mere six inches of shoulder being all that stands between me and plunging headlong into certain death just isn't comfortable.

6.) When my dad died, he was homeless. He lived out of his car, and died in the gutter next to which he was parked.

7.) I owe more in student loans that many do for their mortgages. It's insane and makes my stomach hurt.

8.) My husband and I have the same first name (well, we both go by Chris, but I am Christine and he is Christopher). I ended up taking his last name when we married (I had wanted him to take mine, but he won the coin toss), so now we have the same name. This is more convenient than you'd expect.

I tag: Stephanie, CM , A Child's Smile, My Minivan is Faster Than Yours, treadmillista, Jennifer, Krisco, Jennifer aka Binky Bitch, moosh in indy. What? That's nine? I didn't realize.

release the spiders

Technorati Profile

This just feels good

I was cruising around the internets and found this ...an unexpected compliment from someone I'd never met/read before. I've come to discover she is an amazing woman and writer.

Thanks Nordette...you made my day.

Feeling all patriotic. And self-absorbed (What? Me? On my blog? Surely not!)

Happy Fourth, everyone.

If you asked one of my friends from high school (or college, or through my twenties for that matter) what my favorite holiday was they'd unhesitatingly answer, "The Fourth of July." There was something about the electricity of the day, the "Oooohing!" and "Aaaaahing!" over the fireworks, and the consistency of the celebrations that appealed to me. No matter where I lived, I could count on fireworks.

Probably because it meant so much to me, I remember every Fourth of July since I was very young. I'll spare you the entire list, but here's a sampling:

When I was six we laughed as our dog, a huge husky, jumped into our car through an open window at the first fireworks boom. We discovered then that he hated loud noises. Sorry about that, Bandit.

At eight, I listened to the fireworks as I snuggled in my bedroom; it hinted at adult things about which I had no idea.

When I was thirteen, I peeked at the the fireworks from my bedroom window and felt connected (in the visceral, obsessive way only an adolescent can do and still be healthy) with a boy I liked who I knew was at the festivities downtown.

At fifteen, three of my friends and I laid on a picnic blanket, staring up at the West Point fireworks show over the Hudson River. I was moving from New York to the Midwest a few days later...the fireworks were my last hurrah with my friends.

When I was seventeen I went to a fireworks show on a first date with a boy that became My First Boyfriend. We dated for nearly three years; next to my husband he is by far the sweetest boy I dated.

At nineteen I celebrated the International Freedom Festival (a joint celebration between Detroit and Windsor over the Detroit River) with My First Boyfriend's family on their boat; the wakes of barges tossed around the private boat we were on, music blared from adjacent yachts, I was young and in love.

At twenty-one I watched fireworks from the rooftop of a 19th century Michigan State University lecture hall onto which my friends and I had climbed via fire escapes. We smoked, drank beer, and felt exhilarated in the way you only can when you are free, confident, and the world is before you.

When I was 23 I spent the Fourth of July on a beach in Greece, toasting my friends back home. I did the same at 27.

At 31 my husband-to-be and I spent a Fourth of July with a bunch of friends, watching fireworks from a golf course that we had snuck onto.

At 33 we watched fireworks from the second story balcony of our new home, barely visible above the trees in our backyard. Our baby son slept.

At 35 we watched the tips of our new city's (new state as well) official fireworks from our second story window. Our toddler boy slept.

At 38 we were in our present home, same city (same state as well!). We drove to the opposite end our street, about 1/5 of a mile from our far west cul-de-sac, from which we looked past the corn, the protected wetlands, the rice farms, towards the Sacramento River. We could see the explosions of a nearby city's show. Our baby daughter slept and our son was thrilled he was allowed to stay up so late.

Today all five of us walked to a neighborhood block party...potluck breakfast followed by a "parade" behind a firetruck. A quarter mile later, the kids took turns alternating between squirting the fire hose and being squirted. It's a tradition that has been going on for over thirty years now; our family has participated for the past four years.

I still love the Fourth, but it isn't my favorite holiday anymore. It's not as exciting to me. I don't need it anymore; I don't need its electricity, its "Oooohing!" and "Aaaaahing!", its consistency. I have it in my life everyday now.

Or, maybe I'm just old and lame. I dunno.

Appliance update

It was a quick fix this morning, getting my dishwashing machine operational again. A new thermal fuse and a measly $134.54 later I huddle up next to it (after the repair guy left, of course), listening to the wonderful sound of the arms spraying water against the stainless steel interior. I even called my husband to play it for him on speaker phone. I really did.

I let it run it's course, and when it shut off I scampered over to load it up. I'd saved the breakfast dishes for JUST THIS REASON. Upon opening the door I was greeted first by that fresh plume of steam (a mini facial to boot!)...and then the eye-popping sight of an inch or so of standing water. EEK! I looked at the control panel and sure enough. No lights. I called the repair place and told them that history has repeated itself, my washer has stopped mid-cycle and the control panel doesn't have power.

I'm thinking the thermal fuse keeps popping because the temp gets too hot...I don't know, but that's my guess. Makes sense to me. Soooooooooo, now, if that's the case, my heater or thermal regulator or something is off whack. This is what we wanted to avoid...spending too much on a unit (teehee, I said unit) that in the end would need more and more work, which you justify spending because you've already put in such-and-such dollars. I just didn't expect it would happen in one day.

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."

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?

In Wonderland

I may not always make the right choices, but when it comes to my children it always comes from that Mama Bear place...I may make mistakes, but my love is no less ferocious. In fact, sometimes that very primal ferocity is what compels me to go down the wrong Mama Path, to make the wrong choices as a mother.

Our children need our freedom, but it is our responsibility to nurture them, and then, our joy watching them blossom sometimes feels paramount in its instinctual rawness. Ideally, those three parenting prongs braid nicely together, each taking their rightful turn, one not overshadowing the other, the tenacity of each equal to it's neighbor, thus resulting in the anticipated strong, glossy, autonomous plait.

Sometimes, however, a parent makes mistakes. Gathers too much in one third of the braid and it becomes lopsided. The other parts suffer...they are jilted, not given their fair share. It can be unbelievably difficult to allow our children that freedom to strike out on their own, whether that be walking down the street to a friend's house...or moving out on their own. That urge to nurture, to hover, to protect is so overwhelming that letting them out of our sight, for a minute or a month, feels like part of our very self is missing. It is, in fact.

And when they are out of our sight, they are blossoming without our witnessing it.

That is a whole different kind of pain. And joy.

Tempus fugit

It's nothing new, how these months keep going by faster and faster, the years whizzing past so quickly it's hard to keep them in focus. Modern life may exacerbate the situation, but the lamenting of the fleeing of time is as old as...well, time itself.

Then there are those days that shove the proverbial calendar in my face, "CHECK IT OUT! TIME IS PASSING! AND YOU CAN'T GET IT BACK!"

Today was one of those days. My baby boy turned nine.

NINE.

Tomorrow he finishes third grade.

THIRD GRADE.

It was the first thing I thought of when I awoke, "It's my boy's birthday today. Tomorrow he finishes third grade." As it turns out his birthday was also a huge day for the entire third grade class; I spent most of the day at school watching their productions, hanging out in his classroom, jumping from shady spot to shady spot during the end of the year picnic. My daughter was with me, and she spent much of the day pointing at her big brother and calling out (inappropriately but in that way that makes everyone around her go, "AAAWWWW!"), "That's my BROTHER!" She was a trooper.

After the picnic, I lugged her, our picnic paraphernalia , my camera, our waters and the rest of the crap I had with me the half mile back to our car while she snuggled into me. Her tired arms circled my neck and her sweaty head snuggled against my cheek while the corner of a Dora the Explorer book that stuck out of a bag over my shoulder kept poking my triceps with each step (after the same bag banged into my thigh...WHY did I bring my lead weights with me?), I knew* I was going to drop my 2K worth of camera/flash that I was barely holding onto, I stank from the hours outdoors, and I was terrified that my kids were going to be up all night with a sunburn**.

Nevertheless, I reveled in how sweet she is, how sweet my boy is, how much I love my life and where I live, how amazing my husband is and how I love him, how lucky I am in general (sure, part of me was trying to distract myself from my physical discomfort but really I was just marveling about how flipping LUCKY I am).

Why are those moments of utter joy so fleeting? I would think that we'd hold onto the joy, what with how fast tempus does fugit. But I know I spend far too much time complaining. My friends complain. My husband complains. My kids complain. Why are we all complaining so much about the little things that comprise our daily lives, then also complaining about how fast time flies?

* I didn't
** Nope, they fell asleep promptly once in bed and their fair skin was still see-through.

On Paris and Parenting

Not that I don't love my kids (a fun blog, check it out) brought an awesome article to my attention; it is written by Jamie Lee Curtis and is over at Huffington Post.

I am so out of it

I thought they were both single.

One more reason to love batteries and hate oil

For too long Mr. Scale has been saying to me, "STEP OFF, bitch! Yeah, I'm talkin' to YOU! Why do you keep coming 'round here looking for something you KNOW you won't find? To quote Albert Einstein (or maybe it is Benjamin Franklin, or Rita Mae Brown, or a Chinese proverb...what do I know, I am a SCALE?), 'The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.'"

But AHA! I have discovered how to make Mr. Scale do my bidding. The other day I tapped it with my foot, waited for the tare function to do it's zero thing, and then stepped on.

It was so lovely. My scale told me, in no uncertain terms, "TOO LOW."

It's been many years since those words have been applied to my weight. I am TOO LOW!!! And I have been every morning since.

I *knew* my clothes were shrinking. Just knew it. My wedding rings being too tight for comfort? Clearly a function of solar flares or some other phenomenon causing them to decrease in diameter.

I really don't want to change that particular battery any time soon.

I'm gonna make it after all

Ugh, I was a wreck of a bitch yesterday. It started with the old woke up on the wrong side of the bed excuse combined with the syndrome of EVERYTHING is falling apart at the seams. Every other moment I felt like I was putting out fires, then turning around and hearing bad news, then being head-butted by the most ugliness humanity has to offer, then finding out that life as I know it is probably crumbling under my feet.

At least, that's how it felt.

So I called my Mommy. She always makes me feel better (belly poking notwithstanding...and honestly I invited it when I asked her, "Do I look like I've gained weight?").

Anyway, today I called her to talk me down, which she did. She always can; no one else helps me like my mom. During the course of our conversation, my daughter kept interrupting (the audacity!) and whining and yelling. Eventually I lost my "cool" and bellowed, "KNOCK IT OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's almost like my daughter didn't understand how badly I needed to talk to my mom. I mean, sometimes a girl just NEEDS her Mommy.

Later that night, as I was putting the kids to bed (my husband still at work, or at a fantasy baseball meeting, whatever) my daughter disappointed me. Out of respect for her three year-old privacy I will refrain from sharing (she peed on my bed) but let's just say she knew better.

I lost it.

I yelled at her, "YOU KNOW BETTER!" then lugged the linens downstairs to the laundry room, cursing myself because I was so behind on laundry that I didn't have enough to scrape together to make my bed properly. I bitched and moaned and complained and blamed everyone I've ever met.

Even as I did so, I knew I was acting like a lunatic. I didn't care. Some weird, primal, reptilian part of my brain actually enjoyed entertaining the thought of punching a hole in the wall. Another part of my brain worried that I had in fact lost it, and that this was The Beginning of the End.

This morning I woke up on the right side of the bed (and no, there is no subtext here). As soon as I opened my eyes I knew I wasn't in the same dark place that I was yesterday...that was certainly a relief, but I wondered what the hell was wrong with me yesterday, and felt heaps of guilt about my inability to keep my emotions in check the day before. I felt great today, except for that guilt.

As the day went on I was relieved to find that little things that would had set me off yesterday I was able to deal with in a rational way. While that was reassuring, I felt the echoes of yesterday tugging at me. You wouldn't have been so level headed yesterday, eh? Why NOT?

Mid afternoon I unexpectedly started my period (Wait! What is that sound? The out-clicks of all my male readers?). OH! THAT is what my deal was yesterday. I wasn't descending into lunacy, I was just PMS'ing.

Since being an optimist isn't my strength, I've come to the conclusion that at the age of 41 (and a half), since my periods are now not following the normal pattern of utter predictably (yes, I have neglected to share with you that my last cycle was nearly a week late) that I have entered perimenopause. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.

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.

You know you need a date with your husband when…

Huh? A date. With my husband? What's THAT? I do vaguely recall hanging out with him in public, like at a restaurant or something. But I am pretty sure we lived in a different state then. Literally and figuratively.

It's bad...we're bad. Making time for the two of us just hasn't been on our radar for a long, long time. The demands of the kids, his job, the house, the zoo we call our animals, the vortexes we call our computers (aka "some time for me"), and that thing called sleeping take up a LOT of time. I don't even know if I have my babysitter's current phone number. Time for the two of us has has dropped low on the priority list. That's just wrong.

It's crazy to be living in the same house with someone and yet miss them. Especially when it is a sweetie who brings you black coffee in bed every single morning.

We need a date.

---------------------------------

Why am I writing about this? Well, Parent Bloggers is having a Blog Blast sponsored by eHarmony. Check it out!

To the person driving the first car in the left turn lane queue

Like sitting in an exit row on a plane, you are charged with a RESPONSIBILITY. When that arrow turns green, you need to proceed through the intersection immediately. None of this not paying attention and wasting precious seconds. Those of us behind you are counting on you. Do you know how frustrating it is to SIT THERE, thinking if that moron had gone when the light first changed I'd have completed my turn by now. I'd better make this light, because if I don't the earth will spin off its axis? Why is it that you are all too often completely oblivious to that crucial shift from red to green? The rest of us behind you see it; one can tell by the waving arms and honking horns. But you, you are unawares.

Please be more vigilant and take your responsibility seriously. Road rage is real, and us mommas driving mini-vans are NOT TO BE MESSED WITH. One of these days I might just scoop some goldfish-cheerios-banana detritus from the floor and hurl it at you. Well, okay I won't. But I will bang on my steering wheel and hurl insults at you, much to the delight of my kids.

Some visual muzak

WOOF

Nap shmap big fat blap

I seem to birth babies that aren't all that into the napping thang. Both of them catnapped as infants, with twenty minutes pretty much being the max. Then after a year or so they condensed those unpredictable mini-naps into one unpredictable forty minute or so nap. After a few months, around eighteen months or so, they were DONE.

"Oh my GAWD. I could NEVER do it; I could NOT handle it if Michaela/Tanner/Emma/Rhys/*insert the name of incredulous parent's perfect little napper here* didn't take their three hour nap every day at precisely one o'clock. I would go crazy."

Yea, well, I can't do it either. But I do. And I am nuts, but that is another story.

Now, every rule has an exception. There are those random, unexpected days when as preschoolers, one of my kids would fall asleep in the car. Not a good thing, because then they inevitably stay up until just the moment before I hurl myself out the window, and then they close their sweet little eyes and enter slumberland. At which point I look at those eyelashes grazing their soft cheeks and forget why I was ready to crack open that bottle of WHATEVER is in the cupboard over the fridge (because I drank all of the wine).

Today is one of those days. My girl fell asleep an hour and a half ago in the car. My husband will be home late. CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP.

Like a virgin, tagged for the very first time

My first meme, "7 Things About Me." Thanks Treadmillista for the tap on my virtual shoulder. Essentially I'm supposed to tell you 7 things you don't know about me. Since this is a babyblog, you don't know too much about me yet anyway, so this is an easy one.

1.) I hate clutter but love saving. My closets are packed full of things I have shoved in them in an attempt to declutter my rooms. The rooms are now fine and I am working on making it possible to open my closet doors without stuff tumbling down like some bad sitcom.

2.) I like to think of myself as an extrovert but the plain fact is that I refuel myself by being ALONE.

3.) As a pre-teen in New York, I used to sit for hours at a time in my mom's Vega and listen to Robert Klein on am radio while chatting on her CB with other teens. That was my seventies version of MySpace.

4.) An anagram of my maiden name is I became a thin rich actress. Still waiting.

5.) I can easily pass up sweets of most any kind, but put a lump of French Onion Chip Dip in front of me and I will eat it with a spoon.

6.) I vote pretty much the same way now as I did in college...socially liberal, fiscally conservative.

7.) In my twenties three friends and I used to call ourselves the Fearsome Foursome...we traveled together, partied together, lived together intermittently, moved across the country (or out of the country at times) from each other but still called one another in the middle of the night when heartbroken or just too drunk; we even took a death-defying helicopter ride together in the Caribbean with a daredevil pilot. Now in our forties, I'm not in touch with them like I wish I were, but I know that if I needed to I could call them in the middle of the night and they'd forgive me for waking their spouses and kids. I love and miss you guys.

Hmmm...who to tag? Miss M and PDX Mama and YOU, the lurker who wants to be asked. That's right, I mean you.

Do as I say, not as I did

Last month I stumbled across this article and it has been on my mind since. In case you don't care to follow the linky, the upshot is this: the city of Burlingame, California was considering requiring a permit to be applied for in advance if you want to BBQ at any of the city’s 16 public parks. Mind you, this was not in response to an incident, but because they were concerned that someone *might* get injured. As chairwoman Karen Dittman is quoted in the article she, "has witnessed barbecues near picnic tables within 50 feet of the playground area at Village Park on California Drive (emphasis mine)." Good-bye spontaneous Saturday afternoon BBQ's in the park - not that I ever BBQ in a public park, or even live near Burlingame. But it's symptomatic of much more.

I'm constantly fighting the urge to overprotect my kids. I don't let my 8 year-old son ride his bike the four blocks to school without my husband or I accompanying him, but I do let him hang in our cul-de-sac with his friends without constant adult monitoring...unlike my neighbor who insists that the boys be CONSTANTLY watched.

I don't let my daughter sit inside the shopping cart (that's just gross), but I do let her stand on the side while I push it...unlike my husband who thinks that is a recipe for a cracked skull. Because those two extra inches of the floor are going to make ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

A friend of mine has four kids, the oldest my son's age, the youngest my daughter's age, and a couple thrown in-between for good measure. The three oldest are boys, and they are rough and tumble and tough and spirited, and their little sister can keep up with her brothers. They are one big force field, whirling through the neighborhood stirring up the energy level of every kid with whom they come in contact. They have more freedom than most kids I know these days: roaming further throughout the neighborhood, checking in less frequently, jumping off things I can't imagine how they got on top of, exploring places most kids don't know exist. And they get injured; the family is familiar with the ER.

Those kids are having SO MUCH FUN. When I am at their house I am reminded of my own childhood, when my brother and four cousins (also all boys) and I would take off in the morning, stop in at one of our homes for lunch, go back outside and make it home in time for dinner. Often we went back outside afterward to play flashlight tag. Sometimes we'd pack ourselves lunches and take off for the entire day. We rode our bikes to school through woods on trails that we made ourselves, bouncing over tree roots. Without helmets. Sure we had our share of contusions, scrapes, sprains, and even a couple of broken bones and one concussion. But we were also learning self-reliance and confidence; we were exploring the world around us while fostering bonds that last to this day. Not to mention we were getting exercise, lots and lots of exercise. I'm sorry, but the Wii doesn't compare.

Clearly things are better now in many ways...the helmets, the seatbelts (I still remember the car accident I was in as a kid; my brother and I slid around the back seat bumping into each other and giggling as the car spun in circles) and carseats, the lack of metal shards that attack you on merry-go-rounds. But...where are the swingsets? Gone because KIDS FALL OFF THEM! They don't build forts because they can GET A SPLINTER. Kids are rightly being taught all of the things that they should be afraid of: strangers, choking, falling, mosquitoes, poison berries, etc. But I fear we are going too far, because the fallout of this fear is that many kids aren't learning how to function independently. They are huddled in their homes, safe. But at what cost?

My glass half full of air

Some of the Worst Compliments I Have Ever Received:
1. Whoever marries you will be lucky, because you will be better looking at 40 than you are today. (I was 20) from a dude I was casually dating

2. You look better naked than you do in clothes. from boyfriend at the time

3. You look like you could be on 90120 from some dude also trying to pick me up, circa whenever that show was watched

4. I had more fun with you when we were together than I've ever had with anyone. I really loved you. from a guy I'd dated over ten years prior to this conversation, who had insisted we keep our relationship casual because he wasn't *feeling it*

5. It hurt me to think that an employee as loyal as you, who has been with us for so long, could betray us. I realize now I was wrong and that you didn't in fact steal that $3.50 rice paper card, and for that we will always be grateful. However, we have already made an example of you to the other employees; they know if we could fire YOU, we would certainly fire them. So we have to let you go. from the owner of the retail store in which I spent years working for during college



Some of the Best Compliments I Have Ever Received:
1. Whoever marries you will be lucky, because you will be better looking at 40 than you are today. (I was 20) from a dude I was casually dating

2. You look better naked than you do in clothes. from boyfriend at the time

3. You look like you could be on 90120 from some dude also trying to pick me up, circa whenever that show was watched

4. I had more fun with you when we were together than I've ever had with anyone. I really loved you. from a guy I'd dated over ten years prior to this conversation, who had insisted we keep our relationship casual because he wasn't *feeling it*.

5. It hurt me to think that an employee as loyal as you, who has been with us for so long, could betray us. I realize now I was wrong and that you didn't in fact steal that $3.50 rice paper card, and for that we will always be grateful. However, we have already made an example of you to the other employees; they know if we could fire YOU, we would certainly fire them. So we have to let you go. from the owner of the retail store in which I spent years working for during college.

911 call

I worry for our future.

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.

Not once, not twice, but thrice

is how many times my daughter pooped today. It had been a long, long time. I can't tell you how happy I am...I seriously considered snapping a picture of it.

P.S.: the no cheese and regular training was working as the scale was trending downwards a bit, but then my daughter and I got hit with bronchitis this weekend...not too bad, but didn't do a good run. Tomorrow is another day and all that.

mamashell-shocked

Mouth Full of Soap

I just realized that I left a comment on a much-adored blog and in said comment used the eff word there. I haven't committed that same indiscretion here on my own blog. Maybe it's because MY blog is a babyblog.

Also, the mere fact that I am far more reluctant to *gasp* swear online than I would be IRL is an interesting phenomenon...I still sometimes giggle when I use expletives. My husband says I have the maturity of a 13 year-old boy. Why specifically a boy, I don't know.

Anyway, I have to keep it real in my own special SAH-MOMMA-way and recognize that it just isn't cool to drop an eff-bomb on someone else' territory when you are keeping it clean at home.

So in the immortal words of the esteemed Mr. Farrell, "Here we GO!"

Fuckityfuckfuck.

im like geeze sorry

All I can figure is that my husband was playing a prank on me and put Cory Kennedy's blog on my linky list there to the right and was just waiting for me to see how long until I noticed.

I apologise for any confusion.

And no cheese for a week

So. My mom was just here visiting for a week; a great time was had by all.

But there was the moment that she poked my belly and told me yes, it was time to lose some weight. You don't want anyone asking when the baby is due, do you?

OUCH.

I used to be the kind of girl I now resent, the one who could eat anything without a thought about my weight. But the years have changed that, for a host of reasons, and I am now the kind of woman the lithe young me secretly thought had to be at least a bit lazy...the love handled/muffin-topped/back-fatted/sweatpants wearing person who has just stopped caring. I do care; I'm just not used to having to exercise willpower, and so the pounds have slowly, insidiously accumulated.

But fortunately I am also one of those annoying people who exclaim, "I love working out!!!" and really mean it. I do, and if I miss a couple of days in a row I get cranky. Unless I am totally out of the habit then I don't mind going months without working out, but that's not my normal MO, and hasn't been for years.

I have an elliptical and a few times a week happily sweat away on it through two episodes of Family Guy or one of The Riches or Ugly Betty...or I'll read a mag, or listen to my iPod. I suppliment on off days with squats and lunges and push-ups and crunches and DVD's and Fit TV. And then later in the day after the kids are in bed I will consume twice as many calories that I burned. I simply cannot do that anymore.

A few months ago I signed up to run a half marathon this summer. I ran this same race two years ago...well, I ran/walked it (I pretty much only run straight through if it's three miles or less) 3.5 minutes of running, 1.5 minutes of walking, repeat for the next 13.1 miles, which was about 2,713 times for the 1/2 marathon if I recall correctly.


But I kind of hate running, at least long distances. I can get into it ocassionally if all the stars align correctly and my iPod is charged. My body isn't built for speed; I bulk up fast but just don't have those slow twitch muscle fibers on my side. I'm a fast twitcher.

Which is kind of why I chose to mix-up my workout with running. I think it is good for me to challenge myself physically like that, shake it up, you know? When I was running regularly a couple of years ago I had the long, lean muscles of a runner. Still with fluffiness over them in areas, but NOW with the bulky muscles I am sporting along with the mucho extra pounds, I am feeling HUGE.

I jump started training for the half marathon today...ran/walked 7 miles (the old routine of running 3.5/walking 1.5 for as many reps as it takes to get to 7 miles). I have a blister on my butt from my undies chafing. Nice. It's a good look.
I'll let you know next Sunday if I am down any pounds or inches or if there is anything going in the right direction.

Back to Basics

If the eight year-old me could attend one of today's average birthday parties, it would blow my mind. Today's celebrations...the overly orchestrated and elaborate events with their back-to-back scheduled activities, professional entertainment and trucked in hardware like bouncy houses, trampolines, and ponies. Then there's the complete alteration of the backyard or rented hall with an explosion of coordinated decorations (and I'm not kidding, I've been to one done by a hired professional party planner; it was for a ONE YEAR-OLD).

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand the party favors. Like the cost of your attendance at a wedding, you have to take the party favors into consideration when selecting your gift for the birthday kid; you don't want to be the chump that walks leaving the host in the red.

Now, to me, a homemade cake always meant love (it's the secret ingredient...ssshhhhh). But to many it seems that a homemade cake signals that the parents were too cheap to spend the big bucks on a three-tiered cake with their little darlings images prancing around with their fave Sprout character on each level. Or something like that.

I understand it's pretty easy as a parent to adopt that model to one extent or another..you want to create a wonderful birthday memory for your kids. But the bar keeps getting raised with each successive party the kids attend, "Mom, Jackson had a climbing wall at his party! It was so COOL! Can we get one for my party?!?!?!"

I haven't totally bought into that whole world, but I have succumbed a bit in the past. I still make my cakes, but now I get all elaborate with them. I plan activities and decorate, usually with a theme of some sort. Or I rent some time at a gymnastics center and let them handle it all.

So it was so refreshing the other day to get a call from a friend who confessed to me that she was considering a totally non-conventional recognition of her son's ninth birthday party. No bouncy house, no caterers, no entertainment, no organized activities...just a few friends over to play.

It was awesome. Six boys hanging out, shooting hoops, playing with water guns, throwing balls, kicking a soccer ball, doing whatever they wanted for a few hours after school. There was pizza to eat, smores instead of a cake, bottles of water and juice boxes in a tub that the kids grabbed whenever.

I was there helping my friend manage the chaos, and towards the end of the party I overheard the birthday boy exclaim, "Mom, this is the best birthday party EVER!"

I know what I am doing for my kid's next party.

I'm not proud of this, but feel the need to confess that

right now there are three spots in my house of which I am aware that have cat yack, and I am seriously considering leaving them there and hoping that either some other human member of this household cleans it up, or one of the animal residents eats it.

Kisses

A couple of years ago my son very seriously asked me, "Mom, how do those special kisses work?"

Immediately my brain went to the worst possible place and I assumed that he saw something, some ad, some commercial, some movie preview, something that was inappropriate for his age.

I am not ready for this talk, I am not ready for it. HE isn't ready for this talk. I should have thought about how I would approach this when the time came, now I am going to have to wing it. Shitshitshitshitshit.

While sorting through the possible places that he might have seen or heard something he shouldn't have and whipping mental grenades at those responsible for the breach, I sought some damage control by babbling something to the effect of, "Ummmm, derrrr, fffpppppthhhh...special kisses?"

"Yeah, you know! When I get a boo-boo and you make it all better by kissing it. How do you do that?"

"It's the love, honey. The love makes the boo-boo feel better." That answer came without having to think.

Now my boy can kiss away his little sister's boo-boos, but I am still squeamish about The Talks.

Why is it that even the most sexually libertine (not that that's me, not really) can get all woogly talking to their kids about reproduction? Or maybe the question is, when did I become such a freaking prude?