Questions to ponder

"Mama? Who painted the sty?
The sty. It's blue. Who painted it?"

I know her father would like me to explain the science behind why the sky is blue, but I can't help but think how much more pleasing it is to imagine the sky actually were painted anew each morning, noon and night by the star that heats and lights the Earth.

Sometimes a little magic can get you through your day.


THE YAYA REPORT:
Can you feel the love?

He sure could. It felt like a pinch before toppling over onto the ground and fumbling around, limb over limb, to get back to an upright position. The good news is they both managed to get to their feet laughing.

Take me to the river

In this place, more than 30 years ago, the water ran blue - I'm talking the blue of a Rocket Pop or Tidy-Bowl toilet cleaner. Presumably the opaque jewel color stemmed from runoff from a nearby chemical plant, and as some tell it, the pretty hue stained your skin if you happened to be lounging in the water at the time of discharge.

A seachange has happened since then. The factories have stopped knowingly dumping things into the streams and rivers that ought not be there. And the world looks a little cleaner. The roadways aren't filled with trash, and few of us will see remnants of Happy Meals and road food released into the air from the car ahead.

But every once and a while, as we sift through stones in the current, we happen upon a rock wrapped in a color nature never intended. If you haven't ever thought of it before, the sight makes you wonder: Just what are we doing to the planet?

Everybody loves a parade ... except the people who get stuck in traffic ... and, apparently, the people marching

**Another in a continuing, if not sporatic, saga of ... Should Have Iterated Thusly

This afternoon, Annabel and I were in Chatham, not getting lunch (because when we met the man he's already eaten someplace else) -- S.H.I.T.

I suppose I should have made it perfectly clear that "Hey, I'll meet you for lunch" is virtually the same as "Let's meet in a place and eat together sometime 'round about noon."

My other purpose for going to Chatham was to buy a present for my mother's upcoming birthday. Since going shoping with a toddler is in the same ballpark as bringing a pet billy goat to a China shop, smearing it with glue and setting it loose in the glassware aisle, I had hoped the man could entertain her at the ice cream shop. I did not intend for him to let her down in the same store I was perusing, where all she wanted to do is hang from my shirt and cry, or stack Le Creuset crockery in reverse order -- smallest to largest. S.H.I.T.

I suppose I should have made it perfectly clear that "Entertain her while I go shopping" actually means "Take her someplace else and don't bring her back. I will find you when I'm finished."


Surprise Party! I'll kill ya: Unbeknownst to us, turns out it was fire department day in Chatham, which means a long parade of trucks and marching bands meander down Main Street toward the fairgrounds. We discuss whether we should move our cars, which will surely get blocked in and erase our option to leave midway through should a meltdown arise. We finally arrived at a conclusion: I would stay for the parade and he would go home to nap. S.H.I.T.

Perhaps you might have explained that a 'Family Day,' is technically the same as sitting on the couch watching a "Sopranos" marathon. Double S.H.I.T. I will need to remember that the next time I volunteer to melt in the heat with a toddler who covers my eyes, pulls my hair and won't hold my hand.

I suppose I should be grateful. Afterall, we need more alone time, isn't that what he said last week? Course I thought that ment sans baby, avec each other.


Oh, and participating fire departments? S.H.I.T. After waving our fool heads off, clapping and cheering for you folks I've come to the conclusion that it might ACTUALLY kill you to smile or wave back. I had no idea a PARADE in your language meant Pissed And Rancorous Autocade Dourly Exercising. After standing for a while with the kidlet on my shoulders kicking me in the back, I began to keep track of a few things: Six people out of the entire hour-long lineup smiled in our direction. Only four of them waved.

Oh, and back to that alone-time, datenight thing? S.H.I.T. I forgot that it is a term that means the mom must arrange babysitting and come up with a plan for stepping out on the town, otherwise the word means the husband is going to poker night.


I know no one likes a complainer but S.H.I.T. It's not like HE reads anything I write anyway. When he does, he just lets me know the first graph is a little too complex for people to get into. Also ... the funny bits? They're really not that funny.

I suppose I should have explained when I printed out my essay and shoved it under his nose that he was supposed to tell me, in NO uncertain terms, that I am BRILLIANT. There are times when a little lie wouldn't hurt.

The children mommy blogs forgot

A friend of mine in the publishing bidness asked me to work on a photographic children's book with him. I would provide the photographs and he would write the text.

It would be all about my dogs -- Madeline and Maggie.

His idea was simple:

"Take about 48 photographs of them playing together, spread them out on a table and we'll come up with a story about "Best Friends."

I stopped cold, realizing that with all the photographs I've taken over the years there are very few of the wonder twins together. Ok, they're not twins and we are actually a step-family. He came to the relationship with Maggie and I showed up with Madeline. And it was a rough start.

Maggie, a year older that Madeline (who for the remainder of the essay I will refer to as Jerk Monkey Hose Dog because she's too smart for her own good and has always gotten into trouble) would have nothing to do with the little pest for quite a while. She'd snap and growl and slink away to anywhere that would be puppy free. Maggie always seemed mature beyond her years ... for a Lab.



My friend's request also made me realize that even if I could get the grrls to play together, my first babies -- the furry loves of my life -- are not as photogenic as they once were. They have benign bumps and skinny haunches, puffy bellies and graying fur. Though they are still beautiful to us, the industry might not agree. And too soon these creatures, with whom we've shared a combined four homes, will be only memories -- especially since the early photographs (and negatives) may have been lost in a move (grrrr!)

"That's even better," he said jovially. "We'll do a children's book about coping with the loss of a pet."

I look over at Annabel as she splashes in the pool, it dawns on me that the past two years have really brought about an amazing transformation of our entire family, fuzzy members especially. They have gone from being standoffish and frightened of the pink little bundle that made all kinds of strange noises to being watchful and proud.

"Oooh, this is even better," says my friend. "I see morning show bookings in our future."

I realized we'd better get started. She'll be at the perfect age to mourn their loss when it's their time to leave us. And it'll probably take me that long to figure out what I'll wear for the interview.

THE YAYA REPORT:

mommy and me
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

She's sorting it all out, gathering more facts and filing them away ...

"Every day, after you leave and we wave goodbye, she tells me: 'That's my mommy. Sometimes she's Shwan'."

The One-Armed Men's Club

"We have to stop meeting like this," I laughed and winked in his direction.

But his cherubic face, Panama hat and tiny, drool-stained t-shirt were a magnetic combination. He giggled. The one-armed guy he was attatched to began to laugh, too.

It occurred to me then, as I passed another similarly disabled shopper -- his charge in a ball cap, eating shell peas from the bag -- there is a club to which I cannot belong.

Fathers at the grocery store -- a kid in one arm and a grocery basket in the other -- is apparently the new black.

It's something I might never have noticed, though, had it not been for the fact that it was 8 a.m. Saturday morning and we were out of milk. After all, my husband usually does the grocery shopping.

Where the supermarket was once the bailiwick of the harried housewife, juggling bottles and sippy cups and corralling children aisle by aisle, I am noticing more and more men taking their place in line at the checkout.

As I push on the skins of melons and paw through bags of grapes for one with just the right amount of globes, I notice the one-armed man going through pretty much the same motions with the lettuces, inspecting the leaves.

We trailed each other through the store, missing each other in some aisles and meeting up in others. I wonder to myself: 'Is mom at home, enjoying a much needed break?'

I smile in line at the checkout when his items bump up against mine on the conveyor belt. I think of my own husband at home with our kidlet, and how he's probably done the very same thing with some other mommy who'd managed to sneak out of the house for some quiet, alone-time grocery gathering.

By the time I reach my car in the parking lot another one-armed man makes his way toward the market. He stops to greet the man with whom I'd been doing the grocery store shuffle just moments ago.

I started to pack my trunk with my purchases, taking extra time and trying to handle the bags gently so the rustling wouldn't impugn my ability to eavesdrop on their conversation.

What were they talking about? I imagined they were discussing the best baby foods, sleepless nights and the-cutest-baby-in-the-world-has-changed-my-life small talk. But I couldn't make out all the words. It was as if their club had a secret vocal tone only dually sworn and initiated members could hear.

I stopped trying to hone in on the discussion, but kept my attention in their direction as I snapped the trunk closed and returned my cart before slipping into the driver's seat. I told myself I'd just be disappointed if they were talking about beer, or porn or who's headbutting who in major league sports.

They were still locked in conversation as I eased out of my parking space. I couldn't contain my curiosity, though, and I lowered the window as I approached, just in case a few words fell into my car as I passed by. They just shifted the weight of their still-smiling kids from one hip to the other, and, with a wave of their hands, parted ways.

It figures that they'd have secret handshakes, too.

Heritage

When I was about Ittybit's age, possibly older, I rode my tricycle down our cellar stairs. My mother never let my father forget he was supposed to be watching me when it happend.

"Men don't know anything about watching children," she explained. "They think they are little adults with adult reasoning in tiny bodies. He just assumed you'd stay away from the stairs."

Of course it probably doesn't help my father, who is truly a nurturing soul, to know that EVERYBODY in my life has heard the story.

Oddly enough, it's a story that I sometimes forget.

Recently, when he was taking care of Annabel for the day by himself, he called me at work for advice and I was reminded.

"So we were walking down the stairs to go to the park and she brought both hands to the railing, hauled herself up and swung away from the steps. Then she said: 'Look, Papa. I'm a Monkey!' She did it for each step ... Does she ever do that with you?"

"No, dad, she hasn't yet. Please don't let her ride the tricycle, OK? ... Oh, and dad? You're doing a great job."

With a song in my heart

"We are horrible, inflexible people."

That thought, coupled with another: "what ever made us think we could be parents," run through my consciousness on some hideous perpetual loop as I wait for my husband to get into the car.

It's a cold Saturday in November and we are on our way to the hospital, one month before the due date.

We had opted for the bootcamp version of child birth class because neither one of us could peel ourselves away from our busy, independent lives long enough to attend the more civilized, four-week program of two-hour classes on Tuesdays - TOGETHER. I don't remember what was playing on the radio because the soundtrack in my mind continuously blasted "BAD MOMMY, BAD MOMMY, BAD MOMMY."

I didn't want to do this. I am not sentimental. I haven't a romantic bone in my body. I LOVE PINK FLOYD and FISHBONE and THING FISH: I had nothing appropriate for motherhood.

As we parked the car and walked into the hospital, I had pictures in my mind of women in Bermuda shorts and Argyle socks sitting on the floor between the legs of their husbands, who read from some playbook and rubbed bellies while some woman with a whistle walked around the room urging everyone into a hyperventilating tizzy of WHO-WHOs and HE-HEs.

It seems funny to me now, how we sat there as if in a zoo, checking out the other couples. Measuring their dedication by swollen ankles and dark circled eyes.

We went through the motions, and did the breathing. I was surprised to learn that deep breaths were valued over the hee-hees. I also learned that yoga had made it possible for me to slow my inhalations to three per minute, subsequently earning me a spot on the remedial breathing crew after class.

Then it happened: The DJ/nurse/educator made us do The Baby Dance.

"... Mmmmm Mmmmmm mmmmmMmmm m."

Israel (IZ) Kamakawiwo'ole ... crooning "SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW." And we are instructed to hold on to our husbands as if we are slow dancing at the wedding. Turning in circles to the music, inspite of myself, I started to feel the rhythm of this new life, and thinking perhaps the soundtrack wasn't that bad after all.

I didn't know then that in that same hospital, a month later, there would ultimately be a c-section performed as Kate Bush's THIS WOMAN'S WORK" pushed all the lulling melody of fairy stories from me and replaced it with sheer terror.

"I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking
Of all the things that we should have said that were never said
All the things we should have done but we never did
All the things that you needed from me
All the things that you wanted for me
All the things that I should have given, but I didn't ...
Oh, darling, make it go away."

The "BAD MOMMY" anthem, the song that had hijacked my internal airwaves for nine months and threatend to stay with me for a lifetime, was back.

Oddly enough, when I finally saw her face and introduced myself, it was the Rainbow that won out in the end. Jed still can't hear that that dreamy intro without tearing up. I never told him how Kate was with me in surgery, but I'm thankful IZ was with him, and that we were all together at last.



*For writing prompt at Crazy Hip Blog Mamas

THE YAYA REPORT:

playdoh monsters
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Monster Mash

Cookie Monster had a party with Annabel and Kermit and Zoey. Annabel was AMAZED at how much Cookie could eat. Cookies and cake and pizza and hotdogs. ... Notice: Only Zoey eats healthy snacks.
*Zoey is also the only one who went back in the cup the same color. The others are now a grey monster mash.

OH the HORROR ...

It was bound to happen.

I can no longer hide my bad parenting behind a silent daughter.

Now that her words are sprouting words, our little announcer has recently started announcing my faux pas to the world.

Let me set the scene for you: My father took care of Annabel all day Friday, and this was my mid-day report:

PAPA: When I put her down for her nap she asked for 'hot milsh' but I didn't give her any. I told her: 'No, you can't have milk in bed. How about some water'?

And what do you think she replied?

ITTYBIT: "MOMMY YETS ME."

Oh jeeze. There it is. She's way too young to be untruthful so I can't really tell him she's making it all up. She's just organizing how things work and trying to get what she wants by telling him how it is around here.

I. AM. GUILTY. Please, GOD, don't let the teeth rot out of her head because I am a bad mommy.

It's not as if I could ever hide my flaws from the true scruitinizers; the rubbernecking, tsk-tsking been-there parents who are watching everyone from the next table at the coffeeshop and passing judgement.

I couldn't control what people thought of me, and for that matter what one woman actually said to my husband when Ittybit was first born and we took her out into the world on the coldest day in history, but I could let it go. I KNEW I was a good mom: I breastfed in public, she nursed for nearly two years and I made all of her first foods with a grinder and a sieve. I knew I loved my little girl. I felt so much like SUPERMOM back then that I even started wearing primary colors.

But for some of us it's easy to be a good mommy when you are in control; when your little princess only requires her basic needs met -- Hungry, check; Tired, check; Wet, check.

There are occasional slip ups for sure. There will be the time you forgot to change a diaper quickly enough, there will be temperatures too hot or too cold, there will be mismatched clothes and going two-days between baths. But no one knows but you.

Today, the mid-day report from Yaya made it perfectly clear who's running things around here:

YAYA: "Opps. Poop."

ITTYBIT: "YeME see it!"

YAYA: "No, that's yukky."

ITTYBIT: "MAMA YETS ME SEE IT."

Saint of the garden hose

Dear Ittybit,

This afternoon, after your nap from 2 to 4, we lounged around on the bed in our room. You switched on Winnie the Pooh even though you barely looked in the direction of the television. You wanted me to read to you.

For the first time in I don't know how many months, I had been engrossed in a book that contained no pictures or simple life lessons for you to study. Laying in that bed, with you comfortable in the crook of my arm, I didn't want to get up to find "Homemade Love," or "Little Badger," or "Where the Wild Things Are." I don't know what possessed me -- perhaps laziness -- to open my book and begin reading from the place I'd left off:

" The worst thing was lying there wanting my mother. That's how it had always been; my longing for her nearly always came late in the night when my guard was down. I tossed on the sheets, wishing I could crawl into bed with her and smell her skin. I wondered: Had she worn thin nylon gowns to bed? Did she bobby-pin her hair? I could just see her propped in bed. My mouth twisted as I pictured myself climbing in beside her and putting my head against her breast. I would put it right over her beating heart and listen. 'Mama?' I would say. And she would look down at me and say, 'Baby, I'm right here'."

-- The Secret Life of Bees
by Sue Monk Kidd

As you lay quietly in my arms, your hand resting on my own beating heart, you were perfectly still and content. I stopped reading and looked down at you just as you looked up at me. I was wondering what was keeping you from tearing at the pages, tearfully demanding something more appropriate. Something with happy colors and fluffy creatures and happy endings.

"Mama? ... I love you all day and night."

Is it any wonder I think you are lovely and amazing?

I love you, too, baby -- all day and all night.

- Mama

Just what the doctor ordered (by mistake ...)

The first time I experienced a medical error it was the result of the computer program designed to reduce them -- I kid you not.

I was about three months post-partum and suffering my third bout of mastitis. (The first one required antibiotics and the second miraculously went away on its own.)

I suppose I should have known when the doctors' office ordered a two-day supply (in powdered form) instead of five-day pill form (the usual dose for Zithromax) I should have spoken up. When the infection came back after the weekend with a vengence -- changing the shape of my upper torso into a scene from a sci-fi movie -- I got my own sneek peek into the future of healthcare now that the "infallable computer" is on the job.

Where am I going with this?

Since writing a list of things I hate, I have apparently unleashed a demon in my soul. The inner depression that was hiding behind the random anonymity of the internets, feigning happy well-adjustment, has been momentarily (I hope) embolded by choking on something that must have been a Lamisil tablet (because that little fugus freak from the commercials is the cartoon form my demon takes in my spinning mind).

So let me tell you that what's really bugging me starting in aisle 6 of the pharmacy that has no VOWELS in its name:

Why, oh why, anacronymic excuse for a store must you put the over-the-counter home tests in a locked cage? I know the sign says that in doing so you are keeping theft at bay and the prices down, but really your prices are higher than other places that DON'T make a person locate some pimply-faced community college freshman (who obviously believes he belongs at Yale -- not to mention far, far, far away from this inner-city legal pharmaceutical peddler) so he can call over a loud speaker for some other (equally tactless) person to come to the cashiers' station and help this obviously pathetic secondary infertile procure an EPT. ... Pleaaaase?

I know I've been grammar and punctuationally challeged since I learned to read and write, but the one thing I've never done before is suffer from having too many periods. So there you have it. We've been trying to make a sibling for Ittybit for nearly a year. Nothing. Nada. Nil.

This is one of those things I hadn't planned to tell you, all six of you who read these ramblings, but it feels so good to get it off my chest. Finally. Which leads me to something else I need to say:

People, some of whom I love (pronounced LUUUUUV), who think it's funny to push the issue of procreation are driving me to drink. Some of these folks have been at it since Ittybit was born. At first, when we were planning on life with only one pea pod, I'd just answer that somehow we'd managed to make one better than we deserved and we weren't the tempting-fate types. But now the jokes just seem altogether unkind.

Let me offer some advice for talking to people about their plans for parenthood: Don't Do it. EVER. Please? Don't ask someone in a flippant way if they're going to make a brother for another. If you are close enough you won't have to ask, otherwise it can be hurtful. So leave well enough alone. I'm trying not to hold it against you, but truly and deeply, my heart feels like it's breaking each time I literally piss away another $5.

Not even the sight of this photograph cheers me up

flips on gama's bed
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's official: I must be depressed.

I woke up yesterday morning unable to remove the weight from my shoulders. All day long it was more of the same. I felt heavy and sad, and not really concerned about either emotion.

You ever get the feeling you could sleep for a week and still be tired?
That you'll never finish that book that you started to read last summer?
That you'll never write (or do) anything as good as that thing you wrote (or did) last year at this time?
That you are alone in the universe, and not in a good way?

Do you ever feel like there must be more to happiness than just being happy?

There are so many things we hold over our own heads that drag our heads under water.

Here's a little list of things that have been hanging over my head:

• I can't clean my own house.
• I have no interest in cooking.
• I am too fond of flickr, where all my friends are "imaginary."
• I look at the weed of a sumac tree covering my doorway and I just brush past it as I schlep things inside. I've watched it grow into a menace since it sprouted this past spring. Cutting it down is too much effort.
• I don't want to play another toddler game.
• I watch too much TV.
• I can't concentrate on reading novels and feel guilty when I try.
• I haven't been on a walk in weeks.
• I don't care about my appearance anymore.
• I want someone else to be the mommy for a while, but I'm afraid they'll be better at it; in fact I'm sure they will.

Surrounded by history

gama miller's bed
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We started our day with a breakfast of surgared fruit in Concord, Mass., after a night of driving underneath the sparkle of fireworks and manufactured "sound effects." Though she drank and nibbled some, all she really wanted was the fancy cake in the cafe display case.

And thusly, pushed out of a lazy breakfast by the howls of our toddler in tow, our day of diversions begins.

Diversion #1: Walking in the sun with one of mama's many floppy hats; the soft one that nicely obstructs your view will do.

Diverson #2 and #3: Off we go, window peeping into closed shops; plugging pennies into parking meters, listening for the beeps and watching for numbers that blink.

Crossing the streets is safe here so long as you know what you are doing. No dawdling, make sure they see you to stop. Walk like you mean business.

Diversions #4 and #5: Climbing stairs at the post office, meeting Ama on the ramp, halfway back down. Dodging small dog droppings to collect the ancient baseball on the lawn. You throw it into the street in front of an approaching car and your daddy follows after to get it back: This is a part of your history now.

More closed shops greet us on this side of the street. Three, to be exact, and a gallery or two. In the alleyway a window box surprises us. It's filled with tiny porcelain horses perched atop their original card mats, which show the place of their manufacture. We stop to study them more closely. A unicorn is hidden therein. On closer inspection we find some token dogs, as well. Perhaps a cat, too, though we are not sure. One thing is definite, though: nothing as earth bound as a cow is among this odd stable of animals.

Diversion #6: Keep walking. Past a toystore with its giant horse in the window, it's $400 price tag and steiff-like fur soaking up the summer sun. I don't think it has a song in its ear, or even clip-clop sounds. There is no justice.We turn left, back onto the main street, past Sally's bake shop. Closed for the holiday.

Diversion #7: A parade is coming but instead of marching bands and majorettes, there is only the silent running: sinew and bone swifting past us. Just the cushion of shoes against hot pavement from the leaders, the chatter of neigbors in the middle and a sparkly antenae man bringing up the rear. We cheer and slip into the cemetary, where two and three hundred year-old stones wait for us to play hide and seek.

It all reminds me of how history makes us human. Here, in this historic place, I am reminded that sometimes history is more personal than one could imagine. How it sometimes gives us 94 birthdays, tremendous highs and lows, and cakes without sugar. Sometimes it dances on beds, smells of burned popcorn, tries on great grandmother's shoes and measures our temperature with a blood pressure cuff. It is unpredictable.

If all goes well, history tells us when we leave that we were not only loved but we are liked as well.

"I like you all day and night."

What more could one ask?

Splashdown 10 ...

Things I learned this weekend:

1. Annabel will follow grandmotherly types anywhere. ANY-WHERE. She will even initiate an introduction and a handshake ...

"I'm AN-NA-BEL; was you're name?"

2. She likes green tea with citrus.

"This is lemony, mama!"

3. Definutely no fruit should ever, under any circumstances, be mixed into pancake or waffle batter. EVAH! You may put strawberries and blueberries on the side but not in the batter, shankyouverymuch.

4. Upon seeing skewered shrimp sizzling on the barbeque at Bill and K's house, she begged for "Tigger Tails." I'm not exactly sure how I should feel about the fact that she is willing to eat the tail of an inhabitant of the Hundred Acre Wood, especially since neither her father (allergic) nor I (not fond of shrimp) have ever made a point to explain that the little pink crustaceans are indeed edible. After much hemming and hawing and pulling out of hair, I figured now is as good a time as any to test for a negative reaction so I popped one in her mouth. After much chewing and more clammoring, we are pleased to report she doesn't seem to have inherited her father's shellfish allergy. However, the bad news is, contrary to popular belief, "Tigger Tails" did not enable her to bounce higher.
5. I firmly believe if we were able to conduct a two-hour yoga class on Sundays, Annabel might warm up to the kids and actually participate during the second hour.

6. Pools rule. They are cool, and they are so, so, very, spectacularly fun.

7. She can't wait to see her Ama Linda on the fourth and make her a "special."

8. She loves her Pooh and Tigger swim diapers. ... Because, as we learned in #6 above, POOLS RULE!

9. She knows what a microphone is, how it works and how to look cool singing in front of crowds of toddlers (when no one is looking).

10. She loves Supa MB's mix tape for June. LOVES it. Thank you, Supafine!

Where I am from ...

This little writing exercise comes via the lovely and amazing 8 Hours


I am from chipped coffee cup hidden behind trinkets of Happy Meals on a lower shelf.

I am from seaweed, slick and tangled around your ankles.

I am from the red barn, old and meandering, standing despite the ravage
of time.

I am from the spiky cactus dahlias, morning glories and errant tulips in the grass.

I am from self consternation and indecision, from Zita of the pots and pans and genius mothers and others. I am famine fed.

I am from the nomads who took root in the working class.

From ghost stories and secrets and lies that showed the soft underbelly of truth.

I am from nothing and everything. Little girls with white dresses and
veils standing in a straight line waiting for a host.

I'm from the collar city and before that the land that time forgot. I am lamb shanks and potatoes, plentyful and bland; sweet milks and sour creams.

I am from the carnage of worry, the horse that helped her crack her head open and a momentary lapse of memory when she came to consciousness again. I am a frown of neverending anxiety.

I am from cardboard boxes and reused envelopes with stamps peeling off. I am lost and found and lost again.


If you try it, please let me know, I'd love to learn about where you are from.

Don't mess with mama

I am watching the fallout from Linda R. Hirshman's December American Prospect piece, "Homeward Bound," and her reaction essay that followed in the Washington Post June 18th, "Mommy Rage: Unleashing the Wrath of Stay-at-home Moms," with the kind of shame I'd feel if I were rubber-necking at a train wreck: The better part of me wants to look straight ahead and move along as the traffic patrol instructs, but the part that wins out slows down to gawk at the mayhem.

I suppose the most surprising aspect for me -- if it's even true at all -- is that Ms. Hirshman claims to have been surprised by the backlash. She writes:

"I had wandered, it seems, into ground zero of the Mommy Wars. Although I was aware of the stories about women quitting, I did not know what a minefield the subject was. Specifically, I did not know that you can say almost anything about how great it is for a woman to give up her job; standing up for staying at work is the big taboo."

How could a self-described social philospher studying mothers NOT know that they would be as protective as a cornered mama bear? How could she NOT know they would be offended at the accusation they had no value unless they were receiving a paycheck?

Unlike her assertions, I don't think her initial piece actually stood up for the working woman as much as it belittled those who, she claimed, were wasting their educations and their lives, not to mention undermining the progress of feminism, by staying home.

After Ms. Hirshman goes on to catagorize her most vitriolic opponents as fundamentalist religious zealots, and demeans internet diarists who are blogging in droves in defiance of her assessment of the state of feminism by implying they have too much time on their hands, she retorically wonders why the women she was championing -- the woman leaving home to go out into the workplace, valiantly toiling away and making in-roads for the common good of all women -- weren't rallying around her side. Her answer: They were too busy working.

It's too bad another possibility escapes her: This pink-suited army in the professional trenches would rather be home with their kids than grinding away at the office for the benefit of stockholders or insurance companies or ad revenues.

She is asking why would an educated women choose to stay home if not for fear that the big, bad public schools will teach their children about Evolution as if it were SCIENCE? Why else would they willingly relegate themselves to the jobs of unpaid cooks, janitors, chaeuffers and recreational attendants? Why aren't they forging new business inroads for their children and their children's children with their degrees and doctorates from the board rooms instead of the playrooms and the bathrooms? She seems to be assuming that the greater good can only come from on high.

Perhaps what she should be asking is WHY are we GOING to work?

My guess is that many of her supposed allys are working not for the personal satisfaction of climbing the corporate ladder and being remembered in history, but for necessisities (or at least what they think are necessisties) such as healthcare, heating oil or retirement plans.

My guess is that many of her rally 'round the flag girls would give up the rat race in a New York minute if they could. There's no love out there from the bosslady. Women on the rise, or so it seems, don't always make it easier for the women coming up.

Personally, I could easily get by on 12 hours a week of professional satisfaction and the rest enjoying the small window of life I am alotted with my family if I wasn't the one providing my family's quality healthcare. My regret would't be wishing I'd spent more time at the office, I assure you.

It also seems to me that Ms. Hirshman has no interested in the women who care for the children of the affluent; in fact she doesn't seem to consider society at-large at all. She is looking at only one small piece of the puzzle. Our culture is increasingly isolationist in temperment. We are told, and we believe, that the individual is more important than the group. Personal accountability is revered above all else. Let's remember also as we move from the greater good to the needs of the individual, we are always looking out for ourselves first. For a growing number of women who don't want to be merely shadows in their kids lives, they're giving up the glory of earning only 75 cents for every dollar a man makes.

Perhaps it's time to realize that we are all coggs in a much bigger wheel. And we are all vitally important whether we stay at home or not. We need to balance one another, even if only precariously.

And now, the good news ...

Young Wesley
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Annabel has a new cousin. Wesley Owen , born to Halley and Bill just after noon on June 28. He weighed 7 lbs 2 oz and, as you can see, he's just happy as pie.

So, without further ado ...

Welcome to the family young Wesley. We apologize in advance for all the bad jokes and indecisive moments you will witness from here on in. But you are one of us now, and I'm sure in time you will understand. Someday. With perhaps some nice refreshing adult beverage.

With much love and happiness,

Your east-coast cousins.

Words fail me

I woke up at 6 a.m. and switched on the news. Murder in Chatham. Double homicide. Son-in-law in custody. Parents dead inside the house.

I held my breath. The victims were not identified, but it doesn't matter. Anytime there is heartbreak in my backyard I am heartsick. I don't live in that town, nor have I ever, but more than any other place, for some reason, Chatham holds both my heart and my gratitude.

Any tragedy there is mine, too.

At 7 a.m. the phone is ringing. Not unusual. It could be any number of people calling: Lori to make sure I remember to bring juice; my father asking me if Annabel had a good night ...

"I really don't know how to say this," my mother's voice stammers. "I guess I just have to come right out and say it: there's been a murder."

She tells me all she knows, and then there is silence.

Death is not something I am unfamiliar with; five friends and countless relatives, both young and old. "Murder," however, is something that just hits you in the chest like a fist.

Turns out the victims were the son and daughter-in-law of a dear neighbor of my parents. The kind of family that is close and loving and courageous. I vividly remember this couple from my childhood, when they were younger than I am now and in love with each other and their two beautiful little girls.

I've spend all day today thinking about how I've never seen the man without a smile. In fact, he was a guy who, during his 17th summer, carried a baby racoon around in his shirt pocket, feeding it from an eye-dropper. As I listened to stories of his continued generosity throughout the day -- stories parceled out of the telephone and media chatter -- it was abundantly clear neither he nor his wife had changed these many years later.

I don't know what or how to think. I don't know how to make anything better or safer or sane.

But right now, at this very moment, I really wish someone had the answer.

THE YAYA REPORT:

mama I don't feel so good
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's happening at the other mom's house

Today she took time out to talk to me on the phone,
though, I don't think she could hear me ...

"Mama?
You at work?
You at work, mama?
You at work?
Ma. You at work?

ma ... ma?"

"I need some poop juice. I don't feel good in my diaper."

A little matter of experience and interpretation

umbella
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Mama, don't push me," she says sternly as I interrupt her latest version of KING OF THE MOUNTAIN (my shoulders being the mountain this time) by putting her back on solid ground. "I didn't push you," I tell her, "I helped you repel down the foothills."

She clamors up my chest and over my shoulders again, this time all slit-eyed and daring me to thwart her plans. I drag her halfway down the mommy mountain, roll her over my knees and prop her back up into a sitting position, all the while she clings to two fistfuls of my uncombed hair. This time, however, her tone changes: 'NOOOOO, I wanna stay wit you, mama. I wanna stay wit yooooooou!'

Lately, I've noticed, she's been playing this game more and more. "But I wan YOU, mama" has become her mantra, especially when mama wants to be left in peace.

It's positively heartbreaking. It makes me ashamed to think about all the times I haven't been fully present with her because I am lost in my own inner world. I know that it won't be long until she doesn't want me within sight distance, let alone acting as the chair (or the mountain) beneath her.

However much I want to eat my toast or drink my coffee in peace right now is how much I'll want her to be her raucous little-girl self later, times two.

This morning, as we have the past four mornings, we trundled out of the house forgetting rain gear. We were late again, which meant no sit-down breakfast. A cup of "hot milk," an apple and a bag full of cereal were packed to go. I strap her into the car, hand her the breakfast and go back for her "um-bella," which she insists on propping above her head as we drive so she can munch on her "seer-we-wool" and stay dry, because it's "rainy out, mama."

I wonder, as we are driving along, if anyone will notice the car seat adorned with a blue and yellow-polka-dotted umbrella bobbing along with the unheard rhythm of The Wiggles. I wonder, if I were still the me of my previous life -- the childless life that seems as if it took place 100 years ago -- and I saw this traveling circus drive by, would I laugh or shrug or roll my eyes?

I contemplate the phenomenon of such annoyances, the behaviors I would have once called bratty and reserved for other people's children, but I can't sustain the notion for too long anymore. And, the fact is, I really don't care what other people think. I am just glad to be shown the error of my youthful ways. I'm glad to be laughing now.

Google has made me illiterate (in German)

As one might do from time to time, I peruse the data that shows how people happen on my ramblings. It's a sneaky little spy trick enabled by Site Meter, and it tells me, among other things, that some of you are looking for the "Perfect Frame for your Husband's 50th Birthday." To my horror, however, it turns out some folks have attempted to translate my writing into other languages. After translating the translation back, I have come to the stunning conclusion that I am illiterate. Some of you reading in English may have known this all along.

So, without further incoherant babbling, this is what some poor soul in Germany thinks I wrote in this essay over at Exiled in Toyland

Ow! OW! OWWWW!" My married man is dancing, again kreischend and around the house in a cloth. "you know that we should keep a Discokugel for the shower real, if you on practicing your movements verse-eat are" I explain to him, without looking above from my play "of the grocer's shop memory" with Ittybit at all. (we are at the part, in which them try to cause me to give however, my acquires straight rejects its $49 for two boxes of teigwaren and of cardboard Huehnerbruehe as at the MATERIAL market to in-sag), it weights that it believes like something, which bites it. I think that he is fair a phantom pass, until he hurls down the cloth and stomps on him. It searches carefully by the trampled Terrycloth and extracts a flatpressed wasp. Proof, according to its side of history that the carnivorous insect in a clean cloth, which was it from the laundry basket pulled already folded however not already away set. I am not safe I can of more local lives with the wilderness bear, which moves away each time by our house the change of season. Additionally to the occasional in free dwelling neighbourhood cat, which forms its way at home despite the presence of two loveable however loud of dogs, I waited attendance of confused Raccoons, blows and way rail of birds to be mentioned in order discombobulated houseguests as, spiders of all multiplicity freeloading not; Continuous screws I cannot mark; Lady hears nicely is, those in the small numbers, but terrifying in the swarms off; and ants, which fly. Each year gets a new mark of troubles. The wasps, although, have inside for good moved. I place before me that she thought wasp out "condominimums" behind the walls in the roof rafters establishes. On the sun portal in the evenings, I watch out sip my coffee and its enormous body wheedle in and from the bright attachments. I am that they study the verges, thus it the magic of the photocopy to their even more than modest place of residence to surely get can. I cannot begin me, of these creatures as everything else to think as villainous. Particularly if Ittybit comes, constantly to me of playroom the same portal and it weights that there is a "slow-acting, slow-acting, furchtsames ' more piiider on its duck. And away, "peas, nut/mother, det, ask me it." There I go investigating - prepared completely to shift long legs of a dad or any other general hausspinne and to explain family the slogan: Spiders are our friends - I stop intermediary thoughts, if I see that, what creeps on the gigantic filled animal a wasp is. I more shudder at the picture, which whirls Stingers into my head of this tariff-long monster, which drives it, is in knees of their bee. I sweep it above in my arms and explain to her everything when, which had her right to call me for assistance. While the married man studies the stickers its accumulation insect extermination means, carefully decide which poison materials he ready unleash in the world, around ours of newest troubles to be cleaned is, rush I to the judgement. "this times, we to Disco,", I and I announce run to the bathroom for my no name box of the hair spray, rusty from 12 years from styling neglect and shower steam. "welcomes to the eighties, waspers; I hope that you like extra influence."

So, for those who have red through this and required Anvils, pleas assept me sincerust 'I'm sorrys.'

Hateful things ...

I almost choked on my Guinness when I checked my rss reader and discovered that Mom-101 had tagged me (in the nicest non-tagging way, of course) with a meme about hateful things, because (and this is the part where I nearly spewed stout all over my keyboard) I am so "upbeat" all the time.

If only t'wer true.

For those of you who really don't know me, let me assure you it's the antidepressants writing, which leads me to my first hateful thing:

1). I hate Zoloft. And previously I hated Prozac more. They make me groggy and tired, and worried about never being normal again. I hate having to rely on a inhibitor to stop being inhibited. Why can't a strong cup of black coffee do the trick?

2). Citydiots. Yes, I live in the country week-round. I haven't been to the city (where you important people live during the work-a-day week) since I was pregnant. And NO, I am not going grocery shopping on weekdays just so you don't have to wait in line. I've got one word for you: ZABAR'S. ... And by the way, if you tell me one more time that YOU bring the culture here and WE should be grateful, I will let the air out of your tires and fill your car with fertilizer.

3). Sunny days. Not kidding. I would rather spend the entire day in a downpour than in the sun. I don't think there is enough sunscreen in the world to make me think otherwise. In fact they'd have to bottle something called LIQUID SHIRT to make me go outdoors between the hours of 10 and 2.

4). Watermelon. Truly. I don't understand its popularity. It's mealy and it has seeds. If you eat too close to the rind you are in for a bitter surprise and its tender meat really ain't that sweet. Why would anyone eat it when there's such a thing as cantalope?

5). Cosmopolitans. I watched Sex & The City. I even liked it the last three seasons, but damn. No matter how I try I just can't get this drink past my lips. Jed loves them. LOVES THEM. But if I'm going to drink one someone had better give me two margaritas first, you know, so I can be good and liquored-up.

6).Grocery shopping. While you may refer to # 2 here for a reason, a larger and more compelling one is an intricate game of hide and seek the managers have been playing with me for years. It has made me believe that the market higher-ups consider their stores to be DISNEYLAND. Let me assure you, dear manager, there is NOTHING amusing about searching fruitlessly for the BEER aisle or the NATURAL FOODS section because YOU moved it ... each month ... since I've been shopping here. So quit it already, okay!

7.) Lamb. This is something that crept up on me because for years I thought I liked lamb. I had it once at a party and it was A-MAZING. So whenever it's on a menu I have a tendancy to order it only to realize, once the plate is slid under my salivatin' chin, "oh, yeah, I'm not too jazzed about lamb."

8). Liam Neeson. I'm sure If I met him he'd be a nice guy, charming and the like. But seriously, since the movie "Nell," I can't watch his work. Any of it. Even the stuff I liked beforehand.

9). "Schindler's List." I hated this movie, but I couldn't admit it because of its subject matter. (Really, you can't disparage a movie dipicting a story of such historic importance, can you?) And no, it wasn't because Liam Neeson portrayed Oskar Schindler (although that didn't help). I don't want movies to BEAT ME OVER THE HEAD with the message. Mr. Spielberg, I have a brain. I am capable of using it on occasion.

10). Low-test transport. I hate automatic transmissions even MORE than decaffeinated coffee. Driving to work, somedays, with my low-test sedan and my low-test joe, I worry about left-leg atrophy and if I'll ever enjoy being behind the wheel again. It's enough to make you take Zoloft.


And that, dear friends, concludes this listed rant. I'm not going to tag anyone specifically, but if any of you out there in the ethosphere feel like taking this torch I'll happily link to your charred remains.

Shhh, I got a seektet ...

Dear Annabel,

It's time you know, you've joined an exclusive club begun in the 60s and 70s and culminated in a little place called Bethel, NY. (Oh sure, there are some people who think "Woodstock" happened in Woodstock, but I assure you, the legendary music festival took place on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel). And the group to which you may now claim membership consists of an entire populace that can't be trusted because of their age -- over 30.

In your case, the number denotes only 30 months, but that's beside the point.

It is my contention that you are crafty beyond your (two +) years.

Case in point:

"Mommy, wah you wan, A o B?"

Ah ... let's see. I'll take A.

"Ok. ... wah do you wan NOooow?"

Hmmmm. I guess I'll take B.

"NO. We don't half any Bs."

If we are to truely keep track, I would mention that you are currently unable to successfully dress yourself in any article of clothing. You have, however, attempted to jam socks on your feet and put your pants on your head. (You can blame your father for that last fiasco, although he has routinely encouraged you to put my panties around your neck, which you have been successful in doing for some months now).

You still love to sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes (Knees and Toes)" but you are also capable of identifying, by name, your hands, elbows, hair, and bum as well your eyes and ears and mouth and nose. You are becoming interested in my breasts as more than just a place to jam your hands when you seek extra comfort, but I'm waiting to explain the whole "vagoo" thing until I've been good and drunk for a few weeks. (Sorry).

While I am trying to lose my balance to innebriation, you are finding yours much more easily these days, especially when standing on one foot, by the simple art of practice. Just last week you even let go of my hand to perform a tightrope act on top of the dugout bench at the Little League Field. You looked adorable with your arms outstretched.

Yesterday, you made it clear that you would no longer be using the "Baby Poddy," because, after all, you are a big girl now and big girls use the big girl potty. I know this will be too much information for some, but with your perched on the potty like a right parrot, repeating everything I said while you were waiting for the "POO to tum," I took a picture. I couldn't help myself because it seemed somehow like a milestone, something for the record book.

These days, I can't wait until I get home to see your sweet cheeks and feel your little arms wrap tight around my neck. I can't wait to hear the fanciful stories you are creating in volume. It seems we are living on our own Fibber Island, and, I have to admit, I've never had more fun.

Love and zerberts,
Mommy

The shameful economics of love

tuming for a ride?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Crane Truck: $35,000

Diesel: $3.10 per gallon

Miles Per Gallon: Six

Miles to Yaya's house: 16 (round trip)

Look on Ittybit's face when she's strapped into the carseat: PRICELESS!

Of course, the interest rates will be MURDER.

THE YAYA REPORT:

fred & madge
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Meet Fred and Madge. They are bunnies.

"Hi Fred, how are you?"
Pretty good.
"Hi Madge, how are you?"
Pretty good.

Uh-oh, I sorry, Yaya. I brokt the rabbits.

There's going to be heartbreak ... and I'm not ready

"I'm ANN-A-BEL. You wanna see ney to me?" Ittybit asks the fresh-faced blonde, four or so years her senior, whose mom is also pushing down on the opposite end of a teeter-totter two rows away from us.

I hold my breath as the girl's expression turns blank.

"I don't know what she's saying," she says to her mother. "What is she saying?"

"She wants you to sit next to her," I explain, translating more from ittybit's face, as she's been staring at her teeter-totter acquaintance since the girl's arrival, than her words.

For a while the little girl obliges and trails after my alpha-toddler, moms in tow. From the springy toys to the big slide, the girl is a trouper.

And then Ittybit's little being is inhabited by Simon Legree: "You see on the pey-gyn and I see on the doe-ag, otay? No, no, no, no. I see on the pey-gyn you see on the doe-ag. Now we see on the motor-cycle. You see on the aero-pain. Let's do over to the side. No, no, no here. Up here. I tan't doooo that. Help."

I can see it in the pretty girl's eyes: The novelty of having a toddler friend has grown old. She's looking for an exit. As Annabel took some time to pick up rocks, the girl and her mom slipped away unnoticed.

And so it begins; the floundering of forging new friendships.

At this stage, I know it hurts me more than Annabel, but I can't help it. No one wants to see their kids get rejected. I guide her through the procedure, anyway, even though I'm certain she won't understand. I explain that she has to ASK people if they WANT to do something, and that she has to understand that it's OK if they don't want to do what she wants to do - it's not a reflection on either of you. It's just the way things are.

Of course, after I'd finished my speech she asked me where they went.

"They went to the potty, baby."

"I wanna doe to the poddy, too."

Although I wanted to say 'no, we have to go home,' in order to avoid a real, honest to goodness rejection, I didn't want to thwart the progress of her intestinal interests.

Off we went to the toilets.

As we approached the green cement building that housed the porcelain thrones, the little girl and her mother emerged. As they walked past us, Annabel turned her head and waved at her new friend.

"Bye-bye. I hafta doe to the poddy. Bye. See you LAY-TER."

It's all fun and games until someone loses a pie

I am at work, twiddling my thumbs as I wait for the IT guy to come and fix our massive headache often referred to simply as "the system," so I thought instead of dwelling on the sour bile of this madness, I'd share some toothsome treats instead.

We made this together, and it really was quite delightful.

Summer Strawberry Toddler

• Step one: Mom, drink something quick and alcoholic. A shot of tequila works nicely.
• Step two: Gather supplies. You will need 8 large strawberries - 2 for eating and 6 for slicing. One ready-made pie crust (who needs all that work when Betty Crocker can do it for you)? One tablespoon of sugar. A sharp knife. A tartlet pan.
• Step three: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.
• Step four: Slice the 6 strawberries, while diverting toddler's attention with the 2 "decoy" berries.
• Step five: Put tartlet pan down on center of crust and cut a large circle with knife. Line pan with center part of crust material.
• Step six: Instruct toddler to dump berries into pan. ... She may do so ONE AT A TIME ...... S-L-O-W-L-Y, so try and be patient.
• Step seven: Put drop-cloth on floor then hand toddler a tablespoon and the sugar bowl. (Word to the wise: do this project with only a small smackerell of sugar clinging to the bottom of the bowl. Even a small amount of the sweet stuff strewn on the floor will make you feel like your walking on a beach, only without the nice surroundings and the calm push of rhythmic waves).
• Step eight: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.
• Step nine: Slice narrow strips of crust from remnants and weave them across top of pie. Some toddlers will make curly-que designs while throwing them at the dog.
• Step 10: Hand kid the leftover leftovers to play with since you forgot to preheat the oven to 350 degrees (hotter if your oven sucks).
• Step 11: Remove dough pieces from the dog's back and TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER and put it in the dishwasher already. Sheesh.
• Step 12: When is that oven going to heat up, damnit? Tap foot while clicking oven light on and off, over and over, showing your creamy OCD center.
• Step 13: Make a second pie, you have time and a leftover pie crust anyway, not to mention there's sugar all over the floor, so the mess is no longer an obstacle. *Use your hands to rip pie crusts and mash strawberries so you won't be tempted to use the knife (now safely in the dishwasher) on your throat.
  
• Step 14: Put pies in oven and bake about 20 minutes or until the crusts are a golden brown, (or longer if your oven sucks).
• Step 15: Save one of the pies for daddy because toddler will demand "ICE PEEM" after feeding her lopsided, gnawed-on portion to the dog.

At least it looked pretty, huh?

And as luck would have it, you will be spared the rundown on the clean-up procedures. the "system" is working again ... for now.


THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

She's like a kitten ... I can prove it.

REPORT
Today was a playpen kinda day, starting at 10:30 a.m.

Annabel: "Can I go to seep, now? Peas? Peas, can I?"

Lori: "Well, it's a little early ... but Ok ..."

10:45 a.m. Do you think she's asleep? No, she's standing on her head, she's shaking out her blankets, she's doing her normal pre-sleeping activities like house cleaning.

11 a.m. I couldn't believe it. She was OUT COLD. ... Of course when she wakes up she'll do it all over again: her pre- and post-sleeping activities.

When the road ahead is long and doesn't always lead where you wanted to go ...

Dear Annabel,

I just wanted to appologize to you for yesterday.

On a day when we should have been celebrating your big 3-0 (30 months, that is) in grand style -- perhaps at a waterpark or at the very least, which was my solid intension, in the sweltering yoga studio with your very best friend having a kazoo parade for two -- we spent the day lost in the hills of Dutchess County, grooving to the Black-Eyed Peas as I prayed silently that the car didn't break down in the 96-degree heat leaving us stranded and melting.

The day had such promise even though it was shaded with gloom from the get-go.

We got out of the house before the sun filled it with hot, sticky badness, and headed off for some "Goodwill hunting." You needed t-shirts but we left with some things you wanted, too, such as a tiny-tot parisol and two "Band in a Bucket" playsets -- one for you and one for your best bud.

Wishing for rain and a parade to march through the dining room, you and I shared a meal of chicken nuggets and bottled water under the protective shelter of your new umbrella -- Superstitions be damned.

I called Ama to see if she was OK. You spoke to her for a little while and told her not to be sad. (In addition to your dad being away on this Father's Day, my dad was spending his day with Auntie Mimi, who had to be hospitalized that morning for a big-bad-bug that's wreaking havoc on her intensital tract. ... I'll leave it at that.) After you said goodbye, we headed off to our Sunday yoga class. You were excited.

Note to your older self: You might want to remind me to consult a MAP the next time we take an unfamiliar route.

I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew the roads. (Thought being the problematic word here.) So for an hour we drove through some beautiful landscape; the kind of scenery that even makes atheists say it must be "God's Country."

You pointed out cows when you saw them and marveled at the big blue roof of a sky. You didn't even mind that there wasn't rain for your new "umbella."

The further I drove the more familiar things seemed, and yet it was all unfamiliar, too. I missed the turn we should have taken somewhere and found myself two states away from our appointed destination.

I phoned our friends to tell them of our dilemma and you listened calmly. You told me it was alright that I told them not to wait for us. You just demanded more "Peas in the Pod ... Hang Loo-ose!" before you, fell into a deep and binky-less sleep.

When you awoke, we were at a gas station in Litchfield, and I was asking a laughing man in a purple t-shirt if I head toward Sharon will I wind up in Gt. Barrington? Nope. When all the numbers were sorted out (44 to 41 to 23 to 7) and I had the "Ahhhhh ... Now-I-get-it" moment, your little voice came at me with a question, alerting me to your wakefulness.

"WHAT WAS THAT MAN TELLING YOU, MAMA?"

"He was telling me how to get there, baby."

"Oh. But they won't be there anymore-a."

You were right, of course. They weren't there. The guilt in me decided park the car and stretch our legs into the direction of the nearest toystore. I rationalized that we could get some little nothing to cheer up Mimi.

You played with Thomas the Train for an hour while I searched the shop for the perfect thing, which turned out to be a this crafty doo-dad I fully expected to send me over the edge. (As I can not craft my way out of a paper bag).

After we paid for the kit and you happily toted it out of the store (sans bag), who could blame you for not wanting to get back into the car?

Wasn't it lucky that we parked in a perfect place for lolling? Wasn't it fortunate that we had a little patch of grass and a big shade tree right in front of parking spot so we could work on our project for Mimi?

I mention this because had I not stopped and sat in that place, had I listened to my better judgement and not opened up that pink box with its bazillion tiny pieces, I might never have known of your uncanny ablity to sort among those tiny little beads, smaller than seasame seeds, and hand me the desired color, time after time, for nearly an hour.

On the way home, you pointed to every large brick building, asking if that's the "hos-si-spill" where Mimi is. "She's not very good, so we maked her a special! I wanna see her," you'd tell me.

You don't have any idea how lovely and amazing you are right now, my little bean, but rest assured that we do, and I can guarantee we'll never tire of reminding you.

Happy half-way birthday, little one. Thanks for being you.

Love,
Mommy.



THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Swimpoo ... an idea that's time has come.

Some guys ...

You know the guy who everyone likes? The guy who somehow, quietly, knows everybody on Earth? When you are with him in public, you can't go twelve feet without stopping to talk to someone or two?

I'm sure you've heard of him. He's the guy who believes hard work is always rewarded, even if the prize isn't what you had bargained for.

He's the guy who you tell your troubles to and before you know it he's on the phone, calling in a favor.

He likes to think the best of everyone, except the President (these last few years, anyway).

He still lights up at the thought of Lionel Trains, childhood memories and just about any funny story you tell him.

He's the guy who will wolf down a egg-sodden slice of burnt French toast -- even though eggs make him queasy -- just because you, child, made it for him.

He's the guy who remembers that you wanted that fancy pocket knife when you were seven years old and gives it to you at your college graduation with note saying: "I think now you're old enough to have it."

He's the guy who worries about your troubles, and acts on your behalf without you even knowing it.

He's the guy who walks you down the aisle, if you're lucky, and dotes on the grandkids with a kind of enjoyment you've never seen, nor thought humanly possible.

This particular guy, I am lucky to say, is MY DAD.






And as luck would have it, the stars aligned and I Married a Guy just like him.

- Happy Fathers' Day to my two favorite guys.

Evidence

A little proof she sees things a little differently than ...
well ... some of the rest of us.



After the librarian demonstrated the craft project the storytime kids were going to do for Father's Day, and everyone had eagerly gotten to work, Annabel just stood there looking a little confused.

"Where's the head?"

"I wanna head, peas."

Aw, it's okay Annabel, he doesn't need his head.

Sorry, dads. It was just too easy, I couldn't resist.

It's been nice knowin' ya. We're going to Hell to spend our 'mondey'

Since Annabel started playing grocery store in our cupboards I've thought about getting realistic-looking play money, but I only found uninspiring (and quite honestly, anemic looking) counterfeit currency. In place of more flashy cash, we've been making our own bills out of junk mail.

But now that an "imaginary" friend from the Internets, also known as the Atomic mama Nicole Nordensved, sent us a boatload of 10,000 dollarsies we're planning on retiring to New Zealand and forgetting we ever knew you little people. Junk mail be damned. This illegal tender is so cool it's hot. Like from hell hot.

In fact, Annabel was so thrilled to receive the package that she spent more than an hour rolling her sweaty self in the ill-gotten gains. She kept saying "more bills, more bills, more bills!" At least now she can pay them!

The wonderful card that came with the play dough indicated Atomic had wrestled a choice between "Heaven Bank Notes," and "Hell Bank Notes" and had intended to get the ones from above but grabed the cash from down under. ... ah well. Hell money, in my opinion, is WAY more useful for our purposes. ... Mwa- a- a- a- ah.

The best part, of course, is that when Ittybit's done playing with this stuff in a few years it can be recycled. Only, instead of the junk mail recycling procedure we've been use to, I'm planning papering the bathroom walls with it. You know, it's just that cool.

Thanks Nicole.

For those of you folks interested in the "real" history of this Chinese "spirit money," check out this, this, and this.

What passes for rational thought at 8 a.m. (When the mouse is away): Ice cream is good for you. It has milk.

Slipping into a morning routine, for me, is a little like trying to hobble around in ill-fitting shoes. You always get tripped up by something unexpected. The only thing I can count on, it seems, is that nothing ever goes as planned.

If I am alone, the television gets turned on first thing. I know Clifford will help me get ready and keep her calm while I make breakfast and pack lunches.

I usually start our morning drill by offering her suggested meals. Waffles? "No." Pancakes? "No." Good Eggs? "No. No. No." How about some cereal? You like cereal. ... No.

"I'm fine. Don't want brefast, mama. Jus milsh, shank you."

Oh, alright. You'll eat when you get hungry.

When Clifford ends our out-of-the-house day begins. We usually gather our many bags and head for the stairs. Except today when I click off the television, she heads for the kitchen and starts to climb up to the counter.

"Can I have some seer-we-wool?" She asks.

"Sure, honey. We'll have to take it with us, though," I say as I open the cabinet and reach for the box of rice squares. But in my way, and in full view of my little boss lady, is the box of sugared ice cream cones. I try to shield it from her view but it's too late. She's seen it and now wants ice cream.

"We don't have ice cream for breakfast," I lie. (Of course we do, sometimes. Especially when dad's not looking. Don't you?)

"I WAAAAAAN it. PEAAAAAAAAAAAASE?"

"No. I am making you a bag of cereal for the road. Then we are marching down those stairs, young lady, and getting in that car."

I don't even want to describe what happened next. Suffice it to say, we got down the stairs and into the car. And tonight I'll be washing the car seat.

He's my NEW best friend ...

" ... as long as he doesn't take too much of Yaya's attention, touch any of my toys or play with anything that looks even remotely interesting for any length of time. Of course if he finds some dumb piece of plastic that I had previously overlooked, and he refuses to hand it over as SOON as I demand it, well ... he's toast. Oh, and, I'll take that snack, too. SHANK YOU."

A-Yeah ... I'd look scared, too.

I think I will be drinking more, thanks to public radio

Who's the adult?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

On my way to work this morning I was listening to our local public radio station, and caught the tail-end of a Roundtable chat with Mike Levine, executive editor of the Times Herald Record

The newspaper is working on a special report about the shifting makeup of its community -- specifically, the observation that youth services are becoming the cultural center that all things revolve around. The suspicion leads them to believe their's is not the only community affected by such kidifications.

In a nutshell, it seems that the story will be tackling how parents are so involved with PARENTING (as a verb) that kids just can't be kids.

One of the most argued points is the prevalence of organized play. Whereas at one time little "John" and "Jane" could go down the street on their own, find a pick-up baseball game and have 78 at-bats and the relative privacy of only a handful of same-age players watching as they make colossal errors; now "Ethan" and "Madison" climb in mom and dad's mini van wearing their starched uniforms, drive three miles to the league field (drawn with precision chalk lines) and sit on a bench waiting for their three turns at bat only to have three hundred parents watch them strike out each time.

I know we're going to have trouble with this.

As a new parent, who has "drunk the Kool-Aid" offered by every slick magazine telling us how to be Good Parents and enjoy our children, I have to admit this broadcast left me reeling. Just yesterday, the Husband and I had our usual is this "good or bad" talk, when he asked me where ittybit was and I told him "she's in her room, playing with her doll."

"How is that going to affect her socialization skills?" he worried. "She's social enough," I assured him. "She needs to have a private life, too. ... She has to learn to amuse herself."

This debate on parenting seems to have been raging for more than two decades. And, while I think there are numerous factors in play, including perceptions that our world is no longer safe, there's really no single place we can point to and say AH-HA!

MORE pederasts, AH-HA!
MORE crime, AH-HA!
MORE self-help, AH-HA!
MORE media coverage, AH-HA!
MORE things to buy, AH-HA!
MORE self-imposed guilt and stress, AH-HA!
MORE single parents splitting their time with the kids, AH-HA!
MORE working moms, AH-HA!
MORE stay-at-home dads, AH-HA!

Still, as parents in a society that hammers us with being proactive and keeping ourselves safe at all costs, how will we buck this new instinct to retreat into our little family cocoons?

Recently, I was driving down a country road I hadn't been on since I was about 12 and riding my bike to a friend's house. It was a five-mile journey filled with twists and turns, limited sight distances and cars traveling too fast on curves. I couldn't breathe thinking about my own child and how I would NEVER want her to ride alone on this or any other road like it. EVER. I couldn't believe how MY mother had allowed me to ride it alone. Do I not trust her, drivers? Will I be teaching her to be independent and confident or fearful and inept?

But it's more than our own fears that motivates us, according to this editors' assessment. It's also a need to parent. The need to BE the Super Parent all the self-help manuals suggest we can be. To make every single, precious moment as packed with quality as we can manage.To be our kids' cheerleaders, and best buds on the weekends. To be there for every bump, scrape and bad day. To celebrate the good days, and give the high-fives and erase all the BAD parents from the face of the Earth with our Good Parenting Accomplishments.

What this suggests is that parents are going into our children's world more and more, and abandoning the adult one.

As the radio conversation continued, I couldn't help but have that awful feeling of an unwanted truth. We are a nation of consumers, and we are now consuming our kids. This can't be a good thing. ... can it?

Good or bad, the Times Herald Record is looking for thoughts from outside its readership area, specifically if you see the same type of cultural shift happening in your neck of the woods. If you have the time, you might want to drop Mr. Levine a line at mlevine@th-record.com. I know I can't wait to hear what you all have to say.

There's lots to see and do

Don't grow up too soon, okay?

That's the thought that kept going through my mind as we made our way three towns over and to the left this morning. A party in honor of The World Cup was getting underway and we had baked a pie for the occasion. All my happy thoughts of drinking beer and eating thick slices of stawberry rhubarb vanished as soon as the tiny voice strapped into the car seat behind me started to prattle off excitely about a party that she was invited to attend, too.

"OK, guys. I'm shinking of sumpting ... ah. Nevermind."

"Oh, look. Amnials."

"Monkeys? in the Farmie? I don't shink so, daddy. ... O-e-O-i-U."

It was all so amazing to me. Just a few months ago I wondered if she'd EVER speak more than the first syllable of any word. This constantly flowing stream of thought was pouring out faster than I could commit them to memory.

Until she said this:

"Schwan? Who else is doing to be there at the PAR-TEE?"

I shivered. We've been teaching her to say our names, her name, and the name of the town we live in (you know, just in case she needs to go out for a six-pack one day and gets too drunk to find her way back) but I never expected her to call me anything other than Mama, Mommy, Ma or even the person-i-live-with-who-is-so-stupid-i-don't-know-how-she-finds-her-car-in-the-parking-lot (that last one I expect will come out in about 14 years or so).

When she skipped upstairs with the "big" girls at the party, making bracelets and looking at all sorts of pre-teen treasures with their indulgence, I felt the toddler slip away from me a little.

I know I call her a "teenager," especially when she asks for "hot milk" and "fie mo minues" before I pluck her out of bed and plop her at the breakfast table, but I really wish time would slow down a bit ... just enough for me to catch up.

It all reminds me of one of my FAVORITE stranger-mommy moment: A woman at an outdoor shopping plaza, trying to get her spirited toddler to slow down. I was nowhere near becoming a mom back then, but, like the rest of the onlooking judges, I could plainly see her little bumpkin was headed for a doosie of a fall.

The mom just smiled and said: "Honey, if you slow down you'll see more things."

Even though I want to reach out and grab my little bumpkin, and keep her from falling into this trap of growing up, I can't. I just have to try and point out some of the things she'll miss when she's not looking.