Summer school of hard knocks

As promised here's the rundown of lessons learned during our annual pilgrimage to the southern coast of Maine:

1. Traveling at night doesn't make it easier. The thinking was that she'd sleep on the way and make a seamless transition from car to Pack and Play. Not the case. Instead the four-hour rest gave her sufficient energy to stay up until the wee hours of the morning.


2. Swivel chairs are NOT good for toddlers. At the dinner table, when the two-year-old's hunger pangs have been vanquished in the time it takes her parents to eat three green beans, all it takes is a split second for the little miss to fling herself off the chair and head first into the dog bowl. To be more precise, she smacked down chin first into the pottery. "That's gonna leave a mark," is my first thought.

3. As Ittybit cries hysterically and the redness appears, quite possibly the sweetest thing ever to escape the lips of a 22-month-old cousin toddler is simply this: "Bel. Band-Aid."


4. Then again, the NEXT sweetest thing is when it's Ittybit's turn to be comforting after year-younger cuz (an exceedingly athletic child for his age) unceremoniously, not once but twice, finds his little body hurling off the couch and onto a slate floor. "Don't worry, cousin Elliott. It won't hurt too long."

5. I almost forgot about the splinters. There were three to be exact: two in the hand one in the foot, all presumably acquired in a deck climbing trek in Portland. The surgery that took place in Ama Linda's livingroom required several orderlies, who are now mostly hard of hearing (raises hand), and a surgeon (Jed), who may have to hang out a shingle and start a practice. It's a good thing Auntie Saya is a therapist. Her story about her own experience with a green and pussy splinter really did the trick. We think she deserves some serious combat pay since Annabel made her repeat the story several times, and even required her to drive with us to the beach in order to "Say it again," for the three hundredth time.


6. So you think you can get away by yourselves, and from yourselves, on an island for an overnight stay? HA. Not only will you call home four or five times, but you will also find yourselves twiddling your thumbs in the extravagant hotel room, eating stinky cheese and watching "2 Fast, 2 Furious." Even though we managed to have fun despite ourselves, after we left on the ferry and landed in Portland, got our car out of hock and headed home, I discovered I'd left my wallet in the hotel room. Typical me. I remember holding it in my paws as I was packing my ONE tini tiny bag and thinking, "Whew, this would have sucked if I forgot this."

7. Annabel has the capacity to lie AND feel guilty about it. It's apparently a "pre-school" thing. While we were on an island and I was in the process of losing all my identification, she was playing with a contraband stick Ama took away from her. When I gash appeared on her hip later and Ama Linda asked her if she'd been playing with the stick she immediately and convincingly said "No. I'm okay." Later though she felt guilty enough that she did fess up.

8. Again with the repetition. When we called from the road for the fifth time, Auntie Saya mentioned that the last time we rang the house for an update of her progress, she spent a considerable amount of time recapping the conversation for Annabel. "Let's just say she knows EVERYTHING she did today."

9. Teach kids to sit down in the canoe. It's probably not the wisest of parents who teach them to walk along the midline mid-river.

10. DO NOT put lobsters in a tub and show them to a bath-phobic toddler. To be filed under the heading "What was I thinking?".


11. Ocean, waves, hermit crabs that have invaded this year ... Not her cup of tea.

12. Lobster cookies, on the other hand, are yummy. They go nicely with "hot milk" and cheesy buns (Annie's Cheddar Bunnies). And if nibbled precisely, will last all day and have enough left over to give a claw to the cuz.

13. There is 0 fiber in our cereal. ZERO. ZILCH.

14. Mike Wazowski (from Monster's Inc.) has horns.

15. Jed does dishes. (Related to a wager over #14.)

16. There is such a thing as penis puppetry It's a stage show AND a book. (I will not divulge how I learned this.)


17. Freeport, this year, was not a foreign word meaning more expensive that the real shit. I backed into a $5 pant sale in pretty much every store I shopped. As Jed would (and did) say, it was nickel piss your pant night at the outlets.

18. Pineapples start frothing when they go bad. Just what we need: RABID produce.

19. The cheap diapers are so NOT worth it. The tape on the right side of Target brand diapers SUCKS. SUCKS. (Thank goodness for duct tape.)

20. There is NOTHING better than Ama Linda's wild blueberry bush. Oh wait, I take that back. Her raspberry bushes are THE BEST and just the right height for little hunter gatherers. And for after-dinner entertainment? Have you tried listening to the birds? Annabel, Cousin Elliott and Ama Linda recommend it highly.

A test of the emergency parental sanity system ...

We interrupt this vacation recap with the following public service message:



DO NOT LET YOUR KIDS GROW UP.

I REPEAT: DO. NOT. LET. YOUR. KIDS. GROW. UP.

Today I bought a toddler bed ($49, K-Mart) without even considering the consequences.

I knew it was time; she had climbed out of her crib on several occasions in the last few months, she even broke the top railing in an anger soaked rage trying to get out of her container. Yet, all the while I was assembling the beast, reading the directions as a last resort of course, and thanking the stars above that she was napping in her crib so I could swear unfettered for the hour it took me to turn 17 thousand pieces into one small bed, I never once considered that this milestone for her means a whole new world of terror for me.

I found out at bedtime, which took two hours longer, she didn't want to go to bed; she wanted her crib back (which is now disassembled and in a storage room downstairs); there were monsters; she was afraid of something; she wanted me to sleep in her bed with her.

She even visited my room, all by herself, four times. And each time I checked on her, she was sleeping on the floor three feet away from the bed.

We. Are. Doomed.

So now I can't sleep. Jed's on the road and I'm afraid she'll go sleepwalking down the stairs. (Jed took down the gate so we could have the floors refinished), and if she locks her bedroom door as an experiment I'm nearly 100 percent sure I'll have to get the fire department here to get her out.

So there it is, a turning point inside a turning point. School's coming up next month. *sigh.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming; Tomorrow, if I get some sleep, I hope to tell you more about the Maine excursion, which will heretofore be known as the school of hard knocks. ...

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N: It's a family affair

we are family
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Annabel, why don't we let cousin Elliott swing with us on the hammock."

"No. I don't want cousin Elliott on the swing."

"But he's your cousin. He's family. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes. ... I'm stuck swinging wit him."

Oddly enough, the soundtrack for the rest of the day was "I'm so happy to be stuck with you."

Hold on to your boogie boards ...

yellow sea
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

My husband's birthday is right around the corner, and as is our custom we will be spending our week's vacation 'round about that time with Jed's mother in Maine (provided that my dad is A-OK and he is). Which means if all goes well (and it did), we are leaving tonight after work.

As my gift to him I am not taking my computer.

My love for Jed is SO great, that I plan on leaving you for a week.

Therefore, I'd like you to have my best photograph from last summer's trip to admire while I'm away. Hopefully I'll have captured another magic moment to upload upon my return. Although I love my husband (and his family) enough to unplug, I don't love any of them enough to abandon the camera.

* Just one last little thing before I go: Annabel put on her shorts yesterday ALL BY HERSELF. And not on her head, either. By the time we return I fear she will be ready for university.

F*ing Hospitals

My father went to the ER tonight with chest pain.

According to my mom, he had been experiencing chest and back pain, which he neglected to mention to anyone, throughout the day, starting at 5 a.m. The pain eventually settled in his left (?) arm, and sometime this evening, when he got around to telling her, she took him to the emergency room.

They performed a CT scan, which showed some plaque but no obvious blockages. She said they also ran some other tests, the results of which didn't indicate anything serious, save some seriously high blood pressure mom insists has to have been the result of a faulty cuff. They gave him nitroglycerin and his pain subsided but they decided kept him for observations. Mom thinks he'll likely be released tomorrow, although he'll have a stress test and (she hopes) an echo cardiogram.

I can't get him on the phone because the hospital turns them off at night.

"I really think he's alright, Siobhan. Try not to worry."

So, I'm trying not to worry.

U P D A T E
7 a.m., Friday. Phones turned back on:
Ring, ring. ...
DAD: Hi, how's it going?
ME: How are you
DAD: I'm fine. I think I'm fine. They haven't really found anything. No more pain since they gave me the nitroglycerin yesterday afternoon. ... so what's Annabel doing?

U P D A T E
10 a.m., Friday. Hospital:
Tests not as good this morning. A second doctor, the first recommended catheterization to test for blockages, was saying catherization was his recommendation as well. So at 1 p.m., dad's getting his heart muscle scoped.

*Side note: Annabel won't make papa a card while he is in the hosispill. "He's be ok, mama. He's be ok."

** Along side the side note: Left the house like an nutbag this morning. Couldn't find my wallet (thought I'd left it at a restaurant last night) and was on the verge of freaking out. I dropped Annabel off at Yaya's (she's back from the Cape) and went to the hospital. When I called Lori at noon, she told me Ittybit was playing dollhouse and when it came time to get into the car, she yelled at the mommy doll: "DON'T FORDET YOUR WALLET. DON'T FORDET THAT, OK?"

That was almost as good as last night when Annabel got home and saw the living room all stripped bare and covered in painting supplies. (We were planning on painting the floors and walls before we go to Maine).

ITTYBIT: Did you say you're sorry, Daddy? Say you're sorry.
JED: Wha ... for what?
ITTYBIT: You made a mess.

U P D A T E - NOT
3:30 p.m., sitting at my desk. Drumming my fingers. Biting my nails.
The procedure was scheduled for 1 p.m. and the phone has been chirping the "I-have-been-turned-off" ring since then. No news. ... Some folks might think no news is good news, but in my world no news is no news.

3:45 p.m. Evidently he's "having the procedure," and they've relocated him. A very nice man in the former room on the former phone told me so, and the nice lady at the information desk gave me the new number. Ring, ring. ... ring ...

U P D A T E
5:30 p.m. Car on the way to the hospital:
Ring, ring. ... ring ...
Hi. I'm fine. They put two stents in one vein. I'm very lucky.
Go to Maine.

Finding safety in a place without walls

My world just got smaller.

Gail Edwin Fielding (flickr folk will know her as Gail on the Web) author of Gail at Large, visited us on the last leg of her impromptu late-summer pilgrimage to the Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome to be with the memory of her husband, David.

Gail is the person I credit with taking me away from the mindless escapism of the anonymous Internet and showing me that my 'imaginary friends' were real.

Her public accounting of David's devastating diagnosis of and subsequent treatment for an aggressive type of lung cancer, and her hauntingly beautiful writing of the horrific experience of watching a wildfire disease devastate her strapping, young love, pulled me out of myself and my self-imposed isolation and brought me to a new understanding of this place without walls: the Internet.

Don't think I wasn't nervous to meet her in person. I was petrified. Would I be myself? Would we have anything to say? I read her writing daily and yet, she is by conventional terms a stranger to me. Would I be my usual deer in the headlights self; better in letters than in person?

It didn't take long before she was talking openly and freely. Her ease allowed me to relax and follow her lead. Before I knew it, it was three a.m. and we're sitting around our rag-tag kitchen island talking about anything and everything; laughing and crying, and sharing a tiny lifetime of memories.

This morning, in my wine-belly haze of energized exhaustion, I could only think of how ugly and clunky I find the term 'BLOG.' But I can't deny the power of it. And I no longer feel a need to defend it. Suffice it to say there is wisdom out there for those who care to see it, and proving it to those who cast aspersions is just a waste of time. This medium has such an amazing ability to allow thoughts and fears and hopes and struggles to work themselves into understanding. It is nothing short of miraculous to me how winning battles and losing wars, and taking control of it all in the first-person voice can slowly heal and inspire.

I think most of us 'cynical folk,' who lament the 21st century as if it were a disease tearing us further apart and solidifying our differences, don't always see how it is possible to meet and forge bonds in total isolation. And in a real way that isolation disappears.

I have never been more convinced that we are rewriting our own histories. And this adopted electronic format helps us organize our thoughts, and categorize, index and recall them as if they were star maps in a fresh, unlit sky. But it is still merely a vehicle by which we can reach out from our solitude and reverse the disconnect.

I just have to say, today, and for the first time in a long time, it just feels good to be in the world. And I now understand hope just a little better.

The PAPA report: A telephone ballet in three parts

While Lori is away on vacation, the Yaya report will be replaced, momentarily, with the PAPA report: a grandfatherly look into the care and feeding of a recently persnickety ittybit.

PHONE: Ring, ring ... ring ...

Ama: Hello, have you heard from your father? He just called, he's probably going to stay at your house all day. She doesn't want to leave, sleep or eat. Just thought I'd warn you.

Sometimes She's Schwan: Thanks, mom. I'll give him a call.

PHONE: Ring, ring ... ring ...

Papa: Hi! Hey what's in that potato salad? It's delicious. Is there ginger in there? Annabel won't eat it.

Sometimes she's Schwan: It has some mango chutney and a little lime juice. How's everything going?

Papa: Well it's really good. Annabel's not going to starve but she's only eaten about six spoonfuls of cereal and five cherry tomatoes. She wants more, but I don't know if that's such a good idea.

I made her a pancake from the leftover batter you made yesterday morning, but she wanted cottage cheese in it. I suppose Jed just puts the batter in the pan and adds cottage cheese to it, because when I took some out and mixed in a bowl, she seemed to think that was the wrong way to do it.

She didn't want any of it once it was done, but I coaxed her into taking a bite by asking her if my pancakes were as good as her dad's.

She said: 'Yours are better, papa.'

I think she just wanted to get me off her back because she wouldn't eat any more of it. Oh, she is a panic.

Sometimes she's Schwan: Oh my god, you're not kidding. That is NOT good news. That means that she's probably plotting how to manipulate her way into later bed-times and finagle an allowance. She'll probably make Oreo cookies her mid-day meal. There will never be another nap, ever! We. Are. All. Doomed.

Papa Oops. Gotta go, now she wants to read her books and watch 'The Nutcracker.'

Sometimes she's Schwan: PLEASE DAD, call me if she tries to choreograph anything or starts a grass-roots campaign of any kind. Don't, for the love of god, let her collect signatures from the neighbors. OK?

U P D A T E

PHONE: Ring, ring ... ring ...

Sometimes she's Schwan: Hello?

Papa: Listen, did you just call here?

Sometimes she's Schwan: No? Why. How's everything going?

Papa: Oh, not so good. Has she ever climbed out of her crib?

Sometimes she's Schwan: Yes. That's why we're getting her a toddler bed when we get back from vacation.

Papa: Well I put her in bed but she wasn't really happy about it. She told me she wanted milk, and that she wasn't going to drink it just hold it, so I went and got some. I heard this bang and then a thump and then she's standing at the door. She wasn't crying although she said she got hurt and pointed to her knee. I didn't see anything and she got back into bed. Now she's sound asleep. Really sound asleep.

Sometimes she's Schwan: Don't worry too much about it dad, her floor is carpeted and she won't likely do it again. She seems to only climb out when she's mad and doesn't want to take a nap. When she wakes up she'll just call for you.

Papa: Oh ... she just rolled over.

Sometimes she's Schwan: Dad? Are you peeking in at her?

Papa: No. I'm sitting on the couch in her room. I didn't want her to climb out again.

On a clear day I can see forever

Dear Annabel,

This isn't about your milestone, really, it's about mine.

I yelled at you the other day in a way I've never yelled before.

It wasn't the happy, over-loud play yell we practice as we bounce on beds or run through the grocery store. Nor was it the exasperated hiss pushed through closed teeth that has started to creep into my voice now that you are well into your testing TWO-year.

Sadly, it was a scream; an all-out, no-words vocal blast that ricocheted through the house and sent the dogs in two different directions. It was a lost-control-and-couldn't-get-it-back, wanted-to-cry-but-didn't howl that sought to break windows with the sheer force of its pitch.

In the instant that followed, all things stopped. And there was silence.

You had been pulling me around with a measuring tape you'd wrapped around my leg. You were pretending I was a horse and you were taking me for a ride. Up and down the hallway we went. It was the same measuring tape that had brought us such joy a few hours earlier.

But I had been tired all day. I was tired of the game. I was tired of playing with you. Tired of begging you to nap, be still or eat something. I was tired and I was sad and lonely and miserable. I was also coming to grips with something I hadn't let myself think before that very moment: 'You may be an only child, not by choice.' And when I put away your crib at the end of the summer, replacing it with a "big-girl" bed, I may as well put away my childbearing days along with it.

As you looked up at me, your eyes were huge but tears didn't fill them. You let the measuring tape drop and you backed away. You didn't want me to come near you. Who could blame you?

But here I am, your mother, a screaming banshee who inwardly wonders whether you need me at all. Knowing that you do, but feeling that you don't. You are such an independent little girl in so many ways. Every "I love you" that escapes your lips is unsolicited, a precious gift that refuses to be forced.

My apology was as quick to come over me as the outburst itself. Patience is something I have rarely lost with you, even in the most trying times. I sat down, put my head in my hands, and cried. Really cried. What goes through me, along with the waves of guilt, is the memories of all the absent times. And not just those hours we spend away from each other. You at Lori's and me at work. The times when all I want is for you to sleep, or play by yourself and leave me be.

You side-stepped the measuring tape, now abandoned on the floor, and came to me. "That's OK, mama. That's OK. You wanna have a possissil with me?"

I went to the kitchen to get the pops and you climbed into your chair.

As I opened the freezer door a photograph slipped from its tenuous letter-magnet mooring and floated to the floor. It was of you almost a year ago. Your little-girl looks were not as chiseled, your elbows and knees still beautifuly dimpled and sweetly ringed in baby flesh. Your hair was just wisps barely visible in the print.

I missed that baby girl; a girl that, squinting through the viewfinder a year ago, I thought was big. I looked up from the photograph and saw you waiting at the table for your treat. I knew that next year at this time you will be bigger still, and if I'm not careful I will be the same person I am right now, lamenting the baby you used to be and missing out.

Perhaps, in some strange way, it's good that I yelled. Perhaps it woke me up. I don't want to sleepwalk through any more years.

Love and endless apologies,
Mommy

measuring tape

measuring tape
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We are expecting a special guest on Tuesday and Annabel is all atwitter. Asking each morning upon awaking, "Who's tumming, mama?" just so she can hear me say the name. "I dotta do fis the bed," she says, pointing her finger in the direction of the guest room.

Instead of wanting me to follow her she demands I get the measuring tape, the tool she needs to fix the bed. I can't find the one she wants -- the heavy, square metal carpentry one her father lets her play with -- so I get the minature cloth tape from my cosmetics kit. The one I incessantly use to measure my waist, though I like to think one day I'll use it to measure housewares and furniture (before I buy on impulse).

It occurs to me as she runs off to the place I refer to as The guest prison -- a 7' x 10' room with a trundle bed, a dresser and a child's chair standing in as a bedside table -- that she may have innkeeping in her blood, at least from her father's side.

Jed spent his early years at The Captain's Walk in Kennebunk, an old seafarer's house his parents had bought and his mother ran as a bed and breakfast.

To this day 'Ama Linda' makes common meals taste decidely uncommon. Tasty fish encrusted in slivered almonds and breads pressed with pumpkin seeds. The corners of her sheets are always perfectly creased and her whites are always bright white.

In the room, she wants me to hold the measuring tape while she "fixes" the bed by drawing the line up to the pillow. She smooths it out and says: "There! That's perfect now."

A wrinkle appears in the sheet and she crinkles her brow. She pulls at the edge and it disappears. Now it's perfect.

I turn my head and look at the tufts of dog hair carried along the hallway floor by the breeze of the fan. I am reminded: This is yet another trait she doesn't get from me.

Meet Fudgy

She promised to take care of him and love him for always. Then she named him Fudgy.

How could I not buy the little critter; the first toy she's assigned a name?

Of course, when we got to the car she tossed him on the floor. ... "Uh-oh. I'm sorry, Fudgy. I din't mean it."

Always on the lookout

Farmers' market Saturday. We get all gussied up in the T-shirts we slept in (turned inside-out of course), 2 inches of sunscreen and our most comfy comfortable shoes, before we make our way to the village square. It's like Christmas (or as Annabel would say, Trissmass). We have some idea what will be under the vendors' tents, but there's always some surprises.


Along with the usual mixed greens, carrots, berries, corn and potatoes (I didn't mention tomatoes because we're growing them this year, miracle of miracles, I know) there's always something outside the usual checklist that catches my eye.

Beets: Can't say that I'm much of a beet fan, but I recently attended a backyard cookout in which the host had ground up beets and added them to the hamburger meat. Let me tell you, there's something amazing about a purple burger. *Annabel didn't think so, however. She demanded "torn on the tob" instead.

Edamame: A furry, fresh soybean you cook in the shell. Salted they taste A-mazing. *Annabel hates them. Evidently she's still not over the time I pureed the little buggers, froze them in ice cube trays and switched the peas she was used to eating with the more phosphorescent soy. She probably thought I had mulched Kermit.

Turnips: Tried 'em raw. Not my favorite. Cooked, they seem edible. "Annabel hates them. Tried 'em, screwed up her face, spit them out.

Baby bok choy: "What am I supposed to do with that?"
"I don't know, Jed. Perhaps you should consult your bible, The Joy of Cooking. Why do you let me get vegetables, anyway? You KNOW I'm a carnivore. I don't know anything about the veg." *Rotted in the fridge.

Not in The Book, But at Your Service ...

Editing
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

There are times when I think I'd make a stunning children's book editor. Oh sure, my copyediting skills may not be top notch, I have no idea where commas go, I don't always catch spelling errors and tense and verb agreement aren't my forte, yet I feel pretty confident I would not let a book about potty training go to press without a little ink paid to handwashing.

Perhaps it's just my neuroses flairing up, but ever since we got the Plop book, It has kind of freaked me out that this sweetly drawn little manual doesn't include a sink for washing after the deed.

I've been editing the missing piece into our readings, but it wasn't until yesterday when she asked me 'where's the sink' that I drew one into the storyline. Of course I tried to emulate other sinks the illustrator had drawn in the Brush book for consistency.

So here's a few delurking questions for all 7 or so of you, my fine readers: How do you edit your children's books? Do you skip the part about the Evil Queen demanding the heart of Snow White; do you fly past the dark and scary forest? Do you ignore the trip to the ice cream store or draw in vegetables alongside the baked goods?
Do you ever feel a little guilty about censoring?

It's really too hot for this ...

But where's the fun in a cold cereal, fruit and juice morning?

A day with dad ...

pretty dress
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

With Yaya on vacation this week and next, I imagine Annabel will be popping in at some unexpected places. She'll be visiting Amah and Papa for the most part, but today she's at home with Daddy.

By noon he'd already called twice.

"When does she take a nap usually?
For how long?
What should we do for an adventure?
Nevermind, I'll think of something."

I can tell already. This will be fun.


U P D A T E
It was too hot to do much of anything but eat posipples, draw on the walls (on paper of course) and watch MOOOvies.
It was a blissfully unproductive day.

Thankfully, there are no pishers of this ...

This morning I woke up to a bear. And not the cute, cuddly Hunny-eating Pooh kind, neither.

This ursine apparition was the nothing's-going-to-make-me-happy, no-matter-how-many-books-you-read or how-many-episodes-of-Clifford-you-let-me-watch because I-just-had-a-nightmare kind.

Of course, she can't tell me about her distress because A) She's not sure of this "nightmare" thing and B) she doesn't remember why she's upset.

This was a just your average, run-of-the-mill, stand-in-the-middle-of-the-room-and-wail MASTERPIECE.

Eat breakfast? NO!
Get dressed? NO!
Read a book? NO!
Go back to bed and get up when you feel better? NO!
Maybe the potty would help? NO!NO!NO!

So I did what any at-wit's-end, 20-minutes-until-I-have-to-leave-for-work mommy might do; we went to the car wash.

What is this?
It's like an amusement park ride.
What's an asmuseman part ride?
Nevermind, it will be fun. It's like a shower for the car.
Oh ... it's dark in here. .. ooooh there's soap and water. ... and we not getting wet, mama! This IS fun!
Let's do it again, okay?

I just feel stuck sometimes

Her new hero, Pat Ferri of Wreckage-O-Rama, gave Annabel a clown nose of her very own. And though she won't wear it she also won't let it out of her sight. Her favorite thing to do with her "nose," is to hang it from the dimmer switch in the dining room, and use it as she might a sling shot.

Often the motion of drawing it back by the bulbous red orb and letting go doesn't bring about the desired result. Instead of flying through the air and smacking me square in the eye, the gag appendage just wraps around the post tighter. No laughter ensues.

That's kind of how I felt this weekend when dinner and a movie turned into dinner and a documentary.

Jed WANTED to see this film, and I wanted to AVOID this film, but in the end An Inconvenient Truth won out.

See my husband and I are on the same page when it comes to the science of global warming. We each believe that the way we live now is killing the planet. We each believe there are things we can do as individuals to mimize our impact on this Earth. But where we disagree is our personal reaction to the information as presented.

Even before the film, Jed was ready to install solar panels and a wood-fired boiler to reduce our dependance on oil. Even before the film, we were shutting off lights and recycling. With the cost of petroleum through the roof, we've been cutting out unnecessary travel. He's even considering the consequences of his trip into Chatham with Annabel for an ice cream.

But where he is seeking out the things we can do, I look at what we can't do and what we won't be doing: We can't give up Jed's big diesel engine rigs, after all they are how he makes his money; I am still going to drive more than 50 miles a day (after all, that's how I make my living and keep our health benefits); We are still going to be burning wood, it alleviates our dependence on oil but it still puts carbon into the air; we are still going to live in a suburb where driving is necessary for virtually all trips.

In a nutshell, he is optimistic and I, apparently, throw in the towel.

I don't think that my shutting off the lights and deciding not to go to yoga on Sundays (75 miles round-trip) will do as much to save the planet as the people at the TOP finding alternatives to gasoline-powered cars, not to mention coal- and oil-fired energy plants.

But it's not that I'm throwing up my hands and saying "global warming be damned, pass the Hummer." It's not as if I were saying just let the lights burn day and night. I just think putting the onus on the individual is in the same family as "Just Say No" was in the War on Drugs. It just ain't enough.

So as we bickered all the way home, I just felt more an more helpless. "Look at the mess we're in," I scream. "We have people in our own country who are still homeless a year after Katrina; we have a government that squanders and misuses it's place at the helm and then tells us we need less of it; we have corporations guaranteed individual rights and there are people who can't afford to eat decent food, let alone buy a hybrid car. Why are we pushing hybrids anyway? Why aren't we looking past oil altogether? Why? because there's still enough oil for the people in power to make a killing. They don't care that it won't last forever or that it's killing the planet because it will last for now and when the planet implodes they won't be around to clean it up."

Maybe I'm missing the point. In all reality, I'm sure I am. But I can't help but think the world needs people like both of us: I'll be the letter-writer and he'll be the one who turns off the lights. And we will tip the balance eventually.

Of course, as we agree that we are, in truth, of the same mind when it comes to the issue at hand, I can't help but fume at the nice evening lost in argument.

"THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED AT ALL, YOU KNOW, IF WE'D SEEN 'THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA'."

Welcome back, Ubermale

As Matt Lauer heralds the end of the Metrosexual Male in some fluff piece on morning TV, and my husband strutted around the kitchen, a cock in celebration, I could help but cheer for his return, too.

You see, I secretly hope the return of the retrosexual means the fashion of "DAD as the NEW MOM" is on its way out, too.

Don't get me wrong, I love that my husband is the primary cook and that he's as comfortable with Annabel as he is with his soccer pals, it's just that I think society's urge to make him new-age-sensitive-dad is sometimes making it unnecessarily difficult for me to be a mom.

I got to thinking about this as a result of a bulletin board posting about one husband in particular, whose need to share in the experience of parenthood 50/50; even-steven; 'I am father, hear me roar,' from DAY ONE was tearing apart this family not yet delivered. Instead of a laudable urge to be an involved parent and protector, he wanted equal opportunity for his family tree to root at the hospital and in their home because it played to his thoughts of what was fair and equitable. 'Why should MY family be turned away? Am I not important? This isn't just happening to YOU you know, It's happening to me, too."

While he fought for his parents to have equal and unfettered access, his wife's emotional well-being crumbled as the clocked ticked down on her gestation.

I wanted to be snide. I wanted to put this man in his place with a sledgehammer. This new-age-sensitive-man who feels that the woman he married is dissing the woman who raised him and usurping his rightful place as a 50-percent equity parent in the birthing room. I wanted him to realize, that an ounce of sperm does not a equal partner make when it comes to pushing out a phesant-shaped someone from a hole roughly the diameter of a lemon.

I formulate a list of things I want him to understand:

1. No one is going to be peering into your vagoogoo every half-hour to see how big it is.

2. No one is going to cut your vagoo so a baby can come out after hours of painful labor, then stitch it back up.

3. No one is going to cut open your abdomen and take the baby by force if numbers one and two have to be abandoned.

4. YOUR hormones won't fluctuate uncontrollably, making it 1,000 times more difficult to act human for at least a few days. Being NICE to the mother-in-law isn't going to be in you're wife's ability. Sorry, but no matter how well they get along normally, civility won't be possible.

5. Unless you have incontenance troubles, it is NOT likely that you will soil the sheets or vomit during the course of the labor.

6. You will not be having a baby sucking on your tits for the next six months (not to mention RIGHT now when it's new to the two of them and there is a steep learning curve). ANY Helpful suggestions, be they nursing, swaddling or diapering, will feel like admonishments. I reiterate. Civility won't be within her reach, it's NOT her FAULT it's HORMONAL.

7. WHY, if you love her and want to be a family, would you PURPOSELY make it MORE difficult to have that bond? Your wife DOESN'T HAVE THE SAME relationship with your mom as she does with her own. And SHE is going to PHYSICALLY go through a rollercoster ride of not-so-pleasant things? Why on Earth would you even consider making that HARDER?

Let me explain more from a personal standpoint: As a pre-natal and post-natal patient, we women undergo some seriously daunting hormonal challenges, and we are likely to be in a situation that makes us feel terribly vulnerable. For instance, I'm not ashamed of my body, but I don't want to be exposed in front of my husband's father. I don't want to vomit in front of my mother-in-law. I still had a need for dignity and privacy, especially when these are people I see at holidays. The last thing I want to think about at Christmas dinner is whether my father-in-law saw my vagoogoo or if I swore a string of explatives in the direction of my mother-in-law while I was being possessed by the demon hormones.

We don't want to believe we, in this day and age, have roles that are gender based. But I assure you, we do. There will always be exceptions. There will always be circumstances that buck the norm, but for the first few months, usually it's mom at center stage.

I think what's happening is that men have gotten confused about their roles, and fear that if they don't assert themselves somewhere in the family early on they won't have a place other than the distant, breadwinner they might remember their fathers to be. The problem is that they want 50 percent of the baby and not 50 percent of the family. Sometimes they want to have a say, even to the extent of being contrary, just to have a voice.

It comes down to this: Perhaps a reason more men are flexing their parent muscles in the wrong direction is that they are physically unable to tend to the needs of newborns the way birth mothers can. Here the "OTHER" parent often feels unnecessary. And that, I think comes from their own insecurities rather than immediate external sources. Patience and understanding, and trust that the other "OTHER" parent isn't going out of their way to undermine you is what family building is all about, isn't it?

So I've revised my snide list to something that might be more helpful:

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU ARE A NEW DAD:

REALIZE THAT YOUR MOM AND DAD AREN'T UNLOVED or SECOND CLASS FAMILY. But don't compare them to HER parents at a time like this. They didn't raise her, nor do they have the same feelings of unconditional love for her that they have for you. This is a potentally life-threating situation, even in this day and age, and it's only NATURAL for a daughter to want her parents. Have your parents stay in a hotel, let them visit occasionally and then make them understand that your wife and you need time to bond with each other and the new soul. There is a lifetime when it won't be as difficult to show off the kid. Why risk bad feelings that could last its duration? It's time to protect your new family from bad feelings, and realize what it's really all about.

MAKE SURE RELATIVES REALIZE that while their advice MAY be welcome in the future, your wife has instincts and you need to protect her ability to exercise them. Hold off on dispensing pearls of wisdom until asked for them.

ACTIVE HELP: Make dinners, do laundry, wash dishes, change diapers. Make sure mom has the opportunity to eat, have liquids and bathe. Let her sleep a little longer. Be vigilant about not allowing guests to overstay their visits. There will be plenty of opportunities down the road, when things aren't so hectic.

I guess that list still doesn't sound too manly. But rest assured, to your wife you'll never look like a bigger man.

Pride and prejudice

ITTYBIT: Mama, wiwl you tum ere. I dot to show you sompin. I colored sompin fo you.

SOMETIMES SHE'S SHWAN: On the wall? Oh, baby, we don't write on walls. Only paper. Ok? Only Paper.

ITTYBIT: Oh. I'm sorry. I done know what I'm doing.

She's a bad, bad, mean mommy ... like me

And so, it has come to pass that Ittybit, Tigger, Eyore, (Raspberry Bear) Pooh and Lullabee have finally sat down for nice meal together. But all was not cosy in The Hundred-Acre Wood. As insects are wont to do, Lullabee's table manners tore the evening assunder.

"You hafta eat your dinner. ...
No. No. No. Not like that. Like this. Here, watch.
You are not making me very happy, Lullabee. You need a time out."

An eye-opening experience

"My daddy was a baby, too," Ittybit tells the nice woman who takes our paperwork and looks it over for any spaces left blank. "That's right. He was a baby, too," she adroitly replies, rustling through the sheets, not finding the small card: "For Emergencies, Contact ... "

"Oh that one always gets caught on the bottom of the envelope," she chuckles.

As I fish it out from underneath the flap and hand it over, I think about all the things Ittybit's statement doesn't explain. It doesn't explain that her father slept in the cradle that she slept in when we brought her home from the hospital, or how wide her eyes got when he told her the story. It doesn't explain how miraculous such a notion must be to her that she's announcing it to the world in six itty bity words -- my, daddy, was, a, baby, too.

It also doesn't explain the mind boggling reality that Ittybit is now, officially, a pre-schooler. And that, come September, she'll be attending the same nursery school I attended as a tot.

She's looking forward to school, I could tell. Her eyes were as wide as mine as I looked around at the tiny chairs and tables, feeling like a giant remembering being a lilliputian.

She runs and plays with the toys as I speak with the intake coordinator about what our new roles will be as pre-school parents. The school is a cooperative, which means the tuition is reduced for parents who pitch in to assist in the classroom, fundraise or maintain the property as needed.

The intake coordinator's eyes open wide when she sees what I've checked off on the "expertise" portion of the form.

"You have a power washer? Oh that's great. That's wonderful. We were worried about that this year. We have to clean all the playthings in the backyard and no one seems to have any abilitiles in that department. We were sure we'd have to hire a professional."

And off we go to check out the yard, which is filled with all manner of ride-on toys, climbing towers, slides and playhouses. There is even a real fiberglass boat sunk into ground at an angle that makes it look as if it were sailing an imaginary sea. Again, Ittybit's eyes bulge from their sockets as she stands stock-still, not knowing in which direction to hurl her tiny body first.

The DAD's eyes lose their usual almond shape and turn into saucers, too, as he surveys all the tiny repairs that need attention. "Something tells me I'm going to be very popular around here."

Laugh tracks

A friend of ours, Pat, is planning to perform at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh next month, and he wanted me to make a slick magazine advertisement for his show. So, last night we spent an hour in the "studio" trying to get the story straight and make it look funny.

Annabel watched the photo shoot holding Milton's red nose and laughing as Rory got pummeled, but good, by Phillipe, the gay dancer, over the wily charms of the fair Helga.

"You funny, Pat."

Clearly, this is an improvement from the day before at a planning session when she demanded he BE funny. (Never ever, under any circumstances, tell a comedian to be funny ... bad juju.)

Jed helped out with perspective by wearing a white Tyvek suit and taking part in the "fight scene." When I processed the pictures as she slept, using a little Photoshop magic to expel Jed and paste Rory in his place, and showed her the results in the morning she was not convinced I had succeeded:

"That's Phillipe's beating up my daddy," she said pointing to Rory in the shorts.

"No honey, they are all Pat now. I took daddy out.

"No, dis is daddy. Pat's Funny. Daddy's not funny."

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

Ladies and Gentlemen ...
LAAAAY DEES and GEN. TLE. MEN ...
Ladies AND GENTLE ... MEEEEEN

She's practicing intonations, just in case Ringling Bros. calls.

Next weekend we're taking her to a strip joint

I'm having a bit of trouble with the appropriate-inappropriate dynamic as it pertains to toddlers. When my husband's right eyebrow arches upward, I know I've dropped the ball and it's rolling away faster than you can say: "That's prolly not a good I-D-er."

Some folks outside of our household have already expressed surprise at the following parenting faux pas:

• We take Annabel to the pub on a weekly basis.
• She has eaten cake for breakfast on more than one occasion.
• We let her watch Shrek (even though the characters are rude to each other). Ditto for Pinky and the Brain (brain, brain, brain).

I try to answer her questions as accurately as possible, although I often slip up with things having to do with science, mainly because I don't think my answers are adequate. When she says she doesn't want it to be dark out, I watch the hairs on Jed's neck stand up as I tell her the sun has to nap sometime, otherwise it couldn't shine as brightly.
And so, another note for her future therapist must go on the permanent record:

"Mama? You wanna see a stulpture, mama? Tum on."

Art Omi's Open Day. Thirty artists from around the world spend three weeks in this adult summer camp making art that will help them make the transition from emerging to established in the art world.

Every year there's something that makes your head spin: A memorable one a few years ago came from a woman from Tokyo who stained Kotex mini pads with a red substance and affixed them to the wall of her studio. That was fun.

This year's eye-popping works were life-sized, papier mache body casts of people writhing in pain. One showed its head exploding from the back. Another had two men in a pose that appeared ... to be ... well.

... Damn Jed for foisting this studio visit off on me.

"Mommy what is that man doing with the baby?"

"Uhm ... that's not a baby, baby. It's another man. And-what-he's-doing-is-called-fallatio. ... Oh look, lemonade ... Let's go get some, OK?"

"Mom said he was doing fat-a-pio, daddy!"

"O ....K ... You explain fellatio but you tell her the sun takes a nap? What's up with that?"

Yeah ... Tune in next week when we'll be taking ittybit to a strip joint. ... Can you say 'They're playing my T-H-O-N-G?'

So much for culture.

Heritage, Part II

All she wanted to do was dance with Cinderella. From the moment she woke up this morning until the lights dimmed on her first live theater experience, all her thoughts were dancing with the princess. She even washed her face, picked out her prettiest dress and planned on wearing her purple "slippers." As serendipity would have it, one was even missing.

Oh the questions:
"Can we taked the errplane, mama? "
"Can I dance wit her? I wanna dance wit Cinderedda."
"Where are we? What is this place? Who are all these people?"
"Where is Cinderedda?"

And the comments:
"Hey, they ripped my chicket."
"I wanna sit with you, Mama."
"Hey. I tant see. TURN ON DE LIGHTS."
"FAIRY DOD-MOTHER."
"He's a good guy, Mom. De Prince(ess) is a good guy."

So, in addition to sleeping in a crib her father slept in (something she understands and now informs me of daily) and being enrolled in a pre-school I attended as a tot, Annabel has now been in the audience of a theatre I went to for the first time when I was a few years older than she is now (I saw Sleeping Beauty). And no. It wasn't the same. After the show, there were so few audience members they'd invite us on stage and we'd all dance. I even remember the rust-colored corduroys I wore as I held hands with Beauty and skipped a circle around the stage. Storybooks come alive, it seemed, just for me.

These days the audience is packed. Wall to wall children, and taking a turn on the dance floor with the star of the show just isn't practical. Instead they gather outside to sign autographs. We file outside and wait in crazy lines that overlap and move to the left when we weren't looking. As I stood there pining for Annabel to have the experience of my childhood, she broke free from me and, holding her pencil and her autograph book against her chest, tunneled her way through legs and elbows right up to Cinderella.

"My name is Annabel. Tan you sign this peas?"

It was a remarkable display of tenacity for such an otherwise shy little girl. But as her idol signed, I could see this new nerve drain away.

"I wanna da dance with Cinderedda," she whispered as we walked to the car.

"What if we go back and dance next to her. How would that be?"

"Oh, I like that."

So that's what we did. And it was wonderful, too.

Stop the ride, I wanna get off

I can't believe I'm "going there." But as I've established previously, I have a tendency to rubber neck at train wrecks.

Early this morning, (insomnia early) a reader commented on a post I wrote months ago in homage to our beloved babysitter, "Yaya."

This is what she wrote:

yada yada yada. Beautiful story- but it will end bad. Trust me. I know. Anyone willing to take care of children is untrustworthy by definition. Maybe it will end with her sleeping with your husband. Just trust me. For a long time I thought I had it good and considered my nanny my best friend. Then my boyfriend told me to put spyware on her computer and holy hell- She was sending emails to my sister about my "neglectful" parenting. She was tattling on me for calling my five year old a "fat ass". A home is a very private thing and one thing I demand from my servants is absolute respect. And no questions asked and no judgement. Good luck to you. My advice is just to hire a new nanny every year or so. My kids were way too attatched to my nanny. She had been with us 8 years when I fired her and the girls cried for months. Months. Do you know how insulting that was to me? Their mother?

Blink. Blink-blink-blink.

I wasn't sure how to react. Was this a joke? Could someone actually write:

• Anyone willing to take care of children is untrustworthy by definition
• She was tattling on me for calling my five year old a 'fat ass
• My kids were way too attatched to my nanny. She had been with us 8 years when I fired her and the girls cried for months. Months. Do you know how insulting that was to me? Their mother?
  

and be anything other than a satirist?

Blink. Blink. Blinkity-blink-blink-blink.

So I followed her trail here, and damn if my eyes aren't stuck in flutter mode. Reading her blogger profile, which lists her occupation as "heiress," I can't help but think this is definitely The Onion of all mommy blogs.

The trainwreck just worsens, and I continue to wonder 'is this for real?' and alternately doubting my sanity and my ability for reasoned thought.

A quick and dirty Google search get's me here, and I read through more heart-wrenching stories from the perspective of the fired nanny.

I considered what to do. Had this been some site I stumbled upon accidentally in my neverending search for comfortable shoes, I wouldn't have felt the need to gossip this way. But she came to my little backyard in the ethosphere and, like some tea-cup pooch, dumped the tiny load on my lawn.

So, taking the tact that this is, in fact, legitimate (I wince as I use that word under the circumstances) I have spent much of the day pondering the arguments and the counter arguments. Not to mention the mother's seemingly masochistic tendency to dot the internet with kernels of incriminating blog comments, which, incidentally, bring attention to her rivals' point of view.

But no matter how much I bristle at the attitude of this sad figure, who demands respect as if it too were a trust fund -- inherited and not earned. And no matter how much I feel for nanny, who was spied on and fired, the only side I can truly understand is the children's. Everyone in their life -- even the people who cared for and about them -- ultimately let them down.

I still cling to the hope that this is some kind of comedy satire gone awry, especially since mommy dearest bemoans "home is a very private thing," then goes on to blog about what happens there, presumably, herself. Nevertheless, even if it is a farce and none of the characters are real, it has me thinking about my own public journal.

I have to wonder: What will Annabel think when she finds her named splattered all over the internets one day? Even with the best of intensions, is it really the best idea to tell the world (or the world that's reading) what she said to the neighbors or the toll-booth collector or the amas and papas in her life?

Perhaps a detox is in order.

Yes, Annabel, dogs have their own doctors

This morning, after two days of preparation, Annabel and I took the dogs to the veterinarian. I usually let this task fall to the man, mainly because his schedule is more flexible than mine but also because I can't take the anxiety. (For the record, I think it's patently unfair that dogs have a beach-romp life of 15 years if they are lucky while a tortoise can lounge around for 150 years with hardly a pat on the head.) But it was past due, and I couldn't, in good conscience, leave it any longer.

What follows is an edited transcript of our discussions:



PREPARATIONS (LAST NIGHT):

Sometimes She's Schwann: Tomorrow we're going to take Maddy and Maggie to the doctor. They have to be examined.

Annabel: Oh, Ok. Tan we do now?

Sometimes She's Schwann: No, honey. We have an appointment for tomorrow morning.

Annabel: Who's dare doctor?

Sometimes She's Schwann: The animal doctor is called a VET-ER-IN-ARIAN, and she's a special doctor for animals.

Annabel: Vetidarian? Who aminals?

Sometimes She's Schwann: VET-ER-IN-ARIAN. ... A doctor for dogs and cats.

Annabel: Who else?

Sometimes She's Schwann: Sometimes farm animals, like horses and cows. Sometimes exotic pets, like snakes and birds.

Annabel: Oh. Tan we do now?

Sometime She's Schwann: Their appoinment isn't until tomorrow. How about we read to them about Corduroy's doctor's visit.

Annabel: OK. So they won't be stared of the doctor?

PREPARATIONS: (6:45 a.m., appointment at 9:45):

Annabel: Mama. De dogs hafta do to the doctor. We dotta do NOW.

Sometimes She's Schwann: We have to wait a while before it's time. Let's get them ready, ok. We need to brush them and take them for a walk.

THREE VERY LOOOOOONG HOURS LATER:

Annabel: Who's her. Is she the doctor?

Sometimes She's Schwann: Yes, baby she's the veterinarian.

Annabel: What is her doing?

Sometimes She's Schwann: She's listening to Maddy's heart and her lungs.

Annabel: Now what is her doing?

Sometimes She's Schwann: She's taking blood for tests, and she's giving them a shot.

Annabel: They not like that.

Sometimes She's Schwann: No ... but aren't they being brave?

Annabel: Yeah, they are. (To veterninarian) My dogs are my best friends. I lub them.

$200, five tests, 20 toe-nail clippings, one lyme disease diagnosis (Maggie) and three prescriptions later:

Sometimes She's Schwann: So what did you think of that?

Annabel: Pretty good, but Torduroy's doctor is a bear.

Some lives are simply worth more than others

It is a sad day for science. It is a sad day for Americans.
Today, President Bush brandished a pen, which, as it turns out, was mightier than any sword in striking down legislation to ease limits on federal funding for embryonic stem-cell research.

What scientists already know is that stem cells have the remarkable potential to develop into many different cell types. Serving as a kind of repair system, stem cells can divide without limit to replenish other cells as long as the person or animal is still alive. When a stem cell divides, each new cell has the potential to either remain a stem cell or become another type of cell with a more specialized function, such as a muscle cell, a red blood cell, or a brain cell. The thing is, only embryonic stem cells do this indefinitely. Adult stem cells and those culled from cord blood, while important, are not as encompassing.

There is enormous potential that could come from the study of these amazing cells, specifically embryonic cells. But Mr. Bush seems to be worried about only one: Cloning.

Instead of saddened, Americans should be irate.

The only thing Mr. Bush has done by vetoing this legislation is send a clear message that the United States of America cares only about the potential for human life and not the quality of life for humans.

The problem is that we do care. We care deeply. The mainstream wants to make life better for the living, too. We want scientific discovery to continue to serve us as we struggle.

What we should be looking at is why should he care? He is not a man of science. He is a man of religious conviction, which includes an End Times belief widely held by Evangelical Christians called The Rapture. The Rapture is an occurrence wherein all properly saved Christians will be taken from Earth by Jesus Christ into Heaven by a celestial force. Only the non-saved will remain to deal with Gods wrath. No, he's definitely not a man of science.

Nor is he, it would seem, a man of complex morality. Isn't it ironic that Mr. Bush will fight tooth and nail over frozen embryos that will never become living breathing people but he is willing send young men and women to war, prisoners to death, and thwart research that might ensure a better quality of life for people with debilitating disease? And yet, by his own accounts, he sleeps well at night.

I think it is unconscionable to value life so narrowly. To look at the babies born from invitro fertilization peppering the audience behind him for effect as he addressed the press with his signature smirk, one can only imagine he would advocate next that every drop of sperm in this country be federally protected, too. Rest assured, embryos will not disappear for those who wish to conceive.

Perhaps federal funding of stem cell research won't come about under his watch, but the research will continue privately and in other countries. And eventually, under another administration, our government will get onboard and pony up some cash. And I trust when it does, and when cures exist because of the research, Mr. Bush will not avail himself of the fruits of this labor should the need arise. Afterall, he's got his moral standards.

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