Stand-up guy

I used to tell my brother-in-law that I was going to steal his woman - Jed's sister - away from him.

I wasn't joking, really.

But now I'm finding myself in the preternatural position of wanting to abscond with the entire set, including the cutest little almost-two-year-old this side of ours truly.

Eric's blog, thinair, discusses lots of geekage I will never even pretend to understand. As a programmer, he writes about something called a lisp, and it has nothing to do with speech impediments. The end. Game over. Remedial math for me.

But his dedication to ideas outside the inner workings of a computer has me so inspired that I often find myself nodding my head in agreement and wanting on the bandwagon.

As I was a little embroiled (like being a little pregnant?) in debate today over the role of parents in their children's education, 'thinair' pops up on my RSS reader.

Now Eric, who's aforementioned almost-two-year-old will attend a neighborhood school that's been abandoned by most of its affluent neighbors, is taking the bull by the horns and diving in to make education better for all students before his son ever steps sneaker inside a classroom.

My debate had to do with the role parents play in their kids' education, and more often than not that it seems it's not the lack of involvement that's the problem, it's the type of involvement.

We all hear-tell of parents who could care less about whether their kids attend school or not, whether they do their homework. We know there are parents who don't read to or even talk to their kids. We know logically that when they get to school, these kids are going to have problems.

But it seems as if even more of a problem to the educating sect are the parents whose little angels can do no wrong. The parents who fight legal battles to make sure their kids get every break unbecoming to them, and that's tying their hands as educators as much as kids whose parents are non-existent.

His debate concerns a recent development at his school in which the school board implemented fingerprinting to better keep track of student lunch accounts after a number ID system failed when the younger students couldn't remember the six digits assigned to them. And his little school isn't alone in this growing trend towards modernization. Programs like it are being adopted around the country and around the world.

This is the part where I almost spit coffee all over the keyboard ...

Aside from the obvious worries about privacy, here's the rub: The school district didn't tell parents. In fact they told parents they could opt out of the program two days after the kids had already been digitally printed.

See folks, your fingerprints are forever and it would seem digital files can be, too.

These parents can't be terribly assured that the records will be completely destroyed. And say 20 years from now when police are investigating a crime, they can go to the schools and demand such records. Currently fingerprints are only available on folks who have previously been arrested, and controversially, people accepting public assistance. If this printing of school children becomes commonplace, schools will be vast data pools for police.

So here's where the two debates collide. You have parents who aren't involved in school at all, parents who are involved in the wrong way and schools that are making decisions that will affect everyone, forever, without parental involvement or without parents who fully understand the consequences. And in doing so, society changes in places we cannot predict.

I'm not sure where this is going, but I'm afraid it won't end well if folks who can and do advocate for their own don't step in and advocate for the ones whose parents can't or don't.

And hey, School District: Why can't you cross reference the kids' names against the number you've assigned them? Oddly enough, I bet most kids will know their names. Computers have the power to do that, no?

Nevermind, School District, I'll ask Eric. He'll know.

*****

UPDATE: For those who, like me, were waiting with bated breath for the next installment of thinair.

Up, up and away

Dear Annabel,

It seems as if we're back where we started, you and I.

Well, not ALL THE WAY back but back far enough so that the difficulty of trudging around the house late at night, tripping over shoes abandoned in doorways while trying sooth you back to sleep -- and willing the night to come when you'd sleep straight through -- comes rushing back in a way that seems like it never left.

I'm not sure what's keeping you up at night, but there's no doubt your sleep patterns have slipped.

At 8 p.m. we start our ritual: You put on your jim-jams, brush your teeth and collect your books. We read three stories, and when you're all cuddled in, you say you want me to do exercises. I stretch a bit on your carpeted floor. An upward-facing dog, a downward facing dog and child pose. I kiss you "goodnight" and power up your CD player, Peter and the Wolf is the selection tonight. Sir John Gielgud's voice fills your room. I turn it down to a whisper. You protest, telling me you can't hear it. I increase the volume slightly so you're satisfied and dim the lights.

For a moment you are quiet. I settle onto the living room couch, switch on the computer, dig out the Christmas ornaments we've been working on and wait for your soft, skittering footsteps to sound from the hallway.

"Mama, there's monsters in my woom."
"Mama, I dropped my binky."
"Mama, the moosic stopped."
"Mama, I want any something to drink."
"Mama, my blankets don't work."
"Mama, I dotta do potty. ... And them m-n-ms, mama."

You visit until almost 10 p.m. when, out of sheer exhaustion, you fall asleep, your pacifier on the floor, bedclothes in tangles and legs half off the bed.

When I finally drop off to sleep an hour or so later, maybe getting four ornaments started, the dishes put away and a load of laundry in the wash, I know I when next I wake the house will be pitch black and the digital clock will inform me that its 3 a.m. For the next two hours it will be an up and down endeavor to get you back in your bed and back to sleep. Your father will rouse himself and try to get you to realize NIGHT IS FOR SLEEPING, but in 20 minutes you'll be back, complaining that something's wrong in your room.

By 6 a.m. we'll have gotten you off to sleep again and if I'm lucky, you'll wake in an hour, ready for the day. More than likely though, you'll sleep another two hours and I will have to rush the morning rush.

Of course, everyone and their mother is telling me that I must resist the temptation and let you scream it out, let you wrestle with the demon insomnia alone - but it's a tough sell. I give an ultimatum, and even I think it sounds hollow: THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M COMING IN HERE. HERE. HERE.

"Ok, mommy. Than I'll just tum out. That would be a good idea."

"No, honey. It's not. Now go to sleep."

Love,
Mommy

A mother's remorse ...

Since Ittybit hasn't really been able to wrap her mind around the concept of playthings going to Iraq, I've decided to take a break from reality long enough to examine the fact that, essentially, I sent Kermit The Frog (or as I like to refer to him, Kermit D. Frog) into a dessert war zone.

Ok so it hurts my head to think about actual children living in the deplorable circumstances we helped create, so for the briefest of moments I'm considering this little absurdity because of the humanity Muppets embody.

I feel remorse. ...

I should have sent Elmo.

Lost in translation

I can probably expect more bedtime banter like this for a few more days:

Mama? Where's Kermit?

Don't you remember, we're sending him, Zoe and Buffy Bunny to Iraq so they can make some children happy.

Why?

Because you have so much and there are some boys and girls there who have nothing.

Why?

Because there's something called a war, and it's very bad, and some of the children are alone and scared. Your toys might help cheer and comfort them.

Oh. ...

Are they standing up or sitting down?

?? Um ... standing up?

We dotta put that in a cage!

Uh ... what?

We have to get that raccoon out of there so the kids can play with Kermit. We need a cage to put him in.

Honey. ... What raccoon?

You said we're sending Kermit to a raccoon for the childrens because they're lost and lonely.

I said E-Rack, not A RACCOON. We're sending toys to Iraq. It's a country in the middle ... Oh nevermind. We'll talk about this when you're three, OK.

NOTE TO SELF: Invest in a world map.

New Rule

Another piece of sage advice that we disregarded: Never, under any circumstances buy toys in a child's presence. The idea is that if you NEVER buy them things, even when they're not begging for them, they will stop asking.

Uhm ... This lasted all the way up until she learned to talk and asked oh so syrupy sweetly for a stuffed cat. She named him Fudgy and our fate was sealed.

We are pushovers.

So today at the apple orchard -- which for some strange reason (possibly a result of the fact that farmers don't live by apples alone ... you know since China surpassed our apple production in the 90s) harbors an entire gift shop of overpriced toys and novelties that have nothing whatsoever to do with apples -- when Annabel begged and pleaded for a stuffed cow that chimes moo (three times) when you press its middle, we struck a bargain.

If we bought the $10 bovine she would choose two toys in her collection that we would ship to an underprivileged kid somewhere in the world. She quickly agreed.

So as we make room for MOO on her bed, Buffy Bunny and two of her friends (Annabel was insistent they go in threes) are off to Iraq, where they will have a second chance at love.

The toy drive is being undertaken by United States Army Corp of Engineers Officer Edmay Mayers who is taking it upon herself to distribute the playthings to impoverished children. Until recently, she's been buying the animals and candy herself, but the need has overwhelmed her resources.

So do a good deed today. If you have gently used toys that need children to love them, send them to her here:

Edmay Mayers
USACE-GRS
APO AE 09331

It's been a while ...

"Hello baby," I say as I climb out of the car.

"Hello baby," she replies with outstretched arms and chocolatey smile.

The camera wasn't between us, even though it was.

She smiled anyway.

And then we were off and running.

Run Lola Run.

I remember not too long ago when someone lovingly told me:

Just wait. There will come a time when even YOU won't be able to get all those Kodak moments anymore.

And I cursed her.

Because she was so right.

Early warning system ...

This just in on the DADDY REPORT:

ANNABEL: Daddy, how is Santa doing to det down the shimney.

JED: Uh ... What? Santa?**

ANNABEL: Yeah. ... How's he doing to det down the shimney? What if there's a fire?

JED: I told her he only uses chimneys for people who don't have doors.

ME (to Jed): Why didn't you just tell her 'magic?'

JED (to me): She's too smart for that, she'd never believe it.

ME (to Jed): But she'd believe people live in houses with no doors. Nice.


**So is it natural for two-year-olds (almost three) to wonder about the feasibility of a giant elf breaking into our home to leave presents?

The incredible shrinking mommy

Ok. So everyone is pregnant. MOM-101 just posted her brilliant photo-essay announcement, and it seems everyone in the Please Send Vodka forum has been totaling tea for months now.

While I am wildly jumping up and down and wishing I had enough money to send extravagant layettes to each and every one of them (and also wishing they'd all invite me over so I can make pictures of their wonderful, beautiful families) I am also a little sad.

The sadness is partly that I am not pregnant despite "trying" for a year, and in part because I see each passing minute as another in which my baby goes away. I'm a the-glass-is-half-empty AND containing-sea-water-on-the-way-to-a-desert sort of person.

Some of you might have gathered that in addition to being a pessimist I am also a photographer. Although I try to see the world in as many ways as possible, the first way is usually through the lens of my camera. Lately the camera has been tabled.

That is because Ittybit is firmly in the "NO pishers!" side of the camp. Although the message was slow in getting to me (notice all of the less-than-thrilled facial expressions of late), it has gotten through, loud and clear, thanks to her father's more frequent intervention and the fact that her constant scowl-y faces trained in my direction whenever I lift the lens have recently been replaced by very loud shrieks of displeasure.

So I've had to turn my camera toward objects, hoping to wait out the storm until the day comes when I am welcomed, camera in hand, back into the playroom.

Of course this means I have to torture myself. I have to revisit my clothing project; the one in which I had decided to document her clothes as she outgrows them. It never really went anywhere when I first got the idea because, after all, clothes are merely objects and I am interested in photographs of people.

The results are never satisfying.

But here I am torturing myself anyway, sorting through bags of stored clothes destined to wind up at Goodwill, and weeping openly as I relive the day in my mind - a seeming eternity ago - that we took her home from the hospital.

So I must stop it. I must pick myself up off of this mopebox and get on with the celebration. All this crying is fogging up my lens.

The twain meets, we just won't admit it

Why is it that Packrats and Would Chucks often dwell in the same habitat?

Is it because during the first blush of romance we look at the newspapers and magazines piling up on the chairs of his bachelor pad and think, 'Finally! a man who reads?'

I know that there are many, many, many people out there who think they live with the king (or queen) of all packrats, but let me tell you, as politely as I can, that you are wrong. That distinction, I'm afraid, belongs to me and the 2,000 square feet of space underneath my house that allows my husband to collect thousands upon thousands of very important things.

And for those of you who think you can reform a packrat, let me assure you they don't call us Would Chucks for nothing: We would chuck if we could chuck, but the packrat just finds it, fishes it out of the trash and restores it to its unnatural habitat.

Yet the thing I didn't realize until recently was how Would Chucks who are also consumers - folks who would normally throw out two items for every one they bring home - enable their packrat counterparts by adding to the inventory of things that will never go away.

In the end, most Would Chucks wind up being Packrats by proxy.

So it is with this in mind that I tell you, dear reader, although I love my husband, I also love when he's away on business for a few days.

For those 24 to 72 hours I am a free woman. Free to let my inner Would Chuck out. I am free to toss with wild abandon (the things that I buy) and straighten up out without the eyes of consternation (and futility) upon me.

In 72 hours I can empty the cupboards in the kitchen of three-year-old spices; cracked cups, which followed us from apartments to house but have not seen a drop of coffee in their tenure in our employ; and nearly empty containers sitting on the shelves alongside their most recent replacements. I can rid the refrigerator of things we will never eat but seem a shame to waste.

During those precious 72 hours I can find appropriate boxes and put things inside of them. And where I put these things they stay. For three days the scissors are in the drawer with the utensils (where I always look for them) and the mail is sorted in the bins with our names. For three days nothing piles up on the counters, nothing is draped on chairs and everything that has a place is in it.

In that long weekend of casting out I reclaim my inner soul.

"What is that? Who cares, it's gone," I sing to myself as I pitch another little bit of something that mysteriously appeared and that we never used. Only the recycling piles up: Seventeen half canisters of ground cinnamon await reclaimation, their long-stale contents down the drain and rinsed away. I vow to shop more wisely, and resist impulse. I feel lighter and the weight of the chores seem lighter, too.

Of course when he finally comes home, kicks off his shoes and flings his coat toward the chair, missing it by mere inches, I'll be glad to see him, but I'll also be ready.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"To Target; we need another coat rack."

'Tis the season

Christmas comes but once a year in this house, but Halloween is celebrated day in and day out. Annabel was introduced to monsters early because I wanted her to make friends. Don't act like this surprises you. (I live on the edge.)

It's genetic, really. One of my earliest memories of my grandmother was of watching Frankenstein movies with her while my parents had stepped out for a night on the town. Together, curled up in blankets, we'd also listen to General Electric's Mystery Theater on the radio. So when Annabel decided the sharks in Nemo were scary - and that's why she liked them - I understood completely, and even felt a little pride that she was a mama's girl.

Since then I've been collecting a veritable library of frightful tales for bedtime, read, of course, with the covers pulled up and monster spray in hand.

I believe these books are not only a joy to read aloud, but they are really wonderful literature as well. So in the spirit of the season, and without further ado, here's our favorite spooky reading list for you.

Curse in Reverse
Written by Tom Coppinger
Illustrated by Dirk Zimmer
Simon & Schuster, 2003

Agnezza the witch is an unlikely heroine. She spits green phlegm at those hard-hearted souls who turn her away in the bitter cold. Of course Ittybit loves her and her wicked ways. But when Agnezza meets the lovely and charming Trettors, a childless couple of modest means who give her the best of what little they have, she repays them with a curse. And it's the most wonderful curse ever. Keep an eye out though for little details in this woodblock-esque illustration that will make your little demon howl in delight.





The Spider to the Fly
Written by Mary Howitt (1821)
Illustrated by Tony DiTerlizzi
Simon & Schuster

You won't go wrong with this Caldecott metal winner based on Howitt's early 19th century cautionary tale about falling into the trap of vanity when you believe a silver-tongued devil such as DiTerlizzi's silvery arachnid. No happy ending here folks, but believe me the beauty of the words are worth the brutality of the deeds ... even for an almost big girl.





Jitterbug Jam: A Monster Tale
Written by Barbara Jean Hicks
Illustrated by Alexis Deacon

Ripped from the funny pages, this book tells a heart-warming story of what would happen if a little monster stood his ground with the red-headed boy that torments him during daylight hours when he is supposed to be fast asleep. A wonderfully illustrated book, Jitterbug Jam is told in an unmistakable, buttery southern drawl that will make your mouth water as you read it to your little monsters. A great book for kids who are afraid of things that go bump in the night. They'll learn monsters have fears of their own.





Who Will You Meet in Scary Street?: Nine Pop-Up Nightmares
Written by Christine Tagg
Little, Brown; Pop-up Edition

I'm a sucker for pop-up books, and I this one is so gross it's good. I love books that have a rhyme and reason, and a few blood curdling twists and turns, too. Although the age recommendation on this one is 3 and up, I got it for Ittybit when she turned 2, and she loved all the eye-popping characters from the Mummy pair traveling everywhere to the Vet with all the ferocious pets. And a surprise ending that will make you scream for more. We read it over and over again.

From Here to Maturity

There's been a lot of exciting sex talk on the blogosphere these days, and even I entered the mix before I heard what everyone else was saying. ... All more points to ponder, don't you know, as the discussion becomes more defined.

Some believe our puritanical society, which links sex and violence, as a cause of many ills. That if we were comfortable in our own bodies we'd be more comfortable in the world and less likely to snap from all the repression. Others believe that the sexualizing of "everything" from baby dolls to instant coffee is leading our nation down the path of critical debauchery, where the only thing we can look forward to is the white-knuckled waiting for results of our twice-yearly STD tests.

There are SO MANY great arguments on all sides of the debate that I have to wonder if the real problem (and solution) isn't somewhere in the middle? In some ways many of us seem to think birds are eating all the breadcrumbs intended to lead us back to reality.

Perhaps we should begin by agreeing that sex isn't bad. It is part of our biological makeup to ensure the human race is continuing to attract new runners. (Repeat it to yourselves a couple of times: SEX. ISN'T. BAD).

I think the problem really isn't S-E-X. It isn't that girls and boys (and any combination therein) are engaging in an activity that we don't even want them to know about. I don't even think it's about which is worse, repression or expression. I think it has more to do with maturity and security. And the quest for maturity shouldn't end just because we've reached the age of it - maturity that is.

We might all agree that a 12-year-old probably isn't mature enough to fully deal with the emotions that come with sex. It doesn't mean that he or she won't initiate the deed, nor think to themselves that they are fully prepared and they know what they are doing. All one must do is transport ourselves back in time to just about their age. If your memory hasn't failed you, and you can admit it, you we're once just as clueless.

But do we ever consider that women and men put off by public breast feeding probably aren't terribly mature either? Same goes for the people who can't turn off the televisions without doing their part to make sure you can't make the same choice for yourselves. I don't think I have the energy to discuss all those people who put their own need for satisfaction first.

We all know (and accept) that our society makes rules that govern what it collectively deems to be a standard ethic. As times change these mores also evolve. Sometimes the ideals seem to conflict. It seems the only thing we all typically agree on is that adults cannot have sex with children. Otherwise, just about everything else is gray area. Is it good? Is it bad? The only thing for sure is that it's a tough call.

Brittney Spears, Bratz Dolls, rap and hip-hop, provocative clothes, fellatio and cunnilingus clubs (in junior high school) ... we think that the world's going to hell in a handbasket. Yet there are many who say it's pretty much the same now only different. Kids are no worse today than 25 years ago. They grow up, the grow out of it. Life moves on.

And every moment of every day I'm stuck right in the middle.

I have known people whose parents encouraged them (as teenagers) to have sex when they felt ready. They allowed them to bring their significant others home, rationalizing in a time -- a decade after Son of Sam -- that it was safer for them to have sex at home, under their roof, than in a parked car on the sly.

Although I'm not offering empirical data, it has been my observation that those kids fared no better in long-term relationships than those whose parents wouldn't let them date until they were 17 and refused to accept any behavior other than abstinence (whether their kids heeded the warnings or not). And isn't that what we're going for? To make sure that our kids' early experiences ultimately lead them to make good choices in mates later on so that they don't have to deal with divorce court or domestic violence.

I can honestly say I have NO idea what is best course of action here, or if there even is a best course. I happen to be modest by nature, so my feeling is that sex should be a personal expression. The details, especially. I also think that the only way sex is fulfilling is when each person really is safe rather than just feeling safe: when each person knows where they stand (so to speak) when they are laid bare (literally and figuratively). Honesty and maturity is where I think the security part comes from. How we get there, I suppose, will always be an individual journey.

Perhaps, though, as we're working on teaching our kids to understand how precious they are and how wonderful sex is, maybe we have to work on our own maturity. Maybe we parents have to realize, again, what's really harmful before we label everything with a skull and cross-bones.

Stream of consciousness

Dear Annabel,

These last few weeks have been unbelievable.

Somewhere between the time we packed you off in the car one morning, dropped you off at "school" and picked you up that evening you had turned into a child. We keep calling you baby, but it's only wishful thinking now.

In the span of what seems like six hours, but must have been more in the neighborhood of six weeks, you relinquished your babydoll voice with all it's velvety sweetness, four-word sentences and lovely uni-terpretations.

When you phoned your Ama, she didn't recognize your new grown-up tone.

Your thoughts now come in a gush instead of a trickle.

MOMMY: How was school, baby?

ANNABEL: I'm not a baby. I'm a big girl. Sometimes I'm a kid. Jacob put the rice in his mouth and Marcia said: 'No putting rice in your mouth.' She wasn't happy that he was taking rice out of the table. She said: Don't take rice out of my table please.' You ONLY eat rice that's food. Not shovel rice. I said that. But Kaylee wasn't there. MAD-A-LINE was there but Kaylee wasn't there. She had to sweep or something. I didn't know.

MOMMY: How about your other teacher, Pat?

ANNABEL: Pat? Pat wasn't there.

MOMMY: Pat wasn't there? Wasn't she there helping you with art projects?

ANNABEL: Pat? She? Oh. I though you meant the Pat who is funny. Sorry. She was there. But I didn't know. Did Pat who is funny bring back Pinky and the Brain, Brain, Brain? I wanna watch that sometime. I think that would be a GOOD idea. Who's donna get me some possipils later? We dot to det som possipils. I like purple and red and oran ones. And green M&Ms. Oh we don't need them. Silly me.

It's not only your words that have grown stronger. You whole body is taking a new shape. Your arms are filling out again in this cyclical bulking up and slimming down metamorphosis of childhood. You are noticeably heavier in my arms. Your grasp is stronger. Picking you up isn't as easy, and I find myself trying to negotiate more "down time."

Whereas your temper tantrums have increased in velocity so has your ability to understand the give and take of the parent-child relationship. More and more you are teaching yourself to calm down.

More than anything, however, it is your observation of the world passing by our window as we commute here and there that makes me want to hold you and press you into me until we are one person again.

An example:

Counting on the moon

I want the moon, Mama.

This moon is not full, mama, it's dust round. A moon is a moon when it has sides.

We have to fly up there and take it down. Bring it home to my room. It would be so happy with me. We could count and sing songs and you could read to us. He would be my friend, too.

Okay everybody, let's count.

One, TWO, three, four, five, sis, seben, eight, nine TEN, elephen, twelb, firteen, sisteen, sebenteen, sebenteen, eighteen, TWENTYTEEN.

I'm not sure how many times I told you I loved you tonight, Ittybit.
But I'm sure there must be room for one more.

I love you, boo.

Love,
Mommy

Another piece of the puzzle

Every time the news of the day is about a senseless tragedy where children are involved I feel helpless.

I feel as if I am in the minority of people in my profession in that I believe knowledge isn't power; mainly because I don't think the kind of reporting done today aids in true knowledge.

When the headlines read "10 children shot in Amish school, five dead," and days later the talking heads are still spinning off stories of sensational detail and opining about the lack of safety in the nations schools, I can't help but hang my head in desperation.

What no one seems to mention is how RARE these tragedies are or even try to put it in perspective. According to NISMART-2, a study released in October 2002, which researched the year 1999, an estimated 797,500 children were reported missing in the United States; 58,200 children were abducted by non-family members; 115 children were the victims of the most serious, long-term non-family abductions called "stereotypical kidnappings"; and 203,900 children were the victims of family abductions.

Let me repeat: Stereotypical kidnappings numbered 115 out of 797,500 children reported missing. That's less than one percent.

Of course, no one wants ANY children to be the victims of abduction or violence of any kind in school or at home but I can't help but think that by overreacting to such news, painting it with the broad brush of missunderstanding, we are trading one horror story for another.

We are willingly signing up for a life guided by fear and anxiety.

This week we're talking about the horror of two men walking into a schools, planning on doing unspeakable acts, and turning it into a shooting gallery before taking their own own lives. We surmise that the system must have failed, and to prevent another tragedy, we have to ACT now. We have to make something -- anything -- illegal. We have to lock down our schools, never let our children out of our sight and we have to get more cops, more jails, more walls.

Now I realize we can't throw up our hands and say: We can't keep ourselves safe so why bother. But by the same leveling of the sword we can't pull our kids out of school, hole ourselves up in our homes and wait for the apocalypse. Nor should we make this a school issue alone.

We have to understand that laws and enforcement can't prevent isolated instances from happening. We can't just rail against the scum of society, as if punishment were the answer. We have to fix problems that helped make the situation exist. We all have a part to play, even if that role is merely to be a part of the dialogue. We have to ensure that lawmakers are looking beyond prisons and into social services, mental health services and appropriate interventions.

Acting appropriately = not overreacting.

Overreacting does nothing to keep us safe, but everything to keep us in a state of perpetual fear and panic.

We need to TURN OFF our televisions sets and start writing letters demanding responsible coverage. We need to demand our elected officials pay more than lipservice to the problems. We have to demand reality and not its perception. We should accept no less.

We need perspective that actually gives us some, and not merely scares us into thinking the problem is bigger and more widespread. We need to be told (and listen to) the truth. We must seek it out instead of spreading fear.

Of course we can't let young children out of our sight; they can't even cross the street safely. But we also have to teach our sons and daughters to respect themselves, we have to teach them to be actively involved in the solution and not merely potential victims. We have to make them ready to be on their own and contribute the society we want them to have.

But we must do all these things without scaring them and without scaring ourselves. NOT every stranger is dangerous. Most are not, and just because it's hard to tell the difference sometimes does not justify the vilification of our fellow humans.

Now more than ever we need each other, and we have to get off our moral high horses. We have to realize we are not all cut from the same cloth, and that "if we just pull ourselves up by our bootstraps we can all be OK" is a lie. We have to understand that there are people unable to do that either by brain chemistry or upbringing or lack of upbringing. We can only expect, if we ignore the plight of the poor and the diseased, we will be inviting more of the destruction to bemoan.

I can't help but think we have to learn more about the crimes, more about the illnesses and more about the treatments before we build any more prisons or any more private schools that segregate us further. We have to make sure that we are giving the best care to all our citizenry, not just the ones we deem deserve it.

Cover ups

Whenever I have an inkling that there will be picture taking at a function I try to remember to apply mascara. It comes from a time way back when I used to obsessively pick out my eyelashes.

It started when I was in the fourth grade. I had just been placed in a new -- Catholic -- school and while trying to make friends with the popular gaggle of girls one of them scoffed at me when she noticed a gunky buildup of sleep crud in between my lashes. I became self conscious, and in the years that followed -- and throughout high school and college -- tension would invariably lead my hand toward my lids where I would absently scrape away at the offending matter. Gaps began appearing in the lash line along with angry redness.

I'm not sure when it stopped, really, because the tension is still there and my hand travels up to twirl the lashes even as I type this, but I don't have the same urge to pull them out the way I use to. The gaps have been filled in and the lashes returned to something I can only imagine is how they would naturally be had I not pruned them mercilessly in the first place.

I was thinking about this recently because a friend has taken to commenting on the length of my lashes, and how she never noticed how long they were before that very moment. She kids me that the wind from their fluttering messes up her hair and threatens to knock her off her feet.

It seems odd to me, that comment.

In my mind, I am still that little kid; all gaps and gawk. I am still the young adult, who without makeup, disappeared into the whiteness of the northeast winters. When tired I look as bad as I feel. Even a gruff (but beloved) typist from my first "real" job, a woman who wouldn't seem the least bit fixated on cosmetic alterations, told me to put on makeup: "your eyes look like two piss holes in the snow."

And there I am, worrying about appearances.

So it is with this in mind that I look around and see all the things I am not doing -- all the neglected chores that held my interest for seconds (if at all) are piling up and scoffing at me. I wonder, am I missing out? These are all things I never wanted to do really -- mowing the weeds in the garden, tending the yard all overgrown, sifting through office clutter piling up -- and yet the compulsion is still there, eating at my core.

The need to take pride in the place I live, to enjoy the outdoors (in the daylight) only reminds me that I am tired. To accomplish anything seems impossible. I wonder where the energy will come from? Where has it gone?

There are so many things I don't want to do. Never cared to do. And yet these are the things that make us feel a part of the world: painting the house, planting the garden, cleaning out the crap and starting fresh; all things that give us purpose and satisfaction. In expending energy, we get energy in return. Or so I believe.

And yet, most days, all I want to do is sleep, even if I rarely do. I just want to crawl back under the covers and close my eyes.

I suppose I'm still trying to figure out who I am, and worrying that what I'm really trying to do is project who I want to be in Annabel's eyes before she has a chance to decide for herself. (A conclusion that will likely be accurate but not how I'd wish to be perceived.)

Of course, my fear is huge, and chances are mascara's just not going to cover it.

Four years, 24 hours ... and 63 grams of chocolate

Yesterday, four years ago, Jed and I were married in a ceremony in The Fields at Art Omi. We had a wedding reception in our home with 130 friends and family.

I don't think about the wedding that often -- even though it hijacked a year of my entire being -- because I never presumed it would be the best day of my life. I remember it fondly, and with great sentimenality, because fun and joy were the lasting impressions, and the beginnings of a family was the outcome.

I may be the sentimental soul in our little family, but I am not the romantic one. That designation belongs squarely in Jed's corner.

Sadly, had he not mentioned our anniversary yesterday morning I would have forgotten it entirely. I still didn't go out of my way to buy anything special or even make a card. He did. In fact he took Annabel to my favorite kitchen store in Chatham and turned her loose, explaining she had to pick out presents for mommy.

They returned home with three chocolate bars, all dark; a box of marzipan fruits; one beeswax candle, purple; a package of glycerine soaps; a sparkly tin star, blue; and a wind-up pig.

So, while I wished - for my own sake of guilt - that he had not spent energy or money on presents, I can't help but admire his spirit and next year vow to do my best to reciprocate; and yes, I love the pig.

The hits keep coming

Since Jed and I couldn't manage to settle the grudge match over which one of us was going to accompany Annabel to school on her special day -- a day, once every six weeks, in which each student's parent is expected to show up, bring wholesome snacks for 10 kids and help with arts and crafts, reading and clean up chores -- we both decided to go.

Jed picked her up from Lori's house and was already at school with Annabel and a half a watermelon when I arrived, bringing apple cider and blue corn chips.

ITTYBIT: Oh, look. My MOM is HERE! Look. That's my mom. My MOM is HERE!

TEACHER: That's really wonderful. And who is THIS fine gentleman with you?

ITTYBIT: Oh. He's my big brother.

and the #1 sign the apocalypse is upon us ...

Ring, ring, ring ...

Ama: Hello?

Ittybit: Hello, Grandmother? Is Grandfather there?

Ama: Well ... there IS a grandfather here, and you can talk to him if you like, but I think you may have the wrong number.

Ittybit: OK. BYE!!!!

Ama: (recognizing the voice from "goodbye") Uh. Annabel? Is that you?

And so it begins

annabel light and dark
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

She dressed herself yesterday for our yoga class:

Two pairs of Hello Kitty underwear: Blue pair on top, pink print pair underneath.

Two pairs of slacks: Purple bootleg strechpants underneath purple flower-printed Old Navy pajama shorts.

Two shirts: White sleeveless shirt with a small red cherry print underneath a multi-color horizontal stripe.

Black zip boots.

Notice anything missing from the list?

Say ... a diaper?

Six hours, 27 minutes -- two hours travel time and two potty breaks for the duration of the trip.

Two words:
Accident free.

Two more words:
Yeah, baby!

Yeah, I know ...

They made me look like Uma in Pulp Fiction. I'm cool, though. Right?

Christmas is just around the corner ...

... and the first ornament has arrived ...

Cork Ewe ... (Thanks, Yaya).

Cork Ewe Pine !!! (Thanks, Gemma).

Anyone have a cork scr-ewe?

'Cause I could use a drink.

Putting my foot down ... gingerly

A few weeks ago I met a neighbor while I was out and about on weekend errands, and during our conversation I learned that she'd made the "agonizing" decision to take her son out of public school.

Although in her soul of souls it pained her to know her son was attending what she saw as a "factory" for churning out children who will sit still, line up in single file and ask permission before they go to the bathroom, the straw that broke the camel's back was when her already literate kindergartener came home from school and reported he pretended he didn't know the alphabet, because that's what the teacher expected.

Like many parents, she said she and her husband had wanted to stick it out with public education. They believed in its importance. And, like many parents with a certain amount of disposable income, they ultimately decided that they couldn't let their child's education suffer because they didn't want to fight a losing battle with the establishment.

I don't want to slam her decision. I don't want to look down my nose as the uninitiated mother of a preschooler - who will undoubtedly face the same choice one day soon - and click my tongue in disappointment.

And yet, I can't help but wish she'd stuck it out. We are not talking about an inner city school district struggling to keep drugs and guns from seeping in through the security hurdles; we are talking about a suburban school in a moderately well-heeled community. "Wait for me," I thought. "We'll fight them together. Maybe we'll even find others."

I think that by moving our kids to the "better" schools, often outside of the community, we are choosing isolation, some might say segregation, based on individual values, ideals and the ability to pay for them. And why shouldn't we choose the best we can afford? We live in a society in which we are not only free to make such choices, we are encouraged to do so. Why shouldn't we take advantage of every opportunity life and budget allow? Why not advocate for our kids in the most expedient way? Don't our children deserve the best WE can offer?

But I still can't help feeling as if we are losing a sense of responsibility to one another and our communities, and this weighs on me, too.

I think about a different situation. One in which we were talking about a school in which education came second to security? What if we were talking about a school in a relatively wealthy district, where only the poorest of the poor attended because the affluent had other options?

It wouldn't even be a question for most parents. Their child's safety is just more important than any ideology. But what about the children left behind? Does that mean they're less important?

I don't know the answers, but I know that we need to think long and hard about the question.

I just hope I am strong enough, when the time comes, to stick it out for Annabel's sake. To make sure that the public school she attends will be a better place for everyone because we did our best to make it that. Or at least that our participation, for her, no matter how many stupid rules she's expected to follow, will have the most lasting effect.

THE YAYA REPORT

What's happening at the other mom's house

This is the kind of thing that makes me weep. And worry. And not walk under ladders, throw salt over my left shoulder and loathe that we've allowed umbrellas to be opened indoors. It also makes me wonder if maybe Annabel has a little bit more of me in her than I thought.

Annabel noticed a photograph of Lori's parents today and asked who they were:

LORI: They are MY mom and dad.

ANNABEL: Oh. Where is YOUR mom?

LORI: Well, honey, she's gone away to a wonderful place. But it means I can't see her anymore.

ANNABEL: Oh. Was she sick?

LORI: (a bit stunned) Yes, she was. But she's not sick any more.

Lori continued to explain how her father remarried and now she has a very nice step mother, a photograph of whom Annabel immediately wanted to see.

LORI: Here she is. ... This is my step mother. But she's a nice step mother.

ANNABEL: I don't shink so.

Have you met my husband the dork?

This is why communication in marriage is a contradiction in terms:

HIM: Hey, hon. Guess what? I just had breakfast with Kate Winslet.

ME: You've got to be crooking me. What did you say to her?

HIM: Nothing.

ME: You mean to tell me you had breakfast with Kate Winslet - the actress - and you didn't say a word to her?

HIM: That's right.

ME: Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Was she sitting at your table?

HIM: No, she was a few seats away.

ME: So then you had breakfast and Kate Winslet was in the restaurant.

HIM: How's that different from what I said?

Fools and money ...

Phleff, phleff, phleff. Eeeeeeeeeerrrrr. Scrabble scrabble. Click. Click.

The sound you didn't hear, dear readers, was me dusting off my soapbox, dragging it across the floor and climbing up. I don't do this that often, so please bear with me as I stand here precariously. It appears I'm wearing heels in unfamiliar territory.

Recently the husband and I, with the nod of grandparental support, stepped out for a night on the town. A friend of ours was having a comedy show at a local venue and we were prepared to go and laugh until our sides fell off, have a few beers and partake in conversations that didn't once mention inquisitive primates, purple dinosaurs or gigantic red dogs.

When we got to the Basilica Industria, a former knitting mill-turned-performance space in Hudson, we were beyond early.

"I thought his e-mail said 8 o'clock," I said as we arrived to find a hive of behind-the-scenes activity. Tattooed women and ponytailed men were busily performing sound and lighting checks. Some were even setting up chairs. A tall, lanky man wearing a full-length blue leotard, spangled rabbit ears and eight-inch platform shoes was also roaming amid the chaos.

"At least we have the right place," I say.

We go and find someone to pay and realize our second surprise of the evening.

"Fifty bucks! I thought this show was supposed to be $15 apiece." No matter, I'd gotten the time wrong I'd probably misread the ticket price, too.

We hand over the cash and staked claim to two seats on a dais facing the stage. Hubs goes to get two pricy beers from the concessions area while I peruse the flyers on the cabaret table in front of me.

"No wonder everything's wrong," I say when he gets back. "He's not performing until next week."

I can see that hubs is formulating a game of rock, paper, scissors in his head -- the winner of which will sit and finish their beer while the loser goes off to try and get back our picture of Ulysses S. Grant -- when more of a crowd trickles in.

There's no unifying demographic; the age range seems to meander from early 20s to mid 80s, and every designer from Levis to Channel is represented. No help there.

"Pssst. Excuse me, sir?" I ask of a man who plunks himself down next to us. "It seems as if my husband and I are accidental hipsters tonight. What are we about to see?"

"Oh, dear friends, you have bought yourself a ticket to the other greatest show on Earth. You, my dears, are in for an evening of revelation and rejuvenation. Amazements the likes of which you've never seen before await you. (Cue echo chamber:) This is the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus."

(Actually he said, "Oh, it's a really a cool circus or something," but since we had a babysitter for the evening and had decided the better part of valor would be to stick around, I amended the description when it turned out he had, in fact, undersold it.)

When the lights finally went down, a hobo clown trudged into the audience to bum a smoke and a light. I knew right away from the expression on his face -- a fluid, indescribable look that marks a good actor, even when he doesn't speak -- that this wasn't going to be amateur night.

He moved seamlessly from what appeared stiff and awkward attempts at slinging cigar boxes to a masterful display of diabolo juggling. Later, as another character, he swallowed swords in a display so terrifying I could barely watch. About a dozen equally skilled performers added more astonishing feats to the bawdy act: A trapeze artist hurled herself toward the stage, caught midway by a rope she'd curled around her torso before our eyes; a burlesque troupe gyrated lasciviously; dueling bolos ricocheted in unison against the hollow stage; and the aforementioned rabbit, who as it turns out plays violin, did whatever turquoise bunnies do under the glare of a spotlight.

I could describe everything we saw but I know I wouldn't do it justice. When the lights came back up and we made our way to our car, suffice it to say I actually felt good about being parted from my money. Granted, this particular raucous cup of tea isn't for everyone, but it reminded me how distanced we are from the real magic of entertainment.

We shell out comparable amounts of money for Hollywood special effects and larger-than life celebrities, and in doing so, without even knowing it, we lose an understanding of what real talent looks like on a human scale. To be reminded in such a way seemed a bargain at twice the price.

So it is from here on my soapbox that I implore you to take a chance on live performance. I promise you won't be disappointed. Variety, after all, is the spice of life.

YARD SALE - The unauthorized autobiography

At 7 a.m. I was out on the curb, shuffling bags of baby clothes and other stockpiled detritus from the couch in my abandoned office to tables set up in the driveway. A light rain was falling. It was more of a mist, actually.

"The weather guy always lies," I think as I sort tiny shirts, pants and dresses in lumpy piles I don't even wish to sift through. I leave some articles in the bag, they were destined for the trash bin anyway.

I hate yard-sale day. I hate the feeling of obligation to purge my life of mistakes, and recoup some of the mispent cash. I hate how the idea of it pulls me in with a do-it-yourself entrepreneurial air, but how quickly its atmosphere dissipates into something less desirable.

A half hour ago I was in my kitchen, killing time over a cup of coffee, reading e-mails and catching up with Jon Carroll, hoping for a torrential downpour.

It was going to blow over. Darn.

You can tell a lot about a person by their yard sales. Like another roadside attraction, yard sales are authorized biographies in much the same way bumper stickers on our cars offer onlookers detailed tables of content to the people inside. Both can tell you a lifetime worth of information in short order: Religious affiliations, favorite bands, who they supported in the last two elections even what their kids are doing in school -- either they're an honor student or they're beating up your honor student.

In my neighborhood the lives are fairly similar. We all have clothes we've held onto for sentimental reasons that wind up hanging from ropes when we forget what they were. There are beat up toys and playthings that never got much attention. Impulse buys that became instantly obsolete. Exercise equipment, picked up no doubt at last year's events, will likely be circling the block for at least the next decade. And cassette tapes (dare we include mix tapes) that might as well be torn pages from a diary now sitting in a box, unused, since you bought that new car with the six CD changer years ago. And there is always something that defies logic. In our case that something would be a half-dozen paper napkin dispensers.

I would wager there is also the something the owners don't really want to sell but will offer it up merely because they know someone will buy it. It's a loss leader. The thing that makes certain that our sale - when snubbed by the throngs of strangers who paw through everything with left eyebrow raised and upper lip curled in symmetry - doesn't become a negative review of how we live.

On my hour off I make my way to the farmers' market and the sales that line the route past the historic homes and manicured lawns. I notice the sidewalk shops show the difference between us: Not as much impulsivity to the shopping around there. Antique baskets, with antique prices; etchings, prints, pieces of furniture that require houses with "libraries' (pronounced with an English flourish). Even the Jones families nearby are keeping up. Designer clothes, tasteful handbags. No sign of kitch anywhere, nothing that says 'what one Earth possessed you to waste the kids' college education on that?"

Everything is neat and tidy. You can almost see generations of children, sitting around a card table, sipping lemonade as they play the parlor games, now with only worn corners to show age, neatly stacked and awaiting new homes.

In a few hours I'll be bundling the remnants of our lot for Goodwill and wondering why I bother with this mid-step at all.

But by the time I get back with my bags of unpronounceable produce and a book snagged from the church tag sale, my partner in slime has a full smile and is waving six dollar bills in my direction.

"Imagine that, hon - I just sold all those napkin holders."

Revelations

Good days are made of kicking a soccer ball around the parking lot; games of hide and seek; picking pecks of black walnuts off the lawn; eating pizza; accidentally spilling cups of water on the newly refinished floor (and laughing about it); and questioning whether Cinderella really needs a Prince Charming.

That's what good days are made of.

Back and forth

There are days when moving forward is just too daunting.

When I was in college I worked with developmentally disabled teenagers. I coordinated an after-school program for kids who still lived at home with their parents for a non-profit residency organization that had never attempted such an endeavor before.

In essence, we were the bastard step-children of an organization that wanted us to succeed but then forgot we were there.

By this I mean that we were minimally trained and given little clinical information about the folks we served. When we contacted "the office" for guidance, we often heard silence on the line followed by "who did you say you worked for?"

We were not given clear program operational guidelines, nor were informed of any special needs our charges may have had that weren't self evident. And we were inexperienced enough not to have understood how helpful such information could be, so we didn't seek it our for ourselves.

In a nutshell, we were winging it.

There were times when I felt I was in over my head.

When a girl in our care started inexplicably walking backwards, I was at a loss. We tried behavioral remedies; prattling on about safety and being able to watch where she was going. We cajoled with empty threats about the inappropriate nature of her direction. Nothing I tried could get her to walk forward. She complained about pain, and said that it just felt better to walk backward.

It wasn't until weeks later that we learned she'd been abruptly taken off an anti-psychotic medication, and one of the side effects was likely that she'd had pain in the muscles she used to walk forward. The muscles she used to walk backward were not affected.

Had I known this from the start, perhaps I would have handled it, and her, differently. More compassionately. Less annoyed at the time it took us to get from point A to point B and back again.

But sometimes the NOT knowing could be a saving grace.

One young man, unbeknownst to us, had been thrown out of every program he'd ever attended. Our only clue to this was his mother showing up every day and asking us "what he'd done wrong."

At first I was stunned by her frazzled question. He was a good kid. Or so I thought. When he started acting out, testing if you will, I decided lying to her was the best course of action, at least until I figured out what was going on. "He's doing really well. Not a problem at all."

But his testing increased. His behavior became more unpredictable and it seemed clear he wanted me, in particular, to hate him.

One day I snapped. I told him, in as harsh words as I could muster, that he could be a bastard all he wanted. That was a choice he could surely make. He could hurl as many insults as he liked my way, but that he wasn't going anywhere. He was stuck. With me. Until he grew up and moved along to the next person he could torment.

From that moment on he was a different kid: A helpful kid in earnest, and truly a joy. It was immediately apparent to me that had I known his history and prejudged him on it the outcome might have been different.

I've been thinking of this past life of mine recently. Perhaps its of result of the anxiety of being tossed again into unfamiliar waters. With Annabel going to school, me joining committees and the prospect of dealing with new people, my shoulders have been attached to my ears for weeks. It's one thing after another, and it seems as if I'll never have enough information to make comfortable decisions.

I suppose I just needed to remind myself - yet again - that mistakes are part of life; and that sometimes knowing something only gets you so far.

6:30 a.m.

I didn't even sense the eyes upon me as I turned in bed this morning and slowly roused myself from sleep.

"Mommy? You awake?" she whispered.

Mmmmm?

"It's not dark out anymore."

It's a new day.

Look both ways, but cross the street

Dear Annabel,

I shouldn't be watching television today. It's not even 8 a.m. and already I've flashed the finger (you will know the one) twice in the direction of the television screen, aimed at Matt Lauer and dubya. (I usually use my index finger during these most egregious gestures of inarticulation, but not today.)

On this day five years ago, at 8:57 a.m., I was sitting in my car in the parking lot at work. Stunned. I thought a small plane had gone off course and struck the World Trade Center. I shut the car's engine off, ran upstairs and told the only other soul in the newsroom to turn on the television because a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers. When the picture faded in, we watched as a second plane hit the other tower.

This was no accident.

I don't think I've ever been so stunned or quiet or uncertain in my life. What was happening?

The day went on like that, and the feeling continued into the next, and the next and the next. Whole months went by in a fog.

Things changed. People were nicer to each other (for a time). We made decisions because of (rather than despite) the tragedy. In my case, the hopelessness I felt made marriage and children important where it hadn't been before. It made YOU important.

Then time wore on and we found ourselves in a war that seems meaningless; a war on the crime of terrorism that is as "winable" as the decades-long war on drugs. We find our constitutional rights eroded, and we accept it as the price of safety. We have gone from a nation united in tragedy to one that is divided by ideology.

You will attend your first day of pre-school on this tragic anniversary -- September the 11th. I wonder what will you ultimately learn from this new milestone, school? I wonder what legacy we are handing you and your classmates?

I know you cannot be safe. None of us can. And yet I am a part of this collective anxiety in which our bodies respond to Code Orange as if it had meaning other than to instill fear and loathing. I want to put it all into perspective, but the constant coverage of what-ifs and could-bes makes it difficult to remain calm.

Home of the free? The brave? Not anymore.

Perhaps this is my cause, Ittybit. Something I want for you more than anything else. To realize our time here is brief and some of it will be tragic. There will be sadness for which we cannot prepare, and yet we have to be brave. To not give in to fear or hatred because it is likely to lead us down the wrong path.

I want to tell you to take chances, my little girl. Play in the mud and the muck and the paint. Get dirty. Look around and take it all in. Take precautions, too, but don't let them take over. Look both ways before you cross a street, but cross the street.

And please, little one, try to play nice, OK? I want you to be aware that you are not alone in this world.

Love,
Mommy.

Toddler Translations - 102

It's been a while since I've updated the AnnabelWebster's all-knowing and powerful toddler dictionary here at Ittybits & Pieces.

Her usage has evolved so quickly in recent weeks that it's been difficult for me to get it all down.

So here it is, the tasty tidbits from the home office in Wanna-see-my-room? PEAS?!?

You wanna have a pop-si-toe?
Translated: I wanna have a popsicle.

"Yes I man!"
(Yes I am) usually said accompanied by emphatic foot stomping and fist wagging to make her point.

"Mama? Who painted the sty?"
Well it wasn't you or your father, little one, otherwise the sky would be purple now wouldn't it? ... Unless she was talking about our house, in which case, Yes, honey. Your dad did indeed paint the sty.

"We'll go to the lipstick store and then see Cinderella. Not the movie one, the REAL one with the singing."
The LIPSTICK STORE would be the Hummingbird Garden gift shop, where I stopped to buy a card to waste a little time because we were early for a children's musical of Cinderella. I wound up impulse buying a compact of lip gloss shaped like a fish. Of course the comment came a full two months AFTER the incident.

"Sing the chichen song!"
Which would be "I've Been Working on the Railroad," but only at the point where "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah." Don't even try to sing any other part of the song.

"Daddy will be so incredulous."
I'm not sure if she intended to say that her father wouldn't believe she was able to carry the six-pound tricycle up the stairs by herself as these words tumbled out of her mouth, but I'm willing to suspend disbelief if it means H-A-R-V-A-R-D S-C-H-O-L-A-R-S-H-I-P .

Even if she doesn't get a free ride, at least we'll have help moving heavy objects. Perhaps she can take over her daddy's bidness.

THE YAYA REPORT

Finally, I can quit my job ... almost.

ANNABEL: Where's mommy going?

LORI: You know where she's going, Annabel. She's going to work.

ANNABEL: Why?

LORI: So she can take care of you.

ANNABEL: Why?

LORI: So you can have food to eat and a place to sleep with nice warm blankets.
You don't want to sleep outside, do you?

ANNABEL: Yes I do. I wanna sleep OUTSIDE!

Perhaps if Lori had mentioned the health insurance aspects of my job to Annabel, she'd have figured out the national healthcare crisis.

The miracle of life ... and corn dogs

chicks
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

There was a time (exactly this time last year in fact) that Annabel's love for barnyard animals was trapped in the pages of her story books.

At an early age, you see, she could tell chicks from cygnets, and cygnets from ducklings. Her voice boomed bass (or as low as a toddler can sound) for the daddy cattle while she screeched up high giving a "voice" to the baby ones. Since we'd traipsed through the farmyard, page by page for months, we naively thought she'd enjoy a trip to the fair to see the real things, up close and in person.

But picture books, we learned, don't really prepare tots for the realities of livestock. Toulouse Geese don't make their truck-horn sounds apparent under the bonnet of timid Mother Goose tales, and the size comparison isn't even close. The nearest I think a child's book can really come to life on the farm would be if publishers employed scratch and sniff technology, and let's face it, there are a precious few of us who'd pay good money to give the smell of silage and manure space on our bookshelves.

Understandably, as the year wore on -- after the traumatic experience of screaming and crying from one barn to the next -- her interest in the farm books waned.

So with a little apprehension (and the comfort of a plastic giraffe), we headed off to this year's fair and aimed ourselves in the direction of the livestock exhibits first thing. I figured we could get them out of the way quickly if she decided the animals were too scary and go right to the food. (After all, who wants to eat at the goat barn? Not I.)

It was as if she'd remembered the torture of a year ago, and decided to settle an old score.

"Cows!" She instructed. "Cows, mama." And off we went. Past turkeys, sheep, goats and pigs into the cattle barns. No sooner had we gotten there then she'd reached out her itty bitty hand to give Bessie's head a little pat. "Enough!"

"Chickens! Chickens, mama."
So off we went to see fowl.
"They're funny ... and loud," she laughs.

"Rabbits. Let's go see rabbits next," she instructs, pulling at my pant leg and grunting with exertion. "Ooooh, they're sooooo cute," she squints inside the wire cages, wriggling her nose in imitation.

"What are we gonna see next? How about the chicks?"

And off we go to see something that looks like a popcorn popper containing twelve eggs. Many of them are still whole, but others have large cracks and holes made in perfect circles by the tiny egg teeth on the tops of the chicks' beaks. Some of the babies, still covered in the gook of life, lay spent on the warm grate, resting from their hours-long struggle to get free.

"See that right there," points out a woman at the exhibit. And I look into the incubator to see a foot protruding from an otherwise perfect shell. "I've never seen anything like that in my life. They never come out feet first."

She tells me the eggs came from Cornell, where their genetic codes have been collected and studied. Turns out the University fully expects one of 12 to die -- no more, no less. "That could be one that doesn't make it," she says sadly.

So we leave with a little bit more knowledge of the miracle and mystery of life, but wondering if that little breech chick will survive the night. Annabel wants to stay and make sure the chicks "go to sleep," but we coax her out with the promise of a corn dog I'll have to "peel" and a ride in a tea cup I'll soon regret. By the end of the evening we have an entirely new way to see the fair: A midway adventure; the call of the animals, the lure of the games and the thrill of the rides.

"It's fun here, mama. Let's go again."

Separation anxiety

Dear Annabel,

In a week you'll be starting preschool. In preparation, your father and I have attended three meetings to iron out the details. We've signed up for tasks (your dad has already completed his first chore: powerwashing the playground toys). I've volunteered to be a board member (publicity and grant writing) and we are excited to be involved.

We've even been fighting over which one of us gets to go to school on your special day, which, as you will find out, is when mommy or daddy turns up to assist your teacher for the day. We'll be busy in the kitchen making snacks, cleaning up and helping your schoolmates traverse the tortures of bathroom etiquette and playground protocol while you look on and beam. Or so we've heard. It will be one of the few times in your development when you will be proud to have us around.

I worry how you will get along in school. Children can be mean. There will be those who won't want you to play with them. There will be petty jealousy and nasty looks. There may even be pushing, shoving and eventually trips to the principal's office, or worse, the nurse.

We've already experienced a little of the communication breakdowns that happen between tots. We winced in pain when your sweet, playful pretending was misunderstood by a child who just didn't "get it," and felt compelled to call you a name and run away. What could we say? Nothing. You didn't seem to need any explanations. "She didn't want to play," you said, not unhappy.

I worry also that you might become one of those mean girls. One of the girls who want to run the show and watch the actors squirm under their direction. In many ways, that would be worse.

So babyofmine, while the idea of school excites you now, we are petrified. You are growing up, making your own decisions and reacting to things we can't control. We hope that we make it easier for you, but not too easy. We hope you make it easier for us, too. But not too easy, right?

Love,
Mommy

An exquisite form

The following is an essay about the (unmentionable) love we feel for our children, prompted by HBM and The Joy Which Can't Be Words*

There's something no one talks about out of fear, even in an age where us verbose types can't seem to stop talking: the physical attraction we have to our children.

We have reason to be fearful.

WalMart, with its strange blend of corporate conscience, has made a name for itself not only by shortchanging employees, meddling in their lives, limiting their access to healthcare and decimating the communities they inhabit by edging out the little-guy, but also by becoming the eyes and ears for police, scouring the prints at their photo departments for exposed skin and potential pederasts.

Under such hysteria, (which admittedly has been around long before WalMart) the bodies of children have become sexualized. But when truth matters naught and appearance is all consuming, how can we ever differentiate between what means us harm and what doesn't?

That has never been more apparent to me than when I first brought my daughter home from the hospital, took off all her clothes and marveled at her lovely and amazing form. How could I not adore each inch of this marvelous body.

Each fold of skin was a masterpiece. I tickled her tummy as I changed her diaper. I bent down to kiss her newly exposed belly button. Her smell was intoxicating, clean and new.

The attraction between mother and child is most definitely physical. It grows in time, too. Not only did I have an urge to touch her, feel her skin against mine, I needed to hold her and squeeze. There was a surprising amount of latent violence in this expression. I held off the full force of my hugs, afraid to break her. My jaws clenched, teeth biting lip. The phrase "I could eat you up" was nearly literal. Everything about her being -- and not merely the idea of her being -- was yummy.

I took photographs of every part. I couldn't believe how defined and perfect her muscles were. I was transfixed by the roundness of her head and the dimples in her soft, full skin. And yet, I remained keenly aware of the danger waiting to tear me limb from limb in this world jaundiced by a sad mixture of superiority and anxiety.

I knew that such images, no matter how innocent, are taboo. I know that should someone with a lascivious mind find pleasure from them, there are those who would call me a pornographer. I hesitated showing my images to anyone, lest they judge. I just thanked the gods of technology for the digital camera I had long eschewed.

But even the mention of such thoughts has the potential to devastate.

When we say "physical love," most people conjure a mental picture of sexual love. Sensual love gets lumped in there, too. We make no distinction superficially, and yet we are all drawn to sensual things, innocently, in ways that no one would ever accuse us of crimes against humanity. Every time I walk past suede in a department store I have an intense urge to caress it. It pleases my senses. But I have no desire to have my way with a coat, I assure you.

In fact, much of my own thoughts concerning physical love have changed since becoming a mother. Since having a child so much of my own body has been transformed from the sexual to something else -- something life giving and life sustaining -- that I've had difficulty reassigning my parts. It's been nearly a year since this baby of mine stopped nursing. And still my breasts are unaware of sexual gratification. Touched in that way, I recoil.

My baby's body, in my thoughts, is the same. Its beauty is more than emotional; it's esoteric. The attraction is so surely physical it's palpable. It offers proof that we have the potential for perfection in all the ways that matter.

The not-so-vicious circle

Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommmy mommmy mom-meee mommeee mommeeee mommeeee mommeeee mommeeee mommeeee mommeeee ma me ma me ma me ma me ma me ma me ma me ma me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me.

Right now it's all about me.

When I got back from vacation, and back to my desk, awaiting my attention was "Momma Zen," a memoir by Karen Maezen Miller, a mother, writer and Zen Buddhist Priest.

I had almost forgotten the author had contacted me and wondered if I might give it a read and a mention on this here little blog. (Color me happy as well as more than a little bit flattered).

You see, dear friends, I am a yoga practitioner who facilitates a free yoga class for mothers and others who want a little stretching, a little meditation and a little co-misery as they try to get through yet another week. But by no means am I a yogi. I don't talk the talk. I don't walk the walk. And I wouldn't know bliss if it walked up and bit me. I don't even think I've had a real "practice" since Ittybit was three months old.

Let's just say until I ripped open the envelope and tore through the introduction, I was more than just a little intimidated. Who wouldn't be? Zen. Buddhist. Priest. Mother. Writer.

Daunting.

As it turns out, the book was right up my alley.

It wasn't preaching so much as it was lending a branch for support. It wasn't expecting me to 'let it all go.'

I knew life had changed for me when Ittybit was born. I didn't really even mourn how. I didn't miss my single self. I was ready to give her the boot. I didn't pretend to know any answers, and I was willing to ask questions. I didn't have great expectations. But that didn't make me any more ready to meet my isolated self. My selfpity self. My holy-crap-why-haven't-you-combed-your-hair self.

There was a time in all this new mommyhood when I was on top of the world. There was a moment that gave me enough confidence to give the class a go. To brush aside self doubt, ask for use of a studio space, hang up some signs and welcome people who might expect better than me.
I read books, I played with Annabel in experimentation. I devised some things we could do together. I jotted down notes. Was this fun? Is she enjoying this? How do I feel about it? I eventually began to equate this new life of mine with breathing. In and out. In and out. I remembered when, for the first time, my breathing really did flow with the poses, and with the world around me. It changed everything. This was motherhood. It was breathing.

And then she turned two and a half.

Then, somehow, I forgot to breathe.

Staring at the book cover, it's black Zen circle dotted with Cherios, I felt my anxiety ease. I skipped through the first few chapters. 'They're about babies and I've already been there,' I think as I look for the section that will undoubtedly enlighten me on how to ensure my child's life now that her three-year-old self has shown up four months early.

Voila!

Chapter 18

Self-Discipline
DON'T DECEIVE YOURSELF

"Somewhere between last night's bath and this morning's diaper, she had transformed into a fanged menace, a horned demon. I reacted at peak throttle. I slapped her arm, hard, and we both crumpled in a flood of fear and tears."

This is what I was looking for. The part where you are stunned by your own intolerance.

"We are deceiving ourselves anytime we view our children as separate from the conditions that we ourselves still largely create: separate from the circumstances of their environment; separate from the state of their minds, their bodies, and bellies; and separate from the monumental influence we as parents impose. We look at them with loathing, these new, inscrutable children, these other children. In this shift of perception, we expel our babies from the unity of we and engage them in a battle in which they can only get stomped. These are the moments when wakefulness waves its puny white flag. If we can wake up, we will see that we cannot separate self from other. We cannot separate restraint from self-restraint. We cannot separate respect from self-respect. We cannot separate discipline from self-discipline. ..."

And hope returns. I can breathe again, at least for the moment. It's not all about me and what I'm doing wrong. It's okay to make mistakes, it's OK to make LOTS of them.

Miller's book is a gentle reminder that life is all about the practice, not the perfect. Now I can relax and read from the beginning.

Eight weeks

Our hearts are breaking.

Maggie, our old-lady, un-Labrador mutt, is dying.

She's been slowing down more noticeably in recent weeks. A nagging cough that's come and gone for a year or more turns out not to be the result of Lyme disease, for which she was treated last month and which left us hoping that her old self would return. And for a while it seemed as if she would bounce back. On vacation with us in Maine she had more energy, but the cough got worse. We assumed (with hope) it was just the heat and excitement.

She was romping into the sea just the same way she's done since she was a little one, yet her eating had all but stopped. Once we returned I noticed that she was refusing to eat solid food. Her bowls of kibble went untouched whereas in Maine they'd gone unfinished. When she snubbed biscuits, I knew something was really wrong.

It didn't take long for her to look like skin and bone. She was, at 78 pounds last year, already only a shadow of her 100-pound youthful self.

The veterinarian performed an x-ray Saturday morning and found the tumor: a mass taking up all the space in her left lung. He said it was pressing on her esophogus and that was causing her inability to eat. He prescribed adult uncoated aspirin, canned foods and mashed potatoes. He said currently she wasn't in pain, and we could take her home and try to keep her comfortable. He guessed she may hang on for eight weeks.

Eight. Weeks. The same amount of time Jed waited in anticipation to take home a little black-lab/suspected-Newfoundland-that-got-over-the-fence and name her Maggie.

I didn't meet them until nearly two years later, but I was smitten with his enormous, amber-eyed pooch.

She was a different dog back then. Fiercely loyal to him, she seemed to loathe women (though not me) but love other dogs.
In the year we lived together in a tiny apartment, she went from she-man-woman-hater to pack dog (with my Madeline) and people lover. Walks were still interesting. No dog escaped the lunging, loud sniffs. Her deep chested, throaty barks even frightened me from time to time. But slowly she began to change. Even her eyes mellowed into a warm brown.

By the time Annabel came along, I was more than a little worried how our now geriatric dogs would react to being placed in yet a new pecking order.

As one would expect, every infant cry sent Maggie lurching out of the room to a quiet corner. When Ittybit began to toddle, Maggie would move out of her way immediately. Relocating herself to a safe room, where no ears were threatened to be pulled or paws mashed under tiny shoes. Until one marvelous day when Ittybit just sat on the poor old gal just as she was trying to nap. Maggie bravely sat there, continuing her fruitless quest for sleep. Since that day, Maggie has seemed to enjoy the gentle attentions of our little girl.

Maggie has migrated from sleeping at Jed's side to the hallway where she can listen for Ittybit sounds, and now, often, I find her in Annabel's room, curled up in a corner where she can watch our little girl sleep.

Such love this girl has given us. And though I still can't believe we are losing her, and likely well before the time predicted, I can only hope the end is a peaceful one and without intervention.

For now, we'll feed her mashed beef and raw bacon, and dote on her with the force of all the love she's given us for nearly 12 years.

Fourth night

"Look Mommy, I fixed it."

Third night

Are there words for this? If there are I don't know them.