A little faerie dusting

About five years ago I decided enough was enough. If I was going to have to endure another northeast winter I was going to damn well enjoy it. So I did what any consumer-driven, non-diaper-buying newlywed would do: I plunked down a couple-a hundred bucks for a pair a cross-country skis.

I'd taken up the sport two years earlier when a friend suggested a trip to a local ski area she and her husband frequented. From my first wobbly decent down the hill in the freshly laid tracks (ending no doubt, precariously on my posterior) I was hooked.

• I was outdoors
• The air was cold
• I was warm
• It was fun

Up until that very moment I had forgotten all the days my mom had to physically haul my red-faced, blue-lipped, chattering teethed self back into the house to warm up against my protests of not being cold.

Up until that minute, I had forgotten how much I loved winter.

How could I have known paying $350 for a cross-country ski package would ensure the end of snow-covered hills in our region?

How could I have guessed that in the five years that followed - the snowiest of which occurred during 2003-2004, the year I was PREGNANT - I would be able to use the skis a grand total of six times?

I suppose it wasn't the wisest of things to impulse buy end-of-season snowshoes for Ittybit last year -- the only year I satisfied my jones to ski by standing in the storage room and trying them on -- since my superstitious mind now firmly believes such effrontery (and not merely global warming) could only explain the lack of wintry weather since.

But impulse buy I did.

And for 12 months, those green snowshoes have hung in the closet - tormenting me.

I had no idea they were tormenting her too:

MAMA: OH, ITTYBIT. ... Look it snowed. Let's go out an play.

ITTYBIT: It DID?!! Wait. I'll get my stuff.

(disappears and returns with her hat and snowshoes).

There may have been only a dusting ... but it's a start.

The house of polygamy

LORI to husband on phone: ... "Ok. Bye, Honey."

ITTYBIT: Honey?

LORI: Yes, that was Jeff.

ITTYBIT: That makes two honeys.

LORI: NO. There’s only one Honey here. Jeff is the ONLY Honey.

ITTYBIT: But Pooh has honey. That’s TWO honeys.

All is not quiet on the western front

This third year (starting from say August on) has been a struggle. Food she used to eat without complaint sits untouched on her plate, her arms crossed tighter than even her lips are clenched. Baths, never an easy proposition, have become sideshows of trickery and deception, yet none too entertaining. But it is the sleep issue that may put us over the edge.

Since the New Bed took up residence in our house, the idea of sleeping with us, starfish-style -- all spread out from the center -- has taken up residence in her head.

It all starts out good. We begin the process of decompression: calming down, brushing of teeth, reading of books. Snuggled into her own bed, we give in to the extra story and the calls for water and lights dimmed only so low.

But the needs are endless. First it was water, then juice then milk. At first I balked, knowing that she shouldn't have anything stronger than water for bed lest her teeth rot out of her head. But she didn't really WANT it. She wasn't hungry. She wasn't thirsty. She was stalling.

Eventually our routine got to be worthy of three rings:

PJs = check
Teeth brushed = check
Stories = read three, check
Lights dimmed = check
Monsters sprayed = check
One more story = check
I have to go to the potty = check
Music turned on = check
It's too dark = lights adjusted, check
I want a snack = goldfish procured, check
I want water = check
It's too cold = check
Now it's too hot = This is the last time. Water or no water?
The monsters came back = spray again
I have to pee again = another trip to the potty, check
I need the hotwater bottle ...

THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M COMING INTO THIS ROOM

... ok, mommy ....

HOTWATER BOTTLE, check ... goodnight.

It all makes me pine for her terrible twos, which in retrospect didn't seem that terrible.

Truly, anyone with the least amount of time on the planet Earth can tell you what's happening here. It doesn't take Dr. Spock to figure it out.

She's testing us and we're getting failing grades.

So every night the time it takes to her to actually sleep gets longer. And in addition to this extended play, every night at midnight or so the monsters wake her up and send her into our room.

The seduction of sleep without the added gust of nighttime coldness of the hallway's hardwood floors makes letting her into bed an irresistible proposition. At first she even fell right to sleep. But then, increasingly, she'd wake up earlier and become more fidgety. She'd poke and prod, and talk.

No matter how cute it seems, no one wants to talk about the dietary needs of the Abominable Snowman at 4 in the morning.

The last straw happened Friday, when she woke us four times during the night. That's it; I need sleep. She's just playing now and it has to stop, I stammered as if Jed hadn't been thinking the same thing for the last six weeks.

So on Saturday a new plan was enacted.

We call it operation NO NEW DEALS.

Bathtime at 7 (and she gets her hair washed when it needs to be)
NO DEALS.

Bedtime starts at 8:30, she must brush her teeth, use the potty and change into pajamas. We read three to four books; she can have water and a hot water bottle and her music but she can not leave her room. NO DEALS.

As expected, the change was met with tears and tantrums.

By the time she fell asleep at 9:30 I was dreading the midnight call, which came early at 11:30 p.m.

I walked her back to bed and it would seem her head exploded. She did not want to stay in her room with the monsters and the dog farts.

The old me would have said 'who could blame her' but the new me said, "I'm sorry but that's the way it is sugar plum, we all have to stay in our own rooms and sleep."

No sooner had I walked away than I could hear her little pajamaed feet following me, screaming as if I'd torn out her toenails.

I brought her back into her room and shut the door, holding it closed. She threw her little self against it and screamed. I imagine, had she been a little bit older, every second word out of her mouth would have been an obscenity. Eventually she calmed down and commenced bargaining. She wanted the door open.

So we made a deal. The door would stay open as long as she stayed in her room.

I went back to bed.

But all was not quiet in the western wing of the house.

Her shreiking continued from the doorway. She rolled her toys across the floor, tore her clothes from their place in the dresser and yelled at the top of her lungs: YOU ARE MAKING ME VERY NERVOUS!!!!

When the ride-on-horse came rolling to our door I got up and investigated the damage.

It was less than I thought, but still impressive.

I put her back to bed, kissed her head and said: "That's enough for tonight. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

And with that, sleep.

It's been three days now of sleeping through the night. She's even waking up earlier, which has to mean that she's getting better sleep at night.

I'm still crossing my fingers ... If this works out perhaps next we'll attempt to tackle the shower.

The amazing weirdness of being

I had a bad feeling about this.

The "big day" rolled around and we were all sick.

Ittybit had been on the mend, but a belly full of cherry tomatoes came back to haunt her at midnight. I was in the throes of the worst of the vomiting, wondering if I should just postpone it until we all felt 100 percent.

The obstetrics appointment, that is.

The ultrasound; the prodding, the poking -- all of it might best be left to another day.

And yet, the guilty part of me that says you must not procrastinate; you must avoid the glaring voice at the other end of the phone -- the one whose job it is to reschedule these hard-fought appointments. The one who undoubtedly will say: "You know each one of these appointments is IMPORTANT!"

Oh, but bringing a clingy toddler because you really don't want to send her to daycare with an ounce of residual illness that she can lob in the direction of another unassuming preschooler, seemed worse.

Would it even be possible to see the newbie taking up residence in the womb Ittybit once shared through the clingy little girl who’d undoubtedly wrap her tiny body around me as soon as I tried to put her down?

I can do this, I thought optimistically. We can do this.

And so we did.

As usual, I arrived early (operating under the misguided premise that if you arrive early you have a chance of being seen early) and we waited. And waited. And waited.

After the second trip to the bathroom and the 100th "We'll be called when it's our turns," we were called.

To my surprise Ittybit sat quietly in the chair by the door where I'd put our things. She said she didn't want to see her baby on the television screen. She looked away as I turned to sit on the examining table.

The technician applied the gel and started probing around; looking first at the internal organs before going in for a gander at the real goods. I turned my head to ask Ittybit if she could see and she answered "no" with a scowl in her voice. It seemed she didn't want to look. I turned back to the monitor.

But just as the little baby appeared in the screen, a little hand took mine.

No words, just her hand in mine.

It was really the oddest thing.

She wouldn't talk about what happened in that darkened room for the rest of that day. She wouldn't look at the printouts the technician had given us. It was as if none of it ever happened.

But the next day, when we were both feeling better, she headed to school and me to work, she asked to see the pictures so she could show her friend "Elias," the new baby, whose "head was here and body was right there."

I listened at the door for a while as she explained about the "goop" they put on her mommy's belly, and how this was her little sister ...

She poked her head back into the room where I was listening and yelled ... "Hey, Ma? When is my baby sister coming?"

"In July, sweetie. In July."

And now, veee daunce ... (because, as it turns out, we are not one hit wonders after all)

Remember ... I don't know. ... say back in August, when I told you all about the heartbreaking experience of discovering Ittybit may, in fact, be an only child?

Yeah ...

... well ...

Nevermind.**



According to Annabel, her "sister is coming."

"She's very, very small (picture preschooler thumb and forefinger pressed tightly together) and we're going to name her 'Lola' or 'China.'"

Get that? She is NOT having a boy!

It's too early yet for an official word on whether her girl will actually BE a girl, however I pitty a boy named Lola.

There is uncertain proof, however, that Thing Two has already benefited from its big sister's love, albeit inadvertantly, via the binky Ittybit gave to Santa on Christmas.

Study the ultra sound printout carefully if you will ...

See that? In it's little mouth? No? Try tilting your head to the left and squint. See it now? Do you know what that is? I'm telling you this kid's entering the world with its own pacifier. My guess is Thing Two has overheard all the commotion around these parts concerning "binkectomies" and some oversized elf taking binkies and replacing them with something dumb like lip gloss and decided to take matters into its own hands. I imagine it astutely determined that a baby has very little use for Chapstick.


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


**I actually went through a three-pack of pee sticks just to be sure, but I couldn't bear to post the photos of them all. Two should have sufficed but ya know, what does one do with the third, unused stick? Perhaps it would have made a good watering monitor for houseplants. We'll never know.

It's been a while ...

Christmas kinda of killed me.

I wish I were kidding.

Right after the excitment was over Annabel got her annual vomity illness, followed by Jed and then - the day I had to work a night shift for the holiday - I came down with the cruddy sickness.

So it's not that I've been ignoring the internets so much as I've really been hiding under a rock.

The good news is we're all on the mend, and we're slowly getting back to normal.

I can tell because today when I brought Annabel to Lori's house for the first time in little more than a week, it took her six minutes to push me out the door.

Twenty minutes later, though, I'm told she was either feeling remorseful or just garden-variety drama.

"I want my mommy. I have water in my eyes."

More than a man

The festivities have begun. Santa has gotten three letters from Ittybit. All of them slightly different.

In the first she asked for presents for other people. She wanted a pear for me, a truck for daddy and bones for the dogs.

The second letter is largely a mystery since she wrote it with Lori and had is sealed and addressed so that Papa could pop it directly into the mail box (which he did as a dutiful grandpa, right after he affixed a stamp). All we know is that there was something purple, possibly a doll.

With Ama the request was for purple clothes and ice skates. It is now my firm belief that she wants things that the furry woodland creatures in her storybooks are getting under their tree.

Santa is coming tonight. Now I have it on good authority what he's going to be brining, however there is another santa. One with a beard and red suit, who will be trapsing up our stairs bearing a wee gift; and I have no idea what it will be. See my town has a Santa Claus Club that has been in operation since World War II.

The businessmen of the town collect funds all year long for the sole purpose of visiting every single child who resides here and bring them a small gift on Christmas Eve. It all comes from a time when Christmas was harder. When fathers were overseas, fighting a war; when sugar was rationed and money was scarce. When we had an ethic about war that was anything but "go on with business as usual."

This will be the first year Santa actually visits our house (the last two years we were traveling during the holidays, and I worried the Jolly Old Elf would just make her cry). I also worried about need. As is we are fortunate enough to have more than we need. Yet, Santa's visit isn't about that anymore. Most of the men are home, setting up the trees and putting up the lights.
It's about tradition of a town; and it's love of Christmas.

It's official, even the doctor says she's three

At her official well-baby-toddler-preschooler visit yesterday Annabel got to stand on the big-girl scale, sidle up to the measuring wall and don a funky pair of sun glasses to look at an optical illusion of a butterfly, then try to pick up said spectre. It was all going so well until Dr. Always-Somehow-Freaking-Me-Out listened to her chest and announced: "I heard something a little crackly."

Last week when I took her in because she sprouted a fever and was lethargic, her lungs were clear. This week - during her routine visit when she was feeling fine and being her usual talkative self - there was the crackle. So that means antibiotics.

Otherwise, little miss Ittybit is doing fine. She's in the 25th percentile for both height and weight at 35 3/4 inches and 26 pounds, respectively. She's got all her teeth and her skin, which she inherited from me, is only a little bit rashy.

And although the doctor asked me if we had any concerns about her development, she really didn't expect there to be any, especially after she asked Annabel how old she was and was told "TWO."

"Hmmm. I thought you were three?"

"Well, I don't want to be free just yet, thank you."

"Don't have to worry about those verbal skills, now, do we?"

Can't you just FEEL the holiday cheer?

Now that she knows Santa is taking her binky when he comes this Christmas, she's no longer thrilled with the idea of a jolly ol' elf breaking into the house late at night and leaving gifts of toys and sweets behind.

Even though he's likely going to be giving her big-girl lip gloss (as a bait and switch) in exchange for the beloved soother, she's torn. If she were of devious intention, I'm sure she'd neglect to remind us to exinguish the fire in the woodstove (where she thinks Sir Claus will sneak in on Christmas Eve).

It would seem I've unintentionally turned his very elven existence* into something that is not so carefree and joyous.

I can't say that I blame her.

Bad Mommy!


* Please visit Exiled in Toyland on Sunday, and I'll tell you why I still believe in Santa.

It's beginning to look a little like Christmas

I know, we're nowhere near done, but at least it's a start.

Put a sock in it, will ya?

Our babysitter informed me recently that she was taking the binky away from Annabel during naps.

It was just a fact. There was no "do you want me to ... or what do you think ..." just that her own binky-addicted daughter was also three when she pulled the plug and the screaming frenzy began, making her wish she'd never introduced the thing to begin with.

She's apparently been waiting for me to tell her the time had come to return the offending device to the "binky fairy" or the "binky mommy," or to whatever corner of hell pacifiers originally hail. She's just been waiting for a "partner."

In other words: I've yet again dropped the ball.

My mother-in-law has been asking for more than a year (on and off, and sweetly) whether this was the year the binky was going to be sent to "Santa."

Remember me folks? The one who walks the path of least resistance? The one who looks around at her office mates and decides not to worry about such things?

After all, no one here in cubicle land is sucking away on a binky.

But it's true: She doesn't need it anymore. She doesn't have it in the car.
She doesn't take it to school. She doesn't even keep it in her mouth the whole night through.

To everyone's surprise, mine especially, the official report is that Ittybit showed only brief resistance to the news her beloved "oro (Ittybit for orange) binks" had returned to its mommy. She slept with her tiny lamb pressed against her cheek for the requisite two hours.

The babysitter next suggested it was time for the binks to leave our house, too. (It was mentioned in what I would say was a 'Now-I'm-Not-Telling-You-What-To-Do' speech.) So I thought I'd try it. (Out of the unspoken "But-This-Is-What-A-Good-Mom-Would-Do" gist of the speech.)

Last night at bedtime I told Annabel that now that she was a big girl, it was time to send the binky back home. That it was needed elsewhere.

Instant tears and sobs of desperation.

"But I'm NOT a big girl, mommy. I'm still a little girl," she wailed.

And. She. Didn't. Stop.

"Well I think you are a big girl, but how about if we hang on to 'purple binks' until Santa comes? Then he can take it home."

She agreed, but I'm sure it was the kind of hollow agreement that means she's appeasing the one who can be manipulated. She's biding her time, hoping I'll forget the whole mission.

Really, though, I don't know how to react. I don't know how to feel.

This is a stress I don't need right now either: Christmas, a cold and cough that's been hanging on for weeks, guests, parties, presents ... I feel as if everyone is telling me what to do, how to raise her and I am genuflecting in guilt and shame.

A part of me is angry. Part of me is feeling guilty about being a wimp. But a part of me is tired, too.

When I reach down into the core of my beliefs. I always come up with the same thing: I don't think a pacifier is the worst thing in the world, and I don't particularly care if it helps her get to sleep. I am reminded about Jed and his need for "white noise," and how I've had to adapt my own sleep habits to compensate for the whirring of humidifiers and fans that he needs to get some shut-eye.

We all need something right? Perhaps I'd feel better if I could just put a sock in it.

Maybe I'll ask Santa to bring me earplugs this year.

Congratulate me. ...

I am officially the WORST parent on the East Coast.

RING-RING

Hello?

Uhm ... Siobhan? This is Lori. Today was supposed to be Annabel's SPECIAL DAY at School, you know, because of it being her birthday and all today? They showed me your name on the calendar.

Oh ... shhhhhhhhhhhh T!

It's ok. Don't feel bad. They said you can switch and have her Special Day Wednesday.

Wait. I'll call Jed. Maybe he can get there with the left-over goldfish from the party.

And Jed is the BEST parent on the East Coast

RING-RING

Hello?

Jed, are you busy? It's Annabel's special day today and I NEVER looked at the Calendar. Ok. I looked at the calendar but I was looking through the Wednesdays, since I typically DO Wednesdays. And now our kid is ALONE on her special day. And. It's. All. My. Fault.

Now?

Yes. Now.

OK. What will I bring for a snack?

There's a whole truckload of Goldfish upstairs.

I think I'm going to go cry now.

Behold the power of monkey cake

Sugar alone cannot shake a mom to the core of her being.

Neither will scientific minded simians nor a gaggle of Lego-eyed, cavern-building, pint-sized party guests.

Getting more presents than we can possibly store?

Nope. That doesn't frighten me.

Fewer naps?

Scary, but we'll manage.


But Ittybit turning three tomorrow?

That will do it. I am officially a puddle.

Happy just-about-birthday, babyofmine.

Love,

Mommy

'Tis the season to be rediculously cute ...

Even if you've been feeling under the weather.

So without further ado, Office Max allows me to give you Annabel as an elf Unfortunately, it's the most animated she's been all day.

Lets hope years from now Office Max offers psychological compensation for the unwitting elves.

Just for scuz

I've been browsing the sites of professional photographers again and contemplating re-upping my subscription to The Zoloft Times, so envious I am of all the cherubic faces in all their creamy beauty, dressed nattily in designer duds.

How effortless it seems. Multi-frame storyboards of children gallivanting in fields, hands joined, rubber boots kicking gleefully. Every shadowless exposure a marvel of continuity. I know the prices the boutique shooters are charging, and I know that even THEY can't afford themselves.

Perhaps what I'm experiencing is a little bit of sour grapes of the "I-really-can't-do- what-they-do" vintage. I know the tricks. I know how to adjust the "curves" until the texture of the skin is washed clean. I know to sharpen the irises and clean up the sclera so no shadows or pronounced blood vessels smear the windows of the subjects' tiny souls. Matchy-matchy clothes, cute props natural settings all add to the ambiance.

But as I once railed against the "Sears Portrait," the face-front studio disaster I ridiculed in art school, I am now finding myself weary of all the pint-sized perfection the boutique shooters are peddling. The very same images I once admired for their simple beauty and stunning sharpness, and even tried to emulate, are beginning to look alike to me in an eerie formulaic way.

You know, because kids with smeared faces, matted hair and mismatched, ill-fitting clothes -- how they look 95 percent of the time anyway -- just aren't good enough for display. We'd much rather enshrine the myth of well-scrubbed perfection, especially if we're paying through the nose for it.

An inside joke

Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, does Christmas better than Ittybit's other mommy.

Thanksgiving was hardly a memory when we walked through Lori's front door and were greeted by a fresh Christmas tree, festooned with all manner of holiday jewels and jubilations. Other trinkets and curios, all categorized on shelves by their rank in the holiday army: Nativities scenes on one table; Santas on another; snowmen, deer, stars -- each with their own space of shelves and mantles -- all together trumpeting the advent of a new Christmas season.

With dozens upon dozens of Christmas stories in her collection, I suspect our Lori may indeed be a close relation to the Clauses, and no doubt the genesis of some of the ideas dancing around Ittybit’s head, including all those sugarplum fairies.

Sadly, neither her father nor I have been able to muster the excitement of all things Christmas-y the way Lori can; we have all we can do to dig out our old ornaments and hang them on a tree before the clock strikes midnight on Christmas eve.

Annabel's animation is helping a bit but I am still woefully inept. But I try. We even "practiced" making cookies for Santa one evening before bedtime. As we dropped five spoonfuls of dough onto the baking sheet, she allotted each a recipient: "This one is for Santa. This one is for Mommy. This one is for Daddy. And this one is for Annabel," she announced proudly.

"And this one can be for Rudolf," I say dramatically.

"Mom! That's not for Rudolf!"

"You're not going to give Rudolf a cookie?" I asked surprised.

"No," she responds without elaboration.

"But why not?" I ask, "He works very hard. He might like a cookie."

"MA-aaaaa" she says with all the exasperation of a child who's mother has gone mad. "He is NOT getting a cookie."

I really didn't think much about the exchange until I started to tell Lori about our weekend a few days later, and how Annabel's imagination seems so surprisingly intricate.

I was explaining how Ittybit was walking on a sidewalk that was all spider-vein-y with cracks when she announced that she was walking on the back of a big monster, when Lori told me about the reindeer bringing Annabel to school.

I remembered about the cookies, and told her how Annabel didn't want to give one to the red-nosed reindeer.

"Oh … she told me about that," Lori said slowly. "No, they don't like cookies,” she explained. "They like carrots."

Really, though. It's so hard to keep up with with the mind of a toddler when all the stories she knows about Christmas are not your stories. Jed even got a taste of what it's like this evening when he collected her from Lori's house.

See, he had no idea that reindeer had brought Annabel to school that afternoon in Lori's car or that they picked her up and took a nap with her in the playpen.

"Jed just called me from the driveway," Lori said laughing into the phone, she called me at work, bubbling with the news.

"Uhm ... is there some reindeer she forgot? She's really crying and screaming not wanting to leave without her reindeer."

"They're pretend," Lori explained. "Just stay right there, I'll let them out."

Fairy tales do come true ...

Remember ... oh, a couple-a few days ago .... I lead off a list of stressors that included meeting for the first time an imaginary Internet friend and her rock star toddler and newbie bebe?

Well we met and it was as fabulous as could be. She's known around the flickrverse as the Beast but she's all beauty. And Annabel was quick to dub her "My new friend."

As in: "Where is my new friend?" Sunday night before bed, Monday morning upon awaking and again Monday night before bed.

And Diana (aka Jesamin) is as sweet as can be. How could the mother of the sweetest newborn on Earth and the most brave toddler in the universe, AND who traveled HOURS to attend a crazy cacophonous yoga class and eat overcooked lasagna in a BARN with a smile NOT be an amazing woman?

Not to mention a killer photographer, too.

I must say, I'm feeling pretty splendid about the whole weekend, and I can confirm with certainty it wasn't a stretch.

Now if the rest of the holidays go just this smoothly, we'll be in business.

THE YAYA REPORT: Almost perfect

"Oh, you'll hear about this for sure," says Lori when I call this afternoon to see how the day’s going. "You know how she never tells you about anything good that happens at preschool? Well today was different."

I brace myself for the first "negative" progress report from school. It took a while, I think, but it was bound to happen. She was bound to snap sometime. My little Eddie Haskel offspring couldn't be a charmer forever. She was bound to show the chink in the perfect child armor she wears for her teachers sooner or later.

"NO! NO! Nothing like that," Lori laughs when I ask if she did something wrong. "But as soon as I got there she ran over to me and said Cole took something away from her."

Of course the teacher reminded her that it had all been taken care of -- that the boy gave whatever it was back with an apology -- meaning that should be the end of it.

"But Annabel just gave her a look like 'What are you crazy; I'm telling Lori about my trauma!' and proceeded to tell me how Cole took her bread, but then he gave it back."

Lately, I've noticed, she has a little trouble letting go of others' transgressions, even those directly relating to her own.

Whenever I tell her sternly not to poke the dog, or throw toys or play with knives she looks at me with a shiny wounded eyes and announces: "You made me cry."

Oy.

There's a lot to be said for hope

I don't really want to tread too heavily here (in Blogger land) because I have a tremendous fear of the ground opening up and swallowing up all the useless thoughts collected here in one great watery slurp.

So I'll try and write quietly.

I feel as if I'm walking around in a fog. There's so much going on in the next couple of weeks that I don't seem to be able to get my head around all that must get done.

So I'm breaking all the rules that are designed to make reading this drivel fun, and I'm making a list:

• Sunday will be my first yoga class since the studio "reorganized" this fall. They are having an open house and inviting people to come and see what we’re all about – hoping that maybe we’ll entice some new participants. Previously my class has been free but now the studio is asking for donations to allow me to continue using the space. I suppose that's better than demanding $15 a pop, but still. My inner soul of souls thinks this class should be gratis, yet I understand they got bills to pay. On the good/scary side is that I'll be meeting in real life some of my internet friends, who intend on making the trip and checking out the class. No pressure there. Right?

• Tuesday I have a meeting at the Marilla Cuthbert School for Unspeakably Charming Children, in which I will vote to abolish for next year the two-year-old class my daughter attends this year. While it pains me that this wonderful class won’t exist for two-year-olds in the future, the teachers feel it’s time for change. I know that it means more three- and four-year-olds will get a shot at enrollment.

• Wednesday is WOO HOO Christmas. I don't talk about this much, because I have very little social life outside of once monthly preschool board meetings and pick up and drop off at the sitter's house, but before baby, I went out WEEKLY with a group of great women whose sole purpose was to celebrate each other. I'll just say we raised our glasses often. Now I see these women once or twice a year, usually for the holiday bash. If Jed is home. Or I can get a sitter. Or I'm not too tired to drive the extra 45 minutes to and from after work.

• Friday is Yaya's annual Christmas party. Must figure out something to bring for people to eat that is not a bag of Cheetos.

• My annual Christmas shopping trip with Martha is next Saturday. With baby? If Jed has to work, you can pretty much bank on it. Hoo boy that will be fun. I predict no one gets gifts this Christmas.

• Annabel's birthday party – complete with a lunch/cake extravaganza is set for all who wish to attend (Did you get that invitation? Nope? Could it be that I haven’t sent them? Yup! Do you think I’ll get to it before the party next Sunday around noonish? Nope? Good guess).

• On the 18th, 19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd and 23rd I plan to be freaking out. Jed’s family will be en route to spend the holidays with us and the house is a giant box of phlegm and dog hair. Did I mention yet that my cleaning skills are that of a troglodite?
  

• On Dec. 24, when I come down off the roof (because I'm counting on Jed's sister to talk me down and take me for coffee and last minute shopping, which I've thus far neglected) I'll be feeling better. I hope.

Does this list require me to check it twice? Nah ... I might as well just ball it up and pitch in the trash right now.

This is a fine mess ...

I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when I noticed that blogger was telling me to move.

"Go to Google. You'll like it there. It's nice. It's better over there."

"What? Google? Wha? Move. To. Google?"

"Oh, yeah," it cooed "it's still beta, but it's ooooh soooo much better."

So in my state of mindless anticipation, sitting here waiting for Ittybit to get out of bed and shuffle in to the warm cave of a livingroom, telling me one last time of monsters and bears gobbling up her cereal and forcing me to put her back to bed before I can make my way to my own, I toggled the necessary toggles and shipped this puppy on over to Google.

They said it would be more reliable.

The window that popped up told me it would take a few minutes.

"Go," it soothed. "We'll send you an e-mail when the move is completed."

"Don't worry," it whispered. "It will be better. You'll see."

Fuck all. Now Blogger is spamming my inbox with e-mails telling me I've moved.

So far, since I've been writting this little rant, I've gotten 15 ... no, make that 16.

Bastards.

I'm going to bed now before I find something else wrong with this picture. I hope when I wake up tomorrow things around here aren't so gloomy.

*** PS. Too late. Just found out the spell checker isn't working -- Gof held mu.

She's still my baby ...

I wanna sleep here tonight, ok?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Even if she's too big to sleep (comfortably) in the laundry basket.

Aw, let the pigeon drive the bus ... it's only for pretend

Annabel always sticks up for the underdog. ... Or in this case the under bird.

This interactive little picture book starts off with a bus driver taking a break and asking readers to please make sure that no one - not even the wheedling, pleading, cajoling, wormy pigeon - drives his bus.

But the little squab is incorrigible:

"I'll be your best friend!"

"How 'bout I give you five bucks."

"I bet your mom would let me."

"I have dreams, you know!"

Annabel, it turns out, understands about dreams. From page two, when pigeon peeked in his little head into the story to ask permission, she was ready to hand over the keys.

"I would let him drive the bus. It's only for pretend."

One, Two, Three. ... Ready or not, here we come

Dear Annabel,

In just a few days you'll be three. Everyone who sees you lately remarks on how tall you've grown or how mature you've gotten.

I can't believe it myself even though for months I've been telling folks who ask your age that you're almost three. I feel as if I wasted a sizable chunk of the twos - and for the record, they weren't that terrible.

It's hard to believe that in a few more years I'll probably forget about how you used to sing to yourself in the car. Songs made up out of bits and pieces of the day.
"Oh I had and cat at the lake. She said MOOO. And Meow. And she didn't eat cake only OR-E-Os. ... MAMA, SING!"

Or how you'd admonish me with gravel in your voice and exaspiration in your tone when I'd tell you that I didn't know the words. "MA-OM! SING!"

I love how you tell me "I luf you," and "I din't know the cewewool spills from the top of the box when you lift it up by the bottom."

It's a good thing we have dogs, because the vaccum cleaner is pretty freaking useless and it's always in need of being emptied anyway.

I love how you giggle and say "You are my favorite mommy" and how your dad is "your favorite daddy" and how you pat Maggie's head and say she's your favorite doggie. It's even funny how you look at Madeline and call her crazy, like it's such a shame.

I love how lately the world and everything in it is superlative:

"This is the best cookie I ever had."
"This is the greatest pear I ever ate."
"This is the best drawing I ever made."

And how your tastes evolve:

"I don't want the lemony buscuits or the chocolatey ones, but maybe the coconutty would be good."

Even how you watch TV is endearing: Body all busy with a slight smile on your face as if it's all just so wonderous. And then you'll say - as if to reassure yourself - "dogs don't really talk do they."

So now that you really are almost three, I am pleased to report that life with you around is still magic, and you are still a wonder. And I would guess that you're at least 76 percent cuter than you were last year.

Love,
Mommy

Out of house and home ...

We recently purchased the first REAL bed of our together life.

IT'S HUGE.

See, Jed's been itching to get a king-sized bed ever since he woke up one morning balanced on the edge of his side of our new queen-sized mattress and fell off. With a thud.

It is no secret that I am a bed hog, cover thief and whatever other crimes come with the unconsciousness of slumber. Although I think we are polar opposites of our waking selves in the dead of sleep - I turn into a cuddler and he turns into a mollusk - I don't argue with his reasoning that even though I constantly feel cold my body emits the heat of a furnace. It's probably true, and I blame whatever crazy endocrine lottery I somehow won for this dichotomy.

So when one of his buddies needed a bed to sleep on he eagerly volunteered our six-year-old mattress set so he could replace it with a football field.


Since we were biting the bullet, we decided we might as well buy a bed frame to boot. You know finally get it off the floor (we're not in college anymore, right?) So we select some moderately priced sleigh bed to go with our extremely high priced, state-of-the-art back support mattresses (incidentally sold by sheep).

The furniture store delivered the beast Tuesday and had it set up in minutes. I never thought I'd say this, but the darn thing eclipses the room. (For those of you who know ... our room is GIGANTIC! If anyone should be able to accommodate a king-sized bed easily it should be us). Laying ontop of it, with the ceiling closer, I actually felt the room closing in on me.

Jed even had to admit it is a monster.

"Uhm ... Honey. ... The bed just told me he'd like steak and eggs for breakfast. ... and possibly one of the dogs."

What are we fighting for?

****
Warning: Potential firestorm brewing.

****

When I was a student studying photography, hoping to someday be a journalist, I gave myself an assignment: To photograph a clash between the pro-life movement and the pro-choice advocates bound to explode during a rally one Saturday at the local Planned Parenthood clinic.

Being firmly in the pro-choice camp, I expected to find a group of feminist students rallying about privacy and the right to control their own destinies. On the other side I expected to witness aging male bible thumpers carrying crosses with crucified baby dolls attached and women with a brood of children stopping traffic in the streets.

On one level, I wasn't surprised. The pro-lifers were there with their blood and gore; with their children in tow. They shouted bible verses and prayed. They called the young women murderers. Some, however, were quietly carrying signs: "Only God should take a life."

I suppose the real surprise for me that day came from watching the faces of the women with whom I thought I'd identify distort into hatred and vitriol. They carried signs and shouted "I fuck to come, not to conceive." I left the event thinking: "Everyone's gotten it wrong."

******

A few years later as my friends started embarking on married life, families started to emerge. Women, now well into their childbearing years, began exchanging their briefcases for diaper bags. As is life, the women seated around the large table of our friendship all had different experiences. Some were childless and intended to remain so. Some were childless and heartbroken. Others were nowhere near finding relationships conducive to bringing children into the world and some were still biding their time.

Our newly pregnant friend was glowing. Telling us all about the excitement. But when she announced that she was planning on terminating the pregnancy if the amniocentesis indicated a problem, that it just wasn't fair to the child since they were not spring chickens anymore, the room went still. No one spoke. But somewhere in between the meal and the next meeting it was obvious that some in attendance had taken her to task for her "decision."

I had remained silent, so she came to me to complain about the others.

"I thought my friends were all pro-choice. I guess I was wrong," she said stingingly, obviously disappointed in her friends, who, as she saw it, are people who should support and accept you unconditionally.

But I couldn’t lie to her. I couldn't pretend I approved. I had to tell her that it wasn't that we were anti-choice or pro-life or whatever hyphenated label fits, it's just that she made that statement on front of some women who would have done anything for a child, even an unhealthy one. And that just seemed so insensitive. I explained that I felt such decisions should probably stay between a woman and her partner. "Pro-choice means that your privacy is what should be respected."

It occurred to me then what had been bothering me all those many years: Pro-choice doesn't mean pro-abortion. I may want those freedoms to exist, but I don't think being proud of your decision is a mandate of support for the ability to choose your destiny.

I know that she wanted her friends to rally round her and support her decisions, especially if she was uncomfortable making them. She wanted to be able to share her thoughts openly with us, and in that way I suppose we let her down.

****

More recently, as MS. Magazine called on people to sign its petition affirming "We Had an Abortion," I am wondering what it all means again.

Do drastic times call for drastic measures? Will raising awareness eventually allow us to make such difficult decision is peace and privacy for sure? I seriously doubt it will ever come to pass that we will feel GOOD about ourselves for having had abortions. I also don't think "coming out" will change any minds or lessen the "stigma." It just diverts the issue again.

I fully believe abortions will remain legal for those who seek them out; the cost to society would be too great if it weren't. Bottom Line: No one has to like it but it should be something we only need discuss with our doctors. The rest of the world should keep their eyes on their own page.

Special request ...

You know who you are ...

Can I buy a vowel?

NOTE: What follows is the story of Annabel's birth. It's nearly three years old, but it was sought by The Mad Momma


*******

I had an idea that things were not going well long before they went all wrong.

It was just a feeling. The same feeling that told me ultimately it would be alright.

As we sat in the marathon child-birthing class (neither of us had a consistent enough schedule to adhere to a once-every-Thursday-night thing) eyeing the others around the circle, wondering mostly who's gonna be first, I couldn't help but think this is all going to be wasted on me, I just knew it. I could feel it.

That Saturday in class we learned about the stages of labor. We learned about breathing; about the pain; the water breaking; the possibilities of not-so-pleasant occurrences, vomiting, diarrhea, hemorrhoids. We were told of technical things: Internal monitors, episiotomies, vacuum extractor. In the eight hours we were there we were led, step by step, through all the possibilities: Effacement, contractions, natural, induction, Pitocin, epidural. ... It wasn't until the very end -- 20 minutes before we were sent out into the world to stand and deliver -- the nurse showed a video about Cesarean Section.

Although I am a pessimist by nature, I had enough hope still clinging to me to reason they'd spent so little time on the possibility of abdominal surgery because if it came to that it was out of our hands anyway. That and I hoped having a c-section was a long shot.

Like many birth stories, Ittybit's is long and starts more than 24 hours before the hour and minute of her arrival was marked onto a piece of paper.

Doctors' office visit: ultrasound, biofeedback, hours in the waiting room to be examined, waiting another hour for a doctor who forgot me on the examining table, abraded membrane, contractions, more tests at a hospital (not the one where she was born), snow storm, contractions 5 minutes apart, dehydrated from no food and water and the all-day office visit. Home: food, pain, contractions five minutes apart. Hospital: drinking water, vomiting, more pain, contractions three minutes apart, dilation 2 cm. IV, blood work, pain. All. Night. Long. No sleep. 3 a.m. water breaks (or so I'm told. I can't tell). They have to take more blood since they fully expected to send me home in the morning and discarded the earlier samples.

The morning goes by with more of the same. Three cm dilated at most. Contractions seven minutes apart but they are doubled back-to-back when they come. The intern suggests an epidural with the Pitocin they plan to introduce at noon. I agree. The pain has been excruciating and it's now been 15 hours. They tell me the pain will subside 80 percent, but I don't feel any once the drugs take effect. I can see the contractions peak on the monitor but I can no longer feel them. They attach the bag of Pitocin to the saline drip. Immediately her heart rate plummets. Bells go off and the nurses all pile in. They don't believe the drugs have caused that reaction, it hasn't even had time to get into my bloodstream. The turn me onto one side and back again. We are alone again, watching the contractions, trying to rest.

It goes on like this for six more hours. Alarms each time the Pitocin is let loose in my blood stream. The bells ring as her heart rate drops when the contractions subside - baby in distress. After her day at the office my doctor comes in, reads my chart and tells me, calmly, it's time to get the baby out. C-Section.

A part of me is devastated and fearful. I've never had major surgery. Will I get an infection? Will I get to nurse her? Will I die on the table?

It seemed like an eternity passed between the time my doctor spoke those words and the time that they wheeled me into a chilly, sterile room where they would deliver our child.

They secured my arms, crucifixion-like to boards on either side of the table. They gave me an anti-nausea medication and tried to keep me calm. I wasn't although I pretended as best I could.

I wasn't prepared for how they pulled the baby free nor was I prepared for the talking: The annoying anesthesiologist who's job it was to distract me from the surgery and the discourse between the doctor and the students.

Let me tell you there are a few words patients never want to hear: "I've never seen anything like that in all my 25 years" is but eleven. My doctor had two words for me: "Teaching Hospital."

And thankfully, she spared four more: "you are perfectly fine."

I was bitter for a long time. I blamed that first doctor who left me all day, and who swept the membrane without so much as a word. I blamed myself; why could I not advocate for me?

But then I ultimately let it go, because I can not know. My doctor later told me it was unlikely I'd have ever been able to deliver her naturally. Something about the tilt of my pelvis and the size of her head.

I can't really complain, too much. I got her out of the deal. Yet, at the time, when they brought her close to my face before taking her away for what seemed an eternity, all I could do was chastize myself for not doing my eye strengthening exercises. ... She was so close I couldn't see her face clearly. ... Although it turned out all the fluid welling up in me from the IVs was the real culprit.

But I suppose what really sticks with me now, these few years later, is the fanaticism I hear surrounding c-sections and the people who ultimately have them:

We are told that C-sections have increased in the United States because of the advanced age of the mothers; because of liability and because some moms don't want to deal with the pain and effects of childbirth. Elective C-sections are considered ethical.

I think it's perfectly acceptable to debate the topic; to question the effectiveness and ethics of such issues as a public service, however, such debate often turns rancorous when it becomes personal. And guess who all eyes are upon then?

The woman with the scars.

I've heard women bash other women for their choices as well as the choices made for them: "Don't be a pussy, use your pussy" and the like. It's stunning, really, how interested we are in looking down our noses at others in order to lift ourselves up. I'm beginning to feel like a broken record when I say, for a multitude of topics, "Who am I to judge someone else? I don't know anything about them, and even when I think I might, chances are I'll be wrong."

Who, you say?

Oh Walt, Walt, Walt. You were a funny, funny guy.

Who else would have thought to give Kaa -- the villianous, hypnotizing python of Jungle Book fame -- the voice of our hero of The Hundred Acre Wood?

Sterling Holloway, with the same honey-filled hoots, played both Kaa and Pooh.



I mentioned it to Annabel, who at the time was trying to hide from the snake, wondering if she'd recognize the voice.

You'd think I just told her Santa won't be fitting into the woodstove this year the way she reacted.

She put her hand over my mouth and brought her forhead to my forehead, and warned with all the emphasis of a jackhammer:

"Don't say that, Mama! That is not Pooh, that is Kaa. We are not watching POOH!"

All is well, though as soon as Baloo starts to sing:

"All we need are the bear nassesames, the very bear nassesames."

Are you anxious?

That's what Jed asked me this morning as I poured my morning coffee half into my cup and half onto the counter.

"About what," I responded absently as I grabbed for a towel to clean it up.

"You know. Thanksgiving. Having everybody here for dinner."

I wonder what he must think of me: A nervous bundle of energy that would rather hide under a rock than endure one more conversation about gastro-intestinal malfunction or play another game of "guess who has a terminal illness" with my family at the dinner table.

All of that is true, but it doesn't mean I don't enjoy sitting down to a triptofan laden meal with them, waiting for digestion to usher me gently into a sleepy lull.

No. Anxiety really isn't an affliction I harbor during Thanksgiving.

To me, the Thanksgiving holiday is an easy one. Food holidays usually are. We pop a turkey into the oven in the morning; pour some chicken stock into stale bread cubes and seasonings a few hours later, set it to bake underneath the bird; and put a pot of potatoes on to boil. In a few hours the smells come together in that old familiar way.

My parents always bring the pies, dinner rolls and a host of other odd snacks. (This year's head scratcher, my dad explained this afternoon after he stopped by the bakery, is bran and corn muffins). No one ever cares if the turkey is dry or the stuffing isn't crispy on the top.

However, had our plans been as we'd planned months ago, I'd probably be angsty as all get-out. If that Thanksgiving plan had progressed we'd already be in Texas gearing up for the extended family olympics, a once in a decade event, usually held in some semi-exotic location no where near anyone's home, that brings Jed's father's side of the family together for silly games, unpronounceable cocktails and basement-scoured awards.

Air travel, cranky toddler, unfamiliar location, distant family - some I've never even met - would have had me on edge until I'd gotten there and gotten into the moment, when it all would then smooth out.

It's been a trying few years for our families: there have been deaths and illnesses, job losses, moves, divorces and depressions. But there's still much to be thankful for, it is a shame the resort that had been booked to support these shenanigans closed without notice, and the games had to be boxed at the last minute.

So tomorrow, when we're sitting down to a meal of bland fare (thanks to my skills at the stove) I'll be calm and serene. I won't be worried about connecting flights or lost baggage or cancelled plans. I'll be thinking fondly of those who aren't with us and thankful for those who are.

Happy Thanksgiving to you, wherever you are.

Sometimes I don't think we ever really know what we're 'freaking' talking about

Today over at Izzymom I was compelled to contribute to the debate over "freaking," a dance style in which people simulate anal or "doggy-style" sex.

All over the country, high schools are reacting to the lascivious two-stepping going on in their sanctioned dances by pulling the plug on the whole thing. They're rolling up their dance floors and calling it quits.

Now Izzymom takes the stance that while the dance is abhorent and potentially degrading to women, not to mention tastless and without merit choreographically, the idea that schools would wash their hands of all dances as a response is nonsensical.

Now, fundamentally speaking, I don't disagree that reasoning, however I think that we sometimes get tunnel vision when it comes to our ideals about freedom, rights and self expression.

When I first heard this story from NPR out of California, my immediate thought was it was a bit of overreaction on the part of some stuffed-shirt administrator, who wanted to make a useless point about something that no one thought he knew a whit about anyway.

But after I'd listened to the story I realized this was just a guy who had tried different things to impress upon students that school is an inappropriate place for such a display of affection ... even as an artform ... that he decided it was time to close shop. He said when the parents and school board could come together on rules and penalties he would reconsider.

Similarly, when I continued to add my paltry coins to the debate on Izzymom's site, I began to think about our priorities.

Lots of people chimed in to ask where the parents are? It's not the school's job ... Others wondered what such blanket restrictions actually taught the kids? All the while I was left to wonder what difference does it make if prom is cancelled?

Dancing ass-to-pelvis in a school cafeteria with someone you don't even know isn't a right provided by the constitution. For that matter, dancing in a cafeteria cheek-to-cheek with you're "best girl" or"best guy" isn't either.

And yet we've sent folks little older then these so-called freakers to defend to their deaths the ideals and protections that piece of paper -- which seems to be eroding by the minute -- provides.

While we debate the merits of school dances and overreactions of fed-up educators, Democrat Charles Rangel plans to introduce a bill to ressurect the draft.

He believes the threat of having lawmakers' kids pulling the same odds as those of janitors and single mothers in going to war, such wars as the one we find ourselves in Iraq, will ensure they not be so hastily decided.

I don't know if he's right, but I do know that the news of it made me hold my breath.

It also made me think that we, as concerned parents, might be fighting for all the wrong things. We are fighting to protect mediocrity and a feeling of entitlement, not to mention privileges that seem trivial. When we fight the authority about issues of decorum, we are protecting our children by making them soft and uncaring about anything but themselves. Is the protection of stupid-looking dance steps worth the fight?

I say: Let the schools make the rules. And tell your kids they need to follow them, even the dumb ones. Let them understand that one kid CAN ruin it for everyone, and that such disappointment is a part of life. Let them know that their time will come to make the rules. Then show them things like this or this and then maybe, just maybe, we'll all begin to understand what's really unfair about the world.

I am a good liar ... and I hate myself for it

So my friend and colleague, Martha, turned 30 last week, and as far out of the realm of possibility as this sounds, I was enlisted by her older sister, Chrissy, to help lure her to a surprise party.

Turns out I am a skilled liar.

Let me just introduce her to you a little bit before I expand upon the dirty deeds: Martha was formerly a reporter in my newspaper and we've remained close friends even though she's gone on to more lucrative and rewarding exploits in the North Country. (I'm not bitter).

She has been a truly generous and caring friend.

Exhibit A: She gathered my unruly, unkempt hair into a pretty twist for my wedding.

Exhibit B: She is always the voice of reason in my jittery life.

Even now that we are both columnists and bloggers -- we trade columns before they're printed to get each other's opinions: You know, for the Does-this-work? Could-this-be-funnier? type of feedback -- the friendship seems to have just deepened.

So when her sister called to ask if I'd get her to the appointed restaurant, I didn't see much of a problem. ... Other than the lies I would have to tell to have an audience with the birthday girl on short notice (usually, you see, our get-togethers are planned several weeks if not months in advance).

Lie one: "I will be in Saratoga Saturday, and I was wanting to talk with you. Do you have time?"

Since I know she sees me as a hypochondriac basket case, I knew she'd worry a bit about the sudden request, and I wanted to assure her it was just ... that. I . wanted. to. talk.

The reporter in her was immediately curious: "What brings you to Saratoga," she asked.

Lie two: "Well, I have to deliver some papers to my cousin who lives in Vermont, and the Saratoga area is a nice half-way point."

"Why don't you just mail them?" A perfectly obvious solution that LIARS don't really consider.

Lie three: "Well, they're legal papers and I really feel as if I should hand deliver them."

After assuring her for the second time that nothing was wrong, we proceeded with the plans, which were a bit muddied with things like her husband getting the day wrong and planning to take her shopping on the party day. Luckily her sister fixed that quickly enough. (There was a picnic table involved ... but it's too complicated.)

What time ... hmmm. Her sister wants to meet later, but Martha tells me she's got dinner plans with her husband later so the earlier she can meet me the better.

"How about 2 p.m.?" I ask Chrissy. "Ok that sounds good."

"How about 10 a.m.," says Martha?

Uh. ... Lie four: "We'll ... I have to meet my cousin around 11 ... how about if I meet you at 1 for lunch ... I'll come get you."

Settled.

How about we go to this really great crepe place I know of? she says.

Lie five: Oh but I have this gift certificate to Fridays, and it expires in December.

Except now that I'm meeting Martha at 1 and the party is at 2, I'll have to stall her for an hour.
Not to mention that at the last minute, Jed had to work and I had to bring Annabel who is just starting with the sneezing, scratchy throat thing. AND ... Annabel is ready to leave at 11. Which means I need to kill and extra hour in drive time. (I had already contemplated my next lie, which was to leave late and call her from the road saying I'd been delayed) when I just realized that I really wanted to SEE her too. I mean why waste time driving around the back country with a sleepy kid, when I could spend the same time chatting with Martha?

So I came up with Lie six: My cousin was hoping to meet us for lunch but couldn't be at the restaurant until 2 p.m. Could we kill an hour of time before then?

Of course we could. Martha is an accommodating and trusting soul. She steered me to a little playground and we chatted and played with Annabel on the jungle gyms for about 45 minutes. (Martha, I swear, everything I told you at the playground was the truth).

We arrived at the restaurant a few minutes after 2 -- perfect. Everyone was there to yell "SURPRISE."

Well, everyone except my cousin. And I think Martha was a little disappointed that she wouldn't get to meet her.

Frazzled in the mornings ... all work and no play

That would be me. Often I find myself looking in the mirror as I trudge down the stairs, fully expecting the woman staring back at me to have hair like Medusa's.

This morning I got a little repreive from the hauling of toddler tumescence and the stuffing of same into a worn carseat against her tiny will, when Jed took her away so I could get the last of my things ready and packed into the car.

Since they were nowhere to be found as I reved the engine, I went around the house to look for them.

She was carrying a box of Crayons (c. 1970) from the crane truck into the barn.

"Come on, it's time to go," I said.

"No, Mom, I'm working," she calls back as she disappears into the barn, her father following close behind with a cardboard box filled with old telephones.

"Pay no attention to the man with the junk," he proclaims.

After I finally wrestle her away from the work of collecting, and we roll out of the driveway, the kvetching begins.

"Momma, Daddy is bad."

"Why would you say that, honey. He's not bad."

"It's just that he's not easy to please."

** I don't know where this came from, but I do know it makes her ready for office work in corporate America.

***Sigh.

The elephant in the armchair ... isn't wearing diapers

Yeah ... I had thought I'd try and steer clear public airings of bathroom exploits, you know we all deserve a little privacy, but this potty training stuff is really too rich. I mean parents of small children - myself included - are obsessed with all matters fecal. It's really the elephant in the armchair.

This fascination with feces starts in the hospital, where some of us (*raises hand and waves it furiously from side to side) learn the art of diapering for the first time. We obsess about the color and consistency, not to mention the frequency, and voice with the same excitement one has for completing any difficult task ... like swishing down the slopes in Aspen.

For at least two years we become waste product connoisseurs. Merely by waving a nose in the vicinity of the nearest bottom, we can pinpoint with razor sharp accuracy the size, shape and probable color of the deposit therein.

We sing songs about it, we fill jars of colorful treats to hand out as bribes and rewards. We ask no less than forty times a day whether junior has to poo. We jump up and down, perform three-foot-tall high-fives and do the potty dance to show appreciation for a job well done.

Once the diapers are tossed aside, replaced by layers upon layers of underpants (word to the wise: Don't buy cute ones ... They'll only want to wear them ALL ... AT THE SAME TIME) we can finally get the fragrant waft of freedom.

But when they start talking about it. Taking pride in their own internal workings, you know the fun is really beginning.

When they FINALLY poop in the potty and yell for you to come and see for yourself the wondrous whale of a stink fish swimming around the porcelain throne, the time has arrived for true celebration. Because you know, around that corner is a diaper-free zone. A place where the savings in your pocket will only prove equal in stature to the savings in landfill waste.

Sure. Sure. You'll have to endure potty breaks - sometimes even two and three in a matter of minutes - at every restroom in the vicinity. The neighbors at the next table will here updates loud and clear from the happy tooter on the success or failures in the lower intestines. But it will be worth it.

"I POOPED. And it was a BIG one," she'll exclaim. Or she'll say: "Mommy, I think my butt isn't working," when things don't go as well. The luck of the draw, I suppose.

Whatever the case, it's a turning point my friends.

Glass houses

As usual, the bloggesphere is bubbling with delicious stews over "mommy bashing" -- that perennial favorite of pundits everywhere who feel the need to instruct via sledgehammer.

The latest of which, and most interesting, seems to be the bashing of moms who lash out first.

Dubbed SanctiMommies by the dear and thoughtful Mom-101, it seems these are the folks - men and women (I'm not biased) who feel the need to voice (or at least intone with heavy sighs) their fervently held beliefs that other parents are just getting it wrong.

You know who you are: You are anonymous commentators, the eye rollers, the tisk-tiskers, the I-can't-believe-that-child-still-has-a-pacifiers when you're in the presence of moms, who, for whatever reason, happen not to be getting it right that very instant. Often you have no qualms about letting your feelings be known, especially if it means some child isn't scarred for life because of something dumb their parents are doing.

SanctiMommies can also people who don't have children but are pretty certain their little peapods wouldn't be careening around a fine dining establishment disturbing the meals of innocent gormands.

Most people admit to falling into the SanctiMommy category from time to time, and tend to let it wash away their own sins. We even pick our poisons.

I know a SanctiMommy whose pet peeves are pacifyers and thumb sucking. She can overlook soiled clothing, temper tantrums and other transgressions but she can't help herself when it comes to the dreaded binks. Whenever she sees the offense play out in her presence her face crinkles into the shape of a prune.

"How old would you say that child is? Too old be be sucking her thumb I would say!"

Whenever this type of thing happens in my presence, I fall silent, avert my eyes and try to change the subject.

Having been at the receiving end of a number of Mothers Superior, I am in the There-But-For-The-Grace-Of-god-Go-I school of parenting.

"She should have a hat on. ... I hope she's wearing sun screen. ... She's too young to be out in this cold. ... I didn't have children to let other people raise them. ... Who's the parent in this family? ... Children that age shouldn't be in restaurants. ...My kids never eat anything processed. Do you ever put that camera down?

The list of my transgressions, and public airing of them, goes on an on.

I can honestly say I've never been particularly sanctimonious about any of the hot-button issues. I've known too many people who have been tortured by "getting it all wrong."

The didn't have natural births; they couldn't breastfeed; their babies didn't thrive right away; they were depressed and fearful. One woman ultimately ended her own life. It always comes down to this: "Who am I to judge?"

I suppose the gift I really have is knowing what it is I know nothing about; and that list, my friends, is a long one, too. I try to think the best of everyone because I really don't know what they have to deal with from day to day. Hell, I don't even know what I'm doing from one day to the next, and I have to believe each one of us struggle with the same demons.

And for all those folks that would judge me? I'll try to let it go. Perhaps more than me even, they're struggling, too.

Oh what a tangled web we weave ...

"Mama, where's my moniker?"

"Well we sometimes call you ittybit ..."

"NO. my MON-I-KER!!! My MON-I-KER!"

"Oh, I think the dog took it."

"Why?"

"Probably because she doesn't have any appreciation for the blues. ... I'm kidding. ... It's probably under the sofa cushion?"

"Why?"

"Because your dad doesn't have any appreciation for the blues."

"How did you know it was dare, do?

"I knew where it was because I'm psychic?"

** I imagine in a few years from now she's catch on to me, and when she does her response would go something like this:
"No, Mama. I think maybe it is YOU who doesn't appreciate the blues."

We need investigations, and lots of them

Please indulge a little more political commentary, because I think it's important for those of us anti-Iraq-War types who hope the House and Senate wins will change the tretcherous course we, as a nation, have undertaken during the last five years.

Most of what I've witnessed since late Tuesday has been celebratory chest beating about a comeupance that's time had come.

But the sobering news is that while the blow to the Grand Old Party seems like a tidal wave of good fortune, that really isn't the case. The sound is really hollow.

Democrats have an amazing chance to really fuck things up before 2008.

As one of my favorite columnists points out this morning, George W. Bush -- with all his veto powers in tact and a new head on the Defense Secretary body -- still has all the cronies and stalwart friends at his beck and call. Only now they'll be getting paid private salary figures and working out of posh K Street offices to do virtually the same jobs.

Perhaps letting bygones be gone isn't the best thing we could do to pull our country up by its bootstraps. We need to understand that getting the whole truth is what patriotism should be all about.

They're not like us ...

If you ever want to feel the true weight of your dreadful parenting skills pressing down upon you, spend the day at a pre-school. I promise you will learn a lot about your shortcomings.

Every so often I am called upon to attend lessons with my daughter and her classmates at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children (or MCA-UCC for those of you who insist upon academic abbreviations -- you know, for the bumper stickers).

As a cooperative pre-school, the MCA-UCC relies on parents to take turns in all tasks relating to upkeep, maintenance and the supplying of wholesome snacks. Helping children struggle into painting smocks and elaborate costumes to fulfill their wildest dreams during their child's "Special Day" is just a bonus.

The MCA-UCC is a place where all the children stand in line, take turns and play with wild restraint. When they forget and play with abandon, the teacher sings a reminder that children are to use their "walking feet," or turn on their "listening ears," or sit on their bottoms. It becomes clear how reinforcement and expectation becomes part of any behavioral outcome. No one ever says "No." Instead they say: "We don't throw toys." "We don't eat paste." "We use indoor voices."

Such wonderment must be witnessed first hand.

As a parent whose experience with tantrums has resulted in chocolate for dinner, no hair washing for days and more television than the FCC censors have ever seen, I can tell you teachers of small children are genetically different from the rest of the human race.

Whereas, I have one tiny gladiator to wrestle into a coat, she has 10.

Kids who develop hearing impairments at home as soon as you remind them to wash their hands after using the potty, or wipe their feet at the door are happily obliging the kindly headmistress. Eventually, everyone at school starts using their listening ears and their indoor voices. The accounting alone is enough to make you nominate her to a high-ranking position in the United Nations.

I've been through the Special Day drill twice so far this year, and each time I feel as if I need remedial intervention.

When one kid in my charge dips his hand into the paint and drags it across his paper, she zips over with a paper towel, apparently observing with the eyes in the back of her head, and reminds us "We use brushes," in the same jovial tone.

Oops. My mistake.

"I'm just going to hang this over here," she sings as she relocates artwork I've hung right above the walkway. "Otherwise you're going to get painted. And we wouldn't want that."

Uh. Sorry.

"We use one puzzle at a time," she reminds as I sit with pieces from at least six puzzles strewn between three puzzlers.

Oops. I didn't even think.

Everything I touch seems to take on a life of its own, careens out of control then is dashed to bits.

I sit in awe as the three children I've just spent an unsuccessful 20 minutes trying to costume in elaborate dancewear disappear into the main playroom. Not one -- not even my own Ittybit -- heeds my beseeching to come back and reverse the process. I panic. Snack time is fast approaching and if it takes 20 minutes to untangle them from the plumage there will be trouble.

"Um. ... Miss Cuthbert?" I stammer apologetically. "I can't get the kids to take off their costumes."

With a knowing look, she conjures a string of magic words: "Oh, girls, when I ring that bell you're going to want to be ready for snack. And that means you'll have all the play clothes put away."

And wouldn't you know, before you can say "abracadabra," all three are back in the dressing room, tugging off their costumes and handing me their shoes.

Proof, I have to believe, that teachers have supernatural powers. Hopefully some will rub off on me.

Getting our House in order

A not-so-fond farewell ...

Karl, Don ... few of us will be sorry to see you go.

We've been waiting for this day for six long years.

Six. Long. Years.

Georgie, porgie, puddin' pie ...

Can you say WAR CRIMES?

At the very least, can you say IMPEACHMENT?

Some may think we shouldn't waste time; we shouldn't fuel a vendetta like the people of your party did, but I believe you are a criminal and need to be brought to justice. Make no mistake, had you gotten a blow-job from a 22-year-old woman in the oval office, and then lied about it under oath, I wouldn't feel this way. No, what you did, sir, is mislead a nation, plunder our democracy and pad your cronies' pockets while the poor and middle class falters.

If the Democrats decide to let bygones be gone and instead choose to move the nation forward I will applaud them, too. I know there's enough blame in this deplorable war to pass around.

And goodbye Mr. Sweeney. ... A man in my district but not-anywhere-near my heart.

Dubbed 'Congressman Kickass' in 2000, you took it upon yourself to high-tail it down to Florida to see that your man stole himself an election.

Well ... I'd just like to say so long. Farewell. Adeiu. They said it would take dynamite to blast you out of the 20th district. I'm glad it was something more like domestic abuse. You sir, are a disgrace and now that the wife-beater t-shirt fits, let's hope it sticks. May you manage to control your rage and keep yourself out of jail. I sure hope you never try to serve the public again.