You know where this is going, right?

that face, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Sometimes I think she's going to go from preschool straight to prom.

She's already got the idea that I may not really be the all knowing, all powerful Oz I'd led her to believe me to be.

"Mom, I think you went the wrong way."

"Mom, that's just silly. Animals do not TALK."

"Mom we DO NOT have any Cocoa Puffs at home and we also need more milk."

But we've also entered into a rhelm much more frightening than merely willfully defiant. We've entered the third trimester zone.

Before this weekend her definance was easily -- if not always satisfactorily -- handled:

SOOOO sorry you don't want to get into the car seat right now, but oh, lookie here ... I'm three times your size. It really sucks, and I feel sad that all your railing and raging is for naught when I can just pick you up and put you where I need you to go.

But as I watched her run away from me in the supermarket, I realized for the first time I couldn't catch up. And then I couldn't FIND her despite oodles of other shoppers pointing in the direction she went as I waddled past them, sciatic nerve throbbing and noticably frazzled.

Minutes passed, and I wondered what I should do? Screaming? Going to the service desk for help? She's not going to know what to do when the loudspeaker announces "Annabel go to the service desk your mother is looking for you."

And then out of the stinky cheese aisle she comes -- smiling and happy to see me, as if I were the one who was missing.

"Oh there you are mommy. I was looking for you. Look what I found: seeds!"

I had already abandoned my basket of fruit and milk somewhere to lighten the load, and I picked her up, telling her IT WAS CERTAINLY NOT OK TO RUN AWAY FROM MOMMY LIKE THAT! NOT. OK. AT. ALL.

After explaining that she wouldn't be able to come with me to pick up groceries again until she stayed by my side or sat in a trolley, I made her put away the "seeds" and help me find the abanoned basket so we could pay and go home.

I'm pretty sure I handled it all wrong. That I should have taken her out of the store right then, dairy be damned.

I wasn't worried about abduction or people seeing me as an inattentive mother; I didn't care at all what anyone thought. I was worried she'd wandered into a backroom or into the parking lot.
I pictured her lying under an SUV or a stack of toppled boxes.

Of course, when I mentioned to her WHY I was worried and upset, I get this look and the phrase I will no doubt hear for the remainder of her tenure in our house:

"Maaaah ... that's just crazy-nuts."

The Circus Berserkus

So. I survived.

I know you weren't all that worried. After all, it's a circus not a firing squad. (Well, they did shoot a 70 lb. cannon ball out of a cannon 75mph at some supposed strong guy, who caught it in gloved hands ... but that's not the same as a firing squad, right?)

Thanks to my father, who happily agreed to go with us to the civic center and even waited in line to swap our complementary passes for actual tickets, I was able to resist the urge to throw myself under the wheels of the miniature cars the clowns were zooming around in to end my suffering. You know ... to get away from all the people. I realize it really wouldn't be a circus if you didn't have to wade through crowds of people -- starting with the animal rights activists who are happy to shove pamphlets of ailing elephants into your kids' hands, and ending with the pushing and shoving of herding ticket holders, trying to run you down with their SUV-sized baby strollers as they make for the doors -- but I wouldn't mind trying.

Like I said: A clown show.

It also doesn't help that the very first thing you see upon making your way past the box office is The Greatest Show on Earth's most abundant and glamourous trinket trap in the Tri-City area. Whirring, buzzing lights spinning flashers; stuffed horses, elephants and tigers, mug heads sporting multi-colored ice brains and $10 bags of cotton candy stuffed into ludacris hats. All for the bargain price of 8,000 times the cost of production.

"I want a toy, mama. Can I have a toy, please."

And so it begins.

She doesn't REALLY want a toy. She just wants something she can put her hands on. Something she isn't in possession of this very minute. Something she can leave alone, abandoned, minutes after she possesses it.

"Well, I'll tell you what. We are going to find our seats because the show is starting, and if you are well behaved through the show I will buy you a toy on our way out. How's that sound?"

"Ok," she says and eyes me skeptically as we pass sales booth after sales booth after sales booth trying to find section 111, Seats 7 through 9 of Row G.

As soon as we climbed up the cement steps and brushed through the velvet curtains she was silent. Agast at the lights darting from one side of the arena to the other. The noise and smell of popcorn overwhelmed her. She was silent as we climbed all the way down the right side of section 111 only to climb half-way back up the left side to our seats.

"Wow. This is a circus?"

Those and a few more choice questions (Is that a tiger? What's the woman doing up that high? How is he going to get down from there? HORSES!) were the only things to pass through her lips until the lights went up for an intermission ... and she remembered her passion for popcorn.

So as Papa entertained her by pointing out all the crazy antics of the incidental sideshow - trying to keep her eyes averted from the souvenir hawkers making their way up and down the aisles with their sticks festooned with all manner of high-priced kitsch - watching the sweepers and the cleaners and positioners get ready for the second act, I went to spend a hour's worth of pay at the conssessions stand on popcorn and bottled water.

By the time I got back the lights were down and the tumblers were tumbling; the tooters were tooting and the fumblers were fumbling. The elephants came out and sat on their chairs and the aerialists were swinging high up in the air. It wasn't the Bindlestiffs, it had too much glam, but it sure was exciting from anywhere I could stand.

I watched in silence for 45 minutes, alongside the girl who was similarly committed. Even the grandpa was rapt with amazement. It was quite a spectacle, much more than entertainment.

When the lights came up for the very last time, I had to admit I was glad that we came. And on our way out, we stopped by the stands and picked up a wizzing, light twisting scam.

Then back to the car, six far away blocks, carrying a sleepy tot who'd just seen a lot. Too exciting for a weekday maybe, but man what a sight a circus can be.

We're going to the circus tonight

Clown nose, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

And I'm afraid of clowns.

Please pray for me.

Good for the soul

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

... I'm your only friend
I'm not your only friend
But I'm a little glowing friend
But really I'm not actually your friend
But I am

There's a picture opposite me
Of my primitive ancestry
Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free
Though I respect that a lot
I'd be fired if that were my job
After killing jason off and countless screaming argonauts
Bluebird of friendliness
Like guardian angels it's always near

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
Who watches over you
Make a little birdhouse in your soul
Not to put too fine a point on it
Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet
Make a little birdhouse in your soul

(and while you're at it
Keep the nightlight on inside the
Birdhouse in your soul) ...

-TMBG

As an ineffective parent, I often find myself giving in to whims. When she asks me at the end of the workday, when I pick her up from Amah and Papa's house, what I've brought for her, a part of me winces that by having little gifts on hand I'm in effect buying her affections with incidental trinkets. The other part of me is just happy I had received a package containing a press release and decorator paints from a local vendor, which I happened to take home that evening, so I could get her to leave the grandparents and go home without tears. (Bribery works wonders for getting wriggling kids into carseats.)

Forethought.

I buy lots of junk we don't need under the auspices of filling up a craft box with activities we can do on rainy days (or when the whining gets to be more than I can handle). And most recently, as preparation for maternity leave when I'll have to find ways of entertaining the little munchkin without turning her into a television junky, I've been stocking up like there's going to be an armageddon.

I find all kinds of things in the aisles of dollar stores: foam shapes, paper, paints, pens, gluesticks even car washing mitts that I imagine with a few buttons sewn on may make interesting little handpuppets. (You know my skill with such things is craptacular.) I stuff them in a box and drag them out when the mood strikes, usually just about half past when all else fails.

I was delighted recently to find unfinished wooden birdhouses at the junk shop, and thought it would make a good project for painting. No only would it require no skill (on my part) but it would look nice and make lovely grandparent gifts.

Of course, because weekdays consist of all the fun of forcing her her to get ready for "school" or get set for "bed," I thought we'd be doing our craft on the weekend -- the designated mommy and daddy fun days.

At 9:30 on a Tuesday night, when she should have been in bed, it might have been wise NOT to show her the birdhouse or let her see the payola paints. But it wouldn't have been as good for the soul.

Today I hope to comb my hair

The lovely and talented Kelly at A Child is Born tagged me to write about slacking ... or being a useless slug ... or driving along the boulevard of broken dreams ... I don't know I think the official title was something like "What Five Goals Have You Largely Ignored?"

As I sat down to formulate my thoughts about the subject, I was startled to realize that pretty much all my goals have gone the way of Prince Charming or world peace or affordable healthcare: Silly notions I may have had as a starry-eye youth, but were soon beaten to death by the wage gap or the glass ceiling or the myriad inequities ranting and raving did nothing to change.

Whenever someone even mentions the word "goals" I tend to imagine some stuffed shirt corporate lackey -- a middle-managing boss-type character direct from the movie Office Space -- whose attendance at a management style conference in Las Vegas one summer six years ago provided him with the keys to the universe and a guest towel in the executive shitter. You'll recognize him easily enough. He's the one in the bad suit, who's never had an original thought in his life, coaching his "team" with slogans like everyone needs to be "thinking outside of the box."

OK. Maybe I'm just a little bitter.

When I was younger my goals were uninspired stock dreams:
*I wanted to go to graduate school.
*I wanted to travel and see the world.
*I wanted to be a journalist for LIFE magazine.
*I wanted to be in history books for the way I saw things.
*I wanted other people to think I was valuable.

But something happened to me as I got older. I couldn't decide on a major (let alone a direction) so I abandoned plans for grad school. I fell into a career that started small and just got smaller. I let fear settle down. I came to terms with being painfully shy and lacking in confidence. I was still the child who wanted to say something but hadn't figured out what, only now I was growing older and more set in a comfort zone. I had goals but no plan. No way to get from here to there.

I didn't feel valuable.

Eventually my goals became little ticks of obsession-compulsion:
*Get to the light before it turns Red.
*Empty the dishwasher before the baby wakes up.
*Switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer.
*Weed the flower bed before it gets too overgrown.
*Write something and post it before the kid (or the husband) comes looking for you.

The Grand Plan had become a To Do list.

Sounds depressing, doesn't it? But it really hasn't been. There's more to life than aggrandizing the things we do; the personal satisfaction we glean from being the amazingly talented beings we only see in the mirror. But whether you call it a goal or a dream or a life's purpose, once attained it's an ending.

Parenthood, if nothing else, shows you in no uncertain terms that having a child isn't the end. It's just a another piece of the collective you. You may identify yourself as a mother (or father) or you may not. You might put your heart and soul into raising the best and brightest or you may look on in amazement as it happens anyway. But you are always moving forward ... always trying to keep up.

So I don't have goals anymore I just have things to do. Keep moving, keep plugging, don't look back.


******

I'm not going to tag anyone for this, but as always if you want to write about it, let me know and I'll give you some linky love

'Round and round we go ...

there's my papa, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

In the grand scheme of time, it won't be long until your brother is here taking the space your baby-self left behind. Everything is going to change -- from where you spend your days to how quickly we are able to answer your needs and desires.

I can't believe I'm saying this, and I really don't want to set myself (or you) up for heartache, but I really think you are ready.

It's not merely the relentless questions you pepper me with daily about when he's coming, or what we'll call him, or where he'll sleep; It's because you've been asking if one day you'll be a mommy. If you'll be able to "take care of everybody," as if that's what you've gathered mommies do.

I'm sure when he's here the reality you face will be vastly different from the fantasy you've been living with as you hug my belly and demand to give him one last "zerbert" before bed. I imagine it is only natural that from time to time you will have issues with having our attentions divided, and you will grow weary of the crying and the fact that mommy won't be able to cradle you both at the same time.

I know that family and friends will be riveted by every move this baby makes, but I am also reminded of how incredibly magnetic babies are to strangers. How, for most people, an infant's presence is reason enough to coo and cluck, and talk about how a new baby is so beautiful-special-adorable-precious-delightful and such a blessing.

When you were tiny, I couldn't walk down the street without people stopping me to comment on your sweetness. It was nothing short of miraculous to me how just your existence seemed to brighten the moods of total strangers.

A part of me was a little sad when you outgrew the infant clothes and you lost the roundness of babyhood that attracted folks we'd never met like moths to fire. It wasn't that your specialness had ended, it just wasn't automatic anymore.

A part of me missed the attention you got that spilled over onto us.

A part of me resented the public angry tantrums, and worried what others' must think. A part of me worried that constant repetition of the need for patience was a lost cause.

But last weekend, when spring lifted us out of winter for the first time and you, papa, Mimi and I went to The Farmer's Museum in Cooperstown to meet some friends and ride the carousel, I realized that your charms and your abilities are blossoming.

You are lovely and amazing, and that has really nothing whatsoever to do with me. It's never been more clear to me than at that precise moment that this person you are comes from your inner being not from how we try and shape you.

By the time we left, all the staff we encountered knew your name - and no, they weren't rolling their eyes when they said it. They were smiling and pleased to make your acquaintance. They watched as you moved out of your safety element - the stable boats and benches - to the more daring stand-up animals and they congratulated you on your bravery.

They said they'd hoped you'd come again, and they meant it.

Next time we go, though, I imagine you'll be showing off your little brother. But I doubt you'll be outshined.

Love,

Mommy

Taking matters into her own hands

Inspector Ittybit, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Every Wednesday I stand on top of a decades-old footstool in our tiny, badly-in-need-of-renovation bathroom and snap a picture of the belly.

It's weird, really. I have about four pregnancy photographs of me with Annabel in ought 3: two my parents took in their living room whilst I was visiting and two I took myself in the buff, no less, (for posterity) during week 37.

This time there's been no fancy setup, no stragic lighting, just quick snaps, once a week, in front of a waterstained, reclaimed mirror. They are throwaway photos that lack style and technical merit. All they are is consistent: the barn wood of the mirror's frame giving the appearance of a peep hole, and my left-side profile against the light of a bare light bulb late at night.

I'm not sure why I take a picture on the day the pregancy ticks up to another week, but I'm sure it has been out of compulsive or compensatory need rather than celebratory desire. It's practically the only thing that has been "done" to mark Thing 2's progress to date.

With more experience and the constant noise of another little person who speaks and has needs (such as Ice Cream, please) there's not a lot of time to sit around and marvel at the miracle of this new, unexamined life.

But it is new and marvelous and wonderful to HER. And that's a detail I might have overlooked completely had she not pushed open the bathroom door and climbed up on the footstool next to me, to give her brother a "zerbert."

Pulling at the waist of the pants my belly is trying to burst, she noticed the deep impression the button had made on my skin.

"WHAT IS THAT?" she said with the Oh-my-gawd-this-is-so-cool voice she picked up from the pre-teens in her life.

"OH. GIVE ME YOUR CAMERA. I HAFTA TO TAKE A PICTURE. YOU HAFTA SEE THIS."

I had to hand it over and let her snap away. How could I resist?

Excitement was finally in the air.

A little lookie lou ...

thing 2 -- 29 weeks, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

A banner day at the ob's office: intake of yucky glucose drink on empty stomach at 8:30 a.m. followed by an ultrasound, which because of position (me, lying on my back, not baby who is still breech presentation) made me want to vomit, and then, finally, a quick (surprise) visit with the doctor. I was actually at work a few minutes later than my usual arrival. Go figure.

The stats look like this:

*I fully expect to fail the simple glucose test -- because I did with Annabel -- and will be required to take the three-hour tolerance version.

*Thing 2 is measuring right at 29 weeks, weighing in at 2 pounds six ounces. The doctor says that's solidly in the 50th percentile. He's happily swimming around and poking me in the left side with his feet, not caring at all about the numbers game we're playing out here.

*Also, with 10 weeks left to go, I am officially one pound away from attaining the total weight gain I had with Annabel.

*The rash has now been conclusively determined to be PUPPPS. So that means it's here for the remainder of the pregnancy and might even get worse.

*AND .... (imagine drumroll here) Thing 2 has a tentative potential birthdate. ... Although not set in stone, it looks like the surgery schedule for the c-section will be June 18 or 19th ... two weeks before the due date.

I can't believe it's only two months away. Where did the time go?

Like I needed ANOTHER reason to love her ...

she got the funk, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Upon seeing a Play-Doh mold of Toy Story's Buzz Lightyear, she exclaimed:

"TO VIRGINITY AND BEYOND!"

Yeah, that's my girl.

****
Speaking of virginity ... any of you see this little study?
Some of us already knew abstinance-only programs were full of holes ... now a Harvard study has a little proof.

Just one more question ...

what light through yonder window breaks ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Three-year-olds love to stall. They love to elongate the process of bedtime so that it includes more parent time, more toy time and more just plain I'm loving being alive time.

As I've complained before, bedtime in our house can last for hours. With the music selections, deciding which books to read (and how many encores afterward) getting water to be the right temperature and volume as well as a few random "I'm so scared" pleas for good measure, it's amazing to me that she ever falls asleep.

I berate myself that I'm always at my least able to handle these late night assaults against sleep, and I usually end up pleading with the little miss to go off and join her dreams, wherever they may take her. Just GO!

That's why I'm glad that the stalling tactics have spilled into the morning routine. I've noticed a little rest and time away from the daily grind makes it easier to enjoy the banter.

Lately, after dropping her off at the sitter's, as I say goodbye and head for the car, Annabel taps on the window to ask "one last question."

Of course it's always rainy and cold as I stand outside (without my coat) waiting for her final query, but somehow a little sleep and a long commute ahead cushions the discomfort.

When I was her age, or so my parents tell me, I was just the same way ... only different. For me it was wanting people to talk to me but not really having anything to say. I would hem and haw and say "You know what? You know what?" over and over again until someone would bite.

"WHAT?!"

Then I'd skitter away like a crab behind my father's pant leg and hide. I hadn't though of a question.

Annabel, by contrast, has TONS of them.

Mostly they turn into statements such as "Well, actually ... I was just saying that Mouse is a dog and he's really, really tiny and cute."

or ponderings that have little to do with the morning excitement ...

"Mom, remember when we were with Ama Linda and we swam in the heart-shaped pool in the bathroom? I'd like to go there again sometime."

Of course today, on this gray, lackluster day with fall winds pushing against the promise of spring and the threat of yet more snow for the weekend, she was direct:

"Mom? Why do you have sunglasses on your head?"

"Because I live in hope that they will bring out the warm."

Creepy ...

luxian landscape, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I got home from work last night and before my bag had hit the floor the kiddo was at my feet, pulling on my legs wanting answers.

Her face was stern, and her eyes intent and fixed on mine.

"Am I going to Lori's house?"

My mouth hung open. I stammered ... "What do you mean? Are your going to Lori's house? Do you mean right now? Tommorow?"

She shook her head violently and pulled harder on my pants' legs for emphasis.

"NO! NO! Am I going to Lori's house next year?"

I was afraid of this moment: The one in which I would have to tell her that she won't be seeing nearly as much of her beloved babysitter, the person she's spent three years of good times; that she will be going someplace else, some place - at least in my mind - not as ideal.

Since January, when I found out our child care situation would go through drastic change, I've thought of little else but this conversation - a conversation I thought I would have to initiate. A chat I had scheduled for sometime in early June. A talk that I envisioned would turn into hours of creative collaboration and culminate in a series of memory books for each of them -- Lori and Annabel -- to keep. In essence, a long coming to terms with life's curve balls.

But she preempted my plans.

"No, honey. You won't be going to Lori's next year. Next year you will be going to a bigger school."

"Oh good," she said happily, and she skipped away. "I can't wait to go to school."

Now I expect the grand meltdown will happen in ernest when she realizes she doesn't get to ride on a big yellow bus just yet.

Sleepless nights

to sleep ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I couldn't sleep last night. I tried. I went to bed early (for me) and closed my eyes. Nothing.

My legs felt gittery. I cracked my ankles and moved my feet back and forth. I shifted and turned, and grumbled to myself at the potential for this new symptom to be the often scoffed-at syndrome -- restless leg.

I got up and walked around. No help. Last week I was waking up from a dead sleep with crippling pain and leg cramps. Flex, point, flex, point, flex, point ... back to sleep.

The clock that had read 11 p.m. now blinked 1 a.m.

My legs eventually gave up their wakefulness and just before I was able to drift off, the itch of the rash roared. Up again for the forgotten Caladryl. The shock of cold as it dried woke me up again.

2 a.m. Annabel is standing in the hallway, silently looking at me. She lifts her arms. I put her in bed and we cuddle. She tells me I'm the "bestest mommy I ever had," and shushes me when I tell her I love
her too. "MOM," she chides, "You are waking me up from my dreams."

Lay back down, I tell myself. Soon there will be enough sleepless nights. There will be on the two hour feedings round the clock. There will be new learning curves for all of us. Get all the rest you can now.

I do as my mind instructs. I try to relax but the reflux takes it's turn. I get up and go to the kitchen for more TUMS; an empty ritual that doesn't work.

4 a.m.: with flexing feet, itchy torso and burning throat, I wonder if I will ever get sleep again.

Thing 2 has been quiet, and it occurs to me that aside from what I hope are pregnancy related symptoms, I've not really been noticing the pregancy. I wonder how often he's been fiddling around in there.

And just when I figure I'll be awake to greet the sun, he reminds me he's here and his got things to do, thank-you-very-much. "I just think I'll try tap dancing over here on your bladder, ma."

There's so much to think about; so much left to do. So little time, it seems. No time left for sleep.

Happy Easter

anticipation and elation, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Wishing you a day filled with sweet things.

Maybe prevention is the problem

waiting her turn, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I've heard it a million times: "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." But lately I've been wondering if that ounce of prevention doesn't also equal a metric ton of unnecessary angst?

If you’ve followed the news at all during the last decade, you're probably aware of the billions of ailments and hardships we can prevent by eating the right foods, getting the right exercise, getting the proper amount of rest and moving to the right neighborhood ... or being born to the right parents ... or jumping around on our left foot while tugging at our right ear.

Sorting it all out isn't even the biggest problem, although it probably doesn't help that the "Good" list includes coffee, sunlight, red wine, chocolate and sex for their anti-oxidant and stress relieving properties – all of which may also be found prominently on the "Bad" list.

Maybe it's just coincidence that since the advent of safety campaigns such as "Loose Lips Sinks Ships" and "Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires," we've seen a collective increase in American anxiety.

Is it possible that the idea that we can effectively stop bad things from happening has turned prevention into avoidance and pushed us all into a state of undue agitation?

Perhaps it's a bit of a leap or an over simplification, but I keep asking myself what has changed since I was a kid and the answer I keep coming up with is fear.

Improvements are everywhere:

*Car seats are safer
*Footwear for kids is better
*Cribs and toys are better designed
*Getting the word out on hazards is instantaneous and fixes are just as speedy.

And yet we'll say "the world is a different place" today as easily as we said an “ounce of prevention …” yesterday.

We’ve all seen stories of children abducted from their own homes or on their way to school, and we put ourselves in the place of the victim. But no matter that numbers indicate stranger kidnappings are statistically insignificant, we can only wrap our minds around the fear and the possibility of preventing a tragedy even if we can’t do it.

Doesn't it seem strange that very bad things continue to befall us, despite the fact that kids aren't allowed to be without parental supervision anymore?

The playgrounds are always empty of the kids I would have known in my suburban pre-adolescence: Kids who showed up after school with their gloves and their bats and wondered who wanted to play pitch and catch. Kids who wouldn't go home until their mothers called or darkness ended the game.

Instead there are huge playfields and droves of parents trucking their uniformed children from one league game to the next, setting up the tailgate of their minivan with Gatorade and low-fat snacks, and yaking on the cell phone during play.

And despite all my digging in of heels and refusing to believe the world has changed for the worse, I fall into the trap of such ill-perception myself.

Anxiety is always the first emotion to appear as I drive my family sedan on the windy, back roads I used to ride my ten-speed Schwinn an unhelmeted five miles alone. What ifs start coming like mad. What if a driver didn't see me? What if there was an accident? What if I just disappeared?

I wonder how my mother was able to let me go. How I will let Ittybit go? And then I realize, sadly, I probably won't have to: There won't be anyone for her to meet. All of her friends will be at soccer games with their moms or dance lessons or gymnastics after school.

The playgrounds will still be empty.

Back to bed

All over the place, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The burning questions ...

Did Jed get home as planned?

Yes.

Did Annabel sleep in her own room finally?

Yes.

What time did she end up going to sleep?

10:16 p.m.

What happened when she woke up?

Lots of angry, accusatory tones and this early-morning rebuke:
"I TOLD YOU I DIDN'T WANT TO SLEEP IN MY OWN BED! Hrump!"

You've got mail

what e-mailing requires, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Annabel has been somewhat enthralled with the "pewter" as of late.

Thanks to our imaginary friends, we've been tipped off to some fun online sites for kids such as Kneebouncers and Orsinal. Every so often she comes and asks if she can play the OTHER KNEEBOUNCERS, a series of games for older kids, which means she sits in my arms and consoles me as I try and get an animated squirrel to jump from ledge to ledge as it collects crabapples.

She pats my hand sympathetically each time my squirrel takes a plunge.

But lately she understands that communication happens here, too.

"Mama, I want to write a letter to Emma and Luke," she said with her hands on my keyboard.

"OK?" I say without hiding my skepticism, and I set her up with a blank e-mail window.

She starts to type letters and numbers and other symbols into the white space. Chattering the whole time about what it is she's "writing."

"Dear Emma and Luke. Hello, how are you? I have a spotted frog and he's in the swimming pool. Happy Birthday!"

She almost never includes Love, Annabel in the closing.

"I need an envelope and a stamp, mama," she instructs after she's finished her epistle.

"Why do you need those things?" I ask.

"Because I'm ready to send it."

That kicking you don't really feel is a good thing

All the best-laid plans ...

Jed is on his way home in his rickety NEW truck with a NEW uber expensive crane attatched to the back, and he should be pulling up in the driveway tomorrow morning. I would shout something celebratory but I'm really a pessimist at heart and I don't want to jinx anything. Two engine overhauls in two weeks should teach anyone with the sense (insert deity name here) gave a goat not to crow.

Mostly I'm just happy I made it through 10 days without him. Oh sure, we'll have to reacquaint Annabel with her own bedroom, which for the past week has seen her only long enough to change clothes or release one of its toys to her nimble clutches, but I'll let him worry about that.

Today's only REAL dissappointment was that I had planned to take Annabel with me to my regular dental appointment so she could get a first-hand look at what it's like to open wide and say "ahhhhhh SHIT!"

I kid. Really my teeth are in pretty good shape aside from the fact that I threw away my retainers once I got my first diaphram (you know, I didn't want to confuse the two protective cases) and therefore have the tell-tale snaggle tooth front and center on the bottom. Since the dentist has the same condition, he doesn't chastize.

I also digress ...

Since I had hoped Jed would be home and able to bring her back to the sitter's house so I could go straight to work, and since some itchy mystery rash decided to cover my abdomen late Saturday night, I cancelled my plans to have her sit in on the hygenist's handiwork and instead made a back-to-back appointment with a midwife to let her have a peek at the pustules.

Turns out the rash is likely a contact dermatitis and NOT PUPPPS (as I had initially feared).

I suppose the highlight of the whole thing is that whenever you go to the OB when you're pregnant they check out the heartbeat. This time the midwife couldn't help but chuckle.

"He's a kicker and not shy about it at all," she said, laughing. The rhythmic bounce I heard on the doppler (but only felt when they made my belly bounce on the outside) was THING 2's idea of a dance party. "He's already got a personality, this one. That's for sure."

Living up to the shirt

April Fool, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The only person who pranked anyone in this crazy family was Annabel today when her papa took her away for an hour so I could have a little rest. They went to the grocery store and then to the ice cream shop that gives away free sample cones.

While they were deciding what flavor would taste best in the tiny cone, papa preemptively went into the bathroom to dampen a paper towel.

When he returned with the "wet nap," Annabel looked at him with a furrowed brow and said loud enough for the whole store to hear:

"DID YOU GET THAT TOWEL WET BY PUTTING IT IN THE TOILET ?!?"

A little embarassed, he quickly told her no, that he'd run it under the sink's tap.

"NO, YOU WET IT IN THE POTTY."

He assured her he did not ...

She cut him off.

"APRIL FOOLS!"

*******

While we might have held off on crooking each other, April is pranking us. Jed is stuck in Michigan, needing yet another engine overhaul for his NEW truck. He won't be back until Tuesday now. And, just to make sure he has something to do when he gets home, the neighbor kids broke a window in the front of the house with a baseball. Accidents, you know -- like that other sticky substance -- they happen.

Easily replaced

Jed has been travelling since Saturday, staying in seedy hotels without hot water let alone a working Internet connection, eating at greasy-spoon dives without help from antacids and clocking obscene hours behind the wheel. AND NOW ... Thanks to a massive thunderstorm Tuesday that rocked the house for several hours, he will be coming home sometime this weekend to an unpleasant surprise:

"Mommy, when daddy comes home, he can sleep over there," she says, pointing to the dog bed in the corner of the bedroom. "You and I will sleep here."

So much for King sized.

Why I can't ride the merry-go-round ...

somewhat educated grafitti, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Silly mommy! You can't go ON it, you have to go OFFice!

I'm Hating It ...

I hate McDonalds.

With the fire of a thousands suns does this hatred burn in my soul. Hate, I tell you. H-A-T-E.

I didn't have such a remarkable odium for the place until Ittybit was born and the lure of easy pancake breakfasts on the run attracted me like a mackerel to a live anchovy.

Because, you see, my failure as a mother is directly and concretely measured by the number of times we visit "Old MacDonald" each week instead of firing up the stove.

This week I'm 0 for 3.

However, from now until April 19th, it's not laziness and an inability to subvert the "cheese and whine" that's steering my car to the formidable Golden Arches – it's a fear of the warning: "while supplies last."

You see the Alexander Doll Company, makers of Madame Alexander dolls, has again teamed up with the fast food giant. This year the Happy Meal giveaway is one of eight, 4 ½ inch Wizard of Oz-themed dolls.

While I can resist the remarkably fragrant hotcakes and sausage biscuit sandwiches, and can forgo Big Macs and Chicken Nuggets completely, I can't pass up the toys. For decades I have had an addiction to the cutesy things all wrapped in plastic that Mickey D's been putting in its Happy Meals.

I'm so hooked, in fact, that the one thing I regret about my New Zealand honeymoon was passing up an opportunity to visit a makeshift Happy Meal toy museum in the little drinkwater town of Foxton, which boasted a million exhibits in its collection.

Until this latest promotion, though, I was able to resist temptation. The weird aliens and My Little Ponies didn't reach out and grab me with their wily plastic charms. I successfully adhered to a self-imposed rule of "only on days when the pancake batter runs out," usually a planned occurrence once a week.

But this Madame Alexander thing -- this nostalgic trip back to girlhood, a behind-the-glass plaything, something to admired more than played with if you were lucky enough to own one -– is too seductive. I NEED to collect all eight.

And that's what they want me to do. They want me to indulge my inner child while I indulge her growing one. They want to pamper the little girl hiding in the pockets of my maternity wear who, as a youngster, coveted the super expensive baby dolls that's only purpose is to decorate beds. These dolls, mothers would explain, are not for touching. They are not for dragging around by the hair. They are special.

My childhood Madame Alexander Doll – "Beth" from the Little Women series – is still in its original box in my parents' bedroom closet. It was stored there throughout my formative years, taken down once in a while and shown to me so I could ‘ooh and ah’ at its beauty. But it was clear, the doll was not to be molested in any way.

It was similar to my dealings with the Lionel train set in my father's collection, which came out each Christmas and circled the tree. The only difference was we got to play with the train eventually once my dad had given us the refresher course on engineering, which usually lasted at least a week and included various tests in the art of breaking and reversing.

Now it was my turn.

When I opened the bag to dispense the breakfast fare and complementary toy and saw the doll staring up at me I froze. It was Dorothy. She even had Ruby Slippers. I threw the napkins over the package and hauled out the hotcakes before she had time to inquire after the prize.

She was so famished she forgot all about the toy, and my greedy self decided not to remind her. "That doll is special," I thought with the squinty eyes of calculation.

Eventually she remembered the loot. Grudgingly, I hauled Dorothy out of the package and handed it over. She named her new treasure "Pollycina, her crunchy doll," and immediately "combed" her hair into a do remarkably similar to an ’80s-era Flock of Seagulls catastrophy.

I watched in horror but could say nothing. I knew what I had to do. ... As soon as I dropped her off at the sitter's house I had a rendez-vous with a Drive-Thru.

Day (don't) care ...

favorite colors, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Maybe I just didn't get enough sleep last night. Or maybe I'm feeling the effects of four days without Jed and the promise of at least four more, but whatever I'm feeling it's surely not a favorable color.

Since finding out we're losing our PERFECT day care situation now that our family is expanding, I've been scouring the area for placements.

It feels as if I've gotten the vibe from lots of people I discuss it with that there's not a lot of empathy out there for people like me; people who chose to work rather than sacrifice the false hope of stability for the joys of raising their children in a loving and homey environment.

Day care, you see, isn't rocket science. It's a simple fact of life that many, many, many families deal with on a daily basis. You pay a premium that's too high for your monthy budget, perhaps, but still not high enough for a living wage.

As I expected, infant placements are like gold, and family day care situations have wait lists miles long or are too out of the way for timely pickups.

The three facilities I've toured thus far seem to encompass the entire gamut institutional day care has to offer.

First, there was McEducation: A meandering cement block academy for tots as young as weeks old, with brightly painted walls and whose staff wear the cheery uniform of corporate governance. Everything in it's place, everything with a plan ... even a guru of academic philosophy to follow.

Since it was the first place we looked at, and so different from what I am used to, I disintegrated into a puddle of jiggling guilt in the parking lot after keeping my chin up during the visit. For some reason I just felt the place, despite kids appearing to have a wonderful time, was a joy and life suck with its cookie-cutter appearance and its everybody is a "smart body" mantra.

The next place, Shab-o-Rama, was more my cup of tea. Seriously. It was an old church education building, seemingly disorganized and in need of minor repairs. The staff was dressed comfortably in their own clothes and seemed to smile naturally. At 9:30 a.m. the kids were together reading in some rooms, eating a snack separately or playing in other rooms of the day care. It was still a "day care" but just felt laid back and REAL.

But, of course, fate would dictate that Shab-o Rama doesn't take infants until they're 18 months, at which point Ittybit will be ready for Kindergarten. Jed wisely counseled that two different day care facilities might just be the straw that breaks the camel's back ... me being the camel.

And today, with visions of being able to visit my munchkins at lunchtime, I traveled a few dozen blocks away from work and ended up in Afganistan, or at least its dank, cavernous small city equivalent. It went beyond shabby into wartorn. The place smelled of mildew and was pitch black at naptime. Mops laying in sinks in the "art" room seemed to show how nothing, not even cleaning, was completed in the place. In the nursery, babies in cribs lined the walls -- sleeping or crying -- as a heavily-eyelined worker huddled on the floor under a hot pink coat, seemingly trying to take a snooze herself.

So back to square one, or should I say back to pseudo-school.

Can't argue with logic

Picture the scene if you will: County Route 83, a carcass of a rabbit lying on the road in front of us, a crow (that had been feasting) lifts into the sky as we pass by.

ITTYBIT: Mommy, what was THAT?!

MOMMY: It was a crow.

ITTYBIT: I don't like crows.

MOMMY: What's not to like about crows?

ITTYBIT: They scare away the chickadee-dee-dees. And I don't like that.

MOMMY: Well, I suppose that could be a problem.

ITTYBIT: Mom? There's a crow in Little Badger, right?

MOMMY: Yes, there is. And he's a nice crow. Remember, he brought the shiny stone for Badger's just-about birthday. I'm sure he doesn't scare chickadees.

ITTYBIT: But there aren't any chickadee-dee-dees in that book ...

Another cause for concern

Do you remember when I said this about the last days of our beloved Maggie?

Well, had you been living in our house at the time or speaking with me in person, I would have told you "it was the strangest thing" the way she just stopped eating.

I would have told you that while she wouldn't touch her food bowls all of a sudden, she would still drool over table food and gobble down pancakes or homemade cookies or even the hard dog biscuits we'd been refraining from giving her because the tumor in her lung was pressing on her esophagus.

Well, guess what she'd been eating since August?

Blink and you miss it

A friend of mine recently relayed a story about how, at 27 weeks gestation with her second child, she'd attended her first prenatal yoga class and nearly cried at the thought of how this time around she hadn't been taking care of herself.

How is it possible, she wondered, that it had taken so long to check in with herself and connect with the newbie? Just one hour a week, that's all she needed.

That's what it's been like for me this whole winter. The weeks just seem to fly by, bringing with them one niggling sickness after another. From one head cold to a stomach ailment and right back to nasty head cold, I've been coping since November with this cyclical suffering.

If it weren't for monthly obstetrics appointments I'm sure I'd forget I was pregnant at all. I can't help but feel sad that I haven't been as present with Thing 2 as I was with Ittybit. I haven't enjoyed it as well.

If I say that aloud I instantly feel the cold gazes of women and the incredulous looks from their menfolk. To many of them enjoying pregnancy is a contradiction in terms.

But I readily admit that I am one of those oddballs who LOVES being pregnant.

For the most part, I feel fine if not better than I normally do during my regular, single-serve existence.

Even the not-so-nice parts -- the heartburn, nosebleeds and itchy skin -- are merely momentary inconveniences easily explained and easily set aside. I know it's the pregnancy that causes it, and as such I can let it go. No worries.

With Ittybit I attended my regular, weekly yoga class religiously; I went to the gym after work three days a week and walked my legs tired on the treadmill; I took time most every morning to follow Shiva Rea's lead on a prenatal exercise tape I vowed would become a staple in my life, even after the pregnancy was over, because I enjoyed its flow.

But my life is markedly different this time around. I come straight home from work, feeling the weight of guilt for having spent so much time away. Every weekend is set aside for "Mommy" time.

"Me" time is what I steal late at night and early in the morning, and cheat my husband out of whenever I get the chance. Me time is for writing about HER, and processing photographs of HER life, and checking in with other moms to reassure myself that I'm at least getting a quarter of it right.

That's the ME I've become. A mother. And not even an efficient one at that. Every morning I pat myself on the back for being able to get out of the house with a kid who's only partially dressed and fed a mere 20 minutes past the time I'd really wanted to leave.

What pains me, though, isn't the "ME" time I'm missing. It's the "HE" time.

I've been making due by keeping score during the morning and evening kickfest game that the inside of my belly has become. I lift my shirt and look down in amusement as one quadrant of my blue-veined abdomen jumps and squirms.

I may not feel as if I'm in this game, but at least I'm cheering it on.

... That's what I tell myself, anyway.

Truth and fiction

kill bill, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

There are days when I just don't know who you are. Always lovely and amazing, you are also forever changing. Evolving. Becoming someone with distinct ideas all your own.

More self possessed, you are able to entertain yourself for long periods of time. Creating your beloved projects or making up imaginary worlds peopled with a growing community of bedroom toys, you seem to have cultivated a secret life complete with anthems; silly songs that combine familiar tunes with made up stories.

Often when I try to sing along, you sigh a long sigh and shush me: "This is MY song, Mommy. I was singing it." Your eyes tell me you're not entirely serious, but your hand will venture over my lips if I persist. "SHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Last night you pressed tickly kisses onto my belly, telling the baby inside (through my navel) that you loved him. Your eyes glittered as you patted a little more enthusiastically than necessary, telling me you were hitting ... er, patting his little head because he was sooooo cute.

Much of what we talk about sounds like this:

"When my baby comes, I am going to be a big sister and he is going to have teeth," you tell me assuredly. "He can share my snacks. He's going to like ice cream. I'll show him how to eat it. Mom? Do you think he'll like blueberries? I dreamed about dragons last night, flying in my room. They were nice though. They were looking for butterflies. We should call my brother D.W. I think that would be a good idea. He's going to be a girl, though."

It seems all I ever do lately is try to parse the real from the imagined. And it saddens me, really. I am reminded of all the "magic moments" of my childhood that never took place; all the things that my mother later told me never really happened. At least not the way I remembered, anyway.

But I am not constantly at your side as you maneuver through your days. For nine hours or more, five days a week, you are with other people. Until recently, and still on occasion, you'll ignore my attempts to get you to talk about your adventures at preschool or at Lori's house.

I hated myself for indulging your penchant for Eddie Haskellism by asking you to tell me who misbehaved in school just to get a reply that seems newsy. I know you have a thing for being on your best behavior, especially when someone else is acting up.

"Cole was eating the shovel rice, and Marcia said 'we don't eat shovel rice, only cooked rice. Please don't eat my shovel rice'. And then Madeline didn't sit on her bottom. I sat on my bottom though."

Lately, and with equal amounts of enthusiasm, you tell me that you had peas for snack or that the frog prince ate the fish you had caught in the bead bin or that Kaydn broke her leg and can't walk unless she scoots around like a crab. Lori fills me in on the "real" stories, with considerable eye-rolling or laughter to punctuate the explainations.

Of course, while I'm taking everything you say and examining it with the force of a 10X magnifying glass, trying to find the key that will translate fantasy into reality, something remarkable will happen.

It was your special day at school (which means it's my day to learn about all the places I, as an assistant to the seasoned teachers, should not stand, hang paintings or allow children to play: "Oh, we hang paintings to dry on this rack over here, not that rack." OR "We don't use our fingers to paint, only the brushes."

As I'm juggling car seat snaps and preschool snacks, preparing for the carnage I will create with my uninitiated presence, you crane your neck past the heap of winter clothes I'm trying to bring with us in one trip ... "Is that Kaydn? I think that's Kaydn."

And sure enough, Kaydn's mom lifts her from the car parked behind ours. The first thing I notice is the writing on her cast.

Now I suppose I'll have to go looking for a fish eating frog prince, too, as I wonder why I ever doubted you.


Admiringly,

Mommy

For our next trick ...

For those of you (including myself) who needed proof that a 225-pound man can fit into a toddler bed with a 26-pound kiddo, albeit not as comfortably as the entire family can fit into the KING sized bed two rooms away, but that's beside the point.

Although it's sweet an all, I have to admit to being just a tiny bit jealous of that smile she can't hide as they pretend to snooze for the camera. Also a little miffed that the K-Mart bed, rated for a child 50 pounds or less, held up without complaint during this particular exercise in silliness.

Go figure: I'm mad that something is actually worth the $50 I paid for it.

There I was, feeling all special (and petite) as I've been fitting my pregnant body into the tiny bed along with the veritable library of books and toys and other possessions the little miss has to have with her as she drifts off to the Land of Nodd. I squirm only a little while I read "Nate the Great," or "If I Ran the Circus," and I've sometimes even fallen asleep as I wait for sleep to catch up with her.

And all along it turns out the Incredible Hulk can sleep there, too. ...

Hmmmm I wonder if the doll's bed will hold me?

Yeah, on second thought ... better not.

We have Chuck envy around here

chuck wannabe, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

But Maddy won't stand for the things dooce's dog does.

Real moms make mistakes

night and day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

They lose their tempers

They stand their ground when they should let it slide

They give up the fight too soon

They zig when they should zag

Real moms learn from their blunders

And they slip up again anyway



Kristen's Real Moms Meme brought to me by Whirlwind.

... And now, over to you KimmyK, Supa and Stefanierj.

A little night light

sweetie pie, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

3 a.m.: A little peep awakened me. Annabel, smelling fresh from her bath only a few hours earlier, was standing at my bedside, wide awake but silent.

She raised her arms. I lifted her and she slid effortlessly under the covers beside me.

"Oh, mama. I forgot my water. I'll be right back," she said as she wiggled away, slipping off the bed and back into the darkness. I heard her feet pound confidently through the hallway.

Only a few weeks ago she would have insisted I get out of bed and accompany her on the quest because she was "too afraid."

I didn't ask what brought her in; all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. She returned with her cup and climbed back into bed, settling easily into a comfortable position and became still.

In the morning I asked her why she had gotten out of bed in the middle of the night.

"All the dreams are in this bed. My bed doesn't have any dreams."

The big 5 (for posterity)

Gingajoy and Her Bad Mother are embarking on a more academic look at how blogging is affecting women and culture, and it's something that interests me immensely. As a person who is about as far from academic as humanly possible, and as someone whose wardrobe (since my mom stopped dressing me anyway) will NEVER be sufficient to bump her into even the smallest of small professional circles, I am nevertheless interested in how the savory stew of life, influence and understanding is concocted.

So, for what it's worth here are my answers to the five questions posed by these thoughtful women:

1. Who are we?
In the most clinical of explanations, I am a small-town journalist who works as a copy editor at a small city daily. I identify as a writer, photographer and a mother. I am white and middleclass. I'm not sure anyone of privilege would call me privileged, but for the most part I feel financially stable if not secure, and able to afford small luxuries.

In more artful terms, I feel as if I'm still the kid I was in elementary school: shy and inarticulate, coming to terms with everything around me as if it was critical for the future. I never intended on being a wife or a mother. I never dreamed of being famous or even notable. I have difficulty making choices but not long-term decisions. I wanted to collect every thought in case I ever needed it again. It didn't matter if it had significance for anyone else. In many ways, I was and still am a "thought" packrat.

2. Who are we writing to? Who is our audience?
When I started this blog, and previously a Web site dedicated to the birth and first year of Ittybit (and even prior to that a Web site dedicated to the details of our wedding) I was writing for myself and for any members of the family who wished to check in. Although these "life" transitions were important to me, and I needed to work them out in words, I didn't expect others to actually want to be a part of my internal monologue. I figured if I gave out the Web address and people visited, they'd want read and wouldn't just be patiently (and politely) listening to me drone on and on.

Answering who I am, of course, is a difficult proposition. Who am I? Isn't that what we are all trying to find out? Isn't that why we jot things down on the blank pages of little flowered books in a practiced script from the time we first learn to scribble?

3. Why are we writing? What is our purpose?
I think part of why I write in this blog, as well as another, is to leave a record of who I was. Perhaps I won't be able to define myself, but I hope to leave something behind for my children and their children to get to know me. So often we lament not having asked questions, not having paid attention, when we had the opportunity. And yet, even now, even at an advanced age, I'm not sure I'd be any better at getting to know my grandparents than I was when I was small. As soon as I had a child my mortality came at me with a force I didn't expect. What if something unforseen and terrible happend to me. Would she ever know me?

4. What is the context for our writing? What are we saying? What is our message?
The context of my writing is to capture in words (and photographs) a snapshot of life as I see it. Thoughts, feelings, ideas. Mostly it centers on the life change that is motherhood, but it also takes on ideas from media and society that make me stop and think and put each into my own perspective. And it changes. I allow myself to grow on these pages, to entertain, to inform and to wonder, but ultimately it is about my life, my children and my family. It is my auxiliary memory.

5. How does the medium of blogging affect all this?
The public nature of blogging -- the media goal of getting readership and engaging in dialog -- often makes writing a constant learning process and a challenge. As someone who writes for a readership, there is a constant checking and re-checking of goals. Do I want to be a columnist or a diarist? Am I out there for recognition or for exploration?

Simply speaking, though, the medium -- a computer keyboard, storage space out in the ethosphere, and one address that ties it all together -- makes it possible for me continue gathering these observations faithfully. As someone who's never liked their handwriting, never felt comfortable with the inked out marks of revision, and who is vaguely nauseated by the sight of a blank page, the miracle of the backspace has made me a more fluid thinker and more confident scribe.

Of course even this concerns me in a conflicting way, not so much as a matter of privacy but rather a matter of permanance. Yes, all these thoughts are out in the world and open to anyone, but they are also on servers that could feasibly crash and be lost to me, the author. And let's face it, as someone who still doesn't totally understand how the fax machine works, I have no problem envisioning all this mind melt disappearing into the void. Talk about impermanent permanence.

Selective memory

Sometimes when I'm feeling low and not too productive, I click through the archives to see what was going on a year ago today. Turns out this time last year, in the flickrsphere anyway, we were also in Concord for Great Grandfather's birthday. His 99th.

I think about "family" a lot more than I used to. It shouldn't be surprising seeing as how time seems to march at break-neck speed once you decide to spawn. All of a sudden heartache and mortality loom large on an otherwise unincumbered psyche.

Not that I wasn't a fatalist BEFORE deciding motherhood might actually be a good idea, just that when time is marked by a child's metamorphosis time marks you, too.

Yet, as I count on my fingers the three months left until Thing 2 will be hatched into this world, it all seems so incongruous. So incomprehensible. How is it possible that time moves with the speed of both molasses and lightning?

Lately, we've been "shopping" daycare facilities, and it's been nothing short of culture shock (for me). Giant, multi-colored complexes in professional parks. Cinderblock walls, locked doors and intercom security. Everything is colored with learning speak: "The we-prepare-your-kids to-be-the-brightest they-can-be" slogan marketed to modern parents.

Instead of "free play" kids engage in excercising their "gross motor skills."
These great bastions of early childhood education build "problem-solving" and "critical thinking skills." Instead of story time they delve headlong into literacy achievement.

The critic in me wants to smack myself over the head and say this is why Mommy's supposed to stay home: so that Junior can learn about family before he has to learn his ABCs. So he can get hugs and kisses instead of lessons and progress reports. Yet the phobic in me knows that without my stable income, we are only one out-of-commission truck or lost client closer to destitute. And worse, we are one nervous breakdown away from total chaos. And in the end, nothing really changes.

No matter what they call it this week -- story time, literacy readiness or whatever catchphrase sounds like it will net the most cash from stricken parents -- in the end it's still about sitting around on a carpet somewhere reading "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish."

It's just that it's so easy to pine for a simpler time; a time when health care wasn't a three-ringed circus, groceries for the month didn't cost a week's pay and heating a home didn't include budget plans.

And yet, when you really look into it, when you are reminded of the kitchens and cafeterias our grandmothers worked in or the assembly lines, it's entirely possible the golden age had its tarnish, too.

A century later ...

family, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

This is the bunch of us -- artists, administrators, academics, actors, bankers, barristers, brewers, entrepreneurs, computer geeks, dancers, professionals, parents, ponderers and poets.

All of this from a Bell Labs inventor, who was honored Saturday for turning 100, and a school teacher, whom he married 72 years ago.

Although the event -- a party with dozens of family members from across the country -- offered a glimpse into his life, and a newspaper article in the Concord Journal offered more fascinating facts, it was clear that Great Grandfather's life that was nothing short of charmed:

"After graduating from Kansas State University, (Ralph) Miller went to work of Bell Telephone Laboratories. Just before the beginning of WWII, Miller's company was called upon to tighten up security withing in the overseas communication systems.

By extending the bandwith and creating secure connections, Miller was part of the revolution of high-speed digital transmission. Much of Miller's work for the Bell Telephone Laboratories was kept in secret governmental files until the 1970s.

In the end Miller invented five of the the 30 patents held in secrecy by the United States' government.

Relatives and friends offered even more insight into the man who, with his wife, Peggy, raised three children in the New Jersey suburbs. They spoke not only about his professional achievements but also about the personal inventiveness and generosity that has made him such a beloved member of the community and endeared him to generations.

All and all, an inspirational life. And something else that didn't occur to me until after we'd gathered our families and headed back to the places we were staying: All of a sudden the "generation gap" that seems insurmountable evaporated. After the littlest children were tucked into bed, the grandchildren gathered around the livingroom for nightcaps and late-night snacks. We shared experiences, we listened to each other's thoughts and lives; and though only part of what was said that night directly related to Ralph and Peggy, it all seemed connected. It all became evident where these people came from and where there were going. And for an evening, all of life's little mysteries made perfect sense.

All the signs were there ...

Lately I've been thinking the universe is thumbing its nose at me. Crazy, right? Maybe it's just the stress of everyday life, or the reality that I've just gone from one needling virus to another since Thanksgiving. Maybe I'm just tired of thinking. Like the character Henry Chinaski in the movie "Barfly" said: "Sometimes I just get tired of thinking of all the things that I don't wanna do. All the things that I don't wanna be. Places I don't wanna go, like India, like getting my teeth cleaned. Save the whale, all that, I don't understand that."

Yet somehow -- as I wallow in self pity -- we've managed to raise a sensitive child, who seems to know how to take care of us when we are feeling low.

Sunday was a hard day for all of us; I was sore all over, and thinking that perhaps the stress of Maggie's demise and some other tasks I'd managed to get done during the day had taken their toll on me. I was tired. Still I managed to rouse myself from an impromptu nap in time to vacate the premises (as Jed wanted to be alone with Maggie) taking Annabel away with me.

I really had no clue where to go before I left. What to do with a hour on a blustery day. But then Annabel stole the last piece of bacon Jed had made to help Maggie choke down her pills.

There was a fight. There were tears and hurt feelings.

She wanted the last piece; he wanted it for Maggie. She didn't understand.

At least I knew what to do: We went to the diner to get bacon.

She ate five of the six pieces on her plate, saving the last one for daddy.

When we got home Jed was in the shower and she was eager to give him the bacon. I wanted to know how it went and started crying. How did it go? Where did it happen? How did he wrap her?

Something about it all was just overwhelming. Yet Annabel stood there with the bacon, looking concerned for me. "I'm not sad, Mommy. Maggie's OK now."

At 4 a.m. that morning I woke up and had to vomit. It was official, the achyness and dreadful tired wasn't from overdoing anything. It was a bug that people tell me is going around. And so, dear Internets, I've been wallowing on the couch these last two days and wishing I felt better. Wishing winter were at an end and the end of sick were within reach.

It's been really helpful that Ittybit knows just the right thing to say.

"Mama, I hoped you were feeling better. I hoped you were feeling really better."

Goodnight, baby dog ...

At 5 p.m. this evening a friend and veterinarian made a house call, and we said goodbye to our sweet dog Maggie for the last time. She was 13 years old.

She was our first baby.

She was not in pain.

She stopped eating almost completely two days ago but she had not gotten lethargic.

It was time.

Last night she spent a lot of time standing in the snow in the backyard just staring off into the distance. She did not sleep where she usually does, at Annabel's bedside, but in the hallway between the kitchen and the "great outdoors." I went to check on her at 4 a.m. and found her in the yard again looking off into the distance.

I had a dream a few days ago that we'd taken her to the vet, telling her the vet would make her better but knowing it was impossible. Her eyes were almost human; relieved and willing it to be true. It broke my heart.

We were never going to be ready to let her go or say goodbye. But we knew it would be best to do it before discomfort or pain took hold.

It was such a wonderful thing, for us, that her last moment on this Earth would be at home and not in a clinic that she had tolerated dutifully but a place that always made her shiver fearfully. This friend traveled more than an hour to do that for us when our vet would not, and we are indebted to him.

He adminstered the last treatment downstairs in front of the woodstove with Maddy laying next to her. She went peacefully as if she just fell asleep. Jed wrapped her in a warm blanket and buried her in the backyard under the honeysuckle.

She will now be a part of this place just as she was once a part of us.

You are a good dog, Maggie. We love you.

Dear big box hardware store with the orange logo ...

You know who you are. You rhyme with "Loam Cheapo."

We've got this kid, and she's three. And she's really cute if I do say so myself. Some of your employees say so, too, when she visits your enormous store with her dad and they shop for tools and building supplies.

I know that YOU are not a parent, and you are not responsible for any behavior-related rewards a parent of such a child -- who was being EXCEEDINGLY charming just sitting in the shopping cart, singing to herself and talking with other shoppers, as her dad filled it up with all kinds of widgets and gizmos that a kid her age isn't allowed to touch. You know, in order to prevent electric shock. In other words: NOT TOYS -- might wish to bestow.

And those balloons ... with the festive spring colors you had littered about the store sure looked good to a kid like that. In fact, the dad asked one of your orange-vested mules if it would be alright to take one of the resplendent orbs.

"NO."

"Well, can I buy one."

"They're not for sale. NO."

Jaysus.

When someone spends $600 in electrical supplies at your cavernous warehouse, it seems a gratis balloon would be nothing short of beneficient customer service.

So for the cost of a balloon and two teary eyes, we'd like you to know that we'll be spending our big-box home improvement money at Lowes. It will be worth the trip.

Systems Normal ... All F***** Up ...

You ever hear of this Mercury in Retrograde thing?

Well I don't believe in curses, but Jaysus Christ! The old "trickster" sure seems to be giving me a run for my money this week. And I am definitely NOT rolling with the punches.

I may not be speaking to anyone until this whole backward-facing planet thing turns itself around. And by that time, I'm fairly certain they won't be speaking to me, either.