Rest doesn't always lead to relaxation

rainy day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The weekend came and went with a huff of wind and steady rain.

Sunday afternoon Silas was feeling, what I now believe, was the final effects of a lingering cold ... he was warm to the touch, feverish and tired.

We spent the afternoon on the couch, as we've spend many days of late. He slept while I reheated my coffee more times than I care to admit and watched Sandra Bullock be impossibly cute from 1990 until whenever she made "Miss Congeniality." (DAMN YOU, HBO!)

Come Monday he was still warm and his sister overslept, which is a sign - at least in my experience of childhood - that rest is probably the best plan.

So we stayed home, watched TV, decorated Easter Eggs and generally took time to not do much at all.

I'm not sure such days are good for the mental health, though.

It seems I do less and less and the kids get older.

I don't comb my hair. I steer clear of the mirror and the bathroom scale. I don't want to see how "I've let myself go."

My knee hurts when it rains. When did that start?

I want a warm day so I can go out and be in the world again.

Yet, I know once the warm days lead to hot ones I'll be hiding back inside. Not wanting to move. Not wanting to think about all that has to get done; all that I should want to do.

I'm ready, and waiting, for spring. I need to thaw into forward momentum.

The routine that isn't

I challenge you to a duel!, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

You picked out your clothes today; or more to the point you nodded your head in approval as your dad held up various items from which you could choose. Your dad chuckled that the multi-colored pants you selected had the face of Winnie the Pooh stitched to the bum.

He finds that kind of thing funny.

I find nothing strange in such a choice, however, especially now that your displeasure in getting dressed at all is backed by a growth spurt that has given your wiggle more weight. Everyone can use a soft landing now that the Terrible Twos have begun their approach, what better way than with a bear who's stuffed with fluff?

Looking at you now, I find it hard to remember the six-pound baby we brought home nearly two years ago.

Back then you looked so tiny, so frail, so vulnerable.

Right now you are a tough cookie with a penchant for repeating the last word of anything anyone says aloud.

"Do you want some snack?"

"Nack!"

"Where are your trucks?"

"Guck!"

"Where is your Dappa John?"

"John?"

Well ... most of the time:

"I think you need a diaper change .."

"NO!"

And your "terrible twos" are evident:

So far this month,

* My new video camera met its demise at the bottom of the dog's water bowl.

* Some haberdashery belonging to your sister’s Polly Pocket dolls mysteriously found its way into our septic system … or so we believe.

* Stray rocks have begun collecting in the end pipes of the gutters.

* Most of the food you are given gets thoroughly masticated and then returned to the plate (or deposited in random locations throughout the house).

* You’ve begun sounding a little like the seagulls in the movie “Finding Nemo” … Mine! Mine! Mine!

* And "NO!" … is beginning to mean NO!

Things are really quite different this time around, though. The terrible twos for the second child, in our case, will probably be magnified by the fact that our routine isn't what anyone would consider routine.

Breakfast for you typically means sitting on your father's lap and eating every other spoonful.

Dinner often gets left on the plate or fed to the dog.

Bedtime usually consists of you dragging your dad into our bedroom yelling "BOND! BOND!" Because you have gotten into the habit of hanging out with your dad as he watches Double-O-Seven renew his License to Kill while I read bedtime stories to your sister.

I keep thinking when you have normal a room, you'll have a normal routine. (If normal is even possible in our house as long as we reside there).

We'll get there, somehow.

I'm not worried. Much.


Love,

Mama

Random Question Thursday

when pigs fly, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Right here, right now ... What do you wish for?

Close your eyes and just think it. You don't have to tell anyone.

Now, I could SAY this wasn't coming back to haunt him

... but that would be a lie.

At least one of us got a gold star today

Another special day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

You slipped into the shower with me this morning, wanting your first kindergarten experience to be clean of preschool dirt, no doubt.

You dug through your dresser looking for the shirt a friend had given you because you'd decided to wear it to the big interview: kindergarten registration day.

You were sure the bright yellow hand-me-down was a "Kindegarten" shirt, since it was bequeathed to you by a kindergartener. But when you pointed to a word and I read it as "Preschool," you put it back and selected an alternate.

"I want to wear jeans, mama," you said to my surprise. "Big girls wear jeans," you explained.

But you didn't have any jeans; I'd long ago stopped buying them since you prefer soft, stretchy pants. You settled for a pair of purple corduroys with riveted pockets that were wadded up in the back of a lower drawer, one of last children's apparel purchases I made without your approval.

We were just about ready.

Your father had left the paperwork up to me. I'd collected the information - immunization records, birth certificate, registration forms, proof of residence - the previous night.

We were all excited.

You were going to be great. We all knew it. Lori even told you you'd be the best kid in the whole world, and everyone would see it.

Of course, when we arrived in the office and met the principal's assistant you were all hello and how-do-you-do ... "Will I meet my teacher today?"

When a woman came to get you and bring you to your screening, where you would play some games that would decide your future class placement, you never looked back. You are not so much brave as you are confident.

As you were reciting numbers and letters (and getting gold stars for showing the nice ladies with the clipboards how you could cut with scissors and catch a ball) we were getting sent to remedial parenting school in our minds, and likely the minds of the school's administrators.

I'd missed half of the forms that needed to be turned in, and had to quickly scribble them out as your dad tried to cover by cracking jokes and asking questions.

We look on sheepishly as the mother behind us received praise for getting all the forms filled out properly. Our shoulders slumped forward just a little bit more.

When we are brought together again, the three of us, to meet the principal, we became THOSE parents; the one's who are afraid you won't be seen for who you are; the ones who are afraid you will be molded into student who repeats information by rote. We have no idea what we don't know.

I admitted to the smiling woman behind the desk that we have no doubt that you are ready for school and that you will do well. We are not worried about your abilities at all. I tell her we are the ones who are scared. We are the one's who will have trouble fitting in.

She nods her head with something in her face that says she knows us better that we know ourselves.


With love, and promises to work on getting more gold stars,

Mommy

Alone by Myself on an Island Cookies

best cookies I've ever made, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I didn't really use a recipe ... so chances are I won't be able to recreate them but maybe you can ...

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Ingredients (all thrown unceremoniously into the Kitchen Aid without the use of measuring devices):

* A small food processor bowl full of oatmeal (ground)
* A few shakes of enriched white flour (maybe a 3/4 of a cup)
* About two tablespoons of butter, softened
* Nearly two tablespoons (guessing) of canola oil
* Two eggs
* Half a box of dark brown sugar
* About half a cup of granulated sugar
* Two pours of vanilla extract
* A pinch of salt
* A spoon-tip of baking soda (couldn't find the baking powder but I would have put in an equal amount of that).

Mix until blended and then add in:

* About a cup of chocolate chunks
* 3/4 of a bag of shredded, sweetened coconut (well, I put in half of the bag, but Silas - in his infinite wisdom of such things - decided it really needed more and added the rest while I was hunting for ...
* Three dried pineapple rings, chopped

The experiment is almost over: Place heaping teaspoons of batter on a parchment lined baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes.

Just breathe ... just breathe

headstand spotter, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Yesterday was a super shitty, stress-filled bitch of a day.

The day before it was worse.

The cumulative effect of which, was that I spiked a headache that became a crown of tension wrapped around my skull.

When I arrived home from work the house was in an uproar. Cookies that dad was making had dried cranberries.

No one is happy. Mama, least of all.

Fighting was everywhere. From every angle. No one can disengage.

"I'm making these cookies the way I want to and you'll try it or you'll have none."

"She's got to learn," he says, "that things don't always go her way."

"Like it or lump it," he told her.

She didn't understand. Neither did I really. How hard is it to hold out some batter to be cooked plain?

But I did understand it was his kitchen. His rule. To go against it wouldn't be in anyone's best interest.

She told me her tummy hurt.

I told her it was a likely result of tension she was holding from being upset, just like my headache.

I told her yoga might help.

So she and I rolled out our mats and started doing the Alphabet with Marcia Wenig.

She told me, during Moo and Meow, she wasn't feeling any better.

I told her to breathe. Just breathe.

By the time we got to V - for volcano - we were both feeling better.

By Z, it was time for dinner.

And later, she even tried the dessert.

There was calm.

She picked around the cranberries, and declared it ...

"Not so good."

But she didn't make a face.

When she asked for a popsicle.

He gave it to her.

Nobody really won.

Nobody really lost.

But we were able to make peace.

Some days are made of this ...

this one goes out to Jenny, she will know what I mean, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Yesterday was one of those days.

Letting her babies grow up to be cowboys

he's got his trusty steed and his rusty potato gun ..., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

When I was growing up kids (in my age-group anyway) didn't play with guns. It was a mindset that most of our parents held: guns were not toys; there was nothing of value to be gained from leveling the barrel of a plastic peashooter in any direction, even at an imaginary foe.

Had we hailed from a family of hunters, maybe we'd have a different take on the subject. But no, we, and nearly everyone we knew, were doggedly anti-gun.

My assumption has always been that the war in Vietnam - which had recently ended - was the main factor behind the boycott. Too many young men our parents had known just never came home, or they'd come home so affected by the horrors they'd seen or participated in that they weren't the same people when they did come home.

I was quite a bit older than most kids' (I think) when I finally saw a child playing with a toy gun. I must admit the sight shocked me.

But then again, I was a girl. A tomboy, perhaps, but a girl all the same. The boy stuff I was interested in wasn't playing cops and robbers or war games; it was going fishing or climbing trees or catching snakes. It was scaling walls and getting dirty.

I have come to think of it as a testament to my lack of imagination. I wasn't interested in thinking and role play as much as I was fixated on getting things done. I wanted to be the Engine Who Could. I wanted to be as high as I could get. I wanted to face fear and stare it down.

Guns didn't frighten me; they weren't even on my radar.

It didn't occur to me until much later, though, that guns were all around as I grew up. They didn't much look like what they were supposed to be, however, a red button on a rectangular hunk of plastic, tethered by a chord to the television screen. The explosive blasts sounded more digital than mechanical, and the targets were little men from outer space.

Few could work up much opposition to something so fanciful.

Shooting aliens, after all, would be a desired skill in the unlikely event of an interstellar invasion.

Of course, my interest in such things never lasted long; again I blame my gender. Even with the advent of Charlie's Angels, I was more interested in the caliber of their coiffs than the caliber of their side arms.

But boys will be boys.

Jed's mom was not much different than my parents. She was another mother who forbade games depicting mortal combat. Of course she herself fell victim when her only son - unhappy with the edict - chewed his toast into the shape of a revolver and brazenly shot her over breakfast one morning.

"Where do they get this from," I recall was her recollection.

I have to admit, I had the same degree of wonderment when The Champ, a few months ago, picked up a roll of wrapping paper, aimed it at the dog and said: "Psssshoooooo!"

I shook it off. He's only 17 months old. It didn't mean what I think it means.

Then a month or so later I found him quietly stalking our furry, incontinent beast with the core of a toilet paper roll. One eye shut. BOOM!

I sent out the APB: "Silas has a gun," but I didn't bother asking where he got one.

"Bond. James Bond." Has been his dad's nightly routine for falling asleep since Santa brought him the complete boxed set.

"We don't shoot family pets," I say ... wondering if it's possible rabies (and not age and a lack of estrogen) is causing the pee puddles around the places she's been, in which case it might not be so inappropr...

"NO! It is not OK to shoot the dog, Silas. OW. The dog would get hurt."

"No. Pshooooo?"

"No Pshooooo."

Since the all-out bans haven't really changed society's view on guns, a number of social scientists have found that toy guns and violent play acting might actually have an important role in motivating the later academic learning in boys, as well as allowing kids to explore weighty life issues such as fear, death and violence in a safe manner.

To me it makes sense. Not only do we learn through play, but it doesn’t seem as if outright bans instill knowledge as much as they reinforce fear. And looking back, I can honestly say that none of the kids I knew who played cops and robbers ever became either. Although it's possible one or two are still shooting at aliens.

I suppose the argument over whether children should play with guns is going to be a moot point in our house.

The kid's already found his dad's "potato gun."

And he's got his trusty steed, Butterscotch, to take him Home on the Range whenever he squeezes her ear.

I suppose the only thing missing is the cowboy hat -- although not if you consider his recent finding of a plastic fire helmet in the back of his sister’s closet that he now wears as he rides off into the sunset on the PlasmaCar.

Perhaps I should think about getting the poor old dog an orange vest, just incase this particular mother's son does indeed grow up to be a cowboy. ... We wouldn't want him mistaking her for a wolf, anyway.

Five bucks

five bucks, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The other portion of last week's stimulus money, which is $11 if you're keeping track, went for a cup of coffee for me, and some candy and trinkets for the kids' Easter baskets.

Getting out of the house by myself to browse at the used bookstore was kind of priceless.

Shake, shake, shimmy

seeds, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

ME: Annabel wants to get some seeds.

HIM: What kind of seeds?

ME: She said vegetables and flowers ... but don't get too many.

HIM: *blink blink*

ME: What's that look for?

HIM: Well ... it's just that we both have black thumbs.

ME: So? I can learn. I'm going to read something.

HIM: Why not start slow and try watering them.

Five things

A tiny map of southern Maine where my husband grew up, and where his mother, and someday, we, may retire. I decoupaged it to a small canvas and plan to hang four of them - different places in the world that have meaning to us - somewhere in our new house.

A block. The Letter I. Iguana. Ink. Ink is a fluid that I believe must mingle in my life's blood along with the black coffee.

A clothespin doll. One of the first Christmas ornament/playthings I ever made with Annabel.

An elephant. For some symbolizes luck, dilligence, strength, memory and wisdom. It usually watches Annabel as she sleeps

A double-decker "matchbox" bus my dad bought me when I was a wee squirt. Silas loves it; the doors still open and the bell still works. We have both dropped it on our toes. Silas' was unharmed. The nail on mine turned black as I recall.

Random Question Thursday

What is your favorite AND least favorite bored board games?

Annabel dug up these old boards (but not the game pieces) from the back of her closet recently. And although I am familiar with the game "Parcheesi" (the board barely visible on the bottom of the pile) since my parents had a set, I'm almost certain these didn't come from their house. I have never heard of "Camelot" the game, nor do I recognize the colorful, cat fancy number with the playing card motif.

It's been a while since I've played a board game that didn't contain a licensed character (Dora! Candyland and Chutes and Ladders; Little Pest Pet Shop - though on that last one, I'm still not sure of the game's object.)

I think I enjoy word games best; though I'm not sure these technically count as board games. Last night I got sucked in to play Apples to Apples and it was a simple word comprehension game based on card prompts from cards. It's nothing like Boggle, but it's just as fun and not nearly as noisy.

Mmmmm. ... and tactile games. Backgammon. To me playing it was always a bit of a zen experience. The roll of the dice, the feel of the round tiles under my fingers as I dragged them over the velvet board, and the satisfying click when stacked together. Yeah, I like backgammon.

Of course the games I like least are ones that take eight years to play (Monotony Monopoly) resulting in the financial bankrupsy of some players and the moral bankrupsy of the filthy, conniving player who ALWAYS wins. (I'm not bitter, though).

How to make a Magic Hat

I can't hear you when you're screaming at me

like weather in NY (revisited), originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I strode out of my lukewarm shower Monday morning (thanks to a the shenannigans of an impish little toddler I know who kept opening and closing the door) to the sounds of The Today Show talkingheads discussing A Case Against Breastfeeding.

I shuddered.

And not from the cold air in the kitchen (thanks to a thermostat perpetually set below 60 degrees), and not from the work that went into the Atlantic journal story. I shuttered at backlash that would result from such an inflamatory headline as "A Case Against Breastfeeding." Why does it always seem that in order to get to the truth of an emotional topic we have to have raze everything to the ground?

I knew what was coming next: Tweets. Twitters. Angry, thoughtful, painful blog posts.

Women who choose not to breastfeed, striking out because they believe the medical community and upper-income women have shamed them into feeling they've done irreperable harm to their children by giving them formula when in their heart of hearts they know they haven't.

There would also be women pushing back, feeling attacked by the magazine's message; women who chose to breastfeed and who feel strongly enough about it that they join groups to help others do it, too. And those who just plain disagreed with its conclusions.

Many have already told painful tales of being confronted by people -- some of them total strangers -- who thought it their place to inquire as to what substance these mothers' babies were guzzling from the bottles tilted into their mouths, so intent were they on setting errant moms straight if it were anything other than breastmilk.

They feel judged, shamed and unfairly villified.

What worries me about this new declaration ... another slogan, if you will ... is that it doesn't even speak to the information contained in the piece. It seems to seek vindication for those who have felt the hurt and guilt of NOT breastfeeding. It seems to bring one down to raise one up - A never-ending see-saw ride.

Perhaps in order to make everyone sit up and take notice we feel the need to bash heads. To work up a good lather of righteous indignation to wash off the debris of feeling wronged.

We seem to forget that the most important part about feeding a baby is making sure the baby is getting proper nutrition, whichever choice is made. That the baby is growing and healthy and thriving is everyone's desire.

We also seem to forget that we only have control over ourselves. When we become parents it almost seems as if our lives get put into a glass box that some giant inserts into the center of shark-infested waters. No matter where we swim we can't get away.

Only these people aren't really sharks. They are merely passersby looking in through a window. They are unwise to think they know more than we do about what's inside the glass, and we are imprudent if we allow it to be their business.

And all along I thought I had a knack for science

ROCK CANDY CALAMITY

Two pounds of granulated sugar

A glass jar

Some cotton string -- measured to reach the bottom of the jar.

"Seed" string by soaking in water, rolling in sugar and allowing to dry for an hour

Tie seeded strings to a piece of cardboard that will fit over the jar

Heat 1 cup of water over medium heat, until boiling

Add 2 cups granulated sugar, stirring until clear

Add another cup of sugar until dissolved

Remove from heat and pour into jar

Suspend strings into jar

The next step is suppose to be "Watch the crystals grow over the course of a week ..." NOT over the course of 12 hours.



I am so getting an "F" in this project.

Just an idea ...

ME: "Annabel, I have so much work to do it's not even funny."

HER: "I'm not laughing."

ME: "I know. Thanks."

HER: "You know, if you had become a veterinarian you would have SO MUCH FUN. Classes would come to visit you at work. And you know what else? If you worked at a school DOGS would come to visit you there!"

*** Looking for this week's stimulus spending update? Click on THIS.

Random Question Thursday

Do you have a favorite shower setting?

Massage
Nebulizing mist
Rain
Power rain
Full rain with massage
Directed pattern spray
Random pattern spray,
Aeration spray,
Twirling spray,
Pulsating jet spray


Here's a bit of too-much-information for your Thursday reading enjoyment:

My husband and I were perfectly happy with our single-setting, no fuss no muss fixed shower head. It was roughly the diameter of a half-dollar and probably cost the same way back when it was initially installed during the late 70s.

But then someone - a houseguest (I'm not naming names) - decided that we needed something more exciting. This houseguest disappeared to the hardware store and reappeared with a super-duper 12-setting shower head that (for a time) did everything but change the light bulb above the sink.

Class-ay!

After that (and this was a while ago, hence the note about the time) my husband and I started having the hassle of having to change the other's selected preference of water-dropping-pattern-ratio spray whenever we were scrubbing up.

I had the added problem of having to turn the shower head towards the wall so as to keep the water in the tub, something my husband can't really do because he'd never be able to get all the soap of his body. But I'm not going to quibble about that. I figure the fact that the shower head is the size of a salad plate and our shower is the size of a gym locker is the cause of that added adjustment.

Of course time and minerals conspired against us, and eventually, no matter what setting we wrestled the shower head into, what we got for our trouble was Do-it-Yourself Carwash (Patent pending).

We stopped adjusting the spray and just adjusted its direction. No one needs exfoliation to the bone.

Lately though, the shower head has been providing a rather pleasant effect: big, soft, fat droplet fall everso lightly now. It's quite pleasant not to mention refreshing. The effect isn't really comparable to nature yet still I equate the sensation to that of being caught in a summer rain shower.

Soon, the spray wars begin anew. The spray hits me like a sandblaster until I strong arm the head to my simple rain.

I mentioned this revelation to my husband as deuling settings dance begins once again.

He likes his shower to be injected with tiny needle pricks of water whereas I'd be fine if mine were dumped over my head in a sudden rush as if it were coming from the spigot of a hand pump.

I want to mention it, but complain I shant. The whole point of adjustible showers is to ADJUST.

"You know, I kind of like the way the shower isn't all scrub-your-skin-off anymore."

"Oh, that," he replied. "You didn't notice? I just wiped the crust off with my thumb a few days ago."

"Now that's class-ay."

How to make the perfect cup of coffee ...

even more perfect.




Coffee-talk amongst yourselves.

Ambiguous

impressed, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

I know what this look meant. I was there, listening.

The girl - a stranger you'd met on the playground - was telling you about how fun it was to play just the very way you two had been playing.

You were in emphatic agreement and slightly star-struck.

She was a bit older but nevertheless impressed that you'd already lost two teeth.

She also liked your name. And you liked hers.

The crinkle at the top of your nose is always there when you are listening intently. Your closed smile tightens your eyes.

I look at this picture and I see its ambiguity ... the face of a girl who's smelled something just a tiny bit off or saw something with a touch of derision.

But neither was a part of this moment when I snapped the shutter.

What was there, a few feet away, was another girl: A taller, blonde girl not so very different in age or appearance than either of you. Yet, I noticed your conversation -- even if she didn't hear -- soon made her so.

When you asked her to join you on the swing and she refused, you decided your games were better anyway. Without any meanness, you just moved her into another category. A different category than the one you were currently filing yourself and your new friend.

Is this how it begins? Where playground politics get their platforms? Their lobbyists? Their stranglehold on the developing child? There must be a natural order to growing up: A Darwinian struggle resembling survival of the fittest.

I remind you about all the times you didn't want to climb to the top, or slide on the curly slide. I remind you about how you sometimes like to play by yourself.

You agreed ... and then you told your friend "moms are always reminding you about stuff like that."

Perhaps it's because I remember this look. I understand it as sure as I know my own face. I know it has so many meanings beside the one that was behind it.

Love and observations,

Mommy

We're rethinking any future trips to the zoo

Lest they think he belongs in the cage with the big cats.

Stimulation

I found a few extra dollars in my paycheck this week, thanks to the economic stimulus plan, and spent it on a few things I didn't need: the Juno soundtrack and orange-flavored Tic Tacs.

I blame HBO programming honchos, a longing for my youth and product placement for this particular impulse purchase.

I know the money probably could have been better spent; perhaps on groceries or other necessities. But at least I was smiling and singing happily on my way to work this morning.

Random Question Thursday

I'm really NOT this silly, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Is your favorite news outlet Tweeting you?

I'm not really as silly as the photo suggests. *Hush up you who know different.*

But I think the explosion of local media outlets trying to get hip - and potential hype - by signing themselves up on Twitter is pretty silly.

In fact - gulp - I kind of think the whole "Let's-adopt-social-networking-as-a-potential-new-business-model because-it-seems-to-be-all-the-rage ... not-to-mention-getting-a-whole-boatload-of-bucks-right-now" IS downright laughable.

It may sound a lot like the pot calling the kettle black, here, seeing as how my personal blog is getting some linky love from the Home Office ... but really, I don't see how moves like this will save the industry.

I've been blogging for about five years now and I've made a total of $80 (although the people at Google haven't sent me that check yet ... so really I shouldn't count those eggs until they're hatched). My guess is there's no gold at the end of this rainbow.

An empty room

The Champ’s room is empty save for a trundle bed bought for a handful of dollars at a yard sale and a corner dresser filled with clothes he’s still months away from fitting.

A beige towel – remaindered and untouched from the last overnight guest - lays folded on the chest’s blonde-colored top. It serves as a rough terry mattress for a smattering of keepsake toys with which he’s never played.

The corner boudoir – more extension of hallway than bedroom – has been a concern since the moment the ultrasound technician detected his wand with hers.

Thus he’s never spent a night in his room. He rarely spends the night in his crib.

His clothes – the ones that do fit him - are straining a cheap chest of drawers pushed into the back of my closet. The ones he’s outgrown make their way to a bag tucked in beside it, presumably to be left, like an orphan, on the steps of a charity in a moment of eyes-closed-shut resolve.

My husband wonders if we’ll have to wait until he goes to college before we get our room back. His jokes have sharp teeth that he wraps in humor to dull the effect on my soft flesh.

I refuse to talk about it.

I don’t want to give voice to all that I am thinking.

... That we are showing a kind of deep seated favoritism to our boy as we shuffled our girl off a room of her own when she was barely a year old.

... That he is my last child, and losing his baby-ness with each passing day.

... That things are progressing in the other house - the house that is not the home we brought them into but the one in which they will grow up - and that means more change.

... And that he will finally have a room that rivals his sister’s.

I don’t want to be reminded that my babies are growing up even though the fact of it confronts me each day at breakfast. Each day they get taller and taller, able to reach previously unattainable objects as they perch on tippy-toes.

Such happiness I feel in their accomplishment, and yet a somber tone sounds in my head '... soon they won't need me.'

The day is coming when we will have our room back. When we look at each other and have to figure out how to be alone again. How to just be us.

I don’t want think about that day if it means it will be missing the equivalent of the children’s weight in joy.

Could we really be this lazy?

The answer to that would be a resounding "YES!"

Last year you may recall the annual Christmas Tree Toss took place on February 3rd. This year ... well, you are looking at images taken just last evening.

For our official End Of Christmas celebration next year, I'd say check in around Mothers' Day.

Did you know you can waste candy on children?

In our house this phenomenon is known as "Choco-lech."

Evidently, I have a thing for F words

When a friend of mine told me about flickr four years ago, I knew I was going to be hooked the first time I visited the Web site. I can say - without hesitation - that since my first upload, flickr has altered my perspective just as surely as marriage and motherhood has changed my life.

Having a place to file images for easier recall, for me, is one of the best things about the photographers' network. Finding it a real source in meeting like-minded photographers and parents has been, perhaps, one of the most unexpected but extremely rewarding benefits.

As in most fairytales, there comes a point in the story where some troll or another enters the serenity to cause havok and upset ... and for me the troll that reared its ugly head in my fanasty land was video.

You see, where "still" pictures create some kind of enchanted kingdom for me, I've never really gotten the hang of moving pictures. I can't control the images ... I can't follow the movement ... I don't really know how to edit and the downloading just seems like drudgery.

When videos of my flickr friends' kids started seeping into to my "contacts" steams I started tuning out.

Part of it, I thought, was my desire to just see still images. On flickr, I reasoned, children should be seen and not heard. But then I realized it was because each and every little arrow denoting a collection of moving pictures, just reminded me that I only had a handful of videos to remind me of Annabel's baby self or her tiny voice and none ... of Silas' early laugh.

It pains me that I don't have more moving pictures of my children, especially since my father has my first steps on 8 mm film. FILM.

I am the product of a gadget generation and yet I couldn't get the hang of a camcorder with tape. Go figure.

So in the New Year when another friend pressed a Flip into my hand at a party and insisted I check it out, I knew I was going to be hooked the instant I held the sleek, phone-sized gadget and saw only one button ... .

What is this ... a Flip?

It took a nearly two months, but that F word kept haunting me.

Her voice was changing.

He was getting more words.

She was singing her own songs.

He was getting faster and faster on the PlasmaCar.

I broke down and bought one. In the three days since I've had it, I've been holding it as Annabel ate cereal with chopsticks, sang songs and told stories ... while silas raced down the hall, fiddled with lollipops and reprogramed my computer.

They're not the best images ever; but they're perfect for me. They are easy to take, easy to download, easy to upload ... and even the kids - BOTH of them - have learned how to view and record.

I know I'll probably regret letting them run around with my new toy, and I'll probably have a few standard expletives if it returns with chips or dents. The phrases will be worse, I expect, if I find it floating in the commode. But my kids don't seem phased ... they know I have a thing for F words.

Random Question Thursday

I know, I know, I know ... Economy. Economy. Economy. Recession. Depression. Confession.

Aside from all that, what's been bugging you?


This has been bugging me.


I know ... it's all in good fun ... I get it IgetitIgetit ...

But in the end, it's still copyright infringement.

It's been what? twenty-nine thousand months since you've seen the "itsy bitsy PIEder" ...

I may be biased, but I think she's still got it.

I, on the otherhand, am going to need some practice with the video thing-a-ma-jig.

Genes are almost as peculiar as how we accessorize them

My mother saw my handbag sitting on the table.




"That looks like my mother's purse," she said.

"I was thinking the same thing the other day," I replied.

"You remember that?"

"I remember. It looked like she carried her life with her."

"It looks like you carry your work with you."

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I am an old woman, named after my mother
My old man is another child that’s grown old

If dreams were thunder; lightning was desire
This old house would’ve burned down
A long time ago

Make me an angel
That flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go ...

- Bonnie Raitt

Facebook can go friend itself

So ... I am cutting and pasting the following list of questions to ask your kids from a meme I pilfered from Facebook and adding my own little notes:


Mom through Annabel's eyes
Annabel at five years old:

1. What is something mom always says to you? - 'Stand right there!'
(I want to take your photograph.)

2. What makes mom happy? – If you clean up your room.
(But only because I had been asking her to do so all day.)

3. What makes mom sad? – If I got a boo-boo or I fell off a cliff.
(Evidently, she thought better of saying 'When I don't clean my room'.)

4. How does your mom make you laugh? – When the popcorn goes spilling all over the place.
(She was laughing ... I was chasing hot kernels escaping from a tiny hole in the paper bag.)

5. What was your mom like as a child? - You were good.
(Obviously I have snowed this child.)

6. How old is your mom? – That can we just skip? Because I don't want to tell you.
(She wouldn't even attempt a guess ... she sense my sensitivity.)

7. How tall is your mom? – One and a six and a zero.
(She was reading the answer another child gave ... I decided to erase the answers after that.)

8. What is her favorite thing to do? – Going places with her kids. ... like bowling. She also loves taking pictures.
(Wishful thinking ... and buttering up.)

9. What does your mom do when you're not around? – Works in the city. She makes newspapers.
(She especially likes that when she comes with me she can get glimpses of the RCA dog and ships atop buildings.)

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for? – A circus.
(Apparently she'd like me to join one.)

11. What is your mom really good at? - Photography. She has a lot of pictures. Like 287.
(Just about.)

12. What is your mom not very good at? – Not very good at cooking.
(I tried to remind her 'I Bake' ... she nodded in appeasement.)

13. What does your mom do for her job? – That would be the newspaper thing again.
(She's been there ... done that.)

14. What is your mom's favorite food? - Coffee.
(She's not wrong.)

15. What makes you proud of your mom? – When she takes me places and is with me.
(We do ALL the cool things.)

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be? - A circus lady who swallowed a sword.
(She has me confused with this guy. ... Or, she's trying to tell me something.)

17. What do you and your mom do together? - Color.
(We make a good team.)

18. How are you and your mom the same? – We both have each other's heart.
(Awwww ... she's so cute. But really her's is more sweet ... mine is more, well, grapefruit.)

19. How are you and your mom different? – Mom has black hair and I have brown hair.
(Again ... she's being kind ... she could have said gray.)

20. How do you know your mom loves you? - Because she borned me and she loves me.
(She's in TOTAL awe that I have a scar that looks like this ... and that she came out of it.)

21. What does your mom like most about your dad? - That he's strong and handsome and funny and tries to tickle her.
(I do NOT like the tickling ... but she should know THIS has something to do with it, too.)

22. Where is your mom's favorite place to go? - Bowling alleys.
(What can I say? The kid doesn't lie.)


*It's a meme: Copy, paste, lather, rinse, repeat

Driven

truck , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Push a petal,
Pull a lever,
Ease back slowly
Keeping an eye on where you're going
But your mind always drifts to where you've been.

I can't remember the last time I just enjoyed the ride.

Random Question Thursday

tree, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's the longest you've left your (live) Christmas tree up?

So far? February 20th (tomorrow) ... and counting.

Moving at the speed of frozen molasses

spin, originally uploaded by daughter of toyfoto.

Cold. Air.

Ittybit has pulled the covers off my bedraggled head and now she’s screaming into the sheets.

“Mom. Get. Up.”

“No. No. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! … I don’t want to get up. I want to lay right here. Like this. Until you go to college.”

She doesn’t believe me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and drag the quilt up to my shoulders. I shove the rest of me under the pillow.

I can think of a thousand things I don’t want to do. Why bother getting out of bed to face them?

Her father snorts back a laugh. He’s been awake for hours.

Together the pair has been milling about the house breaking eggs and fixing coffee, waiting impatiently for the pair of lazy bones to get a move on. They’ve emptied the dishwasher, started a load of laundry. They’ve learned what happened in the world overnight and they’re beginning a list of what the day has in store.

Meanwhile, the boy and I have been ignoring the clattering of empty pots for at least 45 minutes now. Every so often he lifts his head — his face screwed into a puzzled look as if to say ‘Morning? Already? No. Can’t be!’ — only to plant his face back into the pillow and resume a pleasant snore.

“Mooooooooooooooom!” she chides, undeterred by my lack of forward motion. “… You are missing out on everything.”

With the exuberance of youth and boundless energy, she tells me of all that the day could hold:

We could go sledding. … Or I could take a ski lesson. … We could go to lunch … or on a play date … or to the movies … or to the park.

“I know. We could go to Disney World.

My silence is not a deterrent.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Disney World.”

It occurs to me that if Disney World were a warm, dark place filled with fluffy pillows and warm down comforters … If Mickey never so much as opened his mouth … not even for a muffled chortle … it would be a very happy place for people like me.

People who need to sit in the dark like mushrooms for as long as they are allowed to live anti-social oblivion.

People who sit there on the edge of that one last straw that threatens to fracture the dromedary’s back.

People, just like me, who are waiting for the morning to come and finally wash away the dark.

Out of our league

hey ... I'm writing on the walls ... it says right here: WASHABLE!, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

There comes a point in every parent's career -- even if it's only briefly -- when they wonder: "Am I in over my head?"

It's not the "Have I made a mistake?" thought. Of course we've made mistakes. We ALL make mistakes. And we will continue to make mistakes; that's what life is all about -- fixing mistakes.

No, this is the moment when you realize you have absolutely NO IDEA what it is you are supposed to do in any given situation.

Your son walks up to you, say, carrying an orange marker and the tell-tale signs that he's uncapped the felt-tipped vehicle for vandalism are all over the exposed portions of his body.

A part of you KNOWS you'll find orange-colored scribbles all over the walls -- possibly right beside the purple scribbles you chastised him for last week -- but you just don't want to look. Nothing you own seems as precious, anyway. Errant crayons and dog slobber have seen to that.

But still there's the issue of imparting the rules. Getting all creatures great and small to toe the line.

But what worked with one doesn't work with the other.

He's got his own agenda.

You say "NO"

He just laughs.

You say "Time Out"

He laughs and laughs.

Thank goodness the markers are washable.

... Wash, rinse, repete.

He broke my heart ...

wha?, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

... my Achy Breaky Heart ...

all because he was tired of people calling our son "Billy Ray Silas."

My funny Valentine

Dear Babies of Mine,

Somebody (I can't remember who) once said (and I paraphrase) the difference between mothers and other women is that mothers wear their hearts on the outside ...

People not as anxious as I might translate such a saying to mean that women who are mothers are somehow softer than the rest of their double X sisters. They are more in tune with the universe from the biologic act of procreation.

I don't know anyone who speaks that language.

"Don't worry, mom" is an oxymoron.

Most of us who live with pint-sized humans understand it to mean that our hearts are unprotected ... vulnerable to things beyond our control ... things that lie in wait.

And nothing good ever lies in wait.

Not the skinned knee ... nor the broken bone. The first crush and its inevitable breakup. But more than that ...

Truly, much of what we worry about is unspeakable. We won't - we can't - speak of it.

It's hard to imagine a world without her serious dedication

... or his devilish grin

... or her singing sentences

... or his full-on, toddling gait

... or her smiles and hugs

... or even his emphatic use of the word "NO!"

... or her near-constant motion

... or his desire to copy everything she does

... or just the fact that they are now happily playing together.

And especially now that you both say "I love you" in unprompted moments, it's impossible not to wear my heart on the surface.

It makes me think of "Valentine" not as heart-shaped confections or the Saint for which its day was named, but being more similar to the prongs of a pitchfork - piercing.

I know I have to shake these feelings off ... smile and be positive. Nothing good ever comes from worry, either. Because of you, I see that, too.

I just wanted to let you know that you remind me each day that tomorrow will be sweet.

Love,

Mommy

Random Question Thursday

Did your wedding meet your childhood expectations?


When I was five years old I told my father's mother that I didn't want to get married. Not. Ever. I didn't want kids of my own. Maybe I'd adopt.

She looked at me like I was CRAZY!

I suppose I was. I didn't want to be a bride. I wanted to be me.

So I guess my answer would be 'No.'

And for another 29 years I believed what my five-year-old self had said.

Until the day Jed and I were married in a field, in front of about 135 members of our family and friends. We held a reception at our house including beef tenderloin and trout (heads on). It was more fun than I could have ever imagined.

He used have a teensy little addiction to Sony PlayStation

But he got away from its grip ...

Now, Webkinz World is drawing him back in.

Today's snack was brought to you by the letter "L"

That's what the teachers at The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children are demanding, anyway.

Really? Let me see ... A healthy snack that doesn't contain chocolate or refined sugar ... AND something that begins with the letter "L."

(DO YOU ALL SEE WHY I HATE SCHOOL?)

The following is a list of brainstormed items coupled with Ittybit's responses in parentheses:

La-la-la Lemons? (Too puckery, but lemonade would be fine).
Lemon-poppyseed muffins? (Naw).
Leeks? (What are they)?
Lobster? (Yech).
Lox? (That's not even food).
Liverwurst? (Uh, NOOOO)!
Lamb? (WHAT? Those cute and cuddly things)?
Lumpfish? (That just sounds not good).
Lutefisk? (I don't even want to know what THAT is).
Lentils? (I suppose. ... it's a soup, right)?
Lasagna? (At least I've heard of that).

Lollipops? (But teacher said 'No lollipops').
I'm sure she won't mind if they're made of apples ...

Of course ... on second thought, she's going to be none-too-happy about the skewers ... Maybe we can just saw the pointy parts off.

My bags are packed ... I'm ready to go

I didn't even know she was upset. She was chattering away as I was poking around in the paper bags my husband had brought in from their trip to the store.

Milk,

Orange juice,

Bread,

Eggs ...

She walked past me in her usual flair; with a kind of brisk pounding of feet and a dramatic flounce of hair as she trudged down the hall to her room.

"She's packing ... " my husband said to me a few minutes later as I was putting away the groceries. "She says she wants to leave."

Before she stormed out I had heard her voice chirping away, flittering between octaves "... ip ip ip ip ip ..." as I opened and closed the refrigerator door, "ip ip ip ip ip ip" as I folded another emptied bag and stowed it beneath the island with the other recyclables. "Ip ip ip ip ip ip ip. ..." I really hadn't been listening.

I roll my eyes. I don't want to deal with another tantrum.

By the time I finished and found my way to her room, we bumped into each other at the door. I was going in ready for a fight and she was coming out ready for flight. She'd slung my old drawstring backpack over her shoulder, filled to the brim. The bag was bigger than she was.

She was crying.

The fight had gone out of me when I saw her eyes. She was earnest, and it had been a long day.

I asked her to talk to me, to sit in her room and discuss what had happened. I took the pack from her shoulders when she tearfully agreed.

As we sat on her bed, a tiny lifetime of upset streamed out with her tears.
Upset that seemed to go back as far as the hospital ... when she was born.

"I remember another mother. Not you. A mother who was nicer to me. Who listened to me. Who didn't just SAY she was going to do something she DID it.
That's the mother I'm going off to find."

I listened as the story brought her to my pregnancy with Silas, and how she really wanted a girl ... How she wanted to share her room and her toys, and talk about girl things, and sing girl songs ... and how she got a boy.

"But I was happy because everyone else was happy. I wasn't happy though. I wanted a sister and YOU GAVE ME A BROTHER!

"My real mother would have given me a sister."

For a moment I felt sorry for her. Poor unloved little waif who waits (somewhat) patiently for her mother to get up from behind her computer and get her a glass of milk, damnit, only to have to ask thirteen thousand times. ... Or eighteen thousand, depending on who you ask.

She was right. Everyone wants to hug Silas, they all say how cute Silas is, remark on how funny Silas is, how patient Silas is, how loveable Silas is ... She has become invisible.

I look over at the backpack, it's filled with clothes from her dresser, but not a single toy. She's serious about leaving.

"I'm just a rotten egg," she wails.

When I was her age (maybe slightly older), I ran away from home. Twice.

The first time I got only as far as the front stoop. It was raining in sheets and I didn't want to get wet. The second time I got all the way to the mailbox, where a neighbor, noticing me just standing there with my plaid suitcase (that black and red pattern and faint smell of vinyl forever etched in my mind) packed tight with toys and clothes, asked what brought me there.

I told him I was running away from home. He laughed a little, then mentioned I really hadn't gotten that far. I told him it was as far as I could go since I wasn't allowed to cross the street.

It's hard to assert yourself when you’re five.

Annabel doesn't seem to have my problem though, she just has my number.

"You're not a rotten egg. You know that," I tell her ... hoping something brilliant will come to me as I'm feeling around for an answer that will make everything all right.

It doesn't. All I can tell her is I'm sorry she feels the way she does, and I'll try to do better. I remind her of how her brother lights up when he sees her ... not us but her. And I admit that she has every right to feel sad, and to even demand attention. Fair is fair.

"Why don't you come with me to the store. Your father forgot the lemons. You come with me. We'll get a special and some time to ourselves."

"O.K.," she said unsteadily. "I'll go, but what about my bag?"

"We'll just leave it for when we get back. I'll help you unpack."

She doesn't play the blues

pink, originally uploaded by toyfoto.


Seriously ... can you despise The Cheetah Girls when your kid strums her ukulele "Kitar" and belts out the following lyrics? ...

I don’t wanna be like Cinderella,
Sitting in a dark, cold, dusty cellar,
Waiting for somebody to come
and set me free (Come and
set me free)
I don’t wanna be like someone waiting
For a handsome prince to come and save me ...

Sadly, I believe the answer is "no."

We interrupt the regularly scheduled Random Question Thursday to bring you the following SAD SONG

We've all heard it before: "Newspapers are dying."

I've often said that we're killing them, but that's probably just quibbling over terms.

After all, we can each point fingers at a cause: Nobody reads anymore, no one wants to deal with the mess, the internet is faster and free, Craigslist is siphoning off the most lucrative (if not least sexy) stream of revenue, corporations have sucked the marrow dry.

Well ... one of ours, The Independent, is closing. Whether it has died or been killed, I suppose, doesn't really matter. The 36-year-old community newspaper, which had been owned by Journal Register Co. for the last eight of them, will stop publishing forever as of Friday.

Something will probably take its place eventually. ... A free rag, put together by people in part-time jobs without benefits, will eventually find its way into mailboxes throughout the counties this bi-weekly once serviced. The new newspaper, if you can really call it that, will offer glowing reports on new businesses and tasty recipes from syndicated (but free) content providers. There will probably be more ads and more announcements of school lunch menus and honor rolls than humanly thought possible.

But, come Friday, an authentic voice of the community, at least in print, will be gone.

I think a moment of silence is in order.

We have a visitor

mosaic, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Little Flat Annabel has returned and brought with her Little Flat Jaylene for a visit. For those of you who may not remember, last October we sent off Annabel's two-dimensional emissary to spend some time with her pen pal in Taiwan.

While she was with her hosts in Taiwan, Little Flat Annabel visited scenic places, participated in some crafty goodness and even went to school. She celebrated both Jaylene's and Annabel's birthdays, Christmas and both the American and Chinese New Years.

Jaylene carefully recorded their exploits in the holidays celebrated in this drawing.

The Chinese characters in red say: "Ping Ping An An, which means "a peaceful year to you."

Now it's our turn.

Of course Annabel couldn't stop commenting on how many gifts the real Jaylene (and her mom) packed into their travel containers. Toys and books, handmade goodies, chocolates and teas, even lanterns to celebrate the upcoming holiday.

I tell you, we've been learning a thing or ten from this girl. (Although the Chinese language may not be among these things, seeing as how Annabel insists the words in the books are Spanish and "she already knows Spanish.")

Hopefully we'll be able to send Little Flat Jaylene home after her visit with some surprises of our own.

The first stop of her travels ... besides vising our new house and seeing the room that is to be Annabel's ... was to preschool, where Annabel introduced Little Flat Jaylene to her teachers, Pat and Marcia, and learned the introduction was fortuitous as the class was celebrating the letter "T."

A timely theme for talking about a tyke from Taiwan.

Beginnings

his soon-to-be new room, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Sometimes it's so hard to see potential.

I walk through this house we now own, a place we will soon live, and all I see is floors that don't meet walls by a long shot or wires that snake out of control. I see curvy floors, realizing a marble dropped in the kitchen will likely roll to side door if it's tragectory isn't impeded by a raised nail or some other bit of detritus.

I close my eyes and hope for the best.

"Everything always works out," I tell myself ... "even when it doesn't work out the way you'd like."

I wrote recently of my beginnings in journalism. I wrote of what it felt like to work for a community newspaper; what it felt like to be a part of something that was bigger than just the signature on my check. How humbled I was looking back.

I was jubulient in the memories of the work and the people and the time.

Well, today, a very nice woman phoned and asked me to talk about the time I spent at THAT particular newspaper. She was writing a story about the paper and ITS history; she wanted stories about what it was like. I imagined she wanted glowing memories of its near-fabled past owners.

I had none of that nostalgia for her.

My memories of the company were personal ... and not terribly pleasant.

They had laid me off. After I'd worked 12 to 14 hours a day for seven years. After I'd spend the early years of my 20-somethings writing about garbage tipping fees and school lunches. After I'd spent those years living on pasta to make the $1,000 a month (gross) stretch as far as it could.

I have no love for that paper anymore.

And I couldn't stop myself from telling her.

All I can do know, as I wait to see how my words are translated by her ear, is to close my eyes and hope for the best.

Madison doesn't give a rat's *ss if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow

contempt , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

He's just pretty ticked off I have to audacity to move my car out from under him.