Roominating

It's been five days.

Had it not been for a helpful visit from Jed's mom and her Significant Other to help us during the move, not to mention a two-day business trip afterward, it would have been Day One that The Champ was not only introduced to his new room but forcibly installed there for normal sleeping hours.

Last night we helped the boy select a bunch of toys and brought them to his new room: A helicopter; a plastic farm; a double-decker parking garage; a veritable sales lot of tiny cars; scads of books, pilfered from his sister's room.

He made room for me on is bed and slid under the covers. A smile on his face that I knew expressed a delight at this new "game."

We read three books, he asked me to sing "Pirate Ships" and he sang along with me. His squinty-eyed smile and voice cracking at the parts he knew ... "Prirate shis. Prirate shis ... merr-an-booooold" ... even makes me think of Alfalfa from Our Gang.

He begins to protest our new bedtime routine the minute I tell him it's dad's turn to read.

From his sister's room, through his closed door and hers, all I hear is the low voice of my husband and ...

Tears. Tears. Tears. Screaming. Tears. Tears. Tears. Mama. Mama. Mama. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzz.

Breaks my heart. I have no need to break up the family bed.

To be fair, it breaks Jed's heart, too.

So when the boy awoke at two a.m., sitting up in his big boy bed crying in the dark, he arose and went off to console him. He soon returned with a sobbing child and tucked him into bed beside me.

In the morning Jed showered him with approval anyway ...

JED: "You slept in your own room last night! What a big boy!"

CHAMP: "NO! Sleep HERE!"

But he said it with a smile.

It's a start.
It's a start.

Sometimes it helps to get lost in the details

I found it difficult to look at the "big picture" as we moved our home to a new house.

Whenever you endeavor to do something that has so many parts I think the tendency for the non-planners among us is to just shut down.

For months people with the best of intension and previous experience told me to start packing “now.” I knew they were right, but whenever I looked around at the massive amount of stuff we’d accumulated in a decade, I saw all the things that more or less owned me.

Instead of packing in boxes, I packed in my mind.

And I purged.

Every now and again I filled my car with things to donate to Goodwill. I dropped them off.

For a little while I felt lighter even though the donation hadn’t made a dent.
But when it finally came time to hunker down and get to the business of really moving things, it was just a blind grab and toss.

Project Mayhem.

For a start, we didn’t procure enough boxes. Packing box after box; unpacking, repacking. We found ourselves reusing worn cartons marked “Kitchen” for “Bedroom” or “Bath.” It didn’t really matter seeing as how all of it was just being dumped into the closest room to the entrance.

Our stuff has stuff, or so my parents like to tell us.

But relocation isn’t rocket science; it’s merely the systematic organizing and schlepping and hauling and re-organizing until one finds a constant (or the set of car keys they lost two Christmases ago).

Perhaps that’s why I found myself wide awake at 4 a.m. trying to bring organization to the kitchen before the rest of the house arose, bringing chaos to the kitchen instead.

I made a pot of coffee and stared up at the cabinets. It struck me as odd that I – the person who doesn’t really do the cooking – feel compelled to organize the space. As I unwrap the first of the glasses I realize that while the cooking part is creative, the cleaning part is compulsive.

And if I am to uphold my end of our “You Cook, I’ll Clean” arrangement, I need to be able to organize our things for easy replacement. I get to work placing the dishes and the bowls, the cups and the saucers in the cabinets. Mixing bowls will go up there; a little to the right. Wine glasses next … and then serving bowls and platters.

The coffee is growing cold. I splash a little more in my cup to warm it up.

There’s the collection of water bottles and Thermoses to place next, not to mention the odd lot of things we’re keeping but never use. A corner of the cabinet, in view but out of reach seems good for those.

I begin to notice other things, too.

The kitchen appears smaller, but it’s holding all of the items we spread over three rooms in our old house. Everything is finding its place; something I’ve been longing to say.

I know it won’t last. Space seems to have a way of overfilling, but in the early morning light of a brand new day in a new house, sitting back with a cup of coffee and a sense of completion certainly has its perks.

As the sun comes up I hear the faint sounds of movement above; the creak of floor boards and running of water. And as the work dwindles from frantic, I decide moving isn't such a bad thing. It helps a person sweep away the clutter as they would cobwebs and offers an opportunity to revist lost causes, which can only happen if you move the year-round Christmas tree and hear a familiar jingle of keys.

Seven van loads, 100 trips up and down the stairs, delivery pizza at 10 p.m. ...

And the CHAMP asks: Go home now?

JED: We are home, bud. THIS is our home now.

CHAMP: No! Go home NOW!

Don't write, send movers

If you don't hear from me for a while, don't panic. I probably just lost the computer.

And like *that* the hat gets passed

Do you remember back around Sunday when I wrote this? The whole parents in black and white hats thing? Oh, how I reveled in stealing the white "good guy" hat from my husband's traveling-man fingers.

Well ... last night Ittybit insisted on drawing a picture of her father in her journal and writing a poem next to it to describe him:



"Dad, Dad you're so sweet

Whenever you come home

It's really a treat."


A few pages later, she repeated the process next to a drawing of my likeness ...




"Mommy sleeps in her bed

She always has her camera with her

She came to my dance recital!

But she left early.

It was ok, though. I didn't mind."

Random Question Thursday?

Yes, I know it's Wednesday but I'm feeling productive and working a day ahead ... not to mention tomorrow I will be too busy thinking about how I should be throwing crap our possessions into boxes so's Jed (et. al.) can toss said boxes into the truck and haul them over to the new house. ... Where, if all goes well, we will be LIVING! come Monday.

BUT ... since I don't really want to think about any of that, answer me this:

What's you're favorite ice cream flavor?

ME: I'm going to say Green Tea flavored; I've never seen it locally, but I had some once in D.C. at a Japanese restaurant with my aunt. And I must say ... Mmmmm mmm. Mmm. So good, I might have to try and make it myself.

JED: Anything with a chocolate base and candy-like boulders works for him. New York Superfudge Chunk ... Rocky Road ... you get the idea. Ben AND Jerry are his heroes.

ITTYBIT: Used to be Mint Chocolate Chip (or Oreo something-or-other at Ralph's Pretty Good Cafe) but now she's favoring Cookie Dough wherever she goes ... even in our kitchen as we bake.

THE CHAMP: Although a man of few words at the moment, he gets his vanilla desire across fairly plainly. Lately though -- and as a result of The Other Mom not believing he really wanted the Mint Chocolate Chip he asked for by pointing -- he's found his true bliss is a literal blast, after she chose "Fireworks," a vanilla-based flavor from Stewart's Shops that features Pop Rocks candies, for him instead.

Prêt-à-Porter

NO CAPES?!?

NO GLASSES!

Quid pro quo.

Miss Daisy, driving

miss daisy driving, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I know: Cheap shot.

It's just my way of getting back at her for making me ride the Tilt-A-Whirl and that crazy beast that goes up in the air, spins around and tilts on its side making me pray to gods I don't really believe in so's I can just stand on solid ground again.

Where's the ripcord?

I'm getting off this crazy train ... only to board another. It's the weekend, folks, and after the past five days I'm a think I'm a gonna drowned my sorrows in piles of laundry and lukewarm cups of coffee. Maybe I'll start packing. Or maybe -- just maybe -- if the kids are more funky than feverish and I've lightened up from the sobering thoughts of late, I'll venture outside to check out one of the family-friendly things happening around the region:

ALL ABOARD …

You don’t want to miss GE Kid’s Day at the plaza
Children's entertainment including face painters, clowns, puppet shows, jugglers, music and pony rides, with special guests Choo Choo Soul from Playhouse Disney will be in attendance. The event, which takes place Sunday at the Empire State Plaza from noon to 5 p.m. is presented by the State Office of General Services. Free.

A day of family activities revolving around the Beatrix Potter classic "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" including playing in Mr. McGregor's garden and finding Peter's shoes takes place at the Washington County Fair Farm Museum Saturday from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Free. The museum is located on Old Schuyler Road in Greenwich. Call 692-2464 for information.

OTHER GOINGS ON …

A Celebration of the Quadricentennial of the Dutch settlement of the Hudson Valley will take place Saturday at Knickerbocker Mansion. The event includes a 400-year living history time line of the mansion and cemetery tours, sale of a first edition Will Moses poster, vendors and lecturers. A pancake breakfast will be held from 8 to 10 a.m. and an Authentic Dutch Colonial dinner will be served at 11 a.m. A re-enactment of the planting of the 1676 Witengamot Oak (with local dignitaries) commemorating a peace treaty between the Native Americans and European settlers will be held at 1 p.m. Saturday. Knickerbocker Mansion is located at 132 Knickerbocker Road, just off State Route 67 midway between Schaghticoke and Mechanicville.


The Uncle Sam Foundation will host the Uncle Sam Picnic Sunday from 11:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. at Prospect Park in Troy. The goal is to raise money to commemorate the site of the first home in Troy of Samuel Wilson, who was the model for the nation's iconic Uncle Sam characterization. Tickets for the event are $10 for adults and $5 for children. Tickets are available at the door. The price of admission includes food, soda, entertainment and entry in prize drawings. Musical entertainment includes the Pearl River Dixieland Jazz Band, Donnie Elvis, the Greg Baker Band and P.J. the D.J., along with master of ceremonies Rudd Young.

UPCOMING...

Kids cooking classes are heating up at Hawthorne Valley Farm in Harlemville. Children of all ages will head out from the farm to harvest fresh, organic vegetables and use their harvest as the main ingredients of the day’s cooking lesion. Events also include stores and a fiber arts activity.
Two sessions of classes are available: Session One, for grades 3 through 5, will meet July 15 through 31; Session Two, for grades 6 through 8, will meet August 5 through 19. Classes for both sessions meet Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays for three weeks. Cost is $180 per session. Call 672-7500, extension 105 for more information or email caroline@hawthornevalleyfarm.org.

V-Ville Hoopla and Village Tag Sale will get underway July 25 from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. in the village of Valatie. The event promises family fun including food, amusements, face painting, a rock climbing wall, kettle corn, and Music by the Reverberators (from 2 to 4 p.m.) not to mention great bargains in the fabulous tag sales all along Main Street.

Random Ramblings Thursday

Whilst driving home from work yesterday I was forced to realize a truth that is only surprising to me: I am middle-aged.

Oh, this little pest had been flying around for a while. I swatted at it from time to time with the gestating and bearing of children at an age when most of my friends were getting ready to put their own kids in middle school; and some *shudder* high school and college.

Everyone else can see the lines in my face and the silver in my hair, growing coarser by the year. I unappologetically soften them in Photoshop.

I thought of myself as a late bloomer; “A Girl On Her Way,” to quote the title of a Maia Sharp song, and the reason for this inarguable wisdom.

An interview with Sharp was airing on National Public Radio as I steered my Civic home … (which is another key sign, I’ve learned, that a woman has reached a certain age. I came to this understanding after a attending gathering of women, wherein the husband of the host found himself shuffling cars in the driveway and had returned from his chore announcing that he’d been able to hear an NPR story in its entirety behind the wheels of seven different Hondas).

But I digress.

Sharp was telling me (and thousands of other listeners) that a girl on her way has only has so long before she becomes a woman who never arrived.

And there I was, slack jawed, a woman who never arrived: a woman, alone, in a car, listening to NPR.

The progression of this transformation became clear as the song portion played behind my thoughts.

For a time you tread water waiting for your first “real” job.

You get your first promotion.

Then a second.

Maybe you are named to the post of leadership before you turn 30, like I was.

And then maybe you get laid off.

Financial cuts.

Maybe they tell you how horrible you left things (even if you inherited someone else's mess) as a parting gift.

Maybe you spend some time thinking you are unemployable.

And sooner than not you are employed again.

This time you are grateful.

Fearful.

Unwilling to take chances.

You stagnate.

You try new things anyway.

You can't help yourself. You have ideas that lead you onward if not upward.

And for a time you are on your way again.

Things are looking up.

But nothing really catches on.

And then one day a song comes on the radio.

And you look into the corner of the rearview mirror you have angled toward your face.

Damn vanity.

And you see the truth.

And you finally swat dead that fly that was buzzing around you.

Turns out, it’s not as painful as you thought it would be.

You tell yourself: If you had only sought to arrive, you might have missed out on all the sights along the way.

Hell, it might even be true.

Two kids and a bucket ...

bucket, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

F*ckit.

Round about bedtime, after having lounged on the couch watching TV curled in a ball all evening, Ittybit started screaming that she was in pain.

SCREAMING. Her stomach hurt.

She begged for the medicine I had wanted to give her an hour before - medicine that she'd refused - when I felt her head and it seemed hot.

She had been complaining of pain since the afternoon. Just the low-grade, lay on the couch variety. The kind that makes a parent wonder if she's really sick or just trying to get one more episode of The Moose Channel. It was nothing like the doubled over, nonsensical speech kind I was now witnessing.

I called the doctors' service and left a message. I explained to the doctor on call what was happening. ... most of these stomach complaints, I know, turn out to be constipation (a condition my girl knows well) or gastroenteritis or who knows. But some turn out to be medical or surgical emergencies, such as appendicitis.

I wasn't use to the level of pain she was expressing.

I looked up appendicitis, by way of "acute abdominal pain in children" and Google.

It didn't seem likely, but I couldn't get it out of my head.

She was tired and wanted to sleep after I gave her some ibuprophen.

Her father read to her and slept near by just incase it got worse.

Her skin was cool when she awoke in the morning, and for a while she said her stomach felt better. Slowly, as we were getting ready for the day, the pain returned.

I called the doctor's office and got an appointment; I hustled them off into the car and off we went.

Ittybit saying how this may be the worst day of her life, and inquiring as to how much longer it would take to get there; Silas quietly watching out of the window until we arrive;. "Mama, scared, mama!"

Almost as soon as we got inside and gave them our names, she was in the restroom near the fish tank, vomiting.

Still, she was trying to console her little brother, who's recent well-baby visit -- complete with blood testing -- seemed torture enough for one year.

The nurse handed Ittybit a small basin, and guided us into the exam room. The doctor was the one on call from the night before. She listened with her stethoscope and pushed here and there with her fingers.

Seems like some garden variety virus.

Take her home, limit water, watch for signs of something worse.

As I was checking out, the doctor returned with a canister of stickers for the kids to choose from.

The girl quietly selected a princess sticker without her usual need to go through each and every picture to decide; and the boy immediately saw what he wanted ... a dump truck (although when he says it it sounds remarkably like an unmentionable sexual position). The doctor laughs.

I laugh, too. I feel better. Happy even, to be referred home rather than to the ER, where I had feared we'd wind up.

I barely noticed the boy's skin getting warmer as he waved goodbye to the doctor, happily, in my arms.

Lather, rinse repeat. Such is life with two.

Summer Reading Club

Our library (and most likely your library, too) has an elaborate summer reading program for all ages. There are prizes galore for kids who read or are read to every day througout the summer.

Because of this, Ittybit and Champ (by imitation) are taking their books VERY SERIOUSLY.

So seriously, in fact, that this morning when I went into Ittybit's room to investigate why they were being so quiet, I was told in no uncertain terms by the toddler that I was invading their good time.

"Ah-BELL read me. GO! mama."

Of course, that's when I saw the book on top of the stack of "to read nexts" was this photographic joke book someone *ahem* gave me for Christmas.

No wonder they wanted me to leave them alone: Kids are never too young to riducle the parental units.

That child labor thing is just a guideline, right?

Well ... The Champ had to be dragged away, kicking and screaming, from his room after he started getting all Jackson Pollock-y with his paintbrush. His dad may smile on creativity for the walls, but he frowns when it involves the newly refinished floors.

Ittybit, however, spent all afternoon in her room, and with some help from some hard-working friends, managed to cover every smidgeon of wall with a fairly even coat of Peony Pink.

She's ready to move in now.

What? You wanted fireworks?

Well ... I suppose you could find loud and colorful explosions somewhere this weekend.

OR ... you could come to our place ....



Could you read that bit at the bottom?

FREE suds and grub.

Just sayin ...

Random question Thursday

It's a two-fer this week, but only because I stiffed you last week and stuck you with a rant:

What odd, you're-not-quitting-your-day-job skill have you mastered?

And in what similar endeavor do you seek to become proficient?

PART ONE: I am extremely proud of the fact that I can whistle with my fingers. LOUD. Yes, folks, I can cat-call with the best of the construction crowd. I spent an entire summer, when I was 10 or so, perfecting these tweets so's I could win friends and influence people come fall when I would be attending a new school.

PART TWO: I would love to learn to perform yo-yo tricks. I'm not even sure why, seeing as I can barely get the blasted little thing to climb back up the string even one time after I've tossed it.

The only thing missing from the new house is Marlin Perkins

muledeer, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Otherwise this place may very well BE the wild kingdom.

BRRRRRING ....

ME: Hello?

HIM: OH. MY. GOD! Do you have a minute? I have to tell you what just happened to me. ... I saw a hawk fly over with a gopher in its claws. ... But it dropped him and he scampered away.

ME: I hope he's not moving in with the rest of the gang.

HIM: I know. ... me too. ... and that's not ALL! After that I was ATTACKED by two of the cutest little baby deer you have ever seen.

ME: Attacked? Were they rabid or something?

HIM: No, no. They were just two little fawns who mistook me for their mother for a second.

A different perspective

I recently had cause to use an old flash card, and later as I was downloading pictures I found a few of the kids that I'd never processed from just about a year ago.

There was one of Silas, at home, looking none-too-happy on a vintage tractor that once belonged to me (or probably more accurately my older sister) and now takes up a parking place at our house.

And there were a few in Vermont at a place we stopped for brunch before making our way to my aunt's house. Annabel was wearing her dance leotard and ladybug boots. She wanted a fruit plate with cottage cheese.

I snapped a picture as the waitress poured me a coffee.

Strange these little snapshots from the past.

I wonder how they were overlooked in the first place; then I wonder about all the moments that weren't overlooked.

And it brings me here, to this place, where I've dumped words and pictures for years thinking I was amassing some important archive of our lives.

But I end up thinking: "How much of this SHOULD be overlooked?"

I never really had my finger on the pulse of anything that's drawn readers ... what makes me think my own kids will one day find any of this interesting?

I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired and anxious about the move.

Writing such trivial points as the world goes to hell in a handbasket ... Iraq, Iran, Pakistan ... putting a green film over my icon on twitter seems hardly a solution.

Perhaps writing every day, while a good excercise in persistence, hasn't been good for my perspective.

I feel alone.

In a vast universe.

I know I'm probably not quitting this monster I've made any more than I'd walk away from my flesh and blood children. But I'm in need of a new point of view. I need some perspective. Because for as much as I was present when these pictures were taken, I'm beginning to understand that I was absent a reason to make them.

How all men learn to cook

how men learn to cook, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Just do it ...

Hug your sister ... or your brother ... or your kids today.

Don't ask me why ... just do it, please.

For the universe.


********

And now ...

THE WILD, THE WOOLY AND THE WEEKEND …

The Hedgehog Welfare Society is hosting the Eastern States Hedgehog Show this weekend in Schoharie, NY. The three-day affair will kick off this evening at the Holiday Inn Express hotel.
Think that’s weird? Well just get a load of the events:
* An International Hedgehog Association-sanctioned confirmation show; where hedgehogs of all ilk will be showing off their splendid and spiky forms.
* Also the little thorny creatures will strut their stuff (for stuff and prizes) as part of the Schoharie Skirmish and Costume Ball.
*Not to mention pet and people meditation.
But owning one of these exotic pets is no laughing matter.
Dr. Nigel Reeve, an ecologist for the Royal Parks in London is the guest speaker and a foremost authority on all species of the old-world mammal is the guest speaker.
Dr. Richard DeMatos, from Cornell Veterinary School, who will give a lecture on hedgehog health and disease.
The weekend itinerary also includes opportunities for owners to network, health checks, hedgehog rescue information and more. All are invited to attend.
Visit the Hedgehog Show for more information.


DON’T SHOOT YER EYE OUT WITH THAT THING …
The Rensselaer County 4-H program is hosting a 4-H Shooting Sports session at the Castleton Fish and Game Club on Saturday from 9 .m. to noon.
Youth must be registered with a designated adult. This program is open to youth ages 9 to 19, and youth must be registered and accompanied by an adult. Air rifle will be the discipline of the workshop focusing on overall safety in addition to skill building for accuracy and competency. The cost is $35 per youth/adult registration payable at the session. For additional information, please call 272-4210.

GONE FISHIN’
The town of North Greenbush and the Adirondack Woodsmen, assisted by the Bayly Mountain Fish and Game Club, will host a free fishing clinic for children ages 6 to 12 on Saturday from 9 a.m. to noon at the Town Beach at Snyder’s Lake. Class size is limited to 25 children. Parents are encouraged to help children fish. For more information, call Stan at 283-2790 or the Youth Department at 283-2795.

NOT AN EARLY WORM?
Grafton Lakes State Park is offering its fishing clinic for kids, Go Fish!, with DEC Fisheries educators from 1 to 3 p.m. at Long Pond (Group will meet at the boathouse). Children will learn how to fish, and are almost guaranteed a catch in the fruitful waters of the pond. Poles provided by DEC. This event is part of Free Fishing Weekend, so no license is required for parents fishing with their children. Call 279-1155 for more information.

RATHER GO FISH ON SUNDAY?
The Dyken Pond Environmental Education Center will hold its “Introduction to Fishing” workshop, also coinciding with New York’s Free Fishing Days at on Sunday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. Pre-registration is not required, but appreciated. Call 658-2055.

Calling it as we see it ...

I was all ready to pick up and hurl the first stone Atlantic Monthly essayist Sandra Tsing Loh metaphorically suggested in her painfully personal work “Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off” in the July/August edition of the journal, wherein she bluntly and unabashedly revealed her part in the failure of her 20-year marriage, and as a result questions whether the institution has outlived its usefulness in modern society.

Her question: When modern convenience and modern technology has not only freed us from the drudgery of work but also the statistical likelihood of an early demise, would it not seem logical that the idea of making a life-long commitment to another human being would also be rendered obsolete?

Recounting her own mid-life crisis and those of her female acquaintances she wonders why anyone would not only commit themselves to something that has a statistical rate of failure of about 50 percent, but also defend such an institution with such a defective track record so vehemently.

Perhaps, it's just habit; a foolish consistency of little minds. Or perhaps it's something else.

I found the piece, oddly enough, when I noticed my Web site’s hit counter leading hapless readers to my site and an identically titled essay critiquing another piece Tsing Loh wrote for the Atlantic a few years ago on the so-called Mommy Wars.

As I read her latest treatise, my heart was telling me that she is a woman who is going through one of the more painful, demoralizing, defeating moments in life; a moment that – while perhaps a construct of some antiquated system of social support – is no less tragic for a family’s individual members.

But my mind was agreeing with her.

In as much as I am one of the 90 percent of Americans who willingly went into a marriage knowing the rate of failure; knowing that there would be times when the “work” involved could eventually outweigh the value of the relationship; I also believe that if I had made such a decision in my 20s … even in my late 20s … I might not be married now.

Should we live with such mistakes for the sake of the children?

Tsing Loh makes an interesting, and seemingly logical point in her article that while statistics continually indicate two-parent homes are best for children, single-parent homes are not far behind. The problems, as she quotes the experts, comes when parents continually bring new paramours into the mix, wherein children are forced to bond or compete.

It makes me realize that where she’s standing isn't such a strange place to be. There’s no one way to live a life, even though there are socially accepted norms.

It seems to me we are naturally moving toward new understanding of these obstacles, too.

Even in a generation, it seems, we’ve slowed the process immensely.

By my calculation, Tsing Loh would have been about 27 when she married the man she’s now divorcing 20 years later. In some eras 27 would foretell spinsterhood. But today, a woman in her 20s is expected to see the world, and make her mark before she settles down. Ask Rebecca Woolf, writer and essayist, who found herself unexpectedly pregnant at 23, marrying her boyfriend and trying to work family life around her rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.

Woolf has parlayed her journey into a memoir and a popular blog site despite worries that motherhood would more than likely derail her potential for career success.

And yet, only a generation ago, Woolf’s age wouldn’t have been an issue at all in the framing of family life. Many women had careers and marriage by the time they were out of college; 22, 23, 24 years old.

Now the 24-year-old mother is a unique and suspect being.

Still, I can’t see myself objecting to my children living with their love interests before marriage; in fact, I can more likely see the drawbacks of a more traditional scheme from my own narrative. Had I married the first (or second) person I lived with there’s no doubt in my mind I’d be in my third marriage as I sit here typing.

Yet, in as much as I agree with her theory, I am not ready to give up on marriage.

I’m not ready to file away the 50 percent rate of divorce under the heading of “failure,” any more than I would give up the experience I got from living with the two men I didn’t marry.

Perhaps, in time, Tsing Loh will realize that throwing marriage out with divorce is like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

The littlest Superhero ...

At least that's what the diagnosis was during his well-baby checkup yesterday.

At 21 pounds, 3 ounces (less than 5th percentile); 32 1/2 inches tall (10th percentile) and a melon measuring 48 1/2 cm (at least his ego is average) ... we've decided his diagnosis must be ...

SUPER PEANUT MAN!

Able to squirm out of weighty situations and given the OK to eat a diet rich in fat if he so chooses!

Rawrrr. ...

tiger, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The Vidbel Circus.

There are two more shows left ...

Tonight.

5:45 and 7:45 p.m.

It's fun and it's for a good cause.

The Valatie Fire Department.

She wasn't nervous in the least ...

house lights, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

nor did she "break a leg."

but I broke my toe ...

Wondering if that counts?

Go on, get Uppity ...

When the folks at Uppity Shirts sent me four free shirts ...

They probably had NO idea that Ittybit would have NOTHING to do with a black t-shirt that said "wickid."

But ooooo ... that pink one ... she'd wear that .... it's her color:



What's that you ask wrinkled-nose lady selling over-priced fruit skewers at the farmer's market? What does the boy's shirt say?



Yes ... I'm sure he WILL appreciate me taking his picture wearing it in a few years.

I just felt sorry for Jed ...

The shirt the folks at Uppity sent for him gave him the blues ...



He was hoping for some edgy alternadoo-dad. ... I suppose he should have read the instructions.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY ...

Sure ... Father's Day is coming, but after that we're joining the circus ...

Sometimes being the mother of a toddler can make a person feel like a circus performer. You’re always juggling, chasing after or taming someone or something.

But for aerialist Susan Vidbel, who grew up under the Big Top, the circus is where she relaxes. It’s her time to fly.

"When I’m in the ring it’s my vacation."

She credits her grandparents, Al and Joyce Vidbel, two Ringling Brothers’ veterans who started the Vidbel Old Tyme Circus in 1984, for the circus blood running through her veins.

Her grandparents met in 1927 when they both worked at The Greatest Show on Earth: he performed with the elephants and she worked with horses. They were married under the bright lights of the center ring with a full audience of spectators as their guests. And for the next 60 years they lived and raised their family in the circus – first Ringling Brothers’ and later their own: a two-pole tent that went up and down nightly, moving from town to town with their acts … elephants, horses, dogs, aerialists and clowns.

“It’s was one of about a dozen traveling circus left in the country when it closed seven years ago,” says Susan Vidbel, who decided to resurrect the show in 2008 after her grandfather suffered a stroke.

“It’s really what he wanted; to see the show up and running again. He got to see the show go back on the road before he died. I think he was holding out as long as he did to see it.”

Although the elephants are gone, the Vidbel Circus has most of the same acts it did in during its nearly 30-year history as well as new excitements such as a Russian Cube act and other feats of athleticism. Her own little girl has also gotten into the tumbling act.

“There are so many moments that make (this life) so worthwhile,” says Vidbel, who’s done her share of average jobs during the off season. “There is no other place I’ve ever worked that has fostered relationships in such a way. In this business you just become one family.”

Vidbel says the physical work necessary just to get the circus moved, erected and ready for showtime is intense. As the recession took hold this year, they found their ranks shrink as their ability to make payroll diminished. Performers on the road pitch work tirelessly in thankless jobs and then change their clothes and take their place under the spotlight.

“It’s really so inspirational. Some dates we’ve gone without sponsors and everyone helps out. Everyone pulls together. Sometimes there hasn’t been money to pay people and still they do it. … Most of the people we’ve worked with grew up with it or they worked with my grandparents. They just become part of an extended family and it keeps us all pushing.”

Sponsorship, however, is the life blood of a traveling circus and it is on the decline. The hosts – often organizations looking to raise money – book the show and do all the work to get it up and running, everything from acquiring permits to selling tickets and promotion. After the Valatie show, the circus has no other dates on the slate and Vidbel says they are headed back to New Jersey with optimism business will pick up.

“We try to keep it reasonable,” Vidbel says of the $10 ticket price. “Everyone should get a chance to see an Olde Tyme Circus, especially now that things are so expensive. If you have two or three kids you just can’t afford a major circus’ ticket prices. … We want a tent full of people enjoying the show; we just want to survive and get down the road.”

Vidbel's Olde Tyme Circus, sponsored by the Valatie Fire Department, will be at Callan Park in Valatie June 22 and 23 with shows at 5:45 and 7:45 p.m. each night. Tickets are $10 at the door.

**********************

Of course, while mom is juggling the kids, the carpool and a circus ... you shouldn't overlook dad, who is probably outside beating the lawnmower to death with a four iron. My guess is the poor old guy doesn't even remember Father's Day is on Sunday since he's so enraged with the single-stroke engine piece of #4!@ he's been pushing around the yard since he inherited it from his dad on the day of your birth. Dear old gramps is, no doubt, laughing his fool head off as he tools around on his electric ride-on replacement.

So why not do something special for your unsung hero of yard maintenance this weekend?

Go green and serene ...

SunDog Solar is hosting its first Summer Solstice Family Picnic & Energy Fair on Saturday from noon to 4 p.m., at Crellin Park, Route 66 in Chatham. This is a BYOP (bring your own picnic) event in which locals can meet their neighbors and everyone can learn about renewable energy. Other events include live music by local and international musicians,and presentations by organizations devoted to sustainable, green and artistic living. The event is rain or shine and admission is free. In lieu of admission attendees are asked to bring a non-perishable food donation (or cash donation) for the Regional Food Bank. For more information, call 392-4000 or visit sundogsolar.net

Pass the beer and brats ...

Treat dad to a Father's Day Picnic at the German-American Club of Albany Sunday.
The event takes place Sunday at the Schuetzenpark Biergarten on the grounds of the German-American Club of Albany, 32 Cherry St. Schuetzenpark is the only outdoor Biergarten remaining in Albany. Live music from the Schwarzennegger Connection will be featured. The park opens at 1 p.m. and the event runs until 7 p.m. Entry is $3 per adult, children under 12 are free. German food and drink are available for purchase as well as domestic food and drink. Children's activities include a parade. In the event of rain, the event will be moved indoors in our large banquet hall and barroom. Call 265-6102 for more information.

Or if you're dad's crust is more upwardly mobile ...

Why not haul dad on up to Lake George village on Sunday and drop by the Adirondack Winery and Tasting Room, 285 Canada St., Lake George (across from Shepard Park). The tasting is free and a limited edition father's day wines will be available. Dads unaccompanied by their spawn need only a photo to get in free. And remember spitting is acceptable at wine tastings. For more information, visit adirondackwinery.com

WAIT FOR IT ...

Not Your Father's movie (unless he was around 21 in 1969)

"Taking Woodstock," the Ang Lee film shot in part in our own backyard, is rumored to be having its world premier in Chatham's historic Crandell Theater. Of course the REAL opening is set for August in NYC, but upstaters might be able to see it first if they keep refreshing this link obsessively.

A comedy, Taking Woodstock, was inspired by the true story of Elliot Tiber and his family, who inadvertently played a pivotal role in making the famed Woodstock Music and Arts Festival into the happening that it was.

Random Request Thursday

As I was flitting around on Twitter diligently researching potential topics for discussion on Random Question Thursday ... yeah ... I know ... reasearching randomness is a blatant contradiction right?

Neveryoumindthat ... where was I?

Oh yes, I was looking for ideas when a new virtual friend, Velveteenmind, Tweeted a request for lullabys. It struck a chord with me immediately since I was still soothing a sore throat from bedtime the night before wherein I had indulged Ittybit's requests for several encores of her favorite go-to-sleep song.

As I was searching the Interwebs for links to the song lyrics to send Velveteenmind's way, nothing I found seemed to be exactly like the song I sang to Ittybit. The best I could do were lyrics from a somewhat contemporary band, The Cure.

Now she was able to find a download link that song, which she most graciously shared with me, but as I was listening to The Cure sing this old folk song, it occured to me real part I found lacking was a mother's voice.

Don't they always tell us how our children are soothed by our voices no matter how off key or warbly? How we mothers convey the songs to our children is something we each have the ability to preserve and share.

For me, Life's Rich Soundtrack starts with the songs my mothers sang to me and meanders along, returning to a place of origin in how I sing to my daughter, perhaps it will move her one day as she sings to her own children. ...

So, I offer you my humble, unprofessional voice, singing our favorite lullaby in hopes you will share yours.



**I'm thinking about asking my mother to sing The Ninth Prisoner, a Spanish folk song she use to sing to me at night. I'd be honored if you shared your songs by linking here.

Pho-shizzz (part deux) ... or pho-NO-shizz

Photographs courtesy of Papa ... who also got the pleasure of escorting the young dancer to her dress rehearsal, helping her get outfitted and even troubleshooting why her costume skirt was bunching so strangely (she had managed to get both legs through one opening of the leotard) before the sweet little troupe took center stage.





You can TOTALLY tell me now: "I told you so." Because Friday, after the big event, I'll probably have to eat my words.

Pho-shizzz

I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, REALLY hate the end-of-year dance class extravagance.

$400 worth of despise:

Starting with $37 a month, including months containing two or fewer classes.

A $50 recital costume.

Having to pay $65 for four tickets to attend the recital (because it was booked at a professional performance space).

A mandate that five-year-olds to wear make-up ... "the lights will wash them out."

Dinner-time performance scheduled for preschoolers.

Not to mention that every minute of every class since February being entirely focused on "getting it right for recital,"

Which often forced the cajoling my wee one to actually participate after she lost interest.

AND THEN THE INSULT TO THE INJURY .... $18 + $7 shipping and handling for one 5x7 PROFESSIONAL PORTRAIT(TM) of the class (not to mention being told by a puckered-face woman that the pictures are copyrighted so I can't snap the action, too, even after I paid their highway robbery, no-customer-service, prices.) I hate the business model that demands parents herd their kids into a room and pay gobs of money for pictures, sight unseen, to arrive in six to eight weeks.

But the real end of my rope came as I was running around like crazy person trying (and failing) to find nude-colored tights, a mandate for the dancewear that was not included WITH the $50 dancewear.

I practically broke down in tears when the husband, trying to be helpful, asked if I'd gone to WAL-MART. "I do NOT spend money at WAL-MART ... I'm NOT breaking THAT principal, too."

"OK ... Ok ...." came his soothing voice over the phone, evidence I'd gone too far; lost my moorings. I'd haplessly fallen over the edge of reason over sheer hose.

Much ado about nothing. Much ado over something that should just be fun. Something that no matter how it is presented, encourages the arts.

It wasn't the tights but my overall failure that I was lamenting.

My failure to find a class that met my desires for less consumerism. My failure to stand up and assert those values anyway. My insistence she continue when her interest waned. All the while feeling the emphasis was on the wrong place - the recital not the art.

My failure continues as I recognize that the trappings at the conclusion were the ONLY part my daughter had any interest in after all these months: Having her picture taken in the dress and the chance at being on a real stage was poking me in the chest with my inability to NOT buck trends.

Still reading?

Sorry. I have no excuse.

I knew it would be this way. I knew as they scheduled the circus, I was going to be playing an angry clown.

I'm just utterly stunned and shocked by my own rage and stubbornness when it finally came to pass.

Can't just keep my mouth shut and smile. I know when the lights go down and the girls start their performances I will be just as proud as a parent can be.

And then a friend told me something that made it all fit together.

"Let your principles be a guide, not a shackle."

So easy to forget that, isn't it?

When we enslave our "principles" we really run the risk of becoming unprincipled.

I had said that I didn't want THIS to be our experience. And it won't be if I don't let my priciples petrify. If I don't shut down and fold my arms to other possibilites.

... I just hope it's the dance that will be the reason she'll want to continue in six to eight weeks (if she chooses to continue) ... not just to see her picture on the wall.

Weird and wonderful

There's really nothing better than a gentle game of "Tickle Torture" as you're on your way to buy new shooooze!

Well, unless you count this ...



But I don't know what you'd call that.

I'll call the shooooze, however, a success. He picked 'em; he'll put them on; he won't try to pry them off; and he lovingly refers to them as his "(fire)EN-GEN CHUCKS."

Color me happy, it's finally Friday

Of course I may just be heading back into town for the Red, White and Blue this weekend. ...

SPEND YOUR WEEKEND IN TROY
Old Glory on Broadway Block Party gets underway Saturday from 1 to 7 p.m. on Broadway, between Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue in Troy. Featuring a hot dog eating contest sponsored by Hembold’s, live local music, children’s activities, vendors, and food and beverage, it seems like a fitting precurser to Troy's most enduring event, The Troy Flag Day Parade -- the largest parade of its kind in the nation to honor the American flag -- which steps of at 1 p.m. on Sunday. The Flag Day Parade is a two mile route that runs along Fourth Street beginning in South Troy at Fourth & Main streets and ending at Fourth & Federal streets.


OR I MIGHT GET OUT OF TOWN TO SEARCH OUT THE OTHER COLORS OF THE RAINBOW
Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art, 125 West Bay Road, Amherst, Mass. is hosting a Birthday Bash and Book Festival on Saturday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. The event celebrating the Western Mass Illustrators' Guild includes special art show, sale, and auction with many local artists. Enjoy special storytimes, book signings, face painting, card-making for Eric Carle, free birthday cake. (413) 658-1100. Free with museum admission: $7, adults; $5 youth seniors, students and teachers; $20 for families of four. carlemuseum.org

Rhythm on the Ridge, Maple Ski Ridge, 2725 Mariaville Road, Rotterdam is the place to be for the music minded. The day-long summer music festival, with food, crafters, children’s activities, music workshops gets underway on Saturday 10 a.m. and continues until 6 p.m. The tickets are reasonable, $10, $8 if canned goods are donated, and children under 12 scoot in free. 381-4700 or mapleskiridge.com

Omi International Arts Center, Fields Sculpture Park, 59 Letter S Road, Ghent is hosting its 2009 Summer Annual Exhibition opening on Saturday. If you like contemporary art, this is a good event for kids as well. There are acres to roam, art workshops for kids and you get to stretch your legs. You will take 'em home inspired and tired for sure. Free. artomi.org.

Random Question Thursday

sticks and stones, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Where do you dwell?

And by dwell I mean where do you linger or ponder a particular thought ... until it eats your brain?

When I'm at my worst I dwell on what I think people think of me.

When I'm at my best I dwell on what I think of us.

Bucking trends

It's been a while since I've taken up a call from the mavens of the interwebs, the virtual community of which I've found myself at times adoring and feeling oddly estranged, but her bad mother's recent manifesto -- followed by some other posts about what we feed our kids ... how we introduce them to the world ... or how others perceive us as we traverse the sometimes tragic path parenthood leads us down -- has my head spinning.

I can't help but think that while I agree with most of what has been articulated, any lable we put on it will subtly miss its mark, or worse; set up an entirely new layer of ways to compare ourselves to each other, when maybe we should be trying NOT to compare.

We can call ourselves Bad parents with the smugness of knowing we aren't; and as such try and snatch the word back from the media that we think has sold us some bill of goods we didn't need. A collection of To Do Lists that suggests the only way we will be Good parents is to follow their reporting on their Attachment Parenting protagonists hell-bent on turning the universe of parentbots into breast-feeding, baby-wearing hovercrafts who never even wrapped their babies butts in cloth diapers because the water to wash them is wasteful. Instead they dangled their little dewdrops over the composting toilet.

Meanwhile, we sit rapt and judgemental while the station break allows us to drool over the latest eco-friendly brain-food toys waiting for the gleaming white-toothed and visibly pregnant broadcaster to return and tease the next story about the hip parents in our neighborhoods currently enrolling their infants in Mandarin lessons at the Montessori school where they also practice violin and tai-chi.

Of course, we could switch the channel and hear from the Ferberists who would like to reintroduce the scientific proof that formula is nutritionally superior to breast milk, and that mothers who leave the home really don't love their children, or perhaps if they don't leave the home they are traders to their gender. They might be pushing the agenda that we should all be enrolling our kids in public school, lest we unwittingly flush society down the crapper.

Then there's the conundrum of fear. Should we be letting our kids have more freedom or less? Is junior too fat? Are they spending too much time in front of the television. Is school too demanding? Not demanding enough? Are they usurping our authority?

Good parents will know, infallably, what to do. They will be the deciders. Of course the BAD parents we're talking about were never REALLY bad, they were just judged.

The gyst is that in realizing the impossibility of adhering to all these influences we must accept that there are just too many books to live by and what seems intolerable to me isn't tolerated by you. So we should do our best, what speaks to us, and accept our collection of quirks under the moniker of "bad," put it on our chest and wear it proudly.

Bad is the new good.

... but I just can't get behind that either.

It's just another slogan. Another option to confound us.

Mothers have been the scapegoats since Eve. Freud cemented the notion in modern psychology, and every damn Disney film of mass appeal has done away with us to acheive a better arc. We pit ourselves against one another, we wallow in our own insecurities and then we blame media for making us feel demoralized and disappointed when our expectations of ourselves are not met. Then we chastise each other for giving us a "smack down."

And with so much time to fill, the media can hit every damn one of us (if we let them) just because it has to fill air time. And let's not forget the market, because they pretty something up and sell it to your friends and all of a sudden you HAVE to have it. But even if we fall for all of this hook, line and sinker we have to admit, if we're going to be honest, it's not their fault. It's ours.

We all are horrible. We are all amazing. We are all human and we always have been.

And no matter what we do, whether we accept any particular mantle - bad or good - our children will all blame us for each decision we made, no matter what it was. Sometimes they will be justified. My hope is that if we truly were good parents, our kids will forgive us when they've matured enough to realize it.

Like my mother before me, I am a human being doing the best I can at any given moment of the day. Some days I fare better than others.

So. ...

Good?

Bad?

*shugs shoulders*

I don't even know what that means in the wide world of parenting these days.

My guess is I shouldn't judge.

But not judging doesn't mean I can't disagree.

Or does it?

Death be not proud

When we were cleaning the gutters last fall preparing windows for the winter, Jed made a gruesome discovery.

A nest near the bathroom window had been abandoned with three birds still inside. Their skeletal remains sad proof that their mother had not returned to care for them.

But it was proof of nothing more.

It didn't prove they were ill.

Or that she was.

It didn't prove she cared more for her survival than theirs.

I could only guess as to what happened. Maybe she came to some sudden harm; a windshield of a car, the trap of a wiley cat, a predator bird. Or perhaps it was just her choice of a nesting place - next to our growler - that was enough to set her on the edge of wits. (I know it does me, sometimes).

Jed called me into the bathroom quietly, asking me to take the now mummified remains out and dispose of them so he could continue to work. The kids were sleeping so I didn't have to hide my somber task or perform it quickly.

I took a picture.

Later, I posted it to flickr under "friends and family" not wanting to incur the ire of strangers, but wanting to share this life event; death.

I'm not sure why I thought of it today after the New York Times posted an article about Dr. Tiller's family closing the women's health care clinic he was brutally shot down for operating.

Other than it was something I had wanted to supress.

Just as there will be people coming out of the woodwork to forecast the ramifications of closing of Dr. Tiller's clinic -- there will be people who lament the future of women's health care; there will be people who see it as no more than a black eye for their mission to end medical abortion -- there will be people like me who don't know what to think.

People who are sad that it had to come to this.

We don't speak of death when it comes unannounced. We often don't speak of things that make us frightened. We hide behind words like life and choice as if we can have either whenever we want them. We don't speak when we are afraid of repercussions.

I know I don't.

I'm just one person.

One person who has wrestled with her own understanding.

Her own fears.

Her own disbelief at what she is seeing.

From both sides of the debate.

I am only one person with one small voice.

One person who is asking you to please find reason in her words.

And find reason in your own, too.

We shouldn't be afraid of the truth.

But we should remember that the only truth we really have access to is our own.

And sometimes our truth is based on a lie. Or a fear. Or misperception.

He's as happy ...

TRACTOR!, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

as a pig in poop.

Or a middle-aged man with a mid-life crisis mobile.

Oh yes. Oh yes.

I'm so glad the thing's battery wasn't charged.

Otherwise he might have just driven away ...

rather than have to take turns.

Onwords and Upwords

BREAKING NEWS

Ittybit graduated from The Marilla Cuthbert Academy of Unspeakably Charming Children today. I was a little choked up. And though I tend to write in a sappy way about watching her grow, I'm not a touchy-feely sort of person on the exterior. I am a cold as ice ... well ... yeah. You know.

Let's just say sarcasm and I go way back.

It was a little unusual for me, when I walked into work late today, nearly shedding saline out of the corners of my eyes, to announce that the tiny ceremony I had just attended was more fun that I could put into words. Me. Rendered speechless by a tiny, Bristol board cap with a curled-ribbon tassle.

So ... in lieu of words here are pictures.

NOW, BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BROADCAST

Words will never hurt us. ...

There are lots of folks who disagree with the idea that only words used as decorative objects, forged in metal or cast in plaster, that fall from atop some monumental shelf onto our thumb twiddling noggins can do us bodily harm.

And truth be told, I’m one of those folks who believes that while it behooves us to use our words wisely as well as compassionately -- that what we say and how we say it can shape our understanding and our actions, as well as our relationships with other humans -– we have to choose our battles and perhaps do a lot of forgiving.

For instance:

I don’t believe retarded should be stricken from the lexicon. I just think we need to tweak its meaning. As a start to that end, I would suggest its dictionary entry be illustrated by a photograph of Rush Limbaugh.

Furthermore, and this is where Rush might actually agree with me, I don’t think prejudging something is always a bad thing. We are human. We come to all situations with an assumption. The prejudice isn’t really the problem as much as the insistence that the assumption is correct without further exploration. We need to do more leg work on our thoughts.

And curse words … well … the only reason I oppose curse words in any way whatsoever is the simple cause and effect that the more you use them the less punch your paragraph packs. They may be harmless, they may even be fun to spit out in mixed company, they just aren’t effective if you want people to pay attention to what you have to say.

But there is one word, if I possessed such a power, that I would erase completely from the pages of Webster: boredom.

“I’m sooo bored,” to me, has always seemed a whiney complaint, that is such a waste of angst.

When I hear it uttered the hairs on my neck stand on end.

How is boredom possible if you can read? If you can draw? If you can think or plan? How is it possible with the hundreds of must-have toys, the internets, the telephone, the myriad of amusements you can invent with your mind?

Rhetorical questions, perhaps, as I have friends who disagree with me.

They don’t see boredom the same way I do. They see it as a good thing; a way to teach their kids that they don’t always have to be amused. That doing nothing is OK, too.

But I don’t define doing nothing as really doing nothing. Roget wouldn’t have paired it with boredom in his thesaurus. We are always doing something if we can think, or curl up with a book, or take a nap.

Allowing boredom to be an acceptable activity, if you ask me, just steals the thunder of quiet thrills.

So … get the word out … Boredom is only your inability to be creative with the options you have available.

VERBS AREN’T ALWAYS ACTIVE
Excise boredom with some passive excitement: reading. The Kinderhook Memorial Library and St. Paul’s Episcopal Church are holding a back to back (or spine to spine) book sale this weekend at their adjacent locations, on Hudson and Sylvester streets. On Saturday, The Kinderhook Library's general book and bake sale will run from 9 a.m. until noon with half-price books from noon to 2 p.m. There will be a "Buck a Bag" opportunity on Sunday from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.
St. Paul's book sale will be held on Saturday, June 6 at the McNary Center on Sylvester Street from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. A "Buck a Bag" opportunity will be held from 2 to 4 p.m.
Of course, you don’t have to buy books to recharge your supply … visit your local library and see what’s new.

VENTURE OUT
Show the kids the value of volunteering. The Sylvia Center at Katchkie Farm in Kinderhook is a non-profit organization that focuses on children’s nutrition, farm education and wellness. It’s hosting a volunteer day Sunday from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. and needs help getting into top shape for the summer season. Pack a picnic, bring a blanket, and enjoy a day spent beautifying a farm. Activities will include: planting seeds at the Sylvia Center flower and vegetable garden, a ½ acre children’s garden; clearing trails; building birdhouses; constructing trellises for bean planting; and planting sunflowers.
Visit www.greatperformances.com/farm/sylviacenter for more information.


THE FUTURE IS NOW
The Robert C. Parker School in North Greenbush will have one- and two-week camps for children ages 4 to 14. You can choose from an array of options from adventure, arts, science and athletics. Campers will have access to 77 acres of meadow, woods and creeks. Internships available. Call 286-3449 of visit http://www.rcparker.org/ for more information.

Time & Space Limited in Hudson is offering three interesting summer workshops, including “Soup 2 Nuts,” a theater workshop for kids ages 7 to 13; Hip-Hopera, a workshop for teens; and a circus arts workshop with the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus for kids ages 8 to 18. Call 822-8100 for more information.

Woodland Hills Montessori School also has an exciting lineup for its week and two-week camps for kids ages 3 to 12. The camp lets kids explore science, nature and global awareness through Montessori methods. Visit http://www.woodlandhill.org for more information.

MARK YOUR CALENDAR
Celebrate River Day on Friday, June 12 at Schodack Island State Park. Heritage Vessels is docking at the Castleton Boat Club at 4 p.m. and ship tours will start upon its arrival. There will be music and food, and a fireworks display at the Port of Coeymans that will be visible from the park. Free.

On June 13, Schodack Island State Park continues its event with Schodack Community Day from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. The day-long event will feature exhibits food and music. Heritage Vessels departs Castleton Boat Club at 11 a.m. and will lead a parade of boat club flagships north. Visit www.schodack.org for a complete list of activities.

Random Question Thursday

almost perfect, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's your favorite snack food?

Popcorn: salt, no butter.

Dangerous Books for Boys ...

The March release of "Momma Loves Her Little Son," (Simon and Schuster, $17) the first children's book by John Carter Cash, illustrated by Marc Burckhardt, seemed strategically timed to coincide with Mother's Day. The only son of the legendary Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash, John Carter Cash has spent much of his own career advancing and archiving the legacy of his famous parents, his mother in particular.

In his children's volume, John Carter Cash claims to share the nighttime words she used to to sweep him up over mountains and sky scrapers and imagined adventures before bidding him goodnight.

I have to admit, *disclosure* when Simon and Schuster offered a review copy of this book I wanted to love it.

I have a son who doesn't sit still to read. I have a daughter who has more books about mothers' love than imaginable. The gap between them would need a lengthy bridge to traverse.

But from the moment it arrived the volume turned me off. Figuratively and literally.

To be frank, I found the smell of the ink overpowering.

I wasn't going to mention that I found the odor of the book to be even slightly nauseating. I'm not a printing expert and it could have been some isolated event, or perhaps some fresh-book smell I'm unaccustomed to. The illustrations, which are quite beautiful, are also saturated. So I decided to let it air out for a while before
i'd air such a grievance. Seemed like such a paltry quibble any way. ...

When I finally read it, however, (and yes, the scent was still evident a month later) I had to wonder if the smell wasn't some lingering bile from some unspoken sibling rivalry.

"Momma loves her little son.
There is nothing more so true.
From now until forever more,
Momma clings to you."

Near its end, Carter Cash's book also adds Christian overtones that, while some families may share and welcome them, will not appeal to all audiences.

Overall, the quality of the storytelling is what I find most lacking. The words weren't terribly lyrical, and their flow wasn't particularly satifying. Perhaps that's why all the press material that accompanied the book referred to the words instead of the story almost exclusively. In this respect it seems possible, in reading between the lines anyway, that the words June Carter actually said merely filled out the title and John Carter Cash conjured the story himself.

I suspect the latter because the work also seems awkward in the way personal stories can be. The more I read it, however, the more I realized the work he's created doesn't really speak to me as a special vehicle for mother and son, as much as it seems capable of driving a wedge between brother and sister.

I think I would have left "Momma Loves Her Little Son" on the shelf if it hadn't arrived in the mail.



Alison McGhee and Peter H. Reynolds, creators of the best-selling "Someday," have a much better option in their 2008 book "Little Boy," (Simon and Schuster, $16). (A book I did buy off the shelf).

"Little Boy
So much depends on ...
your yellow cup,
a serenade to wake you up,
sun that slants across the rug,
the wings on that astonishing bug."

This book takes a more carefree, playful tone than "Someday," but its message is no less elegant. Its love is implied in the noticing and the marveling of boyhood play. Imagination is at play here, too, but it is subtle. The other thing I like about this book is that it doesn't classify a mother's love as being separate from the rest of the family ... it's a book anyone can read to a boy ... and the love will be implied.

Even big sisters. (Well, once they learn how to read, anyway.) Love is love.

I have two fervent and deeply held beliefs ...

ONE: All babies do Elvis.

and TWO: When you find on a mop style that you LOVE, buy as many replacement heads as you can afford. Contact the company and ask them to send you a few gross if you have the dough. Pay for it with the third-born child you're certain you won't have if you're running short. Because as sure as all babies do Elvis, those feckin' mop designers will discontinue their product within two years, forcing you to buy another mop handle and start again.

Thankyouverymuch, Jerkwads. Another perfectly good mop handle - better, in fact, because it was the only mop I have ever LOVED - bites the dust.