Eating us out of (gingerbread) house and home

One (pretzel) stick of wood at a time.

If it wasn't for the tarnish we might not notice the shine

Dear Ittybit and the Champ,

It has been so tense here these last few weeks.

Perhaps it's because so many corners of our lives seem to be crumbling into a fine dust.

So much tension and strife. So much worry. So much anticipation.

And then came the virus.

The one that emptied out Ittybit the night before Thanksgiving. The one that gripped me a few days later and got your father a little while after that. I was sure it had missed the Champ until the phone rang at my desk the second I sat down in the chair Monday morning.

I turned right around at went home before I even had a chance to fire up the old Dell.

Since then the crud has been playing a game of peek-a-boo.

While you recovered almost immediately, Ittybit, the Champ has been locked in battle -- occasionally vomiting between being otherwise happy, active and hungry. Monday, sick. Tuesday fine. Wednesday fine ... then sick. Thursday fine then sick ... and back to fine.

When you are parents you will understand what such uncertaintly does to a person who is suppose to have at least some of the answers.

I don't handle rollercoasters well. I don't handle illness well.

That's an admission I'm making to myself, because ordinarily I THINK I handle everything well.

But it's gotten to the point now where Ittybit is asking me if I'm "frustrated at the children or just frustrated in general."

I don't handle it well.

I am tired. I am tense. I am tied up in knots.

And one night, when Ittybit is peacefully sleeping, your father is sick and in bed, little Champ (after seemingly getting over it) starts to vomit. ... and then won't settle. There is no sleep. There is no consolation. There is only Nickjr at night and an incontinent dog for company. My own stomach turns with the smell of my surroundings.

I am not at my best. I just want you to stop whining and sleep, I want you to stop asking for water I can't give you. I want to sleep.

I am not comforting. I am on the edge of the cliff I cut out myself from solid rock.

But I am there, turning the channel, cleaning up vomit, wrestling you into fresh clothes when needed. And cleaning up dog pee and troubleshooting her needs: Water? Out? Leftovers? Please stop barking, It's 4 a.m.

It wasn't one of my shining moments.

In the morning I try to get ready for work -- a day I can't really miss because there is a special deadline and not enough people to meet it.

I break down instead as I hear the sick, mad boy bleating plaintively from the sick couch for his mommy.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.

I haven't slept. I feel sick again. I can't do this.

Your father tells me "Just Go" and "It's like ripping off a Band-Aid. ... He only wants you when you're here."

The words sting.

You sit on my lap and calm down, but peace doesn't last for long.

"Waffles," you tell me.

"Dad will have to make waffles."

"No, you make waffles ... you help me."

"I can't help you. We have no waffle mix. I haven't slept. I'm going to be sick ...."

"YOU HELP ME!"

I can't help. Daddy can help"

"I want my Daddy."

I was crushed. And yet, I know I would not have been hurt by it had it not been deserved.

This evening, in the car, after I picked you up from the sitter's house, you both argued most of the way home.

Champ, you told your sister you were bigger than her. Ittybit, you asked me to tell him the truth. I tried. He wouldn't hear of it.

Bicker, bicker, bicker.

Despite the arguing, I smiled and thought this is normal. This is good. This is healthy. It was the first time I can remember smiling in more than two weeks.

And then Champ, you started to sing: "I am sleep, sleep, sleeping ... I am waking up."

I laugh. ... You have as good a voice as your sister's (even if you are smaller).

I will get sleep. Things will be better, I'm telling myself.


Love, Mommy

It's that time of year again

I know I haven't been able to GIVE these things away let alone sell them, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

I have got to muster the holiday spirit somehow. I've still got faith in holiday swag.

So ... here's the deal: You comment, delurk, tell me something you've always wanted to tell me (but just didn't have the patience to deal with the all the login names and toggle buttons). Talk about whatever you like: traditions, photography, family, navel lint. I don't care what it is.

And sometime around mid-December I will take all the names, put them in a hat and pick one (so long as you leave an email address in the sign-in menu, not to be shared with the Internets, so I can contact you if you win) and that person will get a mug filled with something sweet and homemade. Probably this (if I can manage not to burn it, that is).

UPDATE: Dec. 11
I'm nearly ready to draw a name for the mug, but I've decided to give away as many packages of toffee as I can manage**. All you have to do is e-mail me your real address and buttery sweetness will be in the mail.

**Obviously if I get inundated with requests I'll have to come back and say something smarmy ... like I meant the first ten delurkers. ... or something.

How 'EASY' crafts look when made by the not-so-crafty

Well, from this distance they look pretty good, actually.

I got the idea for these felt letters at Better Homes and Gardens. I thought they'd look nice on the tree.

It took the whole family (and Silas, who uneventfully found three missing tapestry needles) and one afternoon to complete seven letters.

I just printed Helvetica letters at a 600-point font size for use as a template. We used regular embroidery floss for the stitches.

Stuffing them was a little more difficult. First I tried stuffing them in increments, and then I tried finishing most of the sewing before attempting to stuff in the batting. It was kind of a draw as to which was better. I found the stick end of a paintbrush was instrumental in getting the stuffing in the right places.

We're going to attempt a few more for teacher gifts.

Potty Mouth

There's nothing worse than refering to a bench in one's dinning room as "The OUTHOUSE."

Well, maybe the fact that the children think it's fun to play in the "Outhouse" is worse.

Although, what do I know? I seem to have no trouble "doing business" under a photograph of "The Fall 2003 PROBABLE Champions" of Chatham's Over-30 Soccer Team.

Good days, bad days and holidays

We might not be sitting around a table this Thanksgiving day, sharing a meal and a laughing with our families, though that was the plan.

Early this morning, just as I was getting to sleep, Ittybit woke up, sick. Every 20 minutes since she's been up wretching some small amount of stomach acid almost into the toilet. Almost.

As soon as the time softens the fright of the phone, we'll be making some calls to tell people that maybe they should not come to the house of ill repuke after all.

We'll add the disappointment to a growing list of concerns.

We know life isn't always roses, often it is thorny.

But we'll still be thankful ...

Even if we're eating Cheerios and milk come dinner time.

We know we are blessed with Works-Too-Hard Dad, and Little Sick Miss, and Mad Boy Bites Occasionally.

We wouldn't trade our incontinent, geriatric mongrel for any other pedigreed pooch.

And though I call her Stupid Cat, she's Lovable, too.

I'm thankful every time I look at my kids, when they're screaming or running around like banshees. They are people I'd never imagined I'd ever meet, and now can't imagine life without.

I'm thankful for you folks, who have spoken up. And for those who just read silently.

I'm thankful for time and space and hope.

I'm thankful for this joyful mess.

Bucking the norm since 2003

Losing her two front teeth was more in line with what she wanted this Christmas.

Mission accomplished!

Plus, as and added bonus ...

Two days later a lateral incisor wriggled its way out of her mouth and under her pillow.

For those keeping score, five baby teeth have made Ittybit $25 richer.

Throwing the book at holiday shopping

I know it’s not too early to be thinking of holiday shopping …

*Looks, behind her … to the left … pretty much all around …*

I just feel a little weird about writing "Holiday" and "Shopping" in the same sentence BEFORE Thanksgiving.

But I feel I must, since the nice folks at Simon and Schuster sent me a few books for review and my kids ripped the packages out of my Mom-Fu-GripTM, demanded I read them every night since their arrival, and made me retool my disclosure statement.*

OK?

OK!

Ittybit took one look at David Carter’s latest book and started jumping up and down. "It’s the Peek-A-Boo Bugs! It’s the Peek-A-Boo Bugs!" she screamed.

She’s loved Carter’s "Peekaboo Bugs: A Hide-and-Seek Book" since she was barely a year old. So his "Snow Bugs," with its familiar bug-eyed characters and its beautiful metallic sheen, was a welcome addition to her collection despite the fact that’s she’s starting to read on her own.

Her reaction to "Snow Bugs," however, paled in comparison to her enthusiasm for "White Noise," his simultaneously released pop-up book, modeled it seems after the mid-20th century Modern art movement hallmarked by such masters as Alexander Calder and Paul Klee. The book, which is meant to be touched, is beautiful in its clean-edge simplicity but also riveting for its playability. Readers will notice the tiny tinkle of dangly paper bits, the crinkle of folded papers and the whimsical ricochet of a paper xylophone right off, but word of warning: once your kidlets learn they can use the book to amplify their voices … look out. You might want to start bedtime a full hour earlier. White Noise, $23 Snow Bugs $12, both published by Little Simon.



Similarly fond of the "David" series by David Shannon, Silas has been glued to the illustrator’s latest picture book: "Robot Zot!" Written by Jon Scieszka, The slightly skewed figures of the tiny but destructive alien Robot Zot, who finds foes in the kitchen of a middle class household (such as the blender and the coffee pot) easily conquered. Robot Zot also makes light work of destroying the toothpaste-shilling television foe only to find his circuitry slightly rewired has he finds a damsel in need of saving -- a toddler toy. The illustrations are breathtaking and carry the story forcefully from page to page, even though the story could lose a few lines for simplicity’s sake.

Spoiler alert: Silas was a little worried Robot Zot would bring harm to the family’s curious little black lab, but relieved when the pup was lifted to safety by the gigantic Dad.

The dog, however, does not seemed to be saved for long as the wordless end page shows the forlorn looking canine surrounded by the appliance detritus as an angry Dad looms overhead.

As the boy is breathing a sigh of relief, I am laughing my fool head off: Everyone blames the dog. Published by Simon and Schuster, $18.

OTHER BOOKS WE LOVE:

"A Child’s Book of Faeries," Celtic tales from the British Isles are retold by Tanya Robyn Batt and illustrated by Gail Newey. Children of all ages will be introduced to the enchanting, if not dark mischief, of old-world faeries. The book, published by Barefoot Books, features an audio CD that is perfect for long car rides. Hardcover, 64 pages. $20.

"The Best Pet Of All," elegantly written by David LaRochelle, and with retro-styled illustrations by Hanako Wakiyama, is a seemingly straight-forward story of a little boy who wants a dog, but, when his mom says ‘NO!,’ settles for a dragon. How bad could a dragon be? Find out as the charmingly simple tale of a childhood rite of passage takes you down an unfamiliar path. Dutton Juvenile, 32 pages. $17.

What little girl doesn’t love Fancy Nancy? Not mine, that’s for sure. I picked up "Fancy Nancy: Explorer Extraordinaire," last summer, and in addition to the introduction of new vocabulary words, the book is packed with information about flora and fauna. It was even helpful in calming the heebie-jeebies Ittybit gets from garden-variety creepy crawlies. Even a trashcan full of flies didn’t turn our new reader’s stomach. Published by Harper-Collins, 32 pages. $13.

THE UN-BOOK
Yoga Pretzels: This 50-card pack has been a staple at our house for mother-daughter yoga sessions. It offers a complete yoga practice from warm up through relaxation, and it helps Ittybit run the class. She picks the poses and off we go. At $15, the set is a bargain for any yoga enthusiast in your life.


*****

*Disclosure: I had planned to donate all new books received for review from publishing houses to the Pajama Program. Since my kids have fallen in hot, germy love with them, however, I have arranged with one of my favorite independent book sellers, Politics and Prose, to send equivalent books to the organization. As luck and timing would have it, my favorite bookshop hosted David Carter earlier this month and the books will be signed by the author.

Since it’s not only the Christmas season but also the danger season, I urge you to support this wonderful organization, which provides new pajamas and books to kids in homeless shelters and who are new to foster care.

I've never seen this smile before

No doubt, this is what happens when she's NOT ignoring the photographer.

Spirit of the season is what you make of it

By now I thought I'd be a seething mass of rage about public eduction.

I thought I'd be one of the parents beating down the door at Kindergarten demanding to know exactly what was behind the thought process of making kids color trees realistically instead of imaginatively.

I expected to roll my eyes every time some piece of paper made its way home that asked us to buy-bring-donate something toward the mission of establishing school spirit.

I didn't expect to find it all so charming. I didn't expect to love how the teachers talk to the kids, or get their attention, or encourage their participation.

I also didn't think I'd actually want my kid to wear pajamas to school when she would rather not.

But. Here were are. Spirit day.




Now ... back to a little eye-rolling.


All hale the spirit of the season: Profits

Bah humbug.
Before the last of the Halloween spiders were summarily swept from store shelves, shopkeepers dusted their stock with the downy flake of polystyrene snow. JCPenney trademarks "Joy of Giving," and economists are wringing their hands, predicting a sad year for retailers, as shoppers vow to live within their means.

Can anyone really blame us for wanting to rain a little on the retailers’ parade?
This Saturday why not help the Nimbostratus clouds open up by attending the Buy Local Bash from 5 to 9 p.m. at The Troy Atrium, 297 River St.

The bi-annual vendor fair features 50 businesses from Albany, Schenectady, Rensselaer and Saratoga counties including food producers, potters, jewelers, clothiers, health services and more. North Country acoustic duo Eddy and Kim Lawrence will perform live music. A $10 donation is suggested.

Why not rewrap last year’s toys?

Take the kids to the Albany Institute of History and Art’s 100th Anniversary celebration of the Albany mummies, featuring a talk by Egyptogist Peter Lacovara this Sunday from 1 to 4 p.m.

In addition to new exhibits and lectures, there will be plenty of hands-on, art-making opportunities for the kids. Children are also encouraged to bring toys from home to recreate the mummification process in the museum studio.

Lacovara, senior curator at the Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emerson University, will speak at 2 p.m. He will lead a discussion about the mummy Ankenfenmut, his coffin and the connections the Capital Region has with ancient Egypt.

The event is included with paid admission, $10 for adults $8 students, seniors $6, children under 12 children younger than 6, free.

Upcoming:

Thanksgiving weekend is being heralded by AIH&A with a series of free events beginning Friday, Nov. 27 and running through Sunday, Nov. 29.

Come see the new exhibits during this admission-free weekend. There will also be special events on each of the three days.

On Friday from noon to 4 p.m. drop in to the art studio and create a 12-inch texture tile there will be storytelling from 1 to 3 p.m. by museum educators and docents and a lecture at 2 p.m. by award-winning author James Bruchac, about Native American storytelling.

At 2 p.m. on Saturday there will be a musical performance and book signing with Hudson Talbott. Students from the region will perform selections of his book "River of Dreams," an adapted story of the Hudson River that tells its history through song.

From noon to 4 p.m. Sunday, learn about fresh water fish and create "gyotaku" – an 18th century Japanese art form that combines fish and printmaking. It appears the museum will be using three-dimensional models instead of fresh fish.

Don’t miss a special performance by fifth graders at Giffen Memorial Elementary School, who will perform a hip-hop composition under the direction of teacher Jeremy Dudley. Dudley (also known as Origin) has been teaching at Giffen for nine years, and is a three-time winner of the Best Hip-Hop Artist in the annual Metroland readers’ poll. The students' piece recognizes AIH&A’s exhibition: Hudson River Panorama, 400 Years of History, Art and Culture and the 400th anniversary of the river’s exploration.

Shutting the door

It's been a week or so since I've had my main camera, having sent it off in a package to New York City so that someone in a repair shop can cut and paste in new parts.

It's been a while longer since it has worked properly. Mostly I muscled through, appologizing to people for the random clicks that just didn't sound right as every other frame the shutter stuck open.

In the past when I've been without my main camera, I've felt anxious and edgy. Missing something important in my life.

But when I sent it off this time, with it's cracked gaskets and sticking mechanisms, I felt relief. I didn't want to haul the heavy body here and there; or drag it out at the mortification of my children. I didn't want to be the official photographer of our lives or someone elses.

I thought I might even break out the film cameras, or the toy ones that once intrigued me enough to make it a moniker. But I didn't.

I took a few snaps with the old camera, and actually said "NO" a few times to my kids, who asked for me to take a picture of something or other.

Today, as I trucked over to the FedEx office to retrieve the package containing my reconditioned camera, I realized I wasn't excited to have it back.

I didn't dig it out and affix a lens.

I didn't test it to see if it was in better working order.

I just trusted it would work when I needed it to.

Then I tucked it away in the back of the trunk and shut the door.

Seriously ...

I wish my mind worked this way creatively and not just appreciatively.

How bland would life be ...

without sugar ...


and spice?

How to make a grown man (nearly) cry

BE THE TEACHER THAT TELLS HIM: "Your daughter is delightful. When she sees another student is all alone or not having a good day, she makes a point to go and play with THEM on the playground. She's a great influence on the other kids."

Sleep cycles

I remember the last time I slept through the night.

It was Thursday, last week.

It was a fluke made possible by hope and the husband.

Prior to that, the last time I recall sleeping six consecutive hours was a few weeks before The Champ was born.

Lately the sleep deprivation has been so horrible, though, I've missed the real baby baby-days when naps just seemed constant and an appropriate amount of sleep could be achieved by collecting it throughout a 24-hour cycle.

The night routine, however, goes something like this:

6 p.m. Dinner.

7 p.m. Bath. Act out a pre-apocalyptic version of Waterworld using two wooden salad bowl "boats" and three bendy straws. Brush Teeth. Dress for bed. (No one is really sure which chore is done in which order as most of the time pajamas are wet).

8 p.m. Reading.

8:30 p.m. Bed.

8:30 until ? Mom (sometimes dad) sleeps in toddler bed until sleep sets in. Could be five minutes could be an hour and five minutes. It's a crapshoot.

10 p.m. (regardless of when child fell asleep) Parent will unpretzel them self from the sleep position made famous by a sloth in the Movie Ice Age, and tiptoe downstairs to finish one of 3,000 ordinary household chores that have piled up.

10 p.m. and two seconds Itty-bitty will awake and ask for water ... or why the parent trying to sneak away down the stairs didn't stop in and say a final "good night."

10:30 p.m. Parent who may (or may not) have finished washing the dishes will tiptoe back upstairs and go to bed.

10:35 p.m. Dog will bark at the bottom of the stairs until one of two adult humans gets out of bed and shows the dog that the gate HAS, in fact, been left open.

11 p.m. Dog will finally settle down after walking around the second floor, looking for toilets to drink out of and food to eat.

11:05 p.m. Dog will bolt up for no reason and run to the other side of the room.

11:30 p.m. Dog will resettle.

Between midnight and 1 a.m. The Champ will wake up and start crying.

He will not be consoled.

1:15 a.m. The parent who tried to get him back to sleep will bring him to bed.

1:30 a.m. He will sleep.

2 a.m., 2:30 a.m., 2:45 a.m., 3 a.m., 3:15 a.m. The Champ will want to nurse.

At 4 a.m. cat will crawl into the mom's hair and lay down.

4:01 a.m. through 5:30 a.m. Mom will try to get the cat to sleep on the dad while simultaneously trying to get The Champ to fall asleep.

She will lose.

From 5:30 a.m. through 6 a.m. The boy will want to nurse.

On alternating days of the week, which might potentially line up with the tides of the moon, the dog will become incontinent and require the work of a hazmat team during the above-mentioned hours as well. (Last night was one such occasion. I'll spare you the details.)

*You are welcome.*

From 6:30 a.m. until 7 a.m. the non-sleeping boy will want to sleep.

7 a.m. The mother - who no longer understands herself when she speaks - will get up, untangle the cat from her hair and try to take a shower.

7:05 a.m. The hot shower and warm suds will make the mother feel somewhat human again. She may even sing.

7:08 a.m. The daughter -- all tousle-haired and unintending – will sneak into the bathroom and sit quietly on the commode. She will say 'Good morning, mommy' and then will flush the toilet. Singing will stop.

And thus begins another day.

Happy Birthday, Ernie, Bert, Big Bird ... You don't seem a day over 5

For those of you living under a (Fraggle) Rock: Sesame Street turns 40 today.

The Big FOUR-O!

So much has changed on the program since I was a young viewer:

The set has sloughed its gritty, inner-city edge;

Ernie and Bert have lost their furry-puppetness;

And even Cookie Monster has been compelled to eat vegetables.

Characters have come and gone. Most notably when the real-life death of actor Will Lee caused the Children’s Television Workshop’s progressive decision to allow Mr. Hooper – his character – to die on the show.

It was riveting television for children and adults. It still is.

Perhaps what makes Sesame Street so successful as a television show is that it is consistently changing while still protecting its mission to provide quality children’s programming focused on education.

It has interwoven cognitive curriculum with current events, social awareness and multiculturalism. It has taken risks and held to core values.

And though each of us – myself included – can point to at least one thing on Sesame Street that ruffles our feathers, what we can’t deny is that the educational experiment has been a rousing success for not only generations children but their parents, too.

Sesame Street didn’t let us off easy. It wasn’t just an address we could park our kids to get things done. It was a place where questions brought more questions. Sometimes tough ones to hear, and tougher to answer.

I didn’t look forward to telling my then four-year-old why her favorite character at that time – Mr. Noodle’s brother Mr. Noodle – had no new episodes. He’d died the year she was born.

But I told her about Michael Jeter's death, in much the same way Gordon told Big Bird why Mr. Hooper couldn’t come back.

I may have my petty issues with a lisping bear and a little red monster who refers to himself in the third person, but I can’t deny what each has meant to my kids.

I can only thank them for the gentle wisdoms they’ve offered throughout the years, and for being there when they really needed some monsters that weren't really that scary.

I believe, I believe, I believe

Amy Wallace writes a blunt but factually accurate piece in Wired about how parents’ unfounded fear of vaccination is putting us all at risk for epidemic, and there is a sh*tstorm of response.

No one is really surprised, although Wallace claims she wasn’t prepared for the intensity and bullying tactics of some of the vitriolic responders.

I have to admit, however, because of this piece and because of the positive response it has also gotten, I’m feeling a little less afraid to say what I’ve been thinking about the subject all along.

I am not on the fence about most vaccines. I believe in them. I believe they, above most other forms of medical advances during the last 100 years, have made the quality of our lives better. I believe they still have tremendous potential.

I know there is a lot I don’t know. I know that there is a lot scientists don’t know and there will always be established understandings that study will overturn.

But I also think that if you take what parents don’t know about science and medicine and heap it into a gigantic pile and put a match to it we could heat the planet.

It kind of makes my head spin when folks point to their fears, such as the very slight risk of getting Guillain-Barre Syndrome from a flu vaccine as reason not to vaccinate, especially since Guillain-Barre is most often the direct result of illnesses such as flu and bacterial infection and is rarely linked with vaccine.

That’s not to say that there aren’t people who SHOULD NOT BE VACCINATED for certain things. That’s not to say that there won’t be rare and serious side effects, even death.

But it makes me a little crazy when folks point to the government and call it a vast left/right/center (whatever) wing cesspit of conspiracy and throw up a wall of disbelief at study after study that concludes no link between immunizations and autism. They don't trust anyone but themselves. Yet they will put their children through a litany of unstudied and potentially dangerous procedures -- such as chelation therapy – based on speculation.

A flu shot, especially when they are scarce and when flu mutates so rapidly leaving even the immunized somewhat unprotected, seems like a small thing compared to all that.

I can understand skipping the shot.

There has also been some compelling work in epidemiology that suggests flu vaccine doesn't really work to protect the people we'd most like to protect.

We do, after all, have choice.

And while I believe in immunization, I also believe in choice. I am cautious of new products. I am wary of firms that are the sole patent holders, as is the case of the vaccine to prevent HPV and some cervical cancers. I feel fortunate to have time to see what happens with that particular vaccine before the decision is at hand.

The risk vs. reward still seems unclear, especially since regular pap screening is still the single best way to prevent cervical cancer.

But for other illness -- ones that show up without warning or ways of prevention such as polio -- I think vaccinating as much of the population as has been done for generations is really important.

I believe Wallace is right. We have a feeling of safety from these illnesses because of vaccine. Wild polio infection hasn't been seen in this country in 20 years because of widespread vaccination. Africa, Asia and other developing nations still see polio infections regularly. And when you think how global we've become as a society, my guess is the gaps in vaccination will allow these devastating illesses to come right back eventually, just as we're slowly seeing the return of whooping cough and measles.

I understand fear. I am not immune to it. But I also try to keep it in check; I try to realize those fears aren’t coming from a rational place. I also try to realize communication is one of the most difficult things we will ever do as a society. I misinterpret all the time. I also see so many misinterpretations that it makes me wonder if we even know what the people we trust are saying.

Dr. William Sears, for instance, is often referred to as being a doctor who doesn't accept the safety of vaccine. Yet from my reading of his work, I think that assessment is utterly wrong. He wants children to be vaccinated. He's a proponent of vaccination, but he realizes there is fear. He believes that if parents had better control of when and how their kids were vaccinated the medical community would see better compliance. A lot of what he talks about is intended to make parents feel safer, not that they will be safer.

I view what he touts as a kind of a “Love and Logic” for parents. Give parents choices - choices that won’t put anyone in jeopardy - and they will take the path you want them to take. Yet for some it seems to just give credence to their fears.

And those fears seem to be leading many of us to thoughtless behaviors. Our children come first. We know what’s best. Damn the torpedoes. And that saddens me no end.

It pains me to talk about "underlying conditions" as if those with underlying conditions deserved what they got … I’m safe. We feel safe because we are healthy. We think those who are unhealthy are so by choice or lifestyle. But really, we are healthy because we are lucky not because we’ve been responsible.

We have responsibility to those around us who aren’t so blessed, and we shirk it time and time again. We are willing to risk the health of those with the underlying conditions, needlessly, because of philosophical and unfounded fears.

Seriously, if I can prevent another mother from sitting by the side of a hospital bed while their child is tethered up to IV lines because of rotavirus, like I did, I am happy to do it.

'That was me'

The real deal has been entertaining boys for centuries ... iFart Mobile has been doing it since 2008.

You and Media

Not always but more and more often I cringe when I hear or read about "The Media."

Usually the reference is under the context of the Big, Bad Mainstream MediaTM blowing something out of proportion.

By way of disclosure, I must come clean and admit that I myself have been guilty of such thinking. In the 24-hour news circle of life what journalists cover often gets amplified in our collective psyche.

I roll my eyes like nobody's business when television talking heads put their best "I'm shocked" lilt in their voice as they jovially discuss the topic du jour.

One need only think about recent (and not-so-recent) "hammer heads" to understand and nod one's own head in stiff-necked anxiety: Terrorism, Abduction-Murder, Pandemic.

But then I think: Newspapers are dying! Professional media - people paid to research, edit and produce stories about current events - itself has become endangered.

I must also admit, it has been a while since I've watched television news, or read the New York Times from cover to cover. I can't remember the last time I sat down with The New England Journal of Medicine or The Lancet without having been called into a doctor's office a few minutes later.

Like many folks these days, I get the majority of my news now from YOU in the bloggesphere.

Sure ... many of the links I click lead to stories in one Post or another. Some lead to peer-reviewed medical journals. But many lead to the great, big interconnected Web of us.

Whatever IT is, I -- like you, the new media -- Tweet and re-Tweet it; paste it into my Facebook page; put my concerns about it in essay form, complete with first-hand experience and links to other blogs. I discuss everything in minute detail, then show you where you, too, can find out more ... usually another blog. In addition to alerting others to the original news story, we provide analysis and directions on where to go to engage in heated argument.

These days, much of what I know about healthcare, foreign policy, parenting, shopping, corporate ethics, the common cold, vitamin D, green smoothies and how swine flu is spreading, has come from you - my Internet community.

Yes, we are the new media.

We pride ourselves in being smart, articulate and unafraid to speak our minds.

Some of us are journalists, that is true. Some of us are also doctors, scientists and statisticians. Those and many, many more of us, here in the ethosphere, however, are just folks with opinions.

Likewise, fewer and fewer of us (as a nation) are studying science or mathematics in school. Fewer of us even understand imperical formula. We trust our instincts and our inner voices. We look to pat each other on the back. We seek like minds.

So when we talk about the media and how it slants, when we point a finger, we should be looking in the mirror at ourselves.

We are the way information spreads.

Virally, imperfectly and with a heavy dose of bias.

When we speak of how the media is scaring the pants off of us, we must remember that while the message might have originated from The Big Bad MediaTM the interpretation likely came from a more "trusted" source: YOU and MEdia.

It rained, it poured, it stopped (wash, rinse, repeat)

Looking back over the last 72 hours, I'm not at all sure why I like Halloween.

We aren't talented at making costumes.

My camera isn't working properly.

Doesn't matter, I can count upon at least ONE of the kids not wearing their costume. And the other one to fight, tooth and nail, for the most illogical footwear ever. Neither will really let me take their pictures.

We are REALLY low-brow with decorations.

We get NO Trick-or-Treaters.

But that doesn't stop us from buying too much candy.

We spend all day trying to get normal things done around the house while Ittybit asks "Is it time to go Trick-or-Treating yet?" All. Day. Long.

Of course, then it rains.

And Ittybit's hard-fought-for-shoes make it impossible for her to keep up with the pack.

Which means getting caught in the rain, and getting drenched.

Which brings on tears.

And changes of plans.

And more tears.

And even when they are so exhausted that they can no longer keep their eyes open ...
No one sleeps.

First one. ...

And then the other ...

Make their way into our bedroom.

The dog barks until we let her in the room, too.

Then the cat creeps in.

And jumps on the dog.

Who jumps up with cat-like speed but old dog-like grace, and skitters around to the other side of the bed, where she circles and circles, her unclipped nails clicking against the floor, until she finally drops with an "ooomph."

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

All. Night. Long.

Happy Halloween

Hope you have tiny, lovely surprises.

(The return of) Random Question Thursday

I know, I know ... Who cares?

Please, don't answer that. That is NOT the question.

The question is:

What will you NOT be doing this Halloween?

We are NOT buying Nestle candy, that's one thing.

One of us may NOT be dressing up. Again.

We are NOT having a costume yoga class.

We are NOT going to be staying indoors. (Hopefully the cat will be, though.)

and ... finally ...

We are going to NOT one but TWO parties.

Silas is (still) golden (but he's becoming more like us every day)

My father called me today to report on a report he’d gotten from his town’s librarian about my son.

The Other Mother, you see, takes the boy to that library on Wednesdays for story time.

“He used to be so quiet. So shy,” she laughed as my dad probably sniggered silently (and uncontrollably) before emitting the short blast of “HA!” -- a laugh trait I never really noticed before my son inherited it from him.

“Now it is pretty clear he has an opinion about everything and he’s not afraid to share it.”

Like when he storms clear across the room to lay his random thoughts* on some kid patiently waiting for the craft table to open up:

“MY MOM IS WORKING!”

He gets THAT from me … There’s a reason why I’m suddenly talking about the cat while discussing the disappearance of the yellow and blue winter coat Ittybit handed down to The Champ.

“Oh, glad you found it. Yes, yes. I was wondering what happened to his coat. … That stupid cat!”

*It’s not really random. I blame her for its vanishing.

It is true that my son’s communicative skills are blossoming with such speed I think it’s forcing him to stutter:

“My-my-my-my dad is working,” he says with a smile, pointing as we pass the garbage hauler. “He-He-He-He drives that truck.”

The glint in his eye reflects the little devil inside.

Not to mention the slight tinge Eddie Haskleism he shares with his sister.

“He was so cute, today,” continues the librarian. “A little girl started crying and he went over and put his arm around her. ‘It’s ok, It’s OK’ he said.”

I could hear my dad’s pride swell.

“Yeah, but what she doesn’t know is that he spent the morning trying to balance things on her head while she screamed for him to stop.”

Sweet, adorable, amenable Silas, who quietly goes about doing whatever it is he wants to three feet below the rest of the world.

He’s already figured out we’ll blame the cat.

“MOM! RAT!!!” screamed Annabel this morning minutes before we were to leave the house.

“Wha ….?” I stammer as I tug my attention away from trying to pull both of the boys lower limbs out of his left pant leg.

“RAT!?!”

I hulk over to the place she’s jumped three feet from, where she found what appeared to be (from my viewing of it) the headless, tailless torso of a squirrel wedged between the cushions of the chair.

I jump back. "That's no rat."

My mind races with squirrel-like precision: Wha? Oh my g… I don’t want to touch … How am I … Cat. Outside. Call Jed … double bag my hands? What kind of sick, twisted pet hides their kills in a chair? What do I do … the body? Uh .... CAAAAAAAAAAAAT!

After pacing back and forth, I find plastic bags and make my approach. I peel away the cushion and the thing flops lightly onto the seat.

Light and airy like. ... Just as if it were the last crust of olive bread the boy begged for the previous night.

When he was sitting in that chair.

I turn around to see his squinty eyed, twisted mouth expression looking right at me.

“STOOOOPID CAT.”

What dangers lurk under the sink so rare?

There’s a leak in the drain of my kitchen sink.

A slow leak that is even slower in getting repaired.

I’ve learned to work around it. I’ve propped a double-sided utility caddy under the drain; one side catches the drips, the other contains the various detergents and scrubs used in the weekly cleaning exploits of yours truly.

On the occasion of cleaning other parts of the house, I check the levels and find an inch or so of water needing to be dumped.

Occasionally we go away on the weekend … and then the following weekend, perhaps, we make other plans. The grime and gunk around other parts of the house build up.

As does the pool of water in the caddy.

How many weekends has it been since I checked? I wonder.

What I found was dreadful. Horrifying even.

Two. Dead. Mice.

Two sodden, matted little corpses, floating in either ends of the plastic bin.

Putrid.

Oh … it seems so tame, doesn’t it? It seems so much like the daily diary of any frustrated housewife.

No one really cares what’s under your sink. Rodents floating in an inch of water, in a place one keeps their toxic chemicals to clean an inch of dust, matters not in a world where toxic assets have cleaned out entire retirement savings.

Yet this terrible discovery is what I’m thinking about as I’m reading “Sir Ryan’s Quest,” a charmingly drawn and beautifully written story by Jason Deeble about a little boy who meets the King of the Pots under his kitchen counter and goes on a journey of epic proportions in the otherwise mundane corners of his house.

But two people I know really do care what’s under the sink. They aren't even squeamish. There is adventure to be had.

Even Silas, at the grand old age of two, can spot the man living in Deeble's jungle closet. He screams in delight over the basement cave’s moldy monster. Annabel, likewise, giggles in anticipation as Sir Ryan's Quest leads from room to room.

Both kids adore the language, which adheres itself to a poetic chivalry of another age. It’s a joy to read aloud.

And I have to admit, I adore the message: Adventure is everywhere, even in the relative safety of home.

Scratch 'Life One,' first race

I know that cats aren't the smartest animals on the planet (Sorry, cat lovers, I'm sticking with this belief) but ours takes the pumpkin.

This morning as we were waiting with Ittybit for the bus, the little fur-bag-of-a-jerk (as I lovingly call her) leapt out (squirrel-like) into rush-hour traffic.

She would have been a greasy puddle of goo right in front of her tiny owners' eyes had she not heeded the blaring horn of the car that could have killed her.

Now, we have done everything we can think of to keep her indoors, but Houdini Kitty is determined to terrorize the neighborhood. (I mean that literally, as I've learned our neighbor -- a VERY, VERY, VERY nice woman who dotes on the kids -- is terrified of cats.)

I'm not sure if there's anything we can do to make sure she doesn't use up her remaining eight lives before the week is out.

Get a jump on The Creep this weekend

creepy , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

HALLOWEEN IS MY THING!

You guys know I’m all about the scary, right?

Well. … Kind of. ...

(Skip down the last entry for the event of the season my scare-dy-cat, watches-frightful-movies-from-the-kitchen-through-the safety-of-my-hands’-covered-face won’t be attending thankyouverymuch).

But still, I just love the costumes and the candy and the little boys and ghouls ringing my door bell to wrench the M&Ms and Almond Joys from my greedy, gluttonous fingers.

So I’m excited to return to the weekend report with a little SPIRIT OF THE SEASON …

WHY NOT GET LOST? at Kettle Farms in Hoosick Falls for a few hours this or any weekend through Nov. 8. Those who find their way out of the farms’ 22-acre, professionally designed corn maze can take part in other silly (if-not appropriately themed) seasonal events including contests, pumpkin picking, firing off a corn cannon or a pumpkin slingshot. For added excitement, take a flashlight tour of the maze, offered on Friday and Saturday nights in October until 10 p.m.

And if you haven’t decided what’s going on the family holiday card this year, check out the farm’s new overlook bridge, where you can get a bird’s eye view of the maze and have your picture taken.

Admission is $9 for adults (ages 12 and older), $7 for kids (4 to 11) and free for tots under three. Trick or Treaters can visit in costume on Halloween and receive $1 off admission to the maze. A masquerade parade and costume contest are planned.

Tammy’s Candy Kettle Restaurant will also offer a menu selection of fall favorites, including fresh apple cider, corn chowder and roasted sweet corn. There’s sadly no Web site (hint-to-the-HINT) but you can call Tammy at 686-0992 to get the low down.


KNICK AT NIGHT: Knickerbocker Mansion, 132 Knickerbocker Road, Schaghticoke, is giving evening tours of the mansion from 6 to 9 tonight and tomorrow night, with particular focus paid to ghosts of the mansion’s past. Souper Supper is also available. Tour is $5, $6 for soup, served throughout the evening. Visit www.knickmansion.com for more information.

TRICK OR TREAT, OWL: SMELL MY FEET, RABBIT: Grafton Lakes State Park is hosting a "trick or treat" evening nature walk tonight at dusk. Call 279-1155 if you dare (or don’t have a reservation). Free.

POPCORN AND SCREAMS: The Troy Public Library, 100 Second St., will show "Coraline," Saturday at 2 p.m. Moviegoers under seven years of age must be accompanied by an adult. Refreshments will be served. Free.

HAUNTED HOUSE: COARC, Greenport Rescue Squad and the Hudson Department of Youth host the ninth annual Operation Pumpkin haunted house at COARC’s Promenade Hill Center, 11 Warren St., Hudson on Saturday from 6 to 8 p.m. The event features a haunted alley, Dracula’s pub, a mad scientist’s laboratory, the dungeon, a spiders’ den and other breath-catching surprises.

The Pumpkin Patch offers more tame excitements for little ghosts and goblins. A costume contest for the cutest, funniest, scariest, prettiest and most original costumes will be held. Judging of the costumes begins at 6:15 p.m. Popcorn, cookies, candy and cider will be served.

Best of all … it’s free. Mmmmmmwaaaaahhhh ah ah! Call 672-4451 or visit www.coarc.org for more information.

MMWAHHHAAA AAA … MORE FRIGHTS TO COME ….

DO ZOMBIES RUN? Find out on Halloween when Troy Family YWCA hosts its Annual Monster Madness Dash - 5K on Saturday, Oct. 31 starting at 9 a.m. Costumes are highly encouraged. The course leads participants through Frear Park. A Kids Fun Run will step off at 9:45 a.m. Fees are $30, $20 for registrations postmarked by Oct. 29. The kids’ race is free. Proceeds benefit the Y’s annual youth campaign. Registration forms available for download at www.cdymca.org

GHOSTS HAVE CULTURE, TOO: St. Paul’s Church in Troy and the American Guild of Organists (Eastern NY Chapter) are hosting an afternoon of creepy music, scary stories and goulish marches for little goblins of all ages from noon to 2 p.m. on Halloween. Call 273-7351 to attend.

FRIGHT NIGHT: What better way to spend all-hallows eve eve but skulking around a funeral parlor? On Friday, Oct. 30, Wenk Funeral Home on Payne Avenue in Chatham will come alive with the undead in what is sure to be the scariest event of the season. Not for the squeamish, though, the haunted house is not recommended for children under 12. Admission is $5 and proceeds will. benefit the Chatham High Drama Club, Junior Class and the Northern Columbia County Rotary Club. For more information, visit nccrhauntedhouse

Ditching plans (and pants) on the road to enlightenment

For most of us, I think I can safely say, traveling with young children is an exercise in patience and prayer.

"Please, oh please, oh please GOD-I-WISH-I-COULD-BELIEVE-IN, please don't let this boy melt down here. Not in the middle of the terminal while I'm schlepping two bags, a coat and his now slack body, gone limp because there just wasn't time to put him down on the moving sidewalk. There's only 10 minutes left until the plane is scheduled to be in the sky and we haven't found the gate, let alone the shoe I just discovered missing from his foot."

"Mommy," says his sister. "I have to pee."

Please, oh please, oh please.

For me, travel is kind of like childbirth. All the planning in the world doesn't ensure it will go smoothly. Late connections, like non-progressive contractions, can change the whole thing.

Of course, there's also the time changes. Three hours difference from east to west ensures the kids will be up at 4 a.m. Pacific, demanding breakfast that won't be available until 7 a.m.

"I told you we should have stopped at a grocery store," my inner critic jabs. They settle for $2 pretzels from the honor bar.




Leave the kids alone in the room for a few minutes as you relieve your travel-worn bladder and you may find one of them not wearing pants upon your return.

"Where did they go?"

"In der," he says in his man-boy voice, proudly signaling to the safe in the closet sans closable door.

It's not nearly as funny to you in the momement as it is the clerk at the front desk, who wonders if he knows the combination. Then you laugh.

It's inevitable. There's never enough snacks, bathroom breaks or pants packed away when you travel with us, no matter how much we've planned.

The expression flying by the seat of one's pants could have been coined for us.

Although we hear the perfunctory are-we-there-yets, neither child is intent on wordy repetition. Instead we talk about the drive, and the things we see along the way that are different from the things we've seen up until then.

It hurts my husband's soul a little when he can't lure his son out of the play area on the ferry to see the vistas of Vancouver as we make our way to a family wedding.

They are more interested in understanding the process than seeing the sites.

How many days are we staying?

How many hotels.

Will there be a zoo?

A museum?

Can we get a special?

Are we having dessert for dinner one night?

Can I be a flower girl?

Will there be games?

Eventually, though, the enormity of the endeavor comes into sharp focus.

Upon passing our first border checkpoint and learning Canada doesn't stamp the passports, disappointment wafts in the air.

All that work to get and no stamp to say we'd gone some place.

No matter. The information center where we stop for directions offers almost immediate redemption. It looks like a rock building and has a waterfall coming down its far wall. It's a thing of beauty to a five-year-old.

"SWEET! I LOVE Canada!"

Disappointment is fleeting when you keep moving forward.

My kids ....

have a way with animals.


Even some non-domesticated varieties ...

in other countries ...

It was family night at the clip shop

She was on board.



He was on board.



He was being brave.



But then something terrible happened ...



He saw his dad get his hair cut, and he wasn't impressed.



Better luck next time.

Breakfast IS the most important meal

a-heh, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I took a left when I should have taken a right.

As I turned I knew I'd gone in the wrong direction.

I thought about turning around.

One street. Two streets. A mile of streets. Another mile of streets.

Might as well keep going. Eventually we'll find something I recognize.

"You don't KNOW where we ARE!?!"

"I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"We're LOST?"

"We're not lost, really. I know generally where we are, I just don't know exactly where we are."

"You know what this means, right?"

"It's going to take us longer to get home?"

"No. We are going to have to sleep in our car, and in the morning we'll have to go to one of these houses and beg for food. ... Only they probably won't give food to you, because nobody will give food to an adult ... so I'll have to go up to the door and you'll have to hide in the bushes. ..."

"I am not hiding in the bushes. We are not going to pull a bait and switch on a homeowner. Besides, we are NOT going to be lost for long ... I'll find the highway and we'll be home before you know it."

"You know. ... if they have oatmeal you will have to eat it. Beggars can't be choosers."

"We are not going to have to beg for food. Look, there's a sign for the highway. We're almost back to where we started."

She's quiet for a while as I turn onto the highway.

"Ah ... mom?"

"What, hon?"

"We're on the highway?"

"Yep."

"You know what this means, right?"

"We'll be home soon?"

"No. It means we are going to STARVE. There are no houses on this road."

Mr. Random visits the Literal Island

At a party tonight:

Host: Hey, Pal. How do you like those trucks?

The Champ: *looks up ... looks behind him ... looks back to host*

Who's Pal?

The Recuperating Chair

There's a chair in the house.

It's square-ish in shape and smack-dab in the prime viewing range of the television.

It's perfect for relaxing when you're feeling a little run down.

Ittybit sat there most of the day yesterday, shaking off the effects of her big-deal-dental-appointment.

This morning she was feeling much better.

It's nice to see her smile again.

Even if her teeth are filled with silver.

Dentistry done and all's A-OK, except ...

The blonde trollop and brunette smarty hot-pants *I picked out* will be returning to the store ...

Where *SHE* will likely choose the exact same dolls.

UPDATE

Um ... I wonder how Those ^^^^ words up there are going to taste when I eat them. ...

She stopped feeling woozy around three o'clock and so we went to exchange the dolls.

She was adamant that BRATZ was the brand for her.

We stood in the tarted up plastics fashion doll department for about a hour taking down, lining up and inspecting the six different choices of Bratz.

She hemmed, hawed. She chose. She reconsidered. Couldn't decide.

And then she headed for the Barbie aisle "just to see." There were about 55 choices.

She found "Pinky" right off.



And then, she saw "Cooking Show Barbie."



Fifty years of a plastic fashion icons and her tiny lifetime of Food Network viewing can't be wrong.

Felions

These two. Weirdos.

I know this will cost me in readership

It's definitely NOT going to win me any new fans.

But it may help a little girl be brave in the face of a big dentist appointment on Thursday.

And oddly enough, deciding it is only a doll has a calming affect on me, too.

Things Annabel learned this weekend

lamb, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Lambs are very cute.

Lambs are VERY loud.

Lambs are *kinda* stinky.

Sheep cheese is a little sour tasting.

Sheep cheese makers have lambs all year long (not just in spring).

And so long as the door to the nursery shed is open, visitors are welcome.

Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sheep Cheese Makers.