Fancy that

Bagel Tyme.

Melts in your heart, not in your hand ...

Ittybit picked up an awesome craft idea from two uber crafty (and articulate) girls in her 4-H club, who, during the last meeting, made a formal presentation of their brainstorm: Valentine bookmarks.

They cut sheets of poster board into uniformed strips, put one of the strips and quarter-sized dollops of acrylic paint into the bottom of a shoebox, added two marbles and started rocking and rolling.



A hole punch, a length of yarn and a charm add the finishing touches.

Best part?



It's only messy on the inside.



Six down ...

24 to go.


Here are some other sweet crafts to consider:

Doodles and Pillows

Wax Nostalgic

Robot Love

I wish you all could join us for some trick-or-treating ...

 

















It's the best unholy day of obligation of them all.

Light and dark

Last week, on this day, I learned that a very dear friend had died. Unexpectedly.

I haven't been able to organize my thoughts about his loss. They are still scattered and obscured by disbelief.

But I feel so fortunate to have known him. So fortunate that he called me a friend. And so incredibly confused that every time I think of him -- not of his loss but of him -- I smile.

His wit. His complexity. His joy. His optimism. Even his sarcasm that was devoid of snark. All these and more are gifts he generously bestowed on friends. He made me understand how it's possible for someone to give you so much that it lifts you up instead of weighs you down.

And how leaving all of that behind is just unthinkable. 

There is no "moving on" from a person like him. 

No. Robert is someone you take along as you go forward.

Pardon me ...

One hundred seventy five years of presidential history ... and a ringtone.

Our library is wild

While your library may have a Dog Days of Summer Reading Program ....

our library has the Canis Lupus Arctos Days of Summer Reading Program.

Just sayin'.

International Women's Day

I look at all the intelligent, strong, loving, imaginative, compassionate, beautiful women in my life and I always think ....

WOW. wow.

Because I know there are so many intelligent, strong, loving, imaginative, compassionate, beautiful women I have yet to meet.

How about some fleas to go with that wine?

Everyone has a favorite wine store.

Ours happens to come with furry little people greeter.

Mean, rotten, horrible jerks

I said it once, I'll say it again: Kindergarten teachers may seem sweet, but underneath their friendly exterior there is a tiny, hardened and sadistic core.

Example:

A note came home with Ittybit, attached to a sheet of pink construction paper, outlining my "homework assignment."

I was to trace my hand and cut it out.

Yesterday THIS came home from school ...



Inside it says, in Annabel's handwriting: "You will hold my hear t forever. - Love Annabel."



To this class of professionals whose job it is to make moms cry, I must also add childcare providers and librarians.

Why do you ask?

See for yourself:



This came home from the babysitter with the boy. Inside it shows construction paper cut outs of his hands with a heart popping out that says: "Mommy, you have my heart! Love, Silas."




This - an 8 x 10 print of The Champ feeding a goat ("he ate it all up") - came attached to a card from the Nassau Free Library with a note: "I love you, Mommy. Silas"


I tell you, the only thing I need for Mother's Day now is a box of tissue. Thanks for that.

Opening a window on a world of pain

Whenever I read or hear some wonk pontificate on how the Internet, or Twitter, or Facebook, or Flickr, or fill-in-the-social networking-blank du jour is bad, good or indifferent you can pretty much bet that I got a big old eye-roll going on.

I can’t help myself. When some naysayer talks about how Twitter is a useless tool and some cheerleader talks about how the world will certainly never again need another means of communication beyond the tweet, I wonder: "Why rush to predict the future? Time will tell."

I probably shouldn’t feel this way. I’ve written often about real friendships I’ve made with virtual strangers after I opened up a window to my life in Flickr. I’ve learned to temper knee-jerk opinions of new applications, and wait to see if they fly, like Twitter seems to have done or flop like a previously praised private social network that shall go unnamed.

But it’s been difficult.

The internet has wedged me into this place. I want to sing its praises while protecting myself from its potential for harm: which as far as I can tell is a virtual sense of belonging in a place of actual isolation.

A woman stopped me on the street a few years ago as I was taking a quiet stroll with my newborn son to ask me what I thought of the neighborhood. She was thinking of moving. I was chatty and told her everything that filled my head. She asked if there were good mothers’ support groups locally. There were, I said, but I couldn’t tell her if they were any good because their schedules (smack dab in the middle of the day through the school year) didn’t jibe with mine (working days, full time and on maternity leave in the summer).

I found all the support I needed online, I told her.

She winced. She was a psychologist whose interest and study had been exclusively on mothers. She didn’t believe virtual hugs could take the place of real people.

I suppose I just shrugged. Some other psychologist somewhere, I imagine, would disagree with her and prove just the opposite with their own empirical data, or just more hyperbole crafted to resemble research.

‘Round and ‘round we go.

Of course, all that was before my beloved moms’ group collapsed under the weight of its growing membership; before it imploded in a storm of bad feelings and even worse communication.

A year later, I visit Twitter several times a day. I look at the lines of text and click on links. There’s always something to laugh at, something to admire, something to make a person think. There’s also something to make a person cry: There’s a diagnosis, a death, a struggle, a loss. There are prayers sought and given quickly.

I don’t know what to make of it now. I suppose it adds to the pain of existence; adds to the anxiety of getting through the day. I suppose it also proves we, as a society, still have the capacity for compassion for people we don’t really know. Sometimes.

Other times it underscores mob mentality; it seems to circumvent basic compassion. Yet, if you think about it, that happens everywhere. Friends in real life divorce and circles of support change. People move on, die, have difficulties. Real life isn’t any easier. Maybe that's the point some would make. Easy isn't necessisarily good for us.

I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t know if it’s good or bad, I just know that here, there and everywhere it is difficult to be indifferent.

He's so happy on this Noble steed

Hello Noble, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I wasn't going to mention his HEELS should be pointing down. ... not his toes. That would just be needlessly nitpicky.

His sister ... well ... she's been on a horse a few times already.



She's a pro.

*Thanks to Morgan's mom for making this playdate the most awesomest ... ever.

A message to Obama

You lead. I'll follow., originally uploaded by toyfoto.

You lead, I'll follow.

My daughter didn't like your name. She wanted me to vote for her babysitter.

I told her not liking a person's name was not an acceptable reason to dislike them. I told her I was voting for you because I believed the world would be a better place - for her and her brother, and their children - with you at the helm now.

Like the four-year-old that she is ... she ignored me.

"We'll I'm voting for my babysitter."

But her eyes filled up with happy tears when I told her you'd won.

She's willing to believe. She's four and she can see reason.

She's also now in love with your name ...

"Barack, Barack, Bo Bock.
Banana Fana Fo Fock,
Me My Mo Mock
Barack!"

Just wanted to let you know, we believe.

Have you got a message for our president-elect? Why not drop it here? Or better still, share your vision for change at the office of the president-elect.

I'd like to thank ...

Sarah at Mostly BassAckwards has made my cheeks all pinky-red by naming me a Creative Kreativ Blogger.

I'm terribly flattered even though I don't often think of myself as being creative in much else beside spelling.

The award is also a kind of prompt in which I am supposed to tell you six things I value and six things I do not value. This is really tough for me to list, but here goes:

I value people. (What? I do).
I value ideas.
I value appologies.
I value shockingly dismal attempts at humor.
I value rainy days.
I value smiles from strangers.

I do not value the word "boredom."
I do not value blind intollerance.
I do not value things that come with hefty pricetags.
I do not value values disguised as anything other than "doing unto others as thou would have done onto themselves" even though I've lost my religion long ago.
I do not value perfection.

But perhaps most of all ...

I do not value people enough.

And in that spirit, I am happy to pass on the mantle to some other, much more shockingly creative folks, who have inspired me to steal their ideas stretch my limited abilities. And whom I haven't told how much they have influenced me:

John Watson has more talent in the thoughts he discards than in the ones that I run with. No lie.

Firestarter ... I don't even know this guy's real name. But he's burning with incendiary ideas that aren't for the squeemish (which means your boss won't approve). He's got his fingers on the pulse of America, which makes PERFECT SENSE. He's Canadian.

Mary Beth better write a book. Or I will hunt her down and tickle her. No one wants that.

Julie K. is crazy talented with the arts and crafts; and crazy generous with her knowledge.

Binky is so creative and amazingly gifted with words that she doesn't even know what to do with herself when she has free time.

And Stephanie ... oh, Stephanie. I don't know where you've gone. But I'll always be waiting for your return.

I am giddy ...

According to VW, we could have made Suri Cruise?, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Binky and her lovely family are coming to our house this weekend for a little meetup. Being so excited about her visit, I must admit I feel bad that I kinda damned her last week when she posted a link to a VW internet novelty in which you can make a baby (and see what the baby would look like if the baby indeed looked like you).

Since my children bear no resemblance to me ... or the didn't when they were first born at any rate ... I was excited to see the results.

But I was at work. And we didn't have the latest flash there. And I didn't have photos (or time) anyway. Yet I knew I'd forget the thing (and where I'd seen it) when I got home.

So I cursed her.

And promptly forgot the whole thing.

Even when she reminded me of the experiment while we conversed in e-mail concerning the logistics of our visit (TODAY!) I never wrote it down in my to-do list.

But every email we swapped - I realized now - had "My Baby, Brought to You By the Internet" in the subject line.

So on the eve of their arrival, I finally remembered ... "Oh, right. I was going to ... make a baby

And hoooo was it ever EYE-OPENING!

Who knew Jed and I would make Suri Cruise?

Anyway ... Binky, I hope you can forgive me for cursing you ...

and for whatever my dog does to wake you up at 5 a.m.

Road work

sun-shiny-day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Chatham has been going through some changes lately. Roads. Sidewalks. You know, paved. Streets, meanwhile, have been closed to traffic and difficult to traverse on foot.

It's been talk of the town for some time since many businesses here really depend on foot traffic to stay afloat.

It's kind of nice, though, to be able to let Ittybit run wild on the streets of Chatham without fear of her getting flattened by a truck.

Whatever you're doing this weekend, may you have sun-shiny-days.

Bounce

web , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I check my blog statistics all the time. It's a sickness. So I (literally) know where some of you are coming from.

For instance, I know some people are visiting from New York, New Jersey, California, Georgia, Oregon, Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, Louisiana, Virginia, Florida, Washington (both DC and the state), Kansas, Maine, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Missouri, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Vermont, Wisconsin, Texas. ... Some of you even stop over from Canada, London, France, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, The Netherlands, Brazil, Spain, Italy, India, Germany, Australia and New Zealand.

Most of the visitors stay for a second or two; no doubt following their search engines recommending this place for such puzzling mysteries as "How do I check the pulse in my foot" or "sisterhood of the traveling boobies."

Truly, I can understand why someone looking for "Ubermale" wouldn't necessarily find much to interest them here.

But some of you do come back. And whether you comment or not, your presence is felt and cherished. I have always felt as if I've known where you are coming from (figuratively), too.

I'm honored so many of you spoke up and said your piece recently. Honored that you felt you needed to console me in my struggle to understand a thoughtless comment. One that was probably never meant to be taken as I took it.

I just wanted to thank you for your words. Every last one. They really do help me bounce back.

Brianna's game

Brianna's game, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Sunday we invited Annabel's former babysitter and her family over for lunch.

The transition from old sitter to new sitter has gone smoothly but I wouldn't say it's been easy. Each meeting - or playdate as we call them - with Lori has been harder than the last. Can't help but understand. As adults, we might see people who we love on rare occasions, and it brings us joy. Our lives may change and we still make an effort to connect. But with Annabel we’ve felt the need to employ an “out of sight, out of mind” strategy just to get through the day-to-day.

But we can’t go on avoiding forever. In real life people who love you don’t just go away, never to be seen again.

And yet, it's been a while since Annabel has seen her old friends. Christmas, it turns out, was our last meeting.

We tried to rewind.

She crawled all over the girls, who have grown in the past four years from wee things themselves to high school and college age. She took them by the hand to show them her new big-girl room and her toys. She played with the Playdoh aquarium Lori brought with her from home, complete with Dayglow dough.

Lori, her other mother. The girls, for all intents and purposes, her big sisters.

Over stage whispers and giggles, Annabel and Brianna organized a puppet show after the steak sandwiches were consumed and the dishes were cleared from the table.

We couldn't help but laugh.

Brianna's Purple monster was a menace: silently eating smaller puppets and knocking larger ones from the ledge of the theater. Its only sound was a deep, maniacal laugh.

"Mwah-ah-ah-ah."

Didn't matter how many times that purple monster ate the sheep or tossed the other puppets to the floor, as long as she was "laughing" we were laughing, too.

Of course three hours come and goes like three minutes.

Annabel cried when they left. We were all sad to see them go. For an hour afterward we played "Brianna's game" - in which we take turns describing and guessing animals - to take her mind off the sadness.

Can't rewind.

"It's really heartbreaking in a way, isn't it?" my mom asked when she called later to see how things went. "They really are like sisters to her aren't they?"

"Well with a couple glaring exceptions; they don't pull each other's hair or steal each other's clothes."

What's on tap this weekend?

babes everywhere, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

My not-so-imaginary friends - Jane and Jenny, above ...

and Diana below ...



are coming out for a mini-meet up at our soon to be less humble abode. You read right, friends: Jed has hired someone to work on the house, and a small portion of the reconstruction is taking place, coincidentally, in time for their arrival Saturday.

Sooooo. There will be replacement windows replaced; trim, trimmed; there will be endcaps where there were no endcaps previously; there will be clean sheets and fresh paint. In other words, there will be an oh-so-infantessimal sense of finish.

And in addition, there will be imbibing. Oh yes, there will be adult beverages consumed. (Except for Diana, who is currently growing a human)! She will be drinking mocktails and taking pictures of us acting silly.

Oh yes, there will be pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

Stay tuned. ...

Some spooky things about New Year's Eve

the shadow, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I told you a bit about our New Year's Eve exploits, right?

No? But you saw some of the pictures, right?

Perhaps I had a little too much of the bubbly ...

Well, better late than never. ...

So we wrangle ourselves an invitation to a bash at Clatter Hall -- the not-so-humble abode of some dear friends (not so humble now that most of their painstaking renovations are compete) -- and show up with the kids at our usual half-hour earliest.

Annabel could not contain her glee at the idea of staying up until midnight to ring in the new year, despite the fact that she understands neither concept.

After our coats are hung and our offerings of cheese, crackers and bottles of champaign, procured at the last possible minute, are abandoned on the kitchen counter we skitter off to the porch, where trays of vegetables and candy confections are spread out on a knee-level table.

Ittybit gathers a fistful of shell peas and runs off to find her friends. And save for a few hot-pink flashes through the living room and back into the porch for more crudite, she is on her own.

Silas, on the other hand, is always at arm's length (except for the moments when he is baby-napped by dozens of infant deprived revelers.

At one point, Annabel found a tradition of her own to try out. With her father's help, the pair burned a champagne cork and proceeded to endear themselves to the guests by asking them if they would like their faces painted.

Oddly enough, 7 out of 10 folks -- including yours truly -- couldn't turn down a preschooler bent on blackening faces.

But I suppose I wasn't the only one surprised by what happened after midnight. ... And I'm not talking about a gaggle of neighborhood carolers who'd apparently got waylaid after Christmas. I'm talking about Annabel's disappointment at having to wear her coat home.

"Wait. I thought it would be spring?"

"No honey, The New Year doesn't change the seasons. It's still winter."

Pleased to meet you

holding his hand, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Today I was separated from the infant for the first time in nine months and three weeks.

The grandparents sat with him while Annabel and I went to the grocery store. It was a quick trip. All I really needed was hydrogen peroxide (for my still-open wound) and some ice cream for a good little girl.

Since the checkout lines were few and long I steared us toward the self-serve checkout with our two items. While I was trying pitifully to scan the barcode of the brown bottle an elderly man in a motorized shopping cart wheeled up behind me.

"May I talk to your daughter," he asked quietly. "I have girls, too," he said, "but they're 14 and 16 now."

He was obviously a grandfather. His name was Tom. It was also obvious that he finds the little ones to be oodles of fun.

Annabel and he spoke for a long time. He asked her age, and what she liked to do.

She told him "people always say 'congratulations' when you have a new baby at home like I do."

He couldn't believe his ears. "Did she just say that? Wow! She's quite a fine speaker."

Of course then she asked him if we were "making his acquaintence?"

I thought he was going to swallow his teeth.

"Well, sweetie, I have to go now but I do hope to see you next time."

"Me, too. Bye."