Shhh, I got a seektet ...

Dear Annabel,

It's time you know, you've joined an exclusive club begun in the 60s and 70s and culminated in a little place called Bethel, NY. (Oh sure, there are some people who think "Woodstock" happened in Woodstock, but I assure you, the legendary music festival took place on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel). And the group to which you may now claim membership consists of an entire populace that can't be trusted because of their age -- over 30.

In your case, the number denotes only 30 months, but that's beside the point.

It is my contention that you are crafty beyond your (two +) years.

Case in point:

"Mommy, wah you wan, A o B?"

Ah ... let's see. I'll take A.

"Ok. ... wah do you wan NOooow?"

Hmmmm. I guess I'll take B.

"NO. We don't half any Bs."

If we are to truely keep track, I would mention that you are currently unable to successfully dress yourself in any article of clothing. You have, however, attempted to jam socks on your feet and put your pants on your head. (You can blame your father for that last fiasco, although he has routinely encouraged you to put my panties around your neck, which you have been successful in doing for some months now).

You still love to sing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes (Knees and Toes)" but you are also capable of identifying, by name, your hands, elbows, hair, and bum as well your eyes and ears and mouth and nose. You are becoming interested in my breasts as more than just a place to jam your hands when you seek extra comfort, but I'm waiting to explain the whole "vagoo" thing until I've been good and drunk for a few weeks. (Sorry).

While I am trying to lose my balance to innebriation, you are finding yours much more easily these days, especially when standing on one foot, by the simple art of practice. Just last week you even let go of my hand to perform a tightrope act on top of the dugout bench at the Little League Field. You looked adorable with your arms outstretched.

Yesterday, you made it clear that you would no longer be using the "Baby Poddy," because, after all, you are a big girl now and big girls use the big girl potty. I know this will be too much information for some, but with your perched on the potty like a right parrot, repeating everything I said while you were waiting for the "POO to tum," I took a picture. I couldn't help myself because it seemed somehow like a milestone, something for the record book.

These days, I can't wait until I get home to see your sweet cheeks and feel your little arms wrap tight around my neck. I can't wait to hear the fanciful stories you are creating in volume. It seems we are living on our own Fibber Island, and, I have to admit, I've never had more fun.

Love and zerberts,
Mommy

The shameful economics of love

tuming for a ride?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Crane Truck: $35,000

Diesel: $3.10 per gallon

Miles Per Gallon: Six

Miles to Yaya's house: 16 (round trip)

Look on Ittybit's face when she's strapped into the carseat: PRICELESS!

Of course, the interest rates will be MURDER.

THE YAYA REPORT:

fred & madge
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Meet Fred and Madge. They are bunnies.

"Hi Fred, how are you?"
Pretty good.
"Hi Madge, how are you?"
Pretty good.

Uh-oh, I sorry, Yaya. I brokt the rabbits.

There's going to be heartbreak ... and I'm not ready

"I'm ANN-A-BEL. You wanna see ney to me?" Ittybit asks the fresh-faced blonde, four or so years her senior, whose mom is also pushing down on the opposite end of a teeter-totter two rows away from us.

I hold my breath as the girl's expression turns blank.

"I don't know what she's saying," she says to her mother. "What is she saying?"

"She wants you to sit next to her," I explain, translating more from ittybit's face, as she's been staring at her teeter-totter acquaintance since the girl's arrival, than her words.

For a while the little girl obliges and trails after my alpha-toddler, moms in tow. From the springy toys to the big slide, the girl is a trouper.

And then Ittybit's little being is inhabited by Simon Legree: "You see on the pey-gyn and I see on the doe-ag, otay? No, no, no, no. I see on the pey-gyn you see on the doe-ag. Now we see on the motor-cycle. You see on the aero-pain. Let's do over to the side. No, no, no here. Up here. I tan't doooo that. Help."

I can see it in the pretty girl's eyes: The novelty of having a toddler friend has grown old. She's looking for an exit. As Annabel took some time to pick up rocks, the girl and her mom slipped away unnoticed.

And so it begins; the floundering of forging new friendships.

At this stage, I know it hurts me more than Annabel, but I can't help it. No one wants to see their kids get rejected. I guide her through the procedure, anyway, even though I'm certain she won't understand. I explain that she has to ASK people if they WANT to do something, and that she has to understand that it's OK if they don't want to do what she wants to do - it's not a reflection on either of you. It's just the way things are.

Of course, after I'd finished my speech she asked me where they went.

"They went to the potty, baby."

"I wanna doe to the poddy, too."

Although I wanted to say 'no, we have to go home,' in order to avoid a real, honest to goodness rejection, I didn't want to thwart the progress of her intestinal interests.

Off we went to the toilets.

As we approached the green cement building that housed the porcelain thrones, the little girl and her mother emerged. As they walked past us, Annabel turned her head and waved at her new friend.

"Bye-bye. I hafta doe to the poddy. Bye. See you LAY-TER."

It's all fun and games until someone loses a pie

I am at work, twiddling my thumbs as I wait for the IT guy to come and fix our massive headache often referred to simply as "the system," so I thought instead of dwelling on the sour bile of this madness, I'd share some toothsome treats instead.

We made this together, and it really was quite delightful.

Summer Strawberry Toddler

• Step one: Mom, drink something quick and alcoholic. A shot of tequila works nicely.
• Step two: Gather supplies. You will need 8 large strawberries - 2 for eating and 6 for slicing. One ready-made pie crust (who needs all that work when Betty Crocker can do it for you)? One tablespoon of sugar. A sharp knife. A tartlet pan.
• Step three: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.
• Step four: Slice the 6 strawberries, while diverting toddler's attention with the 2 "decoy" berries.
• Step five: Put tartlet pan down on center of crust and cut a large circle with knife. Line pan with center part of crust material.
• Step six: Instruct toddler to dump berries into pan. ... She may do so ONE AT A TIME ...... S-L-O-W-L-Y, so try and be patient.
• Step seven: Put drop-cloth on floor then hand toddler a tablespoon and the sugar bowl. (Word to the wise: do this project with only a small smackerell of sugar clinging to the bottom of the bowl. Even a small amount of the sweet stuff strewn on the floor will make you feel like your walking on a beach, only without the nice surroundings and the calm push of rhythmic waves).
• Step eight: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.
• Step nine: Slice narrow strips of crust from remnants and weave them across top of pie. Some toddlers will make curly-que designs while throwing them at the dog.
• Step 10: Hand kid the leftover leftovers to play with since you forgot to preheat the oven to 350 degrees (hotter if your oven sucks).
• Step 11: Remove dough pieces from the dog's back and TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER and put it in the dishwasher already. Sheesh.
• Step 12: When is that oven going to heat up, damnit? Tap foot while clicking oven light on and off, over and over, showing your creamy OCD center.
• Step 13: Make a second pie, you have time and a leftover pie crust anyway, not to mention there's sugar all over the floor, so the mess is no longer an obstacle. *Use your hands to rip pie crusts and mash strawberries so you won't be tempted to use the knife (now safely in the dishwasher) on your throat.
  
• Step 14: Put pies in oven and bake about 20 minutes or until the crusts are a golden brown, (or longer if your oven sucks).
• Step 15: Save one of the pies for daddy because toddler will demand "ICE PEEM" after feeding her lopsided, gnawed-on portion to the dog.

At least it looked pretty, huh?

And as luck would have it, you will be spared the rundown on the clean-up procedures. the "system" is working again ... for now.


THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

She's like a kitten ... I can prove it.

REPORT
Today was a playpen kinda day, starting at 10:30 a.m.

Annabel: "Can I go to seep, now? Peas? Peas, can I?"

Lori: "Well, it's a little early ... but Ok ..."

10:45 a.m. Do you think she's asleep? No, she's standing on her head, she's shaking out her blankets, she's doing her normal pre-sleeping activities like house cleaning.

11 a.m. I couldn't believe it. She was OUT COLD. ... Of course when she wakes up she'll do it all over again: her pre- and post-sleeping activities.

When the road ahead is long and doesn't always lead where you wanted to go ...

Dear Annabel,

I just wanted to appologize to you for yesterday.

On a day when we should have been celebrating your big 3-0 (30 months, that is) in grand style -- perhaps at a waterpark or at the very least, which was my solid intension, in the sweltering yoga studio with your very best friend having a kazoo parade for two -- we spent the day lost in the hills of Dutchess County, grooving to the Black-Eyed Peas as I prayed silently that the car didn't break down in the 96-degree heat leaving us stranded and melting.

The day had such promise even though it was shaded with gloom from the get-go.

We got out of the house before the sun filled it with hot, sticky badness, and headed off for some "Goodwill hunting." You needed t-shirts but we left with some things you wanted, too, such as a tiny-tot parisol and two "Band in a Bucket" playsets -- one for you and one for your best bud.

Wishing for rain and a parade to march through the dining room, you and I shared a meal of chicken nuggets and bottled water under the protective shelter of your new umbrella -- Superstitions be damned.

I called Ama to see if she was OK. You spoke to her for a little while and told her not to be sad. (In addition to your dad being away on this Father's Day, my dad was spending his day with Auntie Mimi, who had to be hospitalized that morning for a big-bad-bug that's wreaking havoc on her intensital tract. ... I'll leave it at that.) After you said goodbye, we headed off to our Sunday yoga class. You were excited.

Note to your older self: You might want to remind me to consult a MAP the next time we take an unfamiliar route.

I thought I knew what I was doing. I thought I knew the roads. (Thought being the problematic word here.) So for an hour we drove through some beautiful landscape; the kind of scenery that even makes atheists say it must be "God's Country."

You pointed out cows when you saw them and marveled at the big blue roof of a sky. You didn't even mind that there wasn't rain for your new "umbella."

The further I drove the more familiar things seemed, and yet it was all unfamiliar, too. I missed the turn we should have taken somewhere and found myself two states away from our appointed destination.

I phoned our friends to tell them of our dilemma and you listened calmly. You told me it was alright that I told them not to wait for us. You just demanded more "Peas in the Pod ... Hang Loo-ose!" before you, fell into a deep and binky-less sleep.

When you awoke, we were at a gas station in Litchfield, and I was asking a laughing man in a purple t-shirt if I head toward Sharon will I wind up in Gt. Barrington? Nope. When all the numbers were sorted out (44 to 41 to 23 to 7) and I had the "Ahhhhh ... Now-I-get-it" moment, your little voice came at me with a question, alerting me to your wakefulness.

"WHAT WAS THAT MAN TELLING YOU, MAMA?"

"He was telling me how to get there, baby."

"Oh. But they won't be there anymore-a."

You were right, of course. They weren't there. The guilt in me decided park the car and stretch our legs into the direction of the nearest toystore. I rationalized that we could get some little nothing to cheer up Mimi.

You played with Thomas the Train for an hour while I searched the shop for the perfect thing, which turned out to be a this crafty doo-dad I fully expected to send me over the edge. (As I can not craft my way out of a paper bag).

After we paid for the kit and you happily toted it out of the store (sans bag), who could blame you for not wanting to get back into the car?

Wasn't it lucky that we parked in a perfect place for lolling? Wasn't it fortunate that we had a little patch of grass and a big shade tree right in front of parking spot so we could work on our project for Mimi?

I mention this because had I not stopped and sat in that place, had I listened to my better judgement and not opened up that pink box with its bazillion tiny pieces, I might never have known of your uncanny ablity to sort among those tiny little beads, smaller than seasame seeds, and hand me the desired color, time after time, for nearly an hour.

On the way home, you pointed to every large brick building, asking if that's the "hos-si-spill" where Mimi is. "She's not very good, so we maked her a special! I wanna see her," you'd tell me.

You don't have any idea how lovely and amazing you are right now, my little bean, but rest assured that we do, and I can guarantee we'll never tire of reminding you.

Happy half-way birthday, little one. Thanks for being you.

Love,
Mommy.



THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Swimpoo ... an idea that's time has come.

Some guys ...

You know the guy who everyone likes? The guy who somehow, quietly, knows everybody on Earth? When you are with him in public, you can't go twelve feet without stopping to talk to someone or two?

I'm sure you've heard of him. He's the guy who believes hard work is always rewarded, even if the prize isn't what you had bargained for.

He's the guy who you tell your troubles to and before you know it he's on the phone, calling in a favor.

He likes to think the best of everyone, except the President (these last few years, anyway).

He still lights up at the thought of Lionel Trains, childhood memories and just about any funny story you tell him.

He's the guy who will wolf down a egg-sodden slice of burnt French toast -- even though eggs make him queasy -- just because you, child, made it for him.

He's the guy who remembers that you wanted that fancy pocket knife when you were seven years old and gives it to you at your college graduation with note saying: "I think now you're old enough to have it."

He's the guy who worries about your troubles, and acts on your behalf without you even knowing it.

He's the guy who walks you down the aisle, if you're lucky, and dotes on the grandkids with a kind of enjoyment you've never seen, nor thought humanly possible.

This particular guy, I am lucky to say, is MY DAD.






And as luck would have it, the stars aligned and I Married a Guy just like him.

- Happy Fathers' Day to my two favorite guys.

Evidence

A little proof she sees things a little differently than ...
well ... some of the rest of us.



After the librarian demonstrated the craft project the storytime kids were going to do for Father's Day, and everyone had eagerly gotten to work, Annabel just stood there looking a little confused.

"Where's the head?"

"I wanna head, peas."

Aw, it's okay Annabel, he doesn't need his head.

Sorry, dads. It was just too easy, I couldn't resist.

It's been nice knowin' ya. We're going to Hell to spend our 'mondey'

Since Annabel started playing grocery store in our cupboards I've thought about getting realistic-looking play money, but I only found uninspiring (and quite honestly, anemic looking) counterfeit currency. In place of more flashy cash, we've been making our own bills out of junk mail.

But now that an "imaginary" friend from the Internets, also known as the Atomic mama Nicole Nordensved, sent us a boatload of 10,000 dollarsies we're planning on retiring to New Zealand and forgetting we ever knew you little people. Junk mail be damned. This illegal tender is so cool it's hot. Like from hell hot.

In fact, Annabel was so thrilled to receive the package that she spent more than an hour rolling her sweaty self in the ill-gotten gains. She kept saying "more bills, more bills, more bills!" At least now she can pay them!

The wonderful card that came with the play dough indicated Atomic had wrestled a choice between "Heaven Bank Notes," and "Hell Bank Notes" and had intended to get the ones from above but grabed the cash from down under. ... ah well. Hell money, in my opinion, is WAY more useful for our purposes. ... Mwa- a- a- a- ah.

The best part, of course, is that when Ittybit's done playing with this stuff in a few years it can be recycled. Only, instead of the junk mail recycling procedure we've been use to, I'm planning papering the bathroom walls with it. You know, it's just that cool.

Thanks Nicole.

For those of you folks interested in the "real" history of this Chinese "spirit money," check out this, this, and this.

What passes for rational thought at 8 a.m. (When the mouse is away): Ice cream is good for you. It has milk.

Slipping into a morning routine, for me, is a little like trying to hobble around in ill-fitting shoes. You always get tripped up by something unexpected. The only thing I can count on, it seems, is that nothing ever goes as planned.

If I am alone, the television gets turned on first thing. I know Clifford will help me get ready and keep her calm while I make breakfast and pack lunches.

I usually start our morning drill by offering her suggested meals. Waffles? "No." Pancakes? "No." Good Eggs? "No. No. No." How about some cereal? You like cereal. ... No.

"I'm fine. Don't want brefast, mama. Jus milsh, shank you."

Oh, alright. You'll eat when you get hungry.

When Clifford ends our out-of-the-house day begins. We usually gather our many bags and head for the stairs. Except today when I click off the television, she heads for the kitchen and starts to climb up to the counter.

"Can I have some seer-we-wool?" She asks.

"Sure, honey. We'll have to take it with us, though," I say as I open the cabinet and reach for the box of rice squares. But in my way, and in full view of my little boss lady, is the box of sugared ice cream cones. I try to shield it from her view but it's too late. She's seen it and now wants ice cream.

"We don't have ice cream for breakfast," I lie. (Of course we do, sometimes. Especially when dad's not looking. Don't you?)

"I WAAAAAAN it. PEAAAAAAAAAAAASE?"

"No. I am making you a bag of cereal for the road. Then we are marching down those stairs, young lady, and getting in that car."

I don't even want to describe what happened next. Suffice it to say, we got down the stairs and into the car. And tonight I'll be washing the car seat.

He's my NEW best friend ...

" ... as long as he doesn't take too much of Yaya's attention, touch any of my toys or play with anything that looks even remotely interesting for any length of time. Of course if he finds some dumb piece of plastic that I had previously overlooked, and he refuses to hand it over as SOON as I demand it, well ... he's toast. Oh, and, I'll take that snack, too. SHANK YOU."

A-Yeah ... I'd look scared, too.

I think I will be drinking more, thanks to public radio

Who's the adult?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

On my way to work this morning I was listening to our local public radio station, and caught the tail-end of a Roundtable chat with Mike Levine, executive editor of the Times Herald Record

The newspaper is working on a special report about the shifting makeup of its community -- specifically, the observation that youth services are becoming the cultural center that all things revolve around. The suspicion leads them to believe their's is not the only community affected by such kidifications.

In a nutshell, it seems that the story will be tackling how parents are so involved with PARENTING (as a verb) that kids just can't be kids.

One of the most argued points is the prevalence of organized play. Whereas at one time little "John" and "Jane" could go down the street on their own, find a pick-up baseball game and have 78 at-bats and the relative privacy of only a handful of same-age players watching as they make colossal errors; now "Ethan" and "Madison" climb in mom and dad's mini van wearing their starched uniforms, drive three miles to the league field (drawn with precision chalk lines) and sit on a bench waiting for their three turns at bat only to have three hundred parents watch them strike out each time.

I know we're going to have trouble with this.

As a new parent, who has "drunk the Kool-Aid" offered by every slick magazine telling us how to be Good Parents and enjoy our children, I have to admit this broadcast left me reeling. Just yesterday, the Husband and I had our usual is this "good or bad" talk, when he asked me where ittybit was and I told him "she's in her room, playing with her doll."

"How is that going to affect her socialization skills?" he worried. "She's social enough," I assured him. "She needs to have a private life, too. ... She has to learn to amuse herself."

This debate on parenting seems to have been raging for more than two decades. And, while I think there are numerous factors in play, including perceptions that our world is no longer safe, there's really no single place we can point to and say AH-HA!

MORE pederasts, AH-HA!
MORE crime, AH-HA!
MORE self-help, AH-HA!
MORE media coverage, AH-HA!
MORE things to buy, AH-HA!
MORE self-imposed guilt and stress, AH-HA!
MORE single parents splitting their time with the kids, AH-HA!
MORE working moms, AH-HA!
MORE stay-at-home dads, AH-HA!

Still, as parents in a society that hammers us with being proactive and keeping ourselves safe at all costs, how will we buck this new instinct to retreat into our little family cocoons?

Recently, I was driving down a country road I hadn't been on since I was about 12 and riding my bike to a friend's house. It was a five-mile journey filled with twists and turns, limited sight distances and cars traveling too fast on curves. I couldn't breathe thinking about my own child and how I would NEVER want her to ride alone on this or any other road like it. EVER. I couldn't believe how MY mother had allowed me to ride it alone. Do I not trust her, drivers? Will I be teaching her to be independent and confident or fearful and inept?

But it's more than our own fears that motivates us, according to this editors' assessment. It's also a need to parent. The need to BE the Super Parent all the self-help manuals suggest we can be. To make every single, precious moment as packed with quality as we can manage.To be our kids' cheerleaders, and best buds on the weekends. To be there for every bump, scrape and bad day. To celebrate the good days, and give the high-fives and erase all the BAD parents from the face of the Earth with our Good Parenting Accomplishments.

What this suggests is that parents are going into our children's world more and more, and abandoning the adult one.

As the radio conversation continued, I couldn't help but have that awful feeling of an unwanted truth. We are a nation of consumers, and we are now consuming our kids. This can't be a good thing. ... can it?

Good or bad, the Times Herald Record is looking for thoughts from outside its readership area, specifically if you see the same type of cultural shift happening in your neck of the woods. If you have the time, you might want to drop Mr. Levine a line at mlevine@th-record.com. I know I can't wait to hear what you all have to say.

There's lots to see and do

Don't grow up too soon, okay?

That's the thought that kept going through my mind as we made our way three towns over and to the left this morning. A party in honor of The World Cup was getting underway and we had baked a pie for the occasion. All my happy thoughts of drinking beer and eating thick slices of stawberry rhubarb vanished as soon as the tiny voice strapped into the car seat behind me started to prattle off excitely about a party that she was invited to attend, too.

"OK, guys. I'm shinking of sumpting ... ah. Nevermind."

"Oh, look. Amnials."

"Monkeys? in the Farmie? I don't shink so, daddy. ... O-e-O-i-U."

It was all so amazing to me. Just a few months ago I wondered if she'd EVER speak more than the first syllable of any word. This constantly flowing stream of thought was pouring out faster than I could commit them to memory.

Until she said this:

"Schwan? Who else is doing to be there at the PAR-TEE?"

I shivered. We've been teaching her to say our names, her name, and the name of the town we live in (you know, just in case she needs to go out for a six-pack one day and gets too drunk to find her way back) but I never expected her to call me anything other than Mama, Mommy, Ma or even the person-i-live-with-who-is-so-stupid-i-don't-know-how-she-finds-her-car-in-the-parking-lot (that last one I expect will come out in about 14 years or so).

When she skipped upstairs with the "big" girls at the party, making bracelets and looking at all sorts of pre-teen treasures with their indulgence, I felt the toddler slip away from me a little.

I know I call her a "teenager," especially when she asks for "hot milk" and "fie mo minues" before I pluck her out of bed and plop her at the breakfast table, but I really wish time would slow down a bit ... just enough for me to catch up.

It all reminds me of one of my FAVORITE stranger-mommy moment: A woman at an outdoor shopping plaza, trying to get her spirited toddler to slow down. I was nowhere near becoming a mom back then, but, like the rest of the onlooking judges, I could plainly see her little bumpkin was headed for a doosie of a fall.

The mom just smiled and said: "Honey, if you slow down you'll see more things."

Even though I want to reach out and grab my little bumpkin, and keep her from falling into this trap of growing up, I can't. I just have to try and point out some of the things she'll miss when she's not looking.

You are full of ...

leader follows
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Before you answer, read the following ...

The average human body contains enough sulfur to kill all fleas on an average dog, carbon to make 900 pencils, potassium to fire a toy cannon, fat to make seven bars of soap, phosphorus to make 2,200 match heads, and water to fill a ten gallon tank.

I found this factoid here and immediately thought: 'WOW, this would make a great children's book.'

How frightening is that? (I guess I won't be quitting my day job any time soon.)


THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

THE TROUBLE WITH TROLLS
It is quite possible, considering today's Yaya Report, that we are raising a bully.

A little background ...
Over the weekend, Annabel's yoga buddy, Maya, gave her a Happy Meal, complete with Toy Troll from the venerable MickeyDs. She was estatic. It was a toy to covet.
Soon, she was trying to wheedle Maya's toy away from her when her big-hearted friend wasn't looking. Oh sure, she pretended it was all in the name of consideration, using as her ruse (or cover) the phallacy that she was actually bringing the doll back to its rightful owner. ... I knew better.

Flash forward ...

For the past few days, for some mysterious reason, Troll has been personna-non-grata. Annabel played with Pooh, the kittens and dogs, the Playmobils and virtually every humanoid and non-humanoid plaything she could get her mitts on. Everything, that is, except THE TROLL.

The need for intervention ...

Lori, trying to show Ittybit the error of her ways, took the Troll under her wing and gave it a voice. When they played "House," the crazy, redheaded bridge dweller came a-knocking with Lori's help. Annabel let her in, finally, but when Lori's back was turned, out she was put as if she were the trash. Eventually, Annabel abandoned the House and got out the "Schewl Bus." Soon everyone got a chance to get onboard. Everyone except for you-know-who.

LORI: Why can't Troll go on the school bus?
ITTYBIT: There's no room.
LORI: But Kitty and Doggie are on the bus, and you said before NO PETS!
ITTYBIT: Oh (takes K and D off the bus).
LORI: OK. Now there's room on the bus for Troll. Can she go on the bus?
ITTYBIT: No. You Cain't GO on the bus.

The moral of the story ...

LORI: Somebody's always got to be the bad guy, I guess. Otherwise there wouldn't be much of a story. ... Come to think of it, I wasn't too nice to my trolls, either.

Rest assured, we'll be working on an affirmative action for trolls.

Superstitious minds

I am Irish, which by heritage, according to my mother, means I am
genetically predisposed to believe in superstition.

I can tell you, with only a modicum of shame, that I don't walk under
ladders, I am careful when handling mirrors and always - ALWAYS - throw salt over my should should any spill unexpectedly from the shaker.

I've probably already mentioned it here somewhere, but I don't care,
I'll blame "mommy brain" for the repeatition. Shortly after Annabel was
born a bird somehow got into the house.

I was recovering from the abdominal surgery of a C-section, and was
laying on the couch with the kiwi, as we called her back then, when a
blur of gray and feathers flew past us.

My heart sank.

For those of you unaware of the omen: A bird in the house is a sign of a death. If a robin flies into a room through a window, death will shortly follow.

I can't really blame hormones for the panic that followed. I ran
(holding my steri-strips and all) to find Jed. I can't believe he
understood a word I was jammering about until he saw for himself the tiny starling that had made its way inside.

"We have to get this bird out of the house unharmed," I cried, desperate to back ourselves out of this very bad thing that had happened. I surmised that a bird in the house was one thing, and bad enough as it was, a dead bird in the house would be a thousand times worse.

Somehow, Jed managed to accomplish the task, telling me all the while not to panic.

So with that bit of background in mind I must ask why then, yesterday, did I allow a pink (breast cancer-fundraising no less) umbrella be opened and held overhead inside the kitchen? I mean is there a person alive who does not know that opening an umbrella inside the house means bad luck ... and worse luck if it's held over their head?

All I can guess is I must be slipping, or perhaps my horizons are opening up or my blood is being thinned of its celtic origins by the delight of a toddler unencumbered as yet by such tales.

As she danced around the kitchen island swirling the pastel-colored bumpershoot, I paid no attention. It was Jed who took it away and told her that there would be none of that indoors.

So outside we went, she and I, for a walk in the rain to test out the new umbrella.

As luck would have it, It stopped raining.



THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

A telephonic transcript

"Hello, mom? (Holding the reciever to the back of her head) Mama? (a bit louder) ... two and three and purple and baby found sumpin' ... MAMA?!! you there?"

Lori tries to adjust the receiver so the earpiece is somewhere near her ear. ... she backs away, holds up her index finger and gives her a stern look.

"One minute, peas. ... Okay? Just one minute. ... OKAY?"

*** picture a little girl face all grown up.

Let's call the whole thing off, OK?

I've been reading a lot about the so-called "Mommy Wars" lately.

Most interesting to me was a review in the Atlantic Monthly (which in my humble and unlearned opinion has been treading water since it made the move from Boston to D.C.) by Sandra Tsing Loh entitled "Rhymes with Rich." on "The Mommy Wars: Stay-at-Home and Career Moms Face Off on Their Choices, Their Lives, Their Families," a collection of essays edited by Leslie Morgan Steiner.

In it Tsing Loh (I love saying her name as I type) mints the term "Aflufemza," wherein the problems that come with affluence are recast as the stuggles of feminism.

Basically, it calls out women from both camps -- the SAHMs and the Career Women, all of whom were highly educated and often writers for prestigous journals and publishing firms -- and castigates them for being rich and having choices yet still complaining as if they were women who are really struggling with the daily trials of life.

The piece singles out several silently egregious exerpts wherein writers bemoned their lots:

In the "Mommy Wars," Sara Nelson of Publishers Weekly describes her battle so:

"About half of the mothers of kids in Charley's class are working at least part-time. There's Maria, who designs handbags; Lauren, who works in advertising; Paulette, who writes children's books. The mother of Charley's friend Nick is an independent management consultant. And for the most part - and I gather this is unusual in the fiercely competitive world of New York private schools - there's little conflict between the employed mothers and the ones who stay home. ...

Still, there is some tension bubbling under the surface. One morning one of the stay-at-home mothers referred to herself, quite pointedly, as a 'full-time mom.' Those three words made my blood boil. I've been a mother every second of every day for the past ten and a half years, whether I'm researching an article or pushing a swing. Would anyone dare to suggest that a woman who worked in a factory, or as a cop or a firefighter - a woman who worked at least partly so that her children could have food and shoes and the occasional trip to Toys 'R' Us - was any less a mother than my school acquaintance, who'd had the privilege to opt out of the workforce?"

Tsing Loh's response:

"No, but apparently someone would dare to suggest that elective employment in the upper reaches of the publishing world is on a par with wage slavery and required-second-salary public-sector work. Which got me thinking how wonderfully refreshing it would be for Nelson to transfer Charley right away into a racially and socioeconomically mixed New York public school, with the children of mothers who actually are the factory workers and cops and firefighters she so admires."

I think the point Tsing Loh makes is interesting, however, in that these woman -- who have the microphone as well as the means to hire baby nurses and nannies, and get the best of everything for their children, instead of likening their struggles to those of women who are in abusive relationships or struggling to put food on the table or fearing that when they send their kids into the Classroom they may wind up picking them up from the Emergency Room -- are squandering their ability to make a real and substanative difference.

I know a lot of affluent people believe that just because they are well off doesn't mean their kids should suffer the dangers of low-performing schools just to make a point. Yet, perhaps, the point they are missing - the point we are all missing - is that if they stayed and used their voices and their influnce to improve those schools (arguably for their own children's sake) they could make a significant and tangible difference for all children.

If there is such a thing as Mommy Wars, perhaps it's time to call a truce. What is it solving anyway? It seems to me, at least, that it's a battle we are fighting in our own minds. A skirmish to ease our fears and feelings of inadequacy. There's more to us than that, isn't there?

THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...



I can't believe this ... Really. Really.

A visit from Beelzebub

show me the lurve
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

06.06.06 ... the number of the beast ...

Ok, so it's 2,000 years late, you know some demons like to be fashionable.

Ours certainly does. So much so that it makes me pine for the days when I could dress her in anything I wanted and there wouldn't be so much as a peep out of her little rosebud lips let alone a low gravely roar destined to erupt into a bone-chilling scream if she-who-must-be-appeased is not.

Oh, how I wasted my opportunities all those months by just throwing on whatever was next in the pile of clean zips. It is my penance, I suppose, that she carries on like a flailing banshee every time I try and exchange her worn purple shorts and too-small purple onsie (her absolute favorite ensemble) for a stylish girly outfit I myself would never wear but LOVE, nonetheless.

The first time I witnessed what I thought of as a tantrum, I laughed hysterically. For a split second, her body pulsed with 10,000 volts of excess energy and her fists pummeled the air with every ounce of her weight. In no time it was over. From the perspective of a new mother marveling at the size and shapes of the residue in her diaper, I can assure you, it was the cutest thing ever.

Of course I knew they'd grow in magnitude these emotional shock waves, but I thought my Richter scale of tolerance would grow, too.

I never expected to be holding her bedroom door closed while she stood on the other side, trying to rip it off its hinges in a fruitless effort to knock time off her "Time Out." What else could I do? The figurative door had already closed on any "time off for good behavior" once she'd climbed out of the crib, opened the door and ran to the television room, not once but THREE TIMES.

So after a loud, mother-daughter standoff (probably not our first, but definitely the most climactic to date) she finally got off to a fretful sleep without the usually pleasantries. I wondered what I was going to wake up to this morning; the day of the proverbial BEAST.

It sounded a little like the tinkling of windchimes in the cool, just-about-summer air:

"Oh, hi mommy. You see this? It's my binks. I'm AWAKED now. I'd yike some hot milk, peas."


THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house

Oh, my. It would appear Annabel has gone deaf.

LORI: "Annabel, we don't color on the couch. We only color on the coloring book. ...

.... Anna-Bel? Are you listening to me?"

Or maybe she's just practicing to be an attorney

ANNABEL: "I'm yus cheuking to see if it works."

Of course, she might also be a private eye

LORI: "Oh, you're listening now, aren't you? Now that I'm talking to your mom on the phone, huh? Yeah, I can see you're little wheels turning up there: 'Un-oh, your telling mom all that stuff?' Yep. She's watching me like a hawk right now. Guilty conscience."

I am still recovering from the weekend's excitement

Our town has been atwitter about the Hannaford Supermarket opening on Route 9 since rumors of its impending pounding of the bucolic landscape started fluttering around these here parts a few years ago. There have been fights over traffic patterns, roundabouts and the furtherance of suburban sprawl. Endless letters to the editor and editorials pro and con. But to be quite honest, we were as ready for a good supermarket that was clean and offered a healthy selection of organic comestibles as an evangelical for the second coming. "If they are willing to bag groceries," I said, "we are willing to let sprawl be damned."

So, when it opened its doors officially Saturday morning, Jed was there (we needed milk) salivating to get a look around. He happily reported back that the evil, unnamed grocery-with-no-previous-competition's parking lot was empty. Better still, he gushed upon his return, despite the megalith's market being packed to the rafters with shoppers he still made it through the line in two minutes (yes, dear folks, he timed it).

So by Sunday he was ready for the BIG SHOP. And off we went as a family for a big adventure at the supermarket.

Stop me when this gets pathetic. ...

Too late, huh?

*sigh



YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house: Road Trip

Lori: "If we go to E's house you have to leave when I tell you to, OK? If you say no, we won't be able to go back there."

Annabel: "OK."

Gets there and plays for a while. ...

Annabel: "I want to go home now."

Lori: "Are you sure?"

Annabel: "Yeah, I go home now."

on the walk home ...

Annabel: "Yaya ... I didn't say no."

Thinking about it for a while ...

Lori: "That's right, you didn't. You are so good. We can go back there whenever you want, you sweet and precious boo."

Witness zombification

"Well, to begin with, nobody, and I mean nobody, can talk a junkie out of using. You can talk to 'em for years but sooner or later they're gonna get ahold of something. Maybe it's not dope. Maybe it's booze, maybe it's glue, maybe it's gasoline. Maybe it's a gunshot to the head. But something. Something to relieve the pressures of their everyday life, like having to tie their shoes.
... All these kids, they're all TV babies."

- Drugstore Cowboy

For this interest of historic accuracy, I must admit this photograph, by all rights, should have me seated behind the glowing rays of the cathode tube just to the left of our ittybitty TV baby.

It's not a pretty picture, and something of which neither of us is proud.

Babies, all the books say, should NEVER watch TV before they are two. NEVER!!!! And we introduced her WAY too early. Her first friend was Elmo (who she quickly jilted for Ernie).

Sure, there are a lot of hazards one might surmise that might come from television viewing; the least of which include eye strain and an insufferable urge to pester parental units into purchasing a veritable fortune of otherwise forgettable merchandise.

There's THIS frightening problem, made even more fearsome because the study shows that 85 percent of the parents whose children were injured in this manner didn't know it was a common occurrence.

But let's face it, few of us are worried about a 40-lb hunk of plastic, metal and glass flattening our kids. We're concerned with whether television viewing will lower their IQs while increasing their wastelines and violent tendencies.

According to the Kaiser Family Foundation, however, we're also worried about whether we'll have to miss Sopranos because of Sesame Street.

This just makes me want to throw out our TVs ... All seven of them.

Jed puts his adult television addiction squarely on the shoulders of his mother, or more accurately his upbringing, which forbade television viewing early on and restricted it later in his development. Yet, he is proud of his resourcefulness in overcoming the boundaries keeping him from pre-teen zombification -- ruses which included writing a paper on "Why he should be allowed to watch television for the good of his education" and fashioning a replacement cable when his mother removed (and hid) the power cord while she was at work.

I, on the other hand, hail from a family of television connoisseurs -- hearty people who relished every second of "Barney Miller," "St. Elsewhere" and "My So Called Life." Our television was on non-stop whether anyone was watching or not. Oddly enough, television doesn't often hold my interest. I find myself turning it on as background noise so I can safely get lost in the warm glow of my computer. (However, unlike my husband, I don't credit my parents with my predilections.)

The truth is, neither of us is good at pulling away from any form of media once our interest is caught.

... But we're working on it, I promise.

Veruca grew up to be a very lovely woman, right?

I dread explaining this one ...
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Last night as we sat around the television watching Wallace and Grommit's "Amazing Adventures" for the 400th time, Annabel's primary interest turned to "mountain climbing."

Or more accurately, clamoring up to the back of the couch and announcing: "I'm a mountain, mommy. I'm weary, weary TALL!"

I know she was wired, perhaps overtired, and as she continued to treat the couch like a playground I sat there like a drone, thinking WWLS (What would Lori say). And then she toppled head over heels, tumbling over throw pillows to land on the floor, miraculously, feet first.

I ignored Jed's glare as I waited for her reaction. I thought any second she'd be bawling her eyes out with the shock and indignity of falling unexpectedly. But I was wrong, she climbed back up to the top and yelled, "Look at meeeee, I'm Willy Wonka," referring, no doubt, to the part of the movie where Gene Wilder fakes infirmity and performs a flip after a near pratfall.

And then the UNTHINKABLE happened. (There's MORE you ask?)

Oh yes, it's not enough that she's allowed to run roughshod over the furniture, or that she's commited movies to memory, she's also chosen favorite characters and songs that make us cringe.

She confirmed a parent's worst fear when she climbed back up to the top of the couch, threw back her head and belted out,
"Don't. Care. How. ... I want it NOW."

THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house

A subliminal game for parents ...

Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Remember playing that juvenile game of adding "in bed," to the end of every fortune plucked from the cellophane-wrapped cookie that is read aloud? Now I'm kind of doing the same thing in parenthood, only sadly what's in parentheses isn't as funny. Here's an example:

Forever we've been battling personal hygeine wars with the chicklet. Nail clipping among the least reported here on Ittybits & Pieces, but nevertheless a problem of insurmountable proportions (for me). I have to thank Lori profusely for clipping her nails lo these couple-a years since her birth (because I suck as a parent and can't manage to do it myself). I'm not sure how you do it, but now I know: You have exponentially more imagination and communicative powers than I.

Never in a million years would I have thought to go through a ritual as girly as a manicure to interest her in the must-do task. (I knew I should have been born a girl!)

I don't even have to say "use your powers for good," Lori, because I know you wouldn't think of doing anything else.

I'm NOT throwing rocks, mama!

Ok. Someone tell me that the propensity for perjury is normal in preschoolers. Tell me that your ittybits routinely tell you they are NOT doing the very thing that you can see for yourself they ARE doing, even while you stand there watching, pleading with them to stop.

I thought I'd have at least a few more years before having resort to hidden cameras to find out just who did rip up the phone bill and flush it down the toilet: the dogs, the dear or the disgruntled dad.

I know all parents think their kids are the most brilliant animals on Earth and I am no different. There's a WHOLE Internets' worth of blubbery blob here attesting to this notion; extolling both the the virtues and vices of our toddling wunderkind. But really, I ask you, do we have a precocious liar on our hands or just a normal tiny tot?

Because I'm thinking, perhaps, instead of Yale we should be saving up for bail.

Another bad mommy moment

This is the look of victory
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Don't be fooled. This is not the face of sweetness. This is the look that says "I win" in no uncertain terms. It is the thin-lipped countenance of determined celebration; the knowing gaze of understanding.

The expression of delight in a job well done: she's successfully trained her parents, (*ahem, cough-sputter* read: mother) to acquiesce to her desire to keep her hair from EVER touching water.

Oh sure, she will get in the tub. Constant work and ample bribery have guaranteed her willingness to splash around with an ever-growing army of bath toys, combed from all four corners of our humble abode before each and every submersion.

By the time I've coaxed her in by telling her that I'm not going to wash her hair "right now," her mental time clock starts ticking. She washes between her toes and scrubs behind her ears, but when it comes time to wash the back of her neck she starts to squirm for the towel and an end to "baftime."

Obviously this is a "mommy matter ... a maternal failing," as I am routinely in charge of cleaning up the kid -- proof that I am unable or unwilling to deal with a struggling-soapy-squealy squidlet yelling 'I’m ALL DONE here!' as she scrambles out of my grasp.

The man in our life, after all, has it all down. He was even able to talk her out of taking home a pillow-shaped bag of Fruit Loops from the grocery store, averting a disastrous outburst by simple substitution.

When he handed me a happy toddler carting a box of plain-jane Rice Chex instead of sugar-packed puffs, I had to ask: "How did you manage that?"

"I said 'NO'."

Daddy is more fun than mommy

I'm a tiger
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Annabel: "You cay-n't wash my hay-er"

Daddy: "I can't? How about mommy; can she wash your hair?"

Annabel: "Not WANT wash hay-er. I'm all done here. I'm done!"

Daddy: Well, one of us is going to wash your hair. If I were you, I'd pick daddy cause he'll be using a firehose."

Ode to a bad day

keys to the universe
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

If only the keys to the universe were made out of Play Doh.

We could eat whatever we wanted and never gain an ounce.
We could hide our eyes and whatever it was that scared us would magically disappear.
We could pretend we could fly, and it wouldn't matter if it was a lie.
We could leave the dishes and the duties and know they weren't the boss of us.
We could stop before we said all the wrong things.
We could forgive each other anyway, regardless.
We could take our love and admiration for granted instead of our angst and misunderstanding.
If only the keys to the universe were so pliable.

THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Yaya has managed the near impossible (for me), she's gotten Annabel to wear her hair in a "pony tail" for most of the day. But while it does my heart good to see her in the new do, I'd be doing cartwheels of joy if she'd let me anywhere near her hair. *sigh.

All in the family

Mi familia
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Just about this time a year ago, I received an unusual gift - a photo frame that looks like a family tree with metal-esqe medallons dangling from decorative limbs. It's just big enough to accomodate seven locket-sized photographs.

This is exactly the type of doo-dad that would stop me in my tracks at the trinket shop. The kind of thing that would have my head spinning with possibilities. I might even pick it up and carry it around for a while before I talked myself out of buying it.

Sadly, I'm not nearly as crafty as I appear. If it takes scissors and glue I'm likely to throw my hands up in the air and call a truce. Sure, I made a photographic Family Tree for Annabel, collecting dozens of images from our families' histories, but the cutting and pasting required was the virtual variety.

The frame has migrated around the house for the past 12 months. Moving from table to table, mantle to mantle. But sadly, it still contains the images of strangers that came ready-made.

As I aimed my camera at Annabel today, trying to capture her "writing a card," to Ama Linda, who will be visiting soon as she makes her way home to Maine for the summer, the tree was foremost in my thoughts (and shallowly in my viewfinder).

It occured to me just how excited I was at the prospect of seeing my mother-in-law, and how lucky I am to have real, honest-to-goodness family (who make the effort to come and see us, gush over our kidlet and sing into the answering machine on our birthdays) and not just two-dimensional reminders of their existence.

There are other things I take for granted, too: I remind myself how nice it is to have my own parents a stone's throw away; how much I miss the people who have their own busy lives and schedules to keep across the country, even though I know they'd like to live nextdoor; and how amazing the Internet is for allowing me to keep in touch with every one of them without even thinking about it.

It's a good thing, too. Because otherwise, I know I'd have to give names to the ready-mades and invite them for Christmas. That's just the kind of gal I am.

THE YAYA REPORT:

Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

What's happening at the other mom's house ...

"Okay, stop everybody stop messin' around!" "Come on everybody, come on!"

She marches around and then very politely offers E. some dirt on a stick.

Seriously, I don't think there's enough dirt on sticks available to the general public. Marketing people, how 'bout we get on that?

Our lives ... now with 33 percent more color

Most of the time Annabel is a play-by-proxy kind of gal. The kind of child who looks at the tub of finger paint with longing for the end product but has no interest in the procedure. "You do it," she commands, directing with the point of a finger - from a clean and safe distance - to the spot on the paper where she wants the color to wind up. "No. Red. Put red here, mama."

But last night another child sat in her place at the painting table. As this stranger baby painted her arm a pleasing shade of purple, raising the marker to her lips and accidentally leaving a mark, it gave Jed an idea. And he joined the stranger baby in becoming her ever stranger parent. I'm not sure if he had really thought it through before the deed was done.

As I snapped away while he pretended to be Bobby Brown, I announce that tonight's bath will be brought to you by Daddy. To his credit, his intentions were honorable in completing the soapy mission right up until the bath banshee baby we know and love returned to her rightful place in our humble abode, refusing to go anywhere near the water.

The father we know and love returned, too, handing up a tag-team verdict: "You were encouraging me by taking photos so you're IT," he announced. Then he made himself a SECOND margarita and went into the livingroom to watch TV.

"Well that's all well and good, pal. But if this purple doesn't come off, it's going on your permanent record."

THE YAYA REPORT:

What's happening at the other mom's house ...

The war within.

ITTYBIT: "I don't want binky for naptime."
LORI: *jaw drops. "What?"
ITTYBIT: "I don't."
LORI: "Ok ... you sure?"
ITTYBIT: "uh hhh. .. Not ... I want. No. I not want it."
LORI: "You are such a sweet and precious boo. You are such a big girl."
ITTYBIT: "I want my binky for bed."
LORI: "OK."

The winds of change

windy days
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I remember when I felt time was just standing still. Ten years after college ended, I was still wearing my ratty Levis with the worn knees and sitting on salvaged couches. I could move through life as I pleased, or so I thought, even if it wasn't true.

There were signs of responsibility -- there were more bills to pay, pets that needed attention and care, and there was a growing accumulation of things that seemed to own me -- but nothing that quickened the passage of time. It just seemed to drag along from one day to the next.

Then along came Annabel. Even in pregnancy, I felt time speed up. Nine months didn't seem long enough to adjust to this new existence that was headed our way. I spent a lifetime coming to terms with who I thought I was only to have a 6 pound, 2 ounce little girl show me who I could be, and, more importantly, who I wanted to be.

Time is just flying by much too fast now. Weeks are flowing like minutes. She's already half past two, and if I'm not careful to pay attention, I miss the best things.

On the way to Yaya's house today, Annabel demanded "wind."

It was cold. I tried to talk her out of it, but she persisted. She wanted the wind. So I pulled a jacket across my lap, turned the heat to high and acquiessed.

Turns out she wanted me to open the windows of the car so she could liberate a roll of paper towels - leftover from a recent cleaning - one sheet at a time. I had to laugh when she heeded my rear-view admonitions and, drumming her fingers on the roll, asked if she could make "little pieces" dance on the wind.

"Absolutely not," I stiffle a laugh. "That's wasting AND littering. And we don't do either of those things."

I didn't really expect her to listen, but I had no idea how closely she was paying attention.

As we continued to drive she asked me if I "yiked" the wind.
"No," I answered. "It's too cold out today. I have goose bumps."

A few streets later she started to list our differences on the matter: "You no yike wind. I yike wind. Mommy not yike it. An-na-bell yikes it."

Something about the categorization of this new knowledge and the tone in her voice, which was matter-of-fact if not melodic, made me add something else to the list of differences. Something I didn't want to think about at 8 in the morning. Namely our names.

I didn't want to lose my indentity in marriage and neither did my husband, so we kept our respective names. Up until Annabel was born I corrected people who called me Mrs. The Mister, and delighted that during her first days on this Earth the name on her wristband was mine. For those four days in the hospital at least everything about her was mine.

It was stunningly greedy of me, yet I felt she was a part of me; someone I knew better than anyone even if it was only for a moment in a lifetime. When we left the hospital, I left as the person I had always thought I had been and she left with a new name on her birth certificate. Our first major difference, and not likely the last.

As we drove down the road with the windows fully open now and the heat blowing hot against the tops of my feet, Annabel asked the question again:

"Mama, you yike the wind?"

This time my answer was different: "Yes, Baby. I LOVE it - I love the wind."

I could hear her excitement bubble over: "You yub it? I yub it, too!"

Sometimes all it takes is a little fresh air to remind me what's important.

THE YAYA REPORT

Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

An american idol

Just singing ALL DAY at the top of my LUNGS! About EVERYTHING and NOTHING ... into my SALAD SPOON!

It goes sompin' like dis ...

La, la, la, la. Ya, ya, ya, ya, ya. No, no, no, no, no. La, di, da, da, da, doh.

Who says people don't read newspapers anymore?

can you believe this rag?
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Who am I kidding? They don't. I don't even get a paper delivered to the house anymore. Is that horrible or what?

My job, my way of life for the past decade or so, is on the verge of extinction and I don't even have a subscription. Why? Here's the short (and embarrasing) list. ...

7. We get enough free newspapers in the mail, which we use to start fires in the woodstove, line the flower beds and pack away old dishes.

6. I don't have a bird ... ergo no cage.

5. I do have a toddler, which means I have been unable to read anything that requires large pages be turned since late 2003.

4. I can't stand that stories featuring Brittney Spears or American Idol make Page One ... ever.

3. I listen to radio. I read magazines. I surf the Internets.

2. I can't stand that icky feeling I get from newsprint ... and the ink stains my hands.

1. Recycling is not as pleasurable an experience as the other "Rs" - reduce and reuse.


THE YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house ...

Let's just say the only good thing that happened today was that Annabel was reported to be a "little angel" while she visited with Miss Sherry (one of Lori's dear friends, who also provides daycare for kidlets) while Lori went to the doctor to see about her lingering cough. Diagnosis: Walking pneumonia.

In other not-so-good news: Lori's other half (whom Annabel calls "No, Honey") broke his leg playing soccer on Sunday. His cast is blue.

This just in ... my tiny patron. During a diaper change Annabel turned her head in the direction of this photograph on the playroom wall and said, "I yike your pisher, Yaya." To which Lori replied, "You know, your mom took that picture. She'll be glad to know you like it."

Suffering fools and learning to share

Somebody once asked me, on a job interview no less, what I would do if I had a magic wand.

"I'd change that question."

"Well, where do you see yourself in five years?" she continued her probe.

"In your job."

Surprisingly, I wasn't offered employment.

So here I sit in sheer amazement that Annabel's favorite thing is a bit of that old "magic" - literally.

Although It took careful prompting at our yoga class today to convince Annabel to share her coveted toy - A Cinderella magic wand she received last week as part of a plethora of costume playwear - when she finally handed over the pink glitter stick with the metalic finial, she did so without animosity.

It is always kind of exciting to see how toddlers react to the world around them. Little people, who sometimes "get" the basics much more forcefully than the big people. It wasn't beyond her understanding that since the wand was her toy, she could have it for always and her friend could only use it for now.

It is also a little humbling to know that this little bean already seems to have ample logic and a healthy dose of restraint.

Quailities I don't often see in myself.

Out of the mouths of babes ... the new and improved, revised Toddler-English dictionary

"Turn yight off, daddy, turn yight off fo' sweet dreams."
(In 20 seconds she will tell him it's dark and scary in her room.)

"I'll be right back. You stay here, OK?"
(The new and nice version of "Don't FOLLOW ME.")

"You yike dis? You yike it, mama?"
(That's great, honey. Now please take your elbow out of my eye.)

"We get shawshege at bank, mama?"
(No, baby. We get 'mondey' at the bank.)

"I'll be right there."
(Translation: I'm going to stay RIGHT HERE).

"I'M HIDING FOM YOU!!!
(Translation: I'm HERE, come find me).

"This has the weary, weary, bad, scary, scary, shark in it!"
(But that's what I like about it.)

"No, you fired!"
(Even she thinks I'm a bad mommy.)

Little reminders

Foggy bottom
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

When you were born I couldn't stop thinking: How did we manage that? How did we manage to make such a beautiful, perfect child? They must have made a mistake.

I am sure that in time -- perhaps on the occasion when your father meets your first boyfriend-- you will question the very same thing; I hope you won't go as far as to disown us and search for your real family.

As much as we think you belong to us right now, I know you are your own. You will have to make bad choices to get to the good ones. I need you to know that I will be biting my tongue and chiding myself when I can't be silent and let you find out for yourself.

Even with decades of experience on you, I know I won't always be right. Although I hope there will be dozens of years when you don't find out this fact for yourself.

While I watch you play with an intensity I never knew toddlers could possess, it is difficult for me to comprehend that you won't remember most of our early experiences together. You won't recall the bed bouncing we did (shoes on) or the tea parties with lemon sorbet. You won't remember dragging me onto the sunporch to see the rollercoaster ride-on toy in the yard. You called it a rollerskate.

I mourn that you won't have any recollections of throwing your arms around me when I come home and whispering a language all your own into my listening ears. I wish that you could have full use of these memories that will never archive, eventhough I have pictures for you to ponder when you are older (or perhaps to tear up in shame, although I hope it never comes to that).

You won't remember how you'd sing your answers to my questions. I couldn't help but get all gooey inside at your sweet voice, and laughing at myself. Knowing that very same thing will make me crazy when you are a teenager.

Your already acting like a teenager -- the kooky-zany kind that joins the school plays because they're fun. One day, you will be the angry, mopey kind that will want me to drop her off and the end of the block when I drive you to parties.

I hope we can teach you all you need to know to find out more. I hope you will forever understand that you are part of us but you belong to yourself.

Sometimes I will need reminding, too. It's just nature's diabolical plan -- I am your mother. It's my job.

Love,
Mommy

B is for ...

Beer-battered chicken
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

This morning as I revved up the car and eased it into gear, steering it sleepily toward Yaya's house, I looked at the fuel gauge and realized I'd have to gas up.

ARGH!

Halfway to the station, Annabel started clammoring for "tcholate ayes," and whimpering about her "hot milk" being "told."

Double ARGH!

I pump a small fortune into the tank and try to swipe my card to pay. It's offline.

Tripple-dog ARGH!

Unhooking her from the carseat, I tell Annabel we're going inside. She is ESTACTIC like I haven't seen for days. As soon as we get into the store she wants to get down and explore. She tells me she will find the "tcholate ayes."

I know this is going to take a while, so I go over to the central perk area and pour myself a steaming cup of "wait a cotton-pickin' minute you white-trash woman; Don't let your kid wreck our display items."

My image is indelibly etched as she finds the see-though refrigerator wall and, making her way down the aisle, gives a shout-out of its contents to the store patrons and staff: CHEESE ... AYES ... MILK ... JUTZ ... APPLES ... BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!!!!

I'm so proud. Tomorrow I think I'm makin' fried bologna sandwiches for lunch.


YAYA REPORT
What's happening at the other mom's house
Annabel is up from her nap and she doesn't feel well. She's warm again, *sigh. She told Yaya she wanted "mama," so she called me. As usual once Annabel was presented with the phone she pushed it away.
For the rest of the day they'll be watching "Little Mermaid," and though punky, she's alert enough to be calling the dolphins "sharks." Lori tries to explain that no, these are "good fish! ... SEE? NO TEETH."
I'm not looking forward to the discussion about how dolphins are actually mammals. *sigh.

I could sleep for a week

bed heads
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's been raining non-stop. Lori's still sick and Annabel's temperature continues to ebb and flow. Every so often the cat caught in my throat coughs up a hairball. As it is, every time I sneeze my head turns into a swollen puffer fish and my breathing seems to stop. I can't tell whether I have allergies or the virus. But I know I could use more sleep. I also know the past few days have been pretty darn good.

There's something kind of refreshing about a non-serious illness; a bad cold that sweeps through our little lives and reminds us to take a step back and look around.

Annabel slept nearly four hours today. I think she's on the mend - her spirits are certainly better even though she wanted to spend her day in bed when she wasn't grocery shopping in the pantry. (I can't believe I haven't thought of this game earlier since she loves the market and we had a hand-me-down kidlet cart gathering dust in storage.) My theory is she wanted to hang out with her best friend, binky.

I cleaned up, and waited for her and binky to have a parting of the ways. Listening from the hall outside her room was quite an enlightening experience. Her imagination is really flourishing.

This is what I learned today:
* She sings songs about yogurt;
* She feeds her toy horse milk;
* There's a show on public television in which a bear is trapped under a bush throughout the whole episode. She wants me to help him escape;
* She will NOT eat ravioli ... not even if you beg.

Girls gone home - we're just sitting around, eating rice with chopsticks and telling tall tales

Annabel spent all day yesterday sleeping off a fever. Seeing as how Yaya's little bug spent a week trying to get over this same nasty virus and Yaya is sick, too, when Annabel woke up this morning and felt a little warm I kept her home. An hour or so after I gave her some Children's Motrin her temperature went back down. I can't praise Children's Motrin enough, even though getting the correct dosage into her is kind of like trying to feed tofu to a Bears fan. It ain't pretty.

What's worse than her spiking temperature, however, is the color of the Jell-O coming from her nose when she sneezes. (I'll just leave the discription at that.)

Since we were both twiddling our thumbs at 11 a.m. wondering what to do with our sorry selves before nap time, I got the bright idea to teach her how to use chopsticks. (She calls them STOPSTICKS). Yesterday I cooked some sushi rice, so I made little balls, sprinkled them with sesame seeds and set her loose on them. Aside from getting the sticky rice all over the couch, in her hair and launched through the air to land squarely in the center of Mad-o-wyn's hackles -- at the precise spot where the dog couldn't reach it without the circular motions usually seen only in puppies chasing their tails, and even then I had to perform an assist -- I thought it was a pretty successful "first" lunch. After all, she did get a few bites into her mouth and no one lost an eye.

My guess is that for "second" lunch she'll be wanting finger foods. She's had enough with the stopsticks for one day. I could tell the look in her eye what was going on in her head: "These is about as useful as tits on a bull, mom." Of course, it might have been the clatter of wood sticks against the wall as they sailed across the room that did the talking.

Mum's the word ...

It's not like I don't waste enough newsprint with my weekly column, now I'm tearing down forrests in cyberspace. Come join me, it's fun. ... Fodey's fake newspaper

Instant understanding

finally!
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Uh. ... hello? Ma?

*SQUIRT, squirt, squirt.

(silence)

*SQUIRT, squirt, squirt.

(more silence)

I don't think this is working.

Happy almost Mother's Day, anyway.

A little privacy, please!?!

P-L-O-P ... she can spell
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

For those of you NOT interested in potty training, please close your browser window, now.

. ... waiting for the stragglers ...

..OK?

Here's the scoop. We introduced Annabel to the potty back when she was 18 months old. We were in Maine and we bought one at Walmart since she was beginning to show interest. Also since it was summer and she could spend a good portion of the day running around nude, we thought it would be a good time to practice.

Well, I think she peed and pooped in the thing once each and then learned it was a much better stepstool for the sink, where she's decided washing her hands compulsively is what she should be doing in the bathroom.

We didn't push it. Occasionally we ask her if she wants to use the potty, to which her answer is always 'nope.' The only time she'll sit on is before her bath, while she's trying to stall for time in the hopes of getting out of the soap and water drill.

Well a couple of days ago, again before her bath, she decided she needed to POOP. And since I had about four zillion things to do (return phone calls, find lost toys and clean up dog slime) I totally missed the effort she must have gone through to pass a really, really large loaf of multigrain bread.
I did, however, make it to the party in time to hear her say, "Wow! Stinky POO!"


This post made possible by Little Skills box set: zip! plop! and brush!

It's my birthday !@#&! Please send vodka ... or some other mind altering substance

happy birday to yooou
Originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I really dislike complaining. But I feel I must for the sake of my sanity.

More so than not, my birthdays start off well. This morning especially, as Annabel and I headed off to the park for a little fun before work, it showed excessive promise. All was fine until we got to Yaya's house and I didn't take enough time to play pretend games of front-yard fishing, which apparently includes a liberal dose of rescuing bad swimmers such as Elmo and Baby Bopp. Let's just say the temper tantrum that resulted from my faux pas was IMPRESSIVE.

The torture continued at work when I arrive and find an ENLARGED version of my passport picture (you know the one where if you actually resemble it you need to get yourself to a doctor IMMEDIATELY?) taped to a sign announcing "Happy Birthday Salvador Dali ... May 11" hanging above my desk.

If that wasn't surreal enough, I was informed that a certain co-worker was perplexed that I was turning 50! (He had heard the tale-end of a joke the night before and took the rumor seriously enough to inquire as to its veracity.)

Is it any wonder then that I'd rather be in New Zealand where my birthday would be overwith by now?

The best part of my birthday today occured yesterday when I was "specialed" (Ittybit translation for surprised) by an early birthday celebration complete with cake, four new coffee mugs and about 17 pounds of dark chocolate candy bars.

Of course I quizzed Jed: "You do know my birthday is the 11th right? And ... today is the 10th?"
Yes, yes. ... He knew that.

What I don't give him enough credit for, though, is how well he really knows me -- He just KNOWS how small gestures, such as as celebrating a birthday quietly and BEFORE I actually have one, are the best to get me to relax and enjoy.