ministones

London checklist: Days One & Two

2006-09-11T17:15:00.000-04:00

Arrived in one piece: CHECK
Launched new London blog: CHECK
Found pizza place which also delivers wine: CHECK
Wondered what the hell I've done moving here: CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK CHECK

Empty squares

2006-09-01T12:14:00.000-04:00

As digital as my world has become in recent years, there are a few things I prefer to keep analog. At the top of this list is my calendar. I've never been able to wrap my mind around Outlook or any other calendaring software. My brief attempts at converting to a Palm Pilot were an abysmal failure. I simply love giant paper calendars (the bigger, the better) with huge squares in which I can keep track of our crazy lives. There's something satisfying for me about writing appointments and dates down by hand, and my mind works best when I can view a whole month's worth of engagements at a glance. I even like to keep old calendars and look back at them over time. Those squares filled with scribbled reminders of past events are as good as any diary I've ever kept; a record of the years I've lived.

Over the past several weeks, I've been particularly grateful for the physical size of my calendar as I've struggled to fit as many appointments and playdates and dates as I can into a short period of time. I've been squeezing engagement after engagement into our days, staring at the full squares and trying to figure out where to fit in just a few more things. With August now behind us, I flipped forward to September this morning as I fielded yet another "we'd love to see you before you go" call. And there it was, staring me in the face: just over a week of jam-packed days and then... nothing. No playdates. No coffee with friends. No meetings. No adult events which will require a babysitter. No appointments. No kids' activities. No back to school events. Just row after row of empty squares.

My future may be filled with promise, but it is devoid of concrete plans. Structure and a new kind of schedule will inevitably come in time, but for now, what I have is a blank slate and a blank calendar to remind me of that fact. Those empty squares are unnerving as hell. Perhaps it's time to switch to Outlook after all. I think the one-day-at-a-time view might be about all I can handle at this point.

The skinny on my pants

2006-08-31T14:06:00.000-04:00

A friend of a friend who relocated to London just a few months ago has been an invaluable resource for me these past few weeks, patiently helping me to answer such all-important questions as "will I be able to get my kids into a decent school," "are there items I won't be able to find in London which I should bring with me" and "am I an idiot if I think that I will be able to find room in a London flat for the entire train set, the huge dollhouse AND the oversized plastic kitchen?" (Yes, pack as many ziplock bags and Pullups as you can find, and ixnay on the itchenkay, in case anyone else has the same burning questions.)

She happened to mention in passing this week that the fashion scene is somewhat different in London than in suburban New Jersey and she's found that she's not necessarily wearing a lot of the clothes she brought with her. Given the price of apparel in the UK, I asked her to elaborate a bit. If my wardrobe needs some spiffing up, I figured, I might as well do it here before I go and save a few pounds. Her helpfully detailed answer stopped me cold. "Not a fashion maven," she wrote, "but here's what I've noticed... boot cut totally out, skinny pants."

There was some other ridiculous information about everything being dressier and women wearing heels to the playground, but I really couldn't get past that first sentence. I was blinded by the skinny pants.

When I first heard about the resurgence of skinny pants I kind of laughed it off. My group of friends tends toward the casual and the classic, and we're not quick to jump on trend bandwagons. I figured I had a year or two before skinny pants made it to our neck of the woods, and I knew that even if I decided to pass on the look altogether, my social standing was not likely to suffer as a result.

But now here I am moving to a major metropolitan city. I'm already going to stand out as the crazy foreign lady with the crude American accent. Do I want to further increase my chances of complete social ostracization by wearing unfashionable clothing?

And so yesterday found me in a Gap dressing room, staring at my skinny-panted reflection in the mirror and muttering under my breath. I'm too old for this, I told myself. No one who wore a trend the first time it was popular should be caught dead in the same look 20 years later. At 5'2", the whole long and lean thing was lost completely on me and my bottom half simply resembled a short blue triangle. I have absolutely no hips to speak of and I was wearing a size 4. And yet somehow, I looked hippy and fat in those skinny jeans. It was awfully hard for me to believe that I was ever going to want to put those things on my body.

I stood in the store for what felt like an eternity, staring at those ugly pants and thinking about the value of fitting in. And then I bought them. Those skinny jeans, with the tags still attached and the receipt tucked into the pocket, are now a symbol of my hopes for this move. It is my fervent dream that I will find a group of women who proudly wear boot cut pants to befriend in London. The day that I am able to mail my new skinny pants and the receipt home to chichimama so that she can return them for me would be a victorious one, a sign that I have made it in London without compromising myself. But if that doesn't happen, at least I'm prepared. I will be a hippy, triangular Londoner if that's what it takes to blend into my new environment. But goddamnit, I'm not wearing heels to the playground. Ever.

If it weren't for a healthy dose of cynicism, I'd be a mess right now

2006-08-30T14:25:00.000-04:00

Only 10 days remain until we leave for London and I should by all right be focused on sorting and organizing our belongings for shipping and storage Instead, I am up to my ears in social engagements as we try to fit in final visits with more friends and family members than I can count. Julia has playdates scheduled for every day, and on some days she's juggling two different sets of plans. Evan's got his share of dates set up as well. And as for me, I am doing drinks with one set of friends tonight, going out for dinner with a second set on Saturday and fitting in meals with 4 or 5 other sets of friends and family in the next week. I barely have time to breathe, let alone think about packing. And still, my phone keeps ringing and my inbox keeps flooding with requests from people to set something up before we depart.

I should be touched. I am touched, and incredibly appreciative of the outpouring of love and support our community of friends and family has demonstrated since we announced our impending departure. And yet, I'm also a little put off. Not by the fact that my life is full of such wonderful people, certainly; I'm incredibly grateful for that. But for every friend who I frequently see and whose presence I will honestly miss on a daily basis, there is another friend who I never see who suddenly must get together now that I am leaving. "Even though we rarely see or talk to each other, I consider you a very good friend and you hold such a special place in my heart," an email I received today read. It was easily the dozenth time I've read or heard a variation of that thought in the past month. And every time I read or hear it, I want to scream "well then why haven't I seen you for months or even years?"

When we were debating the wisdom of this move, one of the deciding factors for Paul was the fact that he never sees any of his friends any more. We're all so busy with young children and daily life that people who we used to see on a regular basis have become once-a-year engagements for us. "If we come home once or twice during the year and see them all, we'll be ahead of the game," he reasoned. As a stay at home mom, I naturally see my Mommy friends a lot more often than that, but I had to agree that he made a good point. I genuinely like and enjoy the friends I've made since my kids were born. But I know how easy it was to meet people through my kids and I'm confident that I'll be able to do that again in London. With a few notable exceptions, I suspect that even though I'll miss them, I'll get along just fine without my friends for a year or two.

It's hard not to feel sad during our current whirlwind tour of goodbyes. It's hard not to look at all of the familiar faces that surround me and mourn the distance that will soon separate us. It's hard not to wonder if we will be blessed with even a fraction of these friendships abroad. It's hard not to think about what I'm leaving behind. But it's also damn hard not to feel just a little bit cynical about the friends who are coming out of the woodwork, too. Yes, I'll miss them. Just as I've missed them for the past several years when I haven't seen them. London, New Jersey, it's all the same if we don't bother to pick up the phone.

Too cynical? No doubt. But if this line of thought keeps me from drowning in a puddle of my own tears as I say 10 days' worth of constant goodbyes, then it's worth it.

34 going on 5

2006-08-11T08:16:00.000-04:00

Back in the days when Paul and I were living together, but not yet engaged or married, I could never figure out how to refer to him when I was talking to people he didn't know. "Boyfriend" seemed too limited for someone I shared a sink and a closet with and "the man I live with," while technically accurate, just plain sounded dumb. I usually just talked about "Paul" as if his identity was a given and let people ask if they were unsure. These days, I do something similar with chichimama. I feel funny saying "best friend" as a grown woman, but the regular "friend" seems a hopelessly inadequate word to describe the person who knows me best, supports me the most and touches my life in so many fundamental ways every single day.

Saying goodbye to chichimama, even temporarily, is going to be the hardest part of moving for me. We've already tried to find ways to compensate for the miles that will be between us, but I know that we both sense the huge gaping hole which will be present in our lives once we're no longer around the corner from each other. I've been trying to use her annual August trip to Maine as a trial run for not leaning on her so much in my daily life, but so far I think we're both failing pretty miserably. She left Monday, and we've already spoken 5 times. First, she needed to find out which hand C should hold his tennis racket in. Then I found myself standing outside Old Navy with no idea how many pairs of size 3T hand-me-down jeans I had from her for Evan. Then M changed his travel plans slightly and she called to revise the dates she needed me to keep an eye on her cats. Then I needed to know which contact lens mail-order company had been lenient with the date of her last eye exam when she had recently reordered lenses. Then A's fever came back and she called for a consult. It is becoming overwhelmingly clear to me that I made a fundamental error in not calculating enormous long distance charges into our London budget.

I'm confident that I'll end up getting an A illness update at some point today, but she was on my mind, so I checked in on chichimama's blog first thing this morning to see how A was feeling. I was skimming quickly before my kids woke up, figuring I already knew most of what I was about to read anyway, when the second and third paragrpahs of the blog entry stopped me cold.

New best friend???? What the hell is she talking about? Is this supposed to be a subtle dig at me? I know that she's sad and anxoius about the fact that we're going, but she's also been incredibly supportive and she's not the type to be vindictive. But here it is in black and white. She's replaced me. Already! Where did she get a new best friend so fast? Oh my God, I'm going to lose my best friend over this move! We can't go!!!

I re-read her entry, looking for clues to my replacement.

Oh. "New best friend, the on-call nurse." Well, that makes more sense.

Carry on. Feel better, A. And chichimama, I'll talk to you later, my best friend...

Knock, knock. Who's there? Opportunity.

2006-08-04T14:30:00.000-04:00

Eight months ago, depressed by the start of yet another "same old, same old" year, I made a New Year's Resolution to seek out a new direction for myself. On the advice of some very wise friends, I took my time on this project, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself rather than aggressively trying to hunt it down. "You'll know it when you see it," they kept reassuring me.

I wondered some days about the wisdom of this approach. More often that I care to admit, I was convinced that this year was destined to end up every bit as boring and uninspired as it began. But in the end, my friends were right. The year was half over before opportunity finally came knocking. But when it did, I immediately recognized and embraced the new direction my life would take this year. This one was worth waiting for.

It's official. Next month, my family and I are moving to London. Instead of a familiar, comforting and entirely too predictable start to yet another school year, this September will mark for us the beginning of an adventure which I can neither envision nor fully anticipate. My life for the next year or two will be anything but the boring re-tread I had feared it might end up to be. Whether that turns out to be a positive thing for me or not remains to be seen, but the knowledge that at the end of this experience I will return to my current life somehow changed is a welcome certainty. I'm excited and I'm terrified and I'm overwhelmed all at the same time. But mostly, I'm incredibly grateful, both for this opportunity and for the friends who encouraged me to wait patiently for it.

The beginning.

This is what my life has been reduced to now that my daughter can spell

2006-08-02T14:11:00.000-04:00

"Do you think it's too hot to go to the man made body of liquid construction today?

Hello. My name is Rebecca and I am an enabler.

2006-07-28T16:02:00.000-04:00

Me: Julia, I've been thinking. When you're at camp or at a playdate without me and things don't go your way, do you whine and cry?

Julia (surprised and a little horrified): Noooo... why?

Me: Well, I was thinking about the argument that you had with C over that puzzle and the way you cried when he didn't want to share it with you. If Miss M or C's mommy had been there with you guys and not me, what would you have done? Would you have cried?

Julia: No. (thoughtful pause) I guess I would have just asked him again to share with me or gone off and done something else.

Me: Those both would have been good ways to handle the situation. So why can't you behave the same way when I'm around?

SILENCE

Me: I think we both have some thinking to do about this, huh?

A very subdued Julia: Uh huh.

This damn genetic mirror is clearly warped

2006-07-26T15:35:00.000-04:00

Paul's been complaining for years that I am too argumentative. He claims that I jump to disagree automatically, regardless of what he says or how I really feel. This is an entirely unfounded accusation, of course. I agree with Paul often (somehow, he doesn't seem to notice these moments when we are in synch quite as readily as the moments when we aren't) and when I do voice a differing opinion or idea, it is simply because I have one. I admit that I am opinionated, and that I speak up for myself and my ideas (a trait which could not have come as a surprise to my husband, given the fact that we were friends before we were a couple), but having strong opinions is very different from being argumentative. I've tried to explain this to Paul on occasion, but my explanations apparently sound like arguments and, well, it's a vicious cycle.

Julia's been particularly vociferous and difficult this summer, a stage which seems to have been brought on by a nasty combination of summer heat, "big kid" status at camp and a cumulative lack of sleep. Our communication has been rife with disagreement, and I feel like I'm constantly fielding yet another whine or extended negotiation. This morning, as she was avoiding my efforts to get her ready for camp, I finally realized what the problem is. No matter what I ask her to do, she insists on doing something else. It is an incredibly annoying habit.

I wonder where she got it.

Immaturity (though whether this title refers to mine or hers I really can't say)

2006-07-22T11:18:00.000-04:00

It's been an odd summer. I guess I couldn't really expect things to feel all that normal given the fact that I still have no idea where my family will be living six weeks from now. But the seeds were planted for this summer back in December when Julia made the decision about where she wanted to go to camp this year.

Most of the children in Julia's group of friends begin attending a local JCC camp the summer after they are 4. It's a wonderful camp, with terrific activities, dynamic counselors, daily swim lessons and all of the bells and whistles of a "real" summer camp. I'm the product of many years of summer camp myself and I'm a firm believer in the value of the summer camp experience. But 4 still feels a little young to me for a program which runs daily from 9-2, plus the additional time the kids spend on the camp bus. (Yes, a camp bus. At 4.) The price tag aside (and it's really no aside; all of this impressive enriching activity comes with equally impressive fees), the JCC camp experience just felt like too much to me. And I wasn't alone. Julia thought long and hard about the hours and the itinerary of a JCC camp day. And in the end, she was the one who made the decision that she'd be better off attending "camp" at her preschool, where they offer a summer program which meets only in the morning, includes "water fun" rather than Olympic size swimming pools and generally mimics a regular preschool day rather than a big kid's camp day.

I was relieved when Julia made her choice, both that the decision had been hers rather than mine and that she'd selected the lower key (and lower cost) summer activity. But I've wondered many times this summer whether it really was the right decision. Nearly every single one of her school friends is at the JCC, and while I'm pleased at how easily Julia's made new friends in her camp group, they're somewhat of a motley crew. I'm particularly irritated by the way their behavior seems to be rubbing off on her; hanging out with not-quite-4-year-old boys seems to have awakened my daughter's immature side, and I don't like it one bit. Her play is regressing, her attention span seems shorter and even her art projects have gone from lovely age-appropriate representational pieces to random scribble scrabble because "that's what my friends are doing."

I miss my mature daughter, and I miss seeing her with the bright, funny kids who are so familiar to me. Those children aren't perfect either, of course. Perhaps I'm more forgiving of their particular quirks because those kids have practically grown up in my home, but I find myself far more tolerant of the behavior Julia's picked up from her old friends than that which I see bleeding through from her new friends. I recognize that I have years and years of disliking Julia's choice of friends ahead of me, of course, and a little bit of immaturity is certainly a minor complaint compared to the traits and habits she could pick up from her peers some day. But I'm annoyed anyway, and I've spent more time than I care to admit second guessing her camp situation and wondering whether I should have pushed her harder to consider the JCC.

One afternoon last week, we met two of Julia's closest school friends, both of whom are at the JCC this summer, for a late afternoon playdate at the pool. Watching the girls reconnect, I could literally see Julia transform back into her secure, mature 4 1/2 year old self and I felt no small measure of relief as I sat back and watched the fun. For the gazillionth time, I wondered whether it had been a mistake not to send her to the JCC. On the way home, I asked Julia whether she regretted her camp decision. I was pretty sure I did, though I didn't say that.

Julia thought carefully for a moment before she answered me. "No," she finally replied, "but I wish more of my friends had chosen to go to the temple, too." And just like that, she nailed it. It's a shame that none of Julia's school friends made the same summer activity choice that she did, but that doesn't make Julia's choice wrong. She's in the right place this summer, for all the reasons that she initially selected it. The hours are right, the low key nature of the program suits her and the familiar environment is confortable and easy. Even better for me, the price is right and I've got both kids in one facitily for a change. How could I have lost sight of all that? How could she not have lost sight of all that, even in the face of a joyful reunion with her old friends?

Julia may be sinking to the level of her new friends on the playground, but deep down, my thoughtful kid still lurks. At 4 1/2 Julia has more self awareness than I posses at 34. She knows what's best for herself and she's confident enough in that knowledge not to continually second guess her decisions. When I grow up, I want to be more like her.

In which I do a damn lousy job of selling the joys of pet ownership

2006-07-19T15:10:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I sent the following email to all of my local friends:

A recent round of allergy tests has pinpointed our cat, Willow, as a contributing factor in Evan's asthma issues and now we need to find her a good home.

Willow is a 9 year old spayed female cat whose front paws are declawed. Those of you who have been in our house know that she's patient and gentle with kids, even very young ones. She's reasonably independent and self sufficient, but does enjoy regular human attention. She's a great "entry level" pet in that she doesn't really require all that much attention, but is happy to receive more when it's offered.

We're looking for a new family to love Willow as much as we do and provide her with a good home. If you or anyone you know has been thinking about getting a pet, please let me know (feel free to forward this email to friends who might be interested). We'd be happy to provide pictures or set up an introductory visit while you think it over.

Getting rid of our first baby is hard, but obviously our human baby's health has to come first. We hope that our friends can help us to make the right match for Willow.

Thanks -
Rebecca

We ran the respiratory allergy panel an a whim. It wasn't even my pediatrician's idea, though she readily agreed that it was a good one. It had been my mom who'd made the suggestion. "What if he's allergic to something in your house and it's making the asthma worse?" she had asked me. I'd dismissed her concern breezily. "He's lived here for 2 1/2 years already," I told her. "If he were allergic to something, wouldn't you think he'd have had far more than half a dozen asthma attacks in his life?" But the question stuck in my mind. If a simple vial of blood could tell us things that might keep Evan healthier in the long run, it seemed pretty darn silly not to just draw that blood and know for sure. And so we did. And now we know.

Paul and I adopted Willow 9 years ago, right after we moved in together. Two days after we brought her home, she came down with some terrible illness, no doubt contracted at the shelter where we'd found her, and she spent the next several days and nights on death's door. I remember sitting up all night long, nursing our brand new fluffball back to health. I remember standing in the vet's office, waiting to hear just how astronomical the bill was going to be and wondering just how much money I was willing to invest in an animal I'd known for less than a week. I remember watching Paul urge the vet to spare no expense to save our pet and knowing that he might be a little crazy, but he was going to be a damned good father some day. By the time Willow was healthy again, we were significantly poorer, I was certain that Paul was the man I wanted to marry, and we were both completely bonded with our new cat. If you'd told me then that 9 years later, I'd be giving her away, I'm sure I would have been heartbroken. But now? Not so much.

It's sad, really. But in the past few years, Willow has been pushed aside more times than I can count in favor of Julia and Evan. I'm busy, and Willow simply falls at the end of the food chain where my attention is concerned. She's ignored more than she's played with these days, and while I obviously continue to care for her, I do so out of a sense of obligation more than love. She's a nice cat and I certainly don't mind having her around. But I suspect that I won't actually miss her all that much, either. I would never have considered offering our cat up for adoption were it not for the results of Evan's allergy test. She's a member of our household, for God's sake. We love her. So why, instead of sadness, do I just feel such an overwhelming sense of relief at the news that she has to go?

Once we find Willow a new home, Evan will presumably breathe easier, and that's huge. But there also will be one less creature in this household clamoring for my attention and affection and assistance, and truth be told, that's pretty damn huge, too. I'm pretty sure that this says something pretty awful about me, that I'm giddy instead of mournful at the prospect of dumping my beloved pet. Maybe I'm in denial and this will all be hard at the moment it becomes reality. And maybe, just maybe, motherhood has made me a little more heartless than I might have anticipated.

So, uh, anyone want a cat?

Gender differences

2006-07-17T15:21:00.000-04:00

Two children, both two and a half; one male, one female. Newfound social awareness and communication skills conspiring to finally create a playdate more participatory than parallel. A Cozy Coupe car.

Evan pushed as his friend rode shotgun. Together, they traversed the yard, giggling and whispering to each other. The other mother and I sat on the sidelines watching and smiling at their antics, both a little bit relieved and a little bit sad not to be needed for the moment. The kids' teamwork was seamless, their enthusiasm contagious. Until then they got stuck up against the fence at the edge of the yard, and found themselves no longer able to roll smoothly along.

Suddenly, the children were dramatically divided in their approaches. Evan began to back up the car this way and that, attempting wild 3-point turns from every angle he thought might solve the problem. His strategy was somewhat less than effective, but his resolve was strong. Meanwhile, Kerry sat in the car, refusing to help with the extraction process. Instead, she waved wildly at the grownups on the other end of the yard, yelling "Help!" as she waited for someone to come rescue her.

Evan looked at Kerry as if she was crazy. Why ask for help? his expression seemed to say. Kerry looked at Evan as if he was crazy. What's brute force going to do for us here? her expression seemed to say. And then without another word, they both walked off in opposite directions, a male and a female completely unable to come to any sort of agreement about how to get the job done.

The dog ate my homework, and other excuses for my absence

2006-07-11T15:21:00.000-04:00

It took us about 3 1/2 hours to get to Baltimore on Friday. We could probably have made better time if we'd really tried, but we were pretty content with the trip, given the fact that two young passengers and my own impossibly small bladder were along for the ride. Nonetheless, we hoped to make the trip home two days later in slightly better time.

It didn't happen.

One asthma attack, several awkward nebulizer treatments provided courtesy of the electrical outlets in rest stop bathrooms, an anxious call to our pediatrician's office, a harried search for an emergency room somewhere around exit 6 off the Turnpike, multiple courses of treatments, several x-rays, an admission which necessitated an ambulance ride to another hospital with a pediatric ward, an overnight stay with all 4 of us crammed into 2 single hospital beds, another full day of treatments, a pneumonia diagnosis, an asthma diagnosis and a final, exhausted drive later, we pulled into our garage yesterday evening at about 8:30. The trip took us, in all, just over 33 hours.

Not quite the time we were hoping for. But when I say that at least we all made it home safe and sound, you can rest assured that for once, I really and truly mean it.

Adventure

2006-07-05T15:23:00.000-04:00

Paul and I went out to dinner just the two of us on Saturday night. There was no occasion, really, just an available babysitter, which is enough of a rarity to be an occasion in and of itself. We'd purposely made no plans, and when the evening presented itself, a beautiful, clear summer night, we were glad to walk around town for a bit before selecting a destination.

In the end, we chose one of the few restaurants in town where we'd never been before, primarily because we could get an outside table and we were loathe to go indoors on such a beautiful night. The menu turned out to be fabulous and the atmosphere was equally lovely. Live music and the opportunity to people watch as we dined were a rare treat, and we found ourselves growing nostalgic for a town that we're not even sure we're leaving just yet.

Talk turned, as it inevitably does these days, to our potential London adventure, and then back to life here in the States. "You know," I finally said to Paul, "we don't have to go abroad to have new experiences and expose our children to the world. If we've determined that they're old enough to see Europe, then surely they're old enough to see all that New York and our surrounding area have to offer as well."

It was a prospect we hadn't really considered before, and yet, we both immediately knew it to be the truth. And so, just two days later, Paul took Julia into the city with him, for a special father-daughter day. They would ride the train in, "work" at his office a bit, find a place to eat lunch together and then come home early. Julia was absolutely thrilled when Paul presented the plan to her, and the two of them left on Monday morning with a backpack full of diversions for Julia and great plans for a great day.

When they returned several hours later, they were full of great stories of what they did and what they saw and where they ate. The trip had been a success, we all agreed as Julia showed me the pictures of skyscrapers that she'd drawn while Paul had been working. But that night, as I tucked Julia into bed, she had a little confession to make. "I know it was a big adventure and all," she told me. "And it WAS fun. But it was also... a little boring."

I laughed as I reassured Julia that it was OK for her to have been bored. Even when an adventure is exciting, I explained, it can be pretty ordinary some of the time. It was a useful -- albeit unexpected -- lesson for Julia to have gained from her day in the big city. But in the back of my mind, I knew that was really me and Paul who would do well to remember what she had just learned.

Limbo

2006-06-29T15:08:00.000-04:00

London is on. London is off. London could be on. London could be off. It is now in the hands of faceless executives -- higher up mucky mucks who have no knowledge of my family (or even my husband) -- whether London will be on or off. Pack your bags! We'll never end up doing this. Call a realtor! This might be a long shot. This could easily happen! Nothing is ever easy. Run! Walk! Stop! Go! Yes! No! Maybe?

If this is my crash course in the "go with the flow" attitude required to live overseas, then I'm honestly not quite sure which way I hope this all pans out in the end.

London calling

2006-06-27T13:12:00.000-04:00

It's all been planned out for years, this life of mine. The marriage and the kids and the house in the 'burbs, all anxiously anticipated and joyfully realized. The friendships I've made and the friendships my children have made, all carefully cultivated to give us a social network, a base to fall back on and daily entertainment. The classes and activities which my kids participated in as babies, which positioned them for the preschool they now attend and for the elementary, middle and high schools they will someday attend, all painstakingly thought out with far more detail than was probably strictly necessary. I know what I'm doing next week, next month and next year. I know how those actions will impact my life even further out. Planning is my nervous tic and my outlet for excess energy and worry. I obsess over decisions and details, but I'm happy in my obsession. In the end, I am comforted by a wealth of personal knowledge and by the security of a well thought out and executed plan.

So when the plan gets tossed up in the air, when a once in a lifetime opportunity comes up that would upset the applecart completely, rendering the past 7 or so years of planning somewhat irrelevant, how do I respond? Are you kidding? Just think of all the new obsessing and researching and planning needs to be done to make this new life path successful! Bring it on...

And just like that, everything changes. An unexpected job opportunity for Paul. A year -- maybe 2 -- in London for all of us. A new lifestyle. New experiences. A new view of the world. And yes, I selfishly admit, maybe some new writing material, too. Nothing's set in stone yet. No papers have yet been signed -- or even proffered. It's too early to say for sure how this will all pan out. But in my mind, I'm already walking my uniformed daughter to her first day of British school. I should bring an umbrella in case it rains.

A burgeoning sense of self, part 2

2006-06-23T14:36:00.000-04:00

Over the past two years, Evan has gone through a pretty standard succession of names for me, including Mama, Mommy and (a little too early for my liking) Mom. He's even called me Rebecca or Becca on occasion, which I secretly find far more charming than I try to let on. But in the past week or two, I've picked up a new title which is by far my favorite. I am now "My Mommy" -- as in, "can I have a snack, My Mommy?" or "My Mommy, where are you?" I love what this says about Evan's growing understanding of the English language, as well as his increased awareness of the world around him. And of course, I love what it says about my role in his life. This one will be short lived, I suspect; the best ones always are. It will be an especially sad day when this new moniker -- and the sweetly earnest way Evan pronounces it -- is gone.

A burgeoning sense of self

2006-06-22T14:45:00.000-04:00

"Aren't you cute! What's your name?"

"Me!"

I is for incredulous

2006-06-20T15:53:00.000-04:00

I hesitated a bit at the door when dropping Julia off at her first day of camp this morning. This was a new set of teachers for her, and she'll have them not only this summer but throughout the next school year as well. Should I say something? Would that be too pushy? Would waiting make more sense or would patterns already have developed by then which would be difficult to change? I knew that I felt just as unsure as my child at that moment. Finally, I bit the bullet and spoke up.

"I expect Julia won't say much to you today," I began hesitantly. Miss M looked up in surprise. "Is she shy?" she asked in surprise. "I've seen her on the playground this past year and she certainly seems comfortable talking with her friends."

"She is," I replied, "but it's a very different story with adults." Briefly, I explained; the year of silence in the 2s, the gradual social blossoming in the 3s, the continued unwillingness to speak in a group setting. "She's made great progress," I told her new teacher, "but talking is still a struggle for her. For the past two years, her teachers have nurtured her and let her be who she is, and she's loved them for it, but this year I'm hoping that you'll push her out of her comfort zone a bit and help her get to the next stage." There. I'd said it. I'd told this woman how to do her job. How would she respond?

Miss M smiled at me. "My job is to get her to kindergarten next year able to speak up for herself," she told me. "I'll definitely push her a bit." I smiled back in relief. "That's absolutely it," I gushed. "Here's a kid who's been reading for a year now, and I'm so afraid that if she can't tell her teacher what she knows, she'll spend a whole year doing 'b goes buh' again so as not to make a fuss..." Realizing that I was getting ahead of myself, I stopped short, but Miss M was still smiling. "I've seen plenty of kids like this before," she told me. "Mark my words, by the end of the year, she'll be reading books aloud to the class in circle time." I laughed. "Don't hold your breath," I cautioned her, "but I'm very grateful that you'll try." She thanked me quite genuinely for the heads up and we said goodbye.

Three and a half hours later, a beaming Miss M met me at the classroom door. "Julia read the note that you wrote on her napkin to the whole class at lunch time," she told me, "and we've had some lovely chats today." I stared at her, stunned. "See you tomorrow, Julia," she said breezily, smiling at both of us as I tried to scrape my jaw off the floor.

I think that Julia may just have met the person who will change the path of her life.

Oh, yeah... the kids had fun, too

2006-06-20T13:43:00.000-04:00

One harried mother...

Two children who refused to be hurried along...

A shitload of stuff that should have been taken care of earlier...

Two backpacks, carefully packed with towels, sunscreen, water shoes and clean clothing (all labeled with a Sharpie)...

Two plastic bags, filled with emergency clothing (all labeled with a Sharpie)...

One lunch, carefully packed in a lunchbox (you guessed it... labeled with a Sharpie)...

Two children, slathered with sunscreen and dressed for play (the younger one in a name tag that was written with a Sharpie, now that you mention it)...

Two children, two backpacks, one lunchbox, one beloved Cookie Monster book and one purse, all precariously juggled after an over-filled parking lot necessitated a block-long walk to the first day of camp (a rapidly cooling cup of coffee regretfully left behind)...

One cheerful goodbye, one tearful goodbye and 20 minutes spent waiting in the hallway for the all-clear sign on child #2...

Forty five minutes in Starbucks with friends, adults-only for the first time in 4 1/2 years. No strollers. No sippy cups. No toddler meltdowns. Conversations that were actually finished without interruption. Language and topic unsuitable for small children. Not a single spill.

Is it any wonder I was positively giddy?

The obligatory vacation photo

2006-06-19T14:09:00.000-04:00

CAPTION: My two happy, carefree children scamper down the beach, laughing together at some joke only they understand. No one is whining, flashing me "I hate you" looks or demanding food. I am not yelling, making empty threats or attempting to bribe them into submission. We are all just genuinely enjoying each other and the natural beauty of our environment. We are having fun.

It lasted just long enough for me to snap this shot. But it happened. This is proof.

You take the good, you take the bad, you take then both and there you have... vacation

2006-06-18T14:36:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, after I spent an hour and a half organizing belongings and packing bags and stripping beds and sweeping away the sand and detritus of a week at the shore with four small children, we all donned bathing suits and headed down for one last hour on the beach before going home. As I stood at the edge of the water, holding Evan (who had already experienced the indignity of one too many waves in the face over the course of the week) and watching Julia and Paul collect shells further down the beach, I felt vacation amnesia set in.

The naps which Evan decided were entirely unnecessary while away from home and his resulting crankiness? Carried out to sea by a wave. The sun which woke both children several hours earlier than usual and further contributed to the crankiness factor? Washed away. The bickering and fighting which was inevitable with that many kids in the same place for that long, yet no less annoying for this inevitability? Whisked into the surf. The sight of a cozy lounge chair and a good book just slightly out of reach all week as I tended to my family's needs before my own? Erased by the tides.

By the time we'd all scrubbed ourselves clean in the fabulous outdoor shower and headed off for home, all that remained of our vacation were the good memories; hours spent digging in the sand and playing at the water's edge, trips for ice cream and pizza, amusement park rides and aquarium exhibits, watching the moon rise and pouring another glass of wine on the deck with friends after the children had gone to bed. "Maybe we should go for two weeks next year," I suggested to Paul. He considered this for a moment, my husband who despises sand, can't stand putting on a bathing suit, and is driven nuts by too much time spent in the presence of too many children. "I think that's a good idea," he finally replied. You gotta love vacation amnesia.

List-free (in 2007)

2006-06-08T21:30:00.000-04:00

One year ago today, in between frenetic acts of disorganized packing hysteria, I posted this. A year later to the date, here I am once again packing again for the same annual family pilgrimage. "I won't even need to write an entry today," I laughed to myself as I sat down at the computer today. "I can just re-use the one from last year!" My laughter wasn't exactly the happy kind; I've felt like I've just been treading water for months now, and the realization that it's been an entire year and nothing has changed in my life just seemed to confirm that feeling. I opened up last year's entry fully expecting to come face to face with undeniable proof that time really is standing still these days.

Then I actually read what I'd written a year ago.

Lists? I had lists? Huh. No lists this year. No gear, few toys, just enough foodstuff to get us started. I can't even imagine what the "extras" I was referring to last year included, and I'm equally unclear how there could have been enough of them to merit an entire list. We'll be leaving the tricycle behind this year (I learned my lesson), and things like booster seats are a thing of the past. In fact, I've really got no plans to bring much of anything with us other than some clothing, some linens and lots of suntan lotion. I may be doing the same things I was doing a year ago, but I'm doing them in an entirely different way this year.

Looking back, I can't help but feel a little superior to 2005 Me, the Me of Many Lists. Did I really need all that stuff or did I make myself crazy for nothing? Either way, I am determined that 2006 Me is going to be a relaxed, happy, list-free traveler. None of that silly "make it and check it twice" stuff for me this year, no more making my entire family crazy as I run around like a mad woman trying to fit every single thing we own in the back of a Nissan Murano. I'm going to bring some things that I think we'll need on vacation. Whatever we forget, I'll buy when we get there. Whatever I can't find, we'll do without. It just doesn't matter.

Perhaps, ever so slowly, life is moving forward after all. Maybe, just maybe, there will come a day when a trip feels like a vacation again. It won't happen this year, that's for sure. But my sudden certainty that such a day will actually come some day has me humming a very different vacation tune this year. In looking back, I guess I'm finally looking forward a bit. My family and I? We're apparently all growing up a little after all, and it feels good. Damn good. But before I get all smug about my growth and development as a mother and a person, I need to find a pen. While I was re-reading last year's post and feeling so good about the subtle changes a year can bring, I also realized that I really ought to toss some sippy cups and some Children's Tylenol into the car again this year. I just know that I'm going to forget about them if I don't write this down somewhere. And now that I'm really thinking about this, it wouldn't be a vacation without Trivial Pursuit... Oh, and I'll definitely want to make sure the video camera's charged...

How much could one little list hurt?

Further proof that what's fascinating to a 4 year old is less than riveting to the rest of the world

2006-06-06T13:37:00.000-04:00

Julia's last day of school was today. In honor of the "occasion," today's post comes from her. Here are her thoughts and reflections (dictated, with the occasional subject prompt from me) about school and the things she hopes to remember about this year.

School was good because I liked my teachers. I liked them because they give us fairy dust and we do messy art projects with them. Do you know what my favorite messy art project is? My favorite messy art project is doing the shaving cream like I did today.

And I liked school because I had fun. I liked to have fun with Morgan and Abby and Brianna. We all played together. We did flip downs with Brianna and Morgan, but Abby was scared. When I went on the playground, I liked to do things to find Jake in Pre-K. I like doing our balance beam thing with Abby.

I liked going to lunch at school. I liked to do bubbles and the obstacle course at Enrichment. I liked to play with Abby with blocks and build a Princess castle. When it was the third day of the school year, I used to hide from the Monsters (Matthew and Maxwell) with Brianna in our special spots.

My favorite snack was the snack we had today: chocolate cupcakes. We had chocolate cupcakes because it was Jack's birthday. My favorite song was the snowman song (it's kind of not the weather for snowman songs, though). My favorite art project was the Life Cycle of a Flower and the Life Cycle of a Butterfly. My favorite holiday was Purim because I liked the castle we built at school. My favorite thing to do at school was read the bumblebee book with Abby (the one the Pre-K made). My favorite job was calendar.

I hope I'll have a good time swimming this summer at the temple. I hope when I'm in Pre-K, I can read the bumblebee book again with Brianna.

The End

First Day of School

Last Day of School

Talk about growing up before my eyes...

Matters of grey matter

2006-06-02T12:01:00.000-04:00

I have been saying for years that I would have far more room in my head for important information if my brain were not already full of useless nursery rhymes and mindless sorority cheers. If recent changes to my daughter's memory are any indication, this tongue in cheek excuse for my forgetfulness may actually be dead on after all.

Julia's memory impressed me for a long time. Throughout her 2 and 3 year old years, she would frequently regale me with detailed stories of things that had happened a full year or two prior. She would recall with eerie accuracy precise details about what people had been wearing at a given event or where she had first been introduced to a particular food or concept. She was able to recite books verbatim after only one or two readings, and she remembered entire conversations we'd shared a few months back as clearly as if they'd just occurred moments before. "She must have a photographic memory," we would say as we watched her in astonishment.

She doesn't. At least, not any more. Because in the past several months, these recall abilities suddenly seem to be gone. "I don't remember that," she frequently tells me when we discuss events of the recent past or important occasions that she's always recalled before. Entire concepts that she fully grasped just a short time ago suddenly escape her ("What's a negative number?" she asked me the other day after a whole fall spent begging people to give her harder and harder math problems). She's forgotten entire vacations which she used to discuss in intense detail, entire books which she used to be able to recite with no effort at all, entire topics which used to fascinate her, entire relationships with people who used to matter a great deal to her. She's gone from seemingly remembering every little detail to remembering shockingly little about anything at all. It's bizarre.

Or is it? At the same time that she's seemingly lost all sorts of memories, Julia's reading abilities have truly flourished, her imaginative play has taken on new dimensions and her social interactions have become strikingly more mature and involved. She's thinking just as much as ever, but she's thinking about very different things these days, and those things seem to be crowding out the things that she used to think about, competing for valuable space inside her head.

Julia's brain was empty enough in the first few years of her life that there was room to store every little detail of her daily existence. But now that her own repertoire of nursery rhymes and life experiences is growing, there just isn't room for the little details any more, for the fact that I was wearing a pink shirt on Tuesday or that last year, her bedroom in our vacation house had a blue bedspread. The memorized words to Corduroy may have to be pushed aside to make room for all the new words she's reading now, and it's likely she'll forget those, too, as her appetite for increasingly complex reading material increases in the coming years. Her mind can't store everything that happens to her indefinitely. Some choices will need to be made about what gets retained. And those choices, I'm now realizing, are going to be pretty damn random.

The older she gets, the more selective Julia's memory will become, just as mine has over the years. Suddenly, it's not a foregone conclusion that anything will be retained. This is in some ways depressing (I spent nearly three years and hundreds of dollars on enriching Mommy and Me activities, but when I brought her to sit in on one of Evan's Music Together classes today, she had no memory whatsoever of having ever participated in one before). It's also a little liberating (ok, so I yelled at her for something that wasn't technically her fault yesterday, and probably the day before that too, but odds are good that she'll have completely forgotten all about my sharp words by next week). But mainly, it's a challenge to me. It's a challenge to ensure that the good of our lives outweighs the bad, of course, so that whatever random memories Julia does retain are largely positive. And it's also a challenge to keep on writing here, to keep storing up all of those memories that her brain may not have room to keep but my heart can not afford to let her lose.

A rhetorical question

2006-06-01T18:07:00.000-04:00

Am I more self-absorbed when I post endless blog entries about the largely uninteresting minutiae of my life or when I am so caught up in the largely uninteresting minutiae of my life that I don't bother to post at all?

A goo goo goo, a ga ga ga (is all I want to say to you)

2006-05-30T09:50:00.000-04:00

I've been trying to write this entry for a while now because it's the kind of thing that I know I'll want to remember some day, but I can't seem to get it to come out right. It's just too odd a story, and it doesn't translate well to the computer screen. Hell, I'm not sure it translates, period. You see, first, there was Gofo, the naughty penguin who tried to lead Julia down the road to misbehavior. And now, there is Googagaga.

Our household's new resident is the product of Evan's imagination, and he lives primarily in our basement, though one can never say when he will pop out of there for a quick visit. Every time he arrives, he makes Evan cry. In fact, I am told that it is Googagaga who is responsible for all of my son's tears these days, especially the kind that come unbidden during the middle of the night. "Googagaga made me cry," he explains every time. It is apparently no longer ever Evan's fault if he has a tantrum or is cranky or is having trouble sleeping. Mean old Googagaga is to blame for all of it.

Occasionally, Googagaga will make a cameo appearance at a lighter moment, but his primary role seems to be torturing Evan. "He gets me in the morning and in the afternoon and in the evening and underneath the moon," Evan often reports with a worried expression on his face. It would be much cuter to hear him paraphrase one of his favorite songs in this way if the child weren't so clearly distressed. He keeps a careful watch out for Googagaga and asks me frequently whether Googagaga is still down the basement where he belongs. Occasionally, Julia will suggest locking him in the attic for extra security, but that never lasts too long. Googagaga always reappears, seeking out the tearful child who created him.

Other people's children have imaginary friends that are, I don't know, friendly? But my kids apparently didn't need their pretend acquaintances to act as cheerful playmates or trustworthy confidants. There is no sharing a cup of tea or initiating a friendly chat with an imaginary friend around here. Instead, my daughter has a naughty peacock named Gofo who tries to get her into trouble and now my son has this equally oddly named creature who is out to get him. How am I supposed to write about this stuff without sounding as crazy as my kids do?

This explains those stubborn extra pounds I can't seem to shed

2006-05-28T09:47:00.000-04:00

Because it's a lazy Sunday morning, my husband is still sleeping, my kids are happily entertaining themselves and I'm having fun reading about some friends' Sesame alter egoes...

My son's undying love for Cookwah suddenly makes a lot more sense.

You Are Cookie Monster

Misunderstood as a primal monster, you're a true hedonist with a huge sweet tooth.

You are usually feeling: Hungry. Cookies are preferred, but you'll eat anything if cookies aren't around.

You are famous for: Your slightly crazy eyes and usual way of speaking

How you life your life: In the moment. "Me want COOKIE!"

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

Fun with Mommy's self esteem, part 2

2006-05-25T15:06:00.000-04:00

(The lead up: a discussion about the upcoming last day of preschool.)

Julia: When will my last day of school EVER be?

Me: You mean for good, not just until the following fall?

Julia: Yeah.

Me: I guess that depends what you decide you want to be when you grow up. Different jobs require different amounts of education, so you could go to school for more or less years depending on what you end up wanting to study.

Julia: Well, when I grow up, I want to be a Mommy. How many years of school do I need for that?

Thanks to my daughter for nailing home far more succinctly than I suspect she intended just how appropriate that B.S. title on my degree really is...

I get many things out of my relationship with my daughter, but I'm clearly going to need to look elsewhere if I want support for my self esteem issues

2006-05-24T13:43:00.000-04:00

"You need to start thinking about what you're going to do in the talent show, Mommy."

"Me? Can't I just be the audience?"

"No. You have to be in the show and do all the things that you're good at."

"Hmmm. I'm not sure I have any talents."

"Sure you do."

"Really? Like what?"

"Uh... cleaning up? You're really good at cleaning up! Here... I'll make a mess and you can clean it up and that will be your talent."

Stupid is as stupid does

2006-05-22T20:15:00.000-04:00

The task was a puzzle, a map of the United States. Julia was doing a pretty terrific job of putting it together, but eventually she got a little stuck. And so she casually asked for help, confident that I'd posses the information she lacked and could teach her what she did not yet know.

"Where does Ohio go, Mom?" I was across the room at the time, with no puzzle box to casually consult for assistance, and the question stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn't know the answer.

Ohio. Ohio. Shit. Where does Ohio go? I was born in Ohio for God's sakes. And it's... somewhere close to Michigan?

Geography, needless to say, is not my strong suit. It's one of those areas of study which requires rote memorization and I was never much one for rote memorization. In fact, I vividly remember struggling through an elementary school unit on the location of the 50 states. It was during that unit that I realized for the first time that I wasn't going to be able to coast effortlessly through school forever. Occasionally, I was going to have to do a little bit of work. This was a prospect I'd never even contemplated before, and it would have been a sobering realization if I'd fully been ready for it, but I wasn't nearly ready for it then. Instead I just got angry and refused to deal with the subject of geography at all. It would take years for me to accept the fact that I was merely smart and not brilliant. In the meantime, I missed out on learning a lot of things, including the map of the United States.

I have to assume that there must have been later opportunities to brush up on my geography. Despite the fact that I did eventually reconcile myself to some level of academic effort, I clearly eschewed them all (though I really can't say whether maintaining this gap in my knowledge was the result of a deliberate act of protest or just plain laziness). Either way, I've never quite known my way around a U.S. map, and I've never been proud of that fact. I can obviously see now why geography would have been a useful thing to study, and I'd already had quite a few "so that's where that state goes" aha moments as Julia had placed other pieces into the puzzle this afternoon. This was turning out to be a learning experience for both of us. But was I secure enough to let my daughter know that? Could I admit to her that I wasn't sure exactly where the border between Michigan and Ohio is located?

I could not. "Let's see if you can figure it out on your own," I encouraged her instead. "Use the picture on the box if you need to." Sure enough, she managed to insert the Ohio piece into the puzzle all by herself. I breathed a sigh of relief. And then, after she went to bed, I stood at the kitchen tale and I studied that completed puzzle, the way I should have studied it in the first place.

I'm 100% clear on how Michigan and Ohio are connected now. Hell, for the first time in my life, I'm finally clear on how most of the states are connected. In classic "better late than never" style, I could probably ace that elementary school unit now, a mere 20-odd years after the fact. We all need our own motivation to learn, I suppose, and I've finally found mine. I was stupid about a lot of things for a long time. But I'll be damned if I'm going to look stupid in front of my 4 year old.

Writer's block

2006-05-18T17:20:00.000-04:00

A dashboard littered with drafts so boring and unimpressive that even I, their author, can not bring myself to complete -- or even so much as re-read -- them.

A dramatic decrease in my email response turn-around time and an equally dramatic increase in my chore output level as I try to avoid the empty draft screen that mocks me.

A series of false starts and failed attempts that smacks suspiciously of desperation. Is this funny? Could I make it funny? (No.) Is this tender or just trite? (Just trite.)

A futile last ditch search for material that leaves me sounding crazier than I care to admit. WOULD SOMEBODY PLEASE JUST SAY OR DO SOMETHING FUNNY SO THAT I CAN WRITE IT DOWN?

Despite my best efforts, I've got nothing. And yet... in that nothing, I have at last a little something. A very little something, but I'll take it.

Forget that silly black fly in your chardonnay

2006-05-16T18:31:00.000-04:00

The one nice thing about a child who gets teeth late (and we're talking "12 teeth at 27 months" late) is that he can actually announce his teething pain and request some relief in a civilized fashion. But when said child is so old that he's outgrown the liquid drop medication and all that you have to offer him for his teething pain are chewable children's Tylenol tablets? That, my friends, is true irony.

The kid's 2 years old and I'm already an also-ran

2006-05-15T14:52:00.000-04:00

Me: "Guess what, Evan? We're going to see your friend Kerry tomorrow!"

Evan: "Yay! Kerry is so, so cute!"

Me: "You're right. She is cute."

Evan (pauses, studies me for a moment, then pats my shoulder): "Mommy cute, too."

Requiem for an old friend, gone too soon (ALTERNATE TITLE: A fool and her money are soon parted)

2006-05-11T14:50:00.000-04:00

I have love, love, loved our video monitor since Day One.

As unnecessary and indulgent as I've always recognized this $100 piece of surveillance equipment to be, there's been a new reason to adore it with each developmental stage. When my kids were infants, I could glance at the monitor and confirm that they hadn't accidentally face planted into a big fat pocket of crib bumper that threatened to asphyxiate them. When they hit the "I can roll over, but I can't get back" stage and then the "I can stand up but I have no idea what to do next" stage, a quick peek at the monitor would tell me whether I needed to mount a rescue operation or could just simply the child whimper until he or she fell back asleep. When my kids got older, the monitor told me who was playing quietly in bed, who was trying to escape and who had already left the nest.

Beyond the practical, the video monitor has also given me ample opportunity to do that "isn't my sleeping child sweet?" gazing thing without risking waking said child with my presence in the room (it's amazing how fast the "sweet" part disappears when a sleeping child is awakened). Friends and family love to watch it as well, especially now that Evan has figured out how it works and identified the once place in his crib where he can lie sight unseen. "Oh my God, Evan's not in his crib," someone always exclaims while those of us in the know sit and laugh.

Alas, the screen on our monitor abruptly went dark a few months ago. I was heartbroken, knowing that my kids were simply too old to justify purchasing a new one, but a friend who owned a monitor that she was no longer using graciously loaned me hers. And today, it died, too. (If Allison ever comes along, I promise to buy you a new one, Chichimama!)

I suspect that someone is trying to tell me something about the suitability of spying on a 2 year old. It was probably time to retire the old girl and move on to a cheap audio monitor anyway. Hell, it's probably even time to move the audio monitor out of Julia's room; listening in on our 4 year old is no doubt an invasion of privacy as well. But I was counting on the video monitor to aid in Evan's transition to his Big Boy Bed! I had big plans to use it in our basement playroom after it outgrew its bedroom usefulness! I'm not ready to say goodbye just yet! How dare my favorite piece of child care equipment betray me like this?

Someone please talk me out of buying a new one.

Addendum

2006-05-10T15:18:00.000-04:00

I rarely respond to anything that people say in my comments section. That's not because I don't appreciate or value the comments that people leave here; I love getting feedback and will often wait impatiently to see what others have to say about a topic that's been on my mind. But more often than not, I leave those comments alone, even when they particularly speak to me. Part of the reason for this is my own warped sense of social obligation. I can never figure out how to respond to select comments without implying that others were less valuable, so I just leave the whole mess alone. More importantly, I write to get an idea or situation off my chest, and once that's happened, I'm ready to move on here. Usually. But today, I feel the need to clarify and elaborate a bit.

I fear I gave the wrong impression of my daughter yesterday. Julia is not at all immune to the girly-girl world, not by a long shot. She has a favorite princess (Cinderella, though Belle is a close second), a great love for the color pink and a level of interest in clothing and makeup and jewelry that makes me fear for her teen years. She prefers girls as playmates and initiates all sorts of imaginative play activities with them. Julia is definitely a girls' girl. But that's not all she is, and I suspect my parenting style played some role in that fact. My natural inclination when Julia says she's bored is to pull out some art supplies or a book. The mothers I was out with the other night turn first to imaginative play. Is that because we know which activities our kids will respond best to or because those are the activities we ourselves prefer? I have no idea, and that's where the whole nature/nurture post came from yesterday.

What's even more interesting to me than the nature/nurture debate itself is how dead set a lot of the comments seemed to be for or against the whole princess phenomenon. I admittedly overspoke my own reactions a bit to prove my point, and perhaps others were doing the same with their replies. But as I read each one, I found myself thinking about how much we tend to overthink this stuff sometimes. I made things sound pretty black and white in my post yesterday, and so did the people who commented. But in truth, there are a thousand shades of gray where this topic is concerned. Princesses aren't inherently good or bad (though extremes -- either kind -- may be). The mothers I was out with the other night aren't doing things any more right or wrong than I am. We're just doing things differently, and we shouldn't have to apologize for that or explain it away.

As we all puzzle this out amongst ourselves, second guessing our philosophies about fairy tales and our preferred ways on interacting with our children, the kids seem to be getting what they need all on their own. After years of knowing and essentially ignoring each other, Julia and one of the little princess girls have found each other in the past few months and have become fast friends. I wondered at first about this odd pairing between two children who seemingly have nothing in common. As time goes on, however, it pleases me more and more. The girls have fused their worlds so nicely; they'll build an elaborate castle together with unit blocks and then narrate the story of the princesses who live there, or Julia will help her friend through the counting required to play princess-themed board games. My kid's getting her never-never land and her friend's getting an occasional math lesson, even if they're not getting that much of those things at home. I couldn't be more pleasantly surprised... for both of them.

Some new thoughts on that old nature/nurture thing

2006-05-09T14:14:00.000-04:00

I went out for coffee last night with two women who have daughters around Julia's age. As women always seem to do, we spoke primarily of our children, a topic which would seem like an area of common ground for us given our four year olds. But as the night went on, it became increasingly clear to me that our children's age and gender were about all that we had in common parenting-wise.

Their girls are Barbie girls, and their days are filled with make believe and fairies and princess fantasies. "We play make believe all day long," one mother shared. "I do everything for her in character, in whatever role she wants me to play that day." The other mother nodded her head in agreement. "I'm usually a princess," she replied, "which is great because I'm just as into the princess stuff as she is. I go online after she's gone to bed and hunt down new princess things to buy for her so that I can play with them, too."

I tried hard to remain an enthusiastic participant in the conversation, but my smile became increasingly less natural as the night went on. Truth be told, I was a little incredulous, both at the role that imaginary characters play in these kids' lives and the extents their mothers go to in order to reinforce those fantasies. I'm not opposed to a few minutes of role play and banter if it helps Julia to finish her dinner without complaint, but I'll be damned if I'm going to don fairy wings and sprinkle pixie dust on her all day long. And if I'm online after the kids are in bed, it's because I'm hunting down resources for mothers who think, not princess paraphernalia for children who don't. How boring, I thought as they described their daughters' interests. I'm so grateful that I have a daughter who can think beyond pre-packaged and pink.

"Your girls would hate living in my house," I said lightly when they turned to me for affirmation. "Doesn't Julia do this stuff all day long, too?" one of them asked. "Not really," I replied. "She likes to play with her Pollies in her room sometimes and she plays dress up whenever she has a friend over, but she's not really all that into the whole Barbie, fairy, fantasy thing."

"So then what does she like?" the other asked, clearly a little confused. I paused. Julia's interests were obviously so much more interesting and worldly than their girls'. How not to sound like a braggart? "Well, she loves to read, of course," I replied carefully. "and to do mazes and word puzzles. She does a ton of art projects and plays a lot of board games, and builds castles and drives cars with her brother sometimes. She does a lot of pretend play, too, with her dollhouse and dolls, and this time of year we're outside a lot..." I suddenly realized that their smiles were fading as much as mine had a few moments before. Couldn't they see how much more fun I have with my kid? "She's just not really focused on one thing like princesses," I finished lamely. One of them patted my hand. "That's OK," she said soothingly.

That's OK? OK? It's more than OK! It's fabulous! My child has a huge range of interests and she gives each equal time. She and I connect over books and science experiments and games and projects that interest me as much as they interest her. I'm frankly not much in my element when we sit down together with her Polly Pockets, but I'm game to give that a whirl once in a while, too, since Julia doesn't overdo those kinds of requests. I've always felt incredibly grateful to have a kid who I could talk to on a mature level, one who in both interested and interesting. But last night, I realized that these Barbie and princess mommies were every bit as grateful that they don't have a kid like mine.

It was frankly a little shocking to realize that the things which appeal to me most about my child do not interest my friends the least and vice versa. But it kind of made a lot of things make sense. Every mother should take pride in her child, and it was clear from what we'd all just said (and not said) that we all do. Our girls are very different. And yet each of us is firmly convinced that we hit the jackpot with the child we got.

It's not in my nature to nurture a princess. It's not in my friends' natures to nurture an academic. Did nature or nurture make our girls who they are? Probably a little bit of both. But as important as both of these things are in shaping our daughters, I realized last night that nature and nurture probably hold an equal importance when it comes to shaping us as mothers. It's that same magic combination of the two -- a little bit of heredity here and a little bit of unconditional love there -- that makes us our children's biggest fans. And in the end, the fact that we love our kids just the way they are matters far more than how they got to be that way.

Ten things I never thought I'd say to my children (all of which have come out of my mouth in the past 12 hours)

2006-05-04T21:20:00.000-04:00

1. I do not want to hear you say another word. Ever.

2. No, you DON'T need to go potty again.

3. What do you say?

4. If you're going to keep crying and whining, please go do it in the other room.

5. Let's eat dinner outside tonight! (Yes, I know that this one sounds good. Trust me when I tell you that what followed wasn't.)

6. Use your words.

7. I will give you candy if you finish your dinner.

8. If you ask me again, there will be serious consequences.

9. Please stop. Mommy just... can't.

10. Because I'm the grownup, that's why.

If I had a point, I lost it somewhere in the ear piercing screams of protest echoing through my house

2006-05-04T15:03:00.000-04:00

My son is up in his room screaming his bloody head off right now. Evan is religious about his daily nap... 2 to 3 hours of sleep an afternoon with nary a whimper of complaint. He's even prone to suggest nap time himself if I don't initiate it promptly enough for his liking. But not today. For reasons which are not entirely clear to me (but which I suspect have something to do with my laundry list of plans for nap time and a certain man named Mr. Murphy), he has decided that sleep is not in his game plan for today. Unfortunately, he is so incoherently tired that there is no way that he is going to make it until bedtime without a nap. And so we are engaged in an extreme battle of wills, the kind that makes me feel like the world's most conscientious mother and a poster child for abusive parenting all at the same time. No matter who eventually wins this battle, we are both going to be tired and cranky for the rest of the day.

It is so very, very much Thursday around here.

What do you get when you cross a precocious preschooler with a tenacious toddler? Tolerable music!

2006-05-03T14:10:00.000-04:00

Julia has had her nose in that silly book for the past 24 hours. In classic "be careful what you wish for" style, she wanted to bring it to the table and into the tub, and she slept with it in her bed last night. This morning, as Evan sat down on the potty, he was treated to a charming rendition of the long-since-committed-to-memory tale before he'd even had a chance to urinate.

By the time we were halfway to school this morning, Julia had read her new favorite book a good dozen times and I was good and over the whole "isn't my child sweet when she reads aloud" thing. As she neared the end of the book, I was just about to break in with a series of distracting questions designed to divert her away from the text for a few minutes when I heard Evan demand that she read it yet again.

I was about to groan and demand a break when it occurred to me that if he was listening to the book, he wasn't listening to our omnipresent car music. Surreptitiously, I switched the stereo from CD to radio and held my breath for a moment. No one noticed. Emboldened by my success, I dared to turn up the volume ever so slowly, a little bit at a time. The kids were too lost in the insipid book's plot to care. Just as Evan had unceremoniously dumped the Count just weeks ago, so did he throw Ella Fitzgerald aside today for the lure of his sister's voice and an Easy Reader. Sorry, Ella. Guess you and Old McDonald have been put out to pasture on that there farm of his.

And so we drove the rest of the way to school, Julia happily indulging Evan's newest listening obsession and me happily singing along with John Lennon. Imagine all the people living life in peace, indeed. This reading aloud phase of Julia's, it's not panning out exactly as I expected it would. Things never do. But it's nonetheless a very, very good thing.

It's not a good ministone unless I cry a little

2006-05-02T14:54:00.000-04:00

I thought my babies' cries were the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. Ditto their early laughs and their first words. I thought wrong. The sweetest sound in the world, it turns out, is the sound of my child's voice as she reads a new book aloud from the back seat of my car.

Julia's read aloud to me plenty of times before. Hell, she even read the Four Questions at our Passover seder this year with remarkably little assistance. I know that she regularly reads to herself when I'm not around. But it's always been my idea when she reads aloud; my suggestion, never hers. It's always seemed like she was humoring me by deigning to show off her reading abilities a bit, and I've often worried that I might be pushing her to share skills that she just wasn't ready to share yet. Not today. Today, the siren song of a new book that was just sitting on the seat beside her was too compelling, and she simply had to pick it up and read it aloud without delay.

I was the kid who brought my book along when my mother made me go out to play. I think I probably checked every single book out of our local library's Young Adult section in a period of only a few months. All my life, I've read voraciously, fueled by a hunger to find out what happens next and an impatience to get to the good parts. Today, Julia showed herself to posess at least a little bit of that same love for the written word. Is it really lame if I confess that my eyes filled up with tears when I realized what she was doing?

The Friday feeling

2006-05-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

I have never lived alone. I doubt that I would have been very good at it; I crave human interaction too much, and I'm not very good at entertaining myself for any great length of time. Truth be told, I get pretty pissy without other people around to talk to, so it's probably just as well that I met Paul when I was only 23 and ended up going directly from living with my parents to living with roommates to living with him. Nonetheless, I always feel just a tiny bit like I missed out on something that I ought to have done before settling down. Living alone seems (in my romantic, unrealistic view, anyway) like a terribly adult thing to do, and I guess I feel just a tiny bit less adult for never having done it.

The weeks when Paul travels to London are the closest I come to having the independent living experience. He usually leaves on a Sunday evening and returns home on Friday night, so I probably don't get the true "living alone" effect, since there's no weekend involved, but he's gone for long enough that I fall into a solitary rhythm quite unlike the rhythm of our lives when he's in town. "Solitary" and "alone" are obviously misnomers here, given the two chatterbox children who share my household, but I am the sole adult present and the only person awake after 8 p.m. It's close enough.

To be perfectly honest, there are quite a few things that I like about the weeks when Paul's away. My house is always neater with one less person to pick up after, the kids move swiftly from evening play to bedtime without the energy burst of a Daddy homecoming to throw them off track, and I can fall asleep with the TV on every single night if I want. I run the show and things get done my way, and I don't even have to share the chocolate ice cream with anyone if I wait until the kids are asleep to break it out. Chores that are "Paul's" -- the garbage and the recycling and the washing of the dinner dishes -- become mine for the week, and instead of resenting the extra work, I do them with a certain amount of competent pleasure. There is a pride that comes from knowing that I can do it all, that I can keep the household operating smoothly and efficiently without any assistance. "This isn't so bad," I always think for the first day or two. "I could do this if I had to."

But then the week gets long. Our household follows its revised routine smoothly, but I find us all inexplicably dragging a bit. The kids are listless without their father; uninspired without his games and ideas and all too aware that they're not likely to get away with much as long as I'm the only sheriff in town. My rules are being followed, but even I am getting anxious to break them in order to break up the monotony of the week. The evening TV shows I fight to turn on when Paul is around are actually pretty damn boring without him beside me to poke fun at them, and without him here, I have no excuse to buy more ice cream when I run out mid-week. By Wednesday or Thursday, I'm hungry for a balanced meal and someone to share it with. And by the time Friday rolls around, we're all making Welcome Home signs and hanging out by the front window for the first sight of Paul's car, pushing each other out of the way to be the first one to hug him when he walks through the door. My perfect schedule be damned. I want my husband back. I simply don't like my life nearly as much without him in it.

I'm truthfully glad that I get to go it by myself once a month or so. I appreciate the solitude and the chance to do it all my way for a few days and the opportunity to feel like a true adult. I like my weeks alone more than I ever thought I would, and more than I've ever admitted to Paul. But my favorite part of these weeks is the way I feel by the time Friday comes; anxious to welcome my husband home and 100% certain that our life together is the one I want. After a week alone, I have the confidence that comes from knowing that I could do this without him and the certainty of place that comes from knowing that I would never want to. It's a heady combination.

It's Monday today, and I'm still a little high on the freedom of my newfound solitude. But I know what's coming next and better yet, what comes after that. I'm T minus 4 days to that Friday feeling. I can't wait.

My cat will never forgive me for having children

2006-04-27T18:28:00.000-04:00

Willlow! Hi!

scamper, scamper, pitter patter, pitter patter

Hi, Willow!

scamper, scamper, pitter patter, pitter patter

Here, Willow!

scamper, scamper, pitter patter, pitter patter

Nice Willow!

scamper, scamper, pitter patter, pitter patter

Here, nice Willow!

scamper, scamper, stomp, stomp, stomp

I BEING NICE, WILLOW. I NICE. COME. HERE. NOW!!!!!!

There's a life lesson in here somewhere and I'm not sure it actually has much to do with potties or shoes or leaving extra time for such things

2006-04-26T15:53:00.000-04:00

I have been a mother for over four years and the mother of two children for over two of those years. My days of tossing a purse over my shoulder and heading for the door ought by all rights to be nothing but a distant memory by now. We leave the house at least once a day, often more, so that probably means I've gone through the "getting everyone out the door" motions with two children in tow at least what, 750 times now? That's at least 750 times that I've been "surprised" by a missing shoe, a last minute potty trip, a dawdling child or my own inability to locate my keys. That's at least 750 times that I've underestimated how long it will take to walk the 5 feet from the garage door to the car door and buckle my children in. That's at least 750 times that I have been late to my destination.

"I should have left earlier," I think every single time that I back out of my driveway, silently cursing whichever child has made us late this time. I grumble and I fume and I curse the 25 mph road that lies ahead of us as I vow to build more time into my schedule, to expect the unexpected. And then the next day, I do the same thing all over again. Time sneaks up on me, my kids fail to see the urgency of the hour and we all end up grumpy and rushed. And late. Again.

I get annoyed at my children when they do the same foolish things over and over and over again. I find it hard to believe that Evan's bladder only calls when he sees me putting my coat on and it drives me nuts that Julia misplaces her shoes with such frequency. I am impatient for both of them to learn what seem like some terribly obvious life lessons. Use the bathroom when I suggest it, rather than waiting until the last possible second. Put your shoes in the same place every time you take them off so that you'll be able to find them again. They're simple enough things to learn, and I am surprised anew each day by my children's inability to grasp such obvious lessons. But leaving a little extra time for life's inevitable this-shouldn't-be-a-surprise-by-now surprises? That is much, much harder lesson to learn... or so my actions would imply.

There was a little girl who had a little curl

2006-04-25T15:49:00.000-04:00

I honestly don't think a week's gone by this year that someone hasn't complimented Julia on her hair. It's always been her best feature; long and thick, with big fat curls that corkscrew when it's humid and spiral gently then there's not much moisture in the air. It's certainly not something that she inherited from me. I've spent my life battling with thin, straight hair that's prone to frizz, so Julia's beautiful locks are something I both covet and protect. Her shirt may be stained, her shoes may be scuffed, but by God her hair is always carefully coiffed.

Last week, I took both kids to the hair salon, Evan for a spring shearing and Julia for a semi-annual trim. Her hair had gotten so long that it stretched all the way down her back when it was wet and I hated to let a pair of scissors touch it, but it was growing in slightly uneven and was starting to look a little stringy. I knew that a trim would make a world of difference, and I was willing to part with a little bit of length to clean it up a bit.

"This much?" the hairdresser asked, holding up about an inch of curl at the bottom of Julia's hair. "Looks about right," I agreed. "I just want to clean it up. I don't want to lose any of the length." The woman nodded and began pinning up sections of hair, so I left Julia in her hands and went over to supervise Evan's cut.

Anyone who's ever been the victim of an enthusiastic stylist knows where this is going. I returned to Julia's chair minutes later to find at least 2 1/2 inches of hair lying on the floor around her. I must have gasped a little bit, because the hairdresser was apologetic. "Her hair was a lot shorter on one side," she explained. "I had to keep going." I just nodded. What else could I say? The deed was done. Silently, I watched as she blew Julia's hair dry. It did look thicker and healthier, and I knew that the length would grow back. But the curls were another story. In her exuberance, the stylist seemed to have cut every last one of them off. "Look, Mom, my hair's straight like yours," Julia crowed. I wanted to cry.

It's been a week since the fateful cut and I have yet to reconcile with Julia's new appearance. I'm still trying to convince myself that the curls are still in there somewhere. I've tried scrunching and products and everything else I can think of, things I never thought I'd do to a 4 year old's hair, to coax them along. With effort, I can corral the thick waves into something resembling her old hairstyle. On humid days, it's almost curly. But those beautiful curls, the ringlets that naturally spiraled down and puddled at the small of her back, are gone forever. Julia's just about the age that her cousin was when her beautiful toddler ringlets relaxed into a headfull of thick, wavy "real" hair, I'm now realizing. Nature probably would have taken Julia to the same place sooner or later. But her ill-fated haircut accelerated the process, and I'm inexplicably bitter about it.

I don't know why I can't get past this, why I'm so desperate to get those curls back and so distraught that I can't seem to resurrect them. It's just hair, and Julia's still looks long and lovely. She's perfectly content with the change and actually seems a little bit delighted that her hair isn't as curly any more. But I am anything but delighted, and I can't quite figure out what's at the root of my complaint. Is this a materialistic ache for the loss of something I considered beautiful? A maternal ache at the loss of my child's youthful look? Or simply resistance to change, any change at all? I keep wondering, and as I keep wondering, I keep twirling my daughter's hair between my fingers... sometimes absently, sometimes deliberately and -- disappointingly enough -- rarely with any success.

Too much of a good thing is... not so good

2006-04-21T14:29:00.000-04:00

My wonderfully thoughtful sister in law took pity on me after reading this and sent my kids a copy of the coolest kids' music ever released. The first time that I played it in the car, Evan screamed "more... more NOW!" when I tried to turn the car off and I thought I'd died and gone to the kind of heaven where children have good taste in music and no one has ever even heard of the Sesame Street Count. I sent Jordan a glowing email of thanks and settled in to forget the past months of Ah-ah-ah agony.

Several weeks later, however, I've come to realize that the problem was not Evan's obsession with the Count, but Evan's obsessive nature, period. Ninety Nine Bats (In My Car Today), it is history, folks. My fickle son no longer cares one iota about those bats. Today, we're all about a plethora of other animals, the ones in Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of Old McDonald, to be precise. I had forgotten just how passionate Evan can be about that song, but Evan, apparently, had not. This CD lit the fire in his farm-loving soul once again and he simply can not get enough of it. "EIO, Mommy," he now begs as soon as we get into the car. "EIO again," he begs as soon as the song ends. "EIO again NOW!" Things get nasty quickly if he doesn't get his fix. It's all beginning to sound, I'm afraid to say, a tad familiar.

Ella is a vast improvement over a Muppet, of that there is no question. I completely loved her version of this old favorite the first time I heard it. But frankly, after the seventy fifth time I've heard the song this week, I'm getting a little tempted to tell her where she can put those animals of hers. Evan thanks you a thousand times over, Jordan. I do, too, of course. But possibly not quite as much as I had originally thought...

The hearts are a lovely touch, but somehow they still don't make me feel any better about this

2006-04-20T14:38:00.000-04:00

I'm admittedly no MILF or anything. But I still fit into the occasional size 4, I don't ever leave the house without a touch of makeup and I have yet to succumb to the Mommy haircut. I'm holding it all together, thank you very much, though perhaps just barely so.

So then why do you suppose it is that my daughter, whose self portraits include such details as long flowing curly locks, persists in drawing me as some sort of matronly June Cleaver with a huge belly button?

Damp enthusiasm

2006-04-19T15:20:00.000-04:00

I get one weekend a year.

One weekend when I can wake up when I want, do what I want all day and call it a night when I damn well please. One weekend when I can wear whatever I want without fear that a small someone will wipe his or her nose on me. One weekend when the only person who I have to take to the potty is me. One weekend when I can pay other people to cater to my every whim rather than doing the catering myself. One weekend with good friends who knew me before I was a wife, before I was a mommy and before I was a stick in the mud. One weekend filled with luxurious spa treatments, fattening foods, too many glasses of wine and the kind of laughter you can only have with people who know you inside and out. One weekend when I can leave the children in my husband's very capable hands and not look back. One weekend for myself.

Our destination for this one weekend? The beach. You know, so we could all luxuriate in the springtime sunshine and salt air. Could the forecast for the Eastern Seaboard have therefore been anything other than this?

I apparently also have one weekend to curl up in some overstuffed armchair somewhere inside the resort and read the rainy days away. And you know what? I'll gladly take it.

Dumb luck

2006-04-18T15:07:00.000-04:00

A good friend came over today to tell me that she's been diagnosed with lymphoma. I'd known that she'd been undergoing some tests, that there was the remote possibility that something might be really wrong. Turns out she hit the remote possibility jackpot on this one. It was dumb luck, she says.

She's remarkably composed about the situation, which sounds complicated but not dire. Her doctor tells her that the disease is eminently curable, and she's taken that to heart, choosing to focus on the "what nows" rather than the "what ifs." I took my cues from her, asking more about practical matters than emotional ones, for which she seemed more than a little grateful. She's told very few people yet, and asked that I keep quiet for now, but said that she'd let me know when she wanted me to spread the word. "When you're ready for me to rally the troops, I will, but not a moment before," I promised her.

Thinking back about our conversation today and thinking ahead to the next few months, I'm a little surprised at how I'm feeling. I should be sad, I suppose, or frightened or vulnerable, or even angry. And I do feel those things to an extent. But what I primarily feel is lucky. I feel lucky for my own health, of course, but mainly I feel lucky that I have the opportunity to serve as a confidante and a support system to my friend. I feel lucky because we are both surrounded with a rich community which will support her through every step of this process. When she says the word, we'll spring into action and meals will be prepared, child care will be provided and groceries will appear on her doorstep. There will be people to talk with her and laugh with her and cry with her, if that's what she needs. She won't go through a minute of this alone, and should I be faced with similar adversity some day down the road, I won't have to go through it alone either.

That's no small thing, having a community to rally around you like that. I take it for granted some times, that there are dozens of women in my life whom I consider friends. Good people, people who I genuinely enjoy and who make a positive impact on me, have found their ways into my life in the past few years, even when I wasn't actively looking for them. I hear stay at home mothers talk all the time about how isolating being home with their kids can be, but I've quite frankly found the opposite to be true. I find interesting, vibrant, intelligent women who also happen to be home with their kids almost everywhere I turn, and I've been lucky enough to convert quite a few of them into real friends. I've stumbled into a group that I can call on for just about anything, and as today showed, those people know that they can call on me, too. I suppose you could say once again that it was just dumb luck. But this time, those words mean something very different.

There are many things in my life that I'm grateful for, and my husband and my children and our extended family are way up at the top of that list. But right up there with them is my family of friends. I know what I've got, and I know how special and important it is. And that's why my friend's news, while troublesome and upsetting, is not nearly as bad as it could be. I know that together, we'll all make this easier for her than it would have been if she'd had to face it alone. That's not dumb luck. It's just plain lucky.

Fun with Interfaith issues, the Passover/Easter edition

2006-04-17T15:34:00.000-04:00

Dayenu is probably one of the most well known Passover songs, and the message it conveys, "it would have been enough," is pretty classic Jewish stuff. In the spirit of the song and that message...

If the Lord had only given me the opportunity to celebrate Passover with my children,

Dayenu (it would have been enough).

But Evan's repeated requests to sing Dayenu at Easter dinner?

That was the icing on my kosher-for-Passover cake.

Validation

2006-04-13T15:03:00.000-04:00

"This is called Molluscum Contagiusum. It's a viral rash and should eventually clear up on its own, but it can take up to a year for it to fully go away. If the bumps don't bother her, you can leave them alone, but if you don't like the look of them or if they're getting irritated, they can easily be removed by a dermatologist."

"Yeah, that's exactly what Dr. Google told me you would say."

A ministone of my very own

2006-04-11T13:43:00.000-04:00

My first few attempts at making my mom's brisket recipe involved quite a few phone calls for clarification.

"I know that this is all approximate, but can you give me a ballpark figure here? How many onions I should be buying to cover the bottom of the crock pot?"

"When you say 'cook a long time,' do you mean in the neighborhood of 2 hours or 12?"

As time went on, I got more confident and the phone calls tapered off. "Oh, I did that already," I'd casually say when my mother would ask when I planned to make the main course for an upcoming holiday. I no longer held my breath before my guests took their first bites. I was confident in my ability to follow the vague recipe, confident that my brisket was going to taste like my mother's brisket tastes and like her mother's brisket once tasted as well.

And then, last night, I had a ministone of my very own. Three quarters of the way through preparing the brisket for this week's Passover seder, I realized that I hadn't even taken the recipe card out of the drawer this year. A few more onion slices here, a smidge more garlic there... my hands naturally knew what to do. I even (don't read this part, Mom) tweaked things a bit. And I knew that it would taste just right.

I've followed my mother's recipe at least a dozen times in the past dozen years. But last night, I made my very first brisket. I was Bat Mitzvahed at 13. I moved out on my own at 21. I was married at 26 and I became a mother at 29. Each of those occasions technically made me, in some small way, more and more of an adult. But last night, preparing Passover food from memory, I felt like a real grown up -- a bona fide Jewish woman -- for the first time. It wasn't nearly as scary as I always thought it was going to be. Not by a long shot.

Spring cleaning schizophrenia

2006-04-10T14:17:00.000-04:00

I cheerfully threw out the boppy, the baby toys and the burp cloths without a passing glance or a twinge of regret. Ditto the half-used pack of size 3 diapers, the pacifier clips and dozens of pairs of outgrown children's shoes. Ruthless in my determination to say goodbye to the clutter without sentimentality, I tossed them all in a flurry of decisive activity.

I bagged up my old work clothes for donation, though it pained me to do so. Those suits had hung there untouched for 5 years now, but I'd never been able to bring myself to pack them away before. I was honestly distressed to see that part of my life go (despite the fact that it's obviously been gone for so long now), but I was also fully aware that even if and when I return to the workforce, I will never return to pleated pants. Out they went.

I sorted through my underwear drawers, tossing dozens of items that should have been discarded long ago. And then, inexplicably, I tenderly returned all of my stretched out, threadbare nursing bras to the drawer. Really good nursing bras are hard to find, and I just couldn't bring myself to let go of mine just yet.

In the end, I cleaned things up, yes. But I didn't quite clear things up, now did I?

The real truth about stay at home moms

2006-04-07T13:43:00.000-04:00

I woke Evan at 8:20 this morning. He was groggy and unhappy that I had interruped his sleep. I felt terrible, but Julia had to be at preschool in 40 minutes and I was cutting things as close as I could already. I yanked a shirt over his head before I'd even lifted him out of his crib and helped him into his pants, socks and shoes while he was still sitting on the potty.

He wasn't really ready to eat when we got downstairs, but time was a'ticking. I'd just received a call from a friend who needed me to take her daughter to school, which would require an extra, unexpected detour. We really had to walk out the door, but he was only half done with his frozen waffle. "You can carry it with you and eat it in the car," I promised him as I helped him into his coat.

After preschool drop off, we stopped at Drug Fair to pick up a couple of things that we needed. I let him walk instead of putting him in a shopping cart so that the errand would be more fun for him, and at first it was. But then he got a little too enthusiastic in the hair care aisle and had to be scooped up into my arms and whisked away from all of the pretty bottles and jars. He left the store sulking.

We headed home to balance out his morning meal with some apple slices, which he munched on while I made a bunch of phone calls that I needed to take care of. As soon as we both were done, we were back out the door again and on our way to Lord & Taylor's big spring sale. I hated to force Evan to sit through yet another errand, but I had a 15% off coupon that was about to expire and a long list of things we all still needed for spring. I couldn't justify missing the savings. I promised him that we'd get through the trip as fast as we could.

I knew that it would be impossible to get any real shopping done with Evan perusing the racks, so I guiltily pulled the stroller out of the trunk and sweet talked him into climbing in and sitting nicely. I was right that things would go much faster that way, and I zipped through my shopping pretty quickly. But when Evan's 2 trips to the bathroom and the long sale lines at the registers got added into the equation, this was still no quick trip. By the time we got back out to the car, I was startled to discover that we had only 20 minutes before we had to pick Julia up at school.

By now, Evan was grouchy and annoyed about being contained in his car seat. But it was raining and we didn't have time to get home and back before we had to be at school, which left us without any real viable options for getting him out of his seat. So I killed time with a quick driving tour of some neighborhoods I like to drool over while trying to keep Evan engaged with songs and discussions. He wanted none of it.

Evan perked up as soon as he saw Julia, but his delight was short-lived; Julia had a play date scheduled for right after school. We drove her to her friend's house and waved goodbye again. By now, Evan had pretty much given up on our morning (not that I could blame him). He munched on a piece of challah in the backseat and refused to let me engage him in conversation.

We came home for lunch and a little bit of play time. Finally, Evan had my undivided attention, and he was thrilled. We played with his cars and put together some puzzles and had a grand time laughing together for about 45 minutes. But before I knew it, it was 1:30 and I had to call an end to play time so that Evan could get a nap. "We'll do something fun when you get up," I promised him. But I knew full well that by then, Julia would be home competing for my attention too, and he'd probably end up getting a small piece of me at best.

I have always said that I stay at home with my children because I believe that I can give them the best possible start. This time with me, I've always maintained, will be invaluable to them, and it's well worth putting my career on hold to give Julia and Evan the gift of my time and attention in their formative years. But on days like today, I have to wonder how true that really is. If Evan had been in daycare today, he would have played with friends, built a tower with blocks, maybe even painted a picture. A teacher would have read him a book and he would have interacted with his peers during his snack. He certainly wouldn't have been confined to a stroller or car seat for the better part of the morning, and play time would have been the entire focus of his day, rather than a 45 minute activity guiltily tacked onto a morning of boring errands. He would have missed me, yes, and I would have missed him. But would he have been missing out? Rather the opposite, I suspect, and I'm not quite sure how that makes me feel about what I'm doing here at home.

Ribbit

2006-04-05T21:54:00.000-04:00

The odd side effects of Julia's temple education never fail to catch me a bit off guard. Today's doozy came as she watched me wrap Evan in a frog towel after his bath: "Look, Evan's a plague!"

Saturday afternoon surfing

2006-04-05T15:09:00.000-04:00

"Oops."

"Oops what?"

"I meant to visit Home Depot, but I forgot to type the M."

"I imagine that would give you something very different than what you were originally looking for."

"Yeah, sure did. Hey, look... they have an interactive showroom here."

"Which site are you on???"

"Oh. Home Depot now. But I guess an interactive showroom would have been pretty interesting on the other site, too, huh?"

On the bright side, if they provided a feminist lesson for Julia, just think what they can do for Evan

2006-04-04T14:48:00.000-04:00

I thought I'd dodged a bullet on the Barbie thing. After her initially enthusiastic introduction to the dolls, Julia completely lost interest in all things Barbie soon after she turned 3. Her sole Barbie has languished on a shelf for over a year now, with no one to paint her toenails or help her select careerwear, and I can't say I've been all too upset about that turn of events.

Granted, I'd be more pleased with the situation had Julia not fixated instead on Polly Pockets, which are really no better (and potentially worse, since there is not a single outfit in the 450 little plastic pieces of Polly apparel we now own that any of those dolls could wear on a job interview). I know it's all the same crap, really. But Barbie's got years of bad PR working against her, and I must admit that I was still feeling a little bit smug about the fact that we apparently weren't going to be a Barbie household.

As usual, I counted my chickens too soon.

Evan and I went to the toy store last week while Julia was at school to pick up a birthday gift for one of her friends. I grabbed a random assortment of Pollies and accessories off the shelf and headed for the cash register, only to realize that Evan was no longer at my side. I turned around and there was my son, reverently selecting one Barbie at a time off the shelf, kissing each doll and then gently placing each one back where he'd found it. "Let's go, Ev," I encouraged. "No, more," he replied, clearly determined to give every doll in the store her due share of love. "Please, Evan," I begged. "We have more errands to do today." He stubbornly refused to move. Despite my best efforts to woo him away, he spent the better part of the next half hour engaged in a Barbie lovefest the likes of which his sister has never seen or contemplated.

We eventually managed to get out of the store without purchasing any Barbies. After Evan had kissed each one reverently, he was more than willing to leave them behind. But I've never seen that look in his eye before, and he's certainly never shown quite that much love to a Thomas train. It would appear that we just might end up being a Barbie household after all. It figures.

The remembering paper

2006-04-03T14:05:00.000-04:00

"I should write about this on my remembering paper," Julia told me today as she was working on an art project after school. I was only half listening, truth be told, but something about the words she used caught my attention. "What's a remembering paper?" I asked.

"It's something I write things down on so I can remember them," she replied. "You know, like if we have Fit To Go or something. I don't know where it went, though. I'll have to start a new one."

I felt my breath catch in my throat for a minute. "That sounds a little like a diary or a journal," I told her. "They're blank books where people write about their thoughts and ideas and experiences so that they can look back and remember them later." Julia nodded. "Yeah, it's just like that," she said.

"Sometimes," I continued, "people write those things on the computer, and then they're called blogs. I do that. I write things down in a blog -- things that you and Evan do and say and things I think about -- so that I can remember them later on. Is that kind of the same thing you're talking about?" She nodded again. "Did someone else teach you about remembering papers?" I asked. "No, it was my idea," she replied.

It's such a simple thing, really. Millions and millions of people write in journals and diaries and blogs ever day. I didn't invent the idea any more than my daughter did, and neither of us are particularly unique in our desire to record the minutiae of our lives for posterity. But the fact that my daughter felt the unprompted urge to journal at the age of 4? This pleases me more than I can say.

Julia watches as I flip open the laptop and start to type. "Mommy, what does that say?"

"I'm writing in my remembering paper about your remembering paper," I reply. "You know, so I won't forget." A big smile spreads over her face. "Huh," she says. Huh indeed.

Spring has spring, the grass has riz, I wonder where my money is

2006-03-30T17:44:00.000-05:00

All of last year's short sleeved shirts are too small. Ditto the capris, the clamdiggers, the shorts, and the dresses. It's not even worth trying on last year's sneakers and sandals.

Are the trees in bloom? I hadn't noticed. I'm too busy embarking on an annual spending spree which simultaneously delights and horrifies me. Green is the color of spring, all right. But the green of my spring is made not by nature but by the U.S. Mint.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

2006-03-29T14:39:00.000-05:00

I clearly have no future authoring multiple choice exams, because none of you seemed to have a bit of trouble with my little pop quiz. This is indeed art. What kind of art? I'm so glad you asked.

This is a centerpiece for our Passover table, created by my 2 year old son under the careful direction of his Mommy and Me teacher. "First paint the inside of the bowl yellow," she told him, and he did. "Now glue in these two cotton balls," she told him, and he did. "Now glue on this plastic spoon," she told him, and he did. "Look at your beautiful bowl of matzoh ball soup," she told him and he looked blankly at her.

Yes, this lovely piece of pre-preschool representational art is supposed to be a 3D bowl of matzoh ball soup. Evan has maybe seen matzoh ball soup twice in his life, since he has a mother who is too much of a purist to buy the pre-made stuff, but far too lazy a cook to make it herself, so this project was pretty much completely lost on him. But I have been laughing over it for 3 days now.

The table gets pretty crowded on Passover, what with the seder plate and the matzoh plate and the bowls of salt water and the hagaddahs and all that damn food. I don't even do a floral centerpiece on Passover because there just plain isn't room. But this bizarre art project will have a place of honor on our table this year. In fact, I'm fairly certain I'll be making room for it on my Passover table for the next 40 or 50 years. If it's funny now, imagine how hysterical it will look by the time we've all finished that 4th glass of wine.

A new pop quiz

2006-03-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

This is:

A) A sign that I really need to clean out my fridge more frequently
B) The most bizarre art project that either one of my kids has ever brought home from school
C) The remnants of a meal which reminded me oh too clearly why fad diets are just not for me

Answer tomorrow...

Once a mother, always a mother

2006-03-27T15:14:00.000-05:00

It's been about 3 1/2 months since I invited my mother to read this blog, and I've truthfully got no regrets. Sharing my life with her in this way has been rewarding for both of us, and has led to quite a few interesting discussions and even the unexpected (but very appreciated) gift of a lifetime supply of Shabbat candles. Giving my mother the link to this site has created one side effect which I hadn't anticipated, however. If I don't post, she panics.

"Just checking in," her emails will read. "No blog post today. Is everyone OK?"

"Hi, Becca, it's Mom," I'll hear on my home voice mail. "You haven't posted on the blog today and I got worried that Evan might have had another asthma attack. Give me a call."

Yesterday, I even retrieved a voice mail message that she left on my cell phone voice mail a week or two ago. I never remember to check my cell for messages, so I'd missed this little gem at the time. "Hi, Becca, it's Mom," it said. "I emailed you and I also just left you a message at home. You haven't posted on the blog, and I just wanted to make sure everything was OK. I'm not sure where you are. Maybe you're putting Evan down or getting Julia set up in quiet time. Maybe you're just in the bathroom. I'll try you again in a few minutes."

We have never been the kind of family who keeps in constant contact with everyday phone calls. My father, who subscribes to the "bad news travels fast" school of thought, is particularly inclined to let time pass between calls. (On one truly memorable occasion, he even refused a collect call I made to him from summer camp. He knew why I was calling and he didn't have the information that I needed, so he saw no reason to pay for the call.) My mom and I speak a little more frequently than he might deem necessary, but several days do generally lapse between our conversations and that's always been fine with both of us. But I think I've created a bit of a monster with this blog thing, because suddenly we've gone from "bad news travels fast" to "no news must be bad." And truth be told, it cracks me up, both as a daughter and as a fellow mother.

Mom, I know that your first instinct will be to fall all over yourself apologizing when you read this and that you'll refrain from calling or emailing me for a few days even if you really have something important to say. Don't bother. I'm laughing with you, not at you. OK, I'm laughing with you and at you. But I'm pretty sure every other mother who reads this blog probably is, too, so you might as well laugh right along with us.

I'll be expecting your call...

I guess when you only eat 3 foods, you have to think about this kind of stuff

2006-03-24T13:36:00.000-05:00

Julia's class has been hard at work this week with projects and songs and discussions all related to the upcoming holiday of Passover. Her teacher's been going all out on this one; the kids have built their own pyramids and dressed up in the kind of traditional Egyptian headdresses they would have worn as slaves and acted out the story of Passover. They've been singing holiday songs and reading holiday stories and assembling holiday puzzles. There's even crumbled matzoh in the sensory table this week.

For today's Passover project, the class discussed what it would have been like to cross through the Red Sea and come out as free people on the other side. Each child was asked what the first thing he or she would have done after gaining his or her freedom, and the teachers wrote their answers down on individual pieces of paper for the kids to illustrate.

Most of the kids said that they would have playdates with their friends or play with a favorite toy or hug their Mommies, Julia reported when she told me about the project after school, but not my kid. In classic Julia fashion, she thought through the situation and then announced that her first act as a free person would be to go to the grocery store. There wouldn't be much string cheese left, she reasoned, after all of that fleeing.

This is one time when I would have preferred to be a little less right

2006-03-22T15:05:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was Tuesday yet again, and with the help of an accomplice, I finally broached the big breakup discussion. It wasn't pretty to say the least. Did you ever see this Seinfeld episode? This was an eerily similar experience (though obviously sans the dead bird and the boyfriend who's secretly on welfare, which is something, I suppose).

Things were getting emotional and awkward, so we've agreed to discuss the topic further over dinner next week. I, for one, plan to drink heavily throughout the conversation.

A bedtime conversation

2006-03-21T12:42:00.000-05:00

Julia: Matthew asked me to marry him at school.

Me: Oh, Julia, your first proposal... how exciting. I like Matthew. He's a nice boy.

Julia: Yeah. I said no, though.

Me: You don't want to marry Matthew?

Julia: No. Well, I don't know. But I kind of had to say no. He had asked every other girl in the class, too.

Higher math

2006-03-20T15:07:00.000-05:00

When my kids were babies, I spent my days constantly calculating and recalculating. I nursed on demand, but both of my children were pretty by-the-clock eaters anyway, so my days were broken into small chunks of time between feedings -- first two hours then two and a half, then three as they grew. From the first feeding of the morning, I'd start running the numbers in my head ("let's see... it's 7 am now, so I'll probably need to nurse at 10 before heading out and I'll need to either be home or someplace that's nursing-friendly by about 1..."), adjusting throughout the day as necessary. I thought about everything -- when I could squeeze in an errand or how I needed to adjust to make it to playgroup or even just whether I might be able to get a shower -- based on those maddening little blocks of time.

I suppose to some, the constant running of numbers might be comforting. But I am not a math person, and despite my predilection for schedules and routine, this kind of fluid routine which required me to count and re-count was the bane of my existence. Despite two full years of nursing babies, I still had to manually count out the hours on my fingers nearly every time I calculated, and I was wrong as often as I was right. As bittersweet as weaning was, leaving my counting days goodbye was a huge relief. I still live by the clock even though I long ago hung up my nursing bras, of course; this one gets dropped of at this time and that one gets picked up at that time. But at least those times are reasonably consistent from week to week. Our current schedule requires a good memory and a good calendar, but no head for figures is necessary, and for that I'm grateful.

Every time that Evan has an asthma attack, however -- as he did again this weekend (you jinxed me, Liesl!) -- I am thrust back into my old world of time blocks with a regulated series of nebulizer treatments. To make matters worse, though, now I'm trying to fit these regularly scheduled treatments around our full schedule of regular time commitments. Figuring out how to get a shower was child's play compared to these calculations. Now, as I'm waiting for that 4 a.m. sputter, I'm thinking "OK, if I do the next neb at 8, we can get Julia to school by 9, but that would make him due at 1 and that's not going to work because that's when Julia has to be picked up at school, so maybe if we move the whole thing back half an hour..." The mind boggles, or at least mine does.

I was trying to be funny last week when I said that my family was complete because I don't have to cut pizza any more, and I was a little taken aback by all of the comments taking me so seriously. "Wait," I thought as I read them, "you all realize that I can still change my mind here, right?" And then Evan got sick again. As I found myself thrust back into my old counting patterns, I was suddenly reminded of what it was really like to parent a baby. Thinking about how busy our lives already are and envisioning what another year of higher math would really be like... well, it sure did squelch any ambivalence I felt after re-reading my flippant post.

I still feel the need to mention that I reserve the right to take back every last word that I've written here some day if desire or circumstance so demand. Life is too uncertain (and I am too prone to second guessing myself) for absolutes. But will I ever actually exercise that right? Don't count on it.

It's as good a reason as any, maybe better than most

2006-03-17T14:47:00.000-05:00

I've come up with a few borderline absurd reasons not to procreate again over the past few years, but I finally have a real one.

Evan has finally decided that he wants to eat his pizza by the slice like a big kid, which means that I no longer have to cut pieces of pizza into dozens of little bites before I serve them to either of my children. This may sound inconsequential, but trust me... given the number of times a month that pizza is served around here, it is no small thing.

My family is complete.

Sssh... I'm trying to watch my stories here

2006-03-16T15:15:00.000-05:00

On the motherhood totem pole of the infamous mommy wars, there are lots of different types of mothers. Depending on your perspective, the positions may differ somewhat; some put the stay at home moms way up top, others think that working moms deserve that place of honor and still others reserve the top slot for the work at home moms or the part time working moms or the fill-in-the-blank-here moms. Nearly without fail, however, the same group is almost always down at the bottom, and that is the bon-bon eating, soap opera watching mommies.

For all I know, the whole soap opera mommy category might be a fallacy. Perhaps they don't even really exist. But it is that image -- however fictional -- of women sitting around watching their stories while children run amuck around them that give stay at home moms a bad name. Most mothers at home with their kids, myself included, are quick to point out that we are in a different category than that type of mom. We are home to raise our kids to the best of our abilities, we proclaim haughtily, not to sit around eating confections that everyone has heard of but few of us have ever even actually seen. I have always been more than a little disdainful of the soap opera mommies. At least, I used to be. But now I'm not so sure. Because lately, I'm beginning to think that I might be living in a bit of a glass house here.

Nearly every day, after Evan has gone down for a nap and Julia has disappeared into her room for quiet time, I carve out some time to get online and catch up on my blog reading. It's the "me time" part of my day, and by the time it rolls around, I've usually got some burning questions I want answered before the kids get up. How was Rosemary's third date? How is Gretchen weathering the postpartum blues? Did A sleep last night? Where are Jordan and Dan jet setting to this week? How will Jenn make me laugh today? Will I see myself in Kristy's world today, or in Jennifer's or Steph's? I am addicted to blog reading, to these short, serialized daily installments chronicling the lives of people whom I don't even know but have come to care about.

Short, serialized daily installments? Yikes.

The writing is better, of course, and the drama rings truer than that which I'd find if I switched on my TV instead of my laptop. But the activity itself, the escape from my own world into the lives of other people and the resulting urge to tune in tomorrow to find out what happens next? Well, hell... maybe I ought to give bon bons a fair shake, too.

While I'm on a "love letter" roll

2006-03-15T19:18:00.000-05:00

To my sweet, loving, generally very endearing son:

It is my honor and my privilege and my role as your Mommy to teach you all about life and the world that we live in. Because of this, I am generally very happy to answer your questions for hours on end, even when they tend a bit to the mind numbing and irrelevant. But when you stand completely alone in a room and are overheard to say, apropos of absolutely nothing, "why Mommy?" I cannot help but wonder if you aren't perhaps messing with me just a teeny tiny bit with all of this "why" shit.

If so, please stop.

Love,
your martyred mother

For future reference

2006-03-14T14:29:00.000-05:00

To my dear, loving, generally very thoughtful husband:

I'm all for being upbeat about your business travel. You work hard, and I think it's great that your company ships you to interesting places Business Class and puts you up in the Ritz when you arrive. I'm happy to hold down the fort while you're away. I'm even willing to listen to your descriptions of nights out "on the company" (though I must confess that on more than one occasion, I have wondered whether I really need to hear every detail of your delectable steak dinners when I myself am looking at endless evenings of the very best that Lean Cuisine has to offer). But when you start to say things like "ooh, I think the Rangers might have an away game in Montreal this week... maybe I'll try to get tickets" or even "it looks like my flight's going to be delayed and I'm going have to hang out in the business class lounge and read my book for a while"? Well, at some point I'm going to be hard pressed not to get just a teeny tiny bit jealous.

You always tell me that I should do a better job of thinking before I speak. I have thought very carefully this time. And what I have to say is this: ditto.

Have a great trip and hurry home. You'll be missed!

Love,
your martyred wife

Musical mulligan

2006-03-13T14:49:00.000-05:00

It doesn't matter if we're just going down the street or embarking on an hour-long drive. Each and every time we get into the car, Evan starts begging to hear the Sesame Street Count sing. "Ah, ah, ah," he screams over and over, imitating the way the Count laughs. His voice gets more and more frenzied until I acquiesce and turn on his favorite CD. (Good God. Am I really raising a child whose favorite CD is Sesame Street Sing Along Travel Songs?)

I have tried to compromise and offer musical alternatives. I have attempted to engage him in such convoluted discussions that he can't get a word in edgewise to ask for the song. I have even lied outright and pretended that the Count is "sleeping" and thus unable to perform for us (it's like parenting crack, this lying thing). Nothing works. Either the Count sings this or Evan screams like a banshee. It has come to the point that I actually dread getting in the car each morning. I'm all for happy children, but no mother in her right mind could truly be expected to listen to Ninety Nine Bats (In My Car Today) 52 times a day without going a little batty herself.

I've always been terribly amused by -- and more than a little bit disdainful of --the concept of a mulligan. Maybe it's the cynical golf widow in me, but the whole idea of just saying "I take it back; this never happened" has always struck me as just plain silly. As the days and weeks pass and Evan's obsession with terrible children's music simply does not wane, however, the idea is growing on me. I've reached the point that every single time I give in to Evan's musical demands, I find myself fantasizing about calling my very own mulligan. That moment when I first popped that damn Sesame Street CD into my car dashboard? Never happened. Here, kids, let's listen to some lovely classic rock. Would that it could be...

At least their jeans still fit

2006-03-10T14:34:00.000-05:00

The fancy growth chart just decorates Evan's bedroom and we've never really gotten around to starting a pencil marked wall. I'm notoriously lousy at remembering the measurements my pediatrician's office painstakingly records at each well child appointment. Growth is noted around here primarily when pants get a little too short or tummies protrude from underneath t-shirts. "You're just a tiny bit too big for that outfit now," I'll say as we pack things away. Nothing too dramatic. Just the passage of time.

Today was the first day that's felt like spring around here, and my kids were delighted to reacquaint themselves with our outdoor world. As we all spread our wings in the unexpected warmth of a premature spring day, I watched them play on our swingset for the first time in nearly 6 months.

Feet dragged on the ground as a swing that had been just the right height before now suspended Julia way too close to the grass below. A climbing apparatus that had felt way out of reach the last time Evan attempted it was scaled with nonchalant ease. Both kids still wanted my attention as much as they had last fall, but they no longer seemed to require my help, turning instead to each other as playmates. New games and ways of using the equipment were invented as they built on each others' ideas and suggestions to make their own fun.

Physical growth, seen in the height of the swings. Growth in capability, evidenced by the conquering of new tasks. Cognitive growth, measured in the give and take of a new form of interactive play. Just the passage of time, yes, but incredibly dramatic nonetheless.

Revisions

2006-03-09T15:32:00.000-05:00

I always swore that I was not going to be the kind of mother who sugar coats things. I was going to speak openly and honestly to my children about life, the world and how we all fit into it all the time. I would always answer questions, provide age-appropriate information and raise informed children. I would speak the truth.

Open. Honest. All the time. Always. The truth. It sure sounded good. But like most of those things I promised myself before I had any idea what being a parent was actually going to be like, it was a little too absolute a plan, without any wiggle room left for the realities of daily existence. I'm still following that basic blueprint for parenting. Kind of. But as time goes by, well, I'm starting to see the value in the wiggle.

Julia's in a fearful stage right now, and a lot of familiar children's stories and shows are freaking her out at the moment. As her awareness of the world around her increases, so does her concern for characters and their well being. Paul recently told her an abbreviated version of Hansel and Gretel that had her up crying at 4 a.m. because "the children were lost and it was getting dark." I know that this is a terribly age-appropriate phase and despite the fact that it's a little bit inconvenient, all of this consciousness-raising strikes me as a good thing overall. So we're just trying to ride out the stage and get through the fears as best we can. We talk about what's scary when fears present themselves, but we also do a fair amount of picking and choosing material that we hope won't lead us down that road in the first place.

The other night, it was my turn to tell Julia a bedtime story. The Hansel and Gretel situation was still fresh in my mind, so I picked a fable that I knew she had heard before. As I got further and further into the story of the boy who cried wolf, however, I realized that I'd misjudged my audience. Julia's eyes were getting wider and wider as she contemplated the idea of a little boy encountering a wolf. I was treading on dangerous ground.

Mindful of her fears, I offered up a slightly sanitized ending, in which the wolf "took the boy away." It seemed an easy enough compromise. But as I leaned in to kiss Julia good night, I saw that it hadn't been enough. "What happened to the little boy after the wolf took him away?" she asked me, her eyes wide and worried.

I sat there for a moment, weighing my options. Honesty is always the best policy, I told myself as I remembered my long-ago vow to be open with my kids and teach them what's what. Life isn't always pretty. My now-experienced parental side had a ready response. Neither is waking up at 4 a.m. to comfort a kid who's got nightmares. I wanted to do the right thing, of course. But which right thing? Julia was waiting anxiously for an answer, the covers pulled up to her chin. I sighed and brushed her hair back off her face. And then I gave the lamest answer ever. "They played for a while and then the wolf sent the little boy home," I told her.

Julia eyed me a little suspiciously for a moment and the sighed with relief. "Oh, OK then," she replied. "Good night." I kissed her and guiltily left the room. The former purist in me was horrified at myself. What the hell kind of an answer was that? If it's a slippery slope, this fibbing to children thing, I thought to myself, then pretty soon I'm going to find myself teaching her about the stork or pretending that people of all races and creeds live together in perfect harmony. What ever happened to my open, honest parenting plan? For a second there, I was tempted to go back into Julia's room and confess my whole sordid attempt at deception. "Wolves eat little boys," I wanted to tell her. "But don't worry. I'll never let one eat you." Yes, that would have been the right way to answer her question. That's what a good parent would have done. That's what the parent I intended to be would have done.

That urge passed pretty damn fast. Maybe I'd missed my moment, but I wasn't about to ruin my kid's night just to calm my own conscience. I went and confessed my sins to Paul instead and we both had a good giggle at the mental image of the wolf and the little boy playing dominoes until his mother called him home for dinner. It was, we decided, a highly entertaining rewrite. And so while I was in the practice of rewriting things, I mentally rewrote my parenting vocabulary as well, completely eliminating the words always and all the time. If two lost kids in a forest kept Julia up all night, I can only imagine what a wolf consuming a small child would have done to her. Honesty just wasn't the best policy in this case after all.

A little bit of wiggle room, I'm now realizing, is a very good thing to have in your parenting toolbelt. Yes, I still believe that honesty is almost always the way to go, of course. But not always. No one woke up with nightmares after my wolf story. For that night at least, we all lived happily ever after. And if bedtime isn't the time for a fairy tale ending like that, well then I don't know what is. I'm learning. And so are my kids, even if they're not learning things the way I initially expected or planned.

One is the loneliest number

2006-03-08T14:23:00.000-05:00

I have turned this house upside down and there is absolutely no sign of the silly thing. I know that it must be somewhere; buried in the dress up trunk, maybe, or somewhere in the dirty laundry. As of yet, however, all of my creative attempts to locate it have failed. I am handicapped by the fact that I have little knowledge of where anything is after a week of being sick and uninvolved with the daily happenings of my household, but I still fail to understand how such a pivotal item could just be... gone. I'm holding out a small amount of hope that Paul will be able to turn it up, but I'm not holding my breath. It's highly likely that we're just going to have to face facts here. One of Julia's primary pair of shoes is gone. Just gone.

One shoe. You take them off together, so you would think that one could later be found with the other, no? Apparently not. How does one lose a shoe? Misplacing such an item, I understand -- I am the queen of misplacing things. Keys, pens, even slippers might temporarily be mislaid and then, of course, rediscovered. But actually outright, permanently lost? I don't get it. Nonetheless, there is a precedent for such things in this house. Last summer, just about a month before the time came for fall shoes, Julia lost one of her white sandals. We searched high and low and up and down, but it was nowhere to be found. I was sure that it would turn up the day I replaced it, but it never did. Seven months later, the damn thing is still MIA. And now, it appear that the missing white sandal has claimed a hot pink mate.

I hated those shoes with a passion when Julia picked them out. And yes, I'll admit it, the prospect of losing one of those hideous shoes seemed highly appealing when we first brought them home. But they've grown on me, for no other reason than the fact that they still fit six months later (a little dirt to dull their radioactive glow didn't hurt, either). Buying those shoes was bad. But spending good money to re-buy them? That would be so very much worse.

First, the flu. And now, a day spent turning my entire house upside down hunting for heinous footwear. What have I done to deserve this week?

UPDATE FROM THE "BLOG IT AND THEN IMMEDIATELY PROVE IT FALSE" DEPARTMENT: I found it, of course. Can't imagine why I didn't just look in the oven in the first place. Where else would one expect to find a missing shoe? I wasted an entire day of my life on this quest and am now rejoicing over the discovery of something I actively dislike. Still not a very positive commentary on my week. But at least we don't have to go shoe shopping on top of everything else...

One flu over the cuckoo's nest

2006-03-06T10:13:00.000-05:00

If my doctor was right and the Tamiflu he gave me lessened the severity and duration of this illness considerably, I shudder to think what I would have been like without the stuff. It has been nearly a week now and I am still hard pressed not to put my head down right here on my keyboard for a little snoozer. This flu is nasty stuff.

Julia spiked a fever on Saturday, just hours after she had breathed all over her friends at a birthday party, so I suspect that we are not going to be very popular people in the preschool community this week. Fortunately, the flu shot which I foolishly deemed unnecessary for myself has made a world of difference for her and the disease which has crippled me for nearly a week scarcely seems to be affecting her. I doubt that she'll be able to return to school tomorrow, but Wednesday seems somewhat likely. Unfortunately, by Wednesday, all of the friends who she probably infected on Saturday should be good and ill, so really, what's the rush?

I had hoped to ease back into civilized life today with a day that included school for both of my children and strategically scheduled babysitting to give me a mid-day break, but Julia's illness pretty much killed that plan. Instead, here we are at home containing our germs; a slit-eyed flu survivor dreaming of cool sheets and blessed silence, a germy preschooler whose fever does not seem to be impacting her ability to cover every spare inch of my home with scotch tape and her stir crazy younger brother who, as the victim of circumstance, has now been unfairly cut off from civilization for the better part of a week. It aint pretty, folks. The house is also filthy because our cleaning woman is deathly afraid of flu germs, so I guess it is fortunate that my "give a shit" quotient has been significantly reduced by this illness. If we all make it through this day alive, I am going to consider it a parenting triumph.

I know, I know. I don't usually write blog entries that are quite this rambling and self-absorbed. I usually at least have a point to make. But it has been five days since I have seen a human being other than my immediate family, and the whole situation clearly has me a little on the crazy side. How crazy? Well, I don't think that it is the feverish delirium talking when I report that I now have indisputable proof that the graphics department responsible for Pullups is indeed messing with my mind. Paul did an emergency run to the store this weekend when we were running dangerously low on Pullups and came home with a Toy Story-themed pack. The balls on the Elmo ones might have been coincidence, but really, how am I supposed to tell my son to keep his Woody dry with a straight face?

It hurts to laugh. I will be the first in line at next year's flu clinic.

Famous last words

2006-03-03T10:15:00.000-05:00

"Since both of my kids and my husband have already gotten the flu shot, there's really no reason for me to bother to get it. I mean, what are the odds that I'm going to get the flu anyway?"

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. Those odds, they always seem to find me.

I'm going back to bed now...

The real value of old family movies

2006-02-28T13:52:00.000-05:00

What I remembered: Sentences more than eight words long. Near-perfect grammar and syntax. A vocabulary that would be astounding for a child double her age.

What I had completely forgotten: Pronunciation that was so difficult to understand that I needed to translate those wonderful, complex sentences for other people more often than not.

When I ~~studiously avoid comparing my children~~ obsess about the differences between my kids' development, verbal ability is always at the top of the list of things that I clearly have no business comparing. Julia was an incredibly verbal 2 year old. Evan? Is a boy. A different child. Has his own set of talents and abilities worth mentioning. Comparing the two does me no good, and it's not fair to them either. But what can I say? I'm human... and it's hard to forget. Or so I thought.

Last weekend, we watched old video of Julia just after she turned 2. Her sentences were every bit as impressive as I had remembered; that part of my memory had served me correctly. And yet, watching and listening two years later, we really had to struggle to understand them. It turns out that her articulation was scarcely better than Evan's at this age. And I had completely forgotten that.

Comparing my kids is never, ever fair to Evan, not when I'm comparing his current reality with a hazy memory of Julia. But comparing them side by side at the same developmental stage? Sometimes a little perspective is a very good thing.

Teachable moments

2006-02-24T10:22:00.000-05:00

Evan: Oooh! A guck!

Julia: Yes, Evan. That's a truck.

Evan: Yeah. Oooh! Another guck!

Julia: Uh, no Evan. That's a school bus.

Evan: Oh. Oooh! A guck!

Julia: No, no, Evan. That's a minivan, not a truck. Here, I'm going to teach you a new word. It's transfortation. All of those things -- trucks and buses and minivans -- are kinds or transfortation. So are boats and cars and airplanes, so it's a great word for you. Here... I'll teach you how to say it. Trans - For - Ta -Tion. Can you say that?

Me: Uh, Julia? It's actually transPORtation. With a P, not an F.

Julia: Whatever.

Evan (pointing at a school bus): Oooh... another guck! Hi guck!

So much for teachable moments.

I have 11 more months to go before all hell breaks loose, but I'm not going to think about that now

2006-02-23T14:38:00.000-05:00

When Julia was two, we taught her to say "terrible two" whenever anyone would ask her how old she was. It always made people laugh, but most of them never got the real joke, which was that in truth, there was nothing whatsoever that was terrible about Julia at two. Julia at two was a sponge, and her delight in learning about the world around her was contagious. She was funny and good natured and genuinely interested in virtually everything. She made sharp and witty observations and asked great questions and was generally very good company. While she admittedly had her moments, they were for the most part few and far between. The pleasure I found in parenting a two year old was an unexpected surprise given all of the terrible things I'd heard (and, in some cases, witnessed) about two year olds, but two ended up being my very favorite year to date.

Lest I come off as some sort of Polyanna Mommy here, I feel duty bound to point out that large portions of the year that Julia was three were truly hellacious. I am the first to admit that my daughter can do plenty wrong, and she did more than her share of wrong at the age of three. I was not always a big fan of three. I should also add here that I remain unconvinced that four is going to be much better, as it seems to be shaping up to be a mouthy, balktalking version of three, which I am somewhat less than thrilled about. But two? Two I loved.

I was pretty sure that Julia's twos had to be a fluke and I waited the way you wait for the guy in the ski mask to jump out in horror movies for Evan's twos to begin. "He's a boy," I just kept telling myself as I prepared for the inevitable. "Two and boy are not such a good mix. I just need to be prepared for that." I watched and I waited and I held my breath. And now, nearly a month after Evan's second birthday, two has arrived with a flourish.

I know that two has arrived because I ask my son where something is and he answers "behind you." Such a simple response, really. Look behind you. I don't even think twice about exchanges like this any more. But I should. Because after two years of struggling to deduce what my pre-verbal child was trying to communicate, I'm suddenly having two way conversation that are both clear and useful to me every day. And better yet, I'm starting to take them for granted.

I know that two has arrived because Evan sees the letter A in the way the yellow lines are painted in the parking lot or an E on a street sign and he screams "Oooh... A!" or "Mommy... E!" with the kind of delight usually reserved for life's greatest moments. Spotting letters is a joyous game. Counting the cars in front of us at a stop light is the. most. fun. ever. And did you know that the sky is big? Evan tells me so every single day, and each and every time he says it, I can tell that he is truly amazed.

I know that two has arrived because I hear portions of the books we read together quoted verbatim as Evan plays quietly by himself. It's not the word-for-word start-to-finish rendition of Corduroy I used to get from Julia just yet, but Evan's version of Go, Dog, Go shows that he's not just passively listening any more; he's processing what he hears and thinking about it later. As a bonus, it's grand entertainment for anyone in earshot. "Heyo. Heyo. 'At? I do NOT. Buh bye. Buh bye."

I know that two has arrived because the testing has begun. I put grapes out on the table for each of us and Evan gestures toward mine and asks "mine too?" I shake my head and he asks again, more insistantly. This could turn into a battle, but for some reason it never does. When I laugh and tell him no, that we each have our own, he cheerfully accepts that. He's equally accepting (albeit eventually) of a time out or a request that he share a toy with a friend. At two, adults are still in charge and my word is still golden. (Perhaps this is the true secret to my love of two?)

I know that two has arrived because the tantrums are here; hugely dramatic shows of tears and flailing arms and legs and much wailing. But they are over as soon as they start; I sit down with a puzzle or a matchbox car and he is at my side instantly, desperate to get in on the action. Two, I'm suddenly remembering, is usually still distractable if I'm creative enough.

I know that two is here because I am having more fun with my son than ever before. He is at an age of discovery and growth that I find exciting and exhilarating, and watching him grow into himself is blowing me away. Forget the newborn snuggles and the long, peaceful nursing sessions. Forget the first steps and the first solids and really, the first anything. Forget all that I know lies ahead, even the stuff that I know is going to be really great. This, right here, right now -- the joy and the learning and the communicating and even the testing -- this is the best that parenting has had to offer me. Julia wasn't a fluke after all. Two is quite simply my favorite year. And I have eleven glorious months of it left.

The sign that says 25 mph

2006-02-22T15:12:00.000-05:00

It's a straight shot from the center of town to my neighborhood; one and a half miles straight down a street that never so much as curves. The speed limit is 25.

I didn't even realize that the speed limit on that street was 25 until I'd lived off of it for over a year. I was pulled over one night on my way home from work, and I honestly couldn't figure out why. I had been going somewhere around 30-35, which seemed about right for a reasonably main artery in a suburban area. When the police officer told me that the speed limit was 25, I was genuinely shocked. "I never would have guessed that," I told her without a hint of artifice. "Is it posted anywhere?" Wordlessly, she turned to shine her flashlight on the sign standing almost directly across the road from where she'd pulled me over. 25. I don't know when I've ever felt stupider. "Don't worry," she laughed as I turned six shades of red. "You won't forget again." She sent me on my way without a ticket, and I vowed to keep to the speed limit from that day forward.

I really did try. I really do continue to try. I think about the speed limit each and every time I drive on that road (which, since it is the only route out of my neighborhood, I do multiple times each day). I want people to drive slowly past my house, and I owe it to my neighbors to do the same. It's socially responsible to keep our streets and our children safe by driving slowly. I really and truly do believe this. But have you ever tried to go 25 miles an hour down a straight road for over a mile? I. simply. cannot. do. it. Even when I do my very, very best to crawl down that road at a sedate pace, somewhere along the way, I look down at my speedometer and realize that I am well into the 30s. If the road turned somewhere or had a stop sign or something, I tell myself, then I would be able to slow down. If you left the house earlier and weren't always in such a rush, the nagging little voice in the back of my head replies, then you would be able to slow down. Both are valid points. But regardless of the real reason for my lead foot, it is clearly just not in my nature to drive 25 for any extended length of time. I almost never manage to do it for more than a block or two.

Yesterday, I actually did slow down to 25 on my way down that street, however. The bright lights of an ambulance, a fire truck and several police cars had caught Evan's attention and I eased off the gas a bit to let him admire all of those rescue vehicles (and, truth be told, to do a little bit of rubber necking myself). And there, on the lawn of a red house less than a quarter mile from my own, was a crumpled mini van. A white sheeted body was being carried into the waiting ambulance as we passed. "How could that have even happened there?" Paul asked me when I described the scene to him later. "Probably someone just going too fast," I mumbled guiltily.

I slowed down again when I passed that red house again today, remembering the scene from the day before. There's time to notice details around you when you're only going 25, and I couldn't miss the fact that the tree standing in that front yard is now damaged and deeply scarred from yesterday's impact. I knew in that moment that this tree was going to do a far better job of reminding me to keep my speed down than the sign that a police officer had highlighted for me five years ago ever has.

"Are we ever going to get home?" Julia whined as we obeyed the speed limit and slowly crawled toward our block. "Why are we going so slow?" I smiled as I kept an eye on my speedometer. 25 mph is just too damn slow for a street like that one; even my 4 year old can recognize that. But if driving 25 is going to keep my car from ending up on someone's front lawn, then I'm going to redouble my efforts to make sure that's just what I do.

Breaking up is hard to do

2006-02-21T09:28:00.000-05:00

It's not you, it's me.

I hope that we can still be friends.

Maybe if we take a break for a while, we'll be able to salvage this.

Please don't take this personally.

It's all coming back to me now... that sickening pit-in-your-stomach feeling, the inability to focus on normal conversation as I thought about the task at hand. How would I word it? What would the response be? Would I feel relieved or just sad when it was all over?

I thought that I was done with that nonsense forever when Paul and I said "til death do we part." But today, for the first time in over 10 years, I'm going to be mumbling those horrible platitudes again. This time, I'm not walking away from a romance gone wrong. This time, I'm saying goodbye to one of the greatest support systems I've had as a parent.

We made it through all of the firsts and quite a few seconds and beyond. As other playgroups around us fell apart, we simply made a few adjustments to accomodate for preschool and kept right on meeting. "What," we wondered smugly, "would ever cause us to split up?" The answer, I'm afraid, is my children.

When your children are very young, you pick their friends, based solely on how interested you are in sharing playroom space with their parents on a regular basis. Whether the moms share a similar outlook on sharing and sugary snacks matters far more than how compatible their children are, especially when said children are so young that the most interacting they do is blowing each other an occasional raspberry. But it's a funny thing about kids. They grow up. And they eventually form their own opinions.

Both of my kids hate playgroup. We meet at an hour of the day when my kids just want to unwind and realx. They might be able to overcome the late hour for the right group of kids, but ever since their closest friends in the group moved away last summer, this is just not the right group of kids for them. All of the other kids are lovely. But they are very, very different from my kids, and my kids know it. They just can't seem to find any common ground. And so every week, instead of happily playing with their peers, they both sit at my side, stuffing as many snacks in their mouths as they can and begging to go home.

I've been telling myself for months that it doesn't matter how much they like these kids, that I am entitled to an hour or two of adult interaction a week. But in truth, I'm not really getting the kind of interaction I had hoped for when I'm bargaining with my kids for five more minutes of time with my friends (irony, sweet irony). And I'm paying for those five minutes all evening long, since my kids are bears every Tuesday evening from the moment I finally acquiesce and take them home until the moment I pour them into bed. Neither eats any dinner after all of the snacks they consumed. They both whine and cling to me and whine and whine some more. Playgroup days, I finally have to admit to myself, are just. no. longer. fun.

Without me, there will be three families left; barely enough to keep a playgroup going. I know that I have more social outlets than the other three mommies, all of whom still appear to look anxiously forward to Tuesdays each week. Even though they've all watched my kids sit on the sidelines for months now, I know that this is going to throw them. They have been my friends long enough that I know exactly how the discussion will go next week when I am gone. I know who will want to dissect my departure and analyze whether I like them any more. I know who will defend me to the death. And most of all, I know they'll all be hurt.

Sometimes people just grow apart.

The irony here is that my friends and I aren't the ones who've grown apart; our kids have. I hope they'll understand that. Perhaps the playgroup will have new life as a dining club in the evenings after our kids are tucked in bed. Perhaps not. But either way, this is the end of an era. My very own Mommy ministone. And unlike my kids' ministones, it doesn't feel bittersweet. It just feels sad.

UPDATE: I chickened out. Still committed. And both of my kids are, as usual, a whiny mess. Did I mention that I was never very good at this breakup thing?

Occasionally, I wish that I had a slightly less clever child

2006-02-16T10:21:00.000-05:00

We are in the car. Julia and Evan are playing a 'Freeze and Go' game which involves violently kicking the seats in front of them until Julia yells "stop." She doesn't seem to be yelling "stop" too often. I am tired of asking her to stop kicking me, and my voice is beginning to get that edge which signifies that I am close to losing my temper. I desperately don't want to lose my temper.

Finally, I suggest a different game. "Why don't you sing 'If You're Happy and You Know It' for Evan and have him do lots of silly things?" Julia loves the idea. Soon, the car is filled with the sound of both of my children shouting "hooray!" There is no more kicking. I am clearly a brilliant parent.

And then Julia begins the second verse. "If you're happy and you know it, kick your feet," she croons with glee. My back is once again pummeled.

I know when I've been bested. With good humor, I acknowledge what a good idea the kicking verse was. "And now there will be no more kicking," I tell her. She agrees. There is a short pause while she thinks of another verse. As soon as she starts to sing, I hear the tone of mischief in her voice and know that I am screwed.

"If you're happy and you know it, hop on one foot," Julia sings as her foot shoots out into the back of my seat again. I would kick myself for missing this obvious loophole, but my daughter is already doing it for me.

A good sport

2006-02-15T17:06:00.000-05:00

Paul's tutelage has finally paid off. After months of encouragement and near-constant exposure, Evan has identified "ockey" as his favorite sport. He'll stop everything to watch if a hockey game is on TV, and the rest of the time, he runs around hitting balls with the little hockey stick Paul gave him and screaming "YAY ockey!!!"

As a lifelong hockey fan, Paul is over the moon at the prospect of sharing the joys of his favorite sport with his son, and I'm sure that he can't wait to get him out there with a stick and puck. I keep looking at my teeny tiny 10th percentile son and wondering how in hell he's ever going to be hold his own on a hockey rink. But it occurred to me today that as the only 2 year old I know with only 10 teeth in his mouth, perhaps Evan was born to play hockey. He doesn't have much to lose, that's for sure.

And they all lived happily ever after

2006-02-14T15:52:00.000-05:00

The feud is over. Julia received not one but two valentines from her best friend today; one in her school mailbox and another through the U.S. Mail. Said friend was waiting anxiously at the classroom door for Julia to arrive this morning and cheerfully led her into the classroom chattering as if nothing had ever come between them. Julia never even looked back to say goodbye to me.

"Did you talk about what happened or did you just move past it," I asked curiously after I picked Julia up at the end of the school day. "Oh, we just got past it," she replied. "And do you want to know the best part? I sat with B and my new friends at circle time today. We all played together."

Perhaps I needn't worry about my daughter's social future quite so much after all.

A guilty pleasure

2006-02-13T16:53:00.000-05:00

My teenage sitter generally comes over one or two afternoons a week for an hour so that I can go work out. The timing is not ideal; an hour is is scarcely enough time for me to race out and barely break a sweat before I have to race back and send her on her merry way. I'd love to have her here a bit longer, but she's a serious student and is not willing to give up more than an hour of her time on a school day. I'll take what I can get. As rushed as I always feel when she's on the clock, the $8 an hour I pay my sitter for a quick workout is money well spent.

Despite the very obvious fact that the snow had stopped falling a good 15 hours before school was scheduled to begin, school was canceled town-wide today. Our streets are still a bit iffy, I'm told, but I wouldn't really know. I haven't ventured out. It's cold and Evan's breathing is still not 100% and so we occupied ourselves here at home all day. Keeping my kids happy while cooped up at home for the third day in a row proved more of a workout than anything I might do at a gym. And so when my sitter arrived at 4:30 as previously scheduled, I bid my children a fond farewell and headed upstairs. I did not go to work out. I am not doing any errands in lieu of exercise. I am not even taking care of any household chores. After a day spent locked in the house with two small children who have already been here for several days -- a day of markers and glitter glue and jumpolene jumping and board games and puzzles and cars and trucks and balls and dress up clothes and and snow equipment on and off -- I am sitting and goofing off. For a whole hour. By myself.

Exercise be damned. This may well be the best $8 I have ever spent in my life.

Tripping on Orapred

2006-02-09T18:49:00.000-05:00

I'd like to chalk this one up to lack of sleep, but all of the excuses in the world wouldn't begin to make me look anything other than crazy here. I actually just caught myself trying to coerce Evan to take his oral steroids by saying "Come on, honey. It'll be fun. You'll get high."

This will probably dispel any illusions about my superior parenting skills quite efficiently. With a mother like me, who needs drug dealers? I guess I'm just a better mother at 4 a.m. than at 6 p.m.

My dream job

2006-02-09T14:27:00.000-05:00

Evan had his second asthma attack in as many weeks yesterday evening. Still no asthma diagnosis (I'm a little unclear exactly one has to do to get an asthma diagnosis if 2 incidents in 2 weeks don't do the trick), but the pediatrician who saw him last night and again today said that she suspects we'll be spending a good deal of time bonding with the nebulizer this winter, diagnosis or no diagnosis.

We managed to stay out of the hospital this time by waking every 3 hours throughout the night to give Evan breathing treatments. The fact that we all got to go home to our own beds was good news, but the plan to keep us there was somewhat less than ideal for me. I just don't do the night time waking thing well. Even when my children were infants, I would wake up only long enough to scoop them into bed with me, offer up the goods and fall fast asleep as they sucked away. Had I been able to do the same thing now, I gladly would have. Unfortunately, I could not figure out a way to get my body to emit albuterol the way it used to emit breast milk. And so I found myself standing over Evan's crib at 4 a.m. last night, waving a nebulizer wand in his face and trying to will the medicine to flow out faster so that I could get back to bed where I belonged.

A nebulizer apparently works at only one speed no matter how tired its operator, and so my mind had plenty of time to wander as the machine slowly worked its magic. I found myself thinking of a conversation that I'd had with Evan's pediatrician after the first asthma incident. "We usually hospitalize kids if they need treatments less than 3 hours apart because it's just too much to ask the parents to do," she'd told me. "That's not your job." I'd been surprised at her choice of words. "It's all my job," I had replied without thinking. "I'm his mother."

My words had been automatic in the light of day, but as I recalled them in the darkness of night, they somehow seemed far more profound than they actually had been. After a lifetime of dreaming of motherhood and four years of struggling with the highs and lows of realizing that dream, here it was at its most basic. My child was sick. I held the power in my hands to make him better. It was honestly my pleasure to stand there and help him, I realized; sleep or no sleep. And furthermore, it was my job.

I stood there for what seemed like forever, listening to the hiss of the nebulizer and smiling at the sight of my sleeping son as I proudly did my job as his mother. And then when the machine sputtered dry, I kissed him on the forehead and I crept back to bed.

Days of Our Preschoolers' Lives

2006-02-08T15:37:00.000-05:00

It is now Day 3 of The Big Fight. "We didn't work it out today," Julia reported glumly as we pulled out of the preschool parking lot after school.

Julia has been incredibly needy since the Fight Which Is Important Enought To Be Capitalized began, and all of her neediness seems to be directed at me. "I never get to spend any time with you any more," the child who used to shove me aside to get to the next play date wailed this morning as she was getting dressed for school. In the past several hours alone, I have been called upon to read, paint finger nails, participate in easel artwork and play more games of Spinning Wishes than any adult should ever be subjected to. It is ~~all far more togetherness than I really need~~ just lovely to have this opportunity to bond with my little girl.

On the flip side, my phone rang at quarter of 9 this morning as I was trying to usher the kids out the door to get to school. It was the mother of a classmate whom Julia has up until now declined to play with, but whose name I've been hearing increasingly over the past few days. Apparently, her child could not wait another minute to get a play date with Julia penciled in on the calendar. The mother was very apologetic about all of the rush, rush, but would next Wednesday be good for Julia?

Somehow, I think that this is all going to turn out OK, one way or the other.

As the playground turns

2006-02-07T14:25:00.000-05:00

The good news is that all of our heart to hearts about being friendly with everyone are working. Julia's teacher confirms that the stories that Julia's been telling me about playing with all of the children in her class, not just her best friends, are true. "She's branching out beautifully. It's really nice to see," I was told at pick up time today. I'm suddenly hearing names I haven't heard before; Julia's building castles with Abby and running around outside with Morgan and sharing secrets with Alexis. I'm so proud of her (and not in the least bit smug to discover that -- for the time being, at least -- I still have a bit of an impact on my child's behavior).

The flip side to all of this social maturity, however, is Julia's first fallout with a good friend. Her best friend was apparently a bit taken aback by Julia's outreach efforts and told Julia that she really didn't want her playing with anyone else. Julia, God bless her, said that she couldn't do that but she would love it if they could all play together. The answer? "Well, then you're no longer my friend. And you're not invited to my birthday party, either."

Julia doesn't quite seem to get this kind of behavior ("I think she must have been joking," she told me with a slightly quivering lip) but it's all too familiar to me. Julia's doing the right thing here, but it's possible that she'll end up paying a high price for doing so. And as proud as I am of my daughter, the prospect of her closest friendship splitting up over something that I urged her to do breaks my heart a little bit.

I've always said that I would never relive those years of catty girl fights again for anything. But it's suddenly becoming clear to me that as the mother of a girl, I'm going to spend the next 15 or so years reliving them through my daughter whether I like it or not. This is Julia's life and it's not my place to get involved or invested. But the sinking feeling in my heart as Julia relayed the events of the day for me confirmed that I'm going to feel hurt right along with her all the same.

The peacock on her shoulder

2006-02-06T15:08:00.000-05:00

Julia's teacher laughed when we came to the "exhibits self control" checkbox on the evaluation form she shared with me at our parent/teacher conference last week. "I've never seen a kid with so much self control," she told me. I knew immediately that I had Gofo to thank.

Gofo is Julia's imaginary friend. I can't recall exactly when he came on the scene, but he's been around for long enough that he's a permanent fixture in our lives. I've heard of kids who set places for their imaginary friends at the table or buckle them into the car, but Gofo doesn't merit that kind of treatment around here. We mainly know that Gofo is in the room when Julia begins telling him off.

Julia's never seen the old devil on your shoulder routine, but she's somehow managed to mimic it quite precisely in her dealings with Gofo. The naughty Gofo, she tells us, is a peacock who wants to make her do things that she knows she shouldn't do. All through 'quiet time' and periodically at other points in the day, he urges her to do things that he knows are wrong. Julia never obliges him. Instead, she lectures him aloud about why his suggestions would be inappropriate. "No, Gofo, I am NOT going to jump on my bed. We're not allowed to do that here," I'll hear her say when she's up in her room. "Gofo! I can't yell right now or I'll wake Evan up," she'll whisper as she passes his door while he's napping. Sometimes, she'll do both voices and we'll hear all of the ways that Gofo tries to coerce her into misbehavior. In the end, she always puts him in his place.

To listen to Julia's Gofo monologues is to quite literally track all of her impulses and her efforts to contain them. I can never quite decide how I feel about Gofo; Julia's conversations with him are almost eerie at times, but at the same time, I'm amazed by this textbook look at how my child is learning self control. Julia's ongoing discussions with Gofo are amusing to follow, but they're also a fascinating glimpse inside her mind. Like all kids, Julia struggles to be good, and Gofo is the way she gives voice to that struggle. Ironically, when she does misbehave, Gofo is curiously absent from the scene, making me far more enthusiastic about having Gofo around than I might otherwise be.

It sounds so bizarre written down this way; my daughter is frequently bossed around by a subversive peacock. And yet, there's something so sweet and innocent about a child who can talk openly -- if allegorically -- about how hard it is to be good sometimes. I presume that at some point, Julia will no longer need to give voice to her internal struggles to behave and Gofo will go the way of all imaginary friends. When that happens, I suspect I'll start setting a place for him at the table and inviting him to stay a while longer. I mean, come on... what's not to love about a naughty peacock?

Happy 2nd birthday, Evan

2006-02-05T08:23:00.000-05:00

Dear Evan,

Up until a few months ago, you would only refer to yourself as Baby. You had names for everyone else in your life, but you showed no interest whatsoever in voicing your own. "Baby," you'd say proudly when people asked your name. And then, as insistent as you'd been about the Baby thing, one day it was just gone. "No Baby," you told me, shaking your head dramatically. "Dehduh." Your articulation's still not quite up to par, but your intent was unmistakable as you thumped yourself emphatically on the chest. I'm not a baby. I'm Evan. No kidding.

You're not a baby. You're Evan. And today, you are 2. In the past several weeks, multiple people have asked me if you've had a growth spurt or a language explosion or a haircut or something. I don't know that you've had any of those things, and yet, somehow I understand why they're asking. It's as if overnight the last of the baby in you is gone, replaced by a confidence and a swagger (and alas, a temperament) which is 100% toddler.

You're not a baby. You're Evan. You give fierce hugs and open mouthed kisses that melt my heart. You sit for hours on the floor assembling puzzles (which you call "yays" because we all say "yay!" when you complete one), but when you're finished, you have to run around the house screaming a few times to burn off some energy. You have an obsession with all things Sesame Street which borders on the extreme. You fling your plate off the table when you don't want any more to eat (still working on that one). You've got basic skills like letters and numbers down cold, but have no concept of color whatsoever. You kiss characters in books to show that you've enjoyed a story. You like to throw yourself on top of people who are lying on the ground in a dive bomb move which looks pretty darn scary to me but cracks you up to no end. You flirt shamelessly with all of Julia's friends. Your "sucking fingers" are always in your mouth. Your articulation is appalling, but your determination to fix your errors and make yourself understood is sweetly admirable. You are a gentle boy and at the same time, you are all boy. Other kids love you. Adults love you. And I love you most of all. My crush on you only deepens with time, it seems, because I am completely besotted. I know that less desirable stages lie ahead. But for now, for today, I'm busy just soaking up the joy that is you on the cusp of two.

You're not a baby. You're Evan. And yet, sometimes, if I catch you in the right mood and ask if you're a baby or a big boy, you'll smile sweetly at me and say "Dehduh. Mommy baby." I'm Evan. Mommy's baby. Damn straight, kiddo.

Happy birthday, baby. I love you.

Love,
Mommy

Birthdays

2006-02-03T14:08:00.000-05:00

I tried desperately to convince my OB to schedule Evan's induction on February 3. Great people were born on February 3, among them my grandmother, my childhood best friend and Elmo. It would be so cool, I thought, to share a birthday with your great grandmother and Elmo.

Alas, my OB refused my requests. Apparently he felt that lung development trumped sentimentality or something silly like that, because he waited for me to hit 38 1/2 weeks and scheduled the induction for the 5th instead. Thus, I cannot wish my son a happy birthday for another 48 hours. But Elmo, buddy, many happy returns of the day to you. And Nana and Eden, party on.

Two notes on the birthday thing, since my OB inadvertently saved me from the time consuming task of writing a sentimental birthday letter to Evan today:

1) Elmo is, according to all reports, perpetually 3 1/2. How can someone -- even a puppet -- be 3 1/2 on his actual birthday? I have spent far more time puzzling over this one than I should really be willing to publicly admit.

2) Evan insists that he's turning 9 on Sunday. "You'll be 2 soon," we've all been telling him for the past few days. Each time, he corrects us. "No, no, no," he instantly replies, giggling. "Nine!" What is it with my children and wishing their childhoods away?

Shave and a haircut, whose bits?

2006-02-02T14:35:00.000-05:00

I had a long overdue appointment for a hair cut and color today. As I sat in the chair watching my shiny locks fall into place, I wondered why in the world I had waited so long to take care of myself in this basic way. And then I got to the register and I remembered why I hate to go to the salon: the tip decision.

My appointments are always scheduled with Michelle, my regular stylist. She greets me, discusses color options and then mixes up whatever we've agreed upon. Then I'm handed off to an assistant, who applies my color, sets me up under the dryer and rinses the whole mess out at the end. After my color is complete, it's back to Michelle for the cut and style.

The bill at the end is $120 -- $55 for the cut and $65 for the color. And after I've paid it, I always stand there awkwardly shuffling dollar bills in my hands for what seems like the longest time. I just can't figure out how it's all supposed to divvy up. Michelle's the expert and I'm her client. I want to keep her happy so that she keeps me happy (you don't mess with the woman who mixes your color and wields the scissors). But truth be told, her assistant's doing about half the work. So who gets the cash?

I always walk out of that place feeling like I've probably stiffed one or both service providers, which certainly isn't my intention. But doubling the cost of my service with tip money to show equal appreciation to everyone is ~~not so appealing either~~ downright ridiculous. Any tip etiquette experts out there? Someone please rescue me from my compensatory cluelessness!

Girls will be girls

2006-02-01T13:38:00.000-05:00

Julia's teacher describes her class this year as "cliquey." She says that these are not the nasty kind of cliques -- the kids just seem to naturally pair off into close friendships. It sounds innocuous the way she describes it, but I suspect that she's sugar coating things a bit. I know that Julia and her best friend are particularly tight. Other mothers have told me on more than one occasion that their kids have felt left out because the two girls are such a formidable team. Deliberate or not, I often worry that my kid might be hurting other kids' feelings. Up until now, I've managed to convince myself that these actions weren't intentional or malicious, that at just 4, these kids couldn't possibly be old enough or mature enough to leave each other out on purpose. Now I'm less sure.

Julia had a playdate yesterday with R, a "2nd tier" school friend. Julia and B are best friends. R and A are best friends. The 4 girls all play together and are their own exclusive foursome a lot of the time, but this is the first time that Julia and R have played alone. I was frankly glad when Julia asked for the playdate; I love B and the girls are great together, but it's nice to see Julia spread her wings and expand her friendship circle a bit.

Julia and R were together in the kitchen working on an art project and I could hear them talking from the other room. They were decorating a jewelry box together, a process which involved much deliberation and discussion even if the end result looked pretty darn random. "The next time I come over, this will be yours and mine again, right?" R asked Julia, and Julia assured her that it would. "OK," R continued. "But if B comes over to your house, she isn't allowed to play with it. Ever. It's just ours." I could hear the confusion, and then the growing confidence in Julia's voice as she agreed.

Yikes. If this is 4, what's 14 going to be like?

I think I need to choose not to dwell on this one too much

2006-01-31T13:06:00.000-05:00

"You don't have to drive me home today," my 17 year old babysitter proudly told me last week. "I finally got my driver's license and I drove here myself!" I couldn't have been more thrilled. My sitter lives down the street and she usually just walks up here in the afternoons, but it gets dark so early these days that I frequently need to drive her home. Bundling the kids up and taking them out for the drive down the street is always a hassle, especially since they're usually both clamoring for my attention after I get home.

"Congratulations," I told her, and we all gathered at the front door to ooh and aah over her new car. The children waved cheerfully as she climbed in and started the engine. And then we all watched silently as she drove away. In the dark. Without her lights on.

This is the person I trust to keep my precious offspring safe in my absence???

Making a list and checking it twice

2006-01-30T15:13:00.000-05:00

I see people at the grocery store all the time who look like they are genuinely enjoying themselves. They hum to themselves as they consult lists and sniff produce and examine labels. They chat with deli personnel about meat specials and offer advice about making homemade pasta sauce to people standing near them in the canned tomatoes aisle. I am not one of those people.

There are few chores that I hate as much as grocery shopping. I am at my most indecisive staring at a shelf filled with cold cereal options. I am far too impatient to take a number and stand in line at the deli counter. The smell of the meat section makes me want to immediately devote my life to vegetarianism. I am not the type of person who makes a list and supplements those basic household needs with exciting finds and great sale items. I am the type of person who will wait until the cupboard is bare, then drag myself off to the store grumbling, wander the aisles randomly for a little while and come home without half of the things we need. Grocery shopping is not my strong suit.

Yesterday, Paul announced that he and Julia were off to the grocery store. They had been working with a new science kit that she'd received for her birthday and they needed some standard household items to do their experiments. Needless to say, I was out of most of those "standard" items. Ever one to seize an opportunity, I asked them to pick up a half a dozen things that we were out of while they were there.

They returned home an hour later with everything they needed. The reason for their success? Julia's grocery list, carefully written out before they left with a little spelling help from Paul. She had clearly enjoyed everything about their shopping experience, from the list making on down. I no longer needed to make a Monday trip to the store to buy bread. Everyone was happy.

I know of people who claim that they had children so that there would be someone to take the garbage out or walk the dog. I'll happily do those things myself forever if I can just hand off the grocery shopping to my kid. How old do you think she has to be before I can just drop her off in front of the Shop Rite and tell her I'll be back for her and the groceries in an hour?

Note to Julia: if your milk doesn't come in, maybe you should try yeast

2006-01-27T14:54:00.000-05:00

We used to make audio tapes for far-away family members all the time when I was growing up. Long distance calls were still expensive and video cameras were not yet a household item, but tape recorded messages were a great way to stay connected in between visits. We never realized at the time that we might be making a kind of time capsule.

"Your father brought a tape back from his visit with your grandmother last week," my mom told me on the phone the other night. "You and Dan are just Julia and Evan's ages on it, and it's amazing how much you sound like Julia. We'll play it for you the next time we see you."

That conversation triggered a memory for me, and a few hours after my mother and I hung up, I found myself rooting around my attic trying to track it down. I had suddenly remembered that my Aunt Margie had sent me one of these old audio tapes on my birthday a few years ago. I was a single young adult at the time she sent it to me, and I still recalled how much of a kick it was to hear myself as a young kid. Did I still have that tape? I finally located my old tape collection in a stack of boxes in the corner of the attic. And there, in the piles of music long since abandoned for CDs, I found what I was looking for.

We turned the cassette on in Evan's room, since he has the only stereo in the house that still plays tapes, and the wail of a baby immediately filled the room. "That's your Uncle Dan," I told Julia as her eyes widened with surprise. Minutes later, my 2 1/2 year old voice appeared, chattering away about playdates and friends and the things that I liked to do on the swingset outside. With a little coaxing from my mother, I sang Happy Birthday to my uncle, named the children in my playgroup ("I'm having twouble thinking," I told my mother at one point when she had prompted me too much) and described my favorite dinner (pork chops... now how on earth did my mother get a toddler to eat pork chops?).

The look on Julia's face was a priceless combination of amusement and bewilderment. She knew in theory that I'd once been a kid, but she couldn't quite wrap her mind around the fact that the little girl with the high pitched voice and the lisp was her mother. She was clearly every bit as entranced by what she was hearing as I'd been a few years earlier when I first received the tape. But this time, it was the message from my mother to her sister on the flip side of the tape that captivated me the most.

There was nothing remarkable about my mother's words, recorded in a rare quiet moment while both Dan and I were napping. She was having some luck increasing her milk supply with yeast, and she appreciated the extra nursing bras her sister had sent. Dan seemed to be teething and she thought he might cut his first tooth at 4 months, though my dad said it would be 5. He had seemed to be nearing a schedule, but after 3 cat naps that day, she was less sure he was headed in the right direction. He liked prunes. The hand-me-down snow suit and clothes that had come in the same box as the nursing bras looked brand new and would be well loved at our house. I was getting increasingly independent and seemed notably more mature than other kids in my playgroup, but I still tended to be whiney and clingy when we were at home.

The things that she talked about were the same kinds of things she might have said in a phone conversation, had the aforementioned clingy kids and tight budgets not made chatty long distance calls a rarity. But as I listened to that tape, I found myself so incredibly grateful that the era and circumstances had led her to record her thoughts and day-to-day experiences in that way. Because in that younger, yet still familiar voice, I heard myself in my mother and my mother in myself. Young kids. Long days at home. Clingy little girls and hand-me-down snowsuits. A mirror image spanning 30 years.

I've always said that one of the reasons I'm keeping this blog is so that my kids can read it some day, but I've also wondered on more than one occasion whether they'll ever really be interested in all of this. Listening to my mother's recorded thoughts from so many years ago, I thought about the digital recording that I've got here and I suddenly knew for sure. They're going to want it. I was captivated by that cassette because for the brief time that it was rolling, my mother and I were peers. I wanted to commiserate with her about sleepless nights and compare notes about parenting mature little girls. I wanted to learn more about this yeast trick and I wanted to pick her brain about ways to convince toddlers to eat pork chops. And I couldn't wait to sit down and blog about the way I was feeling so that some day my kids could be captivated by it, too. My mother. Me. Someday, Julia and Evan. A peer group that spans three generations and three times as many decades, brought together by universal experience and the power of recorded words.

Keepsakes

2006-01-26T14:39:00.000-05:00

Evan was released from the hospital yesterday.

If the fact that he was in the hospital at all seems to come out of left field, well, so did the incident that landed us there. One minute, I was waiting for the cold medicine to kick in and quell his cough so that I could put him down for a nap. The next minute, he was having so much trouble breathing that he couldn't even cough at all. A phone call to my pediatrician's office later, we were off to the ER.

I'm a classic under reactor where my children's health is concerned. It's ironic, given my tendency to over react about virtually everything else, but I simply don't feel the need to run off to the doctor every time my kids get a cough or cold. Why pay a copay and sit in a germy waiting room when you can get an instant consult with Dr. Google free of charge at any hour? Not breathing was scary enough to merit a phone call to my pediatrician, but I was still pretty taken aback when the nurse advised me to take him directly to the hospital. "Really?" I kept asking her. "Because it's his nap time and I'm usually a pretty big stickler when it comes to naps." Apparently, inability to breathe trumps a sleep schedule, because she was very clear. Go. Immediately.

Thank God for the kind of friend who will meet you at the ER and whisk your four year old away on a playdate, because if I'd had to manage Evan's needs and Julia's needs all alone in a tiny ER room all day, I can't imagine what I would have done. Somewhere en route to the hospital, I went from feeling inconvenienced by the situation to feeling downright scared, and it was all I could do to offer basic acknowledgement to Julia's cheerful chatter in the backseat. Yes, it was silly that someone had knocked her tower down at school today. Yes, her friend has a great pair of sunglasses. Was Evan still breathing? I handed Julia off in the hospital parking lot without a backwards glance and raced inside with Evan.

A massive dose of steroids, 5 or 6 Albuterol treatments and a gazillion hours later, the decision was made to admit Evan for the night. He was responding to the treatments, but not for long enough. They wanted to observe him for longer and to offer frequent breathing treatments throughout the night. And so we spent a restless night together, cuddled up on a tiny hospital bed scarcely big enough for one person but somehow just the right size for a sick kid and his protective mother. The doctors and nurses came and went and we both tried unsuccessfully to sleep as we both struggled -- for very different reasons -- to breathe.

By the morning, Evan's breathing looked a lot better and shortly after noon, we were released with a portable nebulizer and boatloads of Albuterol capsules. As I packed the few things that we had with us, my gaze fell to the hospital bracelet the nurse had cut off of his ankle a few minutes before. Should I take it with me as a keepsake, I wondered, a reminder of Evan's first (and hopefully last) hospital stay? I decided to leave it behind. I didn't need a memento from any of what had happened in the past 24 hours. I didn't need anything to remind me of that tight feeling in my chest when I was told to take my child to the ER or the helpless experience of watching him struggle to breathe. I didn't need a reminder of the hours spent waiting and worrying and wondering. This was not a memento occasion.

When we got home, Evan settled back in while I went upstairs to put a few things away. As I unpacked the toiletries that Paul had brought to me the day before, I found a note from Julia on my bathroom counter. Dear Mom, it read. I hope you go come soon home. Love Julia. Smiling, I noted the date on on the corner of the page and slipped it into my bedside table. Apparently, this was a memento occasion after all. Julia's note was the keepsake that I knew I would want to remind me of this day -- not a symbol of Evan's struggle to breathe in that hospital, but a reminder of the breath of fresh air that was waiting for us both when we got home, safe and sound.

A graphic discussion

2006-01-23T14:30:00.000-05:00

As I was rushing around this morning, trying to get everyone up and dressed and organized, Evan was clamoring for my attention. He had something so important to tell me that it simply couldn't wait. "Ball, Mommy," he exclaimed, pointing at his crotch. "Ball!"

"Yes," I replied in that completely absent I'm-not-really-paying-a-bit-of-attention-to-this-conversation way. "Those are your balls." And then I froze.

We're all for talking freely about body parts around here, but I was pretty damn sure that my son's scrotum had never really come up in conversation before. So where had he learned this term? Was someone talking inappropriately to him? An adult? Another child? Could touching also have been involved? Should I be alarmed? Is the mother always the last to know?

As Mommy Panic set in, I stopped rushing around so that I could get down on Evan's level and start asking some serious questions. Kneeling down, I happened to look at the area causing all of the excitement. And there, on Evan's brand new Pullups (courtesy of the potty training that is not being discussed or acknowledged but is shhh... coming along quite nicely), was a picture of Elmo and Big Bird. Playing with -- you guessed it -- a ball.

Today's awkward and slightly inappropriate moment was brought to you by the makers of Easy Ups and the letter M for Mommy.

Gimme four

2006-01-20T14:22:00.000-05:00

Jennifer was kind enough to rescue me from coming up with something to blog about today by tagging me for the fours meme. I'm never sure if I think memes are fabulous or silly, but since I had nothing much to say today (other than to report that Evan's 0 for 3 on the "produce something after demanding to sit on the potty" thing today and I'm going with "fluke" rather than "potty ready"), I think this one sounds like a pretty good idea at the moment. Here goes...

Four Jobs You've Had

1. telemarketing for a home remodeling business (I was scarily good at convincing people that they needed quotes for roofing, re-siding and other renovations)
2. working the beer tent in the Carrier Dome (not the best job to try to do when you're hung over)
3. blowing up balloons in a party store
4. marcom manager for an internet startup during the dot com heyday

Four Movies You Could Watch Over and Over

1. Stand By Me
2. When Harry Met Sally
3. Rain Man
4. Fletch

Four Places You've Lived

1. Parma, OH (thanks, Mom, for outing me on that one)
2. Acton, MA
3. Hoboken, NJ
4. Syracuse, NY

Four TV Shows You Love to Watch

1. Grey's Anatomy
2. House
3. The Bachelor (I know, I know...)
4. The Amazing Race

Four of Your Favorite Books

Strangely enough, despite being a voracious reader, I'm having trouble answering this one. I go through an astounding number of books in a year and quite a few touch me. But virtually none stay with me for very long after I've finished them. If people bring up a book, I'll often remember my impressions and occasionally even some of the storyline. But in terms of retaining favorites? I find myself honestly unable to think of a single one. I wonder what this says about the way I read (or the value of the hours I put into reading)?

Four Places You've Been on Vacation

1. Istanbul
2. Nantucket
3. Israel
4. St. Thomas

Four Websites You Visit Daily

1. eBay (I'm a junkie)
2. Bloglines (gotta keep up with my blog reading)
3. Yahoo Mail (too cheap to pay for a real email account)
4. Parents Place (I'm an unabashed lurker)

Four of Your Favorite Foods

1. pizza
2. chocolate
3. avocado
4. is red wine a food?

Four Places You'd Rather be Right Now

1. lying on a beach
2. lying on a massage table
3. lying on a cruise ship lounge chair
4. lying in my bed

Four Bloggers You Are Tagging

Has anyone not done this meme already? I feel like I've seen it pretty much everywhere. If by chance it's passed you by, tag... you're it!