The Mad Family

Mad drawing skillz, that is!

The assignment was to draw a self-portrait, so Opie drew himself "with a mad face" (top left; apparently also with some kind of bunny ear/mohawk thing going on. And also he's holding a sword, one that "shoots needles"). Then he required everyone else to draw a Mad self-portrait. Jo is on the upper right with the unibrow. Jeff is at the bottom left, being shot by a needle and shouting at the sword-bearer. Also he's on fire. I am on the far right with angry eyebrows and bared teeth. And in the bottom center, Jo's "surprise" look.

Here's what I found irksome the other day: Our grocery store changed its policy on reusable bags. They no longer offer a 5-cent rebate for each bag you supply--only their branded bags count. I don't use the reusables for the cash, but come on! What a stupid policy.

And you?

This week in grief

It's been almost six weeks now and most of the time I am holding up fine. I think about my son all the time, but it's an undercurrent as I go about my day. I no longer can quite keep track of how many weeks pregnant I would be. But there are always moments, things I see or hear or read that tip me unexpectedly into a puddle of sorrow and regret.

Most recently it was the song "For Good" from Wicked. Looking at the lyrics now, they strike me as trite, but they hit a nerve nonetheless. Because I do wonder, often, what Lesson I am supposed to have learned from this experience. Is it presumptuous, or just premature, to think that I should take something away, that I deserve to get something out of it? That I ought to be wise enough to figure out what that something is? Is that too much pressure for my baby's tiny shoulders, or my own?

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return

Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun

Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood

Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you

You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend

I may not know exactly how far along I should be now, but I do picture, often, what would be happening now if our boy had lived, what I'd be doing and feeling. I expect I always will. I see three paths, three versions of my life--the one where I have a healthy, typical pregnancy and baby; the one where I have a child with disabilities, and am suddenly thrust into a new world of medical and educational and emotional challenges; and the one where I am missing a child. It's all very Sliding Doors.

Like a ship blown from its mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood

Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good
--lyrics by Stephen Schwartz

Changed for good? That much is clear, even if not much else is.

Random 'n' ranty

Item 1. Not so much a rant, really, as another "What's the deal with..." question. Why do kids love getting their faces painted? It takes for-fricking-ever, we always have to wait in a huge line (because every other kid at the event wants her face painted too), it smears within 10 minutes, and the kid can't even see it. Why, I ask you. Why?

Item 2, in case you missed this on Twitter. It is too important for you to miss: The best search string ever. Someone arrived here at Mayberry Mom by googling "are you down with opie pee." Yeah, you know me! My friend, I hate to break it to you, but this here is a mommyblog. If you're looking for OPP, try here. Or possibly here.

Item 3. I had the most stay-at-home-momish kind of day I've ever had. School drop-off, yoga, home briefly, school volunteer thing, church thing (me and 40 old ladies in the church basement, for real), home again to clean up hideous dog accident in basement, school pick-up, back home for small window in which I accomplished one tiny work task (only because kids were watching TV and husband came home from work early), swimming lessons, home to wolf down dinner, PTA meeting. And tomorrow? Is a half-day of school. TGIF.

What would you name yourself?

I've been having an email conversation with two friends about what names we would have chosen for ourselves (as children) if we'd had the option. Two out of three of us wanted to be "Lisa." So now we're curious. What name would you have given yourself at 5 years old? Or 10?

And did you ever try to change your name or nickname? In 6th grade, I decided my name was boring and I henceforth wanted to spell it with an "ie" at the end instead of a "y." Much grief ensued in the form of kids calling me "Cath-WHY." Eventually, I did get it to stick and kept that spelling through high school and college, at which point I finally gave it up as dumb. And that's why friends and family now spell my name three different ways.

You see why Lisa would be so much easier.

Opie sez: Obama winned!

That's what he announced to his preschool class as soon as he walked in this morning, and his teachers responded with great enthusiasm.

I wanted to wake the kids last night so they could watch Obama's speech, but I know better than to mess with a sleeping child. We can watch the speech together today, online, and marvel at it all. At 3 and 6 years old, Opie and Jo are old enough to know that Mommy and Daddy were "cheering for" Obama, but not old enough to really grasp why.

They are also not old enough to understand why this is such a historic moment, and I don't know if I can or will explain it. Should I describe racism to children who haven't been spoiled by it? Who have friends of all colors and creeds and think nothing of it? By not confronting the issue, do we defuse its power, or feed it?

Images from Newseum.org, where--if you are very very very patient--you can see front pages from newspapers all around the world.

The story of a small Singer sewing machine

As I have mentioned, Jo is a bit of a dilettante. Like most kids, she's a sucker for anything new. Last Christmas, she got a finger loom which she loooooovvved for about two weeks (and even that was a very long run) and has since almost completely ignored. She'll beg for a toy or a game or a book with the tenacity of an e-mail spam overlord and then blow it off almost as quickly as she receives it. She's taken a incredible range of extracurricular classes, from music to art to tumbling to (most recently) ice skating, but the only one she's stuck with consistently is swimming.

Her most recent prized possession was a toy sewing machine we picked up at TJ Maxx for $12. It's pink and plastic but it really works. So for a few days Jo was a busy busy seamstress (mostly just making seams with no practical purpose). And after that, of course, the little machine sat and gathered dust.

What I wonder is how much of this is my own doing. See, the sewing machine--like many other hobbies she might try/stick with--requires intervention from me: helping her thread the needle, find fabrics to work with, follow instructions, etc. And you know, there is a reason why I don't own a sewing machine myself. I am just not interested! So if Jo asks me to help her, I will; but I'm not going to go out of my way and say "Psst! Hey kid! Wanna sew?"

So I don't think I am actually suppressing my child's interests. The question is whether I am doing enough to encourage them. I like to think I am allowing her passions to shine through (she is only six, after all!). But as we've established, I'm pretty good at rationalizing.

Vanity unfair

I don't get vanity license plates. I mean, not like "what is the deal with vanity plates," but like I see them, and then spend precious minutes trying to figure out what the hell they meant.

BHAPIE: This one lives in my neighborhood and I swear to you, it took me a year to determine what it means. I couldn't get past "bha-pye" (rhymes with pop-eye). No. "Be happy!" I'm not happy--I just wasted a year of my life on your dumb license plate.

STAUPL8R: Stop-lighter? Stop-later? Staple-a-tor? Stay up later -- now why would I want to do that? I don't get enough sleep as it is.

ICNCYDU: I see Nancy Drew? Inky dinky doo? I can see why, do you? Well, no, I don't. I have no idea what you're trying to express, here.

DCK HTR: Duck hunter? Dock heater? Dick hater? WHAT?

I'm thinking if you have such an important message to get across, maybe spring for a bumper sticker or a magnet or something. PLZ?

Asking for trouble

It became painfully clear during recent events that my husband and I don't work very well together in a crisis. Instead of giving each other the extra love and support we both deserve, we tend to argue and snap at each other. Teamwork is not our strong suit, at least in times of stress.

I know this is normal and it's actually, to some degree, a reflection of the strength of our relationship (we lash out at the safest person, the one we run the least risk of permanently losing). Things blow over and we get along again.

But this experience did leave me less sure about my expressed wish for a third child. In the worst moments of Jo's convalescence I thought, I cannot do this ever again. How could I want another child, when it would open me up to that much more possibility of fear and hurt and worry? When the frustrations mounted and turned everyday communication into bitter bickering, I thought again: This proves it. Another child could split us up. I can't be responsible for wanting that.

And then, a week passes, and the memories start to mutate and muffle and pretty soon I'm back to: Well, that sucked. That sucked a lot, but it's over now and we got through it and we're fine. Good, even.

So does that prove that we can triumph over challenges? Or that I'm good at rationalization?

I wonder.

A rose is a rose, and all that stuff

When people compliment you on your child's name, do you believe them? I always wonder if they are just being polite. We get lots of comments about Jo's name, most of them very nice with the occasional "oh, that's ... different!" or "oh, that must be a family name!" accompanied by an overly bright smile. Those I know are fake. The rest I usually believe are legitimate, but maybe they're lying too. I don't care because I love her name, but who doesn't like a little external validation now and again?

Opie's name is way more common (way way, much to my chagrin; husband prevailed on that one) and we get many fewer remarks. When we do, it's "That's my nephew's/friend's/neighbor's name" and not much else. The nickname, on the other hand, gets a lot of attention. And even a whole entire blog named after it.

Edited to add: I really don't have any qualms about Jo's name, or take any fake comments personally ... I'm more wondering what your take is! On Jo's name. No, just kidding. Your kids' names, and reactions thereto.

Morning nightmare

What does it say about me that I had an anxiety dream about being late for (one of) Rudy Giuliani's (many) weddings?

Wait. Don't answer that.

A stroll on the other stride

Now that the weather is (kinda, sorta) springlike, the park across the street from my house is busy once again with walkers and strollers. There is a teensy, tiny, ancient, Asian couple that does at least three laps every day, like clockwork. There are the requisite dog walkers. There is a woman who pushes a child in a wheelchair, fast. I know she's doing it to get a workout but sometimes it looks as if she is trying to run away from what must be a stressful daily grind. Or, I think to myself, maybe the child loves the feeling of flying, and his mom pushes him as fast as she can to grant him that pleasure, that freedom.

Of course there are the other mommies too. There must be a new moms' stroller-cise class meeting nearby because the Snap-N-Gos and the huge travel systems come in big clumps at mid-morning. In waves of two and three and four the women pass my window, pushing and chatting and willing those postpartum pounds to drop off.

When Jo was a newborn I'd drive to Hoboken (just down the river from where I lived, but more gentrified) to stroll with the mamas there twice a week. I loved having something to do, someone to talk to, store windows to peek in on my way back to the car. The other moms were friendly and we were all in that same new-mom boat, figuring everything out.

I always felt just outside the circle, though. I didn't live in their neighborhood and I didn't frequent their other haunts, share their pediatricians or breastfeeding groups. I wouldn't run into them on the street on days we didn't stroll together. And unlike almost all of them, I'd be going back to work soon. Once I did, I only rarely had the chance to see any of these new friends again, and by the time I left the area two years later, I'd lost touch with them all.

Seeing the moms walk by my window again now makes me wistful for those days, even though I'm happy with where I am and what I'm doing. I like working, I like having children big enough to walk and talk and feed themselves, I have good friends (online and off).

Thinking about what used to be or what might have been or what still could be doesn't mean I'm regretting the way things are. It just means I might like to walk a different route once in a while, to see what it's like.

...and this has been my first Hump Day Hmm. Taken terribly literally, but I think Julie will forgive me.

Bloggy schadenfreude

Confession time: Are there blogs that you read purely for impure reasons? Not impure as in all about the bangability, but as in you read them to make yourself feel superior? Or because you are spying checking up on on an old colleague or ex?

Blogging can open minds, but it can close them too. There are a few in my reader that are there because they get a rise out of me. (None of you, trust me--no one that's ever commented here, and I'm certain they're not reading either.) No matter what these people say, I'm going to disagree and think they are foolish. Reading them is nothing but a boost to my own ego.

On other blogs, I'm strictly a voyeur. Of course all blog-reading is in some way voyeuristic, and if these people are putting it out there, they've agreed that it's mine for the viewing. But if I read your site regularly and I comment, if you know I'm there, I'm now at least friendly, if not a plain ol' friend. If I read my nutty former co-worker's husband's blog to find out what she's doing, because I just think she's weird, then that's ... embarrassing. Same goes for a another ex-colleague who has a lame blog of her own, slapped up to promote a book; I only read it to mock it.

I try to cut myself off, on the grounds that this kind of entertainment really isn't worth any of my limited time or brain cells. That only works some of the time. It's no worse than reality TV, right? At least bloggers aren't subject to the whims of editors and producers who have only a commercial interest in their life stories. (Well, unless they're on the Today show.)

Not without precedent

Rearing children: It's like living with tiny Supreme Court justices.

"But yesterday you said ... "
"But Daddy let me ... "
"But my sister/brother/cousin/friend got to ... "
"But another day we didn't have to ... "

My god. If it's not enough that you have to anticipate every possible consequence of every single action, you must also be aware that if you allow it once, you are doomed to have to agree to it over and over again for as long as you live.

Consistency: It's the hobgoblin of little minds. And parents.

*

This here is my 400th post, says Blogger. How on earth did that happen? Thanks for reading and commenting and just generally being fabulous in so many ways.

*

I didn't eat any bugs (on purpose, but thanks to all of you for the lovely images you suggested, Heather). I tried the dryer sheet thing. No effect whatsoever.

Mythbusting

1. Any bug with 6 legs or less (i.e., any true insect) is edible.
Source: Fetch! with Ruff Ruffman

2. To calm a dog who is disturbed by a thunderstorm, rub her with a dryer sheet.
Source: Random mother on school playground

Guess which one I tested?

It didn't work.

Lessons in laissez-faire

If you have been reading this blog for awhile you may have gathered that I am a pretty relaxed parent, or at least I try to be. I don't think there is any use getting worked up over whether kids can recite the alphabet at 18 months old or kick ass at soccer before kindergarten or start a successful dot-com while they're still in high school. Or, for that matter, whether anyone runs in the house or jumps on the furniture or eats crumbs off the floor or lets the dog lick their fingers. Yes, we have rules and we do enforce them but I try to maintain a "don't sweat the small stuff" attitude.

But. All of a sudden Opie is 3 and I feel like I'm being followed by some kind of huge, menacing, loudly ticking clock. He is neither potty-trained nor at all interested in giving up his pacifier. While he was 2 I just thought to myself "Well, he's only 2." Now that he's been 3 for all of 11 days I am totally doubting myself and my "he'll do it when he's ready" attitude.

He started in a new room at his child care center this week and between that and the birthday hangover, he has not taken a nap since a week ago Sunday. Reason to cut him some slack, or total rationalization?

The rule is that Nuks are for sleepy time only but he begs for it the minute we walk in the door in the afternoon. He'll even say "I just want it for one minute" or "I am going to take a little rest so I neeeeeeeed my Nuk." (Hah! There is no way I am falling for that, dude.) I am starting to think that a few days of cold-turkey misery might be better than spending hours every day trying to distract him via snacks, water, play time, walks, etc.

Similarly, the potty ... he kind of, sort of knows what to do and when to do it but not with any consistency at all, and he does not want to wear the cool Thomas the Tank Engine underwear his Grammy got him or even the Lightning McQueen Pull-Ups we stock by the dozens. He is not really motivated by rewards (like Jo is) so I am a little stumped. The last thing I want is a potty power struggle, but again ... am I being a gentle, attentive parent or a lazy loser?

So help me, the other day I started to wonder whether I could tackle one or both of these issues (and/or Jo's thumbsucking) if I promised them a kitten. Somebody stop me!

How not to spend a Saturday morning

I recently took Jo on a little overnight trip (more on this to come soon at The Full Mommy). At one of the shops we visited, I let her pick out a toy for Opie and one for herself. She chose a make-your-own-mermaid craft kit (she loves craft kits--another thing we totally do not have in common).

So from the moment she woke up Saturday she begged to do this thing. Finally we reached a point where Daddy was snowblowing (again), Opie was busy watching "the frog show," and we could concentrate on the sirena.

On the outside of the box: Photos showing a 4-step process, and an age recommendation of 4 years and up.

On the inside of the box: Directions listing FIFTY-TWO steps from start to finish. FIFTY! TWO! About three of which could be performed by my 5-year-old. Basically she watched me gluing itty bitty sequins to my fingers the mermaid's hair, threading atom-sized beads onto invisible fishing wire, and trying not to curse.

Also, do you think she has cast even the most cursory glance at the doll now that is completely besequinned, betailed and bejeweled? I think not.

****

I just finished watching "Ace of Cakes." Ever seen it? Ever wonder why they deliver the cakes by tossing them in the back of a van with no protective wrapping whatsoever? This drives me insane.

Wanderlust-ful

New mama Julie (not to be confused with Other New Mama Julie, or Word-Using Mama Julie, or do I have any other bloggy friends named Julie?) tagged me for a Top-5 meme. I am to tell you 5 things about myself, and then list 5 places in the world I'd like to see (or see again).

I've already revealed many miscellaneous things about myself so I'll just make up my own rules. Here are 5 random things I have been wondering lately:

1. How I manage to entirely fill the dining room table with crap every day between the hours of 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., only to have to clear it off completely by 2:45. Right now: 4 piles of work papers; 1 cloth napkin; 1 binder clip; dirty lunch dishes; a bottle of tea; the phone; a ruler I found on the floor; a photo that fell off the refrigerator; two invitations to events I don't intend to attend; the recipes from last night's soup swap; my planner book. And the laptop.

2. If there are any "virtue" names for boys. I encountered a family recently with children named Hope, Grace, and Christian; the mother mentioned that the last one would've been Faith if he'd been a girl. Ever since I have been racking my brain trying to come up with alternative boy names. This is neither an attempt to name a child I'm not having nor a need to make some kind of point about the virtuousness of girls vs. boys. I'm just cat-killin' curious.

3. Why, if you invite me (see #1) to a fundraiser to be held at your home, you don't offer some kind of hint as to who on earth you are and how you know me or got my name.

4. Whether it's far too late to get a babysitter for this weekend, or to get my roots done before my next trip to New York.

5. If winter will ever. Ever, ever. Ever, ever end. (Forecasted for Mayberry for the next 5 days: Snow, clouds, snow, snow, clouds.)

Now, for part two! Oh, the places I'd go. Here are my top picks from the list we compiled last fall (fairly high on the conventional/cheese factor, but too bad; and I also cheated and added some that weren't on the list).

• Hawaii
• Spain
• Turkey
• Iceland
• Patagonia

Oh, and here's another list of 5: The soups I now have chillin' in my freezer. How's that for meme miscellany?

• Vegetable with meatballs
• Chicken chili
• Curried butternut squash
• Wild rice
• Potato-leek

Care to play? Join me in the comments or on your own blog.

18 miles of books

New York's famous bookstore, The Strand, is celebrating its 80th anniversary with The Strand 80, a list of its customers' 80 favorite books. I've read over 50 of them (yes! go double literature major) and several are among my personal favorites. I discussed it a bit with a friend and she pointed out these are not necessarily meant to be classics -- they are popular picks. Of course, many are undisputed classics (Les Miserables, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Crime and Punishment, Homer's Odyssey). Others might more commonly be called pop-culture phenomena (The Da Vinci Code, Harry Potter).

That led us to wonder, though: What makes a classic? Obviously a work that can stand the test of time is often called a classic. If you can read a book written 50, 100, 200 or more years ago and find that it resonates with you today, then that's classic. There have to be more criteria than that, though. What do you think?

By the way, there is exactly one picture book on the list: Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

Totally awe-some

The other night as I was waiting for Opie to fall asleep (or at least settle down enough so that I could safely exit the room), I started thinking* about places I've been that were truly awe-inspiring. Places that really stopped me dead in my tracks the first time I saw them. At first, I only came up with two. I later thought of a bunch more, when I pushed myself to think beyond the borders of Western Europe (and the Catholic church, I guess), and out into the natural world. But the very first two that popped into my head were Ste.-Chappelle, in Paris, and St. Peter's Basilica.

I'm curious to know what would be on your list. Tell me a few and then I'll share the others that I came up with after more thought.

*And then maybe in a future post I'll explain the train of thought that got me to this particular station because it brings up another topic worth discussing -- can kids be spoiled by experiences (as well as material goods)?

Beer, breastmilk -- whatever gets you through the night

Yesterday I opened up my fantasy football scoreboard to see if my come-from-behind victory was proceeding as planned. Indeed it was, but that's not what made me do a doubletake.


So if the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services and the Ad Council think that a sports website -- with a beer sponsorship, no less -- is a good place for an ad encouraging breastfeeding, what is Facebook's problem? Or Bill Maher's?

I've read many eloquent posts on the subject of what an idiot Maher is and how ridiculous Facebook is, and I completely agree with them. So I'm not going to add anything else except this little Moment of Zen from the world of sports.

And, no comments from the peanut gallery (ahemKyleahem) about my crappy team. It may have been an ugly win, but it was a win.