Happy Easter from the Apocalypse Cafe

With no family in Mayberry we were left to fend for ourselves this weekend. Yesterday a guy in a bunny suit scared the crap out of Opie at an otherwise delightful egg hunt/brunch. This morning I took Jo to church. It always makes me uneasy when I don't get hit with any droplets of holy water during the Asperges. It feels like a bad omen for the rest of the year. At the Brooklyn church where I attended Easter services for several years, the priest always approached this rite with glee, traveling the aisles with a sopping branch and a lieutenant holding an extra-large bowl of holy water for refills. He made it his personal mission to soak every single congregant.

So on our way out of church we made sure to stop at the baptismal font for a quick application of water, just for safety's sake.

This afternoon, with the temperatures barely rising above freezing, outdoor play was out; we went to a matinee. Happy Feet was playing at our local second-run theater. Tap-dancing penguins + minimal crowds + cheap tickets = best odds for Opie's first movie.

So this theater is in a mall that was reborn several years ago as a "youth mall." (Agreed, it sounds like an oxymoron.) It was meant to be a destination for teens, with various retailers, eateries, organizations, and even a charter school. It struggled along for a few years, suffering, no doubt, from the presence of a shiny new mall not far away; and then recently the building was sold. Now the movie theater is the only surviving business in the place.

Walking through the defunct mall to the theater was the creepiest. We're talking exposed wires, crumbling cement, cheap drywall partitions, broken glass and boarded windows, and to top it off, a planter containing three huge dead trees. It was straight out of a post-apocalyptic sci-fi movie. A really bad one.

So you can see why it's a good thing I'd loaded up on the holy water.

Thanks to you, Opie

Thanks to you, I have a few (hundred) more stretchmarks.

Thanks to you, I have more than a passing acquaintance with sleep deprivation.

Thanks to you, I play with cars, trains, and planes. Thanks to you, I read about diggers and scoopers and loaders and dumpers.

Thanks to you, I hear a small voice say "heckicopper" and "hodsipal" and "ki'gaahden" and "I do by SELF," and tell stories about "biiihd in wadder. Catch fish! Beak! Fiiiiiiie away."

Thanks to you, my daughter has the honor of being a big sister.

Thanks to you, I've learned how much stronger a mother's love can become.

Happy 2nd birthday. May you soar above the clouds, wherever life takes you.

April showers bring birthday flowers

Five years ago I labored in vain, drifting in and out of sleep and gazing at the steely East River, until finally a scalpel and a pair of gloved hands delivered all nine and a half pounds of you into your father's arms.

Four years ago your grandmother marveled as you ate fistful after chubby fistful of Veggie Booty. We dressed you in pink and green and celebrated with your dearest baby friends.

Three years ago, you celebrated in your new house. Your favorite aunt visited and you rode your first tricycle.

Two years ago, I again labored in vain. Three hours of contractions slowed to a halt as we toured the neighborhood in your new red wagon; the pains returned just after midnight. You wouldn't share your birthday with your little brother after all. The day he was born, you brought yellow-frosted cookies to school and had your first sleepover.

One year ago you celebrated with your big-girl friends and practiced for your first dance recital.

Today you are five. You can sing and dance and write and allllmost read. You are a loving, caring, bossy big sister. You are my big girl but you'll always be my baby.

More meme-a-licious goodness

Is this interview thing a meme? If it is then I tagged myself by asking Nancy to pose some questions to me. And pose she did.

1. If you were forced to leave the U.S. tomorrow and go to live in another country (never to return), where would you go to live and why?
Well, would one of you lovely Canadians want to take me in? At least then I'd be close enough for my family and friends to visit. Then again, you can't go wrong with the South of France, and I do want to brush up on my French. Especially if I'm independently wealthy in this scenario.

2. Which living person do you most admire, and why?
It's pretty boring to say "My mom." But, my mom has accomplished so much and she's a great role model. Plus it's cute to see her as a grandma.

3. What is your favorite thing about Mayberry? Your least favorite?
It's hard to choose among wonders like 5-cent parking meters, ice-fishing, cheap car insurance (if you live in New Jersey, don't ask. You do not want to know), friendly neighbors, a big old house. But I'll go with the neighbors.

Least: hands-down, distance from family and friends. All that money saved on car insurance goes directly to Northwest Airlines.

4. If you could learn any skill or craft in the world -- without concern for time, money, or natural abilities -- what would it be?
If I can also suspend natural laws, then how about the skill of eating whatever I want without gaining an ounce? As a consolation prize, I'd take being able to cook innovatively and with pleasure, so that I wouldn't dread the coming of the dinner hour each day.

5. What is your fondest childhood memory?
I feel like I'm beating a dead horse here, but I loved watching my dad perform. In the summer his band played at a coffeehouse with an outdoor patio on Sunday afternoons; and in the fall they'd play at a hotel after our local college team's games. Since these were kid-friendly venues, we'd often get to go watch. That sparks another memory: listening to the roar of the crowd from those games from our yard, less than two miles away. We could identify a touchdown even before we heard it announced on the radio.

OK: I am readying my reporter's notebook ... who wants some questions next?

Indescribable

Yesterday Ry and I attended the funeral of the 23 year old son of a co-worker. He had been crossing the street in a crosswalk with friends and family and was hit by a car. He was flown via air ambulance to a trauma centre and passed away there surrounded by his family. He was happy, in university persuing a degree in physics, had a beautiful girlfriend, a job. He had dreams of having a large family of his own one day. Of a great career. What more could a mother ask?

His 4 siblings and his mother and father all spoke at his funeral. It was standing room only and people were packed in right to the doors. The overflow, lobby and hallways were full. There was not a dry eye in the house. His family all read him letters that they had written to him. His father closed with "and as I signed every card I ever wrote you, your one and only Daddy." That's when I lost it. His mother thanked God for the privilege of being his caregiver for 23 1/2 years. As I stood at the back of the funeral home holding Ry in his carrier, swaying and bouncing, kissing his head, looking into his beautiful loving eyes, I could only cry. Cry for the parents who raised this wonderful young man and lost him. Cry for the mother who, for 23 1/2 years felt the amazing and indescribable love that I have only experienced for 4 months. Selfishly, cry out of fear that my baby will grow up and one day be hurt. I know it will happen. I hope it's closer to a scraped knee than a car accident.

I worry. I inherited it. My mom worries. My grandma worries. I wonder if I will ever have a day in my life that I don't spend time worrying about the people I love. Is it simply the fate of a mother? Am I wasting my time when it's all in the hands of God or the universe or however you want to think of it? I enjoy my life immensely. I may enjoy it even more if I didn't worry, but I can't help it. It's not debilitating, but it does go overboard at times when I dream of the horrible things that might have happened when someone is late or not answering the phone.

As I type this, I realize that this post doesn't even come close to describing how I felt or, more importantly, how this family felt yesterday. I can't put it into words. Someone more talented at writing than myself may be able to, but I have my doubts.

I do know this. You have no idea how much your mother loves you until you become one yourself. I would endure any pain or torture to save Ry from it. Without a thought. Gladly. With privilege. It wouldn't matter what it was, how much it hurt. For him, anything. Even while pregnant I loved him immensely, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that came over me when I held him in my arms. It grows more powerful every day. How do you describe the love of a mother?

Eternal. Physical. Overwhelming. Soul-deep. Heartbreaking. Ageless. Timeless. Undying. Passionate. None of those words do it justice.

How do you describe the love of a mother?

I would love to hear it. One word or an essay, it doesn't matter. I want to know.

Nicole blogs about whatever strikes her fancy at Much More Than a Mom dot com. She's a mom, wife, daughter, sister, fur-baby mama, friend, teacher, geek-in-training, fitness instructor, personal trainer, workshop presenter. She knows a lot about very little and very little bit about a lot. She pretends she doesn't care what anybody thinks, but secretly cries in the bathroom if somebody doesn't like her. She is also the founder & senior editor at The Opinionated Parent, where one of her favourite things to do is give stuff away. She's visiting as part of this month's Blog Exchange, for which we've all chosen our all-time favorite post. Read mine at Nicole's place today!

Lucky bum

Overheard from the bike trailer/peanut gallery: "[giggle] I see Mommy's bumper*! [giggle, giggle]"

Opie, trying to push past the barricade I have created with my rear end to prevent him from exiting a restaurant booth: "Cuze me. Cuuuze me. Cuze me bumper!"

*

Today was one of those "I really lucked out with this job" days. I spent most of it surfing the "kidlitosphere," blogs by teachers, librarians, journalists, and other miscellaneous lovers of children's books. I'm working my way down through this blogroll and -- wow.

Next up: Crafty moms. Not so much the ones that rock the grownup crafts, like Supa (she knits! she sews! she paints! she gestates!), but the ones who have clever ideas for kiddie projects.

If you have any faves in either category, I'd love to hear about them. Also any ways to remove tomato-soup stains. I have done the Shout-soak-wash-repeat cycle on one of Jo's dresses at least 10 times and it's still hanging on. If I can't get it out the dress is fit only for the costume box.

*Daycare-speak for derrière.

My tree-hugging siblings would be so proud

and so would anyone else green, along with you future MILFs and cycling chicks. I've used the bike trailer for the past few child-care runs and plan to keep it up all spring and summer. No pollution, a mini-workout, and the kids think it's fun. Win, win, win.

I don't think I need to explain how blissed out I am that spring is here. We spent almost all day Sunday outside playing, chatting with the neighbors, and making feeble attempts at yardwork. The kids were so worn out that they conked out before 7 p.m. (!) so I had time to read a few chapters of my book* and take the dog for a nice walk before it got dark. Yesterday was crazy warm and I took my laptop out on the porch for part of the day, played with the kids outside after school, and then ate dinner with them at their kiddie picnic table. That's one benefit of a long, cold winter -- we sure appreciate spring when it does show up.

*Book update: Page 844, and we postponed our meeting for a week. So there's a chance a might even finish it in time.

The music meme. Or, thoroughly busted.

As a know-it-all teenager I thought that the way to stave off old fogy-dom was simply to continue listening to top-40 radio. Because then you would continue to be cool.

And that, my friends, is my excuse for the lameness which follows. Instead of the seven songs I'm listening to right now (because really, that list would be "grandpa songs [the CD my dad made for the kids] track 1, grandpa songs track 2, grandpa songs track 3," etc.), I give you the seven songs that are guaranteed to make me smile, sing along, and usually bust a move too.

1. When Ragtime Rosie Ragged the Rosary: I've already written about why I love this one.

2. Stacy's Mom from Fountains of Wayne's Welcome Interstate Managers. Because it reminds me of Tacy's mom, and because we used to drive by the store that inspired the band's name all the time when we lived in New York.

3. Stand from REM's Green. College nostalgia I.

4. Walking on Sunshine, Katrina & the Waves. If this song doesn't make you happy then you have a heart of stone, is all I'm saying.

5. Here Comes My Baby, Cat Stevens on the Rushmore soundtrack. If I have to pick just one from this compilation, this is the one.

6. Sweet Child O' Mine. GNR, baby. College nostalgia II.

7. Who's Your Baby Now from Mark Knopfler's solo album Sailing to Philadelphia. Enchanting, lyrical, lilting, love the whole album.

Thanks, Bon! If anyone else out there hasn't played yet and wants to, consider yourself tagged.

Thundering into spring

Two years ago this week, I bumped into a neighbor who's married to an ob-gyn. Making small talk about my impending delivery, I said I hoped the coming full moon would do the trick. "Or maybe we'll get a thunderstorm," she replied.

I'd never heard that before, but she swore that she, her husband, and his colleagues over the years had noticed a significant uptick in births during and just after storms. Thunderstorms are a summer phenomenon, I thought; the snow is just barely receding. There's no way we'll get one now.

Sure enough, a few days later thunder clapped through the sky, lightning flashed, slashing rain fell, my dog curled into a tiny ball, trembling and panting. And my baby ... stayed firmly put. He didn't emerge until more than a week later.

Tonight we ushered in spring with a rousing storm. This time, no restless baby kicking at my insides, keeping me guessing on when he'd come and who he'd be. Now a toddler demanding "more boom!" Now a tiny boy following his big sister's lead, hovering over a terrified dog, patting and soothing. "Okay, Fah-ee. Okay." Now a blond head nodding to sleep on my shoulder as the lightning bursts through the window blinds. Now my own Opie.

Ye olde mommyblogger standby

1. Reverse psychology: Start 'em young.
Jo and Opie are playing in her room. I'm listening from the kitchen over the baby monitor. Jo wants to come down, but Opie doesn't. So she tries this sly little ploy: "Opie! Wanna go upstairs? Yeah? OK! This is downstairs here. That way is upstairs. Let's go! Let's go upstairs!"


2. Was it Rick? Maybe Mick? Slick?
I'm changing Opie's diaper. He starts to sing (calendar notwithstanding) "Ho ho ho, who wunna go, ho ho ho, who wunna go? Up onna housetop kick kick kick, down frew da chimmey wi' good saint ... ... ... SANTA!"


3. Never mind what I was going to say about your shoes, then
At preschool:

JO: Megan, those are some spiffy pants!
MEGAN (wailing): Miss Ruuuuth! Jo said she's spitting on me!

Real moms have big dreams

Or, two memes in one! Thanks to Kristen at The Mom Trap for her Real Moms meme, and to Magpie Musing for the books Q&A.

My big dream is to finish this book. Or to read in general. I love to read, I identify myself as a reader, I was a double major in English and French literature, for God's sake. And yet it is a huge struggle for me to read one novel a month for book club, even when it's not a monster like this one (The Count of Monte Cristo, weighing in at 1400+ pages). Then there are the dozens of magazines I want/need to read for work, and the Sunday New York Times that thuds onto my porch every week (I should've taken a picture of that stack--some of it dates back to January).

But I refuse to believe I am not a reader. Someday, maybe when I'm stuck waiting around in my car for the kids, I will read at my usual rate again. Either that or I'll have to move back to New York and start commuting by bus again.

Hardback or trade paperback or mass market paperback? Trade paper, for portability without total flimsiness.

Amazon or brick and mortar? Usually brick and mortar because I wait until the last second.

Barnes & Noble or Borders? No Borders 'round here so B&N it is.

Bookmark or dog ear? Bookmark if it's the library's. Dogears in a book-club book (if I own it) where I want to be able to refer back to several passages.

Alphabetize by author or alphabetize by title or random? By author. Random would just Not Do.

Keep, throw away, or sell? Give away, usually. Sometimes via Bookins.

Keep dust jacket or toss it? Keep. And I am so with Magpie on the uselessness of jackets for kids' books. Why?!

Read with dust jacket or remove it? Remove.

Short story or novel? Novel.

Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket? Harry. But that's partly for professional reasons. I look forward to reading the Lemony Snickets with my kids when they're bigger.

Stop reading when tired or at chapter breaks? At chapter breaks or, more usually, when interrupted.

Buy or borrow? Depends. I like to own the book club books at least until I know how I feel about them--then I might pass them on to someone else.

New or used? Used if I can get through Bookins. Haven't found a good used bookstore here yet.

Buying choice: book reviews, recommendation or browse? Usually reviews (or other press coverage) and recommendations.

Tidy ending or cliffhanger? Tidy please.

Morning reading, afternoon reading or nighttime reading? Nighttime is the only possibility. Usually while I am brushing and flossing.

Stand-alone or series? Stand-alone.

Favorite children's book? That's very hard to say. But our whole household loves 10 Minutes till Bedtime, by Peggy Rathmann.

Favorite book of which nobody else has heard? Have you heard of that Rathmann book? Or how about another children's book, the totally surreal DeZert Isle by Claude Ponti?

Favorite books read last year? The Time-Traveller's Wife.

So far this year? I finally read Elie Wiesel's Night.

Favorite books of all time? A Prayer for Owen Meany. The Poisonwood Bible. The Little House series (as in ...on the Prairie). My Antonia. A Tale of Two Cities. The Age of Innocence. The Hours. Interpreter of Maladies. Charlotte's Web.

Least favorite book you finished last year? I didn't think Kite Runner was as fabulous as everyone else did. I thought the plot turned on a huge coincidence, which is a really lazy device.

What are you reading right now? The Count of Monte Cristo. Only 1100 pages to go.

What are you reading next? Whatever the book club pick for April is. (Also, it will be my turn to suggest a book club book soon--recommendations welcome!)

Small vehicular victories

Unfortunately, no one has puked in my car in the past week. Or discharged a dramatic poo-splosion. Or even backed into me in the drive-through lane, causing me to spill my chai latte all over my lap and my upholstery.

So that means I didn't get to test out all of these snazzy Blink products. Still, I do drive a mom-mobile littered with candy wrappers, used Kleenex, and unsticky old stickers, plus stray macaroni noodles and dried beans that have jumped off precious works of art. I still have beige leather seats that (now that spring is finally, sort of, springing) bear both salty white and muddy brown footprints in sizes "small" and "smaller." And I still occasionally transport a dog with a slimy nose.

But hey! You wouldn't know it now that I've cleaned up my act. I've relocated the garbage into a handy Trash Tosser drawstring plastic bag. The small but long-lasting Mess Lifter wipes took care of my grimy seats. And the very cleverly packaged Smudge Cleaner (it's a small spray bottle with a built-in pocket holding a stack of dry wipes) worked a charm on the nose prints. I even tried it out on the kitchen window next to my toddler's chair--the one that's been coated with fingerprints and unidentified food substances for weeks now. Goo begone!

What I liked: A big part of the appeal of these products is their good-things-come-in-small-packages design. Each container is small--six inches or so across--and can be clipped on to a seat back or door pocket or stuffed into the glove compartment. The products I tried worked effectively--the wipes were small, but long-lasting (I cleaned two kitchen windows with just one Smudge Cleaner, and wiped down almost all my leather seating with one Mess Lifter).

What I didn't: Keeping all these gizmos in my car makes it feel more cluttered, which pretty well defeats the purpose. I don't want to clip the boxes to the seat backs because then my kids will be able to get at the goods--and I'm sure you can imagine why that isn't good. My glove box and center console are already, of course, overstuffed. I solved this problem by using one of the Tidy Totes--Blink's reusable mesh bag--to contain all the containers.

Who it's for: Any parent (and I include you dog moms and dads here too) who wants to get ahead of the pigpen-on-wheels syndrome that can take over the family car at a moment's notice. Note that all the products except the mesh bags are disposable, which may not be acceptable to the greenest among us. The good news is that, as I noted above, one tiny wipe goes quite a long way.

For a chance to win your own batch of Blink products, enter the Mess Makers promotion. Grand prize is a digital photo package--we're talking two cameras, a camcorder, a printer, photo paper, and processing.

Certainly no need to check the calendar today

Moms unite against Daylight Savings Time! Who's with me?

After a nearly 30-minute struggle to drag (literally and figuratively) my children from their beds this morning, I finally get them to school. As I'm changing Opie into his slippers I spot a police car through the side door. "Look kids, a police car!" "Why is there a police car at our school, Mommy?" "I don't know...OK, time to take Opie into his class!"

You know what the police car was doing? Giving me a parking ticket. Directly in front of the school. Where I (and every other parent) have been parking every morning and afternoon for three solid years. Granted, right underneath a no parking sign, but I uh, guess I thought it didn't apply to me or something. Also: this block contains the school on one side, and TWO houses on the other. What's with the draconian parking laws?

Wanna know how much a parking ticket is in Mayberry?

$10.

A study in cracking me up

Read this post, and you'll see why I nominated it for the February ROFL Awards organized by Chicky Chicky Baby, Metro Mama, and Izzy.

I've enjoyed Jennifer's blog, under the ponderosas, for months now. She has a special talent for both loving and describing the natural world around her, and for sharing it with her kids. But as the nominated post proves, she also has a sly sense of humor that is not to be missed.

Jennifer, email me to claim your prize (a lovely bit of HTML code)!

All the news that's fit to blog

Let's say I worked for a website devoted to kids' reading and learning, which was part of a major media/publishing company. And let's say that company wanted to create a newsletter especially for bloggers, pointing out fun, interesting, new stuff on the site. Would you want to read it? How often? What would you want it to include? What would make you say "enough of this damn spam?"

I'd love to hear your thoughts. And if you want a copy of such a thing if and when it does materialize, please leave me your email address in the comments or at mayberrymom2006 at yahoo dot com.

Haunting me

Whose dumb idea was this?

Injecting a little dose of cul-chah

I’m noticing a theme here. It’s a little like freshman year in college. Aside from their nonstop eating and their habit of strewing their belongings far and wide and deep, my children are studying the following subjects:

1. Music of the 20th Century
Both love listening to and playing music. So I thought it would be fun to take them to a free concert at our library a few Sundays ago.

(I’ll pause now for you to laugh at my idealism.)

Yes, I thought that I could scoop up my almost 2-year-old son literally seconds after his nap ended, toss him in the car with his almost 5-year-old sister who only thinks she doesn’t need a nap, and hustle them into a large room crowded with strangers where they would be expected to sit quietly and listen to more than an hour’s worth of jazz.

The band was billed as a “gypsy swing” ensemble so I guess I was picturing singing, dancing, trumpets, saxophones — all kinds of both ear and eye candy (they LOVE this boogie-woogie dance video). In reality, it was two guitars and an upright bass. And the musicians were excellent. It’s just that for two preschoolers, the excitement of watching and listening to them faded after about 10 minutes (not so coincidentally, about as long as it took for them to consume the cookies they grabbed from the refreshment table on the way in).

Since we arrived at the last minute, we were sitting on the far side of the room away from the door (and the cookies!). There was no way out unless we walked directly in front of the band, in the 3-foot aisle between them and the first row of seats. Instead we made our way to the corner, alongside the band were the kids could see a little better and also spread out, stand up if they liked, even dance a bit.

The drawbacks? Also located in the same place were a baby stroller filled with enticing items (juice boxes, toys, blankets) belonging to another family; a wheeled walker delicately leaning against the wall, ready to topple over at the slightest touch from an inquisitive toddler; and the emergency exit, armed with ear-piercing alarm. Oh, and the band’s amps, speakers, and power cords. Needless to say, I spent most of my time chasing Opie away from danger zones and shushing him when he said “Home! Jacket! Car! Wan’ go home!” At least Jo was pretty happy to lounge on the floor and listen quietly, especially once she was promised more cookies on the way out.

2. Art History
When we went to see my parents, we decided to visit an art museum. (Again, I pause.) The exhibit was called "Monet in Normandy," so in the car on the way there I talked to Jo about what we would see. I was hoping to drum up some excitement.

I started giving her what I thought was an age-appropriate lesson in Monet and Impressionism. I told her that we would see lots of pictures of flowers and beaches and places outside. I told her this painter loved painting outdoors and that he was always trying to notice different colors, and how the color of something (like a flower or the ocean) could change depending on whether it was morning or afternoon, sunny or cloudy. I told her how he would line up a series of canvasses and work at them for a few minutes at a time, switching as the light around him changed.

I told her how he used a lot of small little brushmarks to create his pictures, and how if we looked at them from far away we would see a scene that we could recognize, but if we got up close we would only see little dots. Here she jumped in. "I know about those dots! It's called pointillism!"

Good grief! Okay, so a real art historian would say that Pointillism isn't the same as Impressionism (it came later) but still, I was... impressed. Turns out she learned it from TV. Naturally.

Meanwhile, Opie had absorbed some of the excitement and chirped, "I see paintings! I go museum see paintings! I say ‘HI paintings!’"At the exhibit itself, results were mixed. Both kids did pretty well at walking through the galleries (or at switching from stroller to floor to Mommy to Daddy, repeat) and looking at the paintings, but I was glad that the museum wasn't yet crowded. I later figured out why Jo seemed a little disappointed. Turns out she was hoping to see the Mona Lisa! Apparently the episode of Blue's Room in which Blue and company visit a museum taught her about "masterpieces," and she was on the lookout for one.

Our apologies to M. Monet, but apparently his water lilies didn't qualify.

3. Literary Criticism
Jo and her friend H. are playing in a tent.

H: Come into the tent, Jo! It’s our club!
J: Yeah! Our book club!

When Photoshop goes bad

If you happen to have the latest issue of Cookie magazine (which I only do because Jeff brings it home from work--let's be clear on the fact that I would never pay money for it), please turn to page 37.

Oh wait! It's online.

Look at the picture of the mom in her sunny yellow dress, holding a naked one-year-old in each arm.

Now look more closely at the little boy on the left. It's not as obvious on screen as it is in print, but he has been completely emasculated by an overeager airbrushing. I realize that it would not be cool to publish a picture of this child's meat & potatoes, but seeing him without them is freaking me out.

And furthermore, it looks like the older child is using unnaturally prehensile toes to try to sneak a look up his mom's skirt.

Round of sarcastic applause to the photo editor on this one. Of course it's hard to get a decent picture of two babies and a preschooler. But you should have kept on trying.

When Ragtime Rosie Ragged the Rosary

Originally posted at Blooming Yaya as part of the Blog Exchange; our assignment was to write about a song (or compose one of our own, as Bobita did).

Really – it’s a song. You can Google it.

Don’t most kids grow up singing goofy novelty tunes from 1911? No? Just me? Huh. You didn’t dance to this song at your wedding reception? Just me again?

You missed out. My dad is a musician—a banjo player and a singer—and this is one of my favorite songs from his exhaustive repertoire. Composed by a man named Lewis Muir (or maybe Edgar Leslie), it goes like this:

Old Parson Lee from Tennessee
In accents loud and clear
Said “Folks I’m awfully sorry
But our organist ain’t here.
I’d like to get someone to volunteer
To help us out”

Well a gal named Ragtime Rosie got up
And said that she could play
The Parson seemed delighted
And said “Just step this way.”
The congregation bowed their heads to pray
Then came a shout

CHORUS:
When Ragtime Rosie ragged the rosary
Deacon Alexander started in to reprimand her
But he turned around only to see
That instead of prayin’ Rosie had the folks a-swayin’
That tune so sweet
Was such a treat
It charmed their feet and set them
Dancin’, prancin’
Ragtime two-step ‘til old Parson Lee
He forgot his sermon and began to squawk in German …

That’s from memory, but it checks out. This song was always a huge hit with me and my brother and sister when we were kids. It has a great beat, fun rhymes, and rags (har har) on how boring church can be. Perfect! (You can listen to a sample--look for Track 12. Disclaimer: Not my dad.)

As a child I thought it was cool that my dad was in a band and we could go see him perform (another of our favorite tunes was something called “Chili Bom Bom” because tee-hee! He said “bum”!). As an adult, I’m very proud of both his talent and his role in preserving an important piece of Americana: traditional jazz from the early 20th century. It goes way (way, way) beyond “When the Saints Go Marching In” and believe me, my dad has the LPs, CDs, and sheet music to prove it. He also has some pretty good stories. Here’s one from his site.

In 1963, we played at a joint on Chicago Ave., between State and Wabash. We had just finished playing the Saints as our closing number. A guy with a beret walked in and wanted us to play the Saints. Persuaded by the $50 tip, we played it again. Sometimes on Fridays (Saturday morning!) we would go down State St. and play for tips at a gin mill that was open until 5 a.m. We asked Freddy the Frenchman (as we quickly named the big tipper) to go with us.

We were driving down State and one of our guys asked Freddy what he did for a living. He said "I'm a professional thief" and pulled a pistol out from under his jacket! We told him we had changed our minds about playing more and dropped him off on a corner. We went on down to the club and started playing.

A little while later Freddy came in. He hung around while we nervously began to pack up. He said he didn't like the piano player (not one of our guys) and if he didn't stop playing he would shoot him! Our guys rapidly packed up and started to leave. I was the first one out the door! Freddy started shooting up the joint, grazed the piano player, and robbed the bartender. Two of our guys tackled Freddy as he left the bar and held him until the police arrived.

My dad’s not Catholic, but I’m pretty sure he was saying a few rosaries that night.

Dirty Laundry ~ Kickin' It MY Style!

I make my living in the college halls
Accused of crushin’ students’ balls
But wait a minute, housework calls…
Got too much dirty laundry

Well I could have been recluse
But I wound up here
Moppin’ floors and washin’ dishes
I think I need another beer
Come and wipe away my tear
Got too much dirty laundry

Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around

I’ve got the dinner-prep and bath-time
All before five
Let me tell ya 'bout the sink slime
Splashed up in my eye
This stack o’ dishes oughtta be a crime
Still there’s dirty laundry

Now I gotta change a diaper
Cuz it’s drippin’ wet
And...now I gotta get a phone call
A student, I bet
Get the wetwipes, break a sweat
SHIT!! The dirty laundry!

I think I really need to figure out
What's going on
Just made the second phone call
Cuz hubby’s not home
For this, the bastard will atone
Fuck the dirty laundry

Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me when I’m down
Kick me when I’m up
Kick me all around


Hi! My name is Bobita and I am visiting today for the March Blog Exchange! Usually, you can find me over at my place, Blooming Yaya, where there is no shortage of complaints about dirty laundry (even without the help of Don Henley!). Please head on over to my place where Mayberry Mom is singin’ her tune today!

If you would like to be part of next month’s Blog Exchange, please click the link above or the button in the sidebar…why not join all the fun?!

Into the wild, blue, freaked-out yonder with dear old Dad

Next month my dad turns 70. Since he and my mom are too busy to celebrate next month (apparently retirement agrees with them), my siblings and I and the spouses and kids all descended last weekend for a little celebration. Since my poor dad got overlooked in all the Love Thursdaying of everyone else, it's his turn today.

When he was growing up, he wanted to be a pilot. He still has all his old flight plans and logbooks and even a leather jacket and one of those crazy leather helmet things. Eventually he learned that his eyesight wasn't good enough for him to fly professionally. He instead become a professor of education, specializing--starting way back in the '70s--in how teachers could use technology.

He always had fond memories of his flying days, so for their 40th wedding anniversary, my mom bought him some more lessons, which he took last fall. He still had some time left over when we showed up for his birthday, so he decided to take us all for a ride--with an instructor. My sister and I went up together. It may not be obvious from this picture (she's the one on the left, beaming!), but she was terrified.



Truth be told, my dad was terrified too. But he pulled it off.

Despite his successful career (the on-the-ground one), his true calling has always been music. He grew up in a musical family (we have a picture in which his dad, my grandfather, is playing a jug next to another guy playing a washboard) and became passionate about traditional (or Dixieland) jazz. In his 50 years as a banjo-player he has worked with dozens of bands across the country, recorded I don't know how many albums, and amassed a huge library of recordings and sheet music. Next month he'll be performing at jazz festivals in Oregon and Hungary.

I grew up going to see him perform and one of the bands he was in for many years played at my wedding. For the longest time--I must have been 10 or 11 before I got a clue--I thought that the style of music he played was all there was. I had no concept of contemporary or popular music because it was never, ever heard in our home. More on his music tomorrow.

I've heard that Chelsea Clinton once told the school nurse to "call my dad. My mom's too busy." I loved that quote because it reminded me of my own childhood. My dad was frequently the one who picked us up at school or took us to doctor's appointments, at a time when none of the other dads would ever do such a thing. When my brother and sister were in their last years of high school and my mom got a job in another state, Dad stayed behind so they wouldn't have to switch schools. His job as a professor was flexible so he was home a lot--so much that they used to tease him about whether he really was gainfully employed.

I love that he signs birthday cards "D.O.D."
I love that my son worships him.
I love that he still has his plaid, bell-bottom Christmas pants and wears them every year.
I love that he is extremely supportive of my mom's career.
I love that he calls the innermost underground part of his basement the Bat Cave.
I love that he saved the shredded, ragged bits of all three kids' security blankets.
I love that he's my dad.

Hidden treasure found in half-bath

When I was growing up, my parents had a TV in the corner of their room. It sat on top of a miniature chest of drawers. I remember sitting two feet away to watch, my back pressed against the side of a dresser and my bony butt growing numb from the hardwood floor. I never gave much thought to the little doll chest.

Two houses later, the chest ended up in the downstairs powder room, with an array of tchotchkes, soaps, and hand towels on top. One of the drawers still holds a stash of Barbie clothes that my sister and I inherited from our grandmother's second husband's daughter, who'd played with them in the late 60s. My parents entertain a lot and I always thought that anyone snooping in those drawers would be pretty surprised to find a collection of 6-inch-long minidresses and fur coats.

So this weekend we went to see my parents and Jo discovered the Barbies for the first time. The dolls themselves live in the toy bin near the kitchen, but someone remembered the clothes in the bathroom and brought them out for Jo to play with. It seemed easiest to bring the whole drawer over and dump its contents onto the table.

That's when we found the writing on the underside of the drawer.

Do not destroy

This doll clothes cabinet built prior to 1895 for Kelly family children who lived on a farm near Eau Galle, Wisconsin.

Catherine Ellen [that's me] C__'s great-grandmother Mrs. Anton (Kelly) W__ (of Durand, Wisconsin remembers it was used in her childhood and prior thereto by older children.

(Some repairs and paint made by Carl A. B__, Catherine's grandpa.)

Mice made this hole --->

I was amazed. I'd lived with this piece of furniture for 18 years, but I never knew this was there. There is a notation from this same grandfather on my dining room table, but it basically scolds anyone who comes across it that the table must remain in the possession of my mother or one of her children. This note on the doll chest was a real effort to pass along a piece of family history. I love that he decided the best way to do so was to write directly onto the wood (and of course, he was right).

Furthermore, the Barbie clothes rocked.

It's safe to be a sturgeon again

Today, as I looked beyond my laptop and out my front windows, I was amused by the endless procession of pick-up trucks towing ice shanties away from the lake. We're starting to thaw.

By this past Monday--President's Day--it had been a very long week. Opie came down with a mild fever the previous Monday, so that meant no school for him for three days. Friday is my regular day off and Monday was a holiday. Of course! I love! spending time with my kids! but maybe not so much time for so many days in a row.

What got me past the wall of this particular marathon was that the temperature finally approached freezing (instead of being below zero), so Monday afternoon we hauled out the wagon and took a walk. First we checked out the lake and the ice-fishing. Further up the shoreline, a few families had cleared off enough snow to create a rectangular ice rink. We waved to a dad (hi, anesthesiologist on whom I once barfed) on skates who was pulling his two daughters behind him on a sled. We waved to two more boys in full hockey gear making their way down to the rink. Turning the corner, we approached a different, thawed area of the lake. Instead of ice shanties, here we found what seemed like hundreds of Canada geese taking a breather. Soon we were talking about migration, about what geese eat and whether bugs live in the water, and of course about all the goose poop we had to dodge on the sidewalk.

Back near our street, Jo started spotting birds’ nests, including a curious, smooth, round ball in one of our next-door neighbor’s trees (I chose not to mention that it might house hornets instead of songbirds). This soon led to a discussion of how the trees have no leaves in wintertime and then to speculation about all the things trees are good for.

Thus I regained the strength for the tantrums that followed seconds after we walked in the door (hot cocoa denied, etc. etc.) and the dinner and the bedtime and the laundry and the dishes and whatever else.

And if you need strength or a restoration of faith, don't miss the comments on my last post. Y'all are a bunch of superior monkeys, for sure.

I would like a human head

If I had a dollar for every time I put money into an automatic carwash and drove away with a still-dirty car, I'd have at least $5. Which I would probably then be dumb enough to feed into yet another automatic carwash.

*

The title is inspired by Suebob. A long time ago my brother saw a celebrity interview in which the celeb quoted a child of his acquaintance (details remain fuzzy) who, when asked what he wanted for his birthday, replied: "I would like a human head." Thenceforth my siblings and I always answer the question "What do you want?" with "I would like ... a human head." (This is another occasion in which sound would be useful; because there is a very particular inflection that must be used when repeating this line.) Does your family have any taglines of its own?

Judgment calls: More playing, fewer French fries

Nothing gets my inner sanctimommy more riled up than seeing a two-year-old drinking from a baby bottle ... filled with soda. Or a relative telling me that her toddler goes to bed at 11 p.m., “because she’s not tired before then—she just refuses.” Or overhearing a parent say that the only furniture in each of her children’s rooms is a bed, a TV, and a Playstation, “because they’ll destroy everything else.”

In times like these, what I need are a few copies of Good Kids, Bad Habits: The RealAge® Guide to Raising Healthy Children, by pediatrician Jennifer Trachtenberg (new from Collins), to distribute. Then I could stand back and let the good doctor sensibly, succinctly describe why kids need to eat healthy foods, get a decent amount of sleep, and stay active—plus offer a pretty realistic plan for helping them do so.

I can’t say that I learned anything especially new in this book, save a few tips on boosting nutrition (example: challenge kids to pick out a rainbow of fruits and vegetables at the supermarket—eating a variety of colors pretty much guarantees a healthy dose of vitamins and antioxidants). But maybe that is the point. The advice here is not gimmicky or instant-fix. It’s solid, straightforward, and sane. It’s also convincing, especially the sidebars listing both the short- and long-term effects of “bad habits” such as poor nutrition, couch potato-ism, and slacking on preventive care and safety.

I wouldn’t suggest reading this book all in one go, lest you feel overwhelmed by the changes you probably ought to be making. Start with a chapter or two and incorporate some of Dr. Trachtenberg’s tips. Once they’ve become a good habit, move on to something else. You can use the RealAge Healthy Kids Test, either in the book or online, to figure out where you need the most help. (But if you’re anything like me, you already know—you just need a kick in the butt to remind you to work on it.)

What I liked: The book features several helpful charts and checklists, many of which you can find online if you’d like to print them out. There is also an excellent set of questions you can use to assess your child’s self-esteem. One useful chapter provides brief profiles of chronic conditions (from asthma to autism to cancer), with overviews of their prevalence, symptoms, and treatments, plus links to organizations where you can get more detailed info. Another chapter offers short reviews of more than two dozen other helpful websites.

What I didn’t: Simple is good—to a point. Sometimes Dr. Jen (I know—yuck) gives off too much of a breezy, easy-for-you-to-say vibe. Her advice on quitting pacifiers and thumbsucking—vices with which I am well acquainted—boiled down to cold turkey for the former and sticker charts or gloves for the latter. Dude, we are so beyond that point.

Who it’s for: Any parent who’s resolved to instill life-long healthy habits in her kids—or change some not-quite-so-healthy ones. I will caution you, though, that it’s very mainstream. There is nothing here about delaying or refusing vaccines, alternative or Eastern medicine, reducing kids’ exposure to chemicals, or even eating organic (except one short item about milk).

Out of the beaks of babes

In the car, the conversation turns to birds, varieties thereof. Jo begins to reel off a list: "There's bluebirds, there's peckernoses..."

Jeff nearly veers off the road.

"Um. Peckernoses?" I ask. "OH. Do you mean woodpeckers?"

"Yes!" She replies. "Peckernoses. Because they peck their noses into a tree."

Love is a man who...

...does the dishes


... and the laundry

... and then shares his clubhouse with his sister.

Happy Valentine's Day. I hope you were showered with flowers, jewelry, calorie-free chocolate, and whatever else your heart desired.

I told you I lived in the frozen North

I took this picture this morning about 300 yards from my front door. The white stuff on the bottom half is a lake covered with snow and ice. The white stuff on the top half is the sky. The black dots in the middle are ice-fishing shanties. Like this:



It's currently sturgeon-spearing season here (she says, revealing yet another clue to her supersecret location). I am weirdly and utterly fascinated by this. I know everything there is to know about it that you can learn by reading the newspaper (and not actually doing it in person, because hell no). First you have to cut a hole in the ice (no more than 48 square feet please), then place your ice shanty over it. Stock the shanty with a heater, a hot plate, and several thermoses of coffee. Position your spear so it's dangling into the water. Then: sit and stare at the hole. Wait for a fish to swim by. If it does, drop the spear and stab the sucker.

There are tons of rules about when and where and how you can spear these prehistoric-looking beasts, which can live 100 years and grow to 6 feet long and over 100 pounds. I'm not sure why I find this topic so endlessly entertaining (seriously: last year our paper published recipes for how to make your own caviar from the sturgeon's roe), except for maybe the fact that it's one of those vestiges of regionalism that are so hard to find. We all eat at the same chain restaurants, shop at the same stores, watch the same TV shows, use the same slang. But how many of us have ever speared a sturgeon? Or even just pushed our kids down to the end of the block in their strollers to see how the season's going?

(My West Coast sisters: "Registering" means taking your fish to a designated spot--usually a bar!--so it can be measured and counted. No oaths, anthems, or civics exams.)

Supermodels, supermoms, you and me

In my magazine days, the directive was clear: The reader wants service. All stories must have service. Push the service on the cover. Service, service, service. So everything we published had to be full of tips, how-tos, solutions, advice--you know, all the "8 easy ways to get your toddler to beg for brussels sprouts" and "10 top weight-loss tips from coke-addicted supermodels" and the like. It was exceedingly rare to publish a personal essay. ("It happened to me" disease-of-the-week or crime stories were the exception, of course.)

Fast-forward to now and the burgeoning blogosphere, and especially the mom-and-dad-o-sphere. Everyone seems to be writing and reading and commenting, and most of what we're all posting falls into that "personal essay" category. Is it that we are an entirely different audience from those magazine readers/subscribers? Is it that blogs are free, so our requirements are different--we don't feel such a need to get our $2.95's worth of advice?

Or is it that those magazines had it all wrong, all this time? That we were craving personal stories, unfiltered thoughts and ideas, and were just waiting for this medium to both express them and consume them?

I wonder.

24 hours of decadence

1. 8 hours alone

• Mostly in the car, marinating in NPR.
• Especially charmed by a story on This American Life, about a boy who idolized his late father so much that he decided to build a time machine so he could see his dad again. He spent more than 50 years studying quantum physics so he could figure out how to build the machine. (TAL's web site doesn't allow me to link directly to the story but it's called "Tragedy Minus Time Equals Happily Ever After"; the subject of it also wrote a memoir).
• A large chai tea latte consumed entirely by me with no one pestering me for a drink of it.

2. 8 hours asleep.

• Stayed up late.
• Slept in cushy hotel bed.
• Woke up at nine-thirty a.m. and read People magazine before taking a hot shower while not also listening for someone yelling "Ma-MAAAAAA!"

3. 8 hours with Julie.

• Drinks, and appetizers, and an attempted pick-up by a really drunk guy at an Irish bar. I mean, I think Julie and I are cute and all, but we had like 15 years on this guy and were both wearing wedding rings. A few minutes later he was involved in some sort of altercation and was escorted from the bar by a pair of cops.
• Slept through breakfast, proceeded directly to lunch.
• Had chocolate fondue for dessert at lunch. Fondue, as in molten chocolate.

Yeah. It was a good day.

P.S.: I didn't include this at first because it technically happened outside of the 24 hours, but the icing on the day's cake was finally, finally meeting my fellow Mayberrian Movin'Mom! I vow that another six months will not pass before it happens again.

A real snot-freezer

God, this sucks. I can't seem to stop eating, our last gas/electric bill was $429.71, and I have huge fights with the kids every time we have to go outside. Typical exchange: Jo refuses to wear her mittens; I tell her she has to; she refuses; repeat until I am yelling "If you don't wear them you will get frostbite and a doctor will have to cut your fingers off!!!" (no, I'm not proud of that one).

The last time I can rememer being this cold was when I lived in France in college. I stayed in a house just outside of Grenoble, a town in the mountains of Savoie that hosted the Winter Olympics in 1968. Grâce à Dieu, some friend of my parents had a daughter who'd spent time there, and she urged me to bring some long underwear. I had one pair, the silk kind, and I wore them day and night for weeks. I slept in the long johns, flannel pajamas, a hooded sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, and a bathrobe. My bedroom was on the ground floor and jutted out from the front of the house, with three walls and the roof exposed, so it was even more freezing than the rest of the place. (Also loud: A few mornings a week, my host mother's son would drop off his small children for her to babysit. He'd open the front door, just outside my bedroom door, and shove the kids in, shouting Maman! Je les laisse!! at the top of his lungs, and then leave.)

To get to the university where I took classes, I'd have to walk a half-mile from the house to the bus stop--uphill, naturellement--then take the bus to the tram. If I knew how to upload audio I'd give you my imitation of the disembodied Tram Lady Voice saying "Attention à la fermeture des portes! Ce tram a son terminus à Gare Europole." I assure you, my impression is dead on.

Dream on

Updated: see answers below!

Match the dream with the family member who recalled it this morning:

1. I was coming home and I was flying in a lawn chair to get there. But I came down too early and landed in a little stream far away from home.

2. I ate 100 carrots.

3. I was graduating from high school and I gave my vice principal 88 turtles, because I didn't like him and I wanted him to have to take care of them for 100 years.

Answer choices: A. Jeff; B. Mayberry Mom; C. Jo. For extra credit, supply analysis.



...and the correct answers are: 1-B, 2-C, 3-A. While I'm pretty sure Jo was just trying to keep up with the Joneses, Jeff's and mine are the real deal.

Kickin' it, preschool

When this DVD arrived for review, I frankly did not have high hopes. Opie's attention span for television is limited to the length of the Bob the Builder theme song ("Baaaa the Bill-er: Ca' we fissit? Yeh we CAN!"). And Jo, while a complete sucker for anything emanating from a screen, firmly resists attempts to break the fourth wall. She refuses to help Dora or Diego by jumping over crocodiles or rowing boats or even peeling bananas, no matter how much they ask for ayuda. She won't even lift a finger to push the buttons on Shane and David's remote.

So the first time we watched "the soccer ball show," as the kids later named it, I wasn't surprised that she didn't budge from her usual position on the couch. But she wasn't immune to the DVD's catchy songs and friendly footage of kids at play (this isn't an instructional video--more of a showcase for the sport). A few hours later, she found a dying helium balloon on the floor of her bedroom. She immediately scouted out a goal--aha! a kid-sized table was perfect--and booted that balloon into it like a mini Mia Hamm. Gooooaaaaal!

Opie, too, surprised me by paying attention to nearly all 30 minutes of the DVD at our first viewing. He loved watching the big kids and guffawed as a small dog, complete with tiny sneakers on all four paws, scampered after a batch of black-and-white balls with the smaller children.

The next day, both kids cheered when I asked if they wanted to watch the show again. This time, I tossed a small soccer ball onto the floor near the TV. That did it: They were on their feet for most of the length of the show. (Luckily for Julie, Kristen and the folks at athleticBaby, neither of my kids has a strong enough leg to do any damage to my furniture--yet.)

So the mayberrymom family gives athleticBaby: Soccer! two big toes up. (Grooooaaaaan.)

What we liked: Seeing a diverse group of real kids playing (I especially appreciated the butt-kicking girls' team doing drills at soccer camp) and the fun music. We're still singing "Acappella Acappella sing to us/You're the best vocal hippopotamus," although we're not entirely clear on a) whether those words are anywhere close to right and b) what the song has to do with soccer.

What we didn't: Lessons on colors and numbers shoehorned into the mix. I give the creators an E for effort for trying to work in some learning, but these vignettes felt forced and weren't necessary.

Who it's for: Believe me, the irony of using a passive medium to encourage kids to be active is not lost on me. So although it's labeled for babies 3 months and up, I'd probably save this for a child who's at least old enough to walk, so you can encourage him to get up and move. It would be ideal for a little sib who's dying to join an older brother or sister on the soccer field, or for a first-timer who'll soon be joining a team. (After watching, Jo expressed interest at strapping on some shinguards herself this spring.)

Remind me again how many kids we have?

Putting the T in "Trashy"

Our local paper (also the source of these other gems) ran a story the other day that went something like this: Girl, 17, wants to marry boyfriend, 29. Her parents say OK, as long as you wait until you turn 18. Family plans wedding, to be held a few days after girl's 18th birthday. Boyfriend announces he does not want to get a marriage license, but still wants to get married. Bride's parents explain this isn't legal. Groom relents, goes to courthouse to get license, then refuses to divulge social security number. He is turned away without license. Bride's parents insist that the wedding can't take place without the license. Bride and groom return to courthouse, where groom again refuses to reveal social security number because it's "against his convictions." They leave without a license and go to their reception site, where groom's father performs a (totally bogus) ceremony and pronounces them busband and wife. Bride breaks off contact with her parents and takes out a restraining order against them; they've now been estranged for 18 months. Groom and groom's father charged with "false solemnization of marriage."

I think the only way this could be more depressing is if there were kids involved (thankfully, there's no mention of that in the article) or if after the toasts at the reception all the guests started clubbing baby seals. Did I mention this was on the front page? I guess there was just nothing else to report.

Tough sledding

We took the kids to the sledding hill yesterday, for the first time this year. One of Mayberry's charms are these hills, mounds of earth engineered specifically to provide rockin' runs for snow tubes, toboggans, and whatever else can slide from top to bottom. Opie, of course, protested mightily while being suited up for the outing, his sobs pausing only long enough for him to announce "don' yike it... don' yike it!" Jo was eager to go, but also dissolved into tears over the itchiness of her socks.* More than once we considered scrubbing the whole thing, but perservered.

Halfway to the park, Opie consented to move from my arms into the sled and be conveyed thusly the rest of the way, although the look on his face made clear that he was just doing it to humor us. Once there, anytime we set him down on the ground he remained firmly rooted in one spot, every muscle firmly locked (Jeff: "It's the first time in almost two years that he hasn't been moving"), and begged, "Hold you!" Each time he saw Jo go down the hill, he seemed the tiniest bit intrigued; but any invitations to have a turn were firmly refused. We took him down a couple of times anyway, and each time he commented, "Fast." Was this a question? A complaint? A proclamation of delight? We couldn't be sure.

Jo, meanwhile, was decidedly delighted. Her friend Joe (a boy nine months younger, but about 18 inches taller than she is) arrived at the hill just as we did, and they spent more than an hour hotdogging down: together, separately, with dads, without dads, with sleds, without sleds, head first, feet first, you name it.

Then she fell asleep on the floor in the guest room (hiding behind the bed) at 5 p.m., while Opie chattered endlessly about "p'ay in s'ow! Sedding!" as if he'd actually enjoyed himself.

*She has been complaining a lot lately about itchy extremities. Also blinking in a strange, prolonged way. That combined with her sleepiness has me a little worried. Would you be? (I'm full of questions these days... thanks for the excellent advice on my last batch!)

Reader request 2: My glamorous life as an editorial assistant

Suzanne asked me to report on my first job, at a women's magazine in New York. At the risk of 1) boring the rest of you to tears and 2) dating myself quite significantly, here goes.

An EA is a secretary/administrative assistant. (I had to pass a filing test in addition to a typing test in order to get the job.) The only difference is that there is an expectation of advancement, and that the documents you handle might actually be kind of fun to read. Oh, and the meetings you go to might be to generate ideas for articles about sex or to come up with come-hither coverlines to help sell your magazine on the newsstand. An EA is generally considered part of the editorial team, and is encouraged to make suggestions, participate at idea meetings, and take on small writing and editing tasks (I used to write the table of contents! I even saved them in my portfolio for awhile...).

Still, most of what I did was pretty boring. I read a lot of slush--unsolicited manuscripts that came through the door by the dozens every day. This was before email, so everything came in big manila envelopes with SASEs inside (remember SASEs?). I wielded a letter opener with alacrity. Most everything was crap and was immediately rejected with a form letter, but I did discover one story (in two years) that was eventually published. When I called the writer to tell her that we wanted to buy the piece, she wasn't, in my opinion, suitably ecstatic. I don't think she really understood the odds she'd beaten.

This magazine was one of the very few that still published fiction (hells no it wasn't the New Yorker), and I worked for the editor who managed those pages; so I also dealt with the fiction slush. Actually, we had a freelance reader who came to the office every couple of weeks to pick up a big box of slush. When it came back from her, I'd dutifully send slightly personalized rejection notes to everyone (using a typewriter and carbon paper). The reader had been instructed to find a few stories in each batch that were worth a second read. I'd read those, and reject them too; once every few months I'd find one promising enough to send on to my boss. I don't remember any of them ever being printed, but I do remember sending rejection letters to Ursula Hegi. Take that, Oprah! (We had strict rules about the type of stories we'd publish, and anything not in a contemporary, North American setting was out.)

I've already mentioned the perks that made up for some of the hours of slicing open mail, taking phone messages, filing, and typing (since there was no email, most of our manuscripts came to us as hard copy, and I had to choose between retyping everything or rehabbing the output of our temperamental scanner, which usually rendered every third or fourth letter incorrectly). Along with the freebies, we sometimes got free food from the recipe-test kitchen, and plenty of movie screening passes. Using these usually required posing as someone else--typically one of our bosses, who had far better things to do than go see Speed two days before it came out in the theaters. While these screenings didn't involve hobnobbing with celebs, just saving $8 on a movie was a big deal at the time.*

Mostly, though (and here's where it gets corny) the best perk was the people I met. I count two of my fellow assistants from those days as very close friends, and two more as old friends I wish I had the chance to see and talk to more often. At least five of the people I worked with at that job are now editors-in-chief of major magazines. Many more are senior-level editors, and others are busy authors and freelance writers. We give each other work (making it harder for anyone else out there to break in...sorry), celebrate each other's successes, and commiserate about the sucky stuff. Was it worth all the paper cuts and ramen noodles? You bet.


*One of the editors I reported to was a minor celebrity in the industry, though. Her husband worked on the business side at another big publishing company, and his mother had a long and distinguished career as the editor-in-chief of a very high-profile magazine. My boss later went on to launch a very successful teen magazine--and then shock everyone by quitting and moving to Europe with the much older man she'd been having an affair with, an executive at the company where she worked. Google is silent on what she's been doing since then, except for one brief stint at a British publication nearly five years ago. The other editor I worked for became one of the founding editors at O. She's been there ever since.

In which you tell me what to do

1. My skin is suddenly a disaster: Big zits on my cheeks, terribly dry, scaly patches on my forehead and jawline. Weather? Old age? Birth control (changed in September, but this complexion stuff just started happening in the past few weeks)? Do I buy new makeup, get a facial, or head straight to a dermatologist (or what about my ob/gyn)?

2. My hair is the longest it's been in a while (past my shoulders). Cut it off? Nancy looks fantastic.

3. My parents have offered to stay with the kids for a weekend this spring while Jeff and I go away for our second ever child-free vacation. We are a few hours' drive from two major cities (one of which we have not yet visited), two smaller ones (slightly closer, some appealing attractions), and a country/antiquey destination. Your pick?

P.S.: Thanks a million to Kate at Eucalyptus Pillow for my fab new header! I posted it in a completely bass-ackwards kind of way so #4 is: How do I edit my template in Blogger to add my own image?

Reader request 1: Travel and the working mom

Jennifer (ponderosa) asked how I manage child care when I travel for work. I only do it 3 or 4 times a year, but I've tried several different strategies, all of which have their pros and cons.

Leave the kids at home. This is what I did last week. I make arrangements for the kids to spend longer days at child care, and sometimes add a Friday, usually my/their day off. Our center is very accommodating (I always offer to pay for the extra day, and they almost never charge me.) My husband assumes all the drop-off and pick-up duties.

The benefits are pretty obvious--less disruption for the kids, and I travel without small, demanding, occasionally loud companions. This was a huge blessing last week since I ended up spending about 8 extra hours killing time in airports due to missed connections. Instead of having to entertain the kids, I did a Sunday crossword puzzle; read a couple of magazines, two entire books and about 18 old sections of the New York Times I'd saved; got a manicure (Detroit airport has a salon!) and ate several unfettered meals. And while I'm at my destination, I can work late without worrying about relieving a babysitter, as well as meet up with friends in the evenings.

The drawbacks: It's tough on Jeff, since he has to take on more kid stuff than he usually does, and cut back his work hours. I miss the kids, and they miss me (see yesterday's post-traumatic temper tantrum).

Take the kids along. I have actually only ever taken one at a time. I deposit him/her with my mother-in-law, who lives about two hours' drive from New York City (where I'm usually traveling). Or we both go to NY and stay with my cousin there, and she provides not only room and board, but also babysitting services (yes, she is a saint).

So the good news is I'm not separated from one kid, and the load is lighter for my husband. My cousin claims she loves having us, and of course if it's my MIL is always thrilled to have any of us visit.

But it can be very stressful traveling alone with a child, and feeling like I have to rush home from work every day to take over for the (unpaid!) babysitter. I don't go out in the evenings, or I drag the lucky child with me.

Import help. This is what we did for BlogHer last year. My mother-in-law wanted to come visit anyway, so we asked her to come during the time I'd be gone. So while I was off livin' it up with the women of the blogosphere, the kids got some Grammy time and Jeff had some extra adult assistance. Everybody was happy.

Overall I think the trips have been good for us. Once a quarter is enough--I bow to those far more frequent travelers out there.

What happens when I ban TV for the afternoon

"Ice skates" made out of playing cards and rubber bands, in case you were wondering.

We had a horrible morning, which included me almost carrying Jo out the door coatless, sockless and shoeless. That was after I left her in the house screaming while I loaded Opie in the car. She finally gave up when she realized I was serious about taking her to school barefoot.

So that was fun. Somewhere during the tantrum I revoked TV privileges for the rest of the day. I wavered on the way to pick her up after school, and was about to tell her that I was sorry, that wasn't the right response and that instead of no TV, she would be going to bed early instead--a more appropriate consequence, since her behavior clearly stemmed from fatigue. But when I got to school and learned that she'd been misbehaving all day, I returned to hardass mode and decided on both no TV and an early bedtime. She has been so tired lately that I am starting to get a little concerned. She sleeps 11ish hours at night with a 1-2 hour nap probably 5 days out of 7--but lately that's not enough. Maybe it's just fallout from my absence last week (I was gone from Monday morning to Friday night) but if things don't turn around soon I'm marching her in to the doctor.

In the end, the TV-free afternoon flew by pretty fast. We leafed through an Us Weekly coffee-table book of Hollywood photos found under the living room couch (unclear where that came from). We banged on the piano. We played 52-card throw-down (precursor to skating). We cooked and ate noodles and edamame with a nanabit chaser.

And tomorrow is another day.

Hot monkey love

Today's definition: Two small children, totally starkers, standing in the kitchen eating bananas.

Ask and ye shall ... oh never mind

I. Jo has previously complained that her ears feel "itchy" inside.

Me: How are your ears feeling? Are they still itchy?
Jo [drops everything to rub ears]: Yes!!
Me: Do they feel like that all the time, or just right now because I asked you?
Jo: Just right now because you asked me.

II. Jeff and Jo are discussing her fifth birthday, less than three months away.

Jeff: What are you going to do about your thumbelina when you turn five? Five-year-olds don't suck their thumbs.
Jo: This five-year-old does.

III. My friend J. is staying at her sister's. Her 4-year-old niece, E., wakes her with a question.

E.: Why did that Jeez guy die?
J.: Cheese g... ohhh, you mean Jesus?? Um. Well, Jesus died so we all can go to heaven.
E.: But why did they kill him?

IV. And a few of my own (aka live-blogging my trip to NYC):

• Why in the world is there a 7-Eleven on the corner of 84th and York? What the hell?
  
  
• Where do restaurants buy their bathroom sinks? They are so tiny. There must be a special section in the restaurant supply catalog. Right between the huge tins of olive oil and the packs of bi-fold napkins, you can select a sink that's 8 inches across.
  
  
• How long have I been living in the upper midwest? Everyone here is talking about how freezing it is. It's 25 degrees people! Not 25 below!

Ho ho holy crap!

...was the name of the party we went to last night -- a white elephant/yankee swap/Dirty Santa/regifting event. Something like 75 presents were exchanged (it took two hours). Our contribution: a bright blue and yellow dog figurine which was actually a picture frame -- your picture goes in the space where the dog's face should be. I ask you: Just whose picture are you supposed to put in there? Only dog owners need apply, apparently. For added tackiness, it broke as I was wrapping it so I slapped it back together with Elmer's. Jeff got this from my sister for Christmas, and guess where she got it? A Yankee swap.

We came out way ahead because we ended up with a decent board game. We managed to avoid all of the following:

• a large exercise machine/torture device similar to the one featured in Sixteen Candles. It ended up on the roof of our hosts' car.
  
  
• a "feng shui" tabletop fountain (that's what the box said).
  
  
• Hardcover edition of Uncle John's Bathroom Reader.
  
  
• A framed piece of black velour, holding brooches and earrings arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree. Used to light up, no longer works.
  
  
• More than one box containing a random item (such as a DVD of Dirty Dancing or a kid-sized tiara) along with a few bottles of beer.
  
  
• Body lotion in a container shaped like a high-heeled shoe.
  
  
• A shopping bag containing about 20 issues of Pl@yboy. (Jo: "What are those?" Me: "Magazines with naked pictures! Hahahaha [desperately hoping she thinks this is funny; she did].")

If it weren't for these meddling kids

While nursing, which I did for nearly three of the last five years, I am blessed with the metabolism of a supermodel. Only instead of subsisting on Evian and cigarettes, I eat whatever I want, and lots of it, on a schedule approximating that of the baby I'm nourishing--which is to say, every three hours at minimum, all while slimming down to the skinniest I've been since high school.

What's unfortunate is that when the nursing stops, I really need to step away from the trough. It takes awhile for that to sink in to whatever feed me Seymour section of my brain has been driving my appetite.

So, between the fact that my go-to jeans are pretty much gone from my wardrobe, and that my health-nut family shamed me into submission during their recent visit (simply by example--not, thankfully, by snide comments) my New Year's resolution was to get off my lazy butt and try to fit some more exercise into my life. (That, and lay off the weekly chocolate-chip scones for breakfast.) Now that knocking furiously we can usually count on Opie to sleep through the night, since he is almost two years old fergodssake, I decided that it would not be such a hardship to get up a half-hour early every day and put in 20-30 minutes of exercise. I found a couple of quick workout routines in a magazine--one strength, one yoga--and planned to alternate those with walking on the treadmill. In the spring, I can swap the treadmill for walking outside with the dog and/or taking the kids to daycare in the bike trailer.

Two weeks in, how'm I doing? Lousy. I've followed this plan maybe twice in 9 weekdays. The first few days of the year, I was recuperating from the fact that I stayed up until 5 a.m. on New Year's Eve, only partly due to an actual party (the rest, of course, being due to the toddler). Twice this week, I did get up and start working out--for about 45 seconds before a child woke up and interrupted me. These kids have not darkened our door before 7 a.m. for months--yes, it takes forever for Opie to go to sleep at night and he still has the occasional night waking, or the two weeks straight of being up from 10 p.m. to midnight, but the good news is he sleeps late, and so does his sister.

But of course they just knew that I was counting on that fact, didn't they? Too damn smart for my own good. Oh, and along the way somehow Jo acquired an understanding of the term "muffin top." And she knows how to use it.

I guess you know what I'll be doing this weekend.

Saturday morning update (or, "You'll get a toddler bed when Al Gore's Tennessee swimming pool freezes over"): Proving that he's read both the Toddler Handbook and this blog, Opie woke up during the wee hours last night. Twice.