The Boy on the Carousel

I fell in love with my husband because I knew he would be good father. We were not even dating at the time. In fact, I was dating his roommate.

Yes, that's right, I dated my husband's roommate. And it was a terrible relationship that should never have lasted the year and half that it did. But it brought me to Doug, and that was worth it.

I fell in love with Doug on a carousel. A big group of friends went to the local amusement park. We went on the carousel, and there was a small boy sitting on a horse that was next to Doug's. I have no idea where this child's parent was, but he ended up talking to Doug. The boy was having a hard time because the carousel wasn't starting, and Doug entertained him by showing him how to say "giddy up horsy" and hit the horse with the reins. And Doug did that until the carousel started and throughout the ride.

I fell in love with Doug in that moment. We had become very good friends while I was dating his roommate, and somehow ended up near each other on the carousel. And I knew that he would be an amazing Dad, and I wanted him to be the father of my children. But, because I'm an idiot, even after this, I kept dating the roommate, which was ridiculous.

But, 10 years later, he is the amazing father that I imagined on that long ago carousel ride. Very involved, and so in love with his little boy that he writes open letters to him. He leaves work every day at 5:00 pm just to spend an hour with Michael before he goes to bed. And sometimes then works late into the night to make up for that, but he refuses to not see his son before bedtime every night. When Michael was first born, Doug took two weeks off of work, and helped me with night feedings, and literally has been involved with Michael's care from day one. He celebrates every one of Michael's successes, big and small, and cries when he is hurt, sick, or sad.

I'd like to go back and find that little boy on the carousel and thank him. Because if it wasn't for him, I never would have noticed the amazing father that Doug would become.

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. Jodi is mom to a 2 year old, a part-time lawyer, and wife. She blogs at Jodifur about all these things and many more. Please visit her site, and you will see Mayberry's post. And thanks to Mayberry for being such a great hostess!

Destination: Union Square

At a glance:

Venture into New York City's Union Square Park, between 14th and 17th Streets on a balmy summer evening, and the entertainment is free and plentiful. Buy a soft-serve or a dirty-water dog, jockey for a spot on a bench, and sit back and enjoy the show. You'll be treated to an endless parade of Manhattanites trudging home from work, walking their dogs and their babies, displaying the latest fashions (both couture and curious). The concrete fringe on the park's north and east sides may be home to a farmer's market four days a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday), but in the evenings it's a skate park. The grassy expanses within the square are less than pristine. Still, they're a welcome sight in the concrete canyons of this busy city. Listen to the street performers and feel the rumble of the subway below your feet: You're a New Yorker now.

Fast facts:

• Subway: L, N, Q, R, W, 4, 5, 6
• Time Zone: GMT/UTC -5
• Statuary: George Washington, the Marquis de Lafayette, Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi

Jennifer's Monday Mission for today: Travel guide entry. I couldn't pass that up!

P.S. I took more pleasure than is probably reasonable in scanning for open wireless networks during this trip. Some of my favorite names: Lawstud3, Precious Taters Too, TaBoNe, and of course: 40 cats live in my UES apt.

Dads of the 21st Century

Originally posted at Jodifur as part of the Blog Exchange.

So Father’s Day is coming and I have a small bone to pick with Hallmark, American Greetings, and their ilk. A bone and a news-flash: I know you may find this nearly impossible to believe, but my dad does not play golf. Neither does my husband. Nor do they sit on their butts all day with a beer in one hand and a remote in the other. They do not fish, tinker with their cars, or obsess about sports in any way, shape or form. And neither of them owns a recliner!

Therefore: Father’s Day cards featuring the above don’t work for me and my kids. We come to the drugstore prepared to drop $5—maybe $10!—on cards for Daddy and Grandpa. And we find: nothing. I don’t want to tease my dad about his (nonexistent) TV habit; the man is far (far, far!) more physically fit than I am. I don’t want to give my husband a card with a necktie on it; he wears one maybe three times a year.

There are cards now for your grandma’s new hip and your boss’s new job and your neighbor’s new pool. How about some Father’s Day cards that branch out maybe a teensy bit beyond the ‘60s stereotypes? My dad was as close as he could get to a stay-at-home dad—two decades ago. My husband is one of the best cooks I know and is also the chief tailor/button-sewer-onner in our household. Any chance that we’ll find cards that really reflect our guys and how much they mean to us?

I doubt it. So we’ll be getting out the construction paper and markers and taking matters into our own hands. Nothing says “We love you” like toddler scribbles and some Dora the Explorer stickers—am I right?

Live from New York's Upper East Side

...where you’re never more than 100 feet from a Bugaboo. Or a Starbucks. Or a purse dog.

Work is crazy and Internet access is spotty (read: pirated) so that’s my excuse for not posting or reading.

Hope to catch up soon.

PS Julie: I walked by Gate 210 the other morning and felt a great pang of homesickness. And then I was all, “This is the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Get over yourself.”

When exactly did I turn into my mother?

When I was about 15, a fashion fad swept through our school: Wearing men's boxers as shorts. Of course I marched out and bought myself a three-pack. My parents were appalled and decreed that I could not leave the house wearing underwear without outerwear.

So, typical teen, I just changed into the boxers after I left the house. Eventually I got busted. And to this day, I have a rather old-fashioned formality-meter when it comes to clothing. I believe that if you are at church, in a theater attending a live performance, in a hotel lobby, or at a chicken-nugget-free restaurant, you should be wearing real clothes. I don't mean head-to-toe Prada, but come on--avoid workout gear, stained sweatpants, and ripped jeans. There are plenty of decent clothes that are also comfortable. If you are over 4 years old, there is no excuse for wearing pajamas outside the confines of your own home (or, OK, your car). Are we clear?

I am streaming my consciousness

Magpie tagged me to tell you what I am.

I am amazed by my children.
I am annoyed by my children.
I am not a superhero, but sometimes I feel like one.
I am a better editor than writer.
I am an optimist.
I am nearsighted, but going farsighted too.
I am healthy.
I am too busy all the time.
I am always sleepy.
I am happy to be alone.
I am not afraid of mice, but I don't love winter, snow and ice.
I am also not afraid of bugs, as long as they keep their distance.
I am responsible.
I am often naive; I assume people have good intentions.
I am 5'2" with eyes of blue.
I am going to BlogHer.
I am tagging: you.

Still life with found objects

Now with answers!
It's quiz time again! Guess where I found the following:

1. Shredded wheat square: c, living room, near front door
2. Dead lake fly (not pictured): e, dining room table
3. Newspaper wrapper: g, fireplace mantel
4. Bath toy: f, dining room floor
5. Dirty baby sock: a, dining room sideboard, amid Mother's Day card display
6. Kiddie chopstick: b. living room floor, near piano
7. Old, dirty glove with hole in finger: d, TV room

Magpie came closest with three correct answers (lake fly, bath toy, chopstick). Extra credit to binkytown for revealing the weirdest thing she's found lately.

Thanks to Elizabeth for inspiring this post.

Revelations of nerditude

My favorite Alaskan blogger, Michelle, tagged me to reveal 7 embarrassing things about me. Actually the theme was 7 things about me, teen edition, but by definition, most everything about the teen years is embarrassing, no?

1. This one time? At band camp? Actually, I never went to camp, but marching band, symphonic band, orchestra ... I was in them all.

2. I kept a log of what I wore every school day. I didn't want to repeat the same outfit too frequently. The log also came in handy on those mornings when I couldn't figure out what to wear.

3. I was supposed to take calculus my senior year. Instead, I took Spanish. The summer before, I took an intensive class so I could skip ahead to Spanish V. This was all part of a plot engineered to allow me to go on the annual spring trip to Washington, D.C. with a bunch of my friends.

4. I still had a babysitter up through my senior year in high school. Actually she was more of a chauffeur, since her main job was to drive me and my younger siblings to all our activities. She was the one who made us county fair snacks all the time.

5. For fun, my friends and I would go small-towning on weekend nights. This involved getting out a map, picking out a nearby small town with a funny name, and driving there. Sometimes we would take a picture of the sign or something, but mostly we wouldn't even get out of the car.

6. My best friend from those days is still one of my closest friends. We went to college together too, which didn't thrill me at the time (snotty me wanted to branch out a little -- guess who I clung to like a koala the entire first month of school?).

7. The summer after I graduated from high school, my family moved cross-country. That same friend had a surprise birthday/bon voyage party for me. She ordered a bakery cake iced with a bunch of private jokes and phrases we always used to say. This bakery would usually put the special cakes on display in the window. Obviously since this was a surprise party R. asked that the cake not be displayed. Not only did it say my name and all these quotes that only I would understand, it said SURPRISE on it. Do you think the bakery had any clue at all, and kept the cake out of the window? No it did not. Luckily I didn't happen to pass by the window that day.

Now your turn, if you dare.

Not my idea of a good workout

This afternoon I had to jam one tantrumming kid under each arm and physically haul them out of day care and into the car. That’s 70 total pounds of screaming, flailing child.

That sucked. They screamed all the way home and then I had to repeat the performance to get them from the car into the house.

I have read, edited, and written hundreds of articles about child development and discipline. I know about positive reinforcement, natural consequences, distracting with humor, choosing your battles. I know all the strategies for preventing meltdowns.

They do me no good whatsoever when I just need to GET IN THE DAMN CAR.

Never ceasing to amuse

The way Opie loves the word huge and uses it to refer to whatever he's about to eat: "Awan huge!" as I pour cereal into his bowl; "Awan huge" as I pile turkey on his plate; "Awan huge" as I fill his cup with milk.

The way both kids are inordinately thrilled to spot their clothes among the laundry moving from washer to dryer or dryer to basket. It's as if they're reuniting with a long-lost friend. "Hey! I see my jeans!!" exclaims Jo. "Dat's my socks!" boasts Opie.

The way Opie has adopted the fake-kiss pucker. Last night the dog took a huge bite out of the tortilla Opie was holding. After Jeff and I had thoroughly scolded her for swiping, Opie looked at her and gave that little smooch, as if to say "It's OK. We're still friends."

Mother's Day Mission

Area Forecast Discussion for Mayberry, May 13-14 2007

Sunday morning should bring homemade cards and pictures as well as hugs and kisses, however breakfast in bed seems unlikely at this point. Check updated forecast later. Mood sunny with occasional passing clouds of Annoyance or Whining. Outdoor play (as well as material gifts) may be limited by renovation and/or lake flies so make alternate plans.

In the afternoon, look for a cancelled baseball game family outing to be replaced by an ice cream parlor trip. Forecasters expect bedtime to be relatively uneventful however the threat of stomach virus in small boys requires us to recommend extra parental fortitude and defensive sleep acquisition; also note that child care will be an unavailable option for afflicted small boys on Monday.

Thanks to Jennifer for inspiring a new twist on the "what I did for Mother's Day" post.

What makes me a mom

Ever since Parent Bloggers and Light Iris posed the question "What makes you a mother?" I've been thinking about how I'd answer. I knew right away it had very little to do with carrying and birthing my babies. Though I love to trade pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding war stories as much as the next mom, I believe that adoptive, foster, and stepmothers, along with other mother figures (like the grandmother and three childless aunts who helped raise my husband alongside his "birth" mom) are every bit as motherly as I am.

What really makes me a mom, I thought, are two things: sacrifice and bodily fluids. I'm a mother because I've given up hours--weeks--of sleep to my children. I've slowed my career, changed my name and my financial priorities, moved to Mayberry. My body has been permanently scarred and temporarily bruised. Every meal I eat is interrupted, and eligible for sharing whether I want to give it away or not. There's no one else I'd do all that for.

And I know you know what I mean about the fluids. Sure I picked up dog poop before I had kids. I changed diapers often when I babysat. But before I had kids I never had the pleasure of hearing a poop blowout happen from the front seat of the car, then extricating a craptastic little baby out of a car seat, carrying her inside face down and at arms' length, peeling off her clothes without befouling her hair, and spending a half-hour bleaching everything in sight. I never knew how it felt to stuff my bra with nursing pads (and still wake up with soaked pajamas every morning). I never leaped across the back seat of a speeding car to catch another person's vomit.

Yeah. Motherhood. It's pretty gross. But these two make me a mother, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Now you go: Put up a post about what makes you a mom and you could win a $100 GC to Spafinders.com. You could use it for a glute massage! Get all the details at Parent Bloggers Network.

No picture's please

Big fat smooches to the person who came up with this: Atrocious Apostrophe's.

Via Mamapop.

Now with free child care!

How to keep kids entertained for hours at a time, with little to no parental intervention: Drop a load of cash on a backyard renovation, thereby ensuring the presence of Diggers! Trucks! Mixers! Worker guys!

Choose your own adventure

I'm not sure what prompted it, but I was thinking the other day about do-overs: Not regrets--it's much more a matter of curiosity than of sadness--but idle wondering about what ifs. What if I'd stayed in France the summer after I studied there instead of going home? What if I'd hired a midwife for my first pregnancy? What if I'd bought that apartment in New York at the bottom of the market (OK, I'm pretty sure I know what would've happened there, and I try not to think too much about the bajillion dollars I could have made)?

I've been blessed with a lot of good fortune in my life. I look back and realize that events that seemed upsetting at the time, that seemed not to be going my way, in the end turned out for the best. This has given me the confidence to realize that some combination of fate, luck, smarts, good parenting, karma, and who knows what else is taking good care of me. This, in turn, frees me from quite a lot of worry. (It also makes me sound like a Pollyanna. I'm not so naive as to think that bad things don't happen, or could never happen to me; I realize that my view is colored by the fact that I haven't yet experienced any personal tragedies. I'm just convinced that I cannot prevent them from happening by worrying. So I don't).

Do you wonder about any do-over moments of your own?

*

Read about some people who are taking the leap to find out what if, and how you can help.

Habitual blogger

My Mayberry homie Movin'Mom tagged me to tell you 7 facts or habits about myself. I've already done 5 strange things about me so these must be the ordinary things.

Habit: I have eaten the same breakfast almost every day for the past two years. (Yogurt, granola, and berries.) (Hippie much?)

Fact: I am appalled that I just used the word "homie." Pretend I said something else--something less ridiculous and more funny.

Habit: Whenever I eat lunch (or any meal) alone, I must have something to read.

Fact: I am a Name Snob. I will judge you on what your child's name is.

Habit: I always listen to NPR in the car. Even if it is one of those dopey shows like "Calling All Pets" or "The People's Pharmacy." (The only shows I can't stand are "Here on Earth" and the one with the really annoying doctor, Zorba Paster.)

Fact: Everytime I hear the name Ségolène Royal on the news all I can think of is "Royale with cheese." This woman might become the first female president of France! I am so sorry, Madame.

Habit: (Inspired by Sonia and her Q-Tips) I'm a little OCD about the order in which a.m. and p.m. grooming routines must happen. I discussed this with a friend about this once and she was totally on my side, though. Of course you have to put your lenses in before you do anything else, because otherwise you will get moisturizer in your eyes. It makes good sense really. Is it still OCD if I have good reasons?

Now I am supposed to tag 7 people. And you are: Kate, Mona, Kari, Elizabeth, Lisa, Tori, and anyone else who wants to play.

Real moms are winners

How about this--an iPod and chocolate for being a real mom. Sweet!

Write a Real Moms post (this was mine) and you could win a shiny prize. Get the lowdown--and get going; you have one week.

By the way: I did finish The Count of Monte Cristo. All 1400+ pages. And the next book club book. And I'll have to finish the next one, because Julie recommended it and because I'm hosting the meeting.

On a roll, people. ON A ROLL.

You say wahter, I say wooder

The other day our neighbor gave Jo a Fla-Vor-Ice (I dare you not to smirk at the kids pictured on that page), which immediately prompted one of those intense childhood memories: getting Italian ice from the convenience store a few blocks from our house. It was the kind that came packed in a small paper cup, with a flat top that had a semi-circular pull tab. After you picked your flavor (lemon, or strawberry if necessary), you fished around in the bottom of the freezer for the strip of little wooden paddles, wrapped in paper and linked end-to-end. You tore off enough for everyone and passed them around.

Then you walked back home savoring the ice--fast enough so that you didn't get stuck with too much syrupy goo to drink up at the end, but not so fast that you couldn't appreciate the treat. There were a couple of different eating methods: scraping the surface flat and even, or making a neat ring around the outer edge, or boring a hole into the center of the ice. You would never just attack at random, because the wooden paddle-spoon was key to the whole thing. You had to make good use of it.

When I reminisced about this ice our neighbor immediately asked where I'd grown up. It wasn't Mayberry, but it was a lot like our Mayberry is today. The good news is it was close enough to Philadelphia to have water ice, even if it wasn't fresh. Anybody else remember the packaged kind? Or something else regionally delicious from your childhood?

Someday

To the as yet unknown true love of my life,

It’s coming on Mother’s Day, and I find that I miss you, now more than usual, in some strange backward manifestation of grief, as if you had been here all along. I’m not sure how or when, but you’ve settled yourself in the deepest seat of my heart, content to wait until we can be together. Not in silence – no, you wait with such clamor and excitement that it’s hardly like waiting at all, but more like an insistence that time move faster and hurry our anticipated meeting. I wonder sometime if you’re the reason my heart beats at all, and I’m scared to realize the power you already hold over me – how much you are already the center of my life.

Sometimes when I lie in bed at night, I close my eyes and I see you. I see your eyes, and they sparkle and shine and I wonder at such brilliance in a simple shade of blue. I see your nose, tiny and pert and perfect – but not – just like mine. I see your wispy tufts of hair, and it reminds me of my father’s at the end, and I wonder if maybe we won’t call you Baby Eaglet too.

But mostly I see your smile, open mouth, not an ounce of self-consciousness, just unaffected joy at something so simple I probably would have missed it without your laughter telling me to notice. I see me in your smile, and my mom, and my sister. But there’s something else too – shades of a man I’ve never met, who will someday change my life. A man who knows you already – just as I do – and sees himself in that smile I love.

I don’t know when we can be together, but I know we will be. I’m frightened sometimes, because I love you so much already, and I don’t know how to love more than this. It hurts my heart sometimes, the intensity of what I feel. And yet I know that when I see you, when I know you even more and feel the reality of you in my arms, my heart will break a thousand times over just trying to make room for everything I will feel. I wonder sometimes if you will completely destroy me, only to build me back up into everything I was ever meant to be.

Some people will never understand how much I love you now, today, years before we even meet. They don’t feel what I feel – they don’t know you like I do. But that’s okay, because it means it’s special, this bond we share: precious and misunderstood and just for us. When I miss you too much, I’ll just hold my hand to my heart and know that you’re there, waiting.

I’m waiting too.

With all my love (and even more than that),

Your Mama

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This post was written by Lara David as a part of the May Blog Exchange about Mother’s Day. Lara is a 20-something writing her way through life one day at a time, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons at Life: The Ongoing Education. Plus, I'm writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.

Mother's Night

Originally posted at Life: The Ongoing Education as part of the Blog Exchange.

11:30 p.m. I finally finish working/blogging/folding laundry/puttering around. I’m nearly ready for bed, brushing my teeth, when I hear my son’s cry.

I enter his dim room. He’s standing in his crib, sobbing. I can hear the tears and the snot all over his face, even though I can’t see them. I crawl around on the floor, feeling for the pacifiers he’s either dropped or hurled to the floor in anger. One, two, three—I feed them back to him through the bars. He crouches down long enough to pick them up, and just as quickly pulls himself back onto his feet.

I stand next to the crib and he grabs for me, his arms tight underneath mine, his head on my shoulder. “Hold you,” he gasps between sobs. “Hold you, Mama.” I rub his back and tell him, over and over: “It’s nighttime now. I’ll hold you in the morning.”

Still angry, still sobbing, he soon gives up. He sits down, but he can’t help himself. “Hold you, Mama. Hold you.” But now the yawns come, too, amid the sobs and the pleas and those sharp, damp intakes of breath.

I sink down to the floor, stretch out, wait. Keep murmuring. “In the morning, sweetie. In the morning.” The wails soften and the intervals between them stretch longer. Eventually I hear the chok-chok-chok of the pacifier in his mouth, the slowing of his breathing.

Cautiously, gingerly, I stand. Tiptoe to the door, my hand on the knob.

“Mama stay.”

“Yes, baby. Mama will stay.” I return to my post on the floor, waiting and listening. Mama stays.

Dream on, sister

Updated to add: Time to change #5--look at my shiny pretty new design! Thank you, Karen!

Kelly tagged me with the "c'mon, admit it" meme, otherwise known as the "5 goals you're totally blowing off" meme. Since I wouldn't want ignore Kelly (if you're not reading her, please start; this post is the one that won me over forever) the way I've ignored the following, here goes:

1. The body. As I explained here, this was an actual New Year's Resolution that's been utterly untouched. I have used the bike trailer a few times, but the weather's still iffy and sometimes I have extra errands to run and I have this freelance project that's keeping me up late at night and...

2. The memories. I have not printed out photos and slotted them into albums since Jo was 9 months old. The task just keeps getting more overwhelming and therefore less likely to actually be done. I have repeatedly told my siblings (who are always looking for inexpensive gift ideas) that the best present they could possibly give me would be to take my CDs, print out the pictures and shove them in an album. I'll even provide the frigging album. So far, nada.

3. The house. The closets are overstuffed with clothes that need to be sorted/donated/burned. The office shelves overflow with old magazines that should be either recycled or donated to the child care center for art projects. Toys have reproduced and taken up residence in every single room in this house and that does include the guest room, master bedroom, dining room, and each bathroom.

4. The future. Poor Opie. No college fund. Not even because of lack of funds (see "freelance job," above). Sheer inertia, this one.

5. The blog. It would be nice if all my posts had labels. And it would be nice if I went back and cross-posted all my old Blog Exchange posts here. And printed my archives regularly (or ever) to protect against Total Internet Meltdown. And if I ventured beyond the basic Blogger template. And had my own domain.

Anyone else want to 'fess up?

Happy baby to you (and you and you)

Some of the loveliest ladies in the blogosphere are about to deliver what are sure to be some of the loveliest babies in the blogosphere. So in their honor, here's a little unsolicited counsel (and you're invited to their baby shower--go join in the fun!).

The worst assvice I received as a new mom: "She's still not sleeping through the night? Oh, because you're breastfeeding, that's why." Gee. Thanks. Sooo helpful.

And the best advice, right after "give breastfeeding at least three weeks before you decide to stop": Pick your battles. Baby won't sleep anywhere but the carseat? Buckle him in and enjoy the ride. Toddler will only eat from a red bowl and drink from a red cup? Stock up on the scarlet and dine in peace. Preschooler wants to wear 14 different colors, textures, and patterns at once? Beam with pride at her individuality and independence. You only think people are staring at the grocery store. And if they are? Screw 'em--they obviously have no sense of humor.

This post brought to you by the letter P

Go Potty Go! is perhaps not the miracle all of us diaper-shoppers wish for, but it's undeniably cute without being cloying. Which, for a video about toilet training, is a pretty big achievement. Both my kids (the one who pees on the potty and the one who's quite happy in his Huggies) found its songs catchy and its potty-going panda stars, Paige and Parker, charming. After just a few viewings, all three of us were singing along to "Diapers Are for Babies" and marching to the beat of "Big Kid Parade" (because after all, just like the song says, two-thirds of us do "wear underpants every day").

At only a few weeks past his second birthday, Opie's not quite ready for potty training. He does like to throw back his head, thrust out his groin, and crow "PEEEEEEEEEEE!" just for the heck of it. But any invitations to sit on the potty are usually turned down, especially if he is obviously caught in the act, if you know what I mean. Still, he is intrigued by this video, which outlines all the important toileting steps--sitting, wiping, washing up--cheerfully and straightforwardly. He'll sit and watch all 30 minutes of it, which is more than I can say for most episodes of Jay Jay the Jet Plane (well, I can't blame him for that--those planes are freaky) and everything his big sister watches (so much for the electronic babysitter).

For him, and for me, this video is just the right speed. I'm not into pushing him toward the potty before he's ready, and it turns out that Paige and Parker aren't either. The DVD is a gentle introduction to the wonders of the potty chair (the animated one even looks exactly like ours) that doesn't put any pressure on kids to perform too early. We'll keep watching until we're three for three on the underpants--and probably beyond then too.

What we liked: Just about everything--the songs are fun, the characters are cute, and the production values are high. Most importantly, the message is easy to understand and kid-friendly.

What we didn't: The menu is inconsistent, which makes it a little confusing to use (it's hard to know which choice you're selecting). There is a "music video" section which allows you to just play the songs--but not all of them are included.

Who it's for: Young toddlers who are just embarking on the potty-learning train, in families who want to take a laidback, no-pressure approach.















P.S. In the category of "what will they think of next?!"

Please to explain

about the Polly Pockets. Isn't the point that they are interchangeable and you can mix and match all the clothes? So how come we have three dolls and three sets of clothes that are all totally different and incompatible? Too big/too small/too magnet-y/too rubbery?

The whole thing was kind of a blur, but at least there was cake

Last year, as I detailed exhaustively here, we held the kids' birthday party at home and did almost everything ourselves. We bought a cake and some of the food, but we made our own decorations, created invitations, devised games and activities, and assembled goodie bags. It was exhausting, but really fun to see the kids enjoying themselves. Jeff and I were proud of how the event turned out.

This year, we decided to have the birthday bash at our local children's museum, where Jeff volunteers. For about the same as we spent on last year's home party, all we had to do was send invitations and then show up. Everything else was included, from cake to balloons to goodie bags to two college-student party helpers. The kids had a blast playing in the museum, and convened in the party room periodically for face-painting, cake, and presents.

For me? Not as fun. Trying to keep track of nearly 20 kids was tiring (too many; I know, I know). Some of the parents stayed for the whole party--I'd told them it was optional--which was a blessing. But rather than enjoying their company, I felt like I was on display while I ran around trying to figure out which kid I should be following. Some of the parents who didn't stay seemed nervous about leaving their kids in my scatterbrained care--heartbreaking!

Especially during the gift-opening, I felt like a clueless guest instead of a participant. Another mom commandeered my camera and took pictures--for which I was grateful, but it still made me feel incompetent. I suggested that each gift-giver sit next to Jo while she opened that child's present, which turned into a disaster--the party-helpers and another parent had to restore the order that I'd ruined.

I guess I'll feel more and more like a spectator at these events as my kids grow older, but I hope we can strike a middle ground next year. Fun would be good. Casual would be good. Cake and margaritas will be essential. And how about inviting fewer kids and more of my friends? 'Cause it's all about me.

(Actually, it was all about her, and I think she had a good time. Which is what really counts.)

I like my toddler's butt just fine the way it is

Friday morning Opie had a check-up with the ENT. In the examining room I had this "I'm so blogging THAT" moment when I spotted the following brochure:


Upon closer examination, not as titillating as one might have hoped:


Bonus: More fun with the police blotter. "A resident in the 400 block of Park Street alerted police to a squirrel that appeared to be injured. An officer consulted with a representative from XYZ Environmental Center, who recommended letting nature take its course."

A big little* dose of the funny

The other night Jeff and I had a chance to go out (!) with other grown-ups (!) for dinner (!) and to see David Sedaris perform. It was disconcerting to listen to his particular brand of humor in a place like Mayberry. This is a man who described some of the things his boyfriend does (sewing curtains, picking wildflowers) as "beyond faggy" and who called a charity he supported "something for f*cked-up children." He said he recently quit smoking and felt really bad about it, so he recruited another smoker to take his place -- a 19-year-old girl, whom he persuaded with promises of appetite suppression and attractiveness to men.

At the same time, I found it reassuring that he could draw a large crowd here (admittedly, the venue was in a slightly larger town adjacent to Mayberry; but still). I wish I could tell you the funniest parts but I did not stop laughing from the minute he opened his mouth until he stepped from behind the podium, bowed slightly, and left the stage.

But I have to tell you this one cool thing that he does. On every tour (he travels for three months a year doing speaking engagements like the one I attended) he promotes a book that he loves. Not one that he wrote -- one by someone else that he thinks is great. (If you go to his home page, you'll find a link to his "recommended reading list" in the left sidebar.) He must have spent 20 minutes talking hilariously about his latest find, The Zombie Survival Guide.

So if he comes your way: Go.

*He can't be more than 5'2".

PS: Another big funny: Sludgie the Whale (his name, not his plight).

Add my small voice

This is one of those times where I want to acknowledge what's happening and yet I have nothing consoling or illuminating to add. Our family has a personal connection to Kent State University, where four students were killed and several others injured on May 4, 1970. While the circumstances were very different -- the KSU shootings occurred during a political protest and were government-sanctioned -- the event has shadowed the KSU community for decades. I wish the VTU students, families, friends, faculty, staff, alumni, and neighbors peace and comfort in the aftermath of their tragedy. Someway, somehow.

Put me in the zoo

Just back from a quick family trip to Atlanta. Hope to catch up with y'all soon!

Top secrets of a patient mother

Other moms have occasionally told me that they admire my patience with my children. And it's true that I am pretty good (pretty good, not saintly good) at keeping my cool even when the offspring get ornery. I work hard at reminding myself that they are very small and they really want positive attention. I pick my battles. I distract, I redirect, I vow that we'll all get more sleep.

And I send them to child care 32 hours a week. That's secret #1.

Secret #2, and it's s a dirty one: I vent any and all frustration onto my husband. Speaking of redirection... he gets it all. Kids being bratty? Instead of lashing out at them, I give it to him for not being around, or for saying the wrong thing when he is here. Someone drops/spills/hits something? I can find a way that it's his fault.

I know it's not fair, I know it's not right, and I know I keep doing it anyway.

Blow that boy-child's mind

When you bring him home from school, be sure to have one of these parked in the driveway.



Add a nice big pile of gravel and some slabs of broken asphalt.



Follow with a healthy dose of mud.



Sweeee-eet.

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?!