Flirting with disaster

In addition to my self-appointed efficiency expert mantle, I've decided that I (and all parents really) can also claim the title Incident Prevention Specialist.

At the end of every workday, rushing to finish one last thing before I put away my laptop and pick up the kids, I contemplate leaving the laptop plugged in and sitting on the table. Then the IPS corner of my brain starts shouting: What if someone trips over the cord and yanks the laptop onto the floor (notice I don't care if any human sustains an injury; my only concern is for my precious rainbow-adorned laptop)? What if somebody spills milk into the keyboard? What if I have to spend a half-hour deflecting requests to "play a gaaaaaaaaaaame on the ca-puter, Mommy, pleeeeeeeeease?" I take the 48 seconds to unplug the laptop, move it to an out-of-sight, out-of-mind location, clear the junk off the table and leave. Incident, prevented.

Later, I notice with horror that there is only one more ice cream sandwich in the freezer. There are two children, and because the freezer is at floor level they can open it up anytime they want. I immediately eat the ice cream sandwich or at least hide it under a bag of frozen broccoli. Incident, prevented.

Preparing for an outing, I give the kids healthy snacks to eat in the car so I can stave off requests for unhealthy ones later (or I--oops!--neglect to bring any money so that I can't buy any junk). I plan my route so I won't pass the snow-cone place or the Dairy Queen or even the pool. I bring a stroller, aka traveling toddler cage. (Yes, I do know how to say "no." Trust me, I do it often. But it's nicer just avoiding the whinefests whenever possible.)

It's like a chess game dealing with these wily kids. You always have to think at least 5 moves ahead. Or else there might be an Incident.

Does anyone else find this disturbing?

It's a new toy from Fisher-Price called the Smart Cycle. It's a "stationary bike, a learning center, and an arcade game system" all squashed into one freakish amalgam. Am I crazy to think you'd be a hell of a lot better off spending your $100 on an actual, not-stationary bike and some, I don't know, books? Just a thought.

I'm surprised the piano didn't move itself

All this talk about the political candidates reminds me of a little story. Gather 'round, kids!

Back when I was a magazine editor, I worked for a smallish publication with an accordingly small staff. This meant we had to do everything ourselves, including stuff way out of our/my league. Once a year we put out a big story, one of those lists that are designed to garner lots of media attention and may or may not be based on fact. It was our version of the swimsuit issue (and in our case, it really was based on a tremendous amount of research and hard work--which I know because in later years I oversaw that project too).

To get the maximum bang out of this particular buck, we always had an event to promote our story when it was published. And somehow in 1996 I wound up in charge of this thing. Me, the young, green editor with less than zero event-planning experience. Me, the totally conflict-avoidant delicate young thing. Taking the lead on this breakfast honoring lots of multi-billion-dollar companies, attended by all our own corporate VIPs and advertisers. And the guest of honor: was the current vice president of the United States, Al Gore. Who also happened to be running for re-election at the time.

At one of the pre-party walk-throughs, someone from the campaign was there to check out all the arrangements. She was a fast-talking, take-no-guff, totally stereotypical New Yorker. She barked orders about security (yes ma'am, there would be bomb-sniffing dogs) and press access and what he'd say and how long he'd stay. She told us exactly how the room should be set up, and that included moving a grand piano across the room (because otherwise it would interfere with the TV cameras' shots).

The banquet manager gently demurred on moving the piano, explaining that doing so would require extra staff time and also a charge for retuning the instrument. Our magazine was so poor that we used 5-inch floppy disks and didn't have voice mail--I had an ancient answering machine with a cassette tape so old that callers would frequently inquire whether I was landing helicopters on my desk. So keeping costs down was absolutely essential.

For a few seconds I tried to broker a compromise with the scary campaign lady, sputtering out lame alternatives as quickly as I could come up with them. She, of course, was having none of it. Almost immediately, she wheeled to face me and yelled "He's the vice president of the free world! MOVE THE PIANO!"

So yeah. We moved it. I voted for Clinton/Gore that year anyway. But I'm still kind of afraid of that campaign staffer.

My daughter the documentarian

In most unfortunate timing, I have two big freelance jobs to do this week--just at the moment when I desperately want to catch up on all the posts calling my name from Bloglines and go visit all the new people I met this weekend. It will be a few days, but I promise I will catch up soon.

In the meantime, please enjoy this video Jo made. She's not afraid to ask the hard-hitting questions.

The first, last, and only 8 things I am going to say about Blogher

Photo by Kari (who wins the award for best promo swag). Like my sticker? Very professional, right?

1. I saw Amy Sedaris. So that brings my Sedaris family count to two. Only 4 siblings to go! (Note to Jenny: It's just a platonic thing with me and Amy. Don't hurt me.)

2. Butterball Turkey was a sponsor so in the exhibitor area, they had a platter set up with a fully cooked and stuffed turkey on it. It looked really real. I think it was real. But they never carved it. It was just for atmosphere.

3. I learned how to tweak my template a bit (bye bye pink background) and I'm going to do some more.

4. As ever there was quite the discussion about blog ads and whether or not they are kosher, especially on mom blogs. So I'll warn you now that shortly, I'll be running BlogHer Ads. I really like their ad network because it helps spread the traffic wealth. I know I won't make more than a few pennies off the ads but I like the idea of putting my post titles out there as a way to attract new readers.

5. I'm pretty sure the W Lakeshore has never had so many babies in residence.

6. I brought my kids souvenirs from Bubba Gump's. Is that bad?

7. My copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is still not here yet. I really thought it would arrive while I was gone. I'm not sure how much longer I can avoid spoilers.

8. I got to spend a lot of QT with some people, a little QT with many more, met some new people whose blogs I can't wait to check out, and missed a few altogether (oh One plus Two where were you? but thank you for writing such a lovely post about how it feels to be there).

So that's it. You can spot me on Flickr but don't believe a word of what Prescott says here. I actually could barely eke out the MJ tune. (It turns out that ABC is not as easy as 123). I did way better with the B-52's.

Semiquincentennial

This is my 250th post. I let my one-year anniversary and my 100th post pass unnoticed, I think because they didn't seem worthy of the occasion. But 250 strikes me as a nice big number. And with BlogHer starting today, I'm about to go all reflective on you.

I started blogging because I'd been hooked on reading blogs for a long time. Once I learned that my friend Julie had taken the plunge (boy, did she ever!) I had to get in too. I had once hesitated because I thought that to be worth anyone's time, my blog would have to be hysterically funny or super-opinionated, or that I'd have to have some kind of incredibly dramatic story arc going on, but I couldn't resist any longer. I wanted in on the party!

I don't think I am or have any of those things (at least not on a regular basis). But somehow I've found almost 250 things to say.

• The one with the most comments: my recent third-kid angst post
• The one time I tried fiction: with so-so results
• The one that gets the most Google hits: actually from the photo tag, if you can believe it
• The one that's about ice-fishing: part 1, and a brief follow-up
• The one that maybe you haven't read that I particularly like: a mommyblog moment
• The one where you make me laugh, a lot: superior monkeys!
• The one with the goofy penguin picture: and one of the few places where you can see my face

If you've been reading, thanks. If you're new, I hope you'll come back again.

Don't be sad if you're not going to BlogHer

Be sad because you're not going where my sister is going this weekend: To the annual meeting of the International Society of Arboriculture.

First of all, it's in Honolulu. Better yet, it's the scene of the International Tree-Climbing Championship. She'll get to see the head-to-head secured footlock race, the aerial rescue competition (during which, she tells me, participants can earn extra style points by shouting encouraging words to their imperiled dummies--"I'm coming for you, buddy! Hang on!"), the work climb, and more.

Oh, and my brother? He's in the Italian Alps right now. But I'm not so jealous of him because he's seeing everything from the seat of his bike (and through the flaps of a tent). That's not really how I roll.

Down at the Feed & Seed

Given/received among the neighbors this weekend:

• 2 plates homemade beignets
• 2 bottles homemade beer
• 2 Fla-vor-ices
• 1 cigar (that was from Vern to Jeff even after Jeff accidentally aimed a sprinkler right into Vern's window)
• 1 escaped dog

Yes. It's awfully nice to have good neighbors. It's too bad that once the deep freeze hits, we go weeks without seeing or speaking to each other. Then again, maybe that's why we're extra-friendly in the summer. 'Cause we know that in the winter we can keep all our beignets to ourselves.

That fresh-from-the-dentist feeling

Remember that line, designed to sell toothpaste? I had a cleaning yesterday. To me, "fresh from the dentist" means "sore, pale, slobbery, and partially numb." Not a feeling I try to replicate on a regular basis.

Also noticed while in the chair: The Cure on an easy listening station. Oh god I am officially OLD.

Moving on. I was about to write a whiny post on clutter and how annoying it is and how I am seriously considering a ban on All Horizontal Surfaces just to try to stem the tide.

Then I walked into the basement and found the Leaning Tower of Dog Poo, presumbly left there to help me Get Some Perspective, Sister. I have never seen so much crap in my life and I can't believe it all came out of one 40-lb dog. I think she must have recruited some friends to contribute to the cause.

Ahem. Anyway. Thank you all very much for your very kind and supportive comments on my last post. As I replied to a few of you, I haven't given up on this entirely. Although I may have to wait to reopen the subject until well after my husband's solo weekend with the kids while I'm at Blogher.

Speaking of which, let me give you a few tips, in the spirit of BlogMe07: I currently live in a state which could earn you 5 points. I have a white cell phone (10 points). I have two first names, each of which could earn you 15 points. My shoe size is 6.

{insert final segue here. As an aside, here's a hilarious factoid about my dad. His new favorite thing to do when he's on a trip is a Segway tour. Ladies, I think a picture of a blogger on a Segway would trump just about anything else, am I right?}

Recently one of the big companies in our area decided to stop its charitable giving to arts organizations. This is a devastating blow to many small arts groups who depend on a bit of corporate generosity to make ends meet every year. Since we are a family who loves art, music, and theater, I'd been thinking about ways we can help. Then the Parent Bloggers Network came to the rescue telling me about iBakeSale--basically a way to earn cash-back rewards from online purchases and steer them toward a favorite charity (or your own savings fund, which you can designate for college tuition or a spa weekend away with the girls--it's up to you).

So I'm going to pick a local group and direct my pennies their way. I hope it will help. If you want to set up your own virtual bake sale, click over to PBN to find out how.

And remember, on Fridays I'm in love. Have a good weekend.

blogme2007

Pink, blue, and very, very green

This news--this surprising, exciting news--makes me desperately jealous.

Please know that this doesn’t diminish the happiness I feel for Julie and her family, and the hope that the pregnancy, birth, and beyond are smooth sailing for them all. Please know that I am deeply, humbly grateful for the babies I have; I know there are many others out there who would be thrilled beyond measure with two healthy children. Or who are very happy with their tight-knit mom/dad/one kid trio.

But every time I learn of a new pregnancy, that splinter of envy grows, until it becomes a sharp, jagged shard I can no longer ignore.

My husband is unmistakably done having children. And I’m struggling to accept that that means I am too.

He adores our children. He takes good care of them. He beams with pride at their accomplishments and their cuteness. But he sees parenting as a burden, another item on a too-long list of duties. For me it is, most of the time, a privilege and a blessing.

Along with that third baby I’ll never have, I mourn the partner who never finds the delight in the everyday; who wishes each stage of baby- and toddlerhood away before it even begins; who’s missing, I believe, the forest for the small, needy trees.

I remind myself that no more kids means no more morning sickness, pumping, sleepless months. It means less money spent on child care now and college later. It means we can all fit comfortably in our house and our cars. It means more travel, more free time sooner rather than later.

I weigh all that against the honor and the joy of adding another person to our family – and it just doesn’t compare. It doesn’t compare at all.

Singing the show-tune blues

Last month we took the kids to see the touring production of The Lion King. We had bought the tickets nearly a year in advance, knowing that Opie would be barely two years old on the date of the performance. We figured we'd decide whether to take him or not once we had a better read on his behavior, and if we thought he couldn't hack it, we'd leave him home with a sitter and sell or give away his ticket.

As the date approached, we decided that even though he is two and all boy, he might be trusted to behave during the performance. He loves music and is fascinated by live performance. He loves animals. He had done very well at his first movie matinee in April. The audience at the Lion King would be full of families and kids, and the venue even allowed snacks in the seats. If he did melt down, one of us would suck it up and take him out to the lobby.

We prepped both kids extensively. We listened to the soundtrack constantly (feel free to quiz me on which track is "Hakuna Matata" and which one is "I Just Can't Wait to Be King") and watched the movie several times. We drilled them on the rules (Opie informs you: "be KYE-it an' sitinmyseat"). And we packed a few Nuks along with the snacks.

And he did it! (Am I leaving Jo out? It's just that we never had a moment's doubt about her, couch potato princess that she is.) For the first few minutes of the first act, he pointed at the exit and told me he wanted to "GO DERE" and "GO HOME," but he soon settled into my lap with his hands primly folded and watched everything without another word. During the second act, he was a little more chatty, piping up occasionally with questions and comments, but overall, he was an exemplary little audience member.

Since that day, both kids are even more LK-obsessed than ever. We still listen to the soundtrack all day long: In the car. At naptime. At bedtime. During dinner. While playing outside. (You should hear Opie's operatic rendition of "When I was a young wart-HOG!") We "read" the souvenir program book just as often. Nearly daily, both kids ask when we are going to see Lion King again.

Which brings me, at long last, to my point. The tour is coming to a city a few hours' drive from us in the fall. We thought it would be a fun treat to take the kids and spend the weekend. Last night I investigated ticketing options--until I came to this roadblock: "Patrons must be age four or over. No one under age four will be admitted."

And in an instant the whole trip was off. Look, I totally understand that they don't want screaming babies or disruptive toddlers to ruin the paying customers's experience. But I'd like to be able to decide for myself whether my kid's attendance is appropriate. I am, after all, the one who is shelling out $75 for his ticket. Or not, as the case may be is. I'm very disappointed that our whole family has to miss out because of this stupid rule. And I'm really angry at the clueless parents whose kids' behavior must have prompted it. If they'd had the good sense to control their offspring in public--or remove them from the scene if necessary--my children wouldn't have to miss out.

The tour is coming back our way (to another, closer city) early next year. Maybe we'll try again then. If that theater doesn't allow nearly-3-year-olds, I may spring for a fake ID for my show-tune lovin' tot.

File under: Missing the point entirely

Parental Units: C'mon, we're going to the farmer's market.

Kids: Yeah!!! Mini-doughnuts!

PU: Um. Yes. Also, what else do they have at the farmer's market?

Kids, in chorus: EGG ROLLS!

Random-8-er link-a-later

(Not to be confused with Tow Mater or Linkletter).

Quite by chance I was tagged by Jeff (not the one I'm married to) for the 8 things meme, the one with all the rules. Since I've already done 7 random things (teen-style) and 7 facts/habits and 5 more things you didn't know (travel edition), this time I decided to spin off Jeff's idea of randomness and linkage. So here are 8 blogs from my blogroll, selected at random (I even did it all scientific!), and how they got there.


1. Binkytown: I started reading Binkytown when we were matched in the Blog Exchange way back in May 2006 (read my post and hers on the topic "Mother May I"). I've been stalking her ever since and not just because we live close to each other and have binky-addicted boys the same age. She has a wonderfully authentic voice and as I just commented on one of her recent posts, she does a lovely job of zeroing in on those small, significant moments of motherhood and writing about them.

2. Blooming Yaya: Another Blog Exchanger -- we swapped on the challenge of "post inspired by a song" and I don't think we could have come up with two more different posts on that angle. She's a mom of three, a very thoughtful and honest writer; go visit if you haven't already.

3. Chaos Theory: Holy cow, where would my blogroll be without the Blog Exchange? Last fall we debated the subject of ads on blogs: yea or nay? Luckily, Sherry was gracious even though I took an opposing position (one that I must say I didn't really believe in!). She is undertaking a big project at the end of this month and could use everyone's support--and maybe some ideas for posts.

4. The Gimlet Eye: I first met Dawn at BlogHer last year. She is not only funny and supersmart (as a mom with two kids in child care, I love reading about her work in early childhood education), she has really hot shoes.

5. Greeblemonkey: I think Aimee commented here first and after a few visits to her bee-yoo-ti-ful blog, I added her to my must-read list. And must-see, because her photography is not to be missed.

6. The Karianna Spectrum: Another BlogHer find! There is never a dull moment at Kari's, with two adventurous boys and more than her fair share of twists and turns. She turns it all into entertaining, and poignant, blog fodder.

7. Magpie Musing: Here, I think, is someone else whose comments here led me back to her blog, and now I'm there every day. Magpie shares my thrill at finding quirky tidbits in the New York Times and elsewhere in the world of words.

8. Nonlinear Girl: I believe she found me first and for that I'm glad. This blog is a winning mix of cute kid, family memories, deep thoughts, and a weekly random quote and unrelated photo, which charms me every time.

Good fences make good... uh...

Who else has trouble defining boundaries with neighbors when kids are involved? Overall, I am very glad that we live in a friendly neighborhood, with lots of other children and also parents of grown kids who love to have little ones around. Surrounding our house we have:

• Next door, Vern (I kid you not) and his wife and three grown daughters, all of whom have names starting with L. (I am the only one in our household who can tell these three girls apart and match the correct name with the correct person.) They are always willing to stop and admire while Jo shows off some new trick or Opie tells a longwinded story. Recently he asked repeatedly, "Where's Mr. D?" When no one understood him (or more likely, answered him to his satisfaction), he bellowed, "Where's BERN?!"
  
  
• On the other side of Vern's house, Mr. and Mrs. B and their three high-school/college-age sons. Adore, worship, and idolize are not really strong enough words to convey how my children feel about Mr. B. If they so much as hear his laugh echoing across the yard, they freeze in their tracks and their ears perk up like jackrabbits. Mrs. B. is a close second because she unfailingly provides Fla-Vor-Ices anytime Jo and Opie are within 50 feet of her.
  
  


• Next door to the Bs, a cool fifty-ish mom who lives in an awesome three-story Queen Anne with beautiful gardens. She once invited Jo (and me and Opie) inside to see her cats. When she told Jo that one of the cats must be hiding under the beds, Jo immediately toured the entire house from top to bottom looking under every bed.
  
  


• Next door to us on the other side, toward the front, a family with four kids between the ages of 2 and 6 has just moved in. Since the side of our house that includes the kids' bedrooms overlooks their yard, we are already quite familiar with all of their cool outdoor toys, including a battery-powered Lightning McQueen car.
  
  


• Next door to us in the back, another family with kids ages 2 and 3 who are very much interested in our dog.
  
  


• Across the street from our back gate, Jo's friend Joe (for the longest time they called each other "Jofus" and "Jofie"), and his two younger siblings.

So you can see why nearly every time we go outside, I am harassed with requests to visit any (or all) of the above. Never mind whether we've been invited, whether we've been there every day for the past week, or whether it's 10 minutes before dinner--we have friends and we "just want to see if they're outside." I'm finding the fence, while good in so many ways, makes this just a little more awkward. Because now it's more of an effort to get into a neighbor's yard, and it makes it seem that much more deliberate when we all turn up on someone's lawn. They say they are happy to see us but can that really be true? We almost never get the return visits so I have to wonder. KnowhutImean?

H*B*2*Me

I was born 3 weeks late. The story goes that the varnish on the floor of my nursery took that long to dry, so I refused to come out.

On the eve of my birthday, I am told, my parents went to the drive-in to see M*A*S*H, drink beer, and eat popcorn.

So just for today, you can call me Hot Lips.

*

And look--Lara gave me a present!

I'm a little concerned that she might have been switched at birth

The other day our neighbor remarked on how athletic Jo is. And it's true. Though she would, if allowed, happily watch 8 consecutive hours of TV a day, once she does get out and moving, she really does move. The palms of her hands are currently pocked with half a dozen blisters (or "slivers," as she calls them) from her incessant trips back and forth across the monkey bars -- this summer she's become totally adept at swinging from rung to rung, tossing her hips from side to side to gain momentum. She swims fearlessly and tirelessly. Recently, she mastered the hula hoop in less than a week; now she can keep the hoop spinning for two minutes straight, even recovering if it drops below waist level.

Opie, too, is as sure-footed as a child his age can be, jumping heart-stoppingly from the benches in our backyard on the brick patio and scampering up all the ladders on our playset without losing his balance.

This is all very foreign to me.

I was the kid who was so scrawny she couldn't stay afloat at swimming lessons. The one whose dance teacher not-so-gently suggested she not return to class. The one who, during gym class softball games, "played" outfield for both teams (way, way outfield) to avoid ever coming up to bat. The quintessential weakling nerd.

I definitely don't know how to raise a jock. But I'd be thrilled to have the opportunity to try.

*

Bonus mommyblogging moment:

JO: Where's Daddy?

ME: Out with some friends.

JO: What's he doing?

ME: Playing a game. It's called poker.

JO: Are we going to watch him on TV?

Why don’t you just let him cry?

How about because I’m not a heartless bitch? How about because he’s a tiny baby and he needs me? How about because I didn’t sign up for the shortcut route to motherhood, aka “how to ignore your infant’s needs for your own convenience”? How about because he’s hungry, or scared, or lonely, or cold, and he doesn’t know how to talk? I’m his mom. I think I know him a little better than you do.

Spare me the “he’ll never learn to fall asleep on his own” crap until my kid is bigger than a loaf of bread, OK? Unless you’re right here under my roof, all night, every night, figuring out that this cry means “I’m starving” and that cry means “Don’t leave me,” that he burps best if you hold him like this and that he likes the blue blanket best, then keep your helpful hints to yourself.

You asked me how he was sleeping, I told you, now I wish I’d kept my trap shut. I didn’t ask for advice. A little sympathy would have been OK. A remark that I could just “give him a bottle” would not. My kid is not waking up at night because he is breastfed. He is waking up because he is a little baby. Do you actually think I would stop nursing because of your brilliant suggestion? Breastmilk is the best food I can give him, and I’m not going to stop just because you think a can of formula is magically going to zonk him out for 12 solid hours a night. It worked for you? Fine, keep on believing that tired old myth. I'll stick with what I know my kid needs--whether you like it or not.


I wish I could have just handed them this instead. Today’s Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast posed the question: What’s the most annoying question you were asked as a new mom, or while you were pregnant? Post yours--and the snarkiest answer you can muster--and submit it to PBN. There are prizes involved (beyond the satisfaction of telling someone off). Get all the details.

Our little patriots

Ready for the Little Red White & Blue Parade

Honestly, it's positively Rockwellian how cute this town is on the 4th of July. Last night, Jeff looked out the window at 10:15 p.m. and said "How come all our neighbors are hanging around in front of their houses?

Well: Because of the light parade, of course!

I snapped one crummy picture--that's a truck towing a boat full of kids pretending to fish. We also had the county Democrats, the local Republicans, the mayor, a fire truck, and the "fairest of the [county] fair" princess.

This morning, we started with the kiddie bike parade in the park across the street from our house. There will be music, games, carnie food, and pony rides there all day. Our tarp is sitting by the lake waiting for us to arrive for fireworks tonight.

Hope your 4th is just as sweet!

I scream, you scream

In solidarity with the new girl, via Julie:

That's Opie, one day old, meeting Jo for the first time and none too pleased about it. I should have known right then that this one would be trouble. And he was. One angry little dude, for about the first five months of his life. We I swaddled and shushed, swayed and walked, nursed and nursed, and still he cried. I remember scouring the Mayberry phone book at 3 o'clock one morning, searching for a baby nurse service. AS IF.

Do you know what the rest of the words to the old song are?

I scream you scream
We all scream for ice cream
Rock
Rock my baby rock

And that's what we did, my boy and I. Today he is (mostly) sweetness and light on two sturdy legs. And if I could? I'd do it all over again, one more time.

I felt like I lost the plot a little bit.

Tauropolus did not originate from Chersonesos, but he came to his new land by the hand of an insidious receptionist who had sent him an Urgent message: Are you ready to mingle with some beautiful asian singles? Test the sweets of the life yourself.

Sawdust Shopkeeper, a brother who came in from overseas, dressed him in a large platinum chain and a Relief lasso, and supplied him with Inscrutable Scooby snacks, an Oat umbrella, and an answer casserole. The spot where he chose to build a fire-pit was slightly hilly, so his circle of godlike vessels leaned, like an intermediary, eastwards.

These shamanic love spells work. Was it grandiose classification? A waterlogged jump? The figures speak for themselves. “®É©¤k¤ý¤£¥i¯Ê¤Öªº¥[¤À­«ÂI!” A passing girl offers him a solution which enables him to drive home.

What she sees is a Yellow Cab, the exact type that delivers telegrams notifying that oceanography be truth. Howard then asked him if the tires exploded when they got in the car. His servant, Elijah, and the moon ensure that he told him. (Well, there is a lake, and a mountain range, and I suppose New York implies Formidable with zero.) It's a very tasty red; you'll probably have some trouble stopping drinking.

“CA, are you one of them?” The guy then asked Dee what he's got going on in his life. If you don’t know what those young kids are listening to at their discotheques, rinse the barley and add to the pan. The difficulty of the mark will determine the quality of loot. These evil men must be locked up for all their many crimes. I extirpate no caramel.

*

This post, including title, composed entirely of subject lines from spam emails (I added only the words in gray). Really, you could take any one of these and write an entire novel inspired by it. Maybe next November.

You want me to put that where?

I have lamented before that whenever I go to New York, I get sick. I really don’t appreciate this because my trips there are for both business and pleasure, and it’s annoying to have either one disrupted by a vicious cold that turns into a sinus infection that turns into a barfathon prompted by the antibiotics that are supposed to be helping me get better. Plus, I hate the implication that my heretofore sturdy, city-tough immune system can no longer hack the mean streets (and subway cars) of NYC.

So. Next time I go, I’m bringing some Nozin. These wacky little sticks are billed as "sanitizers for the nose"--basically, the idea is to put up a no-germs-welcome barrier across your nostrils, since they otherwise put out a big old welcome mat for germs, viruses (virii?) and other cooties. It sounds squicky, but you basically take a cotton swab soaked with orange-scented, homeopathic liquid, put it just inside your nose and swish it around. It takes a minute to get the hang of the distribution system—you have to flick the swab’s handle and shake it a bit to get the liquid ready to apply, then snap the swab as if you’re going to break it in half to get the liquid to flow into the business end of the stick. (You can also just get it in a bottle and squeeze it onto a Q-tip yourself, but where's the fun in that?)

I got a travel pack of 10 doses to review, courtesy of the Parent Bloggers Network. I was already a couple of days into a cold when they arrived. It didn't seem fair to put them to the test once the snotties had already set in, but I had a deadline, people, so I did it anyway. And you know what? I could swear the cold was milder and shorter-lived than my usual cement-headed, leave-a-trail-of-Kleenex-in-my-wake, bitching-and-moaning-for-two-solid-weeks cough-and-sneeze fests. It was over in a week and never reached that kill-me-now low point where I couldn't eat, sleep, breathe, or otherwise function. Who knows if Nozin or plain old luck should get the credit, but color me a satisfied customer.

What I liked: The smell, and how it felt when applied. The active ingredient here is alcohol, so I was afraid the stuff would burn my delicate nose-al skin. But there is enough orange scent and vitamin E to counteract the drying effects of the alcohol.

Also the art on the packaging. I just think it's got a certain kitschy-cool appeal.

What I didn't: At a dollar a dose, the travel pack is way pricey. Go for the 60-dose bottle--it even comes with some cotton swabs.

Who it's for: Anyone who's regularly exposed to germs--travelers, teachers, parents--and wants to try to head off colds and other icks before they start. Faith in homeopathic products a plus.

By the way: Kristen said I should include a picture of my nose. I'm sparing you because I really can't top this little animated gif that Domestic Diva posted.

HProxmysox

I work for the company that publishes Harry Potter. As you can imagine, things are heating up right about now. I do miss being in the office at times like this. Even though I have less than nothing to do with HP7, it's fun just to be on the periphery of something so big. (Yes, I will get a free copy; but no, I won't get it in advance.)

Lately I've been amused by the HP-themed logins on our site's message boards. I mean, these kids are creative:

looneylovegood01
grangergurl04
HermioneandRon4Eva!
Luna_the_Lovely
Crookshanks
LONGLIVEPADFOOT
the_sixth_weasly
worldsbiggestharrypotterfreak
hproxmysoxhehe
lightning_scar
bellatrix
luvinhp13_
FireboltGal_12
Harrylovah
hermy&ron4ever
hermioneisme

Who knew that Luna Lovegood had such devoted fans?

And are you a "Harrylovah"? (I'll still like you if you aren't. I enjoy the books, but I'm far from the worldsbiggestharrypotterfreak.)

A kid-free weekend: Let me count the ways

2: hours we traveled out of our way (but at least the forest/lake scenery was prettier than the endless farms that we should have been passing, had we not missed our turn)

1: sign I saw that caused me to regret not bringing my camera (a gas station called, I SWEAR, the “Kum&Go”). Oh good, a guy named Dave did take a picture.

1: unnecessary showers I took just because I could

8: times my son threw up while we were gone

3½: hours my dad spent on the floor keeping the vomitous boy company

180: extra minutes of television Jo watched while Grandma and Grandpa were cleaning up vomit

200: sit-ups my mother claimed to do while keeping vigil over napping, sick child

2: family historical sites we passed (Eau Galle, and my grandmother’s hometown – I have her class ring from the local high school, class of ’26)

40+: years that my grandmother’s former boss, an insurance executive who lived in the city which we visited, sent her a box of candy at Christmas

7: tapas dishes we tried, + 1 to-die-for order of blackberry-goat cheese empanadas with vanilla-thyme ice cream

2: things from home I missed (my Tempur-Pedic pillow and my electric toothbrush)

2: kids (+1 dog) from home I didn’t really miss, except I felt bad about the barfing

2: presents I bought for myself (pants, book)

4: presents I bought for the kids (fire-truck flashlight, kiddie gardening set, sunflower seeds, nasturtium seeds)

6: sections of the previous Sunday’s New York Times I brought with me

6: sections of the previous Sunday’s New York Times I actually read

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P.S. Thank you all for the nice comments about our backyard. Of course you're all invited for a cold drink (beer, wine, mojito, milk, take your pick) anytime you're in Mayberry!

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Also, I should say that Opie is fine. The throwing-up lasted a few hours, and then (apparently) he ate like a horse for the rest of the day.

Right in my backyard

Since Julie asked, and since you saw the project in progress, here are a couple photos of the finished product:

Detail of patio, bench, planter, and misc. tree. In background: fence designed to contain children + dog. All three have now demonstrated ability to escape. Next picture should rightfully be of me setting fire to a stack of $100 bills. It's a pretty fence, though, isn't it? And it keeps the soccer balls on our side of the property line.

There's the back of the house in all its orangey glory; the benches, the patio, and a bit of the new driveway. And of course, none of it would be complete without the purple Little Mermaid hippity-hop.

Happy weekend. See you Monday.

Creationism meets potty humor

Jo: How do we make seeds?

Me: We don't make them, they grow inside fruits and vegetables and flowers and trees.

Jo: But who makes them?

Me: Nobody makes them, they have to grow from a vegetable or a flower.

[Repeat a few times until concept sinks in]



Jo: Then how did the first flower grow?

Me (totally copping out): Well, some people would say God put it there.

Jo: I know! God had a lot of seeds in his stomach, and then he pooped them out his butt!

Toothfully

Opie (playfully; he's just been eating penne jammed onto the tips of his fingers): I bite your finger!

Me: No biting. Biting hurts.

Opie: Biting hurts ... your FEEWINGS!

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Whenever a child is injured or hurts another kid, our day care center issues an "ouch report." When I get one, usually I perversely hope that my kid is the victim and not the aggressor. Lately, however, he's been the frequent quarry of a serial biter--he is currently sporting no less than four mouth-shaped bruises as a result of this one classmate's toothiness. (The report never says who the perp is, but my kids will always rat without any hesitation.) One day last week, the teacher turned her back for a few seconds to find me the latest report. Right on cue, the biter chomped on another little girl's arm.

I love the center and I love the teachers. I think they are doing everything they can to redirect Biter Boy, short of assigning a full-time handler to watch his every move. I know the boy's behavior is age-appropriate, and there certainly have been times when my child is the one who bites. At home we spend a lot of time talking about how BB needs to use his words when he is mad, and how he is not a bad boy, but his behavior is bad. Still, I found myself trying to tell Opie not to play with him. Then I felt guilty about encouraging him to ostracize another kid at the ripe old age of 2. Because that hurts feewings.

I wished I hadn't said it as soon as the words left my mouth. What I really hope is that BB outgrows this phase soon. Not so much for Opie's sake, but for BB's own.

Edited 6:43 p.m. to add how much this post bit me on the ass: I quote from today's report: "lots of attempts to bite" and at least one of them was successful. Hello kettle? This is pot.

Rare beast captured on film

It's Daddy in the wild!

Happy Father's Day to my two dads. Um... I mean my dad and my kids' dad.

Mayberry ROCKS!

The other day Jeff and I got to hear a live performance of one of my top tunes. It didn't quite rise to the level of Suebob's ideal (there were two opening acts, for starters), but it was pretty close to perfect anyway. We started with dinner out (luxury in itself), then drove to the venue--a small outdoor amphitheatre along a riverfront, with a concrete plaza/dance floor in front of the stage and a grassy hillside facing it. We parked (for free) a block away. We got there two hours after the show had started (and almost an hour before the headlining act) but there was still plenty of room. We spread out a blanket on a patch of grass probably 75 yards from the stage.

While we were waiting for the band to come on we just sat there gaping at our good fortune (also at the band's bassist who came strolling along the path right in front of us). We'd paid $15 each to get in. There was plenty of food and beer for sale and even some pretty clean bathrooms (no line). We left our blanket and strolled the perimeter of the park to see what was there; when we returned our spot was still ours. The crowd was happy, kids ran around (not ours!--so much the better), the weather was beautiful. The band came on and put on a phenomenal show. We sang and danced and then wandered back to the car smiling when it was all over. We were home in 20 minutes.

Yeah. Sometimes Mayberry's every bit as good as New York.

Wrong. Just wrong.

I have already admitted to name snobbery. Since several of you egged me on backed me up on that, I present the following gems I've come across just today:

File under repetitive redundancy: Bethany Ann Elizabeth
For devilish little boys: Daemon
Rhyme time: Aubree Kailee

And two oldies but goodies:
For crafty crimefighters: McGyver
Call the apostrophe police: A'lyvia

I've seen all of these in print. Doesn't it make you want to weep for the future of humanity?

Blue is the new apple

When I was pregnant with Opie, after I got past the 18ish weeks of wanting to hurl everytime food or drink crossed my lips (or didn't, which really sucked), I luuurrrrvvvved juice. My favorite breakfast was an Egg McMuffin with a tall glass of iced cranberry juice. (I had a whole rationalization worked out, whereby the healthful benefits of cranberry and protein cancelled out the grease and the ... whatever else is in an Egg McMuffin that I really, really don't want to know about.)

But oh, fruity fruit juice, I loved it so. And McMuffins notwithstanding, I did still want to make a weak attempt at at least try to eat healthfully, despite the obvious ingratitude of mini-Opie. So I spent a lot of time reading labels at the supermarket and hyperventilating over sugar content and phrases like "10% juice." Seriously, juice, why you gotta be that way?

Too bad I didn't know about TrueBlue juices back in the day. This stuff tastes good, it's got a ton of antioxidants (surely enough to do battle with the occasional McMuffin) and it comes in all kinds of fun flavors (blueberry pomegranate, anyone? Doesn't that just scream "cocktail"?). We like it on the rocks, in our freezer popsicles, and swirled into plain yogurt. While it does have some added sugar, it's real stuff from the cane, not from corn. I'm working to reduce our family's consumption of processed foods (this excellent summary from Magpie explains why and how) and products like this can help. I mean, I guess it would help the most if I grew my own blueberries in the backyard (organically, of course) and then crushed them into juice with my own two hands. But I do have my limits.

If you want to try TrueBlue for yourself, you can find a retailer and print a coupon.

Police line do not cross

Caution: Toddler on the loose!

My new career: Efficiency expert

It was when I noticed that the top sheet on my bed was on sideways—and decided not to fix it until the next time I wash the sheets—that I realized: “Efficient” is just “lazy” with a positive spin.

When I eat leftovers straight out of their Tupperware or ice cream from the carton: not lazy! Efficient—I save time, energy, water, dish soap.

Keeping about 25 pairs of shoes in a big pile by the back door: Efficient! No trekking all the way upstairs to find the ones we need. They're already right here!

Dealing with a dirty tablecloth by flipping it over to the clean side? Efficient!

Leaving dog hair on the floor? Efficient (it only keeps recurring, why not sweep it up every few days instead of every few hours?) and healthful!

What are you lazy about? I'm sure I can find a way to make it into a good thing.

Lunch through the ages

By the time I was about 7 or 8, my mom had me trained to pack my own lunch every morning. Smart lady -- she had two younger kids and a full-time job, so a little delegation was definitely in order. The best part was choosing a tiny bag of chips (Mom would buy a variety pack every week) to include with my PB&J. It was a good day if I got to the Fritos before my siblings did.

In 8th grade, I went through a phase of buying a bag of pretzels and a chocolate milkshake at the cafeteria every day. A couple of years later, I existed for months on the Calcium-Lover's Special: a few slices of Colby cheese stuffed inside a pita, a yogurt, and a carton of milk. (I know.)

I don't really remember what I ate in college. I guess whatever looked least gross at the dining hall. I do remember that when I had my first (ill-paying) job, I brown-bagged four days a week (hitting the diner with the other paupers on Fridays) and loathed it.

At some point even before we were married, I exacted a promise from my now-husband that he'd be in charge of packing any and all lunches for our future children. So far, he's stuck to it. Of course, we've yet to reach kindergarten, but there was an 18-month stretch at our previous child care center where we had to provide meals, and at our current place, we have to supply lunch once or twice a week during the summer when the kids go on field trips.

We'll see how it goes next year, when lunch provision becomes a daily chore. If the school's cafeteria fare meets both my standards (for nutrition) and my 5-year-old's (for taste), then Daddy might be off the hook. I have a feeling that things have changed a lot since my day--you know, in the "ketchup is a vegetable" era.

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Check out School Menu and its parental counterpart Family Everyday, two sites that work together with school food services directors to provide and promote healthy eating and physical fitness for kids and their parents.

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?

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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.