Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,
I understand that you are used to getting your way, in fact have never not gotten what you loudly demand, but I feel there are some things that we should discuss. I’d like to take a minute to review your take on the environment, your foreign policy, and even weapons of mass destruction. Is that OK? Do you have a minute? Good.

Let’s start with the environment. Seriously, what do you have against the landfills? Why do you feel the need to wait until I change your diaper to have a poop? Couldn’t you use the slightly wet diaper that’s already on your tush? No, you wait until I’ve changed you to let loose, forcing me to use yet another diaper. One of these days the landfills are going to overflow and it’ll all be your fault. OK. Maybe my fault a little for not using cloth diapers, but still! You’re the one who wastes perfectly good diapers. (Not to mention the fact that you are wasting away your college tuition. Just sayin’.)

Moving on to my foreign policy issues. How exactly do you decide who will be friend or foe? We walk into a room and you’ll befriend someone and latch on to them for the rest of the day. Everyone else who tries to talk to you or play with you gets the cold shoulder. I have yet to understand what draws you to one person, but not to another. Is it the color of their shirt, or something more abstract? It would really help me if you could give me a hint or two so that I can clue in the people who really want to bond with you.

Maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration to categorize your gas as a weapon of mass destruction, but when you come into our bed early in the morning, snuggle under the covers, and let one rip, well, let’s just say that you can get us to get up pretty darn fast. I really wish you would refrain from using your secret weapon, especially when we’re in the closed car on a warm day. It’s really uncalled for, I’d even go so far as to say downright evil.

Now that you have acquired a Vice President your father and I are quite worried about our little democracy. Aside from the few issues I’ve mentioned above we feel that you’ve been quite a reasonable ruler. We hope that now that there are two of you and two of us you will not take advantage of the situation. If you do we might have to consider impeaching you, or at least taking away your Dora privileges. Consider yourself warned.

Sincerely,
Your mommy

This was a guest post written by Rose at It’s My Life... in honor of this month’s blog exchange.

When I’m not busy working, cooking, or running after my toddler, C, I’m usually hiding in the bathroom thinking up my next blog post or trying to read a chapter or two of the book I’m currently wading through. When I do come up with something witty to write about, you can read it here where your usual blogger extraordinaire is blogging today.

Haiku Friday: Arachnophobia

Dear neighbors, I am
sorry to inform you that
you should RUN FOR IT!






















Thanks to Christina and Jennifer for launching Haiku Friday!

Wearing my Food Sheriff badge with ambivalence

I like to think I am moderate, erring toward healthy, when it comes to my diet and my kids'. I try to make sure we eat a variety of foods, whole grains (yay for whole-wheat Eggo waffles), fruits and veggies, yada yada. Luckily, the kids are not particularly picky. We don't eat a lot of organic stuff because it's not readily available where we live. (I could get it but I am a little too cheap and lazy to do so). But we shop at our farmer's markets as often as we can. I let the kids have candy and other treats sometimes and about once a week or so I give in to their begging for a snow cone after school. Otherwise, I try to limit the amount of processed crapola that they consume and the use of food as a reward.

And I have to say that even this small set of rules is really tiring to enforce. I feel like I am being undermined at every turn. Every time Jo goes to play at one particular friend's house, she has mac-and-cheese, juice, candy, and ice cream for dinner--no thought of any fruit or vegetables, ever.

My husband created the tradition of "cookies, Nukkies and bookies" when it's time for bed. Gee, thanks. Now he's giving out cookies every night regardless of whether the kids ate any dinner or how many other sweets they might have had the rest of the day. When we arrived at my mother-in-law's a few weeks ago, there was a giant box of "fruit" gummies waiting to greet us. Her co-worker had given them to her because the kids were coming to visit ("I wasn't sure if it would be OK, but I didn't know what to do with them"--so displaying them prominently in the living room seemed wise??). I let them have a couple of packs a day but in this as in every scenario, I am forced to be the bad guy just to maintain some semblance of health. I have no problem at all saying no to the kids. I just resent being forced to do so because no one else is paying attention.

I can't imagine trying to insist on a fully organic diet or cutting out processed foods altogether--because we don't live in a bubble, we live in a community. We live with other people who have different beliefs and value systems about food, and since eating is a communal activity much of the time, we have to work this out. How do you do it?

Photo: Legends of America

I'm a schmoozer baby, so why don't you link me

So I never did score one of those Thinking Blogger awards, but I did get two even better ones recently. First, Lady M says I'm a schmoozer (which I like to think means I'm a good bloggy neighbor) and Lara says I'm just plain nice. Big kisses to these two dancing girls for singling me out--I am honored! And celebrating these awards by passing them on sounds like the perfect way to kick off the week ahead.

First, the schmooze, a meme which originated with this post defining a good schmoozer as someone who effortlessly weaves [her] way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly comments, happily making new friends along the way. I am sure that some of these picks are repeats, but I'm going to award the pretty ba-loooo (as Opie says) button to the following:

Jenny, of The Bloggess and Mama Drama: Besides being knock-'em-dead hilarious, Jenny has one of the biggest hearts in the blogosphere.

Magpie: The best cure for NYC-homesickness and a wise and frequent commenter (here and everywhere).

Scribbit: Michelle is always ready to spread cheer through comments, links, and even weekly giveaways.

Second, the nice, which is for those bloggers who are nice people and good blog friends--those who bring good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a positive influence on our blogging world.

Movin' Mom: For sharing the real scoop on raising teenagers--leaving me not only scared, but also inspired by her example.

Mom Ma'am Me: For her actions in both the real and bloggy worlds--just read a few posts and you'll see why.

L.A. Daddy: Because once I idly asked him a question in a comment and he responded with a truckload of useful information (useful for my next life as a pirate). He may be a biker dude but he's a nice one.

Jen of one plus two: For her Just Posts and for the way she's opened my eyes about homelessness and just being an all-around good egg.

Grace of so, what do you do all day?: For having a genius blog title and tagline, for throwing a kick-ass party in the midst of a stomach virus, and for saying she'd read my blog upon meeting me at BlogHer.

LetterB: For being the brains behind Momku which I think is just so fun and cool (and I am sorry that it's too late at night at the end of a long weekend for me to describe it so lazily). I still stand by my thoughts on Twitter, but Momku is an inspired use of the medium.

Will you ever forgive me, poor dented station wagon?

An open letter to my car, and a fervent effort to turn a moment of stupidity into a cool prize from CarBlabber via today's Blog Blast.

I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. Please don't hold a grudge. I need you to take me and the kids to day care, play dates, the flippin' orthodontist, and the grocery store. I know you don't want to go back there, and I wish we didn't have to, but it is inevitable. The bike trailer can only hold so much.

I promise I won't be as dumb as I was that day. It's just that the cart was sitting up on the sidewalk by the store when I pulled up. I took it inside and filled it with liquid crack Honest Tea, diapers, and a few other essentials. It was only natural that when I finished my shopping, I put the cart back where I'd found it. I mean I knew it wasn't properly corraled in one of those iron chutes. I hate it when people leave carts randomly strewn in the parking lot. But I thought I was safe. I thought you were safe.

I promise you I cringed when, just as we were backing out, I saw that cart roll ever-so-slowly, but unavoidably, unstoppably, across the sidewalk and off the curb, slamming right into your rear passenger door. I never meant to hurt you. You were the car we bought because we had a baby. You've served us well for over five years and 70,000 miles. I'm just sorry that karma bit you on the ass side instead of me.

How can I make it up to you?

Grovelingly yours,

Mayberry Mom

Time, wastage of. In three acts.

I. How much of a kickback are these guys getting?

At Jo's last checkup her dentist strongly urged me to take her to the orthodontist for a consultation. It's obvious that five years of thumbsucking have deformed her bite. But I've researched this and every source I've checked says that nothing can or should be done about it until her permanent teeth come in. Still, after futzing around for a couple of months I made an appointment with the ortho. The only one in this area code that takes our insurance is a good 20-minute drive away (which sounds like nothing but around here, we are used to getting everywhere in 5 or 10 minutes).

So today I stop working an hour and a half early, pick up Jo, drive her all the way to the ortho's office, and eventually see the Doogie Howserish practitioner. He spends about two minutes looking at Jo's mouth and then informs me that there is nothing he can or should do until her six-year molars come in. I ask you. Wouldn't the regular dentist be aware of this fact? Why then would he refer my five-year-old to a specialist who, even if he thought that giving her an appliance to correct her habit and her bite was indicated, could not do so because she does not yet have the teeth to anchor it to? What was the point in spending two hours of my day in this manner?

III. Welcome to bureaucracy

I filled out registration forms for kindergarten back in February and turned them in. Why then am I invited to a spaghetti dinner next week, at which I am advised to "pick up registration materials"? Is this like when you give all your information to one customer service representative, and then they transfer you to someone else, who says "let me just get your file up on my screen" and then asks you all the same questions all over again?

III. Police blotter = neverending source of amusement.

"Disturbance, police were dispatched to the 900 block of ABC Road, where a caller reported hearing screaming coming from the house. Upon arriving at the scene, officers discovered that the homeowner was yelling at the navigational system in his 2008 BMW."

I don't know whether to be disturbed by this flagrant misuse of police officer time, or relieved that this is the best the newspaper could come up with for the blotter, or amused at the subtle dig of including the car's luxury pedigree.

Oh my word

After a long day of nonstop playing and learning at child care, my kids--especially Miss "In the school-age room we don't take naps"--usually want nothing more than to veg in front of the TV for awhile. I can't blame them. But I do feel bad parking them in front of the tube after we've been apart all day.


So when I can, I at least hunker down and watch with them. Recently, thanks to the Parent Bloggers Network, we got a sneak preview of an upcoming PBS Kids show: Word World. Its clever premise is that the six main characters, as well as many of the places and things in their environment, are made up of letters. Check out the cute puppy and house above to see what I mean.

To learn what we thought of the show, visit my brand-new review blog, The Full Mommy! I've joined forces with six other fabulous bloggers and together we are going to keep you posted on the latest and greatest (and not-so-greatest) products we've discovered. Please come visit!

And also: As you've guessed, the ninjas are the lie, photographic evidence notwithstanding. 'Cause they don't have masks or throwing stars. But I still keep my distance.

I was dead serious about the ninjas

Gratitude, edition 2

After these trips I need to remind myself how lucky I am. That despite four days of being force-fed like a foie-gras goose, and despite a particularly obnoxious freak-out by our utterly tactless sister-in-law, we are blessed. One for each day:

1. Listening to conversations like this:

"His name was Rinaldi, he's married to, you know, that Nardelli girl."
"No, i'm thinking of one who's married to a Bertucci."
"Is it the one with the twins?"
"What was his name? Dominic? Frank? No, was it Nick?"
"Who did that Alunni marry, was it a Crespi?"

Seriously. Like being in the back room at the Bada Bing, only with 80-year-old women.

2. Very smooth travel. Scary smooth. And that's including the two-hour delay on our very last leg. The kids were amazing. Jo kept busy for hours with movies on DVD plus an extremely dopey Precious Moments coloring/activity book she received as a gift. Opie played with a 25-cent plastic airplane and on one car trip, a tiny flashlight.

3. Besides their awesomeness at traveling, their overall awesomeness.
a) Opie, on seeing an airplane (one of hundreds): "Ooh. It's PWETTY."

b) New art from Jo (mama elephant with baby):














4. Three cousins, one slip-and-slide.













Back soon to discuss truths and lies.

Off like a dirty shirt

We're on our way outta town. Not to eat grapefruit in France or show off our undies in Disneyworld or even stalk Elmo at Sesame Place, though. No, we're headed to the home of the Steamtown Mall, the Anthracite Heritage Museum, the St. Ubaldo Day Festival, and the (sadly fictional) Dunder Mifflin, Inc. (oh I'm glad I googled that, otherwise I would have missed out on Dwight's advice on protecting yourself from ninjas). Did you know that Avoca "International" Airport (serving Scranton-Wilkes Barre) does not stock any "Office" goodies? Don't you think that is a terribly missed opportunity?

Anyway. Heading out tomorrow to visit the mother-in-law, grandmother-in-law, great aunt-in-law, and other assorted -in-laws. Somehow my suggestion "Why don't you take the kids to visit your mother while I'm at BlogHer" became "Why don't we all go see my mother for a nice long visit for her birthday." I am nothing if not dutiful (snort) so we leave tomorrow. Plus the tickets were hundreds of dollars less for this particular weekend (why do you tease me, Northworst Airlines?).

I didn't line up any guest posters, so here is a round of "two truths and a lie" to keep you busy.

1. There are ninjas in the park by my house every Tuesday and Thursday evening.
2. Put together, my grandmother-in-law's maiden and married names contain 8 syllables.
3. When I was a kid, our local airport (not in Mayberry) had two gates ("in" and "out") and the waiting area was a few folding chairs in a trailer.

Take your guesses in the comments, and post your own truths and lies if you're game.

And the livin' is easy

Come on, vamonos!

My daughter listened to a great deal of Spanish in her first two years of life. We lived in a predominantly Spanish neighborhood in New Jersey and the child care center we chose for her was run by a Spanish-speaking family, staffed mostly by Spanish-speaking teachers and attended by Spanish-speaking children. While we didn’t select the center specifically for language learning, I always believed it was a pretty nice fringe benefit.

I didn’t realize how nice, though, until I read The Bilingual Edge by Kendall King, Ph.D., and Alison Mackey, Ph.D. (received courtesy the Parent Bloggers Network). In this thorough, persuasive book, King and Mackey spell out (as their subtitle explains) the “why, when, and how” of teaching your child a second language.

The why is pretty obvious; who would argue that knowing a second language doesn’t broaden career opportunities, or open our minds to other people and cultures? While I felt the authors went a bit overboard in justifying why they wrote the book, I found it fascinating to learn that “people with advanced knowledge of more than one language seem to be more creative….Something about knowing more than one language seems to make children both more creative and what researchers describe as more mentally flexible.”

Some of the when facts were new to me. I’ve always believed the conventional wisdom that the younger the child, the more easily she will pick up a second language. I took rudimentary French lessons as a child, and later became very proficient in the language; native speakers often commented on my excellent pronunciation. I credit my early exposure (not any innate talent) for this. King and Mackey, while agreeing that young children can learn two or three languages easily and simultaneously, also stress that it’s never too late for a child—or an adult—to learn a new language. Younger children have the advantage of discerning different sounds more easily, and they aren’t afraid to make mistakes when they talk. But older children can still become very proficient, provided they receive explicit instruction (vs. the osmosis approach you might take with a baby or toddler) and lots of encouragement.

The how chapters in the book are strongest, outlining dozens of different methods families can use to raise a bilingual child—joining a playgroup, hiring a nanny, singing songs together, language immersion schools. The authors take a stand (backed, as is everything in the book, by research studies) against teaching via “edutainment.” In other words, Dora no es buen profesor. Kids, especially the youngest ones, learn only from meaningful interactions with parents, caregivers, and other children; while they may pick up a word or two from Dora, Boots, or Elmo, real language learning requires a human touch. Interestingly, though, school-age kids do benefit from TV shows or computer games designed to teach language—as long as it’s a supplement to more hands-on instruction.

Jo’s kindergarten curriculum will include Spanish instruction, which I’m pleased about—not just because I want her to learn the language, but because it shows that her school places a value on foreign language learning. Opie will receive some Spanish lessons at our day care center starting this fall as well. It won’t be like the old days in New Jersey, but he’ll at least have some exposure. The book has convinced me, though, that if I want them to become more proficient, I’ll need to do my part at home. Simply reading books or singing songs in Spanish regularly will help, as will trying to include more Spanish in our conversations (maybe by speaking only Spanish during dinner once a week, for example). This works for me because I still remember some of my high school Spanish, but if you don’t, no te preocupes (don’t worry): King and Mackey have plenty of sage advice for you too.

What I liked: The book is comprehensive—these authors have thought of everything, from how to decide what language to teach, what to do if kids (or grandparents) resist, how to choose a tutor, and more. They cite research studies to support their claims, but don’t slip into academic jargon. They also include an appendix stuffed with helpful resources.

What I didn’t: These two needed to lay off the exclamation points. Call me a quibbler, but as a writer and editor it’s been slammed (that’s a little copy-editing in-joke for you) into my head for years that you only use an exclamation point (aka a slam) with extreme caution. The authors spent too much time in the early chapters defending their need to write the book, which only undercut their argument. And the few exercises scattered throughout seemed like little more than filler—they weren’t necessary.

Who it’s for: Any parent who wants to raise a child proficient in more than one language—and the authors make a strong case that that means any parent, period. No matter your child’s age or your family’s background or circumstances, you’ll find applicable, actionable suggestions here.

If I were a-twittering

I don't Twitter. But if I did, here's what you'd get.

*

I need to find a productive use for hickory nuts. There are approximately 14 bazillion of them in my backyard.

*

What Opie is doing now: Eating an apple only slightly smaller than his own head.

*

How is it that no matter what I am doing all morning, I always eat lunch precisely at 12:45 p.m.?

*

I want my free Harry Potter book! WHERE IS IT?

*

So. You see you're not missing much. And when I look at other people's Twitter pages, I am seriously underwhelmed. Especially with the posts that are in response to someone else's post -- it's like listening in on half of a phone conversation.

But as I asked Aimee today (because she seems like an early-adopting kind of gal), is it Twitter that's the problem, or me? I read this provocative "blogging is dead" post and it pretty well freaked me out. I don't see the appeal of any of the social networking sites. I'm busy enough reading the 100 blogs I follow (to the exclusion of exercise, cleaning, reading real books, etc.). I certainly don't feel the need to wonder "Hey, what else is out there -- let me see what's on the front page of Digg today."

Does this make me old? Or un-visionary? In danger of losing my job someday (remember I am basically a content provider for a decidedly Web-1.0 kind of site) because I can't move with the times? I wonder.

If any of you are into Twitter or Facebook or Sk*rt or (...), I'd love to know why they're meaningful to you. Am I missing something?

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

*

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!

*

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!

*

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.