Chair by the window, please

Isn't that the sweetest face you've ever seen! That's my girl. Ninety-five percent of the time, she is a lovely member of the family. She doesn't shed much (just twice a year, and then it's rather exciting to take her outside and brush her and be astonished at all of the fluff we send into the breeze, you're welcome little birds for the ultrasoft nests). She tolerates kid antics, or walks away from them without a grudge. She makes me feel safe when I am home alone at night and keeps me company when I am home alone during the day.

Yes, she does steal food from the children, but she also cleans up all crumbs and spills for me, so it's kind of a wash. I am still working on forgiving her for one particular incident, though. Our first Christmas in Mayberry, we decided to have a party for our new friends and neighbors. I was 6 months pregnant with Opie at the time. My husband (aka the hermit) had no interest in helping host this shindig so I had most of the food catered. But the one thing I made myself was a freaking TON of cookies. Now, not only am I not a very good cook, I am s-l-o-w. It takes me forever to do the simplest thing. I spent an entire week of post-bedtime evenings baking. Did I mention I was 6 months pregnant at the time? By the end of the week I could barely stand.

The day of the party, I put all of my precious cookies on serving trays. To keep them cool and out of reach of toddlers, I stashed them on our screened porch, which was closed up for the winter. Just before the party began we started bringing the trays into the dining room.

And then someone left the door to the porch open. Allowing canine access. Said canine polished off an entire tray of my baked goods. You can imagine my hormonally enhanced reaction.

Oh, you better believe I served all the other trays, even though there was no guarantee they hadn't been contaminated with doggie spit.

Tell your own messy, naughty pet story--it's a Parent Bloggers Network blog blast. I don't think you're going to beat the Great Baby Oil Caper, though.

P.S. You know that chair in the picture is covered by a sheet, right? That's not really what my living room chair looks like? OK, just so we are clear.

The potty problem

For the record, the following do not motivate my son to use the toilet:

• Effusive praise
• Moderate praise
• Barely perceptible praise
• Threats of violence (no, of course not)
• Candy
• Stickers
• Toys
• Money
• A kid-sized potty
• A kid-sized potty seat insert
• Just a regular potty like we all use
• Choosing and buying his own underwear
• Being allowed to wear underwear
• Not being allowed to wear underwear
• Wearing soaking wet underwear
• Being one of the only kids in his class not in underwear

I started off very laidback. But the kid is going to be FOUR in six weeks. What the hell?

Double wordless score

Does it count as wordless if you post a picture that contains words? Well, who cares. This is a list of what the children plan to do this weekend. #3: "Punching Dad on the but[t]."

I'm wordless over here too.

I'm like a stereotypical sitcom husband

I missed my anniversary again. My blog-iversary, that is. Actually, I checked my archives and it appears that I've never acknowledged it, so maybe we have an agreement, my blog and I, that we consider anniversaries a Hallmark holiday, and we don't celebrate them, at least in public.

So, never mind? Well, I'll just whisper in your ear that it's been (a little more than) three years since Mayberry Mom first arrived on the blogging scene. Together we've traveled to BlogHer, documented far more cute kid stories than a scrapbook ever could, succumbed to the lure of Twitter, quit a job, launched a freelance career (not to mention a second blog), and most importantly, collected a truly beautiful group of friends. Thank you for reading.

The no-school, no child care haiku

Flog me with a wet
muffler: I want some new snow
to cover the dirt.

Happy Presidents' Day!

Fine. Well, sort of. You know.

People want to know how I am. How I really am. I appreciate the thought and I wish I could answer them.

I am happy not to be spending every waking moment with a painful, hormone-induced headache.

I am sad when I see my son's face and wonder what his brother would have looked like.

I am relieved that the terribly stressful period when we didn't know if our baby would live or die is over.

I am wondering how I will ever get through the month of June.

I am deeply touched by the supportive comments, emails, cards, flowers, plants, gifts, and food we've received.

I am thankful that I no longer have vicious nausea and heartburn 24/7.

I am discouraged that my body is flabby and lumpy with nothing to show for it.

Mostly, I just feel weird. I've never done this before and I don't know how to do it. For three years I had resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be having any more babies. I got pretty good at living that way.

Then I was pregnant, and that felt like an altered state, an alternative reality. So not being pregnant feels like a return to normalcy. But denying my son's short life is most certainly not normal.

You see the dilemma.

I'll steal borrow from Casey and tell you that you don't have to tell me you are sorry. She said you could tell her about your favorite sandwich instead. If you want to tell me something, what's your favorite flavor of ice cream? I was sorely tempted by a tub of Americone Dream the other day.

How I met your father

Once upon a time (I'm going to tell you a story, or maybe an LSAT practice question) I dated a guy named Glenn. Glenn worked with a woman named Lori. Lori lived with a man named Bob. Bob had some grade-school friends named Mark and Dave. Mark had a college friend named Jeff. Jeff had a business associate named Ron.

Are you following? Sometime after Glenn flew the coop, I went to a party at Bob and Lori's. There I met Mark and Dave. Mark asked for my number. We went out on a date. It was at a comedy club which was apparently having a bl-w j-b theme night. Every single comedian decided to discuss that particular topic. Hi. First date over here. Awkward.

Still, there was at least one other date that I recall before things petered out (pun not really intended), as things do. But occasionally I would see Mark at Bob and Lori's. A few months later, Bob called to say that Ron had given Jeff tickets to a football game, but Jeff couldn't use them; did I want them? I couldn't go to the game but Bob seemed insistent. So I found someone else who could use the tickets. Then I had to meet Jeff at his office building, conveniently located next to mine, to pick up the tickets.

The rest is history. And this past weekend, we (Jeff, Bob, me, and a few others) finally watched Mark get married too. It was definitely the best Jewish-Nicaraguan wedding I've ever attended. Mazel tov!

Hmm. Maybe I jumped too soon.

As of yesterday, all of the people that I couldn't stand working with at my old job have been laid off. So here I am eking out a freelance career, constantly wondering if I'll find enough work, tallying up the dumb ways we waste money, thinking about how I should be promoting myself/networking better but am not ... and now I can add "endlessly debating whether I should have just stuck it out at the old job." Of course, a ton of people got laid off there yesterday and it's quite possible that I would have been one of them had I stayed.

To top it off, my lovely boss from that job was laid off from her subsequent job. If I may restate the totally obvious, this economy can #suckit.

Sibling shuttle diplomacy

Of the many things that surprise and please me about my children, their relationship with each other tops the list. They truly enjoy each other's company, play together nicely, show mutual affection, and have each other's backs.

Sure, they squabble, but Jo is remarkably patient with Opie's 3-ish-ness, and Opie happily allows himself to be bossed around by his big sister most of the time. If he's having a tantrum, she creeps up next to him and tries to calm him down. Then she runs back and forth between him and the adult on duty, negotiating a truce. Several nights a week, they sleep side by side in the two trundle beds in Opie's room.

Jo recently brought home a worksheet from school called "My Special Feelings." It's a series of sentences that she had to complete: "I am happy when," "I am good at,"I am afraid of." My favorite: "I feel safe when ... my brother hugs me."

See, now this is why I wanted (still want? not sure yet) another one.

Extremely adorable photo filched from my brother and sister-in-law. Topic inspired by this week's Parent Bloggers Network blog blast for the Life and Health Insurance Foundation for Education.

From long-ago songs and someday goals

I am from hardwood floors, from Meyer's Dairy milk in glass bottles, served in wine glasses on special occasions.

I am from glass shelves lined with houseplants watered every Saturday.

I am from black walnut, honeysuckle, lilacs, and grass on a hill.

I am from makers of music, milkers of cows, riders of rails, Beckers and Stephenses, fair skins and blue eyes.

I am from the stubborn and the silent, the peacemaking and the retelling.

From long-ago songs and someday goals.

I am from Sunday Mass with doughnuts after.

I am from the centre, from this side of the Mississippi and that, from braunschweiger and fried mush.

From the prize-winning irises and the fourth commandment, the stroller rolling down Tracy Hill and the dog named Susie.

I am from quilts on my walls, rings on my finger, names handed down from generation to generation. I am a daughter, a sister, a mother before I am anything else.

Thanks to Kate for tagging me with this particularly creative meme, which was a nice challenge for me at a time when the blogging well is a little dry. I do love writing about old family stories.

Thanks also to Magpie for the Tickled Pink award! I think you're the bees' knees, Magpie.

Steelers fanboy

Despite the rough start*, we did have a nice weekend, filled with the usual stuff (birthday party, Sunday school, ice-skating lessons) and capped off by just-the-four-of-us Superbowl party. Given that my parents met and married in Pittsburgh, I rooted for the Steelers and was thus richly rewarded. At one point Opie decided to go shirtless, which (of course, right?) prompted his father to paint his torso with a giant letter S (vaguely visible in the video).



*Thank you for understanding my need to post somber haiku. As Amy so rightly pointed out, this stuff has to come out in bits and pieces and that's what blogs are for.

If you ever tire of it and want the more cheerful version of me, you can always read my Family Fitness blog. Just so's you know.

Haiku Friday: Low

I never got to
hold him, smell him, even see
him; still I miss him.

Feeling melancholy over here tonight folks. Not much to post because everything is too ajumble in my mind (therefore I can make up words like "ajumble"). It would probably help to write it down, but my browser keeps opening to Chicktionary instead of Blogger. Funny, that.

Eternal sunshine of the optimistic mind

Someday, this child will wear underwear. I'm trying the Law of Attraction because I am out of other options.

For Wordless Wednesday.

Incoming: Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day always catches me off-guard. I always feel I deserve a longer break after all the giftiness in December. Then along comes February 14 and suddenly I need dozens of teeny tiny cards for the kids' classmates and oh yeah, maybe I should get cards for the kids from me too, and I guess one for my husband while I'm at it. I was shocked the first time my kids got not just those cards with the see-through envelopes, but little bags of candy and other goodies. I missed the memo on that one (and I still resist).

So. If you want to be more prepared than I usually am, please to visit The Full Mommy's Valentine Gift Guide. It features goodies galore for kids, spouses, and even a little something for your favorite dog. Thank you to Leighann and Amy for tons of great reviews.

Out of the blue

My son will be four in a few months and everytime he picks up a crayon, he produces nothing but scribbles. I know you're not supposed to compare kids, blah blah blah, but Jo could scratch out the letters of her name and approximate a snowman portrait well before she turned three. So I started to wonder.

Then yesterday, Opie produced these guys:


And him:


Hello??? Where did this come from? They have feet! They have ears! They have ... cheekbones?!

Approaching one week later, I have my good moments and my bad ones. I indulged in some retail therapy. I tried to catch up on work. I even laughed with my kids. I also sat bolt upright in bed last night and bawled because I was suddenly seized with worry: My baby is so small, and what if no one is taking care of him? Irrational, I know, but I'm guessing I get a pass on being reasonable. At least for now.

Untelling, undoing

It would be a lot easier if everyone read my blog. I've given our news to as many friends as possible via email, and my mother and Jeff's have mostly told family members for us. That still leaves neighbors, teachers and parents at the kids' schools, even my dental hygienist. I dread each and every conversation. They don't know what to say to me and I don't know what to say to them.

More than that, having to say it means having to believe it, just a little more, each time.

I'm thankful we don't have a nursery to empty. Eventually I'll have to decide whether to give away the baby clothes and gear I've saved, but for now all that can stay safely tucked away. The last thing I want to do right now is wear maternity clothes, but neither do I want to pack them up, spending another hour or two confronting the fact that I don't need them.

Thank you all for your supportive comments and e-mails. We are getting along as best we can. The small-townness of Mayberry helps; word gets around and soon our refrigerator and freezer are overflowing. They don't bring our baby back, but these loving, caring gestures help us eat and sleep and breathe and sometimes even smile.

Sing thee to thy rest

We lost our baby, our little boy.

We'd known there could be--would be--was something wrong for a few weeks (which is why I haven't been posting or commenting). The end finally came just yesterday.

The end, and the beginning of us missing him and wondering what if and if only.

Every day of these awful weeks, I took my prenatal vitamin, I avoided alcohol, I double-steeped my tea to lower its caffeine content. Just as I've been doing since the first days of my pregnancy. I wasn't hoping for a miracle. I guess I just wanted to prove (to whom, I don't know) that I did every last little thing that I could to protect him.

It wasn't enough. And I do know that it wasn't my fault.

But I hope my little boy knows how much he is loved. And that my heart is as broken as his little body is.

Have a happy, shiny new year

From all of us in Mayberry.

Wait a minute, Christmas is over?

Writing wrap-up posts gives me hives, so I'll just say the following about the past week. These are the moments that I wish I could capture in a snow globe and revisit in the coming months and years:

• Christmas Eve, Jo had to be dragged to church kicking and screaming (almost literally). She spent the first half of the service on my lap or huddled on the floor with the hood of her jacket up. Then, suddenly, she was captivated by "Angels We Have Heard on High." She wanted to sing along and asked me to help her follow along in the hymnal. This continued for the remainder of the hour.
  
  
• Christmas morning, the kids sleep later than they have in weeks. When Opie finally gets up, we go into Jo's room to wake her up. Her first words are "You could have let me sleep a little longer, Opie!"
  
  
• My dad didn't pack his Christmas pants. My siblings and I scolded him soundly, then turned on our mother for allowing such an oversight. We suggested he turn around and drive nine hours back home to get them. He said "No." Can you believe it?
  
  
• He did, however, bring and wear his 7 jeans. Which looked great on him. Here is how it went down (let me note for the record that my dad is 71 and I haven't seen him wear jeans in years, but he does work out like two hours a day). He came into the kitchen wearing these stylish, dark, skinnyish jeans. Me: "Wow, nice jeans!" Dad: "Pretty nice huh?" Mom: "They're '7 for all' ... nations, or countries or something." Me: "7 For All Mankind??!?" Dad (shows off label): "Yeah, 7 For All Mankind. I got them at the Saks outlet."
  
  
• My mom could not get enough Wii bowling. She was constantly begging someone to play against her.
  
  
• After everyone left, Jeff noted that Opie's behavior had been very good, except for a few subpar moments, including that last morning. His response: "I was a little naughty because I didn't want everyone to leave." Little scam artist!
  
  
• The family construction project (Playmobil airline terminal, with approx 1 beeellion pieces):

I played Santa today

I felt very Santa-ish this morning as I lugged two bags and a box through the snow to help make a child's Christmas special (never mind the fact that yes, my belly shakes like a bowl full of jelly with every step I take).

A few months ago, the folks from Learning Curve gave me a Caring Corners dollhouse to review, with a special condition: I'd get one dollhouse for my kids and I to try out and keep, but I'd also get a second one to give away to a needy child or charity. Part of the toy's charm is its effort to teach kids about sharing, caring, and good deeds, hence the charitable twist on a product review.

I started corresponding with the house manager of a shelter for abused women in a town near Mayberry. It's part of a nonprofit group that manages an array of domestic abuse programs benefiting women and children. The shelter has 44 beds (not counting cribs), and right now every one is full; a mother and child are sleeping in the shelter's library this week because it's the safest place for them to be.

Unfortunately, because it took a while to coordinate the drop-off (note to self: When someone is clearly a bad emailer, pick up the phone), I couldn't bring the kids with me. Still, just having the extra dollhouse in our house for all this time gave us plenty of opportunity to talk about why we had it and what we'd be doing with it.

The coordinator who received the dollhouse was just thrilled, and noted that a dollhouse is an especially useful and therapeutic toy for a child who's experienced abuse. It breaks my heart clean in two to think of a child spending Christmas in a shelter, but I hope this dollhouse helps one little girl dream of the safe, welcoming home she'll live in one day.

*

I also donated a few other reviewed products: the Positive Spin holiday books, and an I Can Do That! game (since that company had also offered two toys, one to review and one to donate). Thank you, Whitney, for coordinating these efforts. It's been a pleasure to participate.

*

Also at the Full Mommy, I 've reviewed theater productions that may be coming to your area soon. Check them out: Magic Tree House, the musical and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

*

And have a very merry Christmas, if you're celebrating. Our guests arrive today, so I'll be busy chopping vegetables and serving salads for the next few days. See you next week!

These kids are smokin'

Jeff's mom sent us a box of Omaha steaks for Christmas, which was very generous but also unintentionally funny, because let's review the guest list* for our holiday festivities:

• 2 vegans
• 2 low-fat/low-carb dieters
• 2 small children
• 1 vegetarian
• 1 diabetic
• 1 pregnant woman whose stomach has a mind of its own (not a rational mind either)

But just like the box can often be the best part of a gift, the OS packaging brought a half an hour of pure glee:

*P.S. My husband (the special-occasion chef in the MM household) has a whole spreadsheet of the meals he is preparing for this crew. If you have need of any festive vegan recipe suggestions, we stand ready to assist.

P.P.S. Re my last post, it looks like I probably overreacted to the NT measurement I (thought I) saw. The result was normal (although at the upper edge of the accepted range). I feel much better now. And pledge not to abuse Google any further.

Too much snow, too much information

Over the ground lies a mantle of white...

You're not kidding. In addition to the foot of snow we got 10 days ago (which mostly didn't melt), we're now in the midst of a fluffy downpour of flakes today, with more predicted for Sunday/Monday. White Christmas: check.

It's not, however, a snow day. Still had to take Jo to school this morning. She gave it her best shot by putting an ice cube in the toilet and sleeping with a spoon under her pillow, but no luck. I have never heard of those two superstitions--is it a Midwest thing? We never did it growing up in Pennsylvania.

I have to brave the highways later on for an OB appointment. My practice now has a new procedure for urine tests: BYOU. They give you a little cup at your appointment and tell you to bring it back at the next one--full. Isn't that delightful?

I had an sonogram yesterday, the nuchal translucency screening. Baby spent the whole time sucking his/her thumb and trying to shove away the ultrasound wand pressing down on its turf. Not to sound like a pro-life activist but it really is amazing to see that at 13 weeks gestation. When I got home, like an idiot I googled what a normal NT measurement is. It's almost 4 times less than the number I thought I saw on the screen. Thanks a lot, Dr. Google.

Muchas gracias, you Hip Mom, you

Far too long ago, the lovely Kirsetin gave me a bloggy award, in Spanish no less. I'm going to go ahead and take her word for it when she says that recipients "are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!" (I mean, wouldn't you take her word for it, if her word was "charming"?)

(I do like prizes though. I bought a bundle of Christmas presents and several months of upcoming book club books with recent PBN winnings.)

So hmmm ... writers that need more attention.

• Kate from Eucalyptus Pillow recently started a couple of new blogs and a business so I guess she's attention-seeking. Right, Kate?
• Tammie from Soul Gardening needs us to read so she'll keep posting, because I miss her when she doesn't.
• That goes for you too, Nancy. (Uh. No pressure, though, gals.)

If there's anyone you'd like to pass this award on to, go forth with my blessing. As if you needed it.

Christmas in Mayberry

So the Santa Float came by a couple of days ago. It's a fire truck fully decked out in Christmas lights and it ferries SANTA! around our whole town, street by street, over the course of a week until he passes every single house. Here's us watching with our neighbors (at the end you can see my husband is holding the neighbor kid, who ran out of his house so fast he forgot to put on shoes).

Good night, sleep tight

Someone will probably want to revoke my Mom License for this, but I never used to check on my kids at night before I went to bed. Just getting them to sleep in the first place was far too time-consuming. I dared not risk it by tiptoeing anywhere near. The only time I chanced it was if I suspected they might not, in fact, be in their beds--hence the time I found Opie sound asleep on the floor of his room, completely bare of pajamas or even a diaper.

Lately, though, I can't resist sneaking a peek. I must have established the habit when Jo was sick this summer. Now I crack open each door just an inch or two, to see those little sleepyheads. I'd never realized Jo talks in her sleep. But nearly every night, she mumbles a little something. The sound of the doorknob turning is just loud enough to rouse her ever so slightly, but she rolls over and is dreaming again before I can even close the door. Opie, inevitably, hasn't moved an inch since I left him a few hours before, snoring slightly, with the stuffed animal du jour tucked in nearby.

Turning away from his door, I look across the hall at the room that's now (theoretically) a home office, and will one day be the new baby's room. Can it really be that one day another child will sleep right there behind that door? I'm still amazed.

Random 'n' ranty

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

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

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

Donors Choose (to continue making me weep)

Remember when I donated to Donors Choose? Yesterday I got a packet of thank-you notes from the kids who received the scissors and tape. Some excerpts:

"So, thank you again for the scissors and tape just remember it helped a lot. Sincerely, Mike"

"You know what, I was the one who came up with the name 'cut into education' that was cool wasn't it. Thanks again. Sincerely, Kenny"

"We really appreciate the scissors that you sent. Before, when we were doing a project last year in seventh grade, we had the worst scissors. (I mean that in a bad way) They coudn't cut for anything and they always got caught in the paper. This letter is to tell you thank you for the scissors and tape. Sincerely, Khalil"

"The scissors helped a lot because we had these crappy ones and they didn't even cut. And the tape, we didn't even have any, but you gave us some and now we use it for a lot of stuff. Every time I see them I think of you and I say thanks in my head. Sincerely, Sean"

Thank YOU for reading because every page view helped fund that project.

And if you are still feeling charitable: My sister is running a marathon through Team in Training. She only needs $850 more to reach her goal of $3800. If the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society is a group you'd like to support, consider throwing a few bucks my sister's way. She would appreciate it!

Books with a positive spin

Ever wonder how the tradition of trick-or-treating got started? Author/illustrator team Lisa and Tucker Johnson have a sweet suggestion. In their book All Hallows Eve: The Story of the Halloween Fairy, they imagine a cute little fairy named Eve who loves candy, but can't seem to produce any for herself with her magic wand.

I reviewed this book, plus two follow-ups covering the winter holidays (Christmas Eve: The Joy of Giving and Winter's Eve: Love and Lights), thanks to the Parent Bloggers Network. Head on over to The Full Mommy for the full review.

Scrabble-icious

Hands down, the game my family is most obsessed with plays most often is Scrabble. I'm not even sure when this habit got started, but anytime my brother, sister, and I are together it is ALL ABOUT the Scrab. Being the Word Girl in the family, I assumed I would have a natural advantage, but that is not the case. My brother, the visual artist (and in recent years, his wife--another artist) is the undisputed champ. I talked him up so much that two years ago, one of our neighbors came over on Christmas Eve for a game just to see Steve in action (and got his butt kicked for his trouble).

Steve and his wife:

• have memorized all the 2-letter words legal in Scrabble
• brought a travel Scrabble set on their month-long camping honeymoon and played nightly
• keep track of all the games they play on a spreadsheet. Data gathered includes total points scored, who played the Q and Z, any bingos, and probably more obscure information too.

I still play against them. But I go into it knowing that if I come within 50 points of their scores, I've done really well.

We also do have an alternate game in case we are all tired of getting clobbered. Syzygy is a fast-paced, board-free version of Scrabble. Each player creates her own grid of interlocking words using letter tiles. You start with 9 tiles, and when you've used them all you call "Draw!" and all players must grab another. You then continue to incorporate these new letters into your crossword; you are free to change anything you've already put down. The game is over when all the tiles are gone and one player has a complete crossword with no leftover tiles. (And then, half the fun is checking everyone's work and arguing about the liberties they've taken with the English language.)

(Gift tip: If you're shopping for someone Scrabble-obsessed, they must read Word Freak by Stefan Fatsis. Both a fascinating character study and a how-to manual for Scrabble nerds.)

If you smelled blog blast on this one, bingo! (50 points to you.) Post yours by midnight tonight and you could win a fat pile of fun video games from EA.

What would you name yourself?

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

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

You see why Lisa would be so much easier.

6 things Opie plans to teach his baby brother

1. How to dance

2. How to sing

3. How to quit ("You know. Like leave his job.")

4. How to DON'T play with matches

5. About stop lights, go lights, and slow down lights

6. How to play the guitar

By the way, Jo and Opie are certain their new sib is a boy. Because they have consulted the Magic 8-Ball, and not only did it say that yes, it's a boy, it also said that it's not a girl. So, totally definitive.

The story so far

Week 4: This isn't so bad.

In Denver, Julie is either psychic or takes note of my greenish tint and the fact that I don't drink any Skinny Dip. She sends me home with a huge wardrobe of maternity clothes (mine, hers, and even some of Liz's) "just in case."

Week 5: This is ... getting more bad.

Week 6: Feel like death warmed over.

Stop buttoning my pants. Unapologetically eat deli meat AND brie.

Week 7: Heartburn and morning sickness. Cruel and unusual.

Also cruel: "morning" sickness and potty-training, night-waking preschooler and vomiting dog.
[Pause to acknowledge The Boring. Aren't you glad you didn't have to read all of this in real time?]

Week 8: Way too fat and sick for just one baby.

Have totally convinced myself there must be two in there. Panicking about need for new car, crib, double stroller, and "how will I even get from the garage to the house with TWO BABIES?"

Week 9: Ultrasound! Just one (of course).

We tell the kids. They tell everyone they see including the teenage kid working at the playroom at the Y.

Week 10: Giving thanks for my whole family, even (okay, especially) the one that's currently acting like a tapeworm.

Christmas in June

Last Christmas Eve my husband and I had one of the most profound conversations of our then decade-long relationship. Conducted entirely in whispers (we were staying at his mother's and Opie was sleeping just inches away in a travel crib), our talk touched on the experiences we valued from our childhoods, what we wanted for our own kids, and so much more. At one point, Jeff said he was sad that Jo and Opie are not growing up with lots of cousins around. They only have a few, and see them only once or twice a year.

Without even thinking about it--certainly without thinking he would ever take me seriously--I said, "We could have another baby."

I was astonished when he said, "Yes, we could." And for the first time ever, he really meant it.

And that's how it came to be that the best present of Christmas 2007 will, if all goes well, be delivered sometime in June, 2009.

The Quotable Thanksgiving, starring Opie and Nonnie

Dramatis personae:

• OPIE, a loquacious 3-year-old
• NONNIE, his great-grandmother
• GRAMMY, his grandmother
• PAUL, Grammy's gentleman friend

I. Wednesday afternoon. GRAMMY has taken OPIE to visit her workplace and is introducing him to her co-workers.

GRAMMY: This is Paul. He always helps me put your car seat in my car.
OPIE (suspiciously): That's not the Paul that belongs to you.


II. Thursday morning, NONNIE's living room.

NONNIE: Opie, come here and give me a kiss.
OPIE: I can't. I haven't shaved yet.


III. Friday morning, NONNIE's kitchen. She opens the newspaper to the obituary pages.

NONNIE: Anyone dead from around here?
PAUL (not missing a beat): Not from [this town]. I already checked.

Fin.

The busiest travel day of the year

And I am always one of the ones traveling, every year of the *ahem*twenty*ahem* since I graduated from high school. As a kid, I spent every single holiday at home, not just in my hometown but in our house. My mother was the designated hostess for every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, birthday, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Fourth of July and regular old Sunday meal, and the guests were always my grandmother (who lived a few blocks away) and my aunt, uncle, and cousin (who lived around the corner). In the usual kid grass-is-always-greener way, I envied my friends who got to go somewhere and do something for holidays instead of staying home which is so boring.

Be careful what you wish for, as they say. Since I turned 18, I've never been in my own home for Thanksgiving. Not that I ever wanted to cook a turkey in my dorm room or my Manhattan studio apartment, but you see what I mean. It feels a bit Peter Pan-ish to always be the guest and never the host. Like I'm not a Real Mom (hi, Motrin!) until I've stuffed the turkey and mashed the potatoes my own self.

(The reality is that my husband cooks the turkeys around here anyway.)

Truthfully, I can deal with Thanksgiving travel, even when it's on a crazy day like today and even with two travel companions under 7 years old. They may be young, but they are experienced. Thanksgiving doesn't have quite the baggage Christmas does (in the form of gifts, for one, and more firmly entrenched traditions, for two) and I'm above all thankful that we have families who love us and with whom we will enjoy sharing a meal.

I'm thankful for all of you, too, and hope you have a wonderful day and weekend, wherever you spend it and whatever you eat.

Perfect gift for Grandpa

Remember I said I was going to get my dad seamless socks this year? I changed my mind when I saw this:

Haiku by Jo

I've tweeted a few times how much I love finding my daughter's random writing samples around the house: a list of supplies needed for building a fort ("chars, blakits, tap, bulos, sremrs"*), a copy of a thank-you note composed at school ("Thank you for lating us pic appls. An prs the appls afdr we pict the appls. the sidr was yommye!"). After years of asking us to spell out words for her letter by letter, she is finally comfortable and confident enough to invent her own spelling. I will miss this when she outgrows it (or learns to use spell check).

The other day she composed a mini-story and I just realized it is actually a haiku! A scatological one, naturally:

The monster pewpt and
fel down. That pewp totaly
mest op his plan. Ya!

And here is a picture from one of her storybooks, a retelling of the Ugly Duckling fairy tale:


Happy Haiku Friday, and happy weekend.

*chairs, blankets, tape, pillows, streamers

'Cause I'm free! ... freelancing

I've been doing the freelance thing for just about two months now and because some people have asked, here's how it's going: Pretty well. Thanks mostly to two big assignments, I'll be able to replace all of the income I would have earned at my job in the last quarter of the year.

When I had my job, I worked at home, but during scheduled hours. My boss was wonderfully flexible, but I still felt guilty if I ran to the grocery store after dropping off the kids and got home late, or spent too much time cycling laundry during the work day. Now I can do that without flinching, plus take a yoga class in the mornings, do my 15-minute school volunteer job twice a week instead of once, and so on.

Still, I am ever conscious of the not-working time. Turns out that in order to be a successful freelancer, you better be really self-motivated. (Imagine that!) I always thought I was--I was never the kid who pulled all-nighters or did her homework on the bus--but man, pushing myself to put in the time can be hard. Especially when one of my jobs has no deadlines or specific assignments. I also stink at self-marketing (hi, I own myname.com and do you think there is anything there? no) and strategic planning. I have no idea where I'm going with this or how or when.

Jo has recently come to appreciate at least some aspects of my work, however. "So people send you stuff. And you write about it. That's a good job." It is. Not as excellent as jellybean caretaker, but it pays the bills.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me?

Last night I made my son two reckless promises: That he would not die until he is a hundred years old, and that when he did, I'd still be with him.

We were listening to a Classical Kids CD called Mr. Bach Comes to Call, in which the ghost of Johann S. appears to a little girl who is begrudgingly practicing the piano. She is soon won over by the jolly old man and his tales of a busy, happy, music-filled life. At the end of the disc Bach mentions a composition that he was unable to finish, because "everyone has to die sometime."

We've played this CD probably a hundred times, but last night Opie stopped to think about that line. His face grew fearful. His voice quivered as he asked if that meant he would die. "Yes," I told him, but not for a very very very long time, when he was a very very very old man. "How old?" he pressed, and that's when I told him a hundred years (the biggest number I thought he could grasp--as it turns out, he didn't, and I had to count almost all the way from 3 to 100 to show just how far that was).

Still he wasn't satisfied, and his voice continued to teeter on the brink of tears. "But when I die, you won't be there."

"I will," I said, tears sliding down my own cheeks. "I will always be with you." Because I will, I thought. In Heaven, in memory, in some little sliver of DNA, one way or another. Unwilling and unable to explain all that, I defaulted to the simple lie. And then I perpetuated it by promising that Daddy would be there too, and Jo, and even our dog.

I know I'll break a lot of the promises I make my children, intentionally and not. I just wasn't quite prepared to discuss one of the universe's greatest unknowns right there in the dark, at 9 p.m. after a full day of solo parenting. (And you better believe I was the one who stayed awake staring at the ceiling when it was my turn to go to bed.)

Good enough for Grandma and Grandpa

Except for my mom, the rest of the grandparents (my dad, mother-in-law, grandmother-in-law, and oh god, mother-in-law's gentleman friend) are very very very hard to shop for. I mean, I adore Great-Grandma Nonnie but she just turned 90 and pretty much never leaves the house. The same house she's lived in for about 65 years.

Of course, we turn to the kid-crafted gift whenever we possibly can. Framed photos, paint-your-own-pottery--the classics. A couple of years ago my dad wanted a bathrobe. (Another staple on his wish list is always "seamless socks." Thrilling!) I found one that met his specifications (he had several) but it was still such a boring present. So I thought the kids could doctor it up with little handprints on the pockets. Can you picture it, like I did, kind of subtle and oh-so-cute? Right! And can you also imagine how ugly the finished product was? So ugly I pitched it into the dress-up bin and started over with a brand-new robe.

It was such an obvious demonstration of how Not Crafty I am. The paint I bought was wrong, or my technique sucked, or something; anyway instead of cute kiddie handprints, we just had big blobs of paint. It looked like a dropcloth instead of a bathrobe. Fail! This is also what happens every time I try to follow a recipe for something that is supposed to be attractive-looking. The end result never looks like what it does in the instructions. NEV-ER.

Bathrobe 2.0 was slightly more successful. I traced the kids' hands onto felt, cut them out and glued them on to the pockets of the new robe. They probably fell off the first time it went into the laundry but my dad has graciously refrained from telling me that.

This year, he's getting plain seamless socks.

This crafty confession brought to you by Parent Bloggers Network and Klutz, publishers of very fun craft books and kits for kids. Fun because kids can play with them all by themselves. Seriously, I love them and not just because I used to work for Klutz's parent company or because they are sponsoring a blog blast with darn good prizes. See for yourself.

Name that character

I've seen this a couple of places and couldn't help starting to mentally fill it in. So here it is. Probably a lot more fun for me than it is for you. Uh, sorry!

1. ROCK STAR NAME: Miss November Volvo

2. GANGSTA NAME: Chocolate Boot

3. NATIVE AMERICAN NAME: Blue Dog

4. SUPERHERO NAME: Green Tea

5. NASCAR NAME: Carl George

6. STRIPPER NAME: Lavender Kit Kat

7. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: Philips Phoenix

8. SPY NAME: Summer Lilac

9. CARTOON NAME: Apple Cardigan

10. HIPPIE NAME: Granola Cherry

If you want to play, here's how:

1. first pet, current car
2. fave ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe
3. favorite color, favorite animal
4. 2nd favorite color, favorite drink
5. the first names of your grandfathers
6. the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy
7. 5th grade teacher's last name, name of city that starts with the same letter
8. your favorite season/holiday, flower
9. favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now
10. what you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree

Actual transcript of message left on my cell phone

(by my children at 7:30 p.m. while I was out and they were at home, ostensibly getting ready for bed)

Jo (aka Bossypants): Okay, now you can talk.

O: No, who was THAT talking?

Jo: That's just a girl. Now talk.

O: Hi. Hi Mommy.

Jo: Okay she's not going to be on there. You're leaving a message right now.

O: But I'm trying to tell you something. Why isn't she talking?

Jo: Excuse me for a minute. One second. [To O: She can't right now. She's busy with someone. You're leaving a message.]

O: I'm just leaving a message. Ummmm...

Jo: Put the phone to your mouth so she can hear you. Otherwise the only thing she's going to hear is [...]

O: I'm just leaving a message because I'm leaving a message and I don't want Daddy to be by me.

Jo: Ask her if she can come home and do something with you.

O: I'm just leaving a message. And now there's a message.

Jo: He just wanted to ask you if you can come home and do something with him. When you get home please wake him up and do something with him. Bye-bye!

One sucker down, one to go

What with all the appendecto-mania this summer I never recorded another big milestone: We are now a Nuk-free household. After all my hand-wringing, all it took was accidentally (we really didn't do it on purpose, except maybe in the Freudian sense) leaving the Nuks behind on our Fourth of July weekend trip to Grammy's house. That was four nights of "we left the Nuk in our car at the airport, remember?" and somehow Opie fell asleep each night without it. I don't even remember it being that difficult.

When we came home, we stashed the car Nuk before it could be seen and never brought it out again. Done and done. Color me shocked, especially since we couldn't have picked a worse time to break that habit--almost as soon as we returned from that particular trip, I left for a business trip on my own and then right after that we went to San Francisco, kicking off three weeks of hospitalization, disruption, and aggravation. And he was seriously fine the whole time. Once in a great while he'll say "I miss my Nukkies" and we'll agree and reminisce about the good times we all had. And then move on.

Now, the thumb is another story, especially now that Jo has lost her two top front teeth. Anticipating yet another stern lecture from the dentist, we ordered these thumb guards, which we've been using for about a week now with a fair amount of success (by which I mean she is able to fall asleep with them on; but the minute she wakes up she extricates herself and we find her on the couch slurping away).

So Monday we go to the dentist (aside: genius over here scheduled her kids' dentists appointments for three days after Halloween) and I am already on the defensive. Instead, we get the best hygienist ever. She told me that yes, Jo has a cross-bite, but it's not necessarily related to her thumb habit. And she said that she should go to the orthodontist after all 8 of her front teeth (4 top, 4 bottom) fall out and grow back in, which "may not be until she's past 8 years old." I wanted to kiss her on the spot for buying us two more years!

How to be a boss employees actually like

Recently I was talking to someone who works in HR about how I recently left my job to go freelance. By way of explanation I said "Well, my boss left, and after that ... you know." (Eloquent!) Of course, she did know; she says she hears this all the time in her work. It got me thinking about why it was that I loved S. so much. (We're still in touch, as she is now my editor's boss over at my About site, but we don't talk every day anymore.)

First, she was a great communicator. Clear, constructive, funny, friendly, open. Another editor I once worked for would return copy with the words "pls fix" scrawled at random in the margin (fix what?!). Not S.; she could tell you just what you needed to do, in a way that made you feel quite capable of doing it. She would also share everything she could with us about what was going on elsewhere in the company. While she was discreet when she needed to be, she didn't see any value in withholding information just to bolster her authority.

She was also a great protector. She shielded her staff from pointless bureaucracy, ugly people, useless meetings, and waste-of-time tasks. When she left ... oy. Then we really knew just how much she'd done for us.

Not surprisingly, S. was motivating. Because it was so clear she cared about us (see items 1 and 2 above), we naturally wanted to please her. She made it easy by offering plenty of support and trust--like embracing my idea to telecommute from 1000 miles away. She knew how to praise our successes and gently help us fix our mistakes.

Lastly, she could drink me under the table any day of the week. I miss that lady.

Opie sez: Obama winned!

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

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

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

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

Opie sez: GO VOTE!

Don't let this little boy down. Get out and vote! If you want an endorsement, I have one in my sidebar. But even if you're supporting That Other One, vote! (Find your polling place.)

C'mon. Who doesn't love Monday mornings?

Forget Fridays--I love Mondays. Weekends are fun, they're busy, they're sometimes even productive, but they are in no way relaxing. This Saturday and Sunday I cooked, cleaned, laundered, and folded. I played Legos and assisted with a first-grade scrapbooking effort. I went to the ice rink (twice), church/Sunday school, the grocery store, and our local, poor man's Target, all with at least one child in tow. (This is what's exhausting about more than one kid, when they outgrow strollers: The shepherding. I say "Stay by me" until I am blue in the face, and yet one is always mysteriously missing.)

But Monday! Ahhh, Monday. On Monday morning everyone leaves. I finally get a little peace and quiet. Of course I have the laundry to finish and dishes to wash and work to do, lots and lots of it; but I can do it without being interrupted hundreds of times in a row. That right there is a luxury, one for which I am grateful every single week.

Edited to add: I am amused to note that Julie from a little pregnant posted similarly (although much more funnily) today.

Halloweeners

That is what my husband calls the characters I would call "trick-or-treaters." And a few stopped by our house tonight. We gave away about 10 bags' worth of candy and were down to our last three tiny boxes of Dots (I didn't buy those!) when time was up. Our favorite Halloweener was dressed as a "killer banana." He wore a banana suit with a bloody hockey mask and carried a big scary knife. One of our friends' kids came by dressed as a ninja. My husband disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a slice of sweet potato carved into a throwing star. He so crafty!

Look out! Killer bananas!

Boo haiku

Four hundred ninety-
ninth post. How scary is that?
Happy Halloween!

Costume pictures to follow later, but here's 2007 and 2002 through 2006. I'm coming to terms with the fact that this year's storebought race car driver costume doesn't hold a candle to last year's "stick guy." He could have gone as the naked chef, I guess.

Here's a Blair-Witch style video of the outdoor decorations I tweeted about. (None of the stills came out.) At about 30 secs you can see the whole thing and then turn it off.

Happy Halloween. May your pillowcases be full!

The story of a small Singer sewing machine

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

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

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

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

8 is not enough

It hasn't been all sweetness and (crazy overexposed) light. But it's been pretty sweet.

Happy 8th anniversary!

Front, back, micro, macro

Even though I have a perfectly good, dedicated home office space, every day I work at my dining room table. I sit in the seat that allows me to look through the living room and out the front windows, to the yard and to the park across the street. Just outside the window is a plant called a Tree of Heaven, which my sister the horticulturist informs me is called "Tree of Hell" by those in the trade--because it can be invasive and is nearly impossible to remove or kill.

It's pretty, though, isn't it?

Our back yard is dominated by two towering trees--a shagbark hickory (on the right below) and an oak (at the bottom of the frame is our garage). These are two of the many reasons I wouldn't trade living in an old house.

Yes, that's a lot of leaves. But here's what we learned from our neighbor: Just crunch 'em up with a lawnmower and leave them. Forget raking!

Thanks to Jenny from Nyack Backyard for inspiring this post! It's a front door/back door meme started by dlyn. If you want to join in, just step our your front door and snap a photo, then do the same in the back. Leave your link at dlyn's.

Shopping list: 1 bichon frise, 1 kitten, 1 rabbit ...

At some point in kindergarten, every time Jo went to the school library she would only check out totally boring nonfiction books with some variation on the title Caring for Your Pet ____ or All About [Dog/Cat Breed X]. These were dry as dirt earnest, detailed manuals published by the likes of the ASPCA and the American Kennel Club. Not exactly my idea of soothing bedtime reading, but who was I to interfere with my child's interest in books/science/companion animals?

In the months since we have come to discover that the kid had an ulterior motive. She filed away all the details and used them to craft her master plan. And now, once a week or so we hear "When Folly dies can we get a bichon frisé? And then, you know bichon frisés get along with cats so we can get a cat? Or a rabbit, and also a guinea pig."

After she tried this a few times and I responded with horror at her blasé attitude toward the death of our beloved pet, she amended her request thusly:

"When Folly dies, it'sgoingtobereallysad, and then can we get a bichon frisé?"

We've had this dog since before the kids were born and they really do have a sibling relationship. By which I mean a love/hate kind of a thing. She tries to steal their food and they freak out. Then they feed her their leftovers right off their plates. She grabs their toys, they grab hers. They play together intensely for awhile and then ignore each other intensely for awhile.

She's over 10 years old and she has a heart murmur. She sheds, she barks viciously at the vacuum cleaner, she sometimes refuses to go outside and then has accidents in the basement. And when she's gone, it'sgoingtobereallysad.

(Photo is from 2002 and is one of my all-time favorites.)

This post was written for Parent Bloggers Network as part of a sweepstakes sponsored by Burger King Corp.

Further adventures in firefighting

The best part is she didn't even tell us she did this. We only found out from the pictures. Even then she just acted like it was no big thang.

And I have to say, for a photo taken on a disposable camera by an 8-year-old, I rather like it.

Jo = Teh Awesome

I am grooving on this little girl this week. To wit:

1. Last night she voluntarily, cheerfully, and capably washed a huge sink full of dishes. I may still have to remind her regularly to take her plate to the sink and put her pajamas in the drawer, but did I enjoy having post-dinner clean-up cut in half, at least just that once? I did.

2. For the past few days she has been giving Opie "homework assignments" after school. She dot-to-dots letters and numbers for him to trace and then gives him a letter grade for each page (ranging from A+ to Z-). He loves it.

3. She was one of two kids from her school chosen at random to spend the morning at our local fire station. She was so excited you would have thought she'd won the lottery. She got to slide down the pole, have lunch from McDonald's (no firehouse chili?!), and be driven back to school in an honest-to-god fire engine. She tried on the gear and reported that the helmet was so heavy she couldn't walk in it. And one of the firefighters nicknamed her "Crumb" because she was the smallest kid there.

(crummy souvenir photo)

A mile-high high

If you've been to Julie's, you know we've been to Julie's this past weekend. There was much eating (thank you Kyle!), musical beds, walks around the neighborhood, cooing at the baby (OMG the baby. He is edibly cute), an intense game of Taboo in which Nancy's name was invoked (how else could I explain "hat trick" without saying the word "hockey"?), and not nearly enough picture-taking--partly because I left my camera at my brother's overnight. (Ask Julie about how he returned it on his motorcyle, fully decked out in leather and chains.)

Once again, Jo and Tacy picked up without a moment's hesitation and didn't leave each other's sides, awake or asleep, for the entire length of the visit. Neither did Jo wear any of the clothes we brought for her, preferring instead to raid Tacy's closet. I don't know if it's the fact that they spent so much time together as infants (nearly every day from three months to two years) or the fact that we parents do our best to encourage their continuing relationship, but these girls have a strong bond that's now weathered four years apart. I hope it never breaks.


Goodbye Denver--we'll be back as soon as we can.

Blog Action Day: Poverty

I haven't been through my reader yet today (*twitch*) but I know from Twitter that many of my favorite bloggers are participating in Blog Action Day today. Magpie, PunditMom, and Ilina are making donations based on the number of comments they receive today, so go forth and comment, please! (If you're doing this too, let me know and I'll link you up.)

Last year I donated my BlogHer Ads earnings to Donors Choose. Any suggestions for a recipient for this year? I just read about Jewish World Watch's Solar Cooker Project in Darfur. A $30 donation provides a refugee family with solar cookers and training to use them. This helps curb deforestation and also saves women and girls from making dangerous trips to gather firewood (they risk getting raped every time they venture out). Thirty bucks!

I also want to help at home. My grocery store collects donations for our local food banks right at the checkout (the store prefills bags of supplies, I pay for it, then it goes straight the food bank). With food prices skyrocketing and everyone feeling squeezed, I remember how very lucky we are and I buy one of these bags each time I'm at the market.

The problems are so huge and diverse and intractable (how do we fix Darfur / Iraq / Afghanistan / Haiti? how do we fix health care? how do we fix crummy schools and evaporating jobs and foreclosed homes?). What I don't want to do is let this overwhelm me into inaction. One local project and one international one? That's doable. And every little bit helps.

What are you doing?

PS Don't forget FreeRice. I just donated 1000 grains and learned two new words ("vaticinate" means "prophesy" and "raddled" means "worn out").

Monday miscellany*

One of our neighbors--the kind of guy who keeps a TV in his garage and watches NASCAR on it all weekend, and I think that says a lot about a person--has put up an Obama yard sign.

*

Jo learned this song at after-school care:

We will, we will
Rock you
Sock you
Flush you in the toilet
Hope that you enjoy it!

As well as:

Made you look, made you look, now you're in the baby book!

I confess I missed these two in my own upbringing.

*

We did our annual autumn pumpkin patch/agritainment excursion this weekend. The trees are gorgeous. Whenever I see beautiful fall leaves I always remember the banquet director from our wedding reception. Since our wedding was in the fall, he made sure to note that the dining room overlooked a wooded mountain, the better to showcase the fall foil-age.

*thanks to Leighann for the title

Confession time

I'm ashamed to admit it, but I think--right now--that I have a favorite child. I love Jo utterly; this summer's events brought that home like nothing else could have. She's funny and sweet and affectionate and generally well behaved. I love to spend time with her and am so proud of everything she can do (and wants to do and tries to do).

But Opie, at least lately? It's like he's made out of candy and Champagne and ice cream all rolled into one. Even when he's being a typical 3-year-old pain in the butt I can't stop thinking about how much I adore him. I don't know if it's a mother-son thing, or a youngest child/baby lust thing, or something else entirely. He's smaller, snugglier, and, well, just kind of cuter than his sophisticatedly 6-year-old sister. He still makes hilarious, nonsensical pronouncements (the other day he reported that he'd had tacos for lunch and they made "all the babies in my tummy really sick." Duly noted, then, no more tacos, and also, I'll alert the media). I can still carry him around on my hip and at bedtime, he says "Mommy, dance me a wittle" and rests his head on my shoulder.

Anyway, I defy you not to fall for a guy like this (10 seconds):

Please tell me I am not crazy. Well, except for letting my child out in public wearing the jetfighter print shorts with the striped polo and bright red boots. Or for letting him use the patio table (where we, like, eat and stuff) as his stage. Okay fine.

I'm a Mother of Intention!

I'm over here today pretending I'm a pundit! (And making zero mention of the presidential candidates. In case maybe you need a break from "that one" and that other one). Visit, read, comment, please!

Aiding and abetting my junior scientist

My husband thought I was completely nuts when I allowed this:


Yes, we literally played with fire. For the record, we learned that paper and toothpicks are flammable, but grapes and spoons are not.

Refrigerator update below.

I am trying to see the bright side

... of the fact that our refrigerator died over the weekend.

• We do have a spare refrigerator in the basement, and a chest freezer.
• My husband moved everything down there.
• (I later paid him back by being the one to find a disgusting dog accident and clean it up.)
• My husband also cleaned behind and under the fridge after I asked him to move it for me so I could do it.
• We haven't had to throw away any food yet.
• I will probably lose 5 pounds from a) all the trips back and forth to the basement and b) the deterrence factor of said trips.
• The repairman is on his way.
• If the fridge is salvageable, it will be the cleanest it's been in years, since I'll scrub it sparkling before I refill it.
• If it's not, I just read that October is the best month to get a good deal on new appliances.
• It's not yet cold enough to keep our perishables on the porch.

[grudgingly] I guess I feel a little better. Anything I forgot?

Update, Tuesday: After $62 and the removal of two handfuls of dust and a magnetic dart from inside the bottom of the fridge ... it works fine. My husband is mourning the loss of his stainless steel dreams.

Haiku Friday: Feeling my age

Sand through the hourglass
Technicolor leaves drifting
I am old as dirt

The other day at the dinner table Jo started talking about adjectives and nouns. Jeff and I immediately burst into song: "A noun's a special kind of word! It's any name you ever heard, I find it/ Quite interesting, a noun is a person, place, or thing."

Somehow during the same conversation it came up that she wanted to wear last year's kitty ears with this year's "rock star" (NOT Hannah M., thankyouverymuch) Halloween costume. This caused another outburst from the parental units and some quizzical looks from the children.

Thanks to YouTube, we were able to show the children what on earth we were talking about. So I guess them there modern conveniences do have some value.

I can only hope that Jeff and I prove to be like our betta fish, who has dodged Death twice in his four-month stay with us (accidental visit to the garbage disposal; dumped on the floor when bowl broke) and is, in Jo's words, "a really good liver."



Sidebar: Yes, my first grader is learning about parts of speech. And geometry. Rock on Montessori with your geo solids and your 3D grammar symbols.

Fabulous & free: Flip Ultra

Our whole family loves our little Flip Ultra video camera--super easy to use and upload (see below). So I am super excited that we have one to give away over at The Full Mommy. We have an updated look and we're celebrating! Email us to enter.

And here's some secret footage shot by Jo back when we first got our Flip. A repeat here on the blog, but worth it.