My Solid Best

It's getting very Christmasy up in here.

2009-12-01T14:00:00.001-06:00

I am making an advent calendar tonight! Because putting it off until the last minute is fun and exciting!

Bring the Christmas books up from the basement
Treats
Candy Cane Craft (bought a little kit at Hobby Lobby for those beaded ornaments)
Treats
Shop for the Giving Tree
Christmas Cards (Speak now if you want one!)
Snowflake Craft (http://marthastewart.com/article/crystal-snowflake)
Treats
String popcorn for cherry tree
Treats
Tilles Park lights
Breakfast with Santa
Trim the tree! Deck the halls!
Treats
Craft TBD
Treats
Make fudge
Treats
Living room picnic and Christmas movie
Cookies!
Gingerbread House Part 1
Gingerbread House Part 2
Treats
Put out cookies for Santa and food for reindeer!

One of us is wiggly

2009-11-29T16:35:00.002-06:00

I just made the hat this weekend and someone felt a little silly.

PSA: Marshmallow Warnings

2009-11-23T09:33:00.001-06:00

Do not attempt to make rice crispy treats in between making pancakes. Yes, it feels like you are wasting a lot of time standing by the stove, spatula in hand. Yes, your eyes might come to rest on the box of crispies while you are waiting for bubbles to form and edges to dry. Yes, it might feel like a particularly inspired idea to multitask two very simple tasks. But don't. Just don't.
If you ignore the above and forge ahead with this reckless combination of projects, then consider the microwave instructions for crispy making very carefully. If you dump the entire bowl of marshmallows into the 1.5 quart bowl and wonder to yourself, "Wow, that bowl looks really full." then STOP. Get a bigger bowl. Instructions are not always correct.
If you ignore your inner voice and use the small bowl, then stop the microwave the instant you smell sugar. Don't stand there pouring pancakes wondering what could be burning.
If you do not stop the microwave in time, use the silicone potholders to remove the smoldering mass from the microwave. Melted marshmallow tends to embed itself into terrycloth.
If calling for help, make sure to specify that you need adult help. Otherwise, an eager junior pancake flipper (seriously, he makes terrific pancakes) will show up to rescue you. The only problem is that junior pancake flippers are afraid of the oven. Since you stowed the pancake platter in the warm oven, the junior pancake flipper will likely stand in your way waving the spatula around while requesting that you just open up the oven already so that he can assist.
If you manage to save the pancakes, give up on the ill-conceived idea to make the crispies. I repeat, CAPITULATE! Do not under any circumstances return the mass of marshmallow goo to the microwave.
If still forging ahead, stop the microwave as soon as you smell burning. Again.
If somehow you manage to scrape a fair amount of melted marshmallow from the microwave interior, be sure to reduce the rice crispy measurement by a suitable amount. Calculate the amount of marshmallow left on the potholders, the microwave, the counter, and quite possibly in your hair, then reduce the cereal measurement by the same proportion.
If you fail to adjust the recipe, make a rule that the resulting treats be eaten only in the kitchen over the trashcan so that you don't have to spend the rest of the evening clearing up crispy cereal bits from all over the house.

When is the solstice again?

2009-11-18T14:25:00.001-06:00

It's dark. It's dark when I get up. It is so dark that I am a little afraid to take a shower. Our shower has a window in it. Of course, the glass is that odd blurred stuff appropriate for showers. And also of course, the window faces the brick wall of my neighbor's house across the 5 foot strip of weeds and air conditioners. Yet still I feel on display, showering in front of the pitch black window. I freak myself out with vague ideas of Watchers skulking around outside.

It is dark the rest of the day too. Not the pitch black of night, but the gloomy gray dark of yet another rainy day after what feels like a month of rainy days. I know we've had sunshine recently, but for some reason that is harder to remember than the gray days. I huddle in my cubicle and avoid looking out the window. It is just too depressing. So instead, I daydream about new projects in bright colors. I'll embroider kitchen towels! I'll make crazy fluorescent paper snowflakes! I'll craft gigantic felt flowers in obscenely bright colors to wear in my hair! I'll make a Christmas tree skirt out of the glitteriest gaudiest red liquid lame that will sparkle and gleam!

Then, when I leave work, it's dark again. All my cheerful projects flit right out of my head. I trudge home in the dark, moping all the way. It's odd for me. I usually love winter despite the short days. I like the tingling ache that comes from breathing cold air - although it hasn't been that cold yet. I like sitting under a cozy blanket while the darkness presses on the window. I like the holidays lined up like dominoes - my Birthday! Thanksgiving! Claire's Birthday! Christmas! New Years! Super Bowl! - followed by the long slow yawn of early spring. But this year? Not so much.

Tonight? I'm going to finish some Christmas sewing come hell or high water. I am trusting that some cheerful snowmen will shake me out of of these doldrums. And if not, then at least I can feel virtuous about having accomplished something, right?

On the Cusp of Readerhood

2009-11-10T13:02:00.001-06:00

A month or so ago, Claire's preschool teacher told me that they'll be working on sight words this year. My eyebrows shot right up over my head as I struggled to make a coherent response. "But...four! Early! Really? Four!"

"I know," she said. "But the new kindergarten entry standards..." yada yada yada, "but don't worry. If they get it they get it. If not, no stress." I was unsure about the standards and also unsure about speaking up with curriculum concerns before I knew there was a problem. So I satisfied myself with a vaguely negative countenance, gathered my children, and went home to stew.

Several weeks later, Claire was recognizing words all over the place. "Look, Mom! It says 'the' right there." I looked at the box and saw the word "mother." I blinked, looked again, and saw the word "moTHEr." During bedtime stories, she pointed out first one word, then two, then three or four on a page. I wondered if maybe she was a little more ready for reading than I originally thought.

Then, a few days ago, Claire proved that she is not only ready to read, she is already on the cusp of readerhood. I was in the bathroom attending to, erm, business. Claire piped up from the hallway, "P! O! P! Does that spell poop?"

"Very close, baby! P-O-O-P is poop. Oooooo has two ohs."

She thought about it briefly, and replied, "Oh, like boo. B-O-O." She might just be reading by her birthday next month. She'll definitely be reading before kindergarten.

Sweating the Small Stuff

2009-11-06T10:00:00.001-06:00

Due to a complicated series of events, I became a co-chair for the PTO social committee. Well, really, it wasn't all that complicated. I opened my mouth to complain and was promptly invited to participate by an adroit PTO president. Good for her! So, the upshot is that I am to work with another parent to provide refreshments at various events throughout the school year. I thought this would be a low key way to support the school. Instead, I have managed to turn it into a veritable wasps' nest of stressballs merely by being myself. If I don't hear from the other chair I panic - never mind that she has three children and two jobs. I wake up at 2am to worry about the budget. I fret over cake orders even after confirming the pick up date.

So, my latest little stressball is really no surprise. Next week, there is a Girl Talk meeting. I have only the vaguest idea of what the meeting is about. I think there are some girls and they will be talking. It's some anti-bullying initiative or character-building initiative or some other sort of initiative for either preteen girls or mothers of preteen girls. The one thing that I know is that it is girly. Between my (almost entirely) self-imposed budgetary stress and my knowledge of the girlyness of said event, I hit upon the perfect refreshments for the event. The menu would include coffee, cocoa, biscotti, and fruit. What preteen girl would not thrill to a mocha and an oh-so-adult biscotti? What mother would not appreciate a variation from the standard meeting fare? The PTO puts out a great spread, but it can get a little monotonous after 6 or 7 years of school meetings.

So, one would think that all is fantastic! It's an easy, enjoyable, inexpensive menu. All was well until around 3:30 am this morning, when I realized that I have no idea how to operate the school's coffee urn. So,should I take a risk and try to figure it out on the fly? Or should I retreat to the tried and true?

Second Verse, Same as the First

2009-11-05T13:12:00.001-06:00

Jacob, First Grade

"But, Mom, why should I raise my hand? The teacher doesn't always call on me and then someone else just gives the wrong answer. I can just answer it right the first time."

Claire, Preschool

"I don't want to take turns answering. I know the right answer so I should just tell everyone."

I rarely compare my children, but there are moments that just scream for comparison. And those moments are generally followed by a few deep breaths.

Even When It's Expected...

2009-11-03T08:45:00.001-06:00

A while ago, we adopted a couple of mice. They have been surprisingly fun pets. They have also provided the life lessons expected. Jacob learned to put their needs before his own. He feeds them every morning before his own breakfast. He takes time out from weekend fun to clean the cage. He carefully protects them from Claire's enthusiasm.

And last week, as expected, Patches died. I'd noticed a few weeks ago that she was looking a little rough around the edges. Jake and I talked about it. He had already noticed and started making little changes to make her life easier. He put the food on the floor of the cage so she wouldn't have to climb to reach it. I noticed mid-week that she wasn't running around the cage. I actually thought she escaped. I eyed every corner of the cage and couldn't find her anywhere. I spent the week surreptitiously looking behind furniture.

On Sunday, I reminded Jacob to clean the cage and broke the news to him. "Patches is missing. I can't find her anywhere." His eyes widened and he ran to the cage. Then he found her as he was taking apart the cage. He handled it so well. I found a box. He took her out of the cage and buried her in the garden. Then he cleaned the cage and worried about Peanut. He told me that she looked upset. I thought maybe it wasn't Peanut that was upset.

Later, in the quiet of the evening, Jacob commented that he wasn't feeling well. I asked him if he was sick or upset. "I'm just a little sad about Patches," he said in a tight voice. I'm a little sad about Patches too.

All Saints All Stars

2009-11-02T13:47:00.001-06:00

We've been up to our ears in saints around here lately. Last week, Jacob participated in the schools traditional third grade All Saints prayer service. Each child chose a saint. They dressed up as their saint of choice, then read a little blurb about that saint's life and patronage. It was interesting and the kids were adorable. Yesterday was actually All Saints, of course, and the homily was fittingly about how fortunate we are to have this tradition. So, I thought I would pay a little tribute to my All Saints All Stars - the team on whose intercession I rely and who provide for me a composite image of what my Christian life could and should be.

St. Monica

St. Monica was St. Augustine's mother. And St. Augustine is known for being spectacularly bad before he was spectacularly good. While Augustine was tramping around having a high time, Monica was following him around and praying for his conversion. She eventually prevailed and Augustine became one of the greatest thinkers in the history of Christianity. Our faith is richer because of him, and we owe much of that to St. Monica in my opinion. St. Monica had great faith in both God and her son. Her faith is a reminder to me that I must remain constant as a mother - a reminder that I might have to tell my children umpteen times to stop and THINK about the consequences of their actions before they actually hear me. And I ask her to pray for me almost every single day. She would probably be sick of hearing from me if she weren't such a saint.

St. Therese

OK, I know almost everyone loves St. Therese - but it's for good reason! Her Little Way teaches us all that any life can be holy. Plus, look how she influenced Blessed Teresa of Calcutta! When I was very young, I used to sing songs from a children's hymnal called "Hi God!" They were cheesy, childish, feel-good songs from the 70s. My favorite was "Bloom Where You're Planted." St. Therese's life was definitely about blooming where you are planted. There is dignity, love, and even salvation to be found in the hundreds of small, selfless acts that we can all incorporate in our pedestrian lives.

St. Frances Cabrini

Mother Cabrini is an absolute inspiration to me. She gave new meaning to resourcefulness and a can-do attitude. She is a saint who Gets Things Done (yes, with capital letters!) and she's my go-to for those moments when I wonder "How am I going to do this?" I firmly credit her for getting me through sticky situations ranging from a complicated report at work to constructing a St. Nicholas costume at home. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I ask for help from the woman who arrived in the US with six nuns and went on to establish many schools, orphanages, and hospitals. She must have felt overwhelmed every day of her life.

So, who is on your All Saints All Stars team? Even if not a saint, who inspires you with their life or ideas?

How much wood can this woodchuck chuck?

2009-10-28T14:27:00.001-05:00

As soon as the scrape on my chin heal to a round pinkish suggestion of a blemish (No! Not a pimple! A scrape! Because falling is somehow better than breaking out.) the flu hit the house. Much like a tornado, this flu hopped over some of us only to completely level other members of the household. It is a matter of some debate whether those sickened got the luck of the draw. The sickies are convinced that they have the worst of it - shivering, coughing, barely able to muster the attention necessary for Family Feud. The healthies are exhausted and crabby from digging through the rubble and trying to bravely carry on in the face of the disaster. During flu epidemics, we are all melodramatic martyrs.

We are on the upswing now - I absolutely insist on that - and beginning to resemble our normally happy household. In a spurt of inspiration last weekend, the children and I made some ghosts and decorated the stoop for Halloween. Claire drew a jack-o-lantern on a sugar pumpkin that she got on a preschool field trip. She set the diminutive Jack on the stoop. He's crooked and dwarfed and ever so slightly forlorn. We had to do something to make Jack look a little more intentional. So ghosts it was! And after 15 minutes of labor the stoop looks, well, the stoop looks like we took a stab at it. Good enough! Bring on the ghouls!

In an uncharacteristic lack of procrastination, I finished Claire's fairy tutu on Sunday night. I was puffed up with accomplishment for finishing a whole FIVE days before absolutely necessary. Then this morning, I saw that the preschool Halloween party is not actually on Friday but is today. I depuffed. Still, though, I finished ahead of time! Almost! I had only to tie some tulle on a scrounged toy drumstick while gobbling Cheerios and making ham sandwiches to finish the ensemble. Good enough! Bring on the insanely red and pink fairy!

Then, as if I don't have enough in my soup bowl, I signed up for a chili contest at work. I am going to win - not by a superior chili but by superior meat. It's ingenious, I think. I will make the same old tired Midwestern combination of canned goods that everyone uses for chili. But instead of ground beast, I will use chunked up beast. I am absolutely convinced that all tasters will be so overwhelmed by the sensation of actual chewy beef hunks that they will put their vote in my cup while still engulfed in a meat daze. Wish me luck!

Fall. And then a fall.

2009-10-12T13:13:00.001-05:00

Fall has arrived. I could not be more thrilled. I don't care that it has rained more days than not. I don't care that my yard is a pit of mud and 14 inch lag bolts (the neighbor built a new garage and my son is a scavenger). I don't even mind that I had to make an emergency glove run because somehow, against all logic, all our gloves have completely gone missing over the course of the summer. I only care that the weather is cool, soup is on the stove, and my lazy hazy summer brain is back to its normal sharp state. Well, almost back to normal, anyway.

Yesterday, I was walking a few blocks when I noticed a helicopter overhead. I kept walking while I looked up at the sky. Earlier in the day, I overheard a rumor that a local high school had hired a helicopter to hover their sport field and dry it out for a big game. I was irritated by the wastefulness of it. So when I saw the helicopter, I tried to figure out if it was heading to the local park or some nearby soccer fields when SPLAT! Or, more accurately, THUMP! SLAP! THUD! KERPLUNK! I tripped on nothing. I turned my attention back to my situation on the ground at the exact moment that my knees thumped hard. I tried to save myself by quickly slapping my hands onto the pavement, but still managed to pitch forward thudding onto my chest. I ended the whole series with a kerplunk right on my chin and then slid a few inches for effect. It was a spectacular fall. A passing motorist even stopped to check if I was ok.

Fortunately, I am ok. I'm missing a bit of skin on my chin, but my clothes were intact. My dignity wasn't intact to begin with, so no great loss there. Today I am stiff and crabby - my regular self. Ahhhhh! Feels good to be me again.

Near Nowhere and Close to Forgotten

2009-06-25T15:34:00.001-05:00

There is a book that I love to read to my children called The Tin Forest by Helen Ward. The book is nominally for children, but I think it's truly for everyone. It starts with a house in the middle of a junk pile "near nowhere and close to forgotten that was filled with all the things that nobody wanted." Eventually, the man who lives in the house transforms his environment into a beautiful home for all manner of creatures. The book ends neatly by showing the little house in the middle of a jungle "near nowhere and close to forgotten that was filled with all of the things that everyone wanted." I enjoy this book so much - the gentle images, the soft words, and most especially the idea that we all have the ability to make our world a beautiful place, the kind of place that has the things that everyone wants.

A parochial school in the next parish over is closing after this school year. I had an opportunity to sit down with some of the parishioners recently and listen to them. It's a great neighborhood, a great parish, filled with all the things that everyone wants. Except, somehow, it turns out that people don't really want those things. Every day, I hear suburban and exurban people bemoan their commutes, their lack of walkable neighborhoods, their lack of community. Yet somehow, these people flee the very neighborhoods that offer answers to those problems. And for what? I do not understand and I sometimes fear I never will.

To Be Continued

2009-06-22T13:34:00.001-05:00

If you were to look at my fridge right now, you would see my whole life. You'd see the Pentecost picture that Claire colored. The apostles all have red noses. Another clip holds three pieces of paper with around 845 phone numbers. There are baseball schedules, both big and little league, calendars, fliers for very important events, and a recipe that I have committed to memory but keep on the fridge just in case. And then, right smack in the middle, is one of the last papers that Jacob brought home from 2nd grade. In huge writing, it says:

CONTINUED.

The reverse of the paper actually has an illustrated story. I can't remember - it might be the story about how Superman saved a man who was hypnotized by his television. Or it might be a story about Prince Caspian. Or it might be some other story entirely that I have forgotten. All I know for certain is that the story is unfinished. Somehow (and I suspect that it is by the grace of God), the paper got flipped from the story side to the TBC side in the past week. Around 8 times a day, I am reminded that stories don't always fit nicely into pretty packages. Sometimes, they must be continued. Sometimes, they must take the form of serials. So it is that I am inspired again.

Claire started dance lessons. Tonight is her third class. I arrive just in time to see the last fifteen minutes of class. Claire grins so widely that I can see her tonsils as she ballerina walks with the other girls. I was telling my mother-in-law how happy Claire is after dance. She said, "Well, as long as she's having fun. That's what it's all about. We all know that she's not going to be a ballerina." No, I don't know that she's not going to be a ballerina. That story hasn't been told yet. And while Claire's aspirations currently involve rainbow princesshood, I'm not ready to tie off any dreams for her. Maybe she will be the first rainbow princess ballerina. To be continued...

Jacob has been self-starting his own dual careers as musician and talent manager. Six weeks or so ago, he decided that he had waited entirely too long for me to arrange guitar lessons. He took matters into his own hands. He marched next door and convinced the neighbor's musician son to teach him. He even finagled a free introductory lesson. Not satisfied with his own lessons, he has since arranged lessons for a friend who lives down the alley. He also has a band lined up for himself. He is working on securing lessons for the drummer next. Why audition a skilled drummer when your friend can be trained? I expect to attend a concert in a year or so. To be continued...

I am working diligently on my 101 goals. I have completed almost none. But still, the story is in the progress I think. The point of the goals was to shake my wagon out of its rut. I have at least succeeded at that. I'm careening across the prairie. Sometimes I'm moving in circles. Often, I'm moving backwards. But whatever, it's a fun ride and I'm discovering new territory. To be continued...

Fat Mom to Lean Kids

2009-05-27T13:30:00.002-05:00

I have been losing weight over the last few months. It is quite possibly the slowest recorded weight loss in the entire written history of the world, but nonetheless, I have been losing weight. I've lost enough weight that people have noticed. I have not lost enough weight to hit my first benchmark. I have two pounds to go before that, so I'm thinking I should hit the benchmark by the end of June if I maintain my current pace. Don't blink - I wouldn't want you to miss it. My goal from beginning to end is to lose just over 50 pounds.

Nick has also been working on losing weight. I'm not sure what his goal is or where he is on his path, but he has been working out in sort of patchy streaks. When he gets his streak on, he drops weight quickly just by working out for an hour a day. (Insert rant #1 about how unfair it is that he can lose so easily and rant #2 about how unfair it is that he has an hour a day to work out.)

Somehow, despite the weaknesses that Nick and I so obviously have, our children are thus far lean, strong, and fit. They make healthy food choices. They lead active lives. They are athletic and beautiful and I want nothing more than to preserve that for them.

So how does a fat (for now) mother lose weight without influencing the already healthy attitudes of her children? I cannot hide the fact that I am making lifestyle changes. I don't think that's particularly healthy. I also don't think it's particularly healthy for my kids to see me working so very hard to make choices that seem natural for them. Last night when I told Jacob that I was going to walk around the park while he played, he suggested that I run instead. "I really think you should start running, Mom. That'll help you lose weight." I teased him about becoming my personal trainer. Then later, I wondered if he is serious about that task - that he is taking my weight on as his own problem.

I grew up with a morbidly obese mother. I remember my mother trying various diet and exercise programs. Even worse, I remember my father buying her exercise equipment for Christmas. I also remember when Mom gave up and decided to just be fat forever. She was just a little younger than I am now. My mother's weight struggles are hers, not mine but I would be a fool to deny that her problems have affected me.

Like my children, I was lean when very young. I began chubbing up in my teenage years. I've been thin a few times since then, but in the past I have always gained the weight back after a year or two. This is the last time that I am losing this weight. Once it's off, no matter how long it takes, it is staying off. But dealing with the day to day problems of weight loss is more challenging than I ever thought it would be. What do I say to Claire when she sees me counting out my pretzels for a snack? How do I answer Jake when he asks me why we hardly ever get donuts on Sundays anymore? How do I make the changes that I need to make without changing what is obviously working for my kids' health right now?

Author & Author (but not me)

2009-05-18T11:12:00.002-05:00

Jacob has been writing stories for a while now, which comes as a surprise to exactly no one. He started a series of comic books early in the school year entitled The Adventures of Joe and Bob. You'll have to take my word that the books were more imaginative than the title indicates. He even had a marketing plan. The comic was to be a six book series. The first book was free. Each remaining book would cost $5. After only one classmate expressed interest in purchasing a $5 handmade comic book, Jacob abandoned the plan.

His next series was entitled Fartman. I read the first issue in which Fartman and his sidekick Beano defeated a cat thief. Their superpower also emptied an entire skyscraper in seconds. Fartman was confused about why the residents fled. Nick and I were impressed by his nuanced potty humor and he started a sequel immediately. Then he was sidetracked by a forgettable story, unfortunately. I am hoping that one day, Fartman will fly again.

His current projects include a story about a family who lives in a sewer and a biography of Mary Magdalene. The biography is actually a collaboration with a little girl who has had a crush on Jacob for a while now. Her family often sits a few pews in front of us at church, and she (not so) covertly looks over her shoulder at Jake. I suspect the collaboration was largely her idea.

So I was really not at all surprised to see a page covered with childish handwriting on the desk yesterday. Then I read it. "I love you, Sleeping Beauty!" Since Jake is convinced that girls have cooties and that he will never, ever be interested in doing anything yucky like kissing them, I was a little confused. I looked at the page again and noticed Nick's handwriting up in the corner. Claire had dictated to Nick, then painstakingly copied her own words. She can't read or spell, but she can write.

I started crying on Friday evening.

2009-04-28T10:21:00.005-05:00

Jacob received his First Holy Communion a few Saturdays ago. He and his classmates have been preparing for months. I have been complaining. There were too many notes home, too many books to read, too many meetings, too much money, too much fuss, too much arguing about ties, too much too much too much. After all, I argued, this is just the first of many. It isn't that big a deal. The important thing is what happens for the next 80 years of his life. I kept working on whittling it down to size.

Then I went shopping for his gift. That was the beginning of the end. I was standing there in the huge Catholic Supply store (because I suppose it takes many supplies to be Catholic) with my mother when she said, "Christy, it's his First Communion."

My throat was closed by a seven pound lump and I whispered, "I know. I know!" I left Mom standing next to one of six special First Communion displays. I browsed through the crucifixes until I stopped crying. I went back to pick up a white embossed memento box and met Mom at the cards. As soon as I read the first card, I was off crying again. We eventually managed to actually purchase a few things and headed home.

The next morning, Jacob started trying to get dressed three hours before the big event. I told him that he could put on his brand new white shirt and tie no sooner than 9:05. He spent the rest of the morning wandering into the kitchen every 3-4 minutes to check the time. By 9:20, Jake and I were on our way out the door. The rest of the family was to meet us at church after the picture sessions were over. "Are you excited?" I asked him. He nodded, then slipped his hand into mine. He held my hand all the way to church. He's a big kid now but he knows that every once in a while, I still need him to be my baby boy.

5 Joys of Parenting

2009-04-17T12:51:00.006-05:00

Mary tagged me with this and it's taken me a few days to be in the right frame of mind to tackle it. Jacob is on spring break and is therefore bored out of his gourd, my diet is stalling out, Nick is writing term papers, pick your reason. It's been a long week. But! I have just about managed to free my inner Pollyanna and end this week on a good note. So, without further ado, I present 5 things I love about parenting:

Little League. No, I am not living vicariously through my child. It turns out that an hour at the ball field is a rollicking good time. I sit next to my husband for a whole hour. I talk to friends. I watch the occasionally hilarious, occasionally heartbreaking moments on the field. I yell, "Wooooooooo!" or "It's ok! You'll get it next time!" I hold my breath whenever the uncoordinated kid goes to bat, hoping that this time he manages to hit the ball. And when he does, I leap to my feet and roar with the rest of the parents. At the end of the night, I am grinning like a fool. The first game of the year is on Tuesday. I cannot wait.
Confidence in my own abilities. In my childless days I assumed that if I wanted to learn a new skill, I had to enlist an expert to teach me. My kids have taught me that I can figure out almost anything. I can make a Halloween costume from a picture in a comic book. I can decorate a cake to look like a clown. I can fix a bike. I can speak entirely in rhymes for an hour. And it's not because I'm particularly talented or intelligent - it's because a child believes that I can.
Singing. Having very small children is a great excuse to sing at any time. I love to sing and there are only a limited number of situations in which singing is an option. Add a child to the equation and that number expands exponentially. And they sing too!
Poetry. Children, especially when they are learning to speak, are astonishingly poetic. They don't have a large vocabulary so they have to use their small vocabulary creatively. "I'll make my feet whisper," Claire told me the other day when I said her jumping would wake up Daddy. When Jacob was feeling anxious, he told me that his heart was "bouncing around." They just throw these phrases around like they're nothing and then wonder why I am smiling.
Jokes. What does a bunny sing at a birthday party? Hoppy birthday to you! It just doesn't get better than that.

I'm tagging Cheri, Chelsea, Sara, and Lisa (but I'll be patient since she's having a baby right this very instant).

The whole story

2009-04-15T11:04:00.004-05:00

I was in the shower at 6:15 this morning when the bathroom door banged open. I heard the toilet seat hit the tank. "Good morning, Jake!" He grunted back at me then walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. About 30 seconds later, Claire started screaming. I ducked my head under the water and pretended not to hear anything.

A few minutes later, Claire skipped into the bathroom as chipper as can be. I stepped out of the shower, mistakenly believing that the coast was clear. Jake came roaring into the bathroom complaining, "Claire hit me, kicked me, and bit me twice!"

"Are you bleeding? Did you lose a finger?" I asked. Jacob shook his head. "Then get out of here and we will discuss it when I am dressed. He left in a huff, mumbling about the injustices of the world and the plight of innocent, bitten boys.

A little while later, I peeked my head into the kids' room and asked, "Claire, did you hit, kick, and bite your brother?" She instantly put on her Lying McLiarson face and protested. "Don't lie to me. Did you hit, kick, and bite your brother?"

She smoothly shifted tactics. "My brother?" she asked, her little eyebrows furrowing together in faux confusion.

"Yes, your brother Jacob. Did. You. Hurt. Him?" I raised my voice in frustration. Jake heard me and scurried into the room, his mouth moving as fast as his feet. Claire, realizing that she was cornered, attempted to cry. She covered her eyes with her hands and wailed, then checked her hands for tears. They were dry. So she poked her fingers in her eyes to make real tears.

As my blood pressure approached record levels, Jake realized that it was only a matter of time before Claire spilled the whole story. He blurted out, "Well, I didn't know she was on the couch when I sat on her!"

Park Cleanup: Boys and Graffiti

2009-04-14T08:24:00.001-05:00

Jacob's cub scout pack volunteers to clean up our local park for the annual Easter egg hunt. It's one scout activity that I actually enjoy. The boys are hard workers (as are the parents) and the weather is usually nice. Also, I am convinced that if we spend enough hours picking up trash during these years, my son will not be one of the boys throwing his beer bottle against the handball courts in ten years. I hope.

This year, we discovered more than the standard fast food wrappers, broken beer bottles, and cigarette butts. Several of the boys were picking up butts around a bench a few dozen yards away from me. I saw them huddled around the edge of the bench, then they all came scooting across the lawn to me. "There's some writing on the bench!" I looked around for other parents and realized that I was the closest to the action, so I allowed myself to be pulled back to the bench. One of the boys read the graffiti in his very best read-aloud voice. "For mindless sex go to ..." followed by a web address. The boys all looked at me with big eyes as the reader asked, "What does it mean?"

I gulped, then attempted to distract. "Oh, what a shame! Who would write on a bench like this? That is just not nice. You boys know better than to vandalize the park like that! I'm so glad that you are nice boys! Good job on the cigarette butts. Let's go over by the garden and look for more!" Six eyes stared back at me. They weren't about to let me get away with it.

"But what does it mean?" They waited expectantly.

"You boys are going to have to ask your parents. Jacob, wait here and we'll talk about it." The two other boys shot across the park with lightning speed, screaming for their parents the whole way. I blabbered some sort of explanation to Jacob, most of which I can't even remember. I do remember wrapping it up with a stern warning that the writing was not appropriate for children and that if the other boys had questions they should talk to their parents about it. Jake wandered off after getting bored to tears by my lecture. I made my way back up the hill to the other parents.

"Sooooo, what did you say?" I asked.

"Well," replied another mother. "I said that we'd talk about it later. And then my son said that Jacob's mother knows what it means and if it was ok with me, he'd just go back and ask you again." She laughed and we went back to picking up litter. Ten minutes later, the boys were back at the bench again.

Conversations

2009-04-06T11:26:00.006-05:00

I have been very busy doing a lot of nothing lately. Actually, a lot of that nothing includes conversations with my children. Someone flipped a switch that turned my normally chatty children into extraordinarily chatty children. I have been reminding myself of the hours my mother listened to me and taking many deep breaths. I love the idea of talking with my kids. I love the results of talking with my kids. I love the occasionally fascinating conversational tidbits that only very small people can offer. I do not love putting down my work to listen. One day, I will be a good enough mother to listen joyfully. At the moment, I am only a good enough mother to listen.

Claire, two days ago, told me, "This doll's name is Dya. Not diarrhea. Dya." I'm relieved that she cleared that up for me.

Jacob confided, "Sometimes, when my friends are doing something wrong and the teacher knows that someone is doing something wrong but she doesn't know who, my friends get very quiet. I think that's like lying. I always speak right up and admit what I was doing." I didn't know how to respond to that one. I'm proud of his integrity. I also wish he had a stronger sense of self-preservation.

I walked Jacob home from his after-school program the other day. He gave me a blow-by-blow account of a special visit from an owl and a caretaker from the bird sanctuary. They dissected owl pellets. I was informed of the size, color, and contents of each pellet. I was also treated to a re-enactment of a kerfuffle while we waited at the corner for the light to turn. Jacob stripped off his backpack. "Somebody whistled and the owl got scared! He fluttered his wings! I was standing right next to him and I said 'AAAGH' and jumped like this!" He leaped backward into the light post, hitting the pedestrian call button with his back. The call button beeped, further surprising Jacob who then leaped sideways almost, but not quite, over his backpack. The backpack tripped him, causing him to stumble further sideways while his mouth was still talking, "Wow! Wow! Wow! Well, it wasn't quite like that with the owl!"

"Do you know how much I love you?" I asked Claire. She answered, "Yes. Eighteen hundred and fifty. That's a very big number." It is indeed a very big number, but not quite big enough.

That's Ms. Hammer to you!

2009-03-16T15:26:00.002-05:00

Spring has sprung. I can tell because

The daffodils are up.
There are buds on the trees.
My sinus pressure is rapidly approaching the point where my eyes might actually be pushed out of my head.
My children have completely lost their minds and forgotten that people call me The Hammer for a reason. (People really do call me The Hammer. Mostly people who I have specifically told to call me The Hammer because I find it amusing, but it still counts.)

Yesterday, Jacob was laying on the couch under 5 feet of blankets. He was complaining of headache, stomach ache, and any other ailment that he could invent. Since Claire had a stomach bug on Friday, I was willing to believe the stomach ache. I told Jacob that he could skip church if he spent the time working on a book report that I had been nagging about for a full week. He readily agreed. I arrived home an hour or so later to discover a three sentence book report on a book with 50 words in it. 50 words! Not 50 pages, but 50 words! The Hammer came down and lo, there was much weeping in all the land. Eventually, Jacob read a book that was a little closer to his reading level and wrote a 4 sentence report.

Then this morning, Claire got in the act. I was in my room trying to get dressed in the dark without waking Nick. Claire was in her room on her bed, completely dressed except for socks. She hollered, "Where are my socks! I need my socks! No tights! I need my tights! Red tights! New red tights!" By that time, I was in her room hissing at her to be quiet little missy and don't you dare wake up your father because I am tired and he is tired and he is going to sleep for 15 more minutes so help me God. She stuck out her little chin, pointed her little finger, and said, "I don't want to hear what you are saying."

I replied, in my most mommish voice, "You are going to hear what I am saying because you know what, little girl? U Can't Touch This."

Best Compliment This Year

2009-03-10T14:27:00.003-05:00

"Wow! Your eyes are really green! You look like the Incredible Hulk!"

Little Toughie Flies a Kite

2009-03-09T12:54:00.004-05:00

We had a false spring over the past few days. It was warm and windy and beautiful. Everywhere I went, people were outside taking advantage of the weather. We were no exception. I spent more waking hours outdoors than in. The children were out even more than that.

Saturday evening, Nick told me about football in the backyard with the kids. I knew that they had been out there because I heard the squeals and giggles through the window. Nick told me that they'd been tossing the ball around and tackling each other. At one point, Claire snatched the football from Nick. She held it in her hand while giving the sinuous booty-shake that is universal among 4-year old girls - a sort of nya-nya-nya-nya. Then, in a moment of pure brilliance, she said, "You think you can get his ball from me, Little Toughie?" When I finally stopped laughing at Nick's portrayal of Claire, I determined that his nickname shall evermore be Little Toughie. I might occasionally shorten it to L.T.

Sunday blew in from Kansas. Jake took one look at the wind and unearthed the pocket kite that Santa had left for him. Unfortunately, Santa is a cheapskate. The pocket kite experience was a vast disappointment for both Jake and Little Toughie. It was such a disappointment that L.T. made the trek to Target to buy a bigger kite. He arrived home with a 55" Spiderman kite and a maniacal grin. "Jake! Let's go out into the backyard!"

"Erm, Nick..." Our backyard is a city backyard. It's large by city standards but only because we don't have a garage hulking back there. The entire backyard is scarcely larger than the footprint of the house. "I'm not sure there's enough room for this big kite back there."

"I know what I'm doing. It'll be fine. JAKE! CLAIRE!" I zipped my lip and watched them go out the back door, the kite tails stretching from out the back door, through the porch, and into the kitchen. I giggled when Nick shut the door on the ribbons.

I had just settled myself into a chair when Jake came running back into the house. "I've got some good news, and some bad news, and some good news. The good news is that we got the kite up. The bad news is that the kite got stuck in a tree. The good news is that Dad got it out." Little Toughie hollered from the back door that they were going to the park and thirty seconds later, I was alone and laughing.

A little fun

2009-03-05T12:45:00.003-06:00

Lifted from Katie because it suits my mood. Pick a musical artist/group, then answer the questions using song titles from that artist. Guess who I chose.

Are you male or female? My Sweet Lady
Describe yourself: Looking for Space
How do you feel about yourself? Rhymes and Reasons
Describe where you currently live? Back Home Again
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Two Different Directions
Your best friend is? Annie's Song
Your favorite color? Cool an' Green an' Shady
You know that? Some Days are Diamonds
What’s the weather like? Southwind (or windy)
If your life was a TV show, what would it be called? Sunshine on my Shoulders
What is life like to you? Poems, Prayers, and Promises
What is the best advice you have to give? Let It Be
If you could change your name what would it be? Calypso (OK, not really. But that would be fun for a day or two.)
Your favorite food is? The Eagle and the Hawk (or roast poultry)

Yes, some songs are covers. I am ok with that and I encourage you to be ok with that too.

Gulp. I just sent this note.

2009-03-02T15:59:00.003-06:00

Good afternoon, Ms. Kindergarten Teacher!

Jacob has been talking a lot about the mice in your classroom lately. He told me a week or so ago that you offered to give them to him after the school year. Is that true? If so, would you be willing to let us have a trial run of caring for the mice over spring break?

Jake is really pulling hard for this at home, so I want to make sure that we all have the same understanding. I am not familiar with mice as pets at all and so am unwilling to just say yes to him. So if adopting the mice is a possibility, then fostering the mice might be a good idea.

Thanks!

Christy

UPDATE: Eeek!! It's not a misunderstanding. So I guess we'll be mice-sitting after Easter.

Thank you?

2009-03-02T13:33:00.005-06:00

I have been turning inward a bit lately. I am trying to have a productive Lent. My spirituality has been a little mechanical lately. So I'm giving something up (which I have not done in years and years) in the hope that a little more focus and a little less distraction will eventually bear fruit. So far, not so good. That's the trouble with fruit. It requires patience.

Last Wednesday, I attended the most unsatisfying Ash Wednesday service ever. I was sick. It was my lunch hour and I was feeling rushed and pressured. It was a different parish than my usual and I didn't know the priest. The church was newer, with less decoration than I prefer. The homily was about wild fires. Pick an excuse - it just was not working for me.

Instead of fighting it, I let my mind wander a bit. I knew that I had to develop a lesson plan for Sunday's Children's Liturgy, so I started thinking back to activities that had succeeded in the past. That's when I remembered the sin lesson. I found the lesson online the first year I taught Children's Liturgy. The goal was to teach the children how sin can change us from the inside out. I had a heart shape cut from plastic transparency, a marker, and some Windex. We took turns talking about ways that we hurt other people and putting a big black mark on the heart to illustrate that sin. Once the heart was almost black, we held it up and looked at each other through it and laughed about how very distorted we all were. "Sally is missing her nose!" Then, of course, we Windexed the transparency clean again to demonstrate God's ability to transform us.

Since then, I have been mulling over my marked up heart. It is patently obvious that I'm viewing certain people and events through a dirty filter. It is a little less obvious exactly how to get that filter sparklingly clear again. How do you get a fresh take on a not-so-fresh relationship? Where do I buy spiritual Windex and can I get a coupon?

Meanest Mother Ever ™

2009-02-23T13:36:00.002-06:00

On Thursday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Friday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Saturday, I asked the children to clean their room.

On Sunday, I asked the children to clean their room. Then I informed them that I would be entering their room with a trash bag in thirty short minutes. Everything on the floor would be put into the trash bag and then carted to the dumpster.

A short while later, I walked into the room to find a pile of toys on Claire's bed, a pile of toys on Jake's desk chair, and a pile of toys precariously balanced on top of the wheelie 3-drawer bin thingamajig. The actual drawers in the thingamajig were empty. There were still toys on the floor. I took a deep breath. "JACOBANDCLAIREYOUGETINHERERIGHTTHISVERYMINUTE!" Then I took another deep breath and told them to put the toys away, actually away where they belong, and I would be back in another hour with the trash bag. And I was rudely informed that I was the Meanest Mother Ever.

I should mention, perhaps, that I am frequently accused of being the Meanest Mother Ever. It has happened frequently enough that I have been able to determine that the A#1 best response to being called the Meanest Mother Ever is to say, "Great. I think maybe I'll get that put on a t-shirt and I'll wear that shirt everywhere I go with you. In fact, maybe I'll get several shirts, all in different colors, and a fancy one to wear to church so that everyone knows that I am proud to be the Meanest Mother Ever." The target child(ren) generally choose that moment to scream about how really really mean I am and about how they NOW KNOW that I truly am the Meanest Mother Ever. Then I force a grin because I'm mean like that.

I played some video games and took a shower and generally tried to ignore the wailing and gnashing of teeth that was emanating from the children's bedroom. Eventually, both children exited the room and claimed that it was clean. "Are you sure? Because I have the garbage bag and I'm not afraid to fill it." I made a feint toward the room and both children ran back into the room screaming. "Five minutes! Then I'm coming in!"

Ten minutes later, I went in with my bag. I went behind Claire's bed and started shoveling the pile into the bag. "Mom! Don't! Are you really going to throw that stuff away? Don't! You are the Meanest Mother Ever! I don't think this is going to work! I think that you should just send us to bed early! Doooooooooooooooooooon't!" I put in a teddy bear. "Dooooooooooooon't!" I put in a toy sword. "Doooooooooooooooon't!" I saw a piece of leg armor from the Prince Caspian action doll that Jake picked out as a reward after a particularly good week at school. I put in a frog instead. "Dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooon't! It's not going to work!" Jake spun around and around. I took advantage of the moment to shove the leg armor into my pocket, then shoved a handful of valentine's into the bag. Eventually, I had a bag filled with toys that I was more than happy to discard and a pocket filled with two pieces of leg armor, one prickly brush block thingy, and a mancala marble.

Later that day, I snuck back into the kids room when they were out of the house. I put the block and marble in their respective homes, and then carefully snapped Caspian back into his armor. After all, I have to protect my reputation.

Happy Birthday, Not-My-Claire!

2009-02-19T09:31:00.003-06:00

February 19, 2004

I walked up to the front door of daycare with Jake in tow. My period had started that morning. It was the tenth period I'd had since we started trying for a second child. I was heartbroken and trying to talk myself out of it. I knew, in the big scheme of things, that my wait hadn't been that long but that didn't lessen the disappointment of that morning. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I'd have to be happy with a family of three.

We reached the glass door where someone had posted an announcement.

Congratulations to the Smith Family! We welcome baby Claire!

I stood there blinking while Jake tugged my hand and asked me to read the sign for him. He didn't know that I'd been disappointed again, much less that Claire was the name Nick and I had set aside for any future baby girl in our own family. I managed to choke out the words, then kissed Jacob goodbye. I cried in the bathroom at work for a long while that day.

February 19, 2009

I walked up to the front door of daycare with Claire in tow. She was sneezing and sniffling and talking nonstop. We reached the glass door where someone had posted an announcement.

Happy 5th birthday, Claire!

"It's the other Claire's birthday today, baby!" Claire smiled, sneezed, and skipped through the door.

Ah, humility.

2009-02-09T12:39:00.002-06:00

I was on fire this weekend. I had energy to spare and a long to-do list. On Saturday alone, I washed umpteen loads of laundry, sewed ten patches on a boy scout uniform, organized my Home Control Center (aka the fridge), carted in the recycling, did the shopping, spectated a basketball game, supervised bike riding, gawked at new neighbors, dealt with The Tantrum of the Century, and a few other things that I've forgotten. I was large and in charge and feeling alright.

Sunday morning, I woke up refreshed and sprang out of bed ready for another busy day. I dressed and fed both children, one in the freshly bepatched uniform, before Nick even got out of bed. I was teaching children's liturgy, so I dropped Jake off in the cafeteria with the rest of the scouts and greeted half a dozen parents. Then I ran over to the rectory basement, greeting more people along the way, and set up for the liturgy. Then it was into church for Mass. I went up to the front to process out with the kids, and then back up to the front when we processed back in. Once Mass was over, I headed back to the cafeteria to meet Nick and the kids.

I was feeling entirely pleased with myself when my friend Jenny whispered in my ear, "I've been trying to catch your eye all morning long. You've got your pant leg tucked into your sock." I looked down and sure enough, one pant leg was trapped in my sock halfway up my calf. Oh well, at least I wasn't wearing a skirt!

Oh right. Life is supposed to be fun.

2009-02-03T13:34:00.004-06:00

I've been a little melodramatic and self-pitying lately. I don't know if it's the winter or hormones or exhaustion or too many snow days or a virus or any combination of those thing, but I just cannot stand to be around myself. Then, of course, I start berating myself for being such a miserable mess. If there is any worse company than a miserable mess, it's a nagging miserable mess. Last week was The Worst Week of My Life, except that it shoudn't have been because it really wasn't all that bad. Just virus and snow days and hormones and exhaustion which really, in the scope of the whole world and the entirety of history is but a bump in the road. I just managed to hit the bump head on, somersault a bit, and plant myself head first in the muddy ditch.

Friday afternoon, I forcibly plucked myself from the ditch and sent myself to Jake's school for cocoa and books. I read three books to the class and made punny jokes. Then on the way home, Jacob pelted me with snow balls. Since I had forgotten my gloves, I responded the only way possible. I threw the child into a snowbank, bottom first. It was the most fun I'd had in days. It was so much fun that Jacob continued to egg me on so that I'd do it again. By Saturday at noon, he'd convinced me. We were walking to the gym for a basketball game. After the tenth snow ball, I pushed him into the snow. I stood over him crowing while he laughed. Then I realized that another parent/child pair was standing on the sidewalk next to us, watching in amazement. I sheepishly lowered my head then I heard the boy say in a sad little voice, "Dad, why don't you ever do that to me?"

Baby, It's Cold Outside

2009-01-16T14:05:00.004-06:00

7:30 am CST
1° F outside
65° F inside
Attire: Jeans, t-shirt, hooded pullover sweater, cardigan thrown over shoulders a la old lady

10:00 am CST
3° F outside
68° F inside
Attire: Jeans, t-shirt, hooded pullover sweater

noon CST
8° F outside
72° F inside
Attire: Jeans, t-shirt, cardigan thrown over shoulders a la old lady

2:13 pm CST
14° F outside
78° F inside
Attire: Jeans, t-shirt

3:30 pm CST (projections)
20° F outside
85° F inside
Attire: indecent

Is it really that difficult to maintain some sort of regulated temperature?

Say what?

2009-01-13T09:40:00.003-06:00

I picked up a magazine the other day - one of those thick glossy things that is supposed to help you make yourself and your home beautiful. As it is the new year, there was a special section for readers to profess what they are not going to do this year. I read blurb after blurb about how women are going to say no, refuse to over-commit themselves, pare back on obligations to others.

I tossed the magazine aside to read through a school packet. In it, I found the volunteer schedule for one of my projects. My volunteer time has been more than doubled because of a lack of volunteers. A little while later, I took the kids to fish fry for dinner. We walked past a volunteer begging table filled with page after page of completely empty sign-up sheets.

I got curious, so I did a little research. In my city, the average volunteer hours per resident is under 40 hours per year. The average volunteer rate is around 30%. If my math is correct, that means that the actual volunteers are donating around 2.4 hours per week. Even assuming that there is a large variance in number of hours volunteered (ie, some people are spending one hour a year and others are spending 300+ hours per year), I fail to see how we women are really so over-extended that we should be writing letters about our need to pare back our obligations.

Women my age are busy, that is true. We have many family obligations. But at the same time, I know that I don't have so many obligations that I can't work a little harder to make the world a better place. Frankly, I don't think I'm significantly lazier or harder working than the rest of the population. If I have time to read a magazine about how overextended I must be, then I probably have time to help mop a floor after a fish fry.

He's a really great kid

2009-01-12T10:06:00.009-06:00

Jacob and I were in the car together the other night, driving home from the grocery with half-birthday treats and dinner. We were chit-chatting about life when Jacob brought up his classmate. "Sierra's mom is kind of like her step-mom. She was born in China and her mom went on a plane to get her. Well, first her mom went to China to pick up Marie, then later she went to get Sierra."

"Well, Jake, Sierra's mom isn't her step-mom. She's her adoptive mom. And really, she's just like any other mom. She fixes booboos and tucks Sierra in at night and all that stuff. She's a really good mom." Truly, she is a really good parent. Maria and Sierra are warm, friendly, and bright as buttons. I often see their mother murmuring in their ears and I aspire to her calm manner.

"Why? Why did she adopt Marie and Sierra?"

"Oh. Well, sometimes people can't have babies for some reason. Like Sierra's mommy doesn't have a husband to put a baby in her belly. So those people adopt babies because they want to be mommies and daddies." True to form, I kept blabbering on instead of stopping when I'd given just enough information. "Some people adopt babies from China because there is a law there that..."

Jake interrupted me in a panic, "People in China can't keep their babies??"

"Well, the law in China is that each couple can only have one baby. Some people there believe that girls aren't as good as boys, so the girls sometimes end up in orphanages."

"That's a stupid belief. We are all the same." Jake was angry. I should have known that would offend his sense of justice.

"Yes, I agree. And so do lots of other people. That's why we know Sierra and Marie and also Claire's friend Gretchen. I'm really glad that they were adopted. They are all terrific girls." Then I realized that I had given Jacob information which could really hurt Sierra. "Um, Jake? Don't talk about this with Sierra or anyone else, ok?" I held my breath while Jake mulled it over.

"Why? Oooooooooooooh! Because Sierra might feel like she's not very good."

"Right, buddy. And I don't ever want Sierra to feel like that," I said as we pulled up to the curb at home. Jake ran into the house to show off his treats. I sat in the car for a few minutes, grateful and hopeful.

101

2009-01-05T10:52:00.001-06:00

As usual, I am late to the bandwagon. A new year is starting, though, and I am surprised to find myself itchy to make some changes. So what better time to start 101 in 1001? The idea is that I have 1001 days to complete 101 goals - some small, some large, all things that I am hoping will improve the quality of my life. Lately, I feel as though I have just been putting in time. I deserve better than that. My family deserves better than that. The world deserves better than that. So! The end is October 3, 2011. The beginning is now.

Weigh less than 190 pounds
Weigh less than 180 pounds
Weigh less than 170 pounds
Weigh less than 160 pounds
Weigh less than 150 pounds
Maintain a weight less than 150 pounds for the remainder of the challenge.
Journal everything I eat for a month.
Eat at least 5 servings of veg/fruit a day for a month.
Try 5 new healthy recipes.
Avoid eating chocolate for one whole week.
Implement vegetarian Fridays (with the exception of Fish Fry Fridays).
Avoid fast food for an entire month.
Walk at least 10 miles per week for 6 weeks (making a new habit!).
Hike 5 trails that are new to me.
Complete the couch to 5k program.
Learn to play racquetball and start playing with Nick.
Pass the FBI physical fitness exam.
Have Claire baptized (something that I am extremely ashamed to admit that I haven't done yet, mostly because of my post-partum anxiety and then ever thereafter because I'm so ashamed that I haven't done it that I don't want to admit that I haven't done it. But there - I've admitted it publicly so I can get it done and stop worrying every single minute that Claire will die unbaptized).
Say a blessing before family dinner every night for a month (making a new habit!).
Go on a spiritual retreat.
Attend the Lenten mission in my parish.
Add the daily gospel rss to my blog reader so that I remember to read it regularly - and then hopefully it will influence me to be more charitable toward others.
Make a Jesse tree for Advent.
Pray the rosary every day during Lent.
Take a look at the adult sections of the parish library and see if there are any books that interest me.
Attend a Mass that Jake's class is leading.
Become a lector.
Knit or sew an item for the parish charity auction.
Knit or sew 5 hats to donate to St. Patrick's center.
Make a baby quilt to donate to Our Lady's Inn.
Donate at least 10 items from my closet to a women's shelter - fall/winter.
Donate at least 10 items from my closet to a women's shelter - spring/summer.
Chair a homecoming booth for the parish.
Participate in Operation Rice Bowl during Lent - full bore participation and not the usual half-hearted putting change in the bucket.
Be a Salvation Army bellringer.
Check with the retirement home across from the park for needs, then donate a basket of whatever they need.
Join the neighborhood association.
Attend a neighborhood association meeting.
Take my kids on a litter walk.
Introduce myself to a neighbor that I don't know.
Attend a block party or other neighborhood function.
Dine at one of the small, locally owned restaurants in my neighborhood.
Get a "City" bumper sticker for my car.
Volunteer to spend a few hours weeding at the park.
Vote for alderman!
Convince Nick to vote in the local election as well.
Start recycling paper/cardboard.
Walk to any location under 1 mile away for a month, with the exception of the grocery store.
Put weather stripping around all the door frames.
Make a worm farm.
Find out what needs to be done with the paint in the basement, then do it.
Check the water heater thermostat and if it's above 120, turn it down 10 degrees.
Avoid plastic shopping bags for an entire month.
Mend 10 items of clothing.
Play hooky with Nick.
Plan a weekend away with Nick as a surprise.
Get a $50 gift card through MyPoints to give to Nick toward his lawnmower fund.
Watch an entire basketball game with Nick during March Madness with a good attitude.
Sneak a love note into Nick's car.
Get an engraved plate for Nick's fantasy football trophy.
Start a semi-monthly family game night tradition and keep it up for 3 months.
Take 6 family field trips.
Make a chore chart for the kids.
Start an allowance for Jacob.
Revive the Sunday brunch in our household by having one for six consecutive weeks.
Take Jacob ice skating.
Make a fleece blanket for Claire.
Invite my mother-in-law to go yardsaling with me.
String my guitar.
Give Jake guitar lessons for 6 weeks in a row, then continue if he wants.
Sign Claire up for dance lessons.
Finish the floor upstairs.
Fix Jake's dresser.
Reupholster the big chair.
Make new curtains for the kitchen/sunroom.
Make a new window covering for the living room.
Make curtains for the upstairs windows.
Swap bedrooms with the kids.
Make curtains for the master bedroom.
Refinish the living room floor.
Landscape the front flower beds. Again.
Demolish the raised bed in the back yard.
Fix the kitchen pocket door.
Remove the shower doors and replace with a shower curtain.
Make a message center/artwork display in the kitchen
Try couponing for 3 months and see if it helps save money.
Make a price book for my grocery shopping.
Go one full week without watching television.
Make a tree skirt.
Sell the train set on EBay.
Work with Nick's aunt to make the family cookbook that she keeps talking about.
Spend a day working in my parents' garden.
Get an aquarium.
Stop biting my nails.
Keep my laundry off the floor in my bedroom for a month.
Sew Christmas gift bags.
Have a family photo taken.
Create a large piece of artwork for the living room as a family.
Attend a play.
Write a children's book and submit it for publication.
Successfully jump in to a double dutch jump rope (I have never, ever ever been able to jump in)

Christmas

2008-12-26T10:39:00.002-06:00

C is for carols, sung in the car over the protests of a whiny child. Sometimes, parents must force kids to be happy.

H is for hugs from family and friends, especially from a sister whom I love dearly but don't always understand.

R is for a ridiculous number of Sleeping Beauty dolls given to one girl.

I is for innocence, since we've manage to prolong the Santa magic for another year with an increasingly dubious boy.

S is for the San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl, a mouthful of a name that made us laugh every time the poor announcer muddled his way through it.

T is for tired, for we were all late to bed and early to rise.

M is for Mass, which proved to be a challenge this year. Despite speeding on the highway, we didn't quite make it there by 5:30. Even worse, it started at 5. Then we cut out early when Claire lifted her beautiful faux fur trimmed Santa dress and entreated everyone in the narthex to "See my butt!" Thank goodness that God gives points for effort and intention.

A is for the angel that sits on top of our tree. Every year, Nick tells the kids about how that angel has been on top of our tree since our first Christmas together. Every year, it makes me smile to hear it.

S is for sated, full of tasty treats and love. I hope that everyone had as merry a Christmas as we did.

I'd like to pause here for a moment.

2008-12-15T14:05:00.002-06:00

We celebrated Claire's birthday this past weekend. My baby-who-is-no-longer-a-baby is all of four years old. At her request, we threw a pizza party with a pizza cake. I made the pizza and the cake, but she decorated the cake. I was given a shopping list (marshmallows and m&ms) and then was extraneous to the cake decorating process. She counted out four yellow candles and pressed them in, then liberally covered the rest of the cake with candy. It was beautiful and delicious. She also led the happy birthday song.

I am enjoying Claire at this age more than at any other so far. She's sharp. She's funny. She knows what she wants and how to get it without making people angry. She doles out compliments and smiles, bats her eyelashes, and uses her very nicest manners to convince the rest of the world to bow to her every whim. The rest of the world generally complies. And honestly, I understand why. It's a pleasure to spoil such a gracious child. Yet I also know that I'm the one who is responsible to keep her as a gracious child and avoid allowing her to fall into a spoiled brat. So for now, I'd like to pause here for a moment and just enjoy this time.

Happy Birthday to Claire. I love her as much as I know how to love.

I may have piped icing directly into my mouth.

2008-12-09T09:40:00.002-06:00

As part of my ongoing attempt to force myself into Christmas cheer, I caved into the children's demands and purchased a gingerbread house kit. I have never, ever made a gingerbread house before in my life. I was too daunted to actually make the walls. Then when I saw the kit on display at the warehouse club, I grabbed it on a whim. Ten dollars seemed inexpensive for happy children and a little Christmas spirit. When I carried the kit into the house, the children's screams of delight could be heard by all dogs in a five-mile radius. I am hoping to have my hearing back by Friday.

I cracked open the box on Sunday evening, attended by two eager elves with freshly scrubbed fingers. The kids grabbed the walls while I read the directions. "If a wall happens to be broken, DO NOT BE DISTRESSED!" I was slightly alarmed by the strength of the emphasis. Luckily, no pieces were broken so we didn't actually have to test the effectiveness of the instruction. I kept reading. "Assemble the walls at least thirty minutes before decorating." I broke the bad news to the kids. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I convinced them that finishing the project in two days would only prolong the fun. (Good marketing is a secret to good parenting.) I filled the slots in the base with icing as directed. Little fingers emptied the slots of the icing as I started icing the tabs. We were off to a good start.

The walls went up easily. I instructed the kids to hold them up while I prepared the roof. I thought that holding the walls would keep fingers out of the icing. It worked, but I did see a little pink tongue licking the base of the wall. I pretended not to see it as I slapped the roof on. "Ha HA!" I crowed in delight. Then the roof started to slide down. I slid it back up and reinforced with more icing. "Ha HA!" again. And again it started to slide. And again. And again. And again. I finally managed to affix the roof more or less correctly and fill in the inch wide gap at the top with icing. Royal icing is the duct tape of the food world. We set the house aside to dry and I secretly hoped that the children would forget about it overnight.

Yesterday afternoon, I no sooner walked onto the daycare playground before Claire came running toward me. "We're making a gingerbread house! We're making a gingerbread house!" So much for my secret wish. I herded her out of the building while she stopped to announce our plans to every available set of ears. B the time I had hung up my coat and checked the voicemail, the kids were both sitting at the table with the house and the box of candy. I poured myself a glass of wine and joined them.

Thirty minutes, a dozen pieces of stolen candy, hand cramps from piping, and a pretty funny version of the Twelve Days of Christmas later, we had a completed gingerbread house. I stepped back from icicling the roof to get a wide angle view. Surprisingly enough, it's pretty darn cute. It's amazing what white icing and candy can accomplish. As I was admiring our work, Jake asked me the all important question. "So, can we eat it now?"

Sneaky Season

2008-12-04T14:36:00.002-06:00

I'm running a little behind this year, somehow. Advent snuck up on me last Sunday and I was caught by surprise. Sure, I signed up for the Advent wreath making event. I even marked it on the calendar. I even told Jake and Claire. And yet somehow, the sight of the Great Big Advent Wreath on the sidewalk in front of church took me by surprise. Oh, right. That whole Christmas thing - coming soon! Get ready! For even when you know when He is coming, He still seems to come like a thief in the night and surprise unwary women who have been entirely too busy doing much of nothing.

We made our wreath after church. And of course, "we" means "I" because Nick doesn't share our faith and the children were sitting raptly at the feet of a story-telling seminarian (which certainly bodes well for his future as a parish priest). I was left with a foam ring and an unruly bough of evergreen that I gradually beat submission with 48 u-shaped steel pins and pruning shears. Anyone who comes into the house is told that the children helped me to make the wreath, though, because I am certainly not about to claim that disaster as my own. I suspect that more than a few Martha Stewart types in the school cafeteria have added me to their prayer chain based on my wreath-making (in)ability. That is fine with me. I have decided at this point in my life that I will take all the prayers I can get and thank God for them.

Jacob took charge of the wreath on Sunday evening while I made dinner. He found a little pamphlet and enlisted the family one by one. Nick was assigned as the candle-lighter - a speaking role. To my astonishment, Nick agreed to participate. And so our advent began with our little family clustered around one pamphlet and an ugly wreath, listening to the high sweet voice of a boy leading us all in prayer. I was so transported by the moment that I agreed without thought a moment later when Jacob suggested that I get ready for the birth of Christ by cleaning up my language. Like I said, I will take all the prayers I can get and thank God for them.

It has been a very rough month.

2008-12-01T07:57:00.002-06:00

Once upon a time on a bright and windy autumn day, an ogress and a goblin went for a walk in an enchanted wood. The goblin was especially crabby because he had broken his finger. His bandage was getting in the way of his favorite activities. He complained loudly and longly to the ogress as they entered the wood. The ogress ate the complaints, which made her grow larger. Unfortunately, complaints give ogres indigestion, so she was quite as unpleasant as the goblin. He complained. She growled. The trees shrank back from the path in fear.

After the pair had walked half a mile or so, they came upon a fork in the road. The ogress stopped for a moment to consider which path to take. The left path looked arduous but perhaps the climbing would rob the goblin of breath, thereby reducing his constant complaint. The right path was lovely, sunny, and wide, exactly the type of path that ogresses prefer. As she pondered, the goblin felt a memory tickle his miserable little brain. "Two paths in the wood. I took the less travelled," the goblin muttered. Ogres have very sharp hearing, of course, so the ogress recognized the incantation. "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by." And ever so slightly, the goblin and ogress began to change. They began to look more human. The ogress even smiled. Another traveler came down the path and veered left. The monsters decided to take the road less traveled at the moment and started down into the valley.

As they walked into the sunshine, the pair began to seem less and less like monsters. The ogre shrank down to human size. The goblin's beady little eyes grew larger and rounder. Their greenish skins gradually begin to look peachier. The goblin stopped complaining as the ogress shared a few discoveries with him: a tunnel under a mountain, a gnome's house in the base of a large tree, and a particularly fine walking stick.

Then, as they were almost out of the wood, the goblin placed his hand into the ogress' hand. As she felt around the big bandage for the small hand inside, the ogress remembered that she wasn't actually a monster at all. She was a mother. As the goblin looked up at the woman who was no longer an ogress, he remembered that he was really a little boy. So the woman and her son went back home where they shared hot chocolate and sandwiches.

My fault for asking.

2008-11-24T12:53:00.002-06:00

I glanced over to find Claire's finger up her nose. She pulled it out and examined it. "Do you need a kleenex?" I whispered.

"Nope," she replied. "I can just lick it off."

The Master Plan

2008-11-12T08:53:00.002-06:00

After (too) much discussion, the Thanksgiving scene has finally been set. I am cooking. We are eating at the big house. The big house is Nick's grandparents' house which now belongs to their daughters. It is the only house in the family with enough table space for everyone. We will be 12-15 strong, I think.

The menu!

Salad - something with pomegranates
Turkey, of course
Ham
Dressing w/dried cranberries
Mashed sweet potatoes
Roasted root vegetables (carrots, potatoes, parsnips)
Steamed broccoli
Quick breads - pumpkin, cranberry, something cheesy?
Pie - apple, pumpkin, cherry

The plan for Wednesday!

Bake ham
Bake quick breads
Bake pies
Make stuffing but don't bake it
Make sweet potatoes

The plan for Thursday!

Enlist someone to make salad
Enlist someone to set the table
Enlist children to decorate table with pretty leaves and make a centerpiece from ?
Roast turkey in the electric roaster
Roast veg in the oven
Bake dressing in oven
Steam broccoli on range
Nuke mashed sweet potatoes
Make gravy

I think it's going to be a very good day.

The Big Exhale

2008-11-11T08:21:00.002-06:00

I do believe that our Indian Summer is officially over. Many folks are hoping for one more warm spell, but I'm not. The cold has come in earnest. I dug out the coat closet and have mostly outfitted the family for winter. We have a few issues to sort out like Nick has three sets of gloves and Claire has none, but we are by and large set to be roasty toasty.

Yesterday, the trees started getting serious about losing leaves. I drove through vibrantly colored showers on an almost windless morning - a sure sign that nature is settling in for the winter. My favorite is the maple a few blocks from home. Each leaf is fiery red with bright yellow veins. Claire and I spent ten minutes sorting through them the other day, arguing about which leaf was most perfect.

Today is rainy and cold, but not miserable (at least not to me). I love this time. It's the big exhale. It's like the end of the day when you climb into bed tired in body and mind. You let out a big sigh and snuggle down safe, warm, and happy. I love winter, the way it forces us to turn inward toward our families and homes. I've been busy knitting, sewing, sorting, cleaning, waiting.

There are days and then there are days.

2008-11-05T21:07:00.005-06:00

Today was my fourth attempt at getting flu shots for the kids. First, there was a bomb in the next building and the entire block had been evacuated a few hours before our appointment. Then, I rescheduled the appointment in a coveted evening time slot, only to realize later that the appointment was ten minutes before Claire's bedtime and it was two days before the Halloween costumes needed to be finished. So I rescheduled again for a Wednesday, got confused and thought it was on Thursday, and missed the appointment. I apologized to the most gracious receptionist and managed to make another appointment. No bombs, no costumes, no bedtime, no confusion about the time. All it took to get there was three emails, one telephone call, 90 minutes off work, and the complete disregard for school pickup rules.

Claire took the injection like an old pro. She always does. Jake whined, complained, and protested so much before the injection that I seriously considered giving him a sedative. But he cowboyed up and just hollered ever so slightly. The real problem came later in the evening when I had to administer some new antihistamine eye drops that we're trying out. I sat on my son.

We are heading toward allergy shots for Jacob and honestly I am not sure how on earth I am going to handle it. But I also cannot handle him being miserable 80% of the time and rubbing his own eyes completely out of their sockets.

When you wake up tomorrow...

2008-11-04T09:48:00.003-06:00

Many good people all over the political spectrum are writing about the election. Good for them! Elections are important and we need to talk about them. This election is especially important to me. I was absolutely thrilled to wait in line to vote this morning. If you have voted already, huzzah! If you haven't and you are a registered voter in the US, hie thee to the polls! Your opinion is important, even if it contradicts mine. Of course, I'd prefer that people vote for my candidate. In fact, I spent most of last night fretting instead of sleeping.

I have to admit that I have been just short of terrified about the results of this election. My fears aren't so easy to name as economic destruction or global warming or any of the myriad other issues that are on my mind. My fear is more about me and where I fit into the American landscape. My fear is that too many Americans disagree with me about what America is and what our values ought to be. My fear is that I might become un-American as the definition of America evolves.

A few weeks ago, a Sunday morning homily put words to my fears and helped me to at least begin to form cohesive ideas about where my country is at and hopefully, where my country is going. I do believe that more than any other election in my lifetime, this election is about change. The only question is the direction of that change. Then Monsignor had the wisdom to point out that even if the election is a landslide, that very likely will mean that 45% of the voters will have backed the losing candidate. And we will have to live with the people who lost.

Take a look around your neighborhood. Chances are, you will see some McCain signs and some Obama signs. You might even see a sign for a third party candidate. You might see yards that don't have signs at all! Perhaps the residents are apathetic. Perhaps they are undecided or unexcited. Perhaps the household is divided and it's easier to put up no sign than multiple signs (that certainly has described my own household in past elections). These are the people who you are going to have to work with to effect change. Because no matter who wins, we the people have the power.

Tomorrow morning when you wake up, be the change that you want to see. What do you expect from your neighborhood, your schools, your state, your country? What are you going to do to meet those expectations? The election will be over. The work will have just begun.

NaBloPoWhat? When? Let's just pretend today is the 1st.

2008-11-03T15:15:00.002-06:00

So I'm a few days late, but I am going to do a daily post for the rest of the month. Consider this a warning. And further warning - after today, the posts will most likely not be light and fluffy. I have a lot on my mind and I am fully prepared to empty that vessel in a verbose and quite possibly rambling fashion.

Yesterday, I played cribbage with my mom. I have been playing cribbage with my mother since I was old enough to add to 15. She taught me one evening and then we played every night for a week. At the end of a week she said, "If you can't count your points, I'm going to start taking them." I replied, "You'd steal points from a little kid?" And with that, we were off on a lifetime of card games. I cannot count how many hours we have pushed the pegs around the board while chit-chatting about life, but every single one of those hours was well-spent. And more importantly, I've won more games.

Halloween Jokes

2008-10-31T08:47:00.004-05:00

My first Halloween in St. Louis was my first Halloween in my own place. I bought pounds and pounds of candy, decorated my front door, and eagerly awaited hordes of trick-or-treaters. I had two. They knocked on my door and as soon as I opened it, the first one told me a joke. I laughed politely and then tried to say "Happy Halloween" only to be interrupted by the second child. She had her own joke to tell. The next day, I brought a soup kettle filled with candy to work. I mentioned that my trick or treaters had been a little weird with the jokes. That's when I found out that all trick-or-treaters in St. Louis tell jokes.

Fourteen years later, the Halloween joke is one of my favorite traditions. I carefully research jokes and teach the kids a few before we head out. When the kids are young, they get the jokes endearingly wrong. Sometimes they make up their own. And every once in a while, a trick-or-treater at my door shows up with one that I haven't heard before. That kid gets two handfuls of candy.

Knock knock!
Who's there?
Boo!
Boo who?
Don't cry! It's only Halloween!

Knock knock!
Who's there?
Orange!
Orange who?
Orange you gonna give me some candy?

What does a ghost eat for breakfast?
Boo berries!

Why do witches fly on brooms?
Because the cord on the vacuum cleaner is too short!

Do zombies eat popcorn with their fingers?
No, they eat the fingers separately...

One Theft Too Many

2008-10-28T12:56:00.002-05:00

Jacob received a Ranger Rick magazine in the mail yesterday. I tossed it to his seat at the dinner table as I sorted through the mail, knowing that he would dig into it at dinner. I have recently begun to encourage my children to read at the table as part of The Dinnertime Bickering Reduction Plan. I've not decided yet whether that makes me a sellout or a genius, but I'm leaning toward genius.

Sure enough, I heard a "Hey, what's this?" as soon as the boy hit the chair. By the time I brought his plate to the table, he'd already found something interesting to read - an article about a horse-riding boy with cerebral palsy. We had an interesting discussion at our end of the table while Nick and Claire discussed the necessary number of bites to form a complete meal. I gather there was quite a difference of opinion.

After dinner, a magical thing happened. Nick walked by the end of the table and snagged Jake's Ranger Rick right in front of our eyes. Jake protested loudly. Nick was nabbed! As for me, I jumped on that opportunity with all the vigor I could muster. "That's right, Jacob! It's not nice to steal someone else's magazine!" Later that evening, I heard Jake rescue my Time from Nick's clutches. Ah sweet, sweet victory.

What comes next? P or S?

2008-10-21T11:12:00.003-05:00

I told Claire a few weeks ago that she could get her own library card when she can write her whole name. I thought that would dissuade her. I was 18 kinds of wrong. She works at it an hour or so a day. An hour a day for several weeks ought to mean that I have a daughter who can write, or at least spell, her own name. Unfortunately, Claire is not satisfied with merely learning to spell her own name. She wants to spell the world and everything in it. "Spell 'Mommy.' What comes first, T or D? What comes next, P or S?" Considering the spelling difficulties as well as the fact that Claire actually only knows how to write six letters, I think that she's going to take a while to work her way through this project.

I try, of course, to break the project down into more manageable pieces. I started by suggesting that she only work on her name for a while. I finally got tired of scraping her off the ceiling and gave up on that strategy. Next, I tried to write the words for her to copy. That approach resulted in a stabby pencil near my eye and a shrieked, "No! You tell me how to make it!" So I've given up. I spend an hour or so a day saying things like, "Jacob is spelled J-A-C-O-B. An a is a circle with a short line on the right. A b is a circle with a long line on the left." Amazingly enough, I can usually read about half of what she writes. I just can't figure out how to describe an e.

Saved by the Earth's Tilt

2008-10-15T09:07:00.002-05:00

This summer, Jacob learned how to ride his two-wheeled bike. He actually had the bike the summer before, but had taken a few bad falls to heart. He pulled it out again toward the middle of the summer and finally took off. Since then, we've hardly been able to pull him off the bike. He rides between breakfast and school. He rides when we get home in the evening. He begs to ride to soccer practice. He is on that bike every spare moment of every day.

We meet friends at a local park sometimes, and Jake has started doing tricks down the big hill. He starts off from the top, pedaling hard, then when he reaches full speed he pulls up his legs and turns side-saddle. His elbows no longer have skin and his bicycle has endured a few repairs. I've found ways to get to the park without the bike for the moment. I obviously don't want him to get seriously hurt. At the same time, it's exhilarating to see a boy in his element speeding down a hill, sure of his own invincibility despite scabby knees that prove otherwise.

Jake started campaigning for more freedom a month or so ago. We allow him to ride around the corner to the alley to the east and halfway down the block to the west. He's already chafing at the end of his leash, though. He wants to go all the way around the block. Nick and I told Jacob that we'd think about it. We encouraged him to follow the rules we've set so that we know we can trust him. For a month, he has meticulously followed the rules. He goes as far as the lines we've drawn and no farther. He stays out of driveways and the alley. He carefully pulls to the side to let pedestrians pass. He is ready to go around the block.

And now, thank God, it's getting dark very early. By the time we get home, change our clothes, and catch up with each other it is twilight and too dark for Jake to be outside alone. I feel as though I've been granted a reprieve. I get to keep Jake close to home a little while longer. But I know that in the spring, he's going to be off. I'll have to sit by the front window and hold my breath until I can see him again and know that he is safe. I'm hoping for a nice, long winter.

He's training the children.

2008-10-13T10:54:00.002-05:00

People who have known me for a while know that I have a Time magazine problem. Nick steals it from me every single week. If Nick and I ever divorce, it will be because of the magazine theft issue. I have tried writing my name on it, hiding it, rolling it up and threatening to swat Nick on the head with it. Nothing has worked. Every week, I must hunt it down with all the cunning of Hemingway on safari. The last time he renewed the subscription, Nick thought of a new tactic. The subscription is now addressed to him. So my magazine isn't even my magazine any more.

I thought that renewing the subscription in his own name was as low as Nick could go. I was wrong. It has become clear over the last several weeks that Nick is training the children to follow in his thieving footsteps. First, I noticed that Jacob was reading the magazine while using the restroom. I assumed that Nick had left it in there and Jake, bored while waiting for poo, had picked it up. Sure, it's a little odd to see an 8 year old reading about architecture in the bathroom, but Jake is a little odd sometimes.

The second clue came a few days later. I shook out Jake's blanket to tuck him in and the Time flew out. I cocked my head a bit and sucked in my breath, but bedtime is generally not the best time for criminal investigations. I tucked my magazine under my arm and went on my way. Then I promptly forgot about it.

The nail in the coffin came this morning. I sat down to breakfast and realized with a thrill that my magazine was laying on the table. "Aha!" I thought. "I can read an article while I eat!" I sipped my coffee while I scooted the magazine closer and Claire screeched at me. It was on the table because she was looking at the pictures. She made it perfectly clear that she had found the magazine in the play room and brought it to the breakfast table for her own pleasure, not mine. She even suggested that I read the grocery flyer.

I am trying to decide whether to give up or renew the battle with a new, never-before-seen strategy. I'm outnumbered and quite possibly outwitted. I am also incredibly stubborn.

90% of Parenting Consists of Pointing Out the Obvious

2008-10-06T12:37:00.002-05:00

Friday evening, 8pm

"I'm scared, Mom."

Uh-oh. Dangerous territory. Jacob being scared at 8pm means nightmares at 2am. "Scared of what?"

Jake let out a big, teary sigh then said, "The witch in Scooby Doo. And the mummy in Scooby Doo. We watched Scooby Doo at KidKare."

I took three deep breaths. Then I took two more. "Jacob, what happens every time you watch Scooby Doo?"

"I don't know. I get scared I guess. It's a scary show! It's really scary!"

"OK. It's really scary. And every time you watch it you get scared. So maybe you should just not watch it. I saw other boys playing outside. Why didn't you go outside?"

"Because Scooby Doo was on!"

How to (not) Knit a Hat for a Newborn

2008-10-02T15:39:00.001-05:00

Cast on 60 stitches. Knit for 5". Decrease 6 stitches evenly, every other row. Stop after 4 decrease rows to admire your work. Notice that the hat looks like it would fit your 3 year old daughter's head. Bribe said daughter with a tootsie roll to try on the unfinished hat. Curse. Rip.

Cast on 42 stitches. Attempt to join and realize that your size 8 circular needle is too long. Dig in bag and find size 7 double points. Briefly consider getting up and hunting for size 8 double points, then decide it's not worth the effort. Transfer to size 7s. Knit for a few inches. Notice that the hat looks like it would fit a fetus. Curse. Rip.

Cast on 50 stitchs to size 7 double points. Knit two rows. Notice that it's time for bed. Curse. Sleep.

Ain't No Garden of Eden

2008-09-30T08:19:00.002-05:00

I am aware that I have a charmed life. I sometimes look around me at the big wide world and hold my breath, afraid that my luck will run out one day. My life is not perfect but it is very, very good. I am very, very grateful for my good fortune.

Lately, though, some people close to me have not been so charmed. People that I care for have been living with very big problems. I don't know what to do. I want to knit them a hug. I want to swoop in on a magical broom and start sweeping the sadness away. I want to be queen of the world so that people I love don't hurt ever again. The only thing worse than being hurt is standing by while someone else is hurting.

Ain't no garden of Eden, folks. But I can't stop looking for it.

Don't Save the Drama for your Mama

2008-09-10T08:46:00.003-05:00

Claire has come down with a case of the dramas. It's quite serious and worsening by the hour. At this time, we are uncertain whether she has the more fleeting contagious variety or a congenital chronic condition. We are all quite concerned and more than a little nonplussed. Since we have more boy-parent experience and boys seem to have a higher resistance to drama infection, this is our first case in the household.

The first sign of infection was mild. I am more than a little ashamed to admit that I dismissed it as a childish game. Claire had an insect bite on her leg. She limped up to me and demanded a Dora bandage for the horrible, awful itch. I fetched the bandage and Claire danced away happily.

As the days passed, the drama has grown. Yesterday I realized that we have a very serious case. I arrived at daycare to find Claire sobbing. Her face was swollen and red, her caregiver was petting her head, and her classmates were cooing around her. She had a cold damp paper towel covering her knee. "It's a terrible rug burn, " Ms. J said. I peeked under the towel and saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. A tiny portion of flesh was every so slightly pink from being under a cold damp paper towel. Claire, lips quivering, explained that I would have to carry her to the car since she was badly wounded. I refused and spent the next twenty agonizing minutes watching her limp inch by inch toward the car, sobbing loudly every time another parent entered the hallway.

I had hoped that not feeding the drama would end the infection, but I was mistaken. This drama is made of tough stuff. Last night, Claire was wheedling to be tucked in for the third time. When I solidly refused, she wailed, "But I looooooooooooooove you!" Oh, blasted drama! How dare you do this to my child? We will beat this together, as a family. But I suspect that it will be a difficult fight.

I would walk 500 miles

2008-09-08T09:44:00.003-05:00

This was a Very Big Weekend in our parish. We had our annual Homecoming, which consists of a parade and carnival as well as traditional churchy type fundraisers like cakewalks, quilt raffles, and bingo. It's like the loaves and the fishes. We start with what looks like a small parking lot, a gym, and a cafeteria, and lo, the space multiplies to contain many rides, booths, a beer truck, and an entire jungle's worth of houseplants.

It started on Friday night. Jake's class made a Seven Brides for Seven Brothers float for the parade. I put together a lumberjack costume for him. He grew over the summer and we're still wearing summer clothes, so the flannel shirt I dug out of the closet was decidely small. I rolled up the sleeves. I found one lonely purple bandanna in my box of wonders and held my breath while I tied it around my neck, fearing the "but that's a girl color" argument. It never came, thank goodness. Jake found a pair of jeanst that fit around his scrawny waist but ended above his ankles. No problem - I'm sure the younger brothers wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs, right?

Since Jake had been ready since 7pm on Friday evening, we had an easy time of it on Saturday morning. Jake and I headed to the parade drop-off on foot just as Grandma Joyce walked through the door. We walked all the way up to the school, then all the way back down to the park in search of the float. We traveled around 6 blocks to end up 2 blocks from home. I dropped him into a roiling cloud of excited lumberjacks. The girls, dressed as brides, were sitting primly along the edge of the float trying to avoid all contact with the rowdy lumberjacks. After chatting with the teacher for a few minutes, I kissed Jake and ran away before I could be recruited as a wheel walker.

I walked back to the appointed meeting spot along the parade route. No one was there, of course. So I walked the rest of the way home and badgered the family out of the house. We decided to walk a little further to a better spot on the route, then sat down and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, we saw the parade come by. Claire loved it, mostly because she gathered about four pounds of candy. We walked back toward the end of the route and caught most of the parade again. Then I chased the float back to the park.

I arrived just as the kids were disembarking, luckily. Most of the kids split immediately despite warnings to wait for their parents. I ended up herding a few strays as we headed toward the school. The next two hours were spent in a blur of rides, lunch, music, dancing, and walking around and around. When the kids started getting crabby, we walked back home.

Later in the afternoon, Jake and I walked back over to take our turn working a booth. We spent two hours walking the same 4 foot path. Take the money, wait, fetch a prize. Once again, we managed to pick up some strays. At one point, we had four boys "working" the booth which made it both more fun and more challenging. After our shift, I rewarded Jake with a ride so we walked around a little bit more. Then we walked back home.

By 6pm, I'm pretty sure that I walked close to ten miles. It was a lot of fun, but next year, I might wear roller skates.

Heaven Maybe

2008-09-02T09:57:00.002-05:00

One day recently, I arrived at daycare to pick up Claire only to find her room empty. I heard some squealing on the other side of the building. I joined the irregular stream of parents wandering toward the noise with heads cocked. We found all of the children in one of the larger rooms, dancing and singing along with Babaloo.

I scanned the crowd looking for Claire. After an embarrassingly long time, I saw her. She surprised me by not only being among the big kids, but by actually being one of the big kids. Claire is sneaky like that. She grows up behind my back. She was waving so fast that her hand was a blur. Her entire face was a smile - her eyes were squinted into crescents, pushed out of the way by her cheeks which had in turn been displaced by her grin. I smiled and waved at her. I was overcome.

There are these moments in love, especially in parenting, that defy explanation. They are gifts from God, I think. I can throw words at the moment in a vain attempt to describe it - love, bursting, light, beauty. I wonder if this is how God sees us all the time? Maybe these glimpses are God's way of showing us the wonder and glory of His Creation. I hope so. I can't imagine anything more beautiful than one day being able to see everything with that clarity of light.

Love Requires a Sense of Humor

2008-08-29T08:00:00.001-05:00

"When is our anniversary, Christy?"

"I can't believe you've forgotten, oh ye of the everlasting memory! It's been almost ten years and you've forgotten! August 29th, 1998!"

"Oh, I didn't forget. But you might want to look at the calendar."

"I don't have to look at the calendar. I wrote it on there months ago. Tenth anniversary in big letters on the 29th. Maybe you need to look at the calendar."

"Ha! Hahahahaha! I am looking at the calendar, Christy."

I stomped into the kitchen and ripped the calendar off the fridge. I jabbed my finger at a square and said, "See! Tenth anniversary!" Nick grinned from ear to ear as he pointed to the date again. I'd written it on the 28th.

10 things I've learned about marriage in the last 10 years

2008-08-28T10:09:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is Nick's and my tenth anniversary. Tomorrow is also my mother's back surgery. Life is messy like that. The joy gets mixed up with worry.

10 Things about I've Learned About Marriage

Marriages are unique. There is no one right way to approach marriage. So it's ok to ignore supposedly universal advice if it doesn't fit my marriage - like "Don't go to bed angry." I go to bed angry all the time. I wake up angry, but rested. Then I can have a discussion instead of a fight.
I can't give everything I've got to work, the kids, church, my friends, and then serve Nick whatever is left over at the end of the day. He's my husband. He deserves better than scraps of me.
If I'm not getting what I need, I have to tell Nick. I have to be specific. I can't say that I need time with him. I have to say I need 15 minutes every day for him to listen to me. Then he will understand and give me what I need or we'll fight about it and find a compromise.
When I start to hide little, unimportant things from Nick, we are heading toward rocky territory. That's the time to pull out the stops and figure out what is really wrong and fix it.
Some things do not stay fixed. This is the nature of the world. Mountains crumble, canyons deepen, rivers change course, compromises erode. Take a deep breath and fix it again.
Marriage is not a competition so don't keep score.
Sex is important, and that's ok.
Always make sure that what I'm hearing is what Nick is saying and vice versa. There is nothing wrong with being a parrot, especially when furious. Sometimes saying "I am hearing you say blah blah blah" is the quickest way to uncover a miscommunication.
Nick will never forget the Juice Newton bet, the combo gas station and burger king bet, or any other bet that we've ever had when I've been wrong (which is about 90% of them). So I don't make bets unless I'm prepared to be teased about them for the next 30 or 40 years.
Marriage isn't a choice that I made 10 years ago. It's a series of choices that I have made over the past 10 years and that I will continue to make for the rest of our time together. It's a constant process of choosing Nick over the alternatives. And sometimes, I make the wrong choice. Sometimes he does too. But I think that if we each choose each other more often than not, we'll make it.

Be careful what you wish for...

2008-08-25T10:59:00.001-05:00

because that annoying trickle in your nose might just turn into the plague and land you on your back for a day or so. Blech.

Thursday 13: 13 Small Rants

2008-08-22T09:17:00.001-05:00

It's been a long week.

People who don't know the rules for a four-way stop should not be driving through four-way stops. As a matter of fact, perhaps the driving portion of the driving test should include a four-way stop just to insure that at least someone on the road besides me knows what to do. Sitting at the stop sign and waving everyone through is not the right thing to do. Powering through the intersection without stopping is also not the right thing to do, even if you do honk to warn everyone.
Boys go to school and they require a pencil bag. Pencil bags are not the sole domain of girls. Perhaps you could reduce the inventory of some of the hearts, unicorns, and rainbows and have more than one boyish or neutral bag. And for the record, not all boys like camoflauge. Even if all boys do like camoflauge, not all mothers like camoflauge. So, you know, maybe just a plain blue bag would be useful?
I understand that it is easier on teachers if all children have identical supplies. I'm behind the teachers on that. I'll buy the yellow pencils and tell my kid to stop whining about it. But next time, maybe you could just take your list to a few common stores to make sure that the very specific items you request are readily available? I'm quite unhappy about stopping at three different stores to find large pink erasers. Surely the ubiquitous white ones would have served just as well.
Yes, your daughter is very cute and smart. That's no excuse for being a pushy little queen bee. You need to teach her how to play with others instead of laughing it off. She's going to make social mistakes - she's three. But you are at least 33 and you should know when to step in and teach her some skills.
Please stop emailing me to come to your desk unless you are truly available. I hate trotting across the office just to have you ask me to come back later. If necessary, we can schedule a meeting for a time when you are free.
Stop airing scary commercials during family programs! If a movie is rated R, then there is really no need to advertise it during a G rated television program. You'll get more bang for your buck if you save those advertising dollars for the later evening, and I won't have to dive for the remote to pause the TV for nightmare prevention.
While we're talking about nightmares, how about you kids just stop having them, please? I know that your genes are working against you here since both your dad and I have had our issues with bad dreams, but seriously? Could you please just grow out of it? I'm really tired.
I don't know what is up with you, nose, but I've had enough. Either run or don't run, but stop this sort of half-hearted drizzle. Now.
You are my friend but if you nag me one more time, you will not be. Stop expecting me to prioritize your work simply because we're pals. I have a lot of work to do and frankly, you're pretty low on the totem pole around here. I know who butters my bread and it isn't you. Friendship is friendship and work is work, ok?
Howsabout you reporters give the Olympic athletes time to catch their breath and compose themselves before interviewing them? I know we're all atwitter to hear what they have to say, but we can wait for five minutes. I can't understand them when they're speaking between ragged breaths anyway.
Why did you stop working again, cd player? Do you know how sad I am? Did you really have to stop working at the exact moment that Claire was having a screaming meltdown? All I wanted to do was play her favorite song so she would get a grip about whatever preschool tragedy started all the screaming. But no. You declined to cooperate and I had to endure the screaming. You are toying with me, I think.
The vacuum works better when you empty it. It's not hard to empty, really. It will take less time and energy to empty it than you are expending by complaining about how worthless the vacuum is. So just do it already. (Sadly, this one is directed toward myself.)
You know it's been a long week when you can't post a Thursday 13 until Friday.

A Festival of Our Own

2008-08-18T08:37:00.004-05:00

Last week, I received a postcard in the mail about a multicultural festival in a nearby park. I set it aside for later consideration. On Saturday after spending far too much time at Target aquiring school uniforms and supplies, I remembered the festival. The children were stir-crazy from shopping. The weather was absolutely perfect. So, I packed everyone up and off we went!

Tower Grove Park is huge. It's not the biggest park in the city, but it's close. It runs 12 or 13 blocks East-West and 4 or 5 North-South. I didn't worry when I didn't see festival signs right away. I told the kids to keep a sharp eye out for dancing throngs while I manouvered into the central drive of the park. I started to worry a bit when I realized that parking was readily availabe. Suddenly, Jacob hollered, "There! It's over there! And they have a bouncer!" Claire took up the bouncer chant. Then sadly, I realized that we were coming up on a birthday party. We kept driving.

Eventually, I realized that I'd made some sort of error. There obviously was no festival that day - just reunion after birthday party after wedding. The idea of returning home with bouncerless, baklavaless, still stir-crazy children was not appealing so I parked and chased the children out of the car.

I looked at water lilies. The lily ponds are beautiful and I was amazed by the breadth of color. The children chased the ducks and counted the ducklings.

We played in this fountain.

There is a wading pool between the bubble jets and the building. Jake ripped off his shoes and shirt and was soaked in less than twenty seconds. Claire followed suit giggling, "I'm like a mermaid!". They played there for an hour or so while I soaked my feet in the pool and my face in the sun. We dried off on some nearby swings before I finally dragged the children back to the car under protest.

I found the postcard on the table when we returned. It clearly stated that the festival is on August 23-24. I'm grateful for my error, although I really would have liked some baklava.

Vacation

2008-08-15T12:24:00.002-05:00

We took a week out of our regular lives to go to the beach. We rented a bigger care and drove many hours in order to:

swim in Lake Michigan
dig in some sand
pick blueberries
sleep
read umpteen books
eat ice cream, corndogs, and other vacation food
figure out how on earth to recycle cans from Missouri in Michigan (not as easy as one would suspect and quite possibly illegal)
illegally dump (sorry, nameless business with the open dumpster but we were desperate and didn't have room in the car to haul our trash all the way back to Missouri)
discover that we all really like each other
discover that we all really like each other better when we aren't driving from Michigan to Missouri in one long day with entirely too many potty stops

Now we've been back home for almost a week. We have:

caught up on the laundry
almost gotten the sand from our hair
remembered why we were stressed out before we took the vacation
eaten most, but not all, of the blueberries (pancakes, anyone?)
recycled Michigan cans in Missouri without fuss, bother, or illegal activity
taken as many potty breaks as we want to without the shrill voice of the driver screeching that no one could possibly need to urinate every twenty minutes

So, back to normal almost. School starts on the 25th, so we've got one more week of official summer left. We have two more months of summer weather, though. I have done almost nothing on my list from the beginning of the summer, but have accomplished much that wasn't listed. Good enough. I'm ready to get back into our normal routine. I've been out of my rut for too long

Oh good heavens, I'm at it again

2008-07-31T11:15:00.002-05:00

Oh how I'm weary of those who are wary
Who mistakenly write the wrong word.
Weary means tired and wary means leery,
To swap them is really absurd.

Wear and ware are homophones, it's true,
Weary and wary are most certainly not.
Carefully choose the word that you use
Lest others think your brain's gone to rot.

While I'm expounding on words and their use
In this public and peevish confessional,
Let me also include pique and peak as an issue
In letters meant to be quite professional.

My interest is piqued in the product you seek
to place on my company's website.
Yet you attempted to peak it and stranded my interest
on a mount of incredible height.

Know the limits of your vocabulary, please.
Plain words can get your point across.
If you use the wrong word you can be assured
That your effort will be labeled as dross.

Tastes Like Guilt

2008-07-30T08:08:00.003-05:00

Friday, 5 pm

I stopped by the grocery for hamburger buns after picking up the kids. The kids were in good moods, so I decided to go ahead and shop for the week. Any fool knows that good moods at 5pm on Friday are capricious, so we were rolling through the store at light speed. Produce! Seafood! Deli! Dairy! Dairy! Dairy! We hit a snag.

A middled aged woman was doddering around the milk cooler. I smiled and excused myself as I reached around her for a gallon. I glanced to the left and saw her cart. My heart sank when I saw the suitcase in the cart. I prayed, "Oh please God, not now. I just want to get home. Pleasepleasepleaseplea-"

"Ah! 2%! A whole gallon! But you have two little ones so of course you need a whole gallon. It's just me so I just need a quart. I like skim. Do you like skim?" I froze the smile on my face and tried to be nice without getting involved. I was edging toward the bagels and freedom when Jake started asking for vanilla yogurt. I said no. Jake started arguing. The suitcase lady asked about my yogurt preferences. I weighed my options. I decided that capitulating was preferable to a full-out yogurt battle with interference from a stranger. I hissed to Jake that he had better eat the yogurt this time and tossed a large tub into the cart. When we had retreated to the relative safety of ethnic foods, I reminded Jake that he didn't eat the last tub of yogurt. This was his last chance. He solemnly nodded and we wrapped up our errand.

This morning, 6:43 am

Jacob requested a bagel for breakfast. I peeked in the fridge and saw one lonely little bagel. We started the negotiation process. "There's only one bagel. You can't eat it because then Claire will want one."

"I can eat one part and Claire can eat the other part."

"OK, but you'll have to have something else. Half a bagel isn't enough breakfast." Jake wakes up hungry and usually eats a large breakfast. It's not uncommon for him to eat an adult portion of oatmeal and then clamor for more. "How about some yogurt?"

"What kind is it? I think I'll just have a granola bar."

I could feel my veins constricting. "It's vanilla. The kind you asked for at the store and promised me you would eat. Granola bars aren't food*. They're treats. Eat half a bagel and some yogurt and then you can eat a granola bar." I heard Jacob mumble his assent. Three minutes later, I put the toasted bagel and two bowls of yogurt on the table and called the kids to breakfast.

"I'm not eating this! I don't like this kind of yogurt! I like the little yogurts!"

"It's the same thing, Jacob! Vanilla yogurt is vanilla yogurt! It doesn't matter what container it is in!" I put both hands on my head and squeezed to prevent my head from exploding. "Eat! Your! Breakfast!! I am not making anything else for you." He refused and sent the bowl of yogurt spinning across the table. I opened the cupboard, took out the last granola bar, and shoved it in my lunch bag. I gathered Claire and left the house, hugging a sobbing Jake on my way out the door. "Goodbye. Have a good day. Dad will be awake soon."

Now

I'm hungry and I'm looking at a granola bar. I should be able to enjoy it. Jake won't die for lack of a granola bar. So tell me why it tastes like peanut buttery guilt.

* Of course granola bars are food. But my children will eat five granola bars per day if I let them. Granola bars should not make up 50% of a child's diet. Therefore, we put them solidly in the treat/snack category of food. No granola bars for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

It's a Hard Knock Life, Kid

2008-07-25T15:17:00.001-05:00

I have never been a big fan of bottled water. I am too cheap and too concerned about waste to feel good about buying something that comes free and clear into my home with the twist of a knob. There are occasions when I swallow my reservations and buy a few bottles (which are later recycled, never fear) but I refuse on principle to allow bottled water to become part of my daily life.

Instead, we own several sport bottles. A red wide-mouthed bottle that I received as a gift from a vendor sits on my desk at work. I have a frosted plastic Rubbermaid bottle with a flip top for games, hikes, trips to the park, etc. The kids each have blue bottles with pull-up squirt tops. I can't use those because I've never mastered the art of squirting liquid into my mouth. I cough and gag and well, it's embarrassing. There are also two reserve bottles that sit in the cupboard until one of the other bottles go missing for a day or two, which is to say that they never sit in the cupboard. All in all, it's not difficult for the children to take a drink of water with them wherever they go. Nonetheless, Jacob is constantly on my case to buy him disposable bottles of water. An icy cold bottle of Aquafina is to him what a plastic cup of beer is to a frat boy.

I took Jake to the baseball game the other night. I was worried that unsealed bottles would have to be emptied* and finding an hygienic water fountain at the ballpark can be an adventure, so I broke down and bought a couple of bottles on the way into the stadium. Jacob downed his entire 24oz bottle by the bottom of the second. I suppose I should be glad that he didn't pull out a bong to drink it. He immediately started edging toward my water. I gave him The Look. He snatched his hand back and whined, "I'm soooo thirsty. I don't need a soda or even a lemonade. Can't I please just have some water?" The trio of young women in front of us wheeled around and glared at me. I glared back. I know that they were thinking that even prisoners are entitled to water, but they weren't privy to the whole story. Somehow, Jake managed to muddle through without anything further to drink. Somehow, I managed to muddle through the multiple bathroom visits since Jake's bladder only seems to hold about 3 ounces.

I still had half my bottle left when we got home. I filled it again from the tap and stuck it in the freezer. Then I told Jake that he could take it on his field trip Friday. The poor kid couldn't decide whether he hit the jackpot with two!! bottles of water in one week or whether I was the cruelest mother on earth for making him wait a day and a half to drink it.

13 Happies

2008-07-24T13:06:00.003-05:00

Blame Katie for this Pollyannaness. I certainly do.

It's less than 90 degrees outside and it's July. I am so grateful for this mild summer that I cannot possibly express it.
Cold brewed coffee over ice has replaced my sweetened iced coffee habit - and it tastes better.
Sleep. Both of my children are sleeping at night finally and I can sleep 6-7 hours in a row almost every night of the week. It feels so good to be rested.
Yesterday when I was changing my clothes, I caught Nick ogling my stretch-marked, flabby, saggy, cottage-cheesy body. And he didn't hear a word I said until I was dressed again. So, however I feel about my body, it's still good enough for him.
I picked up How Mama Brought the Spring at the library and we've been reading it. Claire snuggles up. Jake drifts in and circles ever closer until he's leaning on my arm. We're making blintzes this weekend. I've never tasted one before and I'm excited.
Nick only has 3 more classes before summer semester is over. Then we have a whole month before the fall semester starts. I'm glad he's going to school and I'm so proud of him (he's on the dean's list!) but I live for the breaks.
I'm having minor success in my attempt to stop biting my nails. I won't say that I've exactly quit yet, but they aren't nibbled down to the quick either. It's very hard and I'm quite proud of myself for getting this far.
The air conditioning in the office is being fixed right this very minute.
Project Runway is on again. I don't care much about fashion, but I do love watching skilled people create sometimes beautiful things out of cabbage, plastic cups, and ultrasuede. Besides, watching tense people squabble always tends to give me a little perspective.
Moments before I threw my lunch away in disgust, I remembered that I had actually put hummus on the flatbread instead of the cream cheese I had originally thought to use. So the brown stuff oozing out was not rotten but delicious. Thank goodness.
The pink binkie (pacifier) has show up again. There was much rejoicing in all the land.
In just under two months, I'm going to be zipping across a canyon with a group of strong, funny, vibrant women. I am counting the days. My scream will likely be heard around the world.
I love and am loved.

All the titles I've tried are melodramatic or uncomfortable

2008-07-23T12:31:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I was chatting with a friend about my weight loss. Or actually about my lack of weight loss. I've been watching my diet and attempting to exercise for the past several weeks. My weight has more or less stood still. I know that I need to cut or spend 500 calories per day to lose a pound a week. If I walk (200 calories), cut out the sweetened iced coffee (200 calories), and cut out a snack or two or eight, then I should ever so slowly be dropping weight until I hit my goal sometime early next summer. People who can do basic math will figure that I've got about 50 pounds to lose.

I was very frustrated on Monday when the scale still said 190 pounds. Then I was heartened on Tuesday when I weighed in at 188 pounds. That's when my friend wisely told me to back away from the scale lest I damage my sanity. For once, I was completely honest about myself. On this particular topic, my sanity is already damaged. If I am trying to lose weight, then I am Trying To Lose Weight. I don't starve myself or do ten hours of aerobics or swallow uppers. What I do is weigh myself obsessively, keep a constant running tally of caloric intake/expenditure, and feel like an all-around shitty failure of a person because I'm fat.

When I am not trying to lose weight, I do not think about my weight at all. I feel good about myself because I only consider the me of me, my consciousness, my personality, my soul, my whatever-you-want-to-call-it. The status of my body is completely boxed up, buried, and covered with daisies. I am happy and I feel good and the world is a shiny, shiny place. Until, of course, someone goes and digs up the daisies.

I always start out sane. "Oh, right. That whole weight thing. Well, let's nip it in the bud, shall we? I'll just start walking and food journaling and then I'll be skinny and beautiful and we can just replant those daisies. Tra la la la la." I lose a pound or two, then stall out for unknown reasons. Then I start obsessing and weighing myself every day, twice a day, three times a day, every time I walk past the scale. After a while, I realize that I'm hurting myself so I just stop. I stop thinking about losing weight, stop trying to lose weight, stop worrying about that whole body thing at all. I go back to just being the me of me and I wear my body like a particularly unattractive outfit that I just haven't bothered to replace yet. I'm sexy, I'm healthy, I'm attractive and well, it's just that I'm temporarily inhabiting flabby, jiggly, messy body.

So right. The need to weigh is a symptom, not a cause. I am realizing that I can't afford the luxury of pretending that everything is aok so that I can be blissfully happy with myself. My blood pressure, while still safe, is edging up. I am also seeing the unpleasant results that years of morbid obesity can wreak. My father is struggling to avoid diabetes. My mother is retiring early because her body has been worn down and broken by the weight that she carries. This time, I am going to find a way to deal with my weight in a sane and practical way. I'm not going to give up on being healthy nor am I going to give in to being completely fucked in the head about it. I suspect at some point I might need to talk to someone about this, some professional sort of someone. Perhaps I'll buy an ad. Mostly sane, grounded woman seeks therapist to deal with minor mental health issues regarding weight. Must not blame morbidly obese mother, no matter how clear the connection might seem. Waiting room should be stocked with chocolate.

We Are Surrounded

2008-07-22T08:18:00.004-05:00

They're back. And this time, the children are on their side. It's my fault, really. I have been fostering bug love. We've been digging up worms, examining roly polies, and keeping snails in a jar. I've been admonishing Jake that all life is created by God and is therefore precious. While we were stepping around beetles and ushering moths outside, the ants were watching.

Last night, they mounted a massive assault. I was upstairs when arhythmic stomping and slapping sounds drifted up from the kitchen. I tried to ignore the ruckus. It went on for five minutes, then eight. I reluctantly plodded downstairs and poked my head around the corner. Nick was muttering under his breath as he furiously stomped on the tile. He was beating the broom under the cabinets' overhang, then sweeping something toward his pounding feet. When he felt my eyes, he turned and said, with no small amount of drama, "They're back. The little $%&#ers. I thought I had them beaten. I put out traps. What do they do? They walk around the traps. They're smart. Too smart." Then he turned back to his stomping. I put the kettle on and ran to hide."

By the time the kettle whistled, Nick had squashed all of the advance force. He was tracing the route with a flashlight, waiting for unsuspecting ants to show him the way. He moved from the kitchen to the play room where he found an abandoned granola bar. A few moments later, he found Jacob's lunch bag behind the toy box. "They're in cahoots! Cahoots!!!" he yelled.

Whether or not the children were planning to aid and abet the ants, it's clear that the ants move quickly. The invasion happened in less than four hours. I'm considering a new strategy, but I'm a little concerned about pesticide content.

C is for Hat

2008-07-17T08:50:00.002-05:00

Claire is growing at the speed of light. Everywhere we go, friends comment that she's losing her babyness. "She's a girl now! A big girl!" is the refrain. Her legs are straight and strong. Her belly is losing it's roundness. Her nose is climbing out of the common baby pug with a strong bridge and ever-so-slightly turned up tip. Her speech, while still rife with articulation errors, is nuanced and complex. She expresses opinions with supporting evidence. She explains why and how. Like all little girls of a certain age, she can draw her own conclusions and is completely convinced of her own infallability.

Over the past few months, Claire has been concentrating on the alphabet. She finds letters on any printed material available. "That's a C! C is for me! That's a J! J is for Jacob!" Jake often involves himself in the game as Claire's instructor. He asks her what other objects start with a J, giving broad hints occasionally involving unbelievably bad pantomime.

We were looking at an alphabet book a few days ago when Claire started yelling out C words. "C is for me! C is for corn! C is for clown! C is for hat!"

"Yes, Claire, C is for Claire, corn, clown, and cat."

"No, not cat. C is for hat."

I patiently corrected her. "I think you mean that c is for cat, honey. Kuh kuh kuh Cat."

She patiently corrected me. "No, c is for hat. Haaaaaaaaaat. Hat." She even patted her head to illustrate.

I tried once more. "C sounds like kuh. H sounds like huh. C is for cat. H is for hat." She stared at me for a long moment. She decided that I was too dim to understand and moved on to D.

This morning, Claire was playing with an electronic letter game in the car. I heard the annoying music underneath Claire's voice. "A is for apple. B is for boy. C is for hat. See Mom? C is for hat!" I drove to a stop sign, turned, and got a face full of plastic. "C is for HAT." C is for cap, as it turns out.

Dawn

2008-07-15T08:00:00.005-05:00

I roll over and force myself out of bed, into clothes, into shoes, out the door. The heat of the day is already settling in. The light is still gray. As I walk, the day gets lighter and the air gets thicker. I'm in shorts and my hair is wet with sweat by the time I am two blocks from home.

I turn the corner and see a rabbit. They're everywhere this year - the bunnies had a baby boom. When we first moved to this neighborhood, we'd see a rabbit every few weeks in the summer. This year, we see many rabbits every day. It's rabbit nirvana here. The yards are fenced and rich with hostas. I think that perhaps next year or maybe the year after that, we will be faced with a sea of rabbits in the street. We won't be able to drive lest we run over dear little bunnies. Or perhaps we'll set some traps and start feasting on rabbit stew. One little beasty seems to walk along with me for half a block. I get too close, he hops ahead. I get too close, he hops ahead. Finally, he bores of the game and hops off between some houses.

I hear a steady huff huff huff behind me. I move over to the very edge of the sidewalk, then realize the runner is in the street. He slowly huffs past. He's large, muscular, and hairy with the daintiest gait I've ever seen. He is taking tiny, mincing, bouncing step. Each step brings him further up than forward. I think he'd be more comfortable skipping rope. Then I think that I'm being petty and mean. After all, he's running and I'm walking and maybe I'd be better off moving a little more vigorously and thinking a little less.

I pace myself so that I can cross the street without stopping. Unfortunately, the driver is afraid that the rope skipper or I will throw ourselves in front of his car. He slows, we slow, he slows, we slow. It's the most excruciating game of chicken I've ever played. Finally, the driver speeds on and we cross the street and go our separate ways.

Just as I'm picking up steam, another runner comes up a cross street. He's a streak of orange. He's running so fast, faster than fast. I peek down the street to see who or what is chasing him. I see nothing but a rabbit. I pace myself so that the runner crosses the corner before I arrive. I'm not sure that he even sees me. I turn the corner, keeping my eye on the bunny just in case. Mr. Orange is already gone around another corner.

I realize that I should be home already, so I pick up the pace. Five minutes later, I take off my shoes and sneak into my own house. I tiptoe into the living room, drop my keys in my purse, and turn to see the grinning face of an imp. "It's morning! Hello!"

Thirteen Phrases I Say Everyday

2008-07-10T13:06:00.002-05:00

That's right. I'm bringing back the Thursday 13 in order to encourage myself to get back in the habit of posting. Besides, it's fun.

It's your sister's/brother's turn to look at the cereal box.
We are not discussing dessert while we are eating breakfast.
One ponytail, two ponytails, or braids?
Please put your dirty clothes DOWN the laundry instead of NEXT to the laundry.
Do that in private please.
Do not leave the bathroom until you flush the toilet, pull up your pants, and wash your hands. Flush, dress, wash. Flush, dress, wash.
Yes, I will play tickle monster. Rooooooaaaarrrrrr.
Did you put on clean underwear?
Don't answer the phone don'tanswerthephonedon'tanswerthephone. Give it to me. Don't hang up. Giveittomedon'thangupdon'thangup. Argh. You hung up on someone. Stop answering the phone!
Get a book and meet me at the big chair.
Do you need a hug? I need a hug.
Show me a smilie shark.
I love you.

Boys

2008-07-07T10:42:00.003-05:00

"I call the submarine."
"I call the viking ship."
"I call the pirate ship."
"I call the pirate raft."

Thirty minutes later...
"I call Han Solo."
"I call Chewbacca."
"I call Darth Vader."
"I call all the stormtroopers."

Yet another thirty minutes later...
"I call America."
Dumbfounded silence.

Beautiful

2008-07-02T09:34:00.001-05:00

A few days ago, Claire started demanding that I paint her nails. I asked her why. "Hope and Julie have painted nails. They look pretty." I sucked in my breath. Then I said that I would think about it. Claire wailed. Thinking about it generally means that I want to say no but feel that perhaps I'm not being fair. I attempt to sort through my own issues and ask for opinions from my husband, mother, sister, friends, and random strangers before trusting my first instinct. "NO! Don't think about it! DO IT!" So, of course, I immediately started thinking about it.

Hope and Julie have very similar mothers. They are both tiny, very pretty women who are always impeccably dressed, coiffed, and made up. I saw Julie's mother one morning about three weeks after giving birth to her second child. She was still perfectly dressed, coiffed, and made up. I suspect that if aliens were attacking the earth, these women would still manage to correctly apply mascara. I am not surprised that Hope and Julie have painted nails.

I am not a reactionary feminist who believes that a woman should never be concerned about her appearance. Makeup and fluffy hair have their place in the world. I use a little blusher when I'm feeling peaked and a little lipstick when I'm feeling sexy. However, I do not want any woman, especially my daughter, to believe that she needs makeup to be fit for public consumption. I do not want Claire to feel the need to put on her face before facing the world.

I know that it's just nail polish. And I know that I overthink sometimes (or all the time). But still, there's that shrill, nagging voice in my head that says little girls don't need any form of makeup. I worry that if I paint her nails, I'm sending a clear message that beauty requires accoutrements - that Claire herself requires accoutrements.

I ripped my toenail the other day. In order to protect it from further damage, I painted it with several layers of polish. Claire saw me and I painted her toenails too. She was so delighted. "Now, I''m pretty!" she said. My heart sank all the way down to my pretty little piggies. "No, Claire, you're ALWAYS pretty," I protested. But I feel like I sold her out.

Aha!

2008-06-25T12:15:00.005-05:00

I read The Life of Pi recently for my book club. I had nightmares in which I was lost at sea with my family. Nick, in a particularly misguided attempt to jolly me out of my fear, demanded to know whether I cannibalized the rest of them in my dream. His persistant questioning moderated my guilt over feeding him to our children in my dream. Next time, perhaps he'll let sleeping tigers lie. After the dream and the interrogation, I resolutely pushed the book out of my mind. I simply refused to think about it at all.

After no small amount of internal debate, I decided to attend the book club meeting. The hostess had a new house, Claire was in a particularly shrill mood, I wanted some wine and good company, I am a creature of habit, insert any other convenient reason here. I went. I took a deep breath and a gulp of wine and forced myself to think about the book. I am so grateful that I did. We had a wonderful conversation. Then as the lulls slowly began to overtake the conversation, we turned to the topic of forgiveness.

Someone had asked if Pi had a happy ending. Some of us thought so. Others, including me, disagreed. I pointed out the number of times Pi referred to a dead character and said that he thought of him/her/it every day. Ah, but forgiving isn't necessarily forgetting, said the other side. But forgiving does mean unburdening. Pi felt guilty, I countered. The reply was that he had nothing to feel guilty about. His behavior was expected - what any of us would do in his situation. What any number of people had done in his situation. And then - ephiphany! - accompanied by all the light and clarity that can be expected in any revelation.

There is a fundamental difference between excusing someone (or oneself) and forgiving someone (or oneself). How often I have offered an excuse instead of contrition! How often I have robbed someone of forgiveness in favor of excusing their behavior! "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I was tired." Bah! "It's ok. I'm not hurt because I know you were stressed out." Double bah! It seems so much easier to excuse than to forgive, but then I just end up carrying the burden of hurt plus the additional burden of excuses.

I am working very hard on using my newfound insight to change the way I offer and hear apologies. It is liberating to just admit that I hurt someone or someone hurt me without needing to explain it away. But I don't think I'll be going on a cruise anytime soon, just the same.

She's a tricky one

2008-06-18T12:14:00.001-05:00

It had been a long and trying day, so I made a quick dinner of eggs, toast, and fruit. I dished out heavy plates for the hungry and put the customary three bites on a dessert plate for Claire. Jake was excited about an upcoming event so he started chattering before we even picked up our forks.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Jake had finished his story and we'd finished our dinner. Nick stabbed his fork in the direction of Claire's plate for a bonus bite of egg. "What happened to your egg, Claire? What did you do with it?" We peeked under the table. I shook out her napkin. Then, I slowly realized what must have happened. "I think she ate it." Claire giggled and giggled and giggled.

7

2008-06-16T10:49:00.001-05:00

Give me a boy to the age of seven and I will give you the man.

Jacob turned seven yesterday. It is a very symbolic age in many ways. Seven is traditionally the age of reason. Piaget theorized that the onset of concrete operations begins around age seven. And of course, the statement above that is attributed to St. Ignatius Loyala. Despite my recent worries about Jake, I am feeling confident about the man he will become. Seven is a nice number for a list - there are seven corporal works of mercy, seven spiritual works of mercy, etc. In honor of my joy of a boy:

7 Reasons to Celebrate

Every person is a potential friend. Drop Jake into any situation for any length of time, and he will come out with new friends. He has even made friends running around the bases at a baseball game. He remembers names and faces and genuinely likes every person that he meets. According to Jake, the world consists of good friends, new friends, and people he hasn't met yet.
Jacob has a strong sense of justice. If given a treat, he will make sure that everyone else has a treat too. He will also confess if another child is being blamed for a shared crime.
He can laugh at himself. He knows when he crosses the line into the ridiculous and he can laugh if off - usually right away.
He's not afraid to ask questions. He's learning about tact (thank goodness), but he won't rest until he finds the answers to his questions.
He really thinks. Of course, he's seven so his critical thinking skills are hardly honed. But he does think about answers and test theories against his own knowledge and experience.
He loves to teach. He delights in teaching his younger sister and friends just about anything. He received a couple of lacrosse sticks for his birthday. We took them to the park to play with a friend. Jake patiently showed his less graceful friend over and over again how to throw the ball.
He believes that he can do anything, given enough time. He rarely says "I can't do it." He says, "I can't do it yet."

Bargain Pricing

2008-06-03T08:16:00.000-05:00

One of the local neighborhood associations sponsored a yard sale extravaganza on Saturday. Four alleys were filled with sales every few houses for two blocks. We spent an hour or so strolling down the alleys and eyeing the goods. Then Claire's new shoes started pinching so I piggybacked her home. Jake was sorely disappointed that his shopping trip got cut short. He found at least twenty items that were the coolest things ever. He was eager to find other treasures and would have happily spent the day wandering through alley after alley.

A little while later, Jacob burst into the living room chattering nonstop. He was wearing a large plastic shopping bag. He'd cut leg holes through the bottom and then put the handles over his arms to make a sort of overall. And written in huge numbers on both front and back was $100. "Mom! I'm going to go stand out in the back yard and see if I can sell myself!"

Prakatissking Soccerball

2008-05-30T11:08:00.001-05:00

I arrived at daycare yesterday to find Claire and 14 of her little classmates sitting on soccer balls. They were staring at a smiling young man with the rapt attention usually reserved for story time. After a few moments of instruction, the children started dribbling their balls. "TURTLE!" the young man bellowed. Claire slowed and gave the tiniest of kicks to her ball. She had her head down, eye on the ball, and hands splayed out for balance. "RABBIT!" Her braids started bouncing as she started kicking the ball faster, but making no discernible progress forward. After a few more animal rotations, they sat back down on their balls again. Then, incredibly, each child took turns dribbling the ball toward a goal. When it was Claire's turn, she took a long, slow dribble and then pow! She used a kill shot to put the ball firmly in the corner. Claire was flushed, tired, and immensely proud of herself.

Overcome with mommish pride, I ran over to give her a great big hug. I was absolutely shocked when she collapsed into my arms and sobbed her little heart out. She wanted to run back over to the field and she wanted to stay in my arms. She cried until her little red grubby face was almost clean. She finally regained her composure when I pointed out that the other kids were getting hand stamps. She bounced over to the line and held up her hand as if everything was suddenly right with the world again. Puzzled, I went back to work.

When I picked Claire up at the end of the day, all she could talk about was playing "soccerball." She showed off her hand stamp to Jacob and his buddies. She showed it off to random people in the street. Then she showed Nick at dinner with a proud declaration, "I was prakatissking soccerball!" Her caregiver told me that she ate a huge lunch and took a nap, both rarities.

I picked up a brochure for the 8 week soccer program at the daycare center. It's $80 for 8 weeks, which doesn't seem to be an unreasonable price. But I'm torn. Do I listen to the pride she showed? Or do I listen to the tears? She's got me stumped again.

Moving at the Speed of Life

2008-05-29T10:09:00.001-05:00

Tomorrow, the kids are officially out of school and preschool. Summer camps start on Monday. Jacob is thrumming with excitement about camp this year. He's planning to sign up for the library reading club, take a couple weeks of soccer camp, climb a mountain, finish his handwriting book, take my mixer out into the backyard and experiment, learn to swim, watch every episode of his favorite cartoon, and eat record amounts of hotdogs, watermelon, and popsicles. For Claire, the difference between preschool and day camp is negligible but she's caught on to the excitement.

I'm amused by Jacob's plans. I remember my childhood summers as being impossibly long and boring. My sisters and I would mill around the house until my mother kicked us out into the yard with instructions to "find some kids and do something." We'd retreat indoors during the heat of the day and drive Mom crazy with complaints of boredom. Eventually, she'd either hand us a bucket and a box of Spic and Span or push us out the door again. And then finally, when I couldn't stomach one more game of Red Rover, the fireflies would start sparking and another long, lazy day would end.

Now, while Jake is planning to fill his days from dawn until dusk, I am trying to figure out how to carve out some free time for myself. The trouble with unplanned time is that it somehow always gets filled up with chores. So I'm going to take a lesson from my son and make a list of things I want to do this summer.

Make lemonade - the real kind.
Sign up for the adult reading club at the library and read enough books to win something.
Make myself two linen skirts and then wear them so that I can feel classy and summery at the same time. At least until July comes when feeling classy gets lost in the sticky heat.
Hike! At least 3 times and at least one afternoon-long effort.
Dine a la fresca at the pasta place that I drive by every single day.
Have a backyard waterballoon fight with the family and make sure that we all get drenched.

Fight, Flight, and Two Possums

2008-05-08T11:06:00.001-05:00

I was having a dream that I don't quite remember. Even without the details, I remember that it was chaotic and upsetting. I half woke sweltering, so I flung out the covers and rolled over. That's when I saw a pale shape next to the bed. I gasped.

"AAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa" Jake jumped, screamed, and took off running. He kept screaming and kept running all over the house. I could track his progress by the volume of the scream as well as the thumping bass note of his running feet. I will never understand how a fifty pound child can make so much noise.

The instant Jake fled from my terrifying gasp, Nick started awake and vaulted out of bed. He chased Jake into the living room, back into the bedroom, out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, and finally back into the bedroom again. Nick scooped Jake up, carried him back to bed, and tucked him in all before I'd managed to shake off my stupor and get out of bed. By the time I'd padded across the hallway to the children's room, Jake was asleep again. Claire had never even gotten out of her bed. Clearly, Claire and I do not have the survival instincts of the men in our family.

Worangfrustvulnerblueness

2008-04-04T12:40:00.001-05:00

Jacob is struggling again. He was on spring break last week and the whole family was ill in turns. Jake dealt with the disruption in his routine the way that he always deals with disruptions - by becoming more disruptive. He rebels against change of any kind, even growth.

I've seen children who grow as gracefully as flowers. I'm sure those kids have their bad days, but most of the time their growth seems effortless and natural. Jacob, on the other hand, grows in painful fits and starts. He metamorphs from caterpillar to butterfly and back again. I call him challenging or spirited most of the time, but the bottom line is that he's different. Atypical. Weird. Abnormal. Pick a label. When he's in butterfly mode, people love him and rave about how smart-funny-bright-charming-engaging he is. When he's in caterpillar mode, people smile indulgently and say that he'll grow up eventually. And when he's in cocoon mode, people express concern and start to drop hints about parenting or medication or therapy or whatever it is that they think is going to fix this supposedly broken child. That's when I get worangfrustvulnerblue.

I'm a worrier by nature anyway, but these are the times when the energy I spend worrying could, if properly harnessed, power entire cities. Will Jacob eventually grow up? Will he stay on the right side of The Line? Will he manage to develop his coping skills before some well-meaning but misguided school psychologist convinces everyone that he needs an ADHD diagnosis? And then there's the big worry - are we doing the right thing by fighting against that label? Most of the time, I think we are doing the right thing. But when Jacob is in this phase and I get worangfrustvulnerblue, I worry. Is something so broken in me that I can't see the truth about my child? I cannot look at him and see anything other than a perfectly functional, smart, loving, creative little boy who is developing asynchronously. He may not be typical, but does atypical necessarily translate into organic dysfunction?

Then my worry turns to anger. Anger with Jacob for making everything difficult. Anger with myself for not being able to help him. Anger with the world for not accepting that sometimes, people are different. Anger with our culture for equating anything or anyone outside the norm as dysfunctional. And then I have a special, white-hot anger for anyone who suggests that Jake would be better off if only I would raise him the same way they raised their children because, after all, their children are normal and my child isn't.

The worst part of all the worry and anger is the sheer vulnerability and helplessness of it all. I can't do a damn thing to make Jacob grow up any faster than he is. If kids have a hard time learning to read, then we give them tutors and understanding and extra time to catch up. Oh, the understanding we pile on kids who have academic issues. But a kid who has issues with impulsiveness? Do they get extra helpings of understanding? No, of course not. They get "concern" and inappropriate labels and medication to stone them out of their supposedly dysfunctional minds.* And if those children happen to be very smart, then the labels get pushed even harder. After all, the kid is too smart to have a developmental lag. Since the child is ahead of the curve in academics, many people expect the child to be ahead of the curve on every other front too.

I know that thirty years from now, I will look back on this time and laugh. Jacob will be successful and happy and just different enough to be special. I know this to be true. But for right now, I'm worangfrustvulnerblue enough to talk about it honestly for once. Tomorrow, I'll go back to calling him spirited.

* I want to be perfectly clear - I do think that some children have organic dysfunctions that can be treated effectively with medication. I disagree with the label of ADHD for various reasons, but whatever the label, some kids do need pharmaceutical help. Thank God we live in a time when that's an option. My issue is only with a culture that too broadly defines mental illness.

Jolyn saved the day over 10 years ago

2008-03-28T21:32:00.005-05:00

It has been a long week. I started the week off with a plague officially named "viral tonsillitis", which passed to Claire and then to Nick. Jake escaped since he's the sole member of the family without tonsils. Besides the illness, Nick and I have both had busy weeks at work. Jacob has been out of school on spring break. Given that we are creatures of habit, we've been reeling the entire week.

Every day this week, I've spent my commute with The Bickersons. Usually I only have Claire in the car with me, but Jake attended daycare this week. "Don't touch my paper!" and "Give back my sunglasses" were interrupted by the occasional "Leave each other ALONE!" As we drove, the radio volume was bumped up up up until I could hear the news over the kvetching. And then we saw the moon.

Why! Look at that moon!
Away up high seeing everything
That goes by why look at that moon
Why, why, why look at the moon.
Why, why, why look at that moon.*

My friend Jolyn made a mix tape for me over 10 years ago. Actually, she made several. But this particular tape had Why Look at the Moon on it. Luckily the song lodged itself in my head. Every time I see the moon - big, white, and breathtaking - I start singing with an exclamation. Why! Look at that moon! My head bobs, my hand taps, my soul bounces. It's a wonderful song that creates a wonderful feeling. So thanks to Jolyn. I don't think she had any idea how much she was giving me. * The song was written by Victoria Williams and covered by The Waterboys.

Nick is on the fritz

2008-03-26T21:49:00.002-05:00

so I had to hire a couple of helpers to get the dishes done. I'll be glad when we're all healthy again. I'm holding out hope for April.

Getting Home with Limpy McLimperson

2008-03-21T09:23:00.001-05:00

The flooding is continuing, complete with overdramatic news casts that trivialize the real damage with every emphatic, pursed-lipped pause. Yesterday, the water started hitting the roads. A heavily traveled state highway near my office park was closed shortly before rush hour. My office was out of electricity for an hour or so midday as power was re-routed around a threatened substation.

I left work a little later than usual, and hit a lot more traffic than usual. I realize that I am relatively spoiled. My thirteen mile commute takes twenty minutes on most days and thirty on bad weather days. So when it took me twenty minutes to travel less than one mile to daycare, my patience started wearing thin. And then, just as I pulled into the daycare lot, my gas light came on.

Claire limped toward me as soon as I walked into the room. Her caregiver explained that Claire had been limping since nap with no explanation or evident injury. Since she was smiling and happy, I shrugged it off as one of those things that three year olds do just for the experience. We went out to the car at a snail's pace which was still faster than the traffic was moving.

I added my car to the line and crept along. My gas light flickered on and off. I started to worry that I wouldn't make it to the gas station. I decided to turn back into the office park and wait out the traffic. As soon as I made the turn, I realized my mistake. It took me another 20 minutes to get back to my office. All told, it took me almost an hour to make a two mile trip.

Claire slowly limped to my desk and I began to get concerned about her. She just kept saying that she didn't want to talk about it. I tried to lift her pantleg and she slapped me away. I worried, but figured that we weren't going anywhere without an ambulance anyway. After an hour or so of internet games, we limped back to the car, crept to the gas station, and finally arrived home at 6:40 to cornbread lovingly made by my husband (I am forced to mention the cornbread because my mother evidently berated my husband on the phone until he agreed to make it for me).

I cornered Nick in the kitchen and told him about Claire's limp. He grabbed her and tickled her all over, managing a pretty thorough examination of her leg in the process. He couldn't find anything wrong. Then, as I was putting on her pajamas, I found the problem. A 1/8" square scrape on her knee was rubbing against her pant leg. A bandaid fixed the limp, and we all settle in warm and dry for the night.

Spring Flood

2008-03-19T15:27:00.000-05:00

The Meramec river is straining her banks again. Floods are a fact of life in this river-rich region. Some years, the creeks just dribble over the banks for a few hours. Other years, the mightiest of rivers crest overtop the levies. It is not a question of if, only where, when, and how much. Since we've been squelching and squerching across a waterlogged landscape for the past several weeks, thirty hours of steady rain is dictating that the answers are close, now, and quite a lot.

I peek at the water level of the Meramec every weekday as I drive to and from work. The river was a rich, muddy brown this morning. I could hardly see where the water stopped and the bank began through the rain. When the river is deep and dirty like that, it moves deceptively quickly. As the day has passed, news of road closings and evacuations have been filtering in. Those who live in low-lying areas have gone home to catch their cats and evacuate. Those of us who live on higher ground are thanking our lucky stars and making sure our commutes are clear.

To me, the flood watch is the first sure sign of spring. Daffodils can be fooled by a few warm days (mine poked their noses up only to be covered by snow the next day) and songbirds don't show up until well after the last frost. But a cold, steady rain never lies. I can't say that I enjoy the flood watch exactly, but I do embrace it. It matches my mood. I feel restless and out of sorts. I'm anxious for the industry of spring but not quite ready to shake off the inertia of winter. The water will recede in a couple of days and take my mood with it. Then I'll be ready to pack away the sweaters and plant the lettuce.

A Wife, a "Girlfriend", and a Young Boy

2008-03-16T22:00:00.003-05:00

Jacob woke up at 5:51 this morning. I grunted at him to go watch tv and then I went back to sleep. Somehow, though, that early morning wake-up stuck with me. I woke up for the day around 7:30 but remained in a fog. So after a cup of coffee, I was surprised to hear a little voice in my ear, "What does 'Christ-en cashes in' mean?" I looked around in confusion. "See? On the news? 'Christ-en cashes in.' What does that mean?" The tv was showing an attractive young woman with the title "Kristen cashes in." Then I realized that it was a story about Eliot Spitzer's, erm, liason.

I gulped a few times and tried to clear my head. I was unsuccessful but that didn't seem to stop me. I just opened my mouth and started blabbering about how the governer of New York made some bad choices. Of course, that did not satisfy Jake at all since the picture on the screen was clearly a woman and her name was not Eliot. After a few more gulps, I came out with the most age appropriate explanation that I could muster - Mr. Spitzer had a wife and a girlfriend, which is against the rules. Then I explained that he paid the woman to be his girlfriend, which is against even more rules. Then I rambled on about how magazines are bidding for the girlfriend's side of the story so that they can sell more magazines to nosy people.

I wonder sometimes if other parents have this same rambling problem that I do. Surely other children ask questions about the news. Surely other parents believe, as I do, that age-appropriate honesty is the best policy. But surely other parents do not somehow turn "Kristen Cashes In" into a diatribe about people who are willing to spend their hard-earned money to leer over the downfalls of the rich and powerful. Just what is the appropriate response to a six year old boy's questions about call girls, governors, and Hustler magazine?

I have a little secret.

2008-02-26T20:44:00.003-06:00

I like pot roast. I just discovered it a few days ago and frankly, I'm still weaving a bit from the shock. I'm not supposed to like it. I've spent 36 years not liking it and 19 of those years refusing to eat it. Then on Sunday, in an effort to be a good example to my children, I tasted it. Shortly after that, I found myself using the leftover shreds of beef to scrape the sour cream gravy out of the dutch oven. Who knew that falling from grace could be so delicious.

I grew up in a meat-and-potatoes family. We ate beef at least three nights per week. Since we were solidly working class, most of those beef dishes were cheap cuts that required some sort of tomato product and a pressure cooker. We knew dinner was ready when we heard the hiss of steam being released.

When I left home, I started down the path toward vegetarianism. I took my time and then stalled out at fowlpescalactotarianism (in other words, I'd managed to stop eating mammals). When I married Nick, I decided to stop there. I felt good about my choices but I didn't have to be inconvenienced by cooking multiple meals. Nick actually encouraged me to really give up meat, but I was happy to be stalled.

Then, as any home cook will profess, adding more mouths complicated the meal selection process considerably. As I struggled to find common food likes, I decided to just give up on the whole pseudo-vegetarianism. I capitulated last Easter when a particularly lovely ham sang her sweet, salty siren song. Then came salami, Italian sausage, pork chops, mortadella, and the list goes on. That's how I found myself with two slices of pot roast on my dinner plate.

When I took a second helping, Nick exclaimed, "Wow! You LIKE pot roast?" That's when I made a big mistake. I let my pride get in the way. I answered, "Well, it's not my new favorite or anything, but it's not as horrible as I remember. Just don't be expecting it every week." As soon as the words were out, I wanted to snatch them back. Now I have a dilemma - admit that I was foolish or devise a zany scheme that will force me to make pot roast again. I suspect that I might just be inviting all the pot roast afficianados I know over for dinner someday soon. After all, a good hostess prepares her guest's favorites.

Gravity, the Trickster

2008-02-19T20:18:00.003-06:00

Sunday afternoon, Jacob and I attended a Blue and Gold Banquet. It was my very first and it was a complete surprise. We had made a few decorations, so I was prepared for the pirate theme ahead of time (Seriously? Pirates? Do we want our boys to become rapists, looters, and pillagers? I do not understand why outlaws are held up as role models for our children.) but I was not prepared for the nearly life-size wooden boat constructed in the gym. Nor was I prepared for the three and a half hour agenda. I nearly fainted dead away but was saved by a swashbuckler who loosened my corset. Or perhaps it was just another parent who made a sarcastic comment. Either way, I caught myself before I hit the floor, er, the deck.

I gave Jacob a stern warning that he was to stay in his seat with his mouth closed. For Jake, that is quite possibly the most challenging request ever made. He can climb mountains, add two digit numbers, read chapter books, build an electrical circuit, but he cannot sit in a chair. With a valiant effort, he actually sat still in the chair for over an hour. Then, his body started rebelling against him. A leg jiggled. A butt wiggled. An elbow flapped. Then the chair folded with a metallic clang that echoed around the gymnasium and Jacob vanished.

Silence fell as everyone turned to find the source of the clang. Then, across the table, I saw two grubby hands and a cowlick appear. Jake pulled himself up, righted his chair, and sat back down. He looked at me, shocked, and said, "Huh. I didn't expect THAT to happen!"

Wait, now is the time?

2008-02-12T20:48:00.003-06:00

I seem to have become the cliche - the mom blogger who disappears for weeks at a time. I could say that I've been busy (I have) or that I've been uninspired (also true) or even that I've been on my knees cleaning up sticky glass from a fantastic medicine bottle accident that defies description (and I was, er, indisposed in the bathroom at that moment). But the real truth is that I've been playing video games. I have been sucked into some weird winter video game vortex. Beware! You might also be in danger! In order to prevent my brain from completely petrifying as my fingers become ever twitchier, I'm going to attempt to actually string together a few thoughts about Lent.

For some reason, this Lent is a tough one for me. It snuck up on me. Ash Wednesday came early this year. I barely finished packing away the wise men before turning my attention to the desert. I'm not ready for the desert! I haven't made plans! I haven't gathered waterskins and all the other paraphernalia one expects to need on such a journey! Or maybe, just maybe, that's the point. Maybe this is the season that I'm supposed to just drop everything and face God unprepared. Maybe I need to stop wearing the desert paraphernalia as armor and just go into the desert, trusting that I will come out the other side better for my experience. I am both hopeful and terrified.

Now is the time. And then bed.

2008-01-28T21:57:00.000-06:00

Live the Gospel! Now is the time. That's the theme of my son's school year and the upcoming mission for Lent. I've been thinking about it a lot and it suits since I'm a born procrastinator. OK, so I should probably be concentrating on the first portion, but the second portion has my attention. So I'm making a list and going through all the minutae that I've been putting off - after reading some blogs, of course. And then Katie tagged me for a meme, and well, now is the time! Right? And then bed because I'm tired. But tomorrow, tomorrow I will work on the list and the minutae and perhaps even a few thoughts about Lent.

1) Which book do you irrationally cringe away from reading, despite seeing only positive reviews?    Almost any book that has been featured on Oprah Winfrey's show. I read a few, then was scarred forever by White Oleander. Now, her approval is like a death knell for a book regardless of how many other people recommend it.  

2) If you could bring three characters to life for a social event (afternoon tea, a night of clubbing, perhaps a world cruise), who would they be and what would the event be? Dinner, of course. And let's see...Anne of Green Gables, Lord Peter Wimsey, and someone fun and a little crazy. Someone out of a T.R. Pearson novel.

3) (Borrowing shamelessly from the Thursday Next series by Jasper Fforde): you are told you can’t die until you read the most boring novel on the planet. While this immortality is great for awhile, eventually you realise it’s past time to die. Which book would you expect to get you a nice grave?The Five People You Meet in Heaven.  

4) Come on, we’ve all been there. Which book have you pretended, or at least hinted, that you’ve read, when in fact you’ve been nowhere near it?  Who? Me? I'm scrupulously honest.  

5) You’re interviewing for the post of Official Book Advisor to some VIP (who’s not a big reader). What’s the first book you’d recommend and why? (If you feel like you’d have to know the person, go ahead and personalise the VIP). The 58 Pound Marriage by John Irving. It's a tremendously underappreciated book.   

6) A good fairy comes and grants you one wish: you will have perfect reading comprehension in the foreign language of your choice. Which language do you go with?   Chinese. I suspect that a lot gets lost in translation.

7) A mischievous fairy comes and says that you must choose one book that you will reread once a year for the rest of your life (you can read other books as well). Which book would you pick?  I very, very rarely re-read books and then only the very best books after years have passed. So I choose Where the Wild Things Are so I can get it over with and move on with my life.

8) I know that the book blogging community, and its various challenges, have pushed my reading borders. What’s one bookish thing you ‘discovered’ from book blogging (maybe a new genre, or author, or new appreciation for cover art-anything)?    I have no idea. I might come back to this in a few days. I might not.

  9) That good fairy is back for one final visit. Now, she’s granting you your dream library! Describe it. Is everything leather bound? Is it full of first edition hardcovers? Pristine trade paperbacks? Perhaps a few favourite authors have inscribed their works? Go ahead-let your imagination run free. My dream library isn't a personal one. It's a public library where the book I want is always on the shelf, where kids can be noisy, and where the lights are very bright.

Mundane Poetry

2008-01-24T21:50:00.000-06:00

Claire is becoming much more expressive lately. I'm constantly entranced by her turns of phrase. "The water is cold! Turn the hot on louder!" she told me the other day while washing her hands. The day before that, my hungry girl informed me, "I need a snack really hard." The word choice is enough to make me swoon, but the delivery! Oh the delivery! She shrieks and whispers, dips and dives, pauses for 3 beats and then raises her eyebrows and purses her lips to emphasize just how hard she needs that snack. And I, in gratitude and awe, can do nothing more than smile and produce a granola bar.

A faint whiff of victory!

2008-01-13T18:48:00.000-06:00

One of the greatest joys of parenting is that every once in a blue moon you can see into the future. It's a hazy, surreal experience that lasts but a moment. I had one of those moments on Friday afternoon. That moment smelled like victory.

I remember the day my mom went back to work. My youngest sister was in Kindergarten, and zeitgeist gave my mother the push she needed to put herself back into the larger world. It was a fruitful decision that led to a thirty year fulfilling career. She is retiring this year and frankly, she's scared to death.

We girls of the 70s watched all this carefully. We saw our mothers fearlessly pitting themselves against men and sometimes winning. We saw them learn how to demand more of our fathers, and saw our fathers grow into homemakers - or something resembling homemakers anyway. We heard people tell us "You can be anyone! Do anything!" out of one side of their mouths. Then we heard "You run like a girl" out of the other side. We heard that men and women were equal, then we saw our mothers going on strike in the home to get some help with the housework. And most importantly, as expectations for women broadened and grew, expectations for boys remained the same.

Right now, I'm seeing that boys are being given more options. As the boys of the 70s are growing up, they're making their own demands. Dads are choosing to stay home, work part time, or stay with a more traditional role. The important thing is that they are actually making a choice. I've never doubted that my daughter could do anything, but I'm glad to see that my son can as well.

On Friday afternoon, Jake was breathless with excitement. His class is studying biographies. They are reading books, writing reports, and presenting their report to the class - in costume. Jake chosen subject is a woman. And my little boy doesn't see anything wrong or demeaning or even worthy of comment about dressing up as an heroic woman in front of his class. To him, she's not a woman but a hero. My mother is frantic that he'll be humiliated. I'm not. I've got my crystal ball and I know that the future is full of choices for all of our children.

Blue Lipped Terror

2008-01-10T05:55:00.000-06:00

Claire has always been a little leery of dogs. We live in a neighborhood with many dogs so it's been fairly easy to keep her leeriness under control. The barkers have always been the hardest to deal with. The walkers are generally easy. We see them coming at us and Claire balks. So I pick her up or let her hide behind my legs while I talk to the dog and owner and Claire gets comfortable. Some walk on by, others dally to let their dog get a little attention. Claire had managed to get comfortable enough to actually touch a dog a handful of times.

Last night, Claire and I were walking home from the mechanic. An older man was walking his small dog behind us on a long leash. The dog, excited by the prospect of a child, snuffled up between us. Claire hadn't realized he was back there, so she was startled. She screamed and flat out ran. I tried to get to her but the dog was between us still trying to catch Claire. The owner did absolutely nothing beyond saying, "It's alright. He's a nice dog." After what seemed like forever, I finally managed to snatch Claire up. She was so scared that she wasn't breathing. Her lips were blue and her eyes were wild.

I carried Claire for a block while I tried to settle her down. Eventually, she did calm down enough to walk on her own while holding my hand. Then a Weimerauner came around the corner. Claire screamed and took off again although the dog was half a block away. This time, thank goodness, the owner had a shred of sense and he kept his distance while trying to reassure Claire. But still, we have started a little phobia here and that we have to deal with. There's no way that we can live here and not run into a dog on every block.

Well, obviously.

2008-01-03T10:58:00.000-06:00

It is cold outside. It is very, very cold outside. It is so cold outside that I ran from my car to the children's museum yesterday while holding onto Claire's wrist and sort of flying her behind me like a kite. Jake was lucky enough to escape my grip, but I still urged him on with rather specific threats of becoming a freezicle. He had the nerve to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and argue that freezicles do not actually exist. I kept moving.

Later, in the car again, we were discussing the cold weather. I remarked to Jacob that St. Patrick's Center was probably very busy trying to keep people warm. His school has adopted the center as their service project for the year and all the kids are trying to raise money to help serve the homeless. Then my own thoughts boomeranged around and smacked me in between the eyes. There are people outside in this weather. There are PEOPLE outside in this weather. The intellectual truth of a moment before had become a visceral truth. I felt like I'd been gutted with an icicle.

What do I do in a situation like that? Empty the linen closet of extra blankets and the pantry of tomato soup and go looking for cold people? Fall to my knees and pray? Stuff my innards back inside my gut and then carry on? And what causes that icicle to the gut anyway? Could that possibly be grace? Could that be the Holy Spirit? It's not like I'm a cold or uncompassionate person - far from it. But sometimes compassion is distant and other times it becomes more personal. I want to know what makes knowledge become understanding.

Anyway, I'm making some hats out of scrap fleece I have left over from Christmas gifts and clearing extra gloves and scarves from my coat closet. It's something I can do. It's not enough.

With apologies to Clement C. Moore

2008-01-01T17:27:00.000-06:00

Twas a week after Christmas, all the work of the elves
Had been sorted and boxed up and put up on shelves.
The children were cranky from a sudden cold snap
Trapped indoors and restless, unable to nap
When what to my wandering eyes did appear
But an unopened box of Play-Doh and gear.
I sang out "Come here kids!" with glorious tones
Til I opened the package and let out three moans.
Too late! The kids pranced in the kitchen with me,
"What is it? Can I play? Hey, I want to see!"
I showed them the box, the most wonderful prize
Of Play-Doh and accessories tied down with twist ties.
I turned and I twisted. I twisted and turned.
My fingers did bleed and my tongue all but burned
From curses held back for the sake of young ears
While I worked midst the whining, the yelling, the tears.
I unwrapped thirty twist ties that cold New Year's noon,
A feat that I hope comes once a blue moon.
If pressed, I'll admit that the hour of quiet play
Was worth all the work on a frigid winter's day.

I've been busy building.

2007-12-31T09:30:00.000-06:00

If you tell people that a small boy is interested in building robots, that small boy is very likely to receive robot related kits. And if that boy has a mother who enjoys assembling items, that mother will likely spend much of her holiday vacation building and rebuilding and rebuilding yet again. The boy might even have to remind his mother that the kits were given to him, not to her, and that she should really pick up her knitting and leave the kits alone for a little while.

Grandma and Grandpa showed up with some Wacky Wigglers. The Wigglers are indeed Wacky. The kit has a motor, many gears, and some accessories. It's fun to see how the gears work together to move our creations.

Santa dropped off a snap circuit board. I cannot even begin to describe how very cool this toy is. The version Jake received has instructions to build 100 different projects that illustrate various circuits and ways to use electricity. The kit was for kids over age 8, so we've had numerous discussions about only building the written projects and only building with an adult until Jake understands the underlying concepts (or until I finally get sick of building with the kit myself).

Jake also received a race track that uses magnets from his other grandma and a snap-together construction set from his great-aunt. All told, we have about 675 individual pieces that have thus far added up to over 60 hours of fun. I don't remember toys being this cool when I was a kid.

It's not Christmas until the white kids rap.

2007-12-19T10:44:00.000-06:00

Jake's school had their Christmas concert last night. I left my sick husband at home with my crabby tired girl and met my mother-in-law at the concert. I had a blast. Sure, it was a little longer than necessary and I'm sure that we've all heard one too many cheesy medleys in our day. But really, what could possibly be more festive than 30 awkward white Catholic midwestern 7th graders getting their groove on with a Christmas rap? I think the choir director chooses a rap to accommodate the changing voices of the boys, and the occasional squeaky honk from the choir certainly did add a certain something to the experience. I realize that I am probably coming off as sarcastic, but the truth is that the kids had a great time performing and I had a great time watching them.

It hurt a little to say it.

2007-12-18T09:53:00.000-06:00

Boy! If I see you reading that book for one more second, I'm going to come in there and take it away. Go. To. Sleep.

Christmas Past: A Slip of the Tongue

2007-12-17T09:55:00.000-06:00

My mother has always been an inveterate supporter of Santa Claus. Even after all of us girls had figured out who delivered the presents, we played along. It seemed so wrong to rob Mom of her little secret.

Every year, we'd make a list for Santa. The entire family would make our annual Christmas shopping trek to the nearest mall in Springfield, a 90 minute drive from our rural home. At some point in our day, Mom would disappear for a while under the cover of a lame excuse. The funniest was the year that she told us an upset stomach had her in the mall bathroom for over an hour. She delivered that excuse while devouring a slice of sausage pizza. Anyway, while we were shopping, she would surreptitiously put items on hold at the counter. Then once she'd made her excuse, she'd fly back through the mall picking up all the held items and ferrying them out to the car where they would be hidden under a blanket in the trunk. We would surely never notice that the blanket was a little lumpier by the end of the day! Once at home, the gifts were safely hidden away from eyes that never really pried. We carried on in this manner for years.

Mom finally slipped in 1990. I was a sophomore in college and was home for break. Mom had gotten a beautiful embroidered jacket for me. It was very expensive. I'd tried it on at the urging of a store clerk who thought the green color would complement my eyes. I fell in love with it, then looked at the price tag. $145! Scandalous! I gave it back to the clerk and told Mom I'd check the clearance rack in a few months. When I saw the jacket next to my stocking on Christmas morning, I shrieked, "Thank you so much, Mom!" Mom replied, "You're welcome!" Then she stopped, realizing that she'd actually admitted to the Santa Claus racket. We all laughed, both relieved and disappointed that the game was over.

Not Exactly About Christmas

2007-12-13T09:21:00.000-06:00

Claire's third birthday was yesterday. True to form, she spent the day surprising me. She started her little life by shocking me at an Easter egg hunt. Jacob and I were sitting on a bench when I realized that I felt awful. And then I realized why I felt awful. I ran home to take a pregnancy test. After a year of heartbreaking negatives (and enough drama and tears for years of heartbreak), I had finally gotten pregnant during the month that we stepped off the conception carousel for the sake of my sanity.

Many months later, I was sitting on the living room floor feeling awful. Then I realized why I felt awful. Nick and I took our time leaving because I'd had a long, grueling labor with Jacob. Thirty minutes later, we were flying down the highway while I was desperately trying NOT to have a baby. Claire's head crowned in the delivery room before the very nice security guard managed to move our double-parked car away from the emergency entrance. We were sure that we'd be greeting Samuel when the doctor put my beautiful baby girl on my stomach. Nick and I laughed and laughed. "We have a daughter! Already! We just got here and we have a daughter!"

She surprised us by being an easy baby. Then she surprised us by being a remarkably challenging toddler. Every time I make any assumption about Claire at all, she turns my expectations upside down and inside out. She is never who I expect her to be, but she is always wonderful.

When I walked into her room at daycare yesterday, she was wearing a turquoise flower girl dress. We donated the dress to the preschool some years ago. It had originally belonged to my niece, who wore it to her mother's wedding. I had completely forgotten about the dress. It was surreal to see my no-longer-a-baby-girl wearing that dress that belonged to a girl who now drives and has a boyfriend. Claire's growing up behind my back while I've got my eyes on her all the time. It's a surprising trick.