Victory

Today another mother pointed to A. and said to me, "Oh look! He's got red hair, just like his mom!" I kissed her.

A. successfully deposited a rather large bowel movement in the potty chair today. He stood up, said, "Look Mama! Do you see that?"

I assured him I did, and he then asked, "Are you vewy impwessed?" Yep, no one's going to be impressed with your poops like your mother, kid.

Sweet Dreams

A. fell asleep with his book "When I Feel Good About Myself" on his face. Self-help books always put me to sleep, too.

Lunasea's Goals

I don't remember where I found this, but I liked it.

I'm sort of an Office Depot slut. I love office products and organizational tools and motivational websites. I think I'm constantly searching for the product that will completely streamline my life, fix all the problems and make everything easy.

I drool over planners and calendars and filing systems. I love colored folders, binders, and dividers.

You'd never know it, because the bag I take to and from work gets heavier and heavier with unfiled statements and check stubs, and although I have a filing system at home, it's random and I'm amazed I can find anything. I like to have stuff immediately accessible, and I like to see the stuff around me, so I'd do well in a room lined with corkboard, but trying to fit in my little computer armoire in the family room, I'm bursting at the seams.

G. is very organized and comes by it naturally. He actually goes to Office Depot and buys what he needs. He is not seduced by the make-it-easy, get-organized promises of all the desk systems. He knows what works for him and he just does it.

Me, I'm more of a seeker. The perfect system might be out there right now and I certainly can't get organized until I find it. The problem isn't that I'm disorganized, it's that I haven't found the right office product yet.

G. is reading this over my shoulder and says: "This is the problem of the Philosopher King. It was first discussed by a great Greek philosopher." He thinks it's Aristotle but doesn't want to be wrong so he's telling me to edit it. "If you spend all your time philosophizing until you find the perfect form of government, you will never rule as king. In other words, if you spend all your time searching for the perfect organizational system, you'll never get organized." Thank you, Oh Yoda of Organization.

He is right, though. I will be set on organizing my files, but then in the middle I think, "Oh, you know what I need? I need another box for my CDs." And I'm convinced I can't do anything else until I get another box for my CDs. Or more hanging files. Or the right paper clips. How am I supposed to organize anything without paper clips?

I'm also a piler. I have piles on the floor by my armoire and on the kitchen table. There are certain things that belong in each pile. Sometimes, though, I try to put something in the recycling and it ends up back on my pile by G. How am I supposed to work under such conditions?

Mostly, I blame it on the fact that I gave up my office to be A's room. G. is supposed to give up his office to be Ben's room but has staked himself in there like a hunger striker and isn't moving without an eviction notice. I keep reminding him that when he moves his office into the small hovel that is our book room (i.e. enclosed porch), he will get better wireless reception. He remains unmoved. Literally. Ben's almost 16 months old. Apparently he is going to have to share his room with his father for the rest of his childhood.

Just remember, boys, when you're wondering who loves you more, Mom gave up her office for you BEFORE you were born.

What Color Is My Hair?

These were taken in indirect light with no flash. Assuming your monitor isn't wonky, what color do you think my hair is?
Try to ignore the gray - G. says it's more noticeable in these photos than in real life (thanks, but I'm still gonna cover it). When I was a kid, I used to try to match my hair to Crayola crayons and the closest I got was burnt sienna.

Now A.'s got red hair, and since he was tiny, people have said, "Oh, what gorgeous red hair! Where does he get it?" I say, "Me," but you can tell they think I'm delusional.

Sometimes if the light's really good, they'll add, "Oh, yeah, I guess you do have some red in your hair, huh?" I am a redhead, damnit! The carpets match the drapes, too, but you're not getting a picture of that. Now that I think of it, though, maybe I should carry a picture of that around with me just to prove it. That'll shut 'em up.

My status as a redhead has never been in question until the last few years. I read somewhere that red hair fades more quickly than other hair colors, but since my mother had dark auburn hair until her early 60's, I figured mine would stay, too.

Last week we went with my older sister to the zoo. A. was following her, so I called out, "OK, but stay with Auntie R!" This lady passing by said to me, "Oh, it looks like he got Auntie R's hair color!"

Sometimes people call my hair strawberry blonde, but it seems to me that it's too dark for that. And it's got too many blondish streaks to be dark auburn. When I was a kid, I didn't want red hair since it was so different and the only people who thought it was cool were grownups - I wanted to be a brunette. Have I had another childhood wish granted?

I bought a bottle of some Nutrisse color the same day of the zoo incident. Haven't had the balls to do it yet. On the sides of the box where it says, "If your hair color is....then your result will be..." they never give options for reddish hair. So I'm afraid it's going to turn orange. Once I find the courage (and the time) to do it, I'll let y'all know how it goes.

Finally

When I was growing up, I was the only kid my age on the street. There were some older kids, and there was actually one boy across the street who I played Hot Wheels with occasionally, but I really didn't have anyone to play with regularly.

Because my parents were in their 40's when they had me, and my sisters were already in their teens, I heard lots of stories that took place before I was born. The ones I was most fascinated by were about when they lived, ironically, in the same city I live in now. All the neighborhood men got together to build fences around the houses, and they put a gate in between my family's house and the neighbor's house so that the kids could go back and forth freely. There were also stories about my sisters playing football in the street with neighborhood kids, and I saw photos of them putting on shows with their neighbors for all the parents. I was so envious. I really wanted to live in a neighborhood like that.

By the time I was a kid, my mother didn't like to have anyone over to the house, so we were pretty much hermits. It got me reading lots of books, which ultimately helped me in school, so it wasn't all bad.

Now we live on a cul-de-sac where the neighbor kids feel as comfortable walking into my house to see what's in my refrigerator as A. feels asking our neighbor when she's going to get some of that tube yogurt that he likes so much but I won't buy. Pretty much every day we gather outside, dragging our various bikes, balls and push toys out front. We buy from the ice-cream truck once a week, and the kids know the mailman. The kids ride each other's bikes and teach each other to climb trees.

It's great. It's exactly what I wanted when I was a kid.

Saving the Best for Last

A. has had a real developmental spurt in the last week. He can ride a two-wheel bike (OK, with training wheels, but I thought we'd never get him off the Big Wheel)...he's mostly potty trained with only one accident in the last 3 days...he can get his own underwear, shorts and sandals on all by himself. Oh, and Ben walked 4 steps, too.

Today was really hot, and our neighbors brought out a slip-and-slide. A.'s usual method of slipping and sliding is to back way up ('cause that's what the other kids are doing), run to the beginning of the plastic, prance with tiny steps all the way down the plastic runway, then stop and sit down in the puddle at the end. He couldn't really get the whole "sliding" thing, but he was having fun and wasn't hurting himself, so that was OK.

He finally decided to try it on his belly, so he backed up again, ran to the beginning of the slide, lay down carefully on his belly and then army-crawled on his elbows to the end. It looked really difficult, but he swore it was fun.

---------------------------------------------------

He's been really listening to us and trying to use words he's not familiar with. I explained something to him and asked, "Does that make sense?"

"Yes," he assured me, "that's very senssss-uble."

---------------------------------------------------

I got a pedicure today (from a gift certificate given to me for Mother's Day in 2005), and A. insisted he wanted his toenails painted too. I showed him the polish I had, and he picked a metallic blue one. I painted his toenails, and as he admired his feet, he sighed, "Now I'm a real boy."

Yee Haw

We finally timed something right.

We've had this portable air conditioning unit since I was 9 months pregnant with A. and we were in the middle of a heat spell. We joined a huge crowd battling over air conditioners at Fry's Electronics and beat everyone into submission with threats of delivering the baby right then and there if they didn't back off and let us buy the only floor model left. We eventually got central air (the best invention in the whole wide world and I never want to live again in a house without it*) so we could have more than one tolerable room in the house.

So we've been trying to unload this air conditioner forever. It sat unsold on e-bay, even at 1/2 the original price. So we cut the price way down to $175 and listed it on craig's list last night. In a stroke of luck, today was the hottest day of the year so far and we got no less than 14 queries. Some tried to barter, but several said, "I'll pay cash and I'll come pick it up right now." I'm a nice seller and I sent everyone a quick e-mail saying it was gone, and one guy wrote back, "OK, but I really need it." Oh, OK - I guess I should've had people rate how much they need it and go by that.

"Ah, you're in an aluminum mobile home? Sorry, you've been trumped by the two old people in the teepee with dark leather walls. But if a pregnant chick comes along, she beats everybody."

Anyway, I also sold my breast pump today too. Had no problem letting it go, which surprised me. The small wad of cash might have had something to do with that. Almost paid for the first month of A's preschool.

*I grew up in an inland valley where the temps regularly reached 100 or more during the summer, and we didn't have air conditioning. I know, I know, cry me a river, but really, it sucked. My mom kept saying we didn't need a/c because the sun went over our house from side to side, instead of from front to back. Yeah, well, it still went over the house and made it hot as hell. Us Irish people are a boggy, misty people and we wilt in the direct sun and heat. Hey, another reason to move to Portland.

My God, How Did it Get to Be Wednesday?

Geez, it's next week already.

So I've been busy not eating as much so I can fit into my clothes again. I'm one of the few women who lost weight while pregnant, so I wasn't too far away from my ideal weight right after having Ben, only to gain it back in the following year. Yippee for aging metabolisms.

I've also been busy getting ready for Father's Day. I've been thinking about what to do for G. that doesn't cost much (his practice is, again, way down), and I almost forgot about my own father. He lives in Arizona and has been hard-of-hearing for as long as I've been alive. It's hard to call when the kids are awake, because they're awake, and it's hard to call when they're asleep because I'd wake them up with all the yelling. But I check in as often as possible, and I think I'll actually get his present out to him in time. I made him some scrapbook pages for the big father's day album my sisters and I gave him two years ago.

We are still at war with the potty, but I believe we've reached a turning point (hah - where have you heard that lately?). I've tried really hard to keep it mellow and not react to A's 5th accident of the day. I know he has control. We can tell by the little smile on his face when he tells us he's wet. So he changes himself and we move on. But last night I almost lost it. I'd just cleaned out his pooped-in underwear (for some reason that grosses me out so much more than a dirty diaper) about an hour earlier when he stacked our two big couch pillows on top of each other and was perched on top of both, reading his train magazine. I told him I was going to put Ben to bed, then I'd be back to read his magazine with him.

So I returned and suggested he sit on the potty while we read the magazine. He hopped off the pillows, and I immediately saw a huge wet spot on his gray knit shorts. I said, "Oh, it looks like you've already peed," turned back to the pillows and damned if he didn't pee right through the top one all the way into the bottom one. He grinned a little and I almost lost it.

But I didn't. I took a deep breath and said, "Oh, man. Now we have to take the pillows to the laundromat tomorrow morning instead of playing outside." I do feel a little bit bad pushing him, because from his point of view staying in diapers makes complete sense. Why should he stop playing to run inside and pee in the potty when if he has a diaper on, he can just keep going until it's convenient for him to change? In his world, everyone would wear diapers. It kind of makes sense, except for the odor problem. We haven't pushed it until now, which is why we have an almost 4-year-old still in diapers. (Well, not really - let's say an almost 4-year-old in many pairs of underpants a day).

First thing this morning, he tells me, "We have to wash the pillows!" He was very interested in the whole laundromat experience, which I was kind of hoping would be more boring than interesting. I included him in every step, from going around the house collecting quarters for the machines, to explaining each cycle the giant machine went through. I do think it made an impression.

Also, today we tried something new. He goes to the potty every hour and sits there for two minutes. No accidents today, and he even pooped in the potty chair between our hourly visits. He actually said, "I have to go potty!" and went and sat on his chair. Naturally he did this right before I went to work and while G. was still dozing on the sofa so guess who got to clean it up? G. is a lucky, lucky man.

A. told me this afternoon that he didn't want me to go to work.

"I know, babe, and I'd rather stay here with you, too. But sometimes we have to do things we'd rather not do."

He was quiet, then gave a huge sigh. "I really don't want to use the potty."

"I know, sweetheart. Sometimes it's hard to grow up."

Big sigh. "Yeah."

Worth Remembering

We had a Togo's picnic at the park tonight, and G. was telling/venting to me about his passive-aggressive boss and how hard it is to be direct with him.

A. interrupted and said, "But Papa, when you learn something new, you have to not get mad at it."

Not really apropos to our topic, but profound nonetheless. I think he might be struggling with that lesson himself as he adjusts to using the potty all day.

Hah! No Kidding.

Your Life is Like

Being John Malkovich

What John Cusack Movie Are You?

In Other News:

Last Saturday was G's b-day and we went to Traintown, which of course is every guy's dream for his 45th b-day. It was pretty cheesy.

But across the street was this billboard which I found quite profound. Really, where are you going that's more important than spaghetti? Huh?

More pics from Traintown:

A real working roundhouse.

G. gets to wear the engineer hat because it's his birthday.

Sorry

Wow, here I go and ask for comments and Blogger goes all crazy on me. I don't know if it was just me, but I couldn't get on to make a comment on my own or anyone else's blog today. Must've been fate.

K: Exactly. I suppose it doesn't matter so much except that if we are supposed to be reading the signs, they could get a little clearer.

BBM: I was hoping you'd chime in. I completely agree with you about morality and religion. In fact, I remember a long time ago you waxed eloquent on the topic and I still quote you in such discussions because I think one should do the right thing because it's the right thing, not because it's going to get you a better seat in Heaven.

Don't Need to Hit Me Over the Head With a Brick

So I was driving to the office this morning, pondering the possibility of an objective morality, when I realized I was starving even though I'd just eaten breakfast. Hmmm. This kind of hunger, plus the weird nightmares last night, plus the existential crisis I'm suddenly in is reminiscent of the way I felt, oh, maybe three weeks ago.

Now, because of my chosen contraceptive device, I don't have periods, but I should still have a cycle of some sort going on since I'm supposedly still ovulating.

Aha.

Speaking of tampons, which, by the way, I don't need because of my beloved contraceptive device, head on over to f-bomb and watch his extremely cute kid throw around a tampon like a poi ball at a luau. I'm gonna have another bowl of Corn Pops.

By the way, is it evil to tell your kid that he probably won't like Corn Pops because they're corn and corn is a vegetable? Stick with your Cheerios, kid, and hands off my Corn Pops. Especially at this time of the month.

By the way again, no one has ANYTHING to say about free will vs. predeterminism?? Was the debate settled and no one told me? Geez. Always the last to know. Except that I did know Christina did "Beautiful," unlike Trish. Not that I'm making fun of her, because she is beautiful in every single way.

Existential Blabber

Unedited blabber follows. Sorry if it doesn't make much sense. Doesn't make much sense inside my head, either.

Last night I was lying in bed trying to sleep. You'd think it would be easy to sleep when I'm so exhausted. But sometimes I have little control over where my brain goes, and last night it wanted to ponder free will vs. destiny.

I'd like to believe that everything happens for a reason. That would be comforting. The whole idea that "if you don't get something you really wanted, that means there's something better waiting for you" is a great one. Win-win for everyone.

I used to believe that. I used to be kind of new-agey, in fact. I used to throw the I ching and consult the tarot, and I used to believe that if I just plugged into the rhythms of the universe, the universe would tell me what to do. You know, be in the "flow" and all that.

When we were trying to decide whether or not to pursue a move to Portland, G. asked for some signs. He thought, "If my private practice goes down, I'll know we should move."

His practice tanked. Financially, it sucked, but he did ask for it.

We drew tarot cards. I forget what they were, but I remember that the basic message was something about transformation (when is it not?) and embracing change.

Then he got mugged at an ATM before Christmas (he actually ran away and the guy didn't get any money, but geez). He thought this was another sign that we should leave the Bay Area.

I told him perhaps if he was going to ask for a sign, he should ask to win the lottery.

He joined Major HMO down here with the intent on transferring up there eventually. So when a position came open that was the exact same position he holds here...we thought, "Hey! It must be time!" They asked him to fly up, there were few other candidates and the position had been open for some time. His Oregon license came through. Perfect!

Then....The House! His sister's friend had an extra house lying around and decided to get rid of it. Perfect location, a coveted neighborhood that we wouldn't be able to afford otherwise, old tree-lined street, around the corner from the elementary school, vintage fixtures, etc. She wanted to sell to us and was willing to give us a deal for the convenience of a direct sale. There was a little cottage in the back that we could use as a private practice office and save on rent and taxes - perfect!

G's practice went down again - which was actually a good thing this time, because it would make the practice easier to close as we prepared to move. His mom and sister, who walked down the street of The House often, said the worst thing they could see was the god-awful color of another house down the block. When G. went up there for his interview, he saw painters getting ready to repaint that house a regular neutral.

I was concerned about leaving the boys' friends here - we have a great group of neighborhood friends with whom they play daily in our safe little cul-de-sac. Turns out the street in Portland has a bunch of kids right in their age range.

Now, I'm not trying to whine here. I'm trying to figure out why the signs looked so good. Why did everything fall into place only to fall apart? I'm not thinking "Why us?" - I mean, hey, we're luckier than most, I know. But how could we have been so wrong?

I want to believe everything happens for a reason, but the truth is, I don't. I believe in a greater Spirit of some sort, but whether it's inside of us or outside of us, I don't know. I don't believe that God is up there counting prayers and saying, "Congratulations! You've got cancer but you got a whole congregation to pray for you, so you get to survive!" or "You're such a special person, you get to have some really bad stuff happen to you."

I think shit happens. Lovely people with kids get sick or have accidents. Kids themselves get sick or have accidents. People who would make wonderful parents can't get pregnant and crack addicts abandon their 10th drug-addicted infant.

I don't know what's bringing on this existential crisis. Ever since I hurt my head, I've had this weird reaction where I'm scared to death (hah) of dying too soon. I've always been philosophical about death - my mother died when I was 21, and death is part of life, yada yada yada.

Yeah, but now I've got this gorgeous little redhead boy, and a beautiful little baby with such sweet dimples who survived his own life-threatening "event," and the stakes are so much higher. It was one thing to have faith when I was single and I just hoped the Universe would send me someone to marry. It's quite another when my little boys are my life and my heart and I don't want to leave them.

Maybe it's a delayed reaction to the whole brain thing. Maybe it's just a midlife spiritual questioning. (Damn. I'm old enough to have something be described as "midlife.") Mostly, I'm just tired of trying to read the signs. Maybe I just need to increase my meds. Maybe I'm grieving the end of this year's TV season.

I remember when I met G., I thought, "Oh my goodness, I'm going to marry this guy." I was shocked. Now, there came a time a few years later when I thought, "Damn. I guess I was wrong." But it turned out that I was right and here we are. I have a client who's trying to figure out whether or not to leave her boyfriend. She's so torn, but she believes that there is a correct answer. She believes that if she just reads the signs right, she'll make the right decision. I don't know. I guess we just do the best we can with what we have.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day, "My religion is kindness." I like that.

And the Winner Is......

....Montessori. Thanks for all your comments. I've always kind of rolled my eyes at people who obsess over preschools (it's PRESCHOOL, for heaven's sake, not college), but damn. It is hard. He's a fairly adaptable kid, but I really want him to have positive associations with school and academics. That makes it so much easier later.

I took A. to a play-based preschool near our house yesterday morning, and while he was very impressed that they 1. knew how to draw turtles, and, 2. had a sandbox, he was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears by all the attention from the teachers who fawned over him and the kids, who thought he was exotic, being one of the few white kids, and definitely the only red-headed kid, there. He loves attention, but it has to be on his terms.

He did answer the teachers when they were asking him how old he was and if he wanted to go to school. He said, "I'm free (three). I'm a big kid. But on my next birthday I'll be bigger and maybe I'll go to school after that day." The teachers thought this was hilarious and kept commenting on how verbal he was. "Well, yeah, we do talk to him," I thought. They also told him that he was big enough now, and he looked at them like he'd decided then and there never to trust a teacher again.

As we walked back towards the entrance, the kept encouraging him to join in the activities or find something to play with, and his face screwed up in that "I'm about to have a meltdown" way. He pulled on my arm to get the hell out of there. As we walked out, though, he said, "That was cool! And they give you food if you don't have any!"

Later that afternoon, he went with G. to observe the Montessori. He was supposed to sit quietly in a chair next to G. while observing, which was no problem for him. When they got back, I asked which he liked better, the one he saw that morning with me, or the one he saw that afternoon with Papa.

He said, "the one I saw this morning...with Papa." Thanks, that clears it up.

Later, though, he confirmed twice that he liked the Montessori better. I think it just seemed so much calmer to him. So. He'll start in July.

On the one hand, I can't wait to have a few hours in the morning alone with Ben. He loves music and instruments and I think he'd love Music Together, which I did with A. a few years back.

On the other hand, My Little First Born is going to school! 5 days a week! That means I have to be dressed before 8:30 am almost every day! The classroom is at the back of a church campus, so yes, I do have to get out of the car. And I suppose I have to be coherent enough to drive safely. Fortunately, it's not too far away and I don't mind giving the impression that I'm much more concerned about character and knowledge than appearance. Heck, I already give that impression.

Oh, and that's him flying a kite up there on the header. How cute is that? G. taught him how to do it at the Kids'nKites festival this weekend and it was a great, blustery day for it.

Vote: Montessori or Play-Based?

We went to Big Lots the other day and there was a bunch of spaghetti all over the floor. A., of course, went back several times to walk on it. I told him, "Hey, buddy, don't make it a bigger mess than it already is, OK?"

Still skating on the spaghetti, he deepened his voice and said, "Cleanup in aisle 2! Cleanup in aisle 2!" Cracked me up.

We've been laying low licking our wounds lately. G. has more wounds than I do, being the one who got rejected and all. I think he feels like this was our one chance to move up to Portland and he blew it (not saying he did, but that's what it feels like). There really aren't that many jobs up there in our field that pay a living wage, let alone a decent one. Major HMO was the best shot we had. I applied for a different position the day after he found out, but that job appears to be gone now.

I've also been struggling with preschool decisions. The cheapest, best academically school is the Montessori school a couple of miles away, which would seem to be a perfect answer. But, I have mixed feelings about Montessori for preschool.

On the one hand, he loves doing stuff like their "jobs," and would be really well prepared for kindergarten.

On the other hand, he's really imaginative and loves pretend play and there's not as much room for that at Montessori. When people wonder about the lack of creativity in Montessori, I've seen the example of learning the violin used as an answer:

"Like learning how to handle a good violin and then playing music. It is not considered "creative" to use a violin as a hammer, or a bridge while playing with blocks. We consider it "creative" to learn how to use the violin properly and then create music."

Yeah, OK, except these are 3-year-olds and I love that he uses his imagination. He can come up with amazing relationships between things and I'd hate for him to lose that because he was concerned with the "correct" way to use things. I think Montessori might be great for grade school, because it has innovative ways to teach academics, but I don't know about preschool.

On the other hand, it would be one year of preschool (I think, maybe two) and only 3 hours a day. We do lots of pretend stuff at home and it might be a good balance.

I don't know. When I was observing, I tried to picture A. among the very quiet, industrious children there. Each one finished their task and quietly took their tray back to its spot, and got another tray, usually without saying a word. A. tends to announce every move he makes. "I'm done with this now! I'm going to count now!" in a very excited voice (he'd make a great emcee).

We could start and pull him out, I suppose, if it's too stifling. I just want his first school experience to be a good one.

I've also looked at some play-based programs, but I'm afraid he'll get lost and be intimidated in those. I think he could really be a leader at Montessori, and I don't think it would intimidate him at all. I think it fits his brainy side and it wouldn't matter so much that he was scared to do the slide or the rings. I do think he'd wonder why you had to do certain specific things with the sombreros and beans and couldn't say, make up a ring toss game with them. I can totally see him telling the teacher, "But I'm going to play like THIS."

ACK. Anyone have any insight? Psychic abilities? The answers?

They Learn Early

Conversation between A. and his friend W. (exactly a year older than A., and generally a very sweet kid):

W: C'mon A., play baseball with me!

A: I can't right now, I'm climbing this tree.

W: But I really want you to play baseball with me!

A: I'll play later!

(and so on.....over and over)

A: Oh, alright W! I'll play baseball with you!

W (forlornly hitting the ball off the T-ball stand): That's OK, you don't have to play, I'll just play by myself. :::sulk sulk sulk::: (hits ball weakly and drags bat over to pick it up)

A (cheerfully): OK! (goes back to climbing tree)

W: Aw man. (starts hitting tree with plastic bat)

A: Stop hitting the tree, W! You have to stop because plants need water and trees need water!

W: Huh? I think this is an oak tree. (note: tree is a small juniper-type tree)

A: W! You have to stop hitting the tree because plants need water and trees need water TOO!

W: I think the oak tree is inside.

A: Yeah, it's inside the bark.

W: I hit trees at home all the time and they don't mind. They still get water.

A: Well, it's not good to do. It won't grow anymore if you hit it.

W: I won't hit the tree if you play baseball with me.

A: OK! I'm coming down and I'll play baseball with you! (climbs down)

W (sliding past him): I'm gonna climb the tree!

I think W. was hoping to turn the tables on A. by scrambling up into the tree and hoped A. would then beg him to get down and play, but it didn't work because A. is not versed in these sorts of games. He just shrugged his shoulders and climbed back up a different branch.

A little later, A. stomps down the driveway with a big ol' frown and gets on his bike. W. follows with a bigger pout and gets on his bike. Both pedal away angrily. W., who is a far better bike rider, maneuvers his bike to block A.

W: I won't be mad at you anymore if you play baseball with me!

A: I don't wanna play baseball!

I can tell A.'s getting really frustrated so I go over and tell him, in front of W., that he doesn't have to play baseball. W. sulks but leaves him alone.

Me to W's aunt: Man, that kid is already pretty good at emotional manipulation, huh?

Aunt (shaking her head): He's great at it.

Best Night for TV EVER

The great thing about American Idol is that I get a chance to be 14 again. Last night I was jumping around behind the couch yelling, "This is the best finale EVER!" and telling G, "I am so totally going to the Idol concert!"

and, "I LOVE Elliot! Why aren't they putting him in front? He should be in front. How come Ace is getting all the camera time? Wow, Bucky sounds pretty good."

and, "OHMYGAWD! PRINCE! Look G! It's Prince!"

to which G. replied, "Hmmm. I thought Ryan said there wouldn't be any more surprises."

"Well, obviously he lied!" OMG, roll the eyes.

I didn't literally jump around behind the couch because G. was sitting right there and I was tired, but I was doing it on the inside. I also had aggressively curled long hair and was wearing pink from head to toe, too. I probably even cried. On the inside.

And I still have to watch the whole thing (which I taped, of course - I'm retro in a world of Tivo) because it was on against LOST and you can miss parts of AI and not really miss anything, but you can't miss parts of LOST because then you'll be, well, LOST. By the way, like, how hot was cleaned-up Desmond?

But, "OHMYGAWD! Was that David Hasselhoff? And was he CRYING?"

More About My Mammogram Than You Want to Know

So, I had my first mammogram today. Nothing's wrong - just getting a baseline now that I've reached the big 40.

First the receptionist confirms with everyone what part of their body is getting x-rayed.

"It's for your knee, right?"
"Your shoulder today, right?"

So I was expecting her to say, "Your breasts, right?" but she disappointed me by just saying, "A mammogram today?" I wanted to respond, "Yes, my BOOBS," just in case there was any confusion.

Then I'm led into a little dressing room, told to strip from the waist up, and, I'm not making this up, given a gown with THREE armholes. Ummm..... If you put it on right, is it supposed to make a slit through which you stick your boob out, ala nursing gowns? I can't figure it out.

So the tech is outside saying, "Whenever you're ready...." and I have to tell her, "Yeah, I'm just trying to figure out this gown."

She says, "Yeah, it's crazy, isn't it?" but doesn't offer any helpful information.

I wrap it around by putting one arm through two of the armholes, which I'm pretty sure is wrong, but whatever. There's also a sign on the wall apologizing for any bruising or discomfort I might have as a result of the exam and suggesting I take some Tylenol for it. It also suggests that I will feel better about the pain if I realize that squishing my boob to the point of bruising allows them to get a better picture of the inside of my breast. Yeah, just like those cute kids made me feel so much better about the labor pain. I wonder why women have to use these cognitive tricks to accept pain. Is there a similiar experience for men? Do they tell men, "Hey, you'll feel better about my fondling your balls if you realize it gives me a much better sense of what's going on in there"? Because I'm pretty sure they don't have to get their testicles squeezed between two pieces of plexiglass as a preventive measure, but I could be wrong about that.

We go into the exam room and I have to take the whole 3-armed thing off anyway. I wondered how uncomfortable it would be, since I've heard stories - much like labor, ranging from, "Oh, it's not that bad," to "Ouch."

In retrospect, it really wasn't that bad, but it's a weird process. They don't just stick your boob on a plate and then tighten the vise - you have to contort your body all kinds of ways and reach out to grab a bar that's barely reachable (for one as short as I, anyway) and keep your chin up and hold your breath. Maybe if you're more flexible it's easier, but I found it a rather difficult position to hold. And forget about holding my breath - there was no way I could breathe in that position anyway.

She squishes the plates together as far as they'll go (or so I think), and then says, "OK, just one more tightening." Seriously? How's that going to work? But yeah, she tightens it a notch and that's when I stop breathing.

Fortunately, it's not like other x-rays where she has to leave the room - she just stands behind a clear partition right near the machine, presses a button and is back to release the vise. Then we do it to the other side.

I found top-to-bottom squishing more painful than side-to-side squishing. But the whole thing is pretty fast, then I had to get my gown on again while she developed the film. So I asked, "How does this gown work?"

She said, "Like a jacket, then the extra piece goes across your front." Aha. That makes much more sense then the way I was wearing it. Next time I may remember. But probably not.

In other health news: Damn, brain injuries suck. Not as much as many other things that could be wrong with me and overall I'm really lucky blah blah blah, I realize that, but still. My memory is crap. I'll get annoyed with G. for "hiding" something like the box of OTC meds, and he'll point out that I was the one who decided it should go there on the shelf in our new cabinets. I'm afraid to put anything away because I'll never find it again. I was seriously worried about this when I thought we were moving. How was I going to decide where things went, and how was I going to remember where I put them?

Another thing that happens is that I forget what I've thrown out and/or donated. We take photos of everything, so that helps, but I was realizing that I can't remember if I kept any of my maternity clothes. I know I gave a lot away, but did I keep my favorites? I have no idea what I would have done with them if I had kept them, so it's not like I can exactly check. Is this normal? I think I normally would remember that kind of stuff. I can usually keep a to do list in my head, too, but not anymore. I have to write it down.

I just feel dumber. I haven't noticed a difference at work, except that I have to write any schedule changes down right away and keep better track of who paid what - I can't just call it up from memory anymore...but maybe like Dr. House last night, maybe I think I'm OK but I'm actually saying stupid stuff. I don't really think so - a few nights ago one member of a couple I see told me I'd done "a very good job tonight," and asked if I was related to Henry Kissinger, considering all the diplomacy involved in working with contentious couples. So that felt good.

Oh, and I blabber more, I think. Not that you could tell, or anything.

And To Think I Wasted All That Angst....

So G. didn't get the job in Portland. They put him through what amounted to a grueling oral exam last Wednesday and 4 hours of individual meetings with every staff member on Thursday, and Head Guy called yesterday to leave a message (grrrr) that there was too big a gap between their "program up here and your program down there." Well, la de freakin' da.

Mostly I feel bad for G. He deserves to be appreciated and they're idiots for thinking they can do better. Yes, I'm biased, but he really is the hardest working and most responsible employee I've seen. He gets along with everyone and clients really respond to him.

I'm angry and sad and frustrated. Everything seemed to be flowing so perfectly....the perfect house came available through his sister's friend (it would be a direct sale and we would save money by not using a realtor), but in case that didn't work, his childhood friend is a realtor in the area....his work schedule would have been just what he wanted, etc.

All signs seemed to point to this being the right move for us - and then BLAM! Guess what guys? You think you're in control but you're not. You think you get to choose when you're ready to relocate, but you don't.

Anyway, I'm a little frustrated right now, but we'll press on. I guess it's my turn to apply for a job. I don't want to work full-time while my kids are small, but sometimes you don't get to choose.

Some Planet is in Retrograde

Haven't written much lately because it would just be a bunch of whining and complaining, and really, I have very little to whine and complain about, in the grand scheme of things.

Except that I think I broke my nose. Last Friday at the playground, Ben and I went down a tunnel slide. I tried to sit up just as he threw himself backwards and thrust his head right into my nose. It only bled and swelled a little, but it's TUESDAY and it still hurts whenever anything touches it and glasses give me a nose-ache. These kids are determined to break my head.

G. hasn't heard anything about the job in Portland yet. We should know by the end of the week. In the meantime, we're trying to get all the accumulated crap out of the house so we can put it on the market as soon as we know we're going. There are many things I'm good at, but this is not one of them. I'm a collector, a hoarder. And a piler. God, the piles. Everywhere - the tables, the desk, the closet. And it is not easy to sort through all this crap with two sick children demanding either cuddling or entertainment. And I think I'm getting sick now, too.

And our experiments in potty training have failed. Now I just give A. the choice of underwear or pull-ups, and he'll usually pick the pull-ups. Not always, though. I also encourage him to be "Half-Naked Boy" (as he calls himself) at home. Our little super-hero.

Now that American Idol is on, I'm off to sort through more toys.

Journal Cover

Found a perfect quote on Rhonna's site for my current journal cover:
Live is never a straight line.
It's full of twists and turns.
The way to a happy life is not to avoid them
but to embrace them, to find happiness in them.
~Warren T. Vander Ven

(Patterned digital papers from Jen Wilson and dotted brush by Rhonna Farrer).

G's interviews in Portland went well, but they're incredibly detail oriented and asked him to essentially walk them through every professional decision he's made in the last 15 years. The first interview with the department administrators lasted a couple hours, and the next day's interview with the staff lasted over 4 hours.

He also looked at some houses. One is being sold by his sister's friend, who rehabs old Portland houses. She's hoping to sell to us directly and avoid a realtor. G is quite taken with this house, which has a studio in the back that we could use as a private practice office (as long as we don't see more than 8 clients a day). It's in a perfect location, with old, tree-lined streets and the elementary school about half a block away.

As a rule, I'm against change. Change is hard and I already tend to be incredibly sentimental about the things left behind. I know there are a lot of good reasons for considering this move, but damn. I'm feeling my 40-year-old roots shudder at the thought of being ripped up.

And I wish I just knew one way or the other. The Boss said he'd let us know by the end of next week, but last time he said that he called the same day, and I'm kind of hoping he does the same thing this time. I hate not knowing where I'll be living in three months.

So Far, So Good

24 hours down, 26 hours to go.

We went to the Children's Discovery Museum today. I packed diapers, wipes, snacks, lunch, drinks, a change of undies and pants for A., Motrin for me, sunscreen and hats in my backpack. Dressed me and the boys, fed me and the boys breakfast, loaded the car and felt quite proud of myself for accomplishing all of this by myself before 9 am.

It's about 35 miles away, and traffic was horrible. An hour later as I finally found the darn parking lot, I pulled in and said to myself, "*&#@! I forgot the &^%$# stroller."

AAARRRGH! I finally have the perfect stroller - my new double jogging stroller*. It rocks. And it's home in the garage because we took it out of the trunk last night to put G's luggage in. Damnit.

So I carried Ben the whole day. He's just 20 lbs, but 20 lbs can get pretty heavy when you're walking a couple of blocks and have to carry him inside the place as well. I hoped they'd have strollers to rent, but no such luck was mine today. Oh well. One of the best things about this place is that they have several areas set aside for kids 4 and under (and they're good about keeping it enforced). They even had a little infant room for "crawlers only" where Ben had a great time crawling up shallow steps, ramps and kissing puppets. I was able to set him down often enough that I'm still able to move tonight.

But, I couldn't carry him and our bag. That meant I only carried my wallet and we had no lunch so we had to buy a greasy expensive lunch there; we had no camera, no wipes and no travel potty seat, so A. had to go on the big-people public potty. Let's just say he was "unable to perform" and ended up holding it about 5 hours. Adding insult to injury (sort of), 5 minutes after arriving home and 2 feet away from his potty chair, he peed on the floor.

Besides the stroller absence, it was really fun. I can't believe we haven't been there before now. We may go tomorrow, too (just to take the stroller since it missed out). And I want to go for Mother's Day, as well.

Ben looked so cute in his plastic smock in the water play area - it was full-length on him, and he was so excited he actually walked to the water table holding onto just one of my hands. That was the first time he's been willing to attempt that. He also managed to get the smock situated just right so that the water ran down the smock, around his side, and down the back of his leg. Both he and A. were drenched, but very happy.

In one part of the 4-and-under area, two separate little girls (but both blonde...coincidence?) tried to keep Ben and A. from playing in the "forest tree" area where there were puppets inside this tree trunk room that would fit about 4 kids. The first chickie bounced in while they were exploring in there, took a puppet from A. He gave me a look that said, "Girls are trouble," and ran off to some other exhibit. Then she tried to scoot Ben out with giant waves of her arms. Seeing no adult attached to her, I told her, "Screw you."

No, I didn't. But I did give her the evil eye and said through gritted teeth, "Can't he play inside too?" She shook her head no. Geez, babe, don't you even know enough to give me lip service? You're supposed to say, "Yes," or say nothing but look guilty, then try to push him out without me seeing it.

If she'd been there first, I'd say, "OK, whatever, ya little brat," but the boys were there first and both were significantly smaller than her, so I saw her as a pretty little bully. I sat at the entrance, folded my arms, and smiled at her. She got the message that I wasn't going to move Ben, that I was bigger than she was, and she finally skulked out.

Word of the male tree interlopers must have gotten out because a second blondie girl ran over and actually tried to push Ben out. "Hey! We don't push," I told her. Ben did crawl out of the tree trunk entrance and sat down right outside it. The girl picked up a puppet and made it snarl at Ben. "Trying to scare him, are you? I'll show you something scary," I snarled at her.

No, I didn't. But I laughed because Ben thought it was funny and kept grabbing the puppet and giving it hugs and kisses while her hand was in it. She didn't know what to do with that, so she took the puppet off her hand and threw it at him. He was thrilled, picked it up and showered it with more hugs and kisses. I laughed and she glared. Way to show her, my little lovebug.

Can you tell, by the length of this post, that I've had very little adult interaction today? My sister called to find out how it went today, G. called to fill me in on his interview and some housing possibilities (all of which are looking pretty good), and a chick took my money at the entrance to the museum and was spectacularly unhelpful with any of my questions. Oh, and our neighbor came over with some freezer pops for the boys and talked to me at length. But I don't count that since I only understand about a quarter of what she says and she doesn't stop talking long enough for me to get an "I'm sorry...what?" in.

*By the way, I was mistaken a few posts back - our new sink did NOT cost more than the stroller, G. pointed out. It was not THAT much cheaper, I'd like to point out.

Got Nothin' to Do But...

Blog. I caught up on all my paperwork because I knew I wouldn't have a chance to do any work while G. was away. The dishwasher's going, the kids are in bed, got a cold Hefeweizen, and American Idol's on. Life is good, and I love Elliot. If he doesn't make it into the finals, I'm boycotting something. Chevrolet. I'll boycott Chevrolet.

Some More Thoughts

I cooked some frozen ravioli for dinner tonight. The directions said to boil them for 5-7 minutes or until the internal temperature is 160 degrees.

I wanna know, who takes the internal temperature of their ravioli?

All By Myself....

well, except for the little guy in diapers and the little guy who's trying mightily to get out of diapers. We just dropped G. off at the airport. He's flying to Portland and has interviews and house tours (with our friendly realtor who happened to grow up next door to G.) for the next two days.

I realize that mothers all over the world deal with husband's business trips, deployment or various levels of absence, so 48 hours with two little ones is not that big a deal, but let's just say I wish I had to work the next two days and could drop them off with a babysitter, day care, swim lessons, whoever.

I told G., ala Roseanne, that if we're all alive by the time he gets home, I've done my job.

Am I Too Much of a Drama Queen?

Every evening, as I start to pick up the wreckage that is our playroom/family room, the scene in "Fiddler on The Roof" comes to mind - the one where the villagers start cleaning up the wreckage from the czar's army setting fire to the village during the wedding feast. I also start humming "Anatevka," although I know that's a different part of the movie.

Also, I'm trying to do more yoga videos in an attempt to relax and feel less burnt-out....but they're so damn slow that I find myself fast forwarding through them to the next pose. I'm afraid I may be missing the point.

Comment Lunacy

I've switched from HaloScan to Blogger comments. Sorry I had to delete all the previous comments - I still have them and hold them close to my heart. Go ahead and break the new Blogger thing in, though.

I don't know how to get rid of that little string of code next to the comments. It's not in my template, and the comment code looks OK to me. I turned trackback off. That didn't work. Any ideas are welcome. When I have a few more minutes, I'll check out Blogger help.

Land of the Obvious

So an advocacy group has filed complaints saying that those hyper-expensive Baby Einstein videos don't actually make your baby smarter.

In other news....Bill Gates isn't going to give you 10 million dollars, no one in Nigeria is going to pay you to help them move their money, and you can get pregnant the first time.

We Da Bomb

Tonight we took a walk around the block. A. rode his scooter, which he just recently figured out. We stopped to look at all the houses and comment on the color.

"I wanna see more houses I never seen the color of before!"
"Well, you're in the right neighborhood."
"Look at dat house! Dat house isss vewy sy-lish."
"That house is stylish?"
"Yes, I think dat house is sy-lish."

As we went to cross the street:
"But this sidewalk is all ready for me to ride on!"
"Yeah, but this sidewalk across the street is ready for you to ride on, too."
"C'mon, buddy, we'll help you cross." I picked up the scooter and G. took A.'s hand.
"Oh, thank you guys! You're da best."

See? THAT'S why I let him watch Dragon Tales.

Before and After

Here's before: old white cabinets with about 6 layers of paint on them, and some sort of wood-grain formica stuff. The sink is over-mounted, which means lots of crud gets underneath the lip.



And here's after. Better, eh?












And here's the nicest faucet I've ever used in my entire life. Seriously, this is probably Julia Robert's faucet. It's G's indulgence, and it cost more than my brand new double jogger stroller, and while I think it might be a bit grand for such a small kitchen, the sprayer is so smooth I could stand and spray all day.

A Cautionary Tale

Some advice for new moms: Here's what you can expect if you wash your baby's hair and then put him down for a nap.

Will Someone Please Explain to Me....

the fascination with Kristin Chenoweth's breasts? At least once a day I get a hit from a search using the terms "Kristin Chenoweth breast" or "Kristin Chenoweth breast size," so I figured if they're coming here anyway, maybe someone can enlighten me.

Hah - I just ran the search myself and figured out why they're coming here. Although there are several results more pertinent to Kristin Chenoweth's breasts above my blog, the result for my blog says..."More Posts about Breasts. I just want to make it clear that I was not on the top ... Oh, by the way, if anyone saw it tonight, did you see Kristin Chenoweth ..."

Despite sounding totally dirty, it was an entry about people finding my blog on a search for "saggy redheaded moms," and, later, the West Wing's latest episode.

Oh, and I got a hit from someone looking for the dirty lyrics to Rolie Polie Olie? I did my own search and came up with nothing. If there are dirty lyrics, I want to know.

Also...one more question. I have HaloScan comments, which annoy me because they disappear after a month or so. Do Blogger comments stick around for longer? I suppose I could go look it up, but if someone would tell me, that would be much easier.

Assorted Morsels

In a fit of uncharacteristic efficiency, I've totally cleared out the kitchen cabinets and drawers in anticipation of the new kitchen cabinets and countertop arriving this week. And now we can't find a damn thing. Woe to the man who wants a spoon to eat his cereal with, let alone a bowl to put it in.

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See the sweater A's wearing in the photos of him and his pizza down there (couple posts down)? He's worn that same sweater for THREE years now. Ah, the benefits of having slow-growing children. Except I think someone (Mom? Is that you?) intervened on his behalf Easter morning and made the sweater disappear. Seriously, it literally disappeared for 24 hours, we had to dress him in something else, and it reappeared the next day. The little-known 37th Commandment: Thou shalt not dress thy child in the same sweater three Easters in a row.

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G. scrubbed the kitchen floor to within an inch of its life over the weekend, and now it's incredibly slippery. We can't wear socks on it because we'll go sliding all over the place. We have to barefoot and it's kind of cold in the mornings. He put some MopnGlo on it to replace the top wax, or whatever it is, but it's still really slippery. Any ideas? I think it's plain old vinyl.

I Am A Benevolent Analyst

Benevolent Analyst

This is an interesting test, but I was a little concerned about being a therapist and only getting "average empathy." (Move the cursor over each color to see what it represents and how I scored). But I think the questions they used to test empathy were a little off - they asked if you felt the way others around you feel, like do you feel sad if others are sad, etc. That's not necessarily empathy, that's codependence or having boundary issues. Empathy (at least the way I teach it to kindergartners) means you can understand how others feel, not that you necessarily absorb that feeling yourself. Also, being a therapist, we have to learn how to have empathy with some boundaries or else we'd burn out in a year. I also don't think I have low openness, whatever they think that is. I think I'm pretty open, but I don't spill everything all the time to everyone. Low style...yep, that's pretty much right on.

And the validity questions (where they ask you questions like, "Sometimes I get mad" that most people would answer yes to if they were being honest to see if you're faking good) were all lumped together instead of interspersed throughout. Anyway, I still think the results are pretty.

It Was a Double CD Set

For Easter morning, G. insisted on making a treasure hunt for A. He hid clues in plastic eggs, with each clue leading to the next, and the final one leading to the baskets. What's more, the clues had to rhyme. So we're sitting on the floor the night before, filling baskets and looking for words that rhyme with "oven."

A. loved it, except he threw us a curve by taking one of the clues and telling us, "Now I read the clue and you try to find it." He can't read, but he pretends he can, and so he made up a clue, non-rhyming, that led to G.'s office, where there was no egg. But with a little sleight-of-hand, G. dropped another egg in his office, slipped the original clue out, read it out loud and the hunt continued. Phew.

We were bad Christians, though. We knew we'd be up early, so we'd planned on attending 7:30 a.m. mass. But after the 6:00a.m hunt, we looked at each other and said, "Nuh-uh." I went back to bed, then got up and relieved G., who slept for another three hours. We did watch "The Story of Jesus for Children" on DVD and listened to the Bible songs on their new CD, so hopefully God will forgive us.

More Easter Tragedies

"I am not a monster; I am a BUNNY!" We had ONE barely warm afternoon last week, but it was too much for Peter Rabbit, who was hiding in the trunk of our car. I didn't discover the tragedy until tonight, of course, so crisis intervention was necessary and substitutions found.






When I was about seven, my much older sister was about 19 and suggested, to my horror, that we have fruit in our Easter baskets instead of candy. Can you imagine? She probably doesn't remember it, but let me tell you, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Huge cognitive dissonance occured for me because I thought she ruled everything, and usually would have gone along with whatever she said. But no little chocolate eggs? I couldn't go along with that. So I think we ended up with oranges and chocolate eggs.

At age nine, I was selected to sing a solo at Easter mass. David was to sing the first verse of "I Am the Resurrection", I was to sing the middle verse, and Dennis was assigned the third verse. The children's shoir sang the chorus. So there I was, in this huge church packed with people, in my pretty blue Easter dress with curled hair. David, Dennis and I stood at the front of the choir. David sang his part, we sang the chorus and I stepped up the microphone, opened my mouth....and started singing the verse David had just sung. When I realized what I'd done, I gasped and threw my hands over my mouth. The director, our fourth grade teacher, was playing the guitar and hissed, "Keep singing! Keep singing!" So I stepped back up and started over with the correct verse*. Fortunately, the organ player was a versatile and adaptable eight grader and he was able to compensate. Afterward, everyone told me that I did such a good job recovering that no one could tell. Looking back, I find that hard to believe, but everyone really united in a rare show of solidarity to convince me that no one noticed.

The first Easter we were in our house, I got G. an Easter basket as usual and hid it. He found it, turned pink, thanked me, and excused himself. He rustled around a bit, and then told me I could look for my Easter basket. What I found was a basket grabbed hastily from the garage with 2 cans of Diet Coke thrown in it. I thought it was funny, so every year since then, I insist he put Diet Coke in my Easter basket.

*Which, by the way, is firmly embedded in my brain now, never to be forgotten again: "In this world, all men shall come to know; it is love that makes the spirit grow. If you believe, then you shall live." I believe it has been changed, though, to "In his word, we all shall come to know..." Odd that the one girl chosen to sing was given the "all men" line, back when we were politically incorrect. Perhaps my bohemian teacher was trying to make a statement. She was a bit of a loose cannon - I wouldn't put it past her.

Random Sightings

I came home from an errand and found that while G. was changing Ben's Personal Best Poop, A. had colored on both his cheeks and his arms with a green marker. I was about to begin the "We only color on paper" speech, when A. threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, "Sometimes I just like to be colorful!" Well, OK then.




There is a most extremely cute baby reflected in the CD player, and he likes to get some tongue.







A. was eating his pizza at the mall when I said, "Hey, you know what that looks like?"
He looked at it for a moment and answered, "Portland!"
Well, I was thinking Africa, but didn't say it.







Then, because he can read my mind (it's scary), he takes a few bites and says, "Now it looks like Africa!" Really. It was weird.







Me getting my last CT scan. Not the most flattering angle, but I had become friendly with the machine and wanted to remember it.








And finally, proof that I live on the wrong side of the tracks. Found in the food court where A. was making topo maps out of pizza.

Chocolate Bunnies and Contemplation

In Catholic school, we were always told around Christmas time, "Now, you know, as good Catholics, you have to realize that Christmas is not our most important feast day. Easter is much more important."

Easter is very important in the Catholic church, because Christianity is based on the miracle of Jesus' resurrection. Without the resurrection, Jesus is just another tree-hugging liberal.

I've been looking for kid's books explaining the whole Easter thing. It's hard to find one that isn't macabre. Of course, Easter wouldn't be Easter if it weren't for that messy part about the murder. It would be nice if we could skip over the death part until he's a bit older, but the resurrection doesn't make any sense without it.

So I tell A., "Well, Jesus died, but then he wasn't dead anymore, and that's Easter. See, usually when someone dies, they stay dead. But Jesus didn't - he died and then three days later he was up and walking around and everyone was so happy to see him!" He humors me and pretends to listen, but really, if you believe in the Easter Bunny, a guy who dies and then isn't dead anymore is not that impressive.

What I'm really having trouble with, though, is that all the books I found have some version of, "Jesus died for our sins." The problem is, I either don't understand this or don't believe it. It's possible that I don't believe it because I don't fully understand it.

It was explained to us as children that because Adam and Eve ate that apple, we've all got Original Sin on our souls. So because we're sinners from the get-go, we'd go to at least purgatory, if not hell. I think they didn't say hell because they didn't want to scare us. Don't know why not - never stopped them before.

Anyway, in some sort of weird deal God made with us, Jesus came along and because he died ("for our sins"), we're saved and have a chance to get into heaven. I've heard that Jesus died so we don't have to, Jesus sacrificed himself for our sins, etc. etc.

I tried very hard to understand this trade-off, but no one could ever clearly explain it to me. I thought I must be missing some sort of Catholic gene, because the missing logic didn't seem to bother anyone else around me. I stopped asking but now I'm asking again.

Because what makes sense to me is that Jesus died to show us a different way - to show us how to react to enemies with love and integrity instead of retaliation. Is that the same thing as dying for our sins? It doesn't sound the same.

My favorite explanation of Easter takes place in a French class in David Sedaris' book "Me Talk Pretty One Day." The French class is trying to explain, in halting French, Easter to a Moroccan woman:

"It is a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and...then he be die one day on two morsels of lumber....He die one day and then he go above my head to live with your father...He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."
..."Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb..One too may eat of the chocolate."
"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.
..."The rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

Then it goes into the difference between Americans, who have a rabbit deliver chocolates at Easter, and the French, who have a bell that flies in from Rome.

I am a Calif-oh-nee-an

But change is the only constant, right?

G and I decided that he'd apply for a position with Major HMO up in Portland. It's the same position he has here, but that one would be full-time. If he gets it, we're moving to Portland this summer. We've talked about it for several years, but we're finally making plans to actually do it.

The good parts:

Big Sister and Big Niece (and little grand-nephew) both live there.
All my in-laws live up there: more babysitters, and we can go home to our own house on holidays.
I've been there enough that I kind of already know my way around.
It's beautiful, especially in the summertime.
Would still have access to beach and mountains.
Cheaper cost of living.
Could get a nicer house.
Could live in a nicer neighborhood.
Kids could go to a better school.
Would have some $ for investment/retirement.
Slower pace.
Pizzacato is pretty good.
They have a good zoo.
Neighborhoods are cool.
No sales tax. Things cost what the sticker says they cost.


The bad parts:

Have to leave Middle Sister (and family) in California.
Have to leave all my friends here.
Have to leave my clients here.
Can't do private practice up there until I get some referral sources.
Have to work in an agency.
G would have to work 10 hour days.
It rains. A lot.
It snows. I've never lived in snow.
They don't let you pump your own gas.
San Francisco isn't up there.
They drive more slowly.
The freeways only have three lanes.
This is where I had my babies - they're not even going to remember CA.
I have to get an OR driver's license.
I've become attached to the flamingos at our zoo.
They don't have Barney's.
I have never lived outside of the Bay Area.
Have to leave my Ob/Gyn (women with a good Ob/Gyn would understand this)
I like this house.
I hate change.

Rapprochement

A. does lots of things that I love…but I think the thing I love the most is that when he’s angry with me or I’m angry with him, enough that he’s about to lose it, his eyes tear up and he holds out his arms for a hug.

“Mama, I need you!”

I love that he trusts me enough to know that of course I’ll hug him. Of course he can come to me for comfort, even if one of us is angry. I love that he has that basic trust in my love for him.

One of my friends complained once that her toddler got clingy during or after a tantrum. She didn’t want to give in to his requests for affection because she felt it was like rewarding him for bad behavior.

I see it so differently. Toddlers have tantrums because they can’t tolerate frustration. It’s our job to teach them to self-comfort, but to do that, they have to be comforted by us. I don’t give him whatever he’s having the tantrum about, so it’s not like tantrums work to get him what he wants. But I do comfort him because it’s really hard to be a toddler. I want him to eventually learn to internalize my comforting and do it for himself.  

Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’ll feel differently when Ben gets to that stage, but for now, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Sunshine and Lollipops It's Not

You know those days when you're just so happy to be a parent? You just look at your children and you know that bringing them into the world was the best thing you ever did, and you can't believe how cute and smart they are and you don't know how you got so lucky but you want to praise Allah or send a shout-out to the Goddess or whoever was responsible for blessing you with such a marvelous gift?

Today was not one of those days.

Actually, this whole week has not had a day like that in it. Both boys are sick, G. and I are sick (but not as bad) and the amount of mucus in this house is reaching biohazard levels.

A. is quite stoic and refuses to admit when he's sick.

"I'm not sick! I'm fine! :::cough-cough-hack-hack-blow-bubble-out-of-nose::::" So he's fairly low maintenance except that I have to run around after him with a kleenex all day. He refuses to keep a tissue under his pillow at night saying, "If I need to blow my nose, I'll just call you." Yeah, that's kind of what I'm trying to avoid.

Ben, on the other hand, really doesn't like being uncomfortable. So he wants to be held constantly and won't sleep for more than half an hour at a time. He doesn't just want to be held, he wants to be held and walked. And not just walked anywhere, but walked in the direction in which he is pointing. I am his personal Segway. And, you know, he's sick, so if you don't go where he's pointing, or, Gd forbid, if you try to put him down, he's all, "Waaah! I'm sick! I'm miserable and all I'm asking for is a little help getting around but you're ignoring me and fine, I'll just sit here and produce a river of mucus from my nose to drown in. And good luck paying for all the therapy bills when I'm a teenager and I remember how you neglected me!"

Having to walk Ben all the time means A. gets whiny and goofy in a bid for equal attention. So they're both whining and crying constantly and my clients want me to call them back and I just want to go far, far away and have Miguel bring me fruity drinks with umbrellas. I want to lie back in the sun and listen to my tunes and have someone else wipe the noses.

Add to that the fact that it's been raining for most of the month. So we're stuck inside most of the time and I'm cursing e-Bay's rules that won't let you sell people, especially children.

A. is working on using the potty. We finally decided that if we waited for him to show the signs that he's "ready," we'd be buying pull-ups until he was in college. So we took off his diapers at home and he finally got tired of getting his legs wet. Now he's pretty well potty trained (for pee at least), but he also insists on being naked all the time. This limits our activities just a bit.

I spend a lot of time cleaning out the potty chair, and Ben knows it's an important piece of furniture. And, by the way, here's what he thinks of his Veggie Puffs. (edited to add: he's putting them in, not taking them out)

Updates All Around

I was feeling OK about things because G and I had remained healthy although both boys were sick. Then Gd smote me for my impudence.

I gotta tell you, though, those Zicam things really work. A. and Ben are still all snotty, but I'm already feeling better.

You know, when you're anticipating being a parent, you might think about some of the gross things that come with being a parent - poop, vomit, etc. But I'm here to tell you that the grossest thing about being a parent and the best form of birth control for me is sleeping next to an baby who can't blow his nose. Arrrgh. And don't believe those nurses who'll tell you to use the bulby suction torture-thing. I know of one person in the world who can get a reasonable amount of mucus out of her baby's nose with that thing. The sound of a baby breathing through his nose despite an enormous amount of mucus will make your husband's snoring sound like sweet music. And yeah, I gave him decongenstant and we had the humidifier going full blast. I also steamed him and served him up with a nice dill sauce. Just kidding. I steamed him in the bathroom with the menthol stuff. I did everything I could think of to get his sinuses to drain.

And regarding my head: I had another CT scan yesterday and guess what? I'm released from neurosurgery care! I don't have to have another CT scan and I don't have to go back to see Dr. Clean. When we left, G. thanked the doc for helping us avoid surgery, and the doc said, "Yeah, well, I'm glad it turned out OK, but you don't really want to be that close to surgery again." I keep forgetting that I came really close to having my head shaved, my scalp peeled back, my scalp cut open and staples put in my head.

OK, now I've really gotta go wash the hair I still have.

Never a Dull Moment

Heard this morning from A's room, 3:30am:

A: Papa! PAPA!! (BTW, whom he calls has no relationship to who actually gets up and goes in)

Me (stumbling in): Whatwhatwhat? You need to go back to sleep, buddy, it's the middle of the night.

A (eyes closed): I was thinking we could make fruit salad tomorrow.

Me: Um, OK.

A: I will get the grapes and maybe some watermelon.

Me: Yeah. OK.

A (still not opening his eyes): OK. Goodnight.

Me (goes back to room and pokes G. because these are his genes that are waking me up in the middle of the night): Hey! Wake up! A. wants to make fruit salad tomorrow.

G: mumble mumble

The Cutest Thing

You know how when your friends or siblings have kids, and you don't, and they say stuff like, "Oh, you've got to see this! Look how cute this is....C'mon Taylor, give Mommy a kiss..." and the baby leans forward with their mouth open and goes, "aaaahhhh" on your friend/sibling's nose?

And you're like, "Yeah, cute. Just like every other baby I've ever seen do that."

And friend/sibling's like, "Oh dass so sweeeeet! Such a sweeeet baby!" And you think, "Damn. When did friend/sibling lose their mind?"

Well, Benster is doing the open-mouth kiss thing. And he climbs up on me at least 10 times a day, says, "aaaahhhh" and puts his head on my shoulder. Then he's off again. And I cannot get enough. It's the cutest thing I've ever seen. Seriously.

So that's as good as it gets with trying to take photos of the two of them. (papers and elements by Nikki Meador at www.scrapwithnikki.com )

Before I had kids, I used to go all out on St. Pat's Day. I tried starting an annual Irish dinner, but Irish food sucks, so I changed it to all green food. NO food coloring, either, if I can help it! We've had salad, green vegetables with herb sauce, pesto pasta, cream of various green vegetables soup (the best was roasted asparagus and leeks), and fish with dill sauce. Lime jello, too - although I concede that probably has food coloring in it.

One year I made Irish Flags - a layered drink with brandy, irish creme and creme de menthe. Yeah, yuck, but after you drink the first couple practice ones, they get better. Now that we have kids, I made do with shimp and pesto spaghetti and beer in green bottles. That's as festive as we get around here.

A. is very into holidays, so I told him that St. Patrick's Day was a day when we all wear green and eat green food. I don't want to get into the "our ancestors came from Ireland" talk because it's hard enough for him to understand that much of our family lives in another state, let alone another country. We did mention at dinner that a long time ago, St. Patrick went to Ireland and told all the people there about God and so we have a special day for him. That's it. He watches only PBS which didn't mention St. Pat's Day as far as I could tell.

So he turned to me and said, "I love being Irish." I've never told him that he's Irish. I don't think I've ever used that word around him. I asked G. if he'd been saying it, and he said No, and besides, if he'd said anything it would be that A. was Irish and Italian.

What freaks me out is that there are times I swear he's channeling my mother. When he was a baby, he'd reach up and mindlessly finger his hair, exactly the way my mother did when she was watching TV. So I said, "Wow, who told you you were Irish?" and he answered, "I don't know. I just knowed it." He's the only grandchild (on our side) with her treasured red hair, and I know she would've thought he was hilarious.

So after claiming pride in his heritage, he told me, "When you were a baby, I used to teach you stuff." OK, this was getting weird.

"Like what stuff?" I asked.

"Like how to dance while you were standing up."

Phew. My mother never taught me to dance while I was standing up. Couldn't be her.

Chicken, Rice and Blogs

Thank you, everyone who weighed in on the posts they liked best! I really appreciate it.

A. was giving me a list this afternoon of what I could make for dinner. On his list was, "Wine with potato sauce," and "Oversize chicken."

"Oversize chicken?"

"Yes. That's the new chicken that tastes like strawberries."

He then decided he wanted chicken-rice-and-sauce, which is chicken breasts with Dopiaza sauce (mmmmm),
but we didn't have any sauce. So he suggested "chicken-rice-and-flour." I told him I didn't know how to make that, and he tried to explain it to me, but I finally got him to eat chicken nuggets.

He's just trying to get out of cooking later.

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

So I need some input on your favorite posts here at Everyday Lunasea. Here are some that got lots of comments, but if there are any that you think were particularly memorable, like, if you remember them at all, could you let me know? I need to collect a few. It's hard for me to pick because darnit, I like 'em all.

Strange Things I Believed As a Catholic Child
Scary Kids Books
Oh, I liked this one too
You've Been Talking In Your Sleep (in which we are introduced to G.'s sleep-talking)
Congratulations, Your Baby's a Klutz
Confessions of a Neighborhood Snob

I've been drawn in by the Cult of American Idol again. I really like that several of the contestants are funny-looking this time. I really like Taylor and His Spams (the name of his future band). And Bucky's hair tonight? That's how my hair is supposed to look. I thought it was quite lovely. Chris - he's the one with the stepkids, right? I remember thinking that it was really touching that he adopted his wife's kids so he's good too. And Paris, even though she's a baby, she's pretty darned talented. But I'd bet on Katharine to be in the top two. Melissa and Kevin are going pretty soon.

Happy Birthday, Buddy

One year ago today, Fussy/Smiley Boy came into the world. On the one hand, it's gone by amazingly fast. On the other hand, it seems like he's been part of our family forever.

Little Mr. Freud

When I get home from work, A.'s already gone to bed but he's usually still awake, so we snuggle for a bit. He always asks about my clients and what they said. I give him a quick synopsis and try to answer his questions as best I can. He always amazes me - is he really interested or does he just have really good conversational skills?

A: Did you have another client?
Me: Yes.
A: And how are they doing?
Me: Well, she's pretty upset because she feels like her work is too hard.
A: Too hard?
Me: Yes.
A (thinks): Well, sometimes people can get tired of work and they don't know how to change it.

Um, you're three and a half and you don't even know what work is. Where do you come up with this stuff? Who are you channeling?

----------------------------------

This afternoon, G. was playing with A. and told him, "Pretty soon it'll be time for your nap."
A. replied, "Oh no! I think I know better than that!"

Payback

Longtime readers (and family members and friends and anyone else willing to listen to my stories) will remember that G. talks in his sleep. Last night, around 2am, A. shouted out, "Papa! PAPA!" with such intensity we thought there actually was was a monster in his room. As G. got out of bed to go check it out, A. yells, like it's an emergency, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?" I started laughing and when G. came back to bed, I whispered, "He was fast asleep, wasn't he?" G. said yes, and I said, "Yep. Welcome to my world."

The other night G. shook me to wake me up, right on schedule (between 12 and 1 am), and asked, "Are you OK? Do you have enough oxygen?"

The thing is, even if I answer him, he doesn't believe me.

"Are you SURE???"

"Yes, goddamnit, but you're not going to have enough oxygen very soon because I'm going to stuff this freakin' pillow into your mouth."

I'm Wearing Eddie Bauer Tonight

We were driving a friend home today and he said, "So, no crises this week? You guys are getting boring."

Little did we know that when we got home, I would find that the VCR that I programmed to catch the first 3 hours of the Oscar coverage would have spit the tape out and therefore, not recorded anything. It's evil and I hate it. It does stupid things like spit tapes out all the time for no reason. How sorry are you for me that I don't have an iPod, Tivo or even extended cable?

So I did watch the end of the Oscars, and I have a question - did they play music during all the speeches? It was distracting and just an overall bad idea. You could tell the winners were thrown off because you hear music during your speech, you think, "My time's up and I'mgonnatalkreallyfast." Even though I'm sure they were warned ahead of time, if you win an Oscar I'm guessing you're just trying to get up the stairs without tripping.

Donatella Versace needs to stop the plastic surgery.

Wasn't Rachel Weisz the one who was married to Macauley Culkin? OK, no. I love the internet.

Before I had kids, I used to try to see all the big nominated films before the awards. Those days are long gone, unless they start giving Oscars to Heffalumps.

OH! I forgot some firsts in my post about firsts - for the first time in 4 years, I am wearing non-nursing bras. This is the first time in 4 years that I have not been either pregnant or nursing. Yep. Dug the old VS bras out, and while they're a little small still, it's nice to wear something besides white cotton bras with flaps.

The other first is that A. is sleeping without a pacifier, finally. So now without it, A. needs more snuggling before bed, which is kind of sweet. We take about 10 minutes to rock in the glider and talk about the day. He told me while we were snuggling last night, "I'm a boy who likes to talk a lot." Yeah, I noticed. What's not sweet is that he calls us back about 8 times after bedtime to ask, "What are you doing?" and "What are you going to dream about?" He decides ahead of time what he's going to dream about. Last night he said he was going to dream about being a clock. Tonight he's going to dream about being out in the rain. Nothing like taking control of your dreams.

My Head's Feeling Roomier Already

According to my Johari window,

93% of people agree that Lunasea237 is intelligent.

So of course I'm like, "Wait a second....who doesn't think I'm
intelligent?"

Turns out everyone but G. chose "intelligent" to describe me. Hhhmph. He's just threatened.

So the CT scan looks quite good - my brain did much better this time. The clot is down from 1.9 cm to 1.1 cm. So it's almost half the original size. What pleased me most was that Dr. Clean (who we know now has 7 children, 3 of them redheaded) said, "That's better than I expected."

I told him I was still having some visual weirdness in my left eye, and he said, "Oh, I'll send you to the eye doctor. They'll test your visual field and other things. (pause) Of course, it won't help. They can't do anything, but...." Then he led me out of his office. He's a nice enough guy, but he never finishes his sentences.

This time we had to take the kids with us, and A. got to see the CT scan. But what really impressed him was a bunch of men gathered in the hall discussing how to move another CT machine in. They pulled out their measuring tapes and A. was entranced.

One of them measured the hallway and then snapped his tape back into its case, (you know, where you release the button and the tape retracts quickly into its case) which I guess is against Contractor's Code of Ethics because the other men acted like he'd painted over a window. One said, "That's YOUR tape, right? Sure am glad you didn't do that to MY tape!" accompanied by gasps and groans from the others. The next time he slowly eased it back into the holder (case?). So I was wondering, what happens if you snap it back?

It was weird explaining to A. what was happening. We were in the waiting room with a bunch of old people and I was telling A. that they would be taking pictures of my head, then we'd see the doctor. I could feel everyone's eyes on me and I wondered what they thought. Same thing in the neurosurgery waiting room - everyone was pretty old except me, G. and the kids. You could tell people were wondering what was wrong with us/me. Nobody gave us any money, though.