Bad Boys, Whatchu Gonna Do

When I was a kid, fireworks were strictly forbidden in my smallish, droughtish, fire hazardish town. You went to the local high school to watch the big fireworks, but no one had sparklers or those spinning butterfly things. NO ONE. So I tend to channel my husband's grandma when these things are around - she was a devout Roman Catholic who frowned on card games because they were too much like gambling. Fireworks seem sort of sinful and bad. When I was a kid, very few towns had fireworks stands, and if we saw any at all, they were in the "bad" part of town.

I admit to being shocked our first July fourth here in our house because our neighbors, church-going Lutherans and the nicest people in the world, set off small bombs in front of their house! Ack!

Thank to two small boys and a husband who turns into a small boy around fireworks, we have a value pack of dangerous-looking explosives on our dining room table. I should note that these are "Safe and Sane" fireworks - but then why are they called "Crazy Eyeballs?" Have you seen these packages? They look like they could blow up the world.

Anyway, the boys needed to make sure they weren't duds and set off a few last night in the street while I was at work. A. was completely beside himself with excitement when I got home.

"They look like eyes! And they spin around and go boom! pop!" he said, waving his arms around and jumping. I think I'm going to do a video of him imitating various fireworks.

After our bedtime book, he said, "I want to explain the fireworks to you again!"

After lights out, he was in there drawing pictures by the light of the hallway for a new fireworks book that he's authoring. Every time we went to that part of the house, he'd call out something like, "I'm gonna make up a sing-along-song about fireworks and make a movie!" He couldn't stop talking.

So guess what's happening tomorrow night? Ben's a little intimidated by the loud noise, so he and I will be inside saying a rosary or something.

Not Great, Not Horrible

53%

Mingle² - Free Online Dating

Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

Thanks for the comments. Sarah, it's all the boys. I'm just the reporter. B-mom, much to A.'s dismay, his paint machine doesn't actually work. Although I'm sure he'd help out painting your family room for about 10 minutes.

A. lost interest in the paint machine once he discovered it wasn't actually going to make paint. So we went to the hobby store to check out model rockets, his other idea.

"Which one of these is big enough for me to get in?" he asked.

"None of them. They're just for building and then shooting off. You can't make one that people can actually get in."

"Why not?"

"Because you have to be an astronaut for that, buddy." (Or a millionaire/former boy band member, I guess). The sales clerk snickered.

He left the aisle and headed back to the train tables. Life can be pretty disappointing when you're a 4-year-old with big dreams.

The Paint Manufacturer's Mystery

A. has been asking me questions about paint lately. "What is paint made of?" "Who first made paint?" etc. Last night, after he was supposed to be in bed, he drew a mock-up of his new invention: A paint machine.
I don't know if you can read the typing (done by me, not him, BTW, although he did label the machine "Pait") - over on the left are the chambers for the ingredients, on the top is a vent for steam, the broccoli-shaped thing is a hand that does the work inside the machine, and the square with the little squares inside is the screen to talk into. The paint comes out the right side.

So this morning he wanted to actually build his creation. He told G., "The things I need are: plastic, wood and some flat bed trailers."

They went out to the garage and got some shoeboxes, plywood and duct tape. G. also attached a mini tape recorder to talk into.

"It's not exactly the same," complained A.

"What else does it need?" I asked.

"It needs a hand inside."

"OK, so we'll figure out how to add a hand."

"Yeah!"

The thing is, when it's done, I think he believes it will really make paint.

After the building frenzy, we drove through a very nice neighborhood to a very nice park. A. found it puzzling, though, that some of the houses were made of plain wood shingles and not painted. To further his distress, the playground equipment was bare wood, also unpainted.
I tried to explain that sometimes people like the look of wood itself and leave it unpainted on purpose.

"But WHY??"

At the County Fair

He's not ashamed to pick the pink jet-ski.













Because he knows it's a chick magnet.

So this morning as I'm pouring my coffee I see A. wandering around outside our courtyard in his jammies.

Me: What are you doing out here?

(several rounds of "I don't know" and "come inside, then")

A: I want to find a Christmas tree but I can't dig one up.

Me: ??????????????


This is all from a book he's been liking, "Bialosky's Christmas." On Christmas Eve, Bialosky Bear puts together a Christmas party. Apparently A. is using this as his template.

So we dragged in our little potted pine tree, with the understanding that it has to go back outside tonight, put it in his room, and he's now working on decorating it. He tried to climb up into the craft closet by himself, but thankfully was unsuccessful.

He told me, "Now we won't have to decorate it when Christmas comes!" Right, we're gonna leave it like that, with foam snowmen and blue ribbon until December.

Actually, that could happen.

Slow Down, Dude

Yesterday:

A: Mama, will you help me rebuild my rocket?

Me (looking at the pile of books, paper and tape he's amassed): Sure, buddy. You'll have to show me how it goes.

A: OK! And then you can light a match, give it to me, I can say 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1, light the rocket and yell blastoff! And it will zoom up in the air!

Me: Um, yeah. There are a couple of problems with that plan. First, you can't hold a lighted match until you're 8 years old at the earliest, and maybe not even then. Second, if you light this rocket on fire, it will just catch fire and burn. You need fuel and some kind of compressed gas to set off a rocket.

A: OK, you can hold the match, and we can use gasoline for the fuel.

Me: Ai yi yi.

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Today we watched Neighbor Boy shoot hoops.

Neighbor boy: Hey, A., you want to play basketball?

A: Well, Neighbor Boy, there are two problems with that. The first is that I need to use a smaller ball, and the second is that the hoop is too high.

Me: ::::snicker::::::
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Later in the day, Neighbor Girl showed up with a whole ream of paper, probably pilfered from her parent's office, and offered to sell it to A. for a dollar. I was at work and G was in charge. G vetoed the sale, which I don't understand because that sounds like a bargain to me. A. could have resold it for 5 times that amount. And G. says he majored in finance?

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And, in other "A is growing up too fast" news, I present my 4-year-old riding his 2-wheeler without training wheels. It's a big day in the neighborhood.








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I don't know about this kid. When I put him to bed tonight, he didn't want to wear jammies, just underwear. It's warm, fine, whatever.

Now, an hour later, he comes out with sweatpants and his snow jacket on, and tells us he wants to have a Christmas party. Christmas is months away, we tell him.

"I know that!" he insists. "I just want to have one now."

OK, dude, there are going to be times we insist that you conform to society, and the Christmas season doesn't start until August. So go back to bed.

Flush with his successful paperclip sale, A. decided to sell blank pieces of paper yesterday. Without a word to us, he dragged his laundry basket out again, got a little cup for the money, and set himself up on the sidewalk with a pad of lined paper.

When he wasn't immediately mobbed, he started yelling, "Paper for sale! Paper for sale!" It wasn't a bad idea - if all these kids have paperclips now, it stands to reason they might want paper for them. Isn't that called vertical marketing? Or maybe it's horizontal, I don't know. I took an incomplete in economics.

His yelling didn't work either, so he relocated to our neighbor's driveway, where their kind 10-year-old son took pity on our 4-year-old and bought 30 cents worth of paper.

What I loved is that when I came home from work and he told me the story, he was not discouraged at all. "There were no other people who could buy today." I loved that it had nothing to do with him, or his choice of goods, it was just a slow day.

You hold on to those office supply dreams, buddy.

Hoping He Will Take Care of Us in His Old Age

A: I need to set up for my sale.

Me: Really? What are you going to sell?

A: My paperclip collection. I'm going to make lots of money.

Me: Oh gosh, honey, are you sure you want to sell that? You know that means you give your paperclips to other people, right?

A: Yeah, right after they give me money.

Me: (imagining him getting laughed at) I'm not sure there's a big demand for paperclips right now, you know? It's 7:00pm and everyone is going to go inside pretty soon, and I'm not sure the neighborhood kids really want to buy paperclips.

A: (ignores me and goes inside the house)

He brought out his laundry basket, his little porcelain box in which he keeps his precious paperclip collection, and a small plastic bowl for collecting the money. He has only a tentative grasp on economic principles, and an even more tentative grasp on currency, so I wondered how this would go.

He was mobbed. I severely underestimated the appeal of paperclips to little kids. So I ran inside and grabbed the video camera.

Check me and my bad bargain-huntin' self out:

I went to a warehouse sale for Flax, and got this toy (which retails for $30) for $7:














And this one (on their site for $35) for $8. I think there are a couple pieces missing, but 95% of it's there.




















We got to the warehouse right when it opened, which was a good thing because there was only one of each toy on the shelf. I think they were there because the packaging was torn. Both boys love their incomplete, hand-me-down Tinkertoy set, so I've been looking for more building toys but the cool ones are always so expensive.

Special Events

I'm all giddy because I'm hosting my first blog tour for Mother Talk . Welcome! Refreshments are over in the corner. Feel free to spike your coffee with the libations under the table.

So I'm supposed to write about this new site for moms (although I suppose dads could use it, too) - Mamasource. I should give full disclosure before we start that I did receive a stylish orange commuter mug and a small pack of post-it notes in exchange for reviewing this site.*

Here's the official blurb:

Mamasource is a safe and easy way to connect with other moms in your local area. Find the advice, referrals and insight you need, in a supportive community of moms helping moms. As a Mamasource member, you can:

Ask other local moms any question you need help with.

Read the questions other moms have asked- and see what answers they have received.

Share your own advice and practical referrals with other moms who need your help.

Mamasource is a free service, but to protect our members we are an invitation-only community. We have a strict no-spam policy and your personal information will never be shared with advertisers.

(I especially like that last part about it being invitation-only - it sounds like the kind of exclusivity I can never afford. And I think you can consider my link to them as your invitation.)

When I first had the A-man, almost 5 years ago, my due date boards were my lifeline. I was a regular on the August 2002 i-village board (although I think I was the very last one to give birth which was kind of annoying) and checked in daily. Those moms covered all the stuff I couldn't find in any of the "What to Expect" book. I learned most of what I knew from those boards. Mamasource is all of this advice in one place - minus the trolls. When a baby question came up, I could quickly explain to G. the pros and cons of almost anything, cementing my repuation as The Expert in the house. (Except the idea for duct-taping A's Easy-Ups when the side seam split. G. came up with that all on his own.)

So Mamasource users can request advice about anything and everything, from simple (when do I turn my baby's car seat around?) to poignant (my kids witnessed domestic violence - how can I help them?). The community seems to be building quickly, so just about every query gets a response, and most of them get enough to spark a genuine discussion. Moms looking for ideas about potty-training or discipline can exchange plenty of ideas here. You can also save discussions that interest you into your "files" for future reference.

My favorite feature, though, is the opportunity to read local business reviews. I'm always looking for kid-friendly restaurants where the meals don't come in bags or a local business that gives good kid haircuts. At the moment, because it's a new site, some of the reviews are posted by the businesses themselves, and I'm looking forward to more parents getting on the site and adding reviews to the listings.

Overall, it's a very attractive, clean site that's easy to navigate and will become a quick reference for advice on any parenting questions.

Thank you all. Please use the recycling bins, and come again soon!

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*I couldn't help but notice that yesterday's stop on the blog tour received a mug and a book and I think some money, but she didn't mention any Post-Its! Ha! Score!

A: Here, Mama. I drew you a heart.

Me: Awww. It's beautiful! What a great heart. Um, what did you draw in the middle here?

A: It's a picture of the top of my head.

Well, he is a redhead.






And in other news:

Last week we found some neighborhood boys performing science experiments in the pothole in our street. We've had this large, and getting larger, pothole in front of our house for about 2 years now. A and Ben joined in the fun.










Now, just the following week, huge machines show up to finally pave the road. Coincidence?

So we went to our friend's memorial on Saturday. First we had the funeral mass. Those things are long but you've gotta do them to make sure your loved one gets into heaven.

Then we had the viewing at the funeral home. You wouldn't believe this place. (Well, maybe you would. I don't know.) I have experience only at the Catholic cemetaries. This place looked like a hotel. Huge lobby with armchairs and sofas and lots of windows, with a reception desk - seriously just like a hotel.

Then you go to each wing and you walk through several living rooms with different seating areas, coffee tables, nice lamps, etc., before you get to the chapel. We filled the chapel and spilled out into the living room. People spoke for 2 hours and could have gone on longer. G was the only non-family member to speak, and he did a great job. R was a musician as well as a doctor, and he encouraged lots of his younger siblings and cousins to pursue music. A few of them wrote songs in his honor and performed them. It was really moving. And the whole time there was a slide show of R and his family and friends. A couple of the photos had been taken at our wedding.

Then there was food in a room adjoining the chapel, I guess so you could get your little sandwich and then mosey back into the chapel to tell R how the food was. The casket was open the entire time, and the kids didn't seem weirded out by it at all. I'd never had a reception like this in a funeral home - it was actually really nice.

So. In Other News.....

A. is very into mysteries at the moment. He carries around his little Thomas notebook and counts things, saying he's collecting clues. I guess a pillow was moved recently in the living room, and A. was on the case. He found footsteps and decided it was PAPA who'd moved the pillow. It was all very dramatic and needed much documentation and Speaking! In! Exclamation! Points!

Ben screeches in a pitch that I'm sure is going to break glass someday. I admit I've had fantasies of those operations where they cut a dog's vocal cords so he can't bark. Don't come after me, BBM, I'm not in favor of those operations on dogs. But on Ben....well, let's just say sometimes it sounds like a good idea.

We bought both a refrigerator and a dishwasher tonight. We are using a refrigerator that my mom and dad bought when I was a teenager, and I'm now 41 so....it's time to put the thing out of its misery. It has really been quite the tough little soldier, though. It's still chilling and freezing like a champ, at least 25 years later. But the stripping is all worn off and I'm pretty sure it's at least 20% responsible for global warming with the energy it takes to run. And stainless steel is going to look better in our kitchen.

The dishwasher has gotten tired and has recently been trying to do its job without water. I appreciate the conservation effort, but it's not getting the plates clean. So we're getting a silver one of those too. Our tiny little postage-stamp kitchen is going to be the most stylish room in the house.

Now if we could just get a new stove/oven. Tonight it took over an hour to warm up. There's no indicator on it to tell me when the temperature is right. There's no broiler. The temperature gauge is off, anyway. But hey, I'm not complaining. One (or two) appliances at a time.

AND, I now have a Home Depot credit card (so we could get an additional 10% off). That's like G having a Macy's credit card. Will wonders ever cease?

All day long, and all night too, I think of blog posts. In my head, I record what's happening immediately into blog-style prose. Except my recording equipment sucks and I can't remember any of it when I sit down to the computer. This is also why I don't get any of my longer-term projects done (like the scrapbook for my sister's birthday...back in January). I do what's right in front of me and if it's not right in front of me, it doesn't exist.

That seems to be the status quo for my brain, but complicating things in my head is that an old friend of G's died last weekend. He was a groomsman at our wedding, and was instrumental in getting G to realize his terrible mistake in breaking up with me (before we got engaged). He wasn't much older than G, and he just dropped dead of a brain hemmorrhage. Life is short, people.

So right now I'm in this state of mind where I think, "Hey, that's kind of funny. That could be a blog post," and then I think, "R. is dead." I'd planned to invite him and his wife to G's birthday dinner next weekend.

And then when I have a moment at the computer, I can't remember anything to write about. So. Until my brain kicks back into slo-mo from no-mo, I'll be a little quiet.

Just to Gross You Out

As the mother of sons, I am beginning to appreciate the Gross-Out-Factor. Today I had a cyst removed from my chest and let me tell you, it ranked way the heck up there on the GOF Scale. I won't go into excruciating detail, and I didn't take a picture (although I considered it), but here are the highlights:

Since it was on my chest, and the table was tilted slightly up, I could watch the whole thing. I expected that he'd make a small incision and then pop the thing out, like a baby (which is pretty much the sum of my experience with surgical incisions). No - you gotta pull the thing out bit by bit and carve away at the tissues around it to "release" it. Carve, carve, carve, went the scalpel. Watching him carve into my chest like a turkey on Thanksgiving was weird.

Meanwhile, he pulled the thing up and out while he carved and it felt like he was tugging at my sternum. That was weird, too. The cyst was much bigger than I'd guessed, too.

At one point, the doc must have knicked it with his scalpel, because the thing burst and squirted all over both of our faces. Yep. Top that one. That's gotta win me Gross Out Award of the Year.

So much for sparing excruciating details. Sorry. But when you're watching something so gross coming out of your own chest, you've just gotta share.

He's Cracking Me Up

A. is so high off his present-giving that he's decided he needs to wrap up random household stuff every night. Tonight I tried to talk him out of it.

Me: Honey, what makes it special is that you don't do it every night. I think you need to rest.

A: But I'm just going to wrap up one thing and then I'll rest the rest of the night.

Me: You've done enough for Mother's Day. Really.

A: Well, this is for Papa.

Me: ::::sigh::::::

(a few minutes later....keep in mind this is well after our goodnights and tucking in)

A: I need tape.

Me: What happened to the roll of tape I gave you last night?

A: I don't know.

Me: OK. Here's the last roll of tape. Don't use too much.

A: Why?

Me: Because we're running out!

A: Well, besides, I decided to go to the office store tomorrow.

Me: Oh, you did?

A: Yeah. To get some more tape. Because we're running out!

Good thing he has a plan.

Livin' on the Wrong Side of the Tracks

Tonight at dinner we were talking about how fun it will be to visit Washington D.C. when the boys are a little older. A. asked what Washington D.C. was.

Me: It's where the President lives, and they run the whole United States from Washington D.C. It's where they make all the laws.

A: (thinking)......Oh. So up there is where they make all the laws. And down here is where they break them.

Happy Mother's Day, Part II

So today's surprise from A. was an old book of G's off the bookshelf (from his wild bachelor days) and what A. described as a "dead, bumpy leaf."






Also, several drawings of hearts, and a border of typewriter-key stickers with a circle around the 2 in the middle (some sort of secret Mother's Day code).




Wow. Butt Paste, sticks, a tantra book (is he angling for more brothers or sisters?) and a dead leaf. Oh, and don't forget the old "bronzed" Nike. He's going to have a hard time topping this year.



And just because I like it, a picture he drew this week at school. "Giraffe Standing Next to Flower, 2007"

Happy Mother's Day

So we celebrated Mother's Day today because G has a wedding to go to tomorrow. Last night A was up really late in his room with paper, tape and a pen. This morning I discovered what he was working on:

He'd found a half-empty tube of Butt Paste and wrapped it up in paper and tape on which he'd written, Happy Mother's Day Love A.

Then he wrapped up two sticks he'd found in the backyard. They were good sticks and I was quite honored. He said they were good for scraping things and for hitting together and making music.

I was also surprised with breakfast in bed (pancakes with apple pieces, corn flakes and coffee), and the results of a survey G had taken with the boys.

Q: What do you like best about Mama?
A: She gives me food and plays with me.
Ben: Pink.

Q: What do you think of Mama's hair?
A: She's pretty.
Ben: Ro ro purple.

Q: What is Mama's favorite color:
A: Black and pink.
Ben: Purple.

Q: What's your favorite thing to do with Mama?
A: Play I Spy cards.
Ben: Pink.

Q: What is your favorite place that Mama's taken you?
A: Berber King. (that's how they pronounce it so now we all call it Berber King)

Q: What do you think is the hardest thing about being a Mama?
A: Putting me to bed.
Ben: Purple.

Q: What does Mama like best?
A: I think she likes me best.
Ben: Purple!

Q: What's Mama's favorite food?
A: Broccoli soup. (?)
Ben: Orange.

Tonight A. suggested that perhaps tomorrow I might like to bring him breakfast in bed. I suggested that Mother's Day continue tomorrow since tomorrow is the REAL Mother's Day. Now he's back there in his room with more paper and tape. I'm really wondering what he's cooking up.

Oh, one more thing. Last week we were told to bring in an old shoe to A's school. Friday I discovered why - they'd painted the shoe with bronze paint and filled it with candy for Mother's Day. It was very cute, but if I'd known what they were going to do with it, I would've sent a nicer shoe.

"Teacher said the moms could share the candy with their kids, if they wanted to. Teacher also said moms could keep the shoe forever and ever."

Sorry

Shoot, people, I got nothing for you. G's mother and sister came to visit. It's always much easier (for us) to have them visit here. When we visit them, we all (the four of us) have to sleep in the same room and the boys require constant supervision. Grandma is great at playing with the kids, and his sister is very sweet. So it was a nice visit, if exhausting. And it gave us a reason to clean the bathtub. We went to the zoo, SFMOMA, it was hot, and I got a blister.

Here are some links (thanks to Martini and Tucker Max):

My favorite link when I need to laugh
A few funny ones
Military Hand Signals

More Sleeping Beauties

Went to see Jersey Boys last night, and when we came back to my sister's to pick up the boys, we found A. turning his cousin LK into a doorway convert. We might just let Ben have his bed and give A. the doorway.


Jersey Boys, was, as expected, fantastic. I'm such a groupie, but there was a lady behind me in the bathroom line who was on her 11th time. She was in SF for the weekend and planned to attend every performance.

G and I hung around the stage door and I got Erich Bergen's and Deven May's autograph. I told Deven that he needed a new MySpace photo because his current one is an old one from his Bat Boy days with his head shaved, and he's got such nice hair, so he should show it.


Good thing I didn't say anything STUPID, huh? Sheesh.

And Another Thing....

The Montessori school that A. attends has the kids wear uniforms from K-3. I wore uniforms from 1-12th grade and hey, if it's good enough for me...yada yada yada. Uniforms are getting so common that JC Penney, Target and Mervyn's carries the stuff. And I've got boys, so I don't need to deal with plaid.

When I went to the Kindergarten Open House, the teacher told us to buy the sweatshirt with the logo and the plaid jumpers from Land's End, but otherwise to go for the sales at the aforementioned stores.

Wednesday we got a flyer from the school saying the uniform code had changed and all uniform pieces, shirts, pants, etc., HAD to be purchased from Land's End. Oh, and here's the code so the school gets a kickback. The cheapest pants are $22.50.

I complained about it today to the administrator and was told that there had been too much variation in what the kids were wearing, so they changed the rules. I know all about variation - we were pros at it in high school. We tried to wear lace on our anklet socks, shirts with no collars, etc. We generally didn't get away with it and we went back to our plain socks and blouses. Whatever. We cheered when they changed the code to allow white polo shirts.

I'm not sure why this annoys me so much. I'm getting quite Libertarian in my old age, and I don't like being told I have to buy a white shirt from this company and only this company. I'm actually tempted to pull his application, but that's probably a little extreme.

He's Pissing Me Off

I'm listening right now to Alec Baldwin defending himself on The View. He's basically saying the people responding negatively to his stupid rant to his 11-year-old daughter are reacting that way because of their own pain. Oh, OK. It had nothing to do with the fact that you called your daughter a pig.

And also, he really meant to say it to her mother, Kim Bassinger. She drove him to it by keeping his daughter from him. Ooops. Ya know what? You got a problem if you're mixing up your daughter and your ex-wife. And, besides, you shouldn't say that stuff to her mother, either, no matter how big a bitch she is. You should have bitten your tongue because you wanted to show your daughter how grown-ups act.

Don't get me wrong - I believe Parental Alienation syndrome exists, and I also believe courts sometimes favor mothers over fathers. But I've also seen good men work their best to be the bigger person, to show their kids that they don't need to react to Mom's craziness with venom. They are there for every scheduled visit, they call their kids all the time, whether or not the mom allows the kid to call back. They put the kids first, and they say, "No way is my kid going to ever say 'My dad forgot about me. He gave up.' "

I told one dad, "If your ex-wife is as crazy as you say she is, your kids are going to really need you to be a model for them. They need to see there's a way to cope with her with compassion and with appropriate boundaries, instead of with more craziness." If you have to have someone stand by every time you exchange the kids as a witness, OK. If you have to have all communication in writing, that's what you do. You don't stoop to their level and let loose a 5-minute rant to your daughter blaming her for everything.

Give me a freakin' break, Alec. Yes, everyone gets angry at their kids. Sometimes we say things we wish we hadn't. But, geez, grow up. All I'm hearing is "Poor me...poor me," how 'bout "Poor kid?"

Sleeping Beauties

Ben has this thing about chewing his food. He puts it in his mouth, chews it a little bit and then stores it behind his bottom teeth. Once I picked him up after his nap, and noticed he was chewing something. Turned out to be the chicken we'd had for lunch 4 HOURS prior.

So here he is in the car. With a not-even-half-eaten pb&j sandwich. Food usually isn't sticking out of his mouth like this, but I guess he was really tired.




And here we have A., who was put to bed an hour before, and then told several times that under no circumstances was he to leave his bedroom again. Here he is in lying in a doorway from which he can see the TV but I couldn't see him. And he fell asleep. Way to cover your tracks, buddy.

A (first day back to school after spring break): Teacher asked us all what we did for Spring Break.

Me: What did you say?

A: That we went to the mall and ate pizza.

Me: Did you tell her about going to Mama's old school (UC Berkeley) and seeing the T Rex skeleton?

A: No.

Me: Did you tell her about going up to the top of the Campanile and seeing all the way to San Francisco?

A: No.

Me: Did you tell her about going to the airplane museum?

A: No.

Me: Did you tell her about going to the library and playing at the fountain?

A: No.

Of course not. He told her he went to the mall and ate pizza. I feel like I should send an explanatory note:

Dear Miss Michelle,

On A's Spring Break, we did not go to the mall and eat pizza. We went to the mall and ate chicken nuggets. But that was just one day and it was after an hour at the bouncy house. On the other days we did very educational and enriching activities that I assure you A. enjoyed while he was doing them.

Thank you,
A's Mother


And because I feel like sharing pictures, here are the boys at Costco. A is asleep in the cart. He fell asleep on the way there, so I propped him up in the back of the cart and he slept like this through the entire shopping trip. This was just before I took them out and put them back in the car. People don't believe me when I say nothing wakes that kid up.

Ben: "A. westing. Shhhh."











And here's after A. discovered the self-timer on the camera (I was taking before and after pics of myself). He was fascinated by it and wanted to show G how "the camera can take a picture all by itself!"

So we did a family shot by propping the camera on the table and Ben's like, "What the hell?"

The World and the Way I See It

I hate eye exams. "Which is better, A or B? B or C? C or D?" I don't know! One is fuzzy on the left side of the letter and one is fuzzy on the right side of the letter and I don't know which I prefer! Then they get all impatient and sigh heavily and go, "OK. Whiiiich is beeeetttteeer, Aaaaaa or Beeeeee?" I UNDERSTAND the question, babe.

I learned yesterday that I need bifocals, or "progressives," as they are now called. Eye doctor said I could wait and get regular lenses now, but if I did, in 2 years I wouldn't be able to read anything and I'd be back for new glasses. Some people stay with the regular lenses for a while and just take them off and hold the menu at arm's length if they need to read it. "That won't work for you because you can't even see there's a menu at the end of your arm if you take your glasses off. So you might as well get them now."

I expressed concern about getting used to "progressives."

"Oh, it's just like the ATM. Or bill pay. It's just like bill pay."

"I'm sorry?"

"You know - you hate it at first but then you love it. Like bill pay."

I'm not sure what to think because I'm not aware of either loving or hating bill pay, but clearly this doctor develops intense relationships with things, and I didn't want her to hate or love me, so I just kept quiet.

I was told I have bad astigmatism, which is why I had trouble focusing with my uncorrected contact lenses. So now I'm getting "torque" contact lenses, which are about an inch thick on my eyeball. Well, they feel like it, anyway. I also learned I have "steep" corneas, so they have to special order the contacts.

I don't know why they don't just put me down now.

After the contact lens fitting, I picked out some Coach frames, got measured for the progressives, paid for the lightweight, anti-glare lenses, gave Major HMO my right arm and leg (because steep, torqued contacts are also about 3x as much as regular contacts), and walked out of there with nothing. The glasses certainly aren't going to be done in an hour or less because this is Major HMO we're talking about. The contacts will arrive in a week or two.

I don't so much have a problem with the weird, thick contact lenses, or the bifocals, sorry, "progressives," themselves. I mean, at least my vision can be corrected, right? What I have a problem with is getting old. I mean, if my vision is like this at 41, will I really be blind at 70?

"You're going to need glasses, too, if you have my eyes," I told A.

"I don't have your eyes," he scoffed, while rolling said eyes. "I have my own." Good thing, too.

You'll never believe what happened tonight.

Ben was complaining, yelling, having all sorts of tantrums in his crib because he didn't want to go to bed. This is not unusual. I was reading to A. in the next room and we have both gotten pretty good at ignoring Ben's screams. When I was done I went into Ben's room and said to him, "What can I do for you?"

"Nooo! Waaaaaah! Get up!"

"No. Time for night-night."

"Noooooo! Get up!"

I picked up his monkey blanket (a whole post in itself), said, "Night-night, monkey." Then I asked the monkey, "Monkey, is it time for night-night?"

Monkey, being smart and totally in my control, nodded yes. He also said, in a high-pitched monkey voice, "Benjamin! Please go night-night with me!"

Then I did the same with lion blanket. Lion also nodded affirmatively when asked if it was time for night-night and added, "Ben! I need you to lie down with me! Oh, please lie down with me!"

Ben stopped screaming, grabbed Lion and lay down. I didn't hear another peep out of him. He's asleep now.

I realize this trick will never work again, but I can't believe it even worked once.

My idea of a fun evening on the couch: searching for stupid MySpace comics to put on friend's pages.

G's idea of a fun evening on the couch (OK, his third choice*): "Hey! Did you read about the 9-part PBS series on Al Qaeda and terrorism? Where's the remote?"

*Second choice was looking at SunRiver vacation sites to spend a week with his family. I'm not telling you what his first choice is.

Cul-chuh

Gotta love the cultural component of Montessori. A. recently wrote his very first sentence. They pick a picture out of a pile of magazine clippings and write a sentence about what's going on in the picture.

A. picked this picture:



And here's his sentence, "The men are wting to ply bingo":


Now is that a first sentence or is that a first sentence? Screw Dick and Jane. Let's talk about loiterers.

More A. and B. Stories

A, (seeing a no-smoking sign in the store): Look! No Pencils Allowed!

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A. has started a paperclip collection. He has six. He scours the house, looking carefully in all corners. "Wow, it sure is tough work to spot paperclips!"
G: "But so worth it!"
A: "Yeah, you have to look very carefully for something shiny and shaped like a paperclip."

After he ran a "race" G gave him not one, but TWO paperclips as a prize. He was ecstatic.

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He also, inexplicably, galloped around the house the other day yelling, "Bareback Mountain!" but couldn't tell us where he'd heard it.

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Whenever we correct Ben or say "No!" to him, he immediately counters with a very sad face and a plaintive "My finger hurts!" We kiss it, figuring he's either looking for affection or trying to change the subject. It just occured to me that he might have misunderstood something about someone getting their feelings hurt and thought instead that their finger got hurt.

Real Moms

Our favorite Boobless Brigade Mistress tagged me with the "Real Moms..." meme. Unlike listing my shoe size and the last song I listened to, this one actually requires writing a post. Pssshhh. Girl knows I can't say "no" to her and is exploiting it, if you ask me.

So my first thought was "Real Moms are afraid," because I'd been meaning to write about how terrifying motherhood is. But if you look back at the blogger that tagged BBM, Lizard Eater, you see that has already been done, better than I could have, certainly.

So. "Real Moms are saggy." Yeah, but not much to write about that.

"Real Moms are tired." Yeah, but again, sort of self-explanatory.

I keep coming back to "Real Moms are afraid." I mean, besides the love I feel for my boys, I don't know any other emotion I've felt for them as strongly as fear. It's wound so tightly around my heart that it feels indistinguishable from the love. The more I love them, the more terrified I am of losing them. In this whole "Let's Be Honest About Motherhood and Write Books and TV Shows About How Crazy It Is" atmosphere, I wish someone would be honest about being crazy-terrified about losing their kids.

And I do mean crazy. For a reasonably logical person, I've become awfully superstitious about this. Every night I pray. I've always said a prayer asking for blessings for all the people I love (when I was a child, I used to name everyone, until I shortened it by referring to "my list of usuals") and thanking Him for good things. Now, every night I say Thank You for my beautiful boys, for their health, for their wit and intelligence and sweetness. I know how lucky I am.

But the prayer also holds a tinge of bargaining, just in case G_d is up there saying, "Now, whose kids am I going to take today?" he won't look at me because I really do appreciate them. I must - I say Thank You for them every night, don't I? No lessons need to be learned here, thanks.

Then I feel awful because I have friends and relatives who have lost children who were no less appreciative or loving of their kids than I am. Of course I don't really believe that losing one's child is some sort of horrible life lesson. It's a completely base, ridiculous impulse. Like the impulse that led me, shortly after both A. and Ben's births, to search out websites about infant loss. See G_d? Look how unafraid I am, how willing I am to face other people's pain! See? You don't need to make me go through it! Just skip over me, thanks!

I'm more afraid for Ben than I am for A. I tell myself that it's because he almost died at birth because that's logical. Thank goodness I've never been prescient, because if I had ever accidentally predicted something like who was on the other end of a phone call, I'd think my fear for him is an omen. As it is now, if he's fussing in his bed and stops, I have to go make sure he's still breathing. There's something about the brightness of his smile and his sweet little laugh that is so beautiful, I'm afraid it will burn out.

I remember hesitantly mentioning to a mother in my mom's group that sometimes I was overwhelmed by visions of something happening to one of them. She agreed, and, hopeful that I wasn't alone in this anxiety, I ventured further, "I think about it at least once a day." She frowned and said, "No, it doesn't hit me that often." Oh, OK, so it IS just me, then.

Ironically, I'm not super-over-protective. I don't panic at bumps and bruises, I let them climb stuff and ride their bikes in our cul-de-sac. I know I can do some things to protect him, but on a larger scale, I am not in control. And I know that so clearly as I'm falling asleep (no wonder I get insomnia). I start out politely praying that I'll get to see both boys grow up, and before I know it I'm silently roaring to G_d "YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!" with my eyes flashing and my teeth bared.

I think lots of parents are able to shake the fear back to some dark crevice where I guess it stays quiet or maybe they can ignore it. For whatever reason, mine is quite active especially at night as I'm falling asleep. Then in the daytime it's a bit quieter. I'm reluctant to let it get too quiet, though. At the very least, it keeps me grateful.

My senses real: the sweet, greasy, aromatic funnel cake calls to me.

Today's title comes to us courtesy of my Spam folder. It was one of the more poetic entries.

Yesterday I think someone was trying to tell me something. We dropped A. off at school, then drove down the street to the bank. There is only one bank branch in town with a drive-through ATM, which I love because I don't have to take Ben out of the car seat. But a branch from a tree had fallen and the drive-through was blocked off. Fine, my account has enough padding that I can put the deposit off until another day.

We drive on down the street on our way to the lake where Ipower-walk most mornings with Ben in the jogging stroller. The freeway on-ramp was closed due to construction. There really isn't an easier way to get there, so I double back and go home, figuring I'll do an exercise video later.

We get home and I remembered that I was out of contact lenses. Actually, I had plenty of lenses for my left eye - I was only out of the lenses for my right eye. Guess they tear more easily, I don't know. I tried to order them ala 1-800-Contacts, and it didn't work - my brand was discontinued. OK. I called the number they gave, 1-800-288-2288 (yep, I figured out afterward that this special customer number was, in fact, 1-800-contact). Oh, gee, they'd be happy to call my eye doctor and find something else that would work. I hold....Gee, I'm sorry but they won't verify anything because you haven't been in for 5 years.

Really? Has it been that long? Gee. No wonder I can't see anything. No way I can get contacts without a new prescription. I'm fine with getting a new prescription - but I can't get an appointment until April 19th and the sun is shining and it's blinding me and I don't have prescription sunglasses, and believe me, no one wants me doing anything without corrective lenses.

All avenues were blocked, in all directions. I decided the universe was telling me to lie down and take a nap, so I did.

Update because I know you're concerned: I did get my old eye doctor to give me a trial pair of some new lenses, but I had to go pick them up 40 miles away. Small price to pay for the ability to wear sunglasses while driving. And there's a good frozen yogurt place out there. And a good park for the munchkins where they could play in a fountain. I guess everything's back to normal.

I really, really planned to blog today. But a horrendous migraine has sidelined me since 4am. My pills work but it keeps coming back. So I'll leave you for now with this fun site.

Two Shorts

Today in the car, A. said, in a sing-song voice, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I'd never heard him use this phrase before.

Me: I don't know. What are you thinking?

A: Greeeeen Jellllo!

Me: No. I'm afraid not, buddy.

(silence)


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In the party store today, Ben found some Spiderman napkins. He picked them up and then put them back on the shelf, yelling:

'"Piderman! 'Piderman! Not today! Not today! 'Piderman! Not today!"

Love it when he does my work for me.

• Everyone says when they see my cute little kids, "Enjoy this time - they grow up so fast." Well. Come to my house and tell me that when it's 9:30pm and Ben is still awake and in his crib screaming for a cheese stick. Last night, he didn't fall asleep until almost 11pm. He's insane. I tried to go to bed around 10:30pm but he was singing at the top of his lungs, so I came out and informed G. that our 2-year-old is bipolar and currently in a manic phase. Day before that, he was up and ready to start his day at 4:30 am. There's a time and a place where drugging children is appropriate, and I believe that time is coming and the place will be our house.
  
• It takes a lot to gross me out. I also thought dermatology was sort of an "easy" way to be a doctor. I mean, it's not brain surgery, right? I didn't realize just how gross dermatology could be until I googled the particular kind of cyst I have on my chest that's soon to be removed. Yuck.
  
• Yep, Fussy Boy Ben turned two a week ago. I didn't blog about it because we really didn't do anything. I made some star-shaped angel food cupcakes, put a bunch of them on a plate, lit some candles, sang "happy birthday" and that was pretty much it. We sang "Happy Birthday" a couple of times because Ben kept demanding "Again! Again!" and you know, it was his birthday. Then he took each cupcake and took a bite out of each one in turn. Way to celebrate, buddy.
  
• We saw "Jersey Boys" in SF a week ago and I am obsessed. It was fantastic. I expected to enjoy it like "Mamma Mia," you know, a little nostalgia and a little dancing. I didn't expect to get emotionally involved with the characters. It took us forever to get out of the theater because we were way up high in the balcony and as we were leaving, we saw the actor who played Tommy DeVito. He was soooooo good. Ben Fong-Torres wrote a thing about why "Jersey Boys" worked on such a different level than other nostalgia musicals - you believed you'd just seen four struggling singers, not four actors.
  
• Seriously, if it's coming to your city, see it. The tour company is amazing. I'm trying to figure out how I can see it again before it leaves for LA.
• Once again, we have a post in all green. Well, Happy St. Patrick's Day.
  

I Love This Blinkie

Pretty much sums every Irish song you've ever heard, doesn't it?

Reasons to Have a Third Child

1. I always thought I'd have three kids
2. I'd like to get one more chance to actually experience birth
3. I'm one of three, and I like having two siblings
4. Babies are nice and snuggly
5. I'd like to breastfeed again
6. Might be nice to have a girl
7. I'd like to have an adult daughter someday
8. We make cute kids
9. I like being a mother

Reasons to Not Have a Third Child

1. Dear God, I like my sleep
2. That first year is not my favorite time
3. I'm old
4. And creaky
5. Chances of birth defects are higher
6. Putting two kids through college is going to be impossible already
7. Having three kids under the age of 5 could push me over the edge
8. Less attention to give to the other two
9. It's just starting to get easier with the other two

It's a Pretty Good Day

So today the first issue of Digital Scrapbooking came in the mail. I leafed through it, looking for my layout, and just as I was thinking they'd left it out, I found it on the next-to-last page. It got a full page all to itself! I have no idea if that's impressive in the magazine world but I'm pretty impressed.


Me: Look, A! It's you! In a magazine! Isn't that exciting?

A: Yeah, a little bit. But what's more exciting is you giving me money.

I Feel the Earth Move

We just had a small earthquake here, 4.2, centered about 20 miles away. For those non-Californians in the readership, the first thing you do when you think you feel shaking is to freeze. Is this a quick little rumble, or is it a precursor to a big shake? Did I imagine that? No, the lampshade is shaking, so it wasn't just me. Do I need to move to safety? Do I need to go grab the kids?

The shaking stopped, so I walked over the to the TV and turned it down. ?????

After-Nap Snuggles

For his whole first year, Ben was really stiff. He had to be folded into his car seat, and never put his head on our shoulders. After he loosened up, though, he discovered snuggling and is now a master snuggler, especially right after his nap. I keep telling G. that I want him to take photos of Ben snuggling with me, but he's never really around when it happens, so today I asked A. to get the camera and he actually took these photos of us. Pretty good, huh?




















credits can be seen here

Gung Hay Fat Choy

A. had a Chinese New Year's Parade at his preschool yesterday. I didn't get to see it, but G. took videos of the whole event for me. A. took the command to make a lot of noise and yell, "Gung hay fat choy!" very seriously. Here he's holding his noisemaker and stomping his feet. He was the loudest yeller, too. We are very proud.













Above you see the problem with having preschoolers operate a Chinese Dragon. The head keeps forgetting the body. And they can't see anything. But it was a noble effort.

Belated Oscar Thoughts

I noticed a lot of ears this year. I suppose they've always been there, but they seemed bigger this year. First it was Michael Arndt's Spock ears (sorry, I'm sure you're a really nice guy but you've got Dr. Spock ears)...then Will Smith presented soon after and I had never noticed how big his ears are. It was amazing. I think I've just always seen side shots before.

And the lovely Anne Hathaway: The See's Candy Lady Dresses Up. (I couldn't find a pic of an actual See's lady, so the famous See's Barbie will have to do).


















I actually know one of the nominees. Back in the late 80's, I shared an apartment with a graduate student in mechanical engineering. We shared the Loma Prieta earthquake, an Erasure concert, and lots of movies. She bought me blue-stemmed wine glasses to replace the ones I had from my mom that fell out of the cabinet and shattered in the earthquake. She wrote short stories at the time, and let me read some of them. Now she's been nominated for best original screenplay. How cool is that? Every time the camera went to someone in the audience, I peered at all the people behind him/her to see if I could see her. I think I did, but I could be wrong. Anyway, congratulations, Iris. You deserve every moment. And the gift bag.

But Wait, There's More...

G. was getting all snuggly one night, and then he found the TTFTE classic short story, "A Crack in the Track" stuck under the pillow. He said in his huskiest voice, "I wanted to read you some passages from "A Crack in the Track"...

Which started me thinking about other kids' books that could double as erotic novels/porn. The best I came up with was "There's a Wocket in my Pocket."

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A. is stealing money. He doesn't think of it as stealing, of course, he thinks of it as going on a "money hunt," where any change he finds is rightfully his. There's some good English blood in that boy. Sometimes he even draws a treasure map.

Anyway, I think he knows that the money isn't really his, or wasn't to begin with, so he makes stuff up. Every night he wants to count the money in his teddy bear bank, and he tells whichever parent is with him that the other parent gave that day's take to him for helping Ben. He told G, "Mama gave me this money for doing chores. And I helped out Ben." Riiiiight. G. told me about it that night and I replied, "Since when does he do chores? Or help Ben?"

So I was prepared the next night when he told me, "Papa gave me this money for giving Ben a drink." I said, "Gee, we don't usually give you money for handing a drink to Ben. Are you sure that's what happened?" He stuck to his story, and we're actually not entirely sure where he's getting the money. I think he's now up to $1.80, which he says he'll hold on to until he's older.

I think if it's on the floor, it's fair game, but he shouldn't be lying about it. On the other hand, I think we've found a real motivator to get him to use the bathroom instead of his pull-up at night.

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Have I told you all about the "I Spy" game? We basically play memory with the I Spy cards. It's not easy - there are 25 matches and they're different photos with the same object - in the photo, that's a match because both cards show the clown. A. wipes the floor with both me and G. Occasionally, if he's really off his game, we'll win, but seriously, the kid is scary good.

Anthropomorphism

You know you're supposed to ask the computer, via that little symbol with the arrow in the task bar, if it's OK to remove peripherals? Everytime I ask my laptop if it's OK to remove the external hard drive, it says "Drive: Generic Volume cannot be stopped right now. Try again later."

And each time, I unplug it anyway, and have this feeling that I'm showing the computer who's boss. Like it's going to be impressed and realize who's really in control. Or, that I'm not it's bitch, dawg, depending on your generation.

I have about 5 half-written blog posts in my head. They usually come to me while I am driving or falling asleep, which are not the best times to write them down. At some point in the next few days, I will have a blog-o-palooza and get them all out of my head, where they are taking up valuable brain space.

I read this as "Hugh Hefner Escapes, Leads Police on 5-hour Chase." Imagine my disappointment.

Music

A few years ago, when I decided to stop living beyond my means, I discovered the library. What a place! They'll let you take books home, for free, and read them! And all they ask is that you bring it back. Who knew?

They also have CDs - I currently have 2 Diana Krall, 1 Frank Sinatra and 1 Dean Martin in rotation. On Valentine's Day G turned on the CD player in our room to set the mood. "Really? Lullabies?" I asked. He shrugged. Fortunately I had one of the Diana Kralls nearby.

G is hopeless when it comes to music. It's odd, because he has a good ear for it. We were remembering old TV shows and I brought up the "Bob Newhart Show," G immediately started humming the theme song, and in my mind's eye there was Bob, walking through Chicago with his briefcase. He can also hum, on demand, almost any commercial theme you can think of, like the DeBeers diamond music. It's weird.

He's liked the music I've introduced him to well enough, but it's just not that important to him. He also doesn't read fiction, which to me is the weirdest thing EVER. He'll read professional psychology books sometimes and he brought the Windows manual on a camping trip once, but I've never seen him buy a book just to enjoy it. How I ended up with a guy who doesn't read I'll never know. But that's Love. He also doesn't surf the web.

Anyway, when I met him, he had about 10 CDs to his name, and 3 of them were by Yanni. One was John Tesh. Another was Jon Secada. Poor guy. And here comes me with over 500 CDs of pretty much every genre, knowing the lyrics on pretty much all of them. Needless to say, I picked out all the music for our wedding.

Today he went to Borders to look for a book (a professional book), and actually bought a music CD. I don't know that he's bought a CD for himself since I've known him (11 years this month). He brought home this one: Frank Sinatra. Which really surprised me. Turns out it was playing while he was browsing and he asked what was playing. It was actually a really romantic move for him, I thought. Very unusual. Way to shake things up. It's a great CD. And we don't have to give it back in 2 weeks.

During dinner, I was singing along with "It's Almost Like Being in Love," and he said, "You really know the words to these songs?"

I stared at him. "Don't you?"

"Well, I've heard them before, but I don't know them."

"Guess it's all the Lawrence Welk I watched growing up."

His grandma watched LW too, but I guess it didn't stick. He can't figure out, however, why I can't remember numbers. Why I tell people who ask that our jogging stroller was $200 when it was actually $300. I really can't keep numbers in my head and he'll look at me like I'm crazy. And all I have to say to that is, "Dude. Before you met me all you knew was Yanni."

On a completely unrelated note: Diet Coke with Splenda. Blegh. I was forced to buy a case when they were out of my Caff-free Diet Coke. It was Not Good. And I'm not all that picky when it comes to my diet colas. So be forewarned.

A. and Ben were running around the house with sand toys, saying they were catching butterflies. Awww. Then A said,

A: Yeah! We're catching butterflies to cook and eat for dinner!

Me: Oh...I'm not sure I know how to cook butterflies.

A: It's easy. You put them in a pan, put some roast beef on top and cook it for 15 hours.

Well. OK then. I think I'll still take charge of dinner, OK?

Later, playing "Jungle," in which he hides in a bush outside, and I watch the leaves move and wonder what animal could be hiding in the bush; then he pops up, announces what animal he is and we have a conversation:

A: I'm a tiger!

Me: Oh dear, I'm a little scared of tigers.

A: Well, tigers are scared of moms, dads, boys and babies but they're not scared of humans.

Me: Oh, OK. Tiger, you don't have to be afraid of me, even though I'm a mom. I won't hurt you. But watch out for the red-headed boy around here.

A: Well, A and Benjamin are already my friends. They give me food.

Me: Really? What kind of food?

A: Carrots. And skunks. And rocks.

Me: Rocks? Are you sure you can eat rocks?

A: Yes, I have very sharp teeth and I take the rock and I just crunch it like that! And then it comes out my front.

Me: And skunks too?

A: Yes, I plunge the tail and then it doesn't smell anymore.

Me: You plunge the tail? Into what?

A: (looking a little uncertain) I plunge it into the smell. Goodbye! (ducks back into the bush)

He was also a zebra who ate lions, a turtle who ate hippos (maybe I should have given him a bigger lunch because eating to be on his mind), and a giraffe who hid behind mountains when it rained.

Since A. is such a big fan of paperwork, he always has papers to bring home when I pick him up. After getting his "paperwork" out of his drawer*, zipping up his jacket, buckling him and Ben into their respective carseats, all of which I can do in my sleep now, he said, "Mama, did you get my money?"

Me: "Your money? What money?"

A: "The money I bringed for show and tell."

Me: "No, I didn't know you brought money for show and tell. Was it in your drawer?"

A. (heavy sigh and eye-rolling): "No, it was in the show-and-tell basket."

Me: "I didn't know you brought money to school, so how could I have known to get it?"

A: "Well, I didn't tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise."

Me: Long discourse on how if it was a surprise, that means I didn't know about it, which means I wouldn't have known to pick it up out of the basket, and they don't even have show and tell, they have "bring something that begins with the sound of the week" and this week's sound is "L" so what was he doing bringing money anyway?**

A: (silence, of course, because what are you going to say to all of that?)

Me: Well, what did you tell everyone about the money?

A: That I got it off your desk.

Excellent. So many different directions to go with this one.

• You know you're not supposed to take money off my desk.
• If you want money, tell me and I'll probably give you some.
• This week's sound is L. What sound does "money" start with?
• What did the teacher say when you showed her the money?
• What color were the coins (I don't leave paper money on my desk - I'm not that stupid)? Silver and big or brown and smaller?
  

But he's a smart cookie. He changed the subject and started asking me questions like, "What do whales drink?" (I don't know, Sex on the Beaches?) and "Why don't fountains get flooded?" and "Why do we have crabs?"*** and "Why do we have astronauts?"

He's only four now, which scares me. I have a PhD****, but I don't think I can keep up with him.


*How many connect-the-dot snowmen can one kid do? So far we're up to 12, I think. God forgive me, I'm throwing most of them away.

**Sometimes I imagine what my kids are going to tell their future therapist. "My mom...she was always really logical but she didn't really make a lot of sense most of the time. I don't think she really heard me."

***The kind that live in the ocean, smart asses. Why DO we have crabs?

****Having a PhD means you took lots of precious time out of your life and put up with a ridiculous amount of B.S., not that you're smart. I still call myself "Dr." on my office voicemail, though, damnit. I earned it.

Today's PSA

While looking for a local Music Together workshop for Ben and I, I came across the story of Harrison, a local 2-year-old fighting leukemia. He needs a bone marrow transplant to survive, and his parents and older brother are not matches. He most likely will need a donor of mixed Asian/Caucasian race. I'm not Asian, but it is a good reminder to get sampled so I can be part of the world registry.

Getting Ready for V-Day

A. is a true romantic at heart. He has been unbelievably focused on making valentines this week. I really thought he'd make three or four and then get bored, and it never occured to me that he would make a handmade valentine for everyone in his class, let alone our family and friends, but he can't stop. In fact, he got so into it last night that he didn't stop to go potty until it was too late. Good thing it was bath night.

He could not be prouder of his valentines. He knows which one goes to which person, and, a true gentlemen, made hearts for all the girls first. Since we took this picture, he's probably made 5-6 more. I bought a kit of 30, and it looks like I might have to get more.

When G. has to buy me a present for some holiday, say, Valentine's Day, he tends to take the boys to the local drugstore and let them pick out whatever they want (as long as it's under $10). That's how I got Softsoap in a jungle animal pump bottle for Mother's Day last year.

I came home from work last night and A. told me, "We bought you a Valentine's Day present, Mama!"

Me: "Oh yeah? What was it?"

A: "Well, we got you a lipstick!"

Me: "Oh yeah?"

A: "Yeah! And it's a color you don't have!"

Yay! I know G. wouldn't buy me a lipstick without my input, but he'd let A. pick one out, I'm pretty sure. I wondered what I'd do when A. wanted me to wear this lipstick, which was likely to be an blue-ish orange.

Me: "So, what color is it?"

A.: "Lemon!"

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and, for Sarah, as requested, the boys frolicking in the new bed:

Geez, I'm a lousy poster this month. Sorry. This whole exercise-an-hour-a-day thing is seriously cutting into my sitting-on-my-ass time.

And trying to fit in the exercise and figure out what to eat is cutting into valuable brain space that I usually use to file away humorous anecdotes and pithy opinions.

I'm glad I live in CA right now. Ben and I walk every day after dropping A. off at school, well, he rides and I walk, and it's much more pleasant to do it in the sunshine. A newspaper headline last week, during a brief drizzle, exclaimed, "Finally! A break from all this sun!" Now there's a headline you won't see in Portland.

We're also currently occupied with finding a kindergarten for A. The public schools right by us are awful, the worst in a state that is one of the worst in the nation. There's a kindergarten in the Montessori school he attends now, but G. was appalled to find out it was an all-day program. I, on the other hand, do not have a problem with that. So we went to two Catholic school open houses this past Sunday, only to find out that they are all-day programs as well. The three programs are fine. It's just a matter of deciding between them.

He's used to Montessori and really likes it, but the classrooms always seem sort of dry and colorless to me. I mean, compared to other kindergartens that have kid's crafts hanging from every ceiling tile. Maybe that's my issue because A. doesn't seem to mind. On Saturdays he says, "Is this a weekend? I don't have to go to school? Awww. Because I love paperwork."

In-Box Irony

International Internet-Free Day

Posted: 27 Jan 2007 04:30 PM CST

Today is International Internet-Free Day! “Do you check your inbox every five minutes? Do you lose track of time surfing the online shops? Have you e-mailed a colleague at a desk next to you? Do you podcast your daily thoughts, rather than call your mother? Fear not: hope is at hand.

Visit Kiddley for more!

How to Write a Letter, By A.

1. Tell your mom, "I want to write a letter with my flashing Lightning McQueen pen."

2. Sit down at the table in front of the blank card your mom gives you. Look condescendingly at Mom when she offers to help you write it. Say, "I don't need help. I will tell my guardian angel what I want to say and my guardian angel will tell me what letters to write."

3. When your guardian angel remains strangely silent, tell your mom to grab a pen and paper and write down what you say. Tell her you'll copy the letters onto your card when she's done.

4. Talk as fast as you can.

5. Roll your eyes when your mom can't keep up. Geez - and she's supposed to be a grown-up?

6. Start copying all the letters. Boy, there are a lot of them. Did you really say that much? Get through, "Dear Auntie Sha" and decide you've had enough.

7. Cover card with Christmas stickers because they happen to be nearby.

8. Give to mom and tell her it needs to be sent immediately.

Tonight, A. was telling his grandmother about his calendar that helps him "know what week it is." Then, completely randomly, he asked her, "Have you ever seen two 51-year-olds on top of each other?" I don't know how she answered.

In completely unrelated news, we went to Lowe's to look at bathroom tile, and I decided that I don't like home decorating. I feel like I should, since everyone else seems to. love the result (usually), and I really appreciate a well-appointed room, but I hate the process. If we were to build a custom house, I would probably end up gouging my eyes out just to stop having to look at swatches and tiles and samples. I get bored watching the home renovation shows on HGTV. I do watch Extreme Home Makeover, but I'm much more interested in the people's stories and am happy to watch just the reveal. That would actually be a perfect setup for me....send me to Hawaii or Disneyland and have it done when I come back.

Spittin' Image

I need a better picture of myself. Apparently, with no makeup and all grungy, I look like Jared Padalecki.