Everybody's Talking at Me

There are all these activities and classes for kids my son's age. Four year olds can take dance lessons, art lessons, Spanish lessons, swimming lessons, and music lessons. They can play soccer, T-ball, tennis, ice skate, or play basket ball. They can take a gardening class and no doubt there's karate lessons they can sign up for and loads of other enrichment classes of which I'm not aware.
Here's what they really need though: debate classes. Not lessons. Four year olds are natural-born debaters. They just need a forum in which to hone their skills. My son would love nothing more than to talk for two hours straight. In fact, he often does.

song: Everybody's Talking at Me • musical: Harry Nilsson

Wild World

It really is a jungle out there. Even in the relative domesticity of my own front yard. One minute I was marveling at the beauty of a a red-bellied woodpecker perched on one of the trees between our yard and Betsy's house, and the next minute I look up and that same woodpecker has his head half way inside the birdhouse that has chickadees nesting inside.

song: Wild World • artist: Cat Stevens

Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show

My son's new favorite song is "In The Highways" from the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou? You'd know it if you heard it, the refrain is "I'll be somewhere a workin', I'll be somewhere a workin', I'll be somewhere a workin' for my Lord."
I think he's drawn to the piece not only because it's catchy, but because it sounds as if it's being sung by children. This soundtrack has been in the car CD player for a few days now. He's always requesting that particular song and singing the refrain at the top of his lungs in the back seat.
It's like were constantly driving to a revival meeting.

song: Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show • artist: Neil Diamond

Shiny Happy People

For mother's day my son made me a sign. It should have read "Happy Mother's Day" but it only says "Happy Mother." We laminated it and stuck it in the window box along with the construction-paper flowers (also laminated) that we've been "planting" for the past two years. They are so much easier to care for, and with the exception of some fading, look just as good as the real thing.
This sign, surrounded by paper flowers encased in plastic, makes me laugh. Happy Mother. It reminds me of the signs on people's lawns warning "Beware of the Dog" or the more self-deprecating, "Beware of the Owner."
Beware the Happy Mother. If she's happy, she must be crazy.

song: Shiny Happy People • artist: R.E.M.

Mack the Knife

Today's cautionary advice is to beware the kitchen knives you just had sharpened at the knife sharpening shop in North Falmouth, especially when chopping onions. Otherwise you'll end up like me with a big cut on the tip of your finger and nothing but Christmas-themed band-aids with which to patch it up.
That'll give you something to cry about.

song: Mack the Knife • artist: Bobby Darin

Centerfield

Did you know that t-ball is played using a wiffle ball? It's not what I expected but perhaps I don't know what I expected. Did I think they used an actual baseball or softball or that there was some special "t" ball? Maybe there is, but it looks like a wiffle ball to me.
This coming Saturday is the final day of t-ball. It went surprisingly fast, unlike soccer which seems to drag on for several decades instead of six short weeks. Maybe because we had two rain days and one day canceled due to graduation set up.
T-ball was a less traumatic experience for C than soccer. There was no crying and so far he has participated in the games in as much as a four-year old can participate in a baseball game. Since the start of the season the players may have even figured the game out a bit. The first week, when a ball was hit, every player would run to grab it regardless of whether they were up at bat or playing the outfield. Every player except the child who'd hit the ball that is. That player would stand frozen at home plate until Coach Steve called out: "Run to first base!" There the player would remain until well into the next play when Coach Steve would have to yell "Run to second base!" while simultaneously telling the next hitter to: "Run to first base!" Eventually us moms caught on and took over responsibility for telling our own individual players what base they should be on and pointing out where that base was located.
I wasn't going to sign my son up for t-ball given that we also signed him up for tennis, but I succumbed at the last minute because some of his friends from preschool where going to be there and I didn't want him to be left out. I didn't sign him up for the gardening class that meets at Coonamessett, however, because we do plenty of gardening on our own, albeit without all the cute accessories they have in the class. Plus we go to Coonamessett all the time already. Plus there wasn't enough time to drop him off, go home and do anything useful and come back. I'd have just ended up staying out there and spending money. Now I'm worried that we'll be out there and he'll see the class (everyone I've talked to is signed their kid up) and wonder why he's not participating as well. There's a lot of guilt involved in parenting.
I spent less money on picture day at least. I didn't get the group photo. In retrospect though, the group photo may have been the better photo to have. We'll always have plenty of individual pictures of him and his brother around the house. We might not have any of Deason, Cassidy, Maggie, Paul, and that cute little girl with the curly pig tails he was talking to on the pitcher's mound last week. He had his baseball hat stuffed under his over-sized team shirt and was telling her he was "having a baby." She was going right along with it and not pointing out the obvious. They both let the ball roll right past them.

song: Centerfield • artist: John Fogerty

Cruel to be Kind

Being with my two-year-old son is a lot like being in an abusive relationship. When he's not hitting me, trying to bite me, throwing things at me, or kicking the cat, he's absolutely delightful to be around.

song: Cruel to be Kind • artist: Nick Lowe

Destroyer

Why is it the older I get, the more paranoid I become? I think it's because we have access to so much information. Not useful, helpful, information; just sensational stuff. We hear so much bad news we end up afraid all the time.
This afternoon I was on Main Street. Main Street in Falmouth. Granted it was the less-desirable end of Main Street, but still, it's not exactly a bad part of town. So this guy's walking towards me, and he's kind of intimidating looking, big tattoos on his legs, sleeves ripped out of his leather jacket. He looked pretty tough. Then put his hand into his jacket pocket and I seriously, for a split second, thought he might be about to pull out a gun.
What the heck's wrong with me? Did I seriously think he was going to rob me of my chicken salad with cranberries and walnuts? Apparently, for a moment - I did. Granted I have been mugged, so that does entitle me to a small amount of paranoia. That's actually a pretty funny story except for the guy in the hooded sweatshirt with the knife; but it happened more than 15 years ago, and it didn't happen in Falmouth.
So what was he pulling out of the inner pocket of his black leather jacket? Lip gloss. Otherwise known by its more masculine name: chap stick.

song: Destroyer • artist: The Kinks

Cherry, Cherry

The sign in the Windfall Market read, "If you must 'sample' the cherries, please dispose of the pits properly."
This is mighty generous of them. I think people who sample a store's produce should be required to swallow the pits.

song: Cherry, Cherry • artist: Neil Diamond

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Ken took C and H fishing last night. They didn't get home until 9:15. Then C cried because I balked at reading both Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland, and, James and the Giant Peach. When I said I wouldn't, I was accused of not being fair. I tried to explain that when you get to stay out one hour and fifteen minutes past your bedtime then it's impossible go through with our usual bedtime routine. This explanation went nowhere of course. I thought of saying "look here, Alice in Wonderland doesn't even make any sense!" But I knew that wouldn't be any good either.
It ended with Ken reading a chapter of James and me reading a page-and-a-half of Alice.
And what's with pjs for kids that have glow-in-the-dark designs on them? What kid allows their bedroom to be dark enough at night to actually view something glowing in the dark? Between the closet light, the night light, and hall light, and the fact that it's not even dark outside at 8PM in June, the intensity of light in his room is equal to that on the sun.
Okay, that's a bit of a hyperbole, but there ain't no way he's going to see anything glowing in the non-existent dark.

song: Darkness on the Edge of Town • artist: Bruce Springsteen

Do You Know Where You're Going To?

Do you think that 15 years from now he'll be calling me between classes in college to announce: "Momma! I have to go to the bathroom!"
He doesn't need me for this event. He just needs to let me know the event is about to take place. Sometimes I'll be upstairs and he'll start yelling from the living room: "Momma!"
And I have to come halfway down the stairs to find out that's what he needs to tell me.
Just go already!
Once Ken tried some reverse psychology on him, yelling in from the dining room to tell C that he had to go to the bathroom.
There was a long pause from the living room and then: "Daddy. Why are you telling me that?"

song: Do You Know Where You're Going To? (theme from Mahogany) • artist: Diana Ross

Walking in the Sand

The movie Cast Away was on TV last week. Not something I would have picked myself but you can't really go wrong with Tom Hanks, unless of course, you're watching Bachelor Party. So I watched about 45 minutes before succumbing to the enticement of sleep.
They had a copy of the movie on video at the little library so I checked it out, watching the beginning, up until the plane crash, and then fast forwarding though the scenes I'd already seen. Sorry, there's a plane crash, am I ruining this for you? How do you think he becomes a castaway? Anyway, the fast forwarding was comical. All of a sudden, instead of Tom Hanks, it was Charlie Chaplin penguin walking all over his little stretch of deserted beach: in the water, out of the water, shaking coconuts, spelling out help. Everything is funnier when it's on fast forward. See what today's kids who grow up on DVDs will miss out on?
Who am I kidding, though, today's kids have probably never heard of Charlie Chaplin.

song: Walking in the Sand • artist: The Shangri-Las

tuesday haiku

Alone in my house
Early summer thunderstorm
Keeps me company

Somebody's Crying

Sometimes I can't tell if my two year old is crying after being put the bed. When they're playing "The Blues at Eight" on WMVY, the wails of a toddler just gel with the music. Nothin' says the blues like a crying baby.

song: Somebody's Crying • song: Chris Isaak

I Love Trash

While walking down to the mailboxes at the end of our road H picked up one of those disposable dental floss picks that are currently all the rage in oral hygiene.
Kids pick up everything - that's every little thing. They are so proud of what they collect too. Especially those hair elastics that are always turning up. They are perceived as so useful for Mommy. And those tiny plastic barrettes in pastel colors shaped like bows and butterflies, which my four year old's female contemporaries seem to lose in astonishing numbers. I am often presented with a heartfelt, "I picked this up off the street to give to you, Mommy."
Once there was the thing that I can't name that C tried to pick up in the library parking lot when he was about the same age H is now. I'm pleased today's youth are using reliable protection, but please, please once you're finished, don't leave them in the parking lot of the library! Think of all the horrified mothers of small children. I nearly yanked my son's arm out of his socket dragging him in the other direction while he cried over the injustice of it all.
"I just want to put it in the trash, Mommy!"
On our Friday walk, C picked up an expensive-looking bracelet which he returned to the people who lived in the house at the top of the closest driveway on Beebe Acres Road.
"This belongs to my mother," said the grateful woman who answered the door.
Further up the road he spied a big rubber band which he was equally thrilled to gather up, proving that it doesn't matter whether the found item is a priceless diamond tennis bracelet or a dime-a-dozen rubber band; it's the thrill of the discovery that matters and not the physical properties of what's found. Unless, as previously mentioned, it's something that could be considered useful. Next he spied a large bolt: "Won't Daddy be happy when he I give him this," he beamed.
I guess Ken is incapable of shopping for nuts, bolts, screws, and nails, in much the same way C imagines I can only acquire hair elastics and barrettes from off the street.

song: I Love Trash • artist: Oscar the Grouch

Baby Face

H found the cowgirl doll that my in-laws gave his older brother two years ago. By cowgirl I mean it's a little girl wearing a blue cow outfit. Or maybe it's a cow with a little girl's face. It's one or the other anyway. When you squeeze her she recites "Hey Diddle Diddle, the cat and the fiddle." She's an odd doll, but C was once enamored with her as well.
On Thursday H was toting it around town with him while we did errands: the office, the hardware store, the coffee shop. He calls it "bebe doll." The way he enunciates the words makes it sound as if he's in the mafia and she's his arm candy.

song: Baby Face • artist: B. Davis/H. Akst

Younger Than Springtime

Here's my gratuitous plug for Eastman's: they have the most attentive sales staff of any store in town. They are also one of the only stores left on Main Street that sells anything useful. I mean useful in a utilitarian way: cookie sheets, bulbs for night lights, glass cut to size, keys, that sort of stuff. Main Street does have two books stores which are useful in that special book-store way. And I'm grateful for our independent toy store because it gives my dad something to do with the kids on rainy Fridays, and saves me from the Wal-Mart when we have to shop for birthday party gifts.
For H's birthday I got him one of those kid-sized wheel barrows from Eastmans. I knew they had them because there was one on display in the store window. But when I asked for it: "the Red Rider wheelbarrow," I got a blank stare from my young sales assistant.
"A what?"
"You know, the little red wheelbarrow."
"Oh, you mean a Radio Flyer wheelbarrow."
"Right," I said. "That's what I meant. Red Rider's the brand name of the bb gun the kid wanted in A Christmas Story."
"Oh yeah," said the clerk, "I used to love that movie when I was a kid."
I looked hard at him. He was 17 tops.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but you're still a kid."
Can you believe I said that? It's just the sort of thing somebody's mother would say!

song: Younger Than Springtime • soundtrack: South Pacific

Tell Her About It

The reason teenagers don't talk (at least to their parents) is they said everything they had to say, and then some, when they were four.

song: Tell Her About It • artist: Billy Joel

The Midnight Special

Wasn't it amazing how bright the full moon made the sky look last night? It looked more like 9PM than the 12:30AM it really was when I finally finished the work I hadn't been able to get to all day, and switched off the computer.
Nine o'clock at night. The perfect hour this time of year to go out on the bike path and look for bats. Something my four-year-old is keeping on me about doing.

song: The Midnight Special • artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival

The Air that I Breathe

Hi Kelly, thanks for the photo!
Great sign!
Sorry to hear about your son's asthma. My older son was in the hospital for a few days when he was a baby for an isolated asthma attack, and just this past week H has been doing nebulizer treatments. With all due respect to Andy Warhol, I think that in the future everyone will have asthma for fifteen minutes. I'm glad the school is encouraging parents to turn off their engines. Remember people, even if you don't care about saving the planet, climate change, or our kids - the price of gas is going up, turn off your engine and at least save yourself a buck.

song: The Air that I Breathe • artist: The Hollies

Garden Song

This is more like it. Fresh, local, and I'm not squeamish about preparing it.

song: Garden Song • artist: David Mallett

Fishin' Blues

Saturday it was steamers. Today it was fish.
Ken took C out on the Patriot Party Boat's afternoon Deep Sea Fishing trip. They caught three sea bass and a scup. They also caught more fish that thankfully weren't big enough to keep.
For 50¢ a fish the ship's mate gutted fish for passengers. The best $2 ever spent as far as I'm concerned; but when they arrived home, I was still looking down a plastic bag full of beheaded fish.
Ken then took both the kids out, leaving me alone with the day's catch. I was forced to go on-line looking for instructions on making fresh fish filets. The directions told me what tools I needed: filet knife, kitchen scissors to cut off the tail and fins, and a big knife to scrape off the scales. There were also some things I needed that the directions didn't list: a big glass of wine and a towel so I wouldn't have to actually touch any fish tails.
I don't know why we even had a filet knife in the house. I don't recall its having ever been used except perhaps as a letter opener. A point that was driven home when I realized the knife was hopelessly dull.
The whole experience was strangely emasculating. I'm a native Cape Codder dammit, I should innately know how to gut and cut up a fresh fish instead of having to consult the Gorton's Fisherman web page. The reality, however, is that when I buy fish from the Clam Man or Cataumet Fish, I'm so queasy about the whole thing I even have the fish monger cut off the skin for me.
I blame my uncle (not a native Cape Codder) for laying a groundwork of doubt around my fishing skills at large. I vividly recall the end of my fishing career. My cousin and I had gone fishing off the floating dock at the yacht club. Fishing to us meant catching one fish a piece and then bringing them home, still on their respective lines, for my uncle to remove. My uncle sternly told us that if we couldn't take the fish off the hook, we shouldn't go fishing.
In retrospect I can see his point. We'd probably inadvertently killed two undersized fish, too small to cook up, not to mention the bait fish used to catch them. Funny how we had no problem sticking hooks right through those minnows. How could it be harder to take a hook out of a fish than to put one in?
Prior fishing expeditions taken by Maureen and I had only been as far as the end of my uncle's dock where we caught all manner of small fish. My uncle would take the fish off the hook, throw them back in the water, and call out to them: "be a smarter fish!"
Another recollection is of my dad cutting fish fillets in our kitchen. They were smallish fish, probably scup, and after he was done I took the still flopping fish across the street to dump them into the Childs River. I naively thought they might be able to swim away with half their bodies removed.
Tonight's filets came out okay. They didn't look restaurant quality, but it was nothing a little butter and bread crumbs couldn't cover up. Sadly, having been so intimate with the fish I found that didn't enjoy them much despite their being fresh and local my two favorite food prerequisites.
Last week Ken took C down to Woods Hole where they saw, but mercifully didn't catch, squid.

song: Fishin' Blues • Taj Mahal

under the crib (a list poem)

He looks down at me.
He's up to no good.
He'd drop things on me if only he could.
but there's nothing left to throw
it's already down below:
ten board books
two shoes
two socks
one sippey cup
one garbage truck
one teddy bear
one octopus

Sounds of Silence

While weeding in the backyard at 8PM tonight I wasn't sure which was worse - being able to hear the sound of my overtired two-year-old crying himself to sleep out his bedroom window, or, when he was between cries, the sound of hundreds of caterpillars eating the leaves over my head.

song: Sounds of Silence • artist: Simon and Garfunkel

Vincent

Catherine!
Thank you for the floaty pen from the Van Gogh Museum! I love it. I’m sure that's just what Van Gogh had in mind when he painted Wheat Field with Crows!
It’s extra special because it was a Monday when we visited Amsterdam in 1990 - and the Van Gogh Museum was closed! I’m glad you and Thomas got there.

song: Vincent • artist: Don McLean

O Captain! My Captain!

The photo is of Captain Silas Jones of Falmouth. Curious readers can find out all about the adventures of Captain Jones and the whaling ship Awashonks in Friday's In Season supplement inside your local Enterprise newspaper. The only question the article doesn't answer is: "When do you think mutton chops will come back in style?"
But seriously, even more interesting than reading about the 1838 Awashonks Massacre as it became known, was reading later accounts of the incident which grew more and more exaggerated every time it was retold. The entries written in the ship's log are pretty straightforward and gruesome enough as is. Not only is the attack enough to get the movie version of the encounter a R-rating, regardless of whether anyone on board was smoking, so to are the descriptions of the "operations" young Silas Jones had to perform on members of the crew following the attack. Future interpretations, though said to be eyewitness accounts, sound as if they took place on an entirely different ship.
A later account published in 1883 in the journal, The Youth's Companion, claims to have based its story on narrative from Silas Jones. It has the third mate staring down the natives and exclaiming "there was one chap that I didn't quite like the look of ... he has a 'hawk-eye'."
This version of the story also has Mr. Jones witnessing the captain being beheaded, an exaggerated event, though no less fatal, that Silas Jones was below deck for, according to the ship's log.
Ironically, the most blown out of proportion detail is that of a keg of gun powder ingeniously used by Silas Jones and the crew members trapped below deck, to set off an explosion in the stern of the ship. The Youth's Companion describes the event this way: "a blinding shock, followed by a terrific crash of timbers and a chorus of yells, screeches and howls from the terrified savages was the instantaneous result."
The Awashonk's log book makes no mention of a keg of gun powder or a subsequent explosion, leading me to believe the event is entirely fabricated.
An even later account, written by William N. Davis and published in the book Falmouth on Cape Cod years after the death of Silas Jones, recounted the story through the eyes of a supposed crew member named Old Tom, who strangely, is not one of the crew members mentioned by name in the ship's log. Old Tom is apparently a bit of a soothsayer as he ambles up on deck the night prior to the attack and tells the second mate, "I don't like the looks of the stars to-night." He then warns the mate that the natives are likely to "rub noses with you one minute and give you a dig in the ribs the next." The article even quotes Old Tom muttering "He's gittin' as proud as a midshipman with his pocketfull of scupper nails." Who ever heard of quoting a muttering?
The next day it's reported that 60 or 70 natives board the Awashonks. According to the ship's log the number was more like 30. Vastly outnumbered by natives in this account, the quick-witted third mate, below-deck members of the crew, and the salty Old Tom, again turn to that non-existent keg of powder to drive back the natives. The account quotes Silas as shouting "Come boys, break out the run. Get up a keg of powder, and we will blow the companionway sky high." The crew respond with: "Give it to them, Sir."
That Mr. Davis, he spins quite a yarn.
So what's the lesson here? Don't believe anything you read? Don't put much stock in narrative published 75 years after the event it describes. Especially when it's based on narrative written 50 years after said event which is equally factually incorrect. Don't trade with the natives, be they "hawk-eyed" or not? Don't grow mutton chops?
Take away from it what you will, but it gives one pause. if I can pick a single event from the history of Falmouth and find so many gross inaccuracies in the story's telling and retelling, can anything we read about history be true?

poem: O Captain! My Captain! • author: Walt Whitman

Do You Know?

Here's a little quiz for all you label and non-label readers. Guess what the top ingredient is in this Ocean Spray White Cranberry Juice.
Optimists in the audience will answer, cranberry juice. Pessimists will go with sugar - otherwise known as High Fructose Corn Syrup.
But guess what? It's neither! It's actually water, then grape juice, with H.F.C.S. placing third, and cranberry juice trailing behind in a disappointing fourth. Good thing nobody had any money on that horse race.
There's nothing wrong with diluting cranberry juice with water - we do it all the time; but diluted, sweetened, grape juice, with trace amounts of cranberry shouldn't be called cranberry juice. A rose by any other name still smells as sweet, even sweeter with a little H.F.C.S. added; but a carnation should be called a carnation.
There is, I should mention, a small disclaimer at the bottom of the label telling shoppers the drink is "white cranberry juice drink blended with another juice from concentrate."
Another juice? What's the big mystery? What's wrong with just saying "blended with grape juice," or better yet, "blended with a whole lot of grape juice."

song: Do You Know? • artist: The Cranberries

caterpillar couplet

Inchworms hang from invisible thread.
Eating the trees up above my head.

You Won't See Me

Can you see this crosswalk? I'm concerned that it might be invisible - or a mirage. If you can see it you've got better eyesight than the 20+ cars that drove over it while I was standing at it the other day.
Maybe it's me that's invisible.

song: You Won't See Me • artist: The Beatles

Story of a Life

In yesterday's Globe there was an article about the fall TV lineup and how it featured a number of new shows about women in their late 30s to early 40s. The article seemed to view this as progress but it also seemed to say the women would all be single, childless, and upwardly mobile. Great. It's Sex and the City with hot flashes.
Where's the sitcom that represents my life? The one about the mom with kids who can barely get her act together to work part time, hasn't been out shopping for a new item of clothing for herself in over a year, still gets acne, and isn't sleeping with the gardener.
I remember getting together to watch Thirtysomething in the dorm lounge back in college when we weren't even remotely close to being thirty. Those couples all seemed to have kids and jobs and still be interesting enough to be shown on television. In fact maybe I should check the library for Thirtysomething on DVD just to see how their reality stacks up to mine. I seem to recall the characters all being a little neurotic - guess back then I thought being neurotic was something we'd all outgrow and not come to embrace.
Who's to say my life's not interesting enough for television? Take yesterday afternoon for example. After the dead snake incident my parents came over for dinner which I was mid-way through cooking when the power went out. I had to take my half-baked chicken and traipse next door to my neighbor's house. My neighbor who has a gas stove that is. I had my son bringing up the rear, carrying the vegetables in their respective pans, but he froze on the front steps because he's afraid of Betsy's little dogs.
It worked out okay, all things considered, and the lights came back on just as we were about to light the candles on the cake. Did I mention it was my mother's 74th birthday? Earlier in the day I'd bought those candles in the shape of numbers, a number seven, and a number four. They're a buck-fifty each but I sprung for them because we can use them again in July when Ken turns 47.
You tell me that's not a plot worthy of television? I got a million of them.
Come to think of it, since Ken mowed the lawn yesterday, I guess I am sleeping with the gardener.

song: Story of a Life • artist: Harry Chapin

Black Dog

Friday morning I accompanied my cousin up to Logan to pick up her new puppy which was arriving from North Carolina. Normally I'm against that sort of thing on principle - don't they have puppies on Nantucket? But I'm not against three hours of conversation with someone older than four. Plus Priscilla's in the clear, her last dog did come from the island.
Not to mention on the way back she stopped at Bongis Turkey Farm in Duxbury so I could load up on turkey pot pies. I got three big ones. Three is a respectable amount. Approach the register with four and you have the feeling the cashier is looking at you suspect. As in, "Why would anyone need four turkey pot pies?
And the puppy? Very cute!
Our second brush with the animal kingdom this weekend came this afternoon. This being our third day of rain showers, Ken went out during one of the breaks to mow the lawn. We all followed to make sure no irreplaceable backyard toys got chewed up in the mower.
In moving the blue tarp which was along the side of the house, I spied a garter snake. This caused a lot of excitement, and it wasn't until Ken tried to move it with a stick that we realized it was dead. As far as the kids were concerned, it was better dead since being dead meant it wasn't going to slither off any time soon.
C wanted to know why we couldn't keep it, after all dead pets are so much easier to care for. H ran around the yard yelling "Sssssss" and pointing, and C picked the snake up, moved it out of the path of the lawn mower, and told me how it felt rough. I stood by trying to contain my repulsion and kicking myself for not noticing the snake was dead before alerting my overly inquisitive family. It wasn't like C was knee deep in road kill, but still, who wants their kid picking up dead things in the yard? On the other hand who wants to squelch their son's potential future career in Herpetology just because dead snakes give them the willies?

song: Black Dog • artist: Led Zeppelin

Back in the USSR

Lessons in culture and geography from a four year old.
"Know why they call it Russia? Because all the people are speeding around and rushing everywhere. The speed limit must be about 95. But I don't really know that. We'd have to go there and see what it's like. Can you drive there?"

song: Back in the USSR • artist: The Beatles

Old Jim (He's a Good Dog, Him)

Maybe I looked like a witch on Thursday but on Wednesday I was a witch. I was the bad mommy who pulled over and took away the library books my kids were fighting over. I was also "dummy" and "stupid" according to my older son. Maybe I should have just felt lucky to have kids who fight over library books.
I didn't feel lucky though. First H was crying because his older brother grabbed away the two books he'd personally picked out that morning at the little library. Then I took the books away from C and gave them back to H which started C screaming. So I relieved them both of the books and listened to them both cry and call me names.
After making a stop at Don's house where I left my wailing children in the car, I explained to them that they needed to work out their problem themselves if they wanted the books back.
"We could share them," said my teary-eyed four-year old.
"Good idea." I said.
And - they did.
Everyone was happy for the rest of the trip home. You wouldn't think there could be so much drama on a ten-minute car ride across town.
The technique of removing the object that's causing friction between children, otherwise known as giving the toy a time out, is not one I made up myself; but as far as "expert advice" goes, it's pretty good. Kids seem more willing to work together to solve a problem when they know they'll both lose if they don't.
I don't like to comment on the politics of the day, because plenty of other blowhards already do, but this incident reminded me of the legislation being explored in Massachusetts regarding a statewide ban on pit bulls. If a handful of owners can't train or control their dogs, then nobody can have them. Sounds a lot like putting the toy in a time out to me except that even a four-year-old could tell you that unless the legislation applies to all breeds of dogs, then it's not fair.

song: Old Jim (He's a Good Dog, Him) • artist: Jonathan Edwards

And She Was

Local elections were held this week. I hope you all exercised your right to vote. I confess that although I try to make informed decisions, occasionally I have no idea who the local, state, or national candidates are, or what they stand for. When this happens, abstaining from casting a ballot or checking a box might be the appropriate action, but instead I opt to vote for the female candidate - if one is running.
Men have run this country for the past 231 years, it's time to put the mothers in charge.

song: And She Was • artist: Talking Heads

Season of the Witch

I hate this insane weather where it's freezing in the morning and sweltering by afternoon. I had to throw a black sweater on over my black skirt this morning on the way out the door and I'm afraid the kids at preschool are going to tell C his mom looks like a witch.

song: Season of the Witch • artist: Donovan

Green Shirt

Up in the attic tonight I was rummaging through the Rubbermaid containers labeled "Joanne: Summer" and I realized that like that wooden box in my desk, my attic is filling up with clothes I don't wear any more but with which I can't seem to part. There's the usual: one wedding dress, one maid of honor dress, and two prom dresses; but then the collection digresses. Going back 20 years there's the dress I wore to my high school graduation, which would probably be unmemorable except that I made it myself - with a lot of help from the Home Ec teacher. It's in a box with the "Elvis collection" featuring the faux red crushed velvet pants I wore to Las Vegas, and the pink dress I wore to Graceland. Also in the box is the shirt I wore to my one and only Grateful Dead concert. Think my kids will ever want to envision their mom at a Grateful Dead concert much less get a good look at the shirt she wore?
Then there's a bunch of stuff without as much sentimental value but with a lot of "just too cool to throw out" appeal. Several vintage dresses and tiny sweaters with three-quarter length sleeves, a vintage red, white, and blue sequined sweater that I thankfully, never actually wore anywhere. I have several wool skirts that my mother made and wore herself which I also wore, a skirt I made and wore, a sweater my mother knit me that I feel to guilty to part with, and a box full of concert t-shirts (mostly from Billy Joel concerts).
The attic is also the current residence of an assortment of vintage hats, several that were worn at my wedding and which used to hang in my now non-existent sewing room. There's still a chance I'll hang them in the bedroom, I finally hung up all my shoe paintings after seven-plus years of living here so it's possible the hats will be next.
The clothes in my attic don't include some items that are still in my parent's attic like a faux leopard-print swing coat and 1950s flower-print dress from The Garment District in Cambridge. That ensemble I wore to the Metropolitan Opera House. There's a full-length wool coat that was my grandfathers and a black dress with a big bustle that belonged either to my grandmother or my great grandmother. Somewhere I have photos of Aletha modeling it.
Unlike the business cards and wallet-sized photos in the little wooden box, the clothing take up a significant amount of space. After careful consideration and a long walk down memory lane, I decided I couldn't part with a single item.

song: Green Shirt • artist: Elvis Costello

Escape (The Pina Colada Song)

SWM seeks energetic older woman for companionship and play. Me: 32-inches tall, blue eyes, brown hair. You: old enough to cook mac and cheese and stay up past 8PM. Prefer intellectual stimulation to mind-numbing television viewing. Turn ons: long walks, throwing food, and running into the street. Turn offs: the dark and naps. Not interested in long-term commitment, still hung up on my mother. Must be willing to put me to bed.

song: Escape (The Pina Colada Song) • artist: Rupert Holmes

This One's For You

My mother's day card.
Guess which ice cream is for me?

song: This One's For You • artist: Barry Manilow

Mother

Ten Songs for Mother's Day

1. Stairway to Heaven - because mom's still cool and at some point everyone thinks this song is cool
2. Souvenirs by Billy Joel - because mom's sentimental.
3. The Way by Fastball- because mom thinks about it but she never would.
4. Your mother should know - because your mother should know
5. The Toreador Song from Carmen - because it's great a great song to play loudly when you're alone in the house and even though he sang Carmen this fiery song, she still turned him down.
6. Where have all the flowers gone/One Tin Soldier - because that's how mom feels about war.
7. I am Woman by Helen Reddy - because - well duh!
8. Harper Valley PTA - because Mommy doesn't like hypocrites
9. Where do the Children Play - because moms worry about the future.
10. Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper- because Cyndi's a great dresser and moms aren't always worrying about the future (and we still wonder what we're going to do with our life).

song: Mother • artist: John Lennon

The Portrait (a couplet)

A drawing of C and Me by He
Portraying Me most accurately

(That's me on the left in case you weren't sure.)

mothers day haiku

Crushed dandelions
pulled from the ground without stems
in my son's clenched fist.

Don't Do It

When my two-year old isn't trying to stick his hands in the kitty litter, he's taking the cat's dry cat food out of her dish and putting it in her water bowl. Or maybe he's eating it, it's hard to tell what's going on over in that corner of the kitchen. Well, he shouldn't get any hairballs at least.
I try to dissuade this behavior by putting the baby gates up and raising them six inches from the floor so the cat can get under them but the children can't. This means that instead of running his hands through kitty litter, my son is down on his belly trying to squeeze under the gate; consequently dragging himself all over the filthy kitchen floor. In comparison that makes playing with kitty litter look like a relatively clean activity.

song: Don't Do It • artist: The Band

Dust in the Wind

Remember those dead clams I cooked up for dinner last month? Today I inadvertently ran two of the shells through the washing machine. First I thought C must have left them in his pockets, but it's just as likely H deposited the shells in the washing machine himself. That's the draw back to having a front loader, toddlers can drop random things in it when you aren't looking.
And speaking of laundry - how did I miss this? April 19 was national Hang Out Your Laundry Day. Who knew hanging out ones laundry could be a political act? I know I complain about our tarp and our endless list of home improvement projects, but I can't imagine living in a subdivision or association where the rules would infringe upon my right to a clothes line. With the ever increasing price of energy, I would think that clothes lines would become a mandatory feature in these developments with tree-hugger names like "Whispering Pines" and "Grazing Meadows." How about some government kickback or tax incentive for clothes-line users to offset the price of clothes pins?

song: Dust in the Wind • artist: Kansas

Roadside Blight (a couplet)

Plastic bags flutter in the breeze,
from the branches of all the trees.

Tell Her No

My newly-minted two year old was up before me this morning.
I could hear him in his crib practicing his vocabulary:
"No, no, no, no."
"No!"
"Nnnn No."

song: Tell Her No • artist: The Zombies

Tiptoe Through the Tulips

The garden has produced only one tulip.
Is that an oxymoron?

song: Tiptoe Through the Tulips • artist: Tiny Tim

Gridlock

Is there any road in town that's not being worked on? There's Rte. 28A in front of the Market; Central Avenue; and Rte. 28 in front of Mahoney's, and, just beyond the Davisville lights. And that's just me trying to drive to my parent's house in Waquoit.
Let's just say, with half the police force on traffic detail, it would be a good week to rob a bank. Just make sure you plan that getaway route carefully - or use a bike.

song: Gridlock • artist: Warren Zevon

Songbird

Cowbirds were in the front yard today. I shooed them away from the holly bush which I'm quite certain has a hermit thrush nest in it. Called parasites, a cow bird will lay its eggs in another birds' nest; leaving the host family to raise its young along with their own chicks.
Perhaps they are on to something. Sure, they miss the chick's formative years, their first peeps, learning to ride a bicycle, their first haircut and the like, but on the other hand, the surrogate parents have to gather extra grubs, foot the bill for college, and, expensive orthodontia.
Why do the hosts put up with this? I suppose it's just too hard to explain where that extra egg came from. Picture the scene in which the male bird returns to the nest and finds the new chick.
"Are you sure it's mine?" He squawks incredulously, "it doesn't look a thing like me."
"Of course it's yours," retorts the wife, "don't you trust me?
"Besides," she adds, "when would I have time for an affair? I'm stuck at home sitting on these eggs all day!"
"I don't know, it just seems fishy to me."
"Like you know fishy. Go get me some more worms."

song: Songbird • artist: Fleetwood Mac

birtday couplet #3

Because today you're two,
I baked this cake for you!

When I Paint My Masterpiece

When Ken and I got married, I folded 1,000 origami cranes (senbazuru) to use as centerpieces at our reception and later to send to the peace park in Hiroshima. One thousand paper cranes, and eight years later, and I still seem to have 500 sheets of origami paper left, paper in which my son has taken a recent interest.
Unfortunately he's a lot like me when it comes to creative endeavors, not enough patience to actually read instructions, or in his case, not old enough to read instructions. So for him origami is just a lot of random folding and creasing, and after he's done he announces what's been created: it's a tunnel, or a flower, or cat in a snowstorm (isn't that some kind of joke?). Then he'll add "did you know I could make such a good flower, tunnel, cat in a snowstorm."
He does the same thing with Sculpey. We have buckets full of modeling clay that never dries out, but he insisted on getting some Sculpey because you can cook it in the oven. It hardens and then your masterpiece can be painted. In my son's case, that masterpiece is some small, unrecognizable object, that looks more like a piece of clay that inadvertently fell on the floor underneath the table, then something that was thought through and purposefully made.
I'm caught between trying to enthusiastically support his artistic endeavors and telling him to stop wasting origami paper or clay. On the other hand, what am I saving all that origami paper for - my second wedding?
When we were kids we didn't have clay that stayed soft. You had to meticulously put your Play-Dough back in its container when you were finished with it lest it dry out. Inevitably lots of Play-Dough got left out, dried, and stuck to the orange shag rug. Eventually, despite being careful, the Play-Dough dried out anyway and there was nothing left to do with it except eat it. Mmmm, salty.
The memory of Play-Dough is why parents today consider clay that doesn't dry out to be a scientific breakthrough rivaling the invention of anesthesia. We can't conceive of why our kids would covet clay that hardens. Why go back to the dark ages? We want to wave a pointed finger at them and say "when I was a kid they didn't have clay that stayed soft forever. You kids today - you're the ones who are soft."

song: When I Paint My Masterpiece • artist: Bob Dylan

the snore: a persona poem

Reverberating through the pillow and up to your ear.
In a quiet house at night I'm the only thing you'll hear.

Everything is Broken

Curses to the manufacturers of cheap plastic toys which break easily and often, and to the grandparents and other well-meaning but misguided people who give them to my children. They are always broken within 24-hours of arriving at our house despite repeated warnings issued by yours truly to, "be careful." But no matter how much I warn my little product testers, they always seem genuinely shocked when the item of questionable quality breaks. So instead of issuing a stern "I told you so," I console my broken-hearted child and mutter the curse again, under my breath.

song: Everything is Broken • artist: Bob Dylan

Poor Wandering One

Dear Connie,
There was an news brief in today's paper about a guy who rear ended another driver on Main Street because he was distracted by his pet bird! The bird was sitting on his shoulder at the time of the accident.
I hope you don't drive around Ottawa with Buddy perched on one shoulder and Jack on the other!
The brief ended by saying that the driver was given a verbal warning for following the other car too closely. And yet no warning at all about the inherent dangers of driving with a bird on one's shoulder and not a bit of information on whether or not the man was dressed as a pirate. Arrrrr!

song: Poor Wandering One • musical: Pirates of Penzance

Just Can't Wait

What is the appropriate amount of time one should spend on hold before giving up and acknowledging that, despite the soothing classical music, your call is assuredly lost in the ether of the Fidelity hold system? I called with a question about my son's 529 account and was on hold long enough for my future college graduate to wake up from his nap. I felt I ought to cut the connection and go upstairs before he climbed out of his crib, fell on his head and sustained a brain injury which would result in bad grades on his MCAS and SATS, and lead to his not being accepted at even his back-up college sixteen years from now. Perhaps that was Fidelity's intension all along.

song: Just Can't Wait • artist: J. Giles Band

rainy day couplet #2

it's raining outside, do you think there's a way
to keep them from trashing the whole house today?

rainy day couplet #1

how much of the bubble paint and stamp-pad ink
can they eat before getting sick do you think?

One

I sucked up one of H's socks with the vacuum cleaner this afternoon. I couldn't decide whether to open up the canister and fish it out, or just suck up the other one and be done with it.

song: One • artist: U2

Knowing Me, Knowing You

The latest chapter book we've been reading to C is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The other day at breakfast C declared that he wished Charlie was a real person. I presumed, though I didn't ask, that he wished this because he thought Charlie was a nice kid and that he would be fun to hang out with. I can picture it, they have a lot in common: their names both start with the letter C, they both have grandfather's named Joe, and they both have a penchant for finding money.
In an effort to reinforce the joys of reading I said that I'd read books where I'd wished the characters were real as well.
Once I said it I was immediately sorry because I knew what was coming.
"Who did you wish was real?"
Who indeed.
Well, it's not exactly high brow, but for a long while I wished that the cool friends in Bridget Jones's Diary were my friends. The friends get short changed in the movie, you need to read the book to appreciate them. But upon further consideration I decided that my friends were just as cool. They even have the added advantage of being real; most of them just live too far away. Bridget not only had cool friends who lived near by, she also got to date both Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. Lucky girl.
I read The Devil Wears Prada not that long ago. I enjoyed the character of the roommate, Lily, who was flawed yet likable - I don't want any pretend friends who are too perfect.
Currently I'm reading a book about the Transcendentalists called American Bloomsbury. I wouldn't have minded knowing Emerson, Hawthorn, Thoreau, Alcott, and Margaret Fuller. But they were real, it's just that they lived 150 years ago, so they don't count.
Then I got to thinking about how where you are in life might affect the important decision of who to choose for fantasy book-character relationships. If you'd asked me in high school, I would have offered up a resounding Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities and Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. Not because I wanted to meet them, but because I wanted to date them. If I met them now, to Sydney I would say: "Stop! she's not worth it! She doesn't even like you!" A far, far better place indeed. Sap. And to Heathcliff I would advise: "she married someone else, get over it already." There's no need to spend half the book moping about. On the other hand, characters I didn't think twice about back then I might find intriguing today. For example Hester Prynne of The Scarlet Letter fame. She was an interesting character to be sure, not to mention someone in need of a friend. I could probably do without knowing Gene or Phineas from A Separate Peace, and Holden Caulfield was too pessimistic even for yours truly.
After the rromance infatuation stage, I moved on to the pull-your-self-up-by-the-bootstraps and live-your-value types. People like Howard Roark and Dominique Francon, and John-the-savage from Brave New World.
I have heard people talk about books that "changed their lives." An acquaintance once said she decided to get divorced after reading Kerouac's Dharma Bums. Remind me never to read that. All I ever got from reading Kerouac was a headache, though I must admit I quit after On The Road. Likewise, I did not enjoy Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I knew someone who adopted Hunter Thompsons's schizophrenic style of writing, I guess you could say Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas changed his life, though I'm not sure for the better.
Getting back to my son's question though, I suppose what he meant to ask was, "when you were my age, mommy, what character did you wish was real?" That's easy. Pippi Longstocking. Definitely Pippi Longstocking.

song: Knowing Me, Knowing You • artist: Abba

Splish Splash

This is why we don't need an in-ground pool in our yard. They are wearing their boots, you just can't see them over the puddle.

song: Splish Splash • artist: Bobbie Darin

Steppin' Out

Is it safe to take a bath during a thunder and lightening storm? I wasn't sure, so I made them get out.

song: Steppin' Out • artist: Michelle Shocked

Hold My Hand

One of the greatest things about being a mother is having two small hands hold yours when crossing a parking lot. Of course it's difficult to free yourself from the pocket books, shoulder bags, diaper bags, and other assorted paraphernalia mothers seem required tote with them as if we were camels; but for the few times you can manage it and they'll both acquiesce to holding hands with you - at that moment, there isn't much that can top the sweetness of being someone's mom.

song: Hold My Hand • artist: Hootie and the Blowfish

Circle

The kids and I went to Sphor Gardens last Saturday. Not that many of the daffodils were in bloom yet but that didn't stop us from having a good time. There were anchors to climb on, millstones to climb through, and rocks to throw in the water. And, C found four pennies by the parking lot.

song: Circle • artist: Harry Chapin

shoeless tercet

Again without your shoe
son number two?
What's a mother to do?

Dead Skunk

Since C was out with Ken on Sunday afternoon, it seemed like a good time to boil up the dead mussels and quahog that he'd had sitting in a bucket of fresh water, along with the claw from a blue crab and a headless plastic action figure, outside our front door for a week.
Boil them up you say, why would I boil up dead shellfish? To fool my son into thinking the spaghetti and clam sauce we had for dinner that night was made from his catch - of course. Even if he did "catch" them lying in the dirt road on the way to Black Beach after last week's storm. That means they were probably dead before they sat outside our house in a bucket for seven days. Good thing. I wouldn't want to have any mollusk blood on my hands.
It would not have been enough just to tell C that the clams we were eating were his. Like Doubting Thomas he would have to see the empty shells in order to believe. I went as far as opening the canned clams, dumping them in a plastic container and putting them in the fridge, and then disposing of the cans in the recycle bin. I almost strategically placed the blender on the counter but then decided I didn't have to go that far.
C was still upset. He wanted to know if I'd used all his clams and mussels because said he had some other recipe to make with them. Then he vowed to go out and get more clams right away.
What struck me, aside from the fact that you can't win with preschoolers, was the lengths parents go through to lie to their children.
Before I had kids I remember a coworker admitting he told his children that their behavior-challenged dog went to "camp" instead of telling them the dog had been sent back to the pound. Another coworker said he told his daughter that roadkill animals were "just sleeping," instead of admitting they were dead. Some parents might see this as a "teachable moment;" one in which you warn your kids about the dangers of not watching for cars. I thought as much at the time, but here I am five years later unable to tell my kid his clams are dead, never mind the squirrel in the street.

song: Dead Skunk • artist: Loudon Wainwright

haiku for a nest

forget spring cleaning.
move out completely each fall.
rebuild in April.

De Do Do Do

Here's some Earth Day irony.
When we were in Maine last month we took a few long walks. I noticed on one that the Trustees of Reservations, or whoever maintains the trail, offered the public a dispenser of small plastic bags at the trailhead. This enables dog walkers to be responsible for literally carrying out everything their pets carry in. In theory it's a great idea right? No poop on the trails for us non-dog walkers to step in, or for our children to play in (cause you know they would if they could).
The problem is that twice we saw tied baggies left behind, inadvertently or not, on the trail. So now, instead of doggie waste in the open air that would quickly decompose (or get eaten by other dogs), now there's doggie do that is hermetically sealed in plastic bags which could end up being in the woods for eons - or at least until it blows into nearby Portland Harbor.

song: De Do Do Do • artist: The Police

spring peeper haiku

I hear the peepers.
Tiny harbingers of spring
outside my front door

earth day quatrain

So here's to Earth
land of my birth
I'd better respect her
I can't defect from her

ouch! (a cinquain)

Onions
plus paper cut
make mommy's eyes water.
Someone get me a band aid, please.
That smarts.

Sweet Child O' Mine

Estelle and her family have been in town and came to our house for dinner last week. I was going to say that Estelle was Ken's last roommate; she lived with us at the Gunning Point house back in 1999 before we got married, but I guess technically that distinction belongs to me. Besides, she's got her own Ken now, plus baby Yumi.
It wasn't enough that she brought me a floaty pen with a picture of a volcano on it from the town in France where they live, I had to go and eat my son's gift of a chocolate bar too.
I'm no expert, but it seemed like a quality bar of chocolate. I know someone who would know, but alas she is out at sea. The label said the following: Onctueux coeur de truffe et coulis de chocolat. Enrobés d'un intense chocolat noir 70% cacao. I don't know what that means. It seems I am destined to forever regret not paying attention in high school French class. My guess is it says "this chocolate is so good you will want to steal it from a four year old." I, however, like to think of it not as stealing so much as saving my son from the perils of tooth decay. By eating the candy bar I'm keeping him from a potential lifetime of oral hygiene woes. It's the dental equivalent of throwing myself in front of a bus; in this case not to save his life but to save his teeth.
Besides, we established on Friday that he can always get his sugar fix from Children's Tylenol.

song: Sweet Child O' Mine • artist: Guns N' Roses

Year of the Cat

Giving the cat antibiotics is the worst. It's worse than giving medicine to your kids. Children's Tylenol has so much "cherry flavoring" in it the sense I get from seeing my kids take it is it tastes downright good. At least no one ever complains.
The cat's medicine in contrast, although the same color, must taste not nearly as good since she runs away every time she sees me coming with it and I have to drag her out by the scruff of the neck to force it down. The scruff and the dragging are nothing compared to the dirty look she gives me after it's over that says, "I trusted you - how could you do this to me?"
That look is why I used to pay the vet to give her flea baths. I chose, for $25 a dip, to let her hate the veterinarian and not me.
Speaking of fleas, the vet once told me my cat had the second worst case of them he'd ever seen.
What? Only second worst? Still, it's impressive for an indoor cat who got fleas second had when she and I moved into an apartment formally occupied by another single woman - single longer than myself since she'd managed to accrue two cats and a dog - and a basement apartment full of fleas.
When I first got my cat she was a kitten and I was a recent college graduate. We made a deal, though she may not remember, that she would stick around until my 40th birthday. A date at the time that seemed light years, but is now a mere 10 months, away. This is why I keep chasing the cat around the house armed with the bottle of antibiotics. She's going to keep her end of the bargain dammit.

song: Year of the Cat • artist: Al Stewart

cold spring haiku

Is it climate change?
She wondered out loud
from inside the house.

there once was a man from nantucket...

It's a birthday couplet-
for the man from Nantucket!

Up on the Roof

Another day of rain equals another day of wondering whether or not our roof will leak. It retrospect, we took the blue tarp down prematurely having nailing it up Sunday morning in anticipation of the big storm. I recently bemoaned the fact that we are going to become known as the "West Falmouth Tarp People" by e-mailing my friend in Canada who just moved into a brand new house. She hasn't written back, no doubt she's unwilling to admit knowing "tarp people" like me. As if the tarp wasn't bad enough we've got an in-need-of-repair dory sitting in our driveway. All we need is an old truck with some tires missing. If we had a porch we could stick an old couch out on it.
The irony is that to a four year old, having the roof leak is about the best fun you can have indoors; second only to putting the cat in her travel box and pushing her around the house. My son was sincerely upset that we were putting up a tarp and spoiling his good time. He was elated yesterday when the roof finally did leak and he got to take all the Tupperware bowls out and strategically place them around the dining room. To be fair - it was only one leak and we only needed one container. I guess I need to look at home repair through the eyes of a preschooler and things wouldn't look so bad.
The situation was getting me down until I had to deliver some copy to a friend's house in town. I left the pages in a folder between the storm and front door and I noticed that there was a stick wedged into the storm door, presumably keeping it from blowing open in heavy winds.
I would not be exaggerating to say this woman and her husband might just be the smartest people I know. What a relief to find out that geniuses get behind on their home repairs too. Of course unlike myself, they've got the excellent excuse that they've been too busy saving the world to fix their storm door.
At least the big pile of dirt is gone from my front yard - remember that?

song: Up on the Roof • artist: The Drifters

Ride Captain Ride

A huge component of successful parenting is having the right stuff. The more children you have, the more stuff you need. When you go out someplace - it's like that George Carlin skit - you have to bring your stuff. The amount of stuff you need seems to be inversely proportionate to the size of your child. That is to say, the smaller the child, the more stuff they require.
We've all seen the (first time) parent pushing the enormous combination baby stroller and car seat with the 10lb baby asleep inside and the 20lb diaper bag stowed away in the underneath compartment.
That's the real reason I chose to breastfeed. It meant less stuff to have to carry around.
I do however own every kind of device imaginable for transporting ones offspring about before they are old enough to make it under their own steam. The list includes: jogging stroller, umbrella stroller, wagon, baby Bjorn, back pack (2 of them), and hip pack.
The trouble is deciding which one to bring on which outing.
My personal favorite is the back pack. It's more mobile than the stroller and you can put fussy children in it at home and continue to make dinner, do laundry, and answer e-mail. It's also easier to navigate through a store, just don't get up too close to things, H once knocked over a life-size cardboard display of Waldo at a bookstore in Sandwich. Another back pack caveat is that you need to constantly wear a hat to prevent your little hitch hiker from pulling out the rest of your already thinning hair.
There's a real art to choosing right combination of stuff for a given outing.
A few weeks ago (back when it wasn't raining) I brought the bike with training wheels for C and the stroller for H on an bike path walk. This turned out to be a mistake because H did not want to be in the stroller he wanted to ride his older brother's bike or, in lieu of that, walk by himself. I should have brought the back pack because it's less cumbersome to carry and I would have had it available when H finally tired himself out. When you have the stroller you have to move it off the bike path and set the break each time before running down the bike path in pursuit of your toddler - it's far too complicated.
The wagon, though not as utilitarian as the back pack (you can't really bring it into stores except for the post office and Coffee Obsession in Woods Hole), is another good choice because often I can get my older son to pull his younger brother and when he tires himself out there's room in the wagon for the two of them.
That's how we went to Saturday's Step it Up Rally. I was going to bring the stroller but had a revelation in the driveway and decided on the wagon at the last minute. Another plus for the wagon is it's easy to fit into the car and doesn't usually obstruct my view out the back window.
This turned out to be the right call. What's more appropriate for a demonstration on climate change than toting your children to the event in the alternative transportation provided by a Radio Flyer Red Wagon?

song: Ride Captain Ride • artist: Blues Image

Dress You Up

Everyday is the same routine. I spend what seems like half the morning trying to convince my son to take off his pajamas and put on clothes, only to turn around after dinner and have to wrangle him into his pjs again.
Logic doesn't work. Pointing out that his younger brother is already dressed (or undressed) has no effect. The threat of not leaving the house all day doesn't carry water.
One book on coping with the behavior of children suggested tackling the problem with humor. The author must have been a better man than I could hope to be because I find nothing humorous in trying to convince a four year old to get dressed, before the newspaper, before a cup of tea. Ditto for the end of the day when I'm exhausted and just want him to "get into your pajamas already!"
I've also read that you should indulge them periodically with the occasional pajama day. This advice is bunk because after you break all the rules once they can't understand why everyday can't be pajama day.
I've had some success in appealing to his competitive side by getting out the stop watch and timing how long it takes him to dress. Sometimes this works, but what you ultimately want is for them to want to get dressed - to want to cooperate - not to be tricked into it.
I think the real problem is that adults and kids see time completely differently. For you and I, the space between breakfast and lunch is brief, it's as if I finally get him dressed when BANG! it's time to get him undressed. The way he sees it, the time between morning and evening is almost infinite. I know this is true because often around lunchtime he'll say, "remember this morning when it took me so long to get dressed?" As if it's possible I might have forgotten something that happened a mere three hours ago.
"Yes," I say.
"Did you know it would take me so long to get dressed?" he says, sincerely unable to remember that we've played this game before.
"Yes," I say.

song: Dress You Up • artist: Madonna

Stop Making Sense

Every week my son talks to his grandparents in Connecticut on the telephone. What's so funny about what he says isn't what he says, it's what he doesn't say. His recap of this week included announcing that it was Sandy's birthday, without disclosing that Sandy is his stuffed bunny; telling a story about a cat who had kittens at the Enterprise, without mentioning that it happened at least ten years ago; and telling about how he went to the boat show but there were all these signs that said "Do Not Touch" so he couldn't touch any of the boats until we saw a sign that said "Kids, you can touch these boats." He didn't let on that we were at a model boat show.
Saturday morning he looked outside from an upstairs window and saw an Easter egg a few rungs up a ladder in the backyard. I was in the back yard when he came screaming down and ran outside to collect it. I might have thought the house was on fire except our designated meeting place is by the horse head hitching post replica that our house number hangs off of in the front yard. Upon collecting his treasure, instead of realizing the stray egg was a left over from Sunday he declared in perfect kid logic, "the Easter bunny came back!"

album: Stop Making Sense • artist: Talking Heads

Just One Look

Like most sequels, I have long considered The Cat In The Hat Comes Back (TCITHCB) to be completely inferior to the original from whence it originated. So much so that I almost wish my mother had not squirreled away my copy of TCITHCB to pass down to my kids. The one bright spot (pun intended) in the book is this illustration. The nameless brother is suppose to be looking at the pink spot on "mother's white dress," but it's pretty evident what he's really gaping at. I didn't notice this as a kid, but it makes me laugh when I read the book to my son. Maybe it's purely accidental, but I think Dr. Seuss paid too much attention to detail in all his books to overlook nameless brother blatantly ogling his "mother's white dress" in TCITHCB.
This brings us to exhibit B, a sticker that came in the Dover Book of Old-Time Easter Stickers the Easter bunny brought my son. How busty is this bunny? She's some kind of weird "pinup" Easter bunny! And what's with the those tiny bunny feet? Rabbits have great big kangaroo-type back feet, suitable for jumping. Not only is this bunny just a little too well-endowed, she's been a victim of some sick, rabbit foot-binding experiment. Somebody call PETA.

song: Just One Look • artist: Linda Ronstadt

I Feel Lucky

paraskevidekatriaphobia: Greek for fear of Friday the thirteenth.
Why would the Greeks have a word for it if there wasn't something to it?
Better stay on the road and keep clear of the moors. No, wait, that's just for full moons.

song: I Feel Lucky • artist: Mary Chapin Carpenter

Add it Up

My son is fixated with numbers. Last weekend he counted to over 1,000 while in the back seat of the car. in case you are wondering how far you might have to travel in order to count to 1,000 yourself, we drove round trip to Sandwich on Saturday and to Woods Hole and back on Sunday. He counted to 1,125 to be precise. I know this not just because I was there, but because he told everyone about it for the next week. "Did you know I could count that high," he asked his father, his grandfather, his grandmother, and anyone else who would listen.
When he's not counting he's in the back seat calling out random strings of numbers and asking me, "what number is that?" or surmising different measurements or weights, as in, "I think our house weights ninety-hundred," or "the hallway is about 100-feet, don't you think?"
Sometimes he'll tax my math skills by asking me to add things exponentially. He'll start with "what's two plus two," then four plus four, eight plus eight, and so on until I tell him I need a piece of paper in order to keep going and he can't understand why I'm stopping since he knows that numbers go all the way up to past one million.
And to think, I once considered majoring in math. If it hadn't been for word problems perhaps I would have.

song: Add it Up • artist: The Violent Femmes

Sympathy for the Devil

I rented (from the library) and watched the movie Saved! Tuesday night. Yes, I still watch teenage angst movies, ones that get good reviews. This movie made me like Macaulay Culkin a lot more than Home Alone or its sequel, and I never saw My Girl because, although I like teenage angst movies, I don't like tear jerkers. So in this particular movie the spin is that it's set in a Christian high school and most of the kids are born again Christians. This leads to lots of funny lines like, "You are just jealous of my success in the Lord," and "I mean you're not born a gay, you're born again!" The movie's antagonist, Hilary Faye, gets her comeupance at the prom, an event she's hell bent (pun intended) on attending despite a maxed out credit card, having to drive a handicapped van to the event, and, a big pimple on her chin.
I didn't feel bad for Hilary Faye - she had it coming to her - at least I didn't think I felt bad until I woke up yesterday with a pimple in the exact same spot as Mandy Moore's character. Imagine my surprise. Sympathy acne at my age!

song: Sympathy for the Devil • group: The Rolling Stones

You Ain't Going Nowhere

We did everyone's favorite activity on Saturday: took the cat to the vet. You should see both of my children crowd around when I have to give the cat her antibiotics twice a day. They are like little rubberneckers at the scene of an accident.

song: You Ain't Going Nowhere • artist: Bob Dylan

Our Town

Hey Pammie! I was going to mention last week that we'd gone out to dinner at Paul's Pizza Thursday night and after we got home all I could think about was the leftovers that were in the fridge and how I couldn't wait until morning to have them for breakfast!
I wasn't sure though if it was cool to expound on a restaurant I remember having my 10th birthday party at (before the restaurant burned down and was rebuilt), or if it just accentuated my pathetic lack of appreciation for sophisticated cuisine resulting from continued living in my own home town!

song: Our Town • artist: Iris Dement

What's the Buzz?

The Easter story sounds pretty typical actually. Three women tell eleven men something very important and only one of the men believes the women and even he has to go and check it out for himself. (Luke 24:9-12)

song: What's the Buzz? • soundtrack: Jesus Christ Superstar

It looks like you (got some explaining to do)

I just don't understand the rules of Easter. What exactly does the Easter bunny do? Does he (or she) take eggs you've already decorated and hide them in the yard? Does he (or she) hide eggs decorated by somebody else in the yard? Does he (or she) bring you an Easter basket, and if so, how does he (or she) get into your house - down the chimney like Santa? Do you provide the basket and the Easter bunny just fills it or does he (or she) bring a brand new basket every year?
I don't like this holiday because there's no agreed upon script. Whatever we decide, which is that the Easter bunny hides plastic eggs in the back yard and leaves presents on the deck, is most assuredly not what the Easter bunny does at other people's houses. How should I explain the inconsistencies? Do I say that the Easter bunny likes to "mix it up?"
It occurs to me that if my son had only come downstairs an hour ago when I had tissue paper, ribbons, plastic eggs, presents, and baskets strewn all over the dining room table the whole thing could have been over right then and there.
I can see why my parents stuck to the one about the religious figure who gets killed on "good" Friday and then brought back to life three days later. It's a lot easier to explain.

song: It looks like you (got some explaining to do)
artist: Evan Dando & The Lemonheads

Over There

Graphic design used to be an admired profession. There were people like Paul Rand, Saul Bass and Alexey Brodovitch - famous graphic designers. You had to know math equations to estimate if your copy would fit on the page in the size and typeface you desired. The profession had its own special language, people talked about picas and leading, x-heights and kerning.
Then computers became common place and anyone with a decent desktop publishing program and a Mac could be a designer. Then the programs went cross platform, got even easier, and began shipping with templates; and anyone who could maneuver a mouse could be their own graphic designer. They could, except that the jig would be up the minute they designed something with centered copy, or using all upper case letters.
It's much the same for writers. Perhaps even worse. I don't profess to be a writer as I have little academic training in the field. I came by it as a result of working for a small newspaper, where, if you expressed an interest in something it was possible you'd be given the chance to test your mettle.
Many summers ago my aunt learned that one of the conductors at the College Light Opera Company was also going to conduct Opera New England's fall opera. "Wouldn't you like to interview Elizabeth Hastings for the paper, dear?" she asked.
I agreed. The entertainment editor at the time agreed. I borrowed a tape deck and went to meet Elizabeth. So did my aunt who ended up doing 90% of the interview. I wrote the piece up, got all the credit, and went on to write other things for the newspaper though I still feel like an impostor calling myself a writer or a journalist. Writing is an art form, and as such, not something to be entered into lightly. Today anyone with a laptop and spell check can call themselves a writer, but as with graphic design, the slightest slip can cause the curtain to be pulled back, exposing the cheap veneer.
Take for example the improper use of the word "there." I know the word has three different spellings, but they are not interchangeable.
First you've got there the place, as in: I went there, but alas, I could not find them.
Then we've got their showing possession, as in: Too bad they left, I wanted to get their signatures on this petition.
Finally we have they're the contraction of they and are, as in: Damn. They're not here, they must have left.
If you mix these up in, say, a letter to your grandmother, well, that's one thing. If you call yourself a writer and submit copy for publication with such blatant errors, then it's time to apologize to your 10th grade English teacher - he told you to pay attention.
But maybe I'm just bitter because it's the day before Easter, 32-degrees out, and squirrels ate all my crocuses.

song: Over There • artist: George M Cohan

I Know a Chicken

This time I watched the eggs like a hawk (pun intended!), and took them off the stove the minute the water started to boil. Still, one cracked. What is it with these white egges? They must be more delicate than brown eggs. Guess that's because "brown eggs are local eggs, and local eggs are fresh!"
Speaking of fresh eggs, here's my farm pitch, Coonamesset opened yesterday, have you got your membership card yet?

song: I Know a Chicken • song: Laurie Berkner

Sign Your Name

My sister stayed over the other night.
She forgot to sign the guest book.
She did however have two bowls of my son's latest creation, "book soup".

song: Sign Your Name • artist: Terence Trent D'Arby

I Fall to Pieces

Eight eggs were hard boiled at our house yesterday morning. While in the living room queuing up Jemima Puddle Duck on the VCR, I accidentally boiled the eggs for too long, cracking two of them, which we ate for lunch. Lovers of Beatrix Potter will recognize the irony in this. In the story of Jemima Puddle Duck, Miss Puddle Duck is so intent on hatching her own eggs she leaves her farm and befriends a fox in order to have a go at it. Things end badly for those eggs as well.
This brought the total down to six eggs. One, left unattended, rolled off the dining room table. Another got holes poked in it by a curious toddler.
That left only four to paint, decorate with yarn, and cover with stickers.
And what's with this weather? I keep sending C out to hang plastic eggs on tress in the front yard and he keeps coming back in, telling me it's too cold to stay outside.

song: I Fall to Pieces • artist: Patsy Cline

blow out (a quatrain)

a balloon full of air
that ceases to be,
leaves child in despair,
annoys mom – that's me.

White Rabbit

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it: so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?"
"Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers,–
"Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling – the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: he taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils."
"What was that like?" said Alice.
"Well I can't show it to you, myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it."
"Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classical master, though. He was an old crab, he was."
"I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sign. "He taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say."
"So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon , sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws.
"And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.
"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on."
"What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice.
"That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lesson from day to day."
This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over before she made her next remark.
"Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?"
"Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle.

–from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

If only Uncle Wiggly was so witty!

song: White Rabbit • artist: Jefferson Airplane

Sit Down You're Rockin' the Boat

With cruise season approaching, this public service announcement is made at the request of a good friend who happens to be an experienced cruiser (of luxury liners, not muscle cars). It seems, not surprisingly, that ice shows aren't the only place where seat-savers create a nuisance. On cruise ships, people actually send their "representatives" up at 6AM to place towels on the prime lounge chairs nearest the pool, freeing up the cruiser to sleep in, meander up on deck at 11, and claim their saved spot. Other cruisers refer to this as chair hogging.
Pssst! Do not do this! The rest of the people on the ship hate you for this! Do not take their displeasure with you lightly as you may need these people someday. For example if the ship goes down in shark-infested waters and you find yourself swimming for the lifeboat only to see the folks you scorned from the "good" pool chairs taking to the oars and rowing off in the other direction. Or, if you're suddenly unable to breathe after accidentally swallowing a chicken bone at dinner and your own personal Julie McCoy is up on deck putting out your beach towel for tomorrow while your shipmates go on with their meals pretending they don't know the international symbol for "help! I am choking!"
I've been informed that other, less dramatic ways your shipmates will exhibit their disapproval at chair hogging include moving the offending towels and relocating the deck chairs, and then pretending to be asleep when the chair hogs finally arrive. Another tactic is to blatantly take the seats and, if confronted, say "I'm sorry but the people who were in these chairs left a little while ago and said we could use them." This leaves the chair hog confused and unable to know exactly who to be angry at; but you can bet Gopher's not getting a big tip at the end of the trip and Captain Stubing is going to hear about it when the ship gets in to Puerto Vallarta.

song: Sit Down Your Rockin' the Boat • soundtrack: Guys and Dolls

dearest christine, (a couplet)

More fab at thirty nine,
than any rhyme of mine!

The Piano Man

For a good time, listen to Glenway at Coffee O in Woods Hole.
Every Sunday morning!
Will work for cookies.

song: The Piano Man • artist: Billy Joel

Non Je Ne Regrette Rein

An e-mail from a high school friend informed me he was working "in Brest at the moment."
Working in Brest? It's like a teenage boy's fantasy.
A teenage boy who can't spell that is.

song: Non Je Ne Regrette Rein • artist: Edith Piaf

Same Old Song and Dance

Last weekend was the annual ice show for the figure skating club. It was one of only a handful of shows in the past 35 years that I've attended as a sheer spectator and not been somehow involved in the performance. The first comment I want to make is about audience etiquette, which was, for the most part, decent. There wasn't a lot of talking, there was appropriate applause, and there was minimal amounts of people walking past and blocking the view of the ice. However, a word about seat saving. Firstly, a bouquet of flowers does not a saved seat make. At least put a little effort into it and spread out a blanket. Secondly, if your party cannot manage to arrive by the start of the first act, I think etiquette requires that they graciously forfeit their seats and allow the rest of us, who arrived a half-hour early, to spread out into the saved area.
Other observations concerned the performance itself. One thing that stood out was that my son was far more interested in watching the group numbers than the endless parade of features and solos that made up the bulk of the show. This wouldn't have crossed my mind before though it seems like a no brainer: what's more interesting, a whole lot of people skating around, or just one lone person skating around? If you'd asked me when I was 14 I'd have answered the soloist of course - isn't that the apex to which every young skater aspires? To have the spotlight on her alone? And when I was out there for my two minutes it would never have occurred to me that the entire audience might not be transfixed by my performance. That they might be busy unraveling a scarf or finding 12 cents in a spilled pile of popcorn or even leaving their seats to use the bathroom. However, even though, along with grandparents, they make up most of the audience, I guess four year olds weren't the demographic I was trying to impress back then.
And was it my imagination or were the axels a lot bigger when we were kids? I remember Anne Marie traveling in the air the length of half the rink. Well maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration but jumps did seem a lot bigger. And the music was faster. We weren't all trying to be dramatic and give the most memorable interpretation of a Whitney Houston hit. I did it all the time in practice to Diana Ross, the Carpenters, and Dionne Warwick (hey, I'm not proud), but most of us chose more upbeat songs for the show. I know it seems like the most important two minutes of your life, it seemed that way to me, but still, skaters should try to have a little fun and remember the old adage - if everyone skates slow and dramatic, then no one skates slow and dramatic.
I downloaded "Trickle, Trickle" by the Manhattan Transfer off iTunes just to confirm that it was indeed a fast song - remember when Susie Beale skated to that?
Now that girls ice hockey has become mainstream I wonder too if figure skating has lost some of its more athletic skaters to the sport. Given the opportunity, would Susie, Jill, and Anne Marie have played hockey instead? There aren't any solos in a game of hockey, only two minute penalties, but there are college scholarships for female hockey players and that's got to provide some incentive. I can't say there's the same for figure skating.

song: Same Old Song and Dance • artist: Aerosmith