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

I'd Do it all Again

Repetition is part of every job. That's why Mary Poppins advocated whistling while you work - to take the edge off the repetition. Even in the seemingly relaxed world of the "supplement coordinator" there are the usual deadlines to contend with and the inevitable angry advertiser whose ice cream shop or camp ground was left out of a story.
When my son gets dressed in the morning he always asks me what he should do with his Pull-Up. I admire his optimism in believing that someday there might be an alternative answer to my usual response: "put it in the trash can."

song: I'd Do it all Again • artist: Shirley Bassey

Say, Say, Say

I don't understand - why, why, can't Uncle Wiggly speak the language of the boys and girls when he can understand what they are saying? It would make things so much easier.

song: Say Say Say • artist: Paul McCartney & Michael Jackson

Who Are You?

You know you're spending too much time at the computer when your 22-month old goes over to it, pats the mouse and says, "mee mee." That's toddler-speak for mommy.

song: Who Are You? • Artist: The Who

White Wedding

Today I brought a broken watch into the jewelry shop where we bought my wedding band almost eight years ago. It's possible I haven't been in this shop since having the ring engraved. I remember giving the information to the woman at the counter: kmg to jmb 10-2-99. She dutifully wrote down the information and then she turned to me, smiled sweetly and asked, "so dear, when is your wedding?"

song: White Wedding • artist: Billy Idol

You can Leave your Hat On

When a preschooler has two shirts on, a turtleneck and a sweatshirt for example, and it's tubby time and he has to undress, he can't get both shirts off at once. First he wrangles off the outer layer, getting his arms out and the body of shirt over his head. In the middle of this process there is a point of crisis when suddenly he realizes he can't get out of the shirt and he starts yelling for help. You come in and find him standing there with a sweatshirt over his head, the empty sleeves waving around as he flails about desperately trying to get out. He looks like a creature from Mummenshantz.

song: You can Leave your Hat On • artist: Tom Jones

Empty Garden

C and I planted radish seeds today. I planted mine in the raised garden bed while C scattered half of his seeds all over the yard on the way to the garden. It's probably too early for them but what's the worst that can happen - they don't come up? Like we haven't seen that before.

song: Empty Garden • artist: Elton John

sorry honey - a couplet

A decent haircut is more than dumb luck.
Your wife in charge ain't worth saving a buck.

Animal Crackers in My Soup

Remember those little boxes of animal crackers your mom used to give you in the supermarket to shut you up so she could get the shopping done? Back then they were about 25¢ a box; three for a dollar at most. Now they're $1.19 a box.
One nineteen a box? For that price I might as well let them split a rotisserie chicken while we shop.

song: Animal Crackers in My Soup • artist: Shirley Temple

Good Day Sunshine

I ran into my opthamologist today while walking on Main Street. I wasn't wearing my sunglasses and it was sunny. I was wearing my hat though so I was all set if only it had been my dermatologist instead.

song: Good Day Sunshine • artist: The Beatles

Do Right

South Carolina legislation wants to pass a law that would require women to view ultrasound images of their fetus before they can have an abortion. Great idea. But why stop there? Why wait until a woman's actually pregnant to saddle her with guilt? Why not take every woman of childbearing age and show them images of children already waiting for adoption? Surely those selfish women wouldn't go ahead and have children of their own knowing there are already children in need of parents.
Every decision we make has consequences. Perhaps every time I turn up the heat in my house I should have to look at family photographs of coal miners who've been killed on the job. Maybe next time I'm shopping around for a new television I should get a leaflet showing images of deformed children in China, victims of water tainted with cadmiun, led and mercury the results of the US sending a majority of its e-waste overseas. Instead of a menu at the drive thru they should play video footage of gastric bypass surgery or a slaughterhouse before you can order. I hear laying chickens are especially mistreated. Egg McMuffin anyone? Rainforest defoliation to go with that cup of coffee? Screening of Blood Diamond for every customer who enters Shreve Crump and Low?
Whether you think the idea is fabulous or absurd, the fact is we don't do these things do we? Well not usually. I was at a vegan restaurant run by Seventh Day Adventists in Portland last week where at the front counter they had vials filled with fat sporting labels like: hamburger 9 tsp. fat, fried chicken 3 tsp. fat. But generally speaking we don't go around reminding people of the unpleasant side of things. Unless of course we're taking about a pregnant women. Then it seems as if it's the governments responsibility to browbeat her even though it's insulting to presume she's not already fully aware of the consequences of her decision.
That's tonight's rant folks. Perhaps tomorrow we can talk about what's wrong with the law being proposed in Texas that would give woman $500 to have their babies and give them up for adoption. That's right. It's a baby bribe.

song: Do Right • artist: Paul Davis

Penny Lane

There are conversations that you expect to have with your children: what happens when you die? where do babies come from? why is smoking bad for you? why is the minister always talking about God? But what makes parenting really interesting is when you find yourself trying to explain completely off the wall things like why my son shouldn't take the coins from his piggy bank to school to give his friends.
And what exactly does "not appropriate" mean?

song: Penny Lane • artist: The Beatles

I'm Looking Through You

Why are the lights always so much brighter at other places that I don't notice my children have dirty faces, shirts, pants, you name it, until we are at the library, school, music class, or elsewhere, surrounded by other people and their clean children.

song: I'm Looking Through You • artist: The Beatles

Lost in the Supermarket

Writing the previous post made me reflect back to some of the other jobs I had before taking on my current occupation, which consists, among other things, of being available to wipe my sons butt when he calls from the bathroom.
When I was in college I would come home in the summer and work at the local supermarket. This was back in the day when supermarkets were more manageable, that is to say you didn't need a GPS to find your way around one.
One afternoon there was an electrical fire in the frozen foods section. It was mostly smoke but we all got to evacuate the building. It was the only time I ever saw the fire lane being used for its designated purpose.
We were all sitting out on the grassy hill to the immediate left of the parking lot with our orange smocks on when these people pulled up, observed us all lounging around outside, walked past the fire truck and headed towards the entrance of the store. "There's a fire," one of us orange smock-people called out helpfully.
"That's okay, we only need a few things," they answered.

song: Lost in the Supermarket • artist: the Clash

Nobody's Girl

Here's the thing, she thought: when you work outside the home you get a paycheck every week. That's an obvious truth; but along with the money often you accomplish something tangible. In a previous life she worked for a fishing magazine. At the end of every month a magazine was created. You could hold it, thumb through it, and cringe at mistakes that should have been corrected before the pages went to press. And then you would start all over again and at the end of the next four weeks there'd be another magazine.
When your job is to be at home with your kids, everything you do gets undone every day if not sooner. Pick up the living room and tomorrow it will be strewn with train tracks, plastic animals, and Duplo again. Clean the kitchen floor and no sooner is it dry then it's smeared with American cheese and Cheerios. Ditto for bedrooms. Make dinner and it gets eaten; do laundry and it gets dirty. There's nothing tangible about the job of parenting. Nothing to show your spouse at the end of the day. Nothing except that the kids are still alive which is pretty much a given.
I know people will offer to trade places with me in an instant, shake their heads, and wonder what I'm complaining about she thought. But usually something that saps your energy so thoroughly leaves you with something at the end of it - a paycheck - a magazine - an interesting story from the office - some evidence that you put in a full days work. This job doesn't. It's overwhelming and yet nonexistent at the same time. If the Peace Corps is the "Toughest Job You'll Ever Love" then staying home with your children is the "Toughest Job You'll Ever Have Nothing to Show For" she thought.

song: Nobody's Girl • artist: Bonnie Raitt

early spring haiku #2

cloudy afternoons
turn spring back into winter
where'd I leave my hat?

Wishin' and Hopin'

We broke a wishbone this afternoon. The same wishbone that got pulled apart after Thanksgiving but then glued back together after my son didn't quite grasp the concept of the wishbone and cried when he realized it was broken. Today he had no problem pulling it apart, and, he got the bigger piece. I guess the potential for having his wish granted out weighed the desire to keep an intact wishbone in his desk for all eternity. Now he wants to know exactly when he's going to turn into a dog.

song: Wishin' and Hopin' • artist: Dusty Springfield

early spring haiku

raking last year's leaves
up from the backyard garden
disturbs woolly bears

Holiday

The kids and I went to Maine earlier this week to visit my sister. I can’t recall what made me think taking a vacation alone with my kids would be a good idea, in retrospect it seems like insanity but we made it back alive to I guess all’s well that ends well as Shakespeare would say. Indeed, given the date, I should be quoting or misquoting Julius Caesar, so here goes: “Beware the long car-trip with your children.”
It wasn’t that it was awful, the hardest part was that they would not fall asleep at night. I expected the first night they would be too excited to fall asleep quickly but by 10PM their being excited was getting old. Finally I had to turn out all the lights and retreat into the bathroom to wait for them to finally nod off. Do you know what it’s like to sit on the bathroom floor of a hotel room reading the newspaper? It’s like being held hostage by your children. The second night though I thought they’d go right to sleep, having gone to bed late the night before and gotten up early that morning, but still it didn’t happen. At 9:30 my sister and I went out to sit in the hallway so they would sleep and we could still talk but C cried until we came back in and sat in the doorway with the entryway light on. Two grown adults held hostage by children. At least we didn’t both have to wait it out in the bathroom.
Being both the driver and navigator on this trip confirmed my suspicions that I’m capable of getting lost in a paper bag. Twice on the way to Spring Point Ledge Light I had to pull over and consult the giant DeLorme Map book. Twice! It’s a lighthouse for Pete’s sake! How difficult can it be to find a lighthouse? You drive towards the water until you can’t go any further and then look out over the horizon and there it is, big as life. I also missed the entrance to Portland Head Light by one road, I swear the sign said “next left.”
The Inn by the Bay was good enough to provide H with a crib. Having cribs available would lead one to believe that the hotel might also have appropriately-sized blankets as well; but either they don’t or I was suppose to order that separately. Faced with no blanket, the first night I covered him with the bedspread off my double bed. Had he enough energy, he could have taken it, tied one end to the crib, thrown the other out the window, and climbed down all five floors to the street. I didn’t use the bedspread the second night after my sister expressed concern he might suffocate. Instead I covered him with three large bath towels.
In the car, I was held hostage by the Bee Gees. I left their CD in the whole way up and the whole way back, not wanting to draw attention to the CD player by changing CDs or putting on the radio. I was afraid C would demand to know what other CDs I had and then I would be forced to tell the truth – that indeed I had brought the Uncle Wiggly CD. So it was the Bee Gees – eight full hours, minus 45-minutes towards the end of the trip when I turned it off and we sang “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” At one point “Massachusetts” came one, for the 20th time, and C exclaimed, “hey! He’s going back to Massachusetts and we’re going back to Massachusetts!”

song: Holiday * artist: The Bee Gees

My Wild Irish Rose

Darn these minor holidays. I made the mistake of cutting out some shamrocks for St. Patrick's Day; the valentines were getting tired and it was too early for Easter no matter what the Christmas Tree Shop would have you believe. So C decorated one and we hung it up in the dining room and now he keeps asking me when is St. Patrick's Day and how do we celebrate it. Do I tell him about the snakes in Ireland and the potato famine, or that here everybody gets drunk and sings off-key rounds of the unicorn song? A holiday that you celebrate by eating corned beef and cabbage just isn't very exciting in the eyes of a four year old.

song: My Wild Irish Rose • artist: Chauncey Olcott

A Reason to Believe

It looks as if I'm obsessed with signs this week.
Remember when I griped about people idling their cars. for what seems like hours on end? Well I found some kindred spirits in Maine. This sign is in the parking lot of a school in downtown Portland, and, there was a similar sign urging tour buses not to idle in the parking lot in front of the lighthouse at Portland Head. Yes, they both seem to focus on buses, but it's a start.

song: A Reason to Believe • artist: Rod Stewart

The Road Less Traveled

We took a lot of back roads on our way to Canada this past January. It was as if we were trying to sneak into their country or perhaps to test homeland security on the way back into to U.S.A. You get there faster on the highway but you miss all the good stuff. On a farmhouse just north of Newport, Vermont was a sign advertising "Antiques and Manure."
Bet they don't get a lot of people stopping for both those items in the same shopping trip.

poem: The Road Less Traveled • author: Robert Frost

Ice Ice Baby

It was a rough afternoon for little kids at our house. First C got hit square between the eyes with a wooden block thrown by his brother. I got ice. Then H fell and hit his head while jumping on his big brother's bed. Daddy came in and took over the consoling. Then C banged his head on the wall while running into the bathroom. I got ice.
Not to mention he also got two splinters in his hand while outside helping me rake leaves from the garden. He was too tired to remember about them tonight but tomorrow those will probably need ice too.

song: Ice Ice Baby • artist: Vanilla Ice

It's a Sign of the Times

There is a new sign at the hospital lights. What does it mean? Shouldn't symbols make something more clear and not merely leave one puzzled as the light turns green? Does it mean people might be crossing the street on their way to the hospital? Does it mean that first aid might suddenly be given to someone in the crosswalk? Does it mean that patients on their way to doctor appointments better stop thinking about their co-pays (is it $10 or $20?) and start paying attention to pedestrians in the crosswalk?
My best guess is that it's trying to say: Don't worry if you are caught in the elevator door, there is a hospital near by.

song: It's a Sign of the Times • artist: Petula Clark

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Thursday morning, for 90-minutes, I lost my wallet. Well I lost the little zippered purse that I use as a wallet. It was not in my pocket book, it was not in the book bag, it was not in the car, it was not in my coat pocket. It was nowhere. I panicked and called Ken at work. As if that would help, now he was panicked too. I asked my older son if he'd seen it.
"Oh that. Yeah. Nope. I haven't seen that."
My only hope was I'd left it at the little library Wednesday after we checked out books. Of course the little library isn't open on Thursdays so I had to call the main library and ask around for my "little library" friends. Deep down I knew that they didn't find my wallet because if they had, they would have opened it, found my license, and called me. I usually get phone calls from the little library several times a week since I "rent" all my movies through the CLAMS network. But I asked the question anyway, even though I already knew the answer. Cat was genuinely concerned. I knew she would be. She is so nice. We decided the wallet must have fallen out of the book bag in the back of the library near the story-time room, but my fear by now was that I'd left it on top of my car and driven off. I've lost sunglasses, a diaper bag (yes, a whole diaper bag), H's shoes, a hat, and various other objects off the roof of the car. That doesn't include the many times I've left my travel cup up there brimming with tea. It's a terrible habit but when buckle the kids in, there's nowhere else to put my stuff. This is why I feel bad for the dad who left his kid in the shopping cart at the Burlington Coat Factory. I'm not saying it's excusable, and if I wasn't a parent I wouldn't be able to understand it at all, but, I can see how it could have happened.
Back to the wallet. I got everyone dressed and out the door. By this time we'd missed music class because I couldn't get it together in time to go, not to mention I could never have concentrated through three verses of "Shoe a little horse, shoe a little mare, but let the little pony go bare, bare, bare" or any other kiddie songs. My plan now was to drive over to the library and check the parking lot for my wallet. I was even prepared to peep through the windows and look for a glimpse of it.
I opened the top glove compartment to fish out some lip gloss and there was the wallet - right on top. I'd checked the car twice! Twice! How could I not have opened this compartment?
Turning the car around, I drove home and called Ken. Then I called Cat so she and Laurie wouldn't be looking for the wallet on Friday. Cat said she appealed to St. Anthony on my behalf. Obviously, it had worked. Then I went back to the car and drove the kids to the little library anyway. It was 30-degrees out, warm enough to run them around the tennis courts for an hour.
So, it turned out that all I really lost was my morning - and a little bit of my mind.

song: I still haven't found what I'm looking for • artist: U2

prerequisite to a nap (a couplet)

While brother's in class we chase the ball
Up, down, and around the long, cold hall.

Guilty

Confessions of a guilty mother:

• I have turned up the car radio in order to drown out the sound of crying.
• I have let my son wear the same onesie three days in a row.
• My sons don't take baths every night.
• They have dirty fingernails right now.
• I have read bedtime books after drinking two glasses of wine and enjoyed them more then when I'm sober.
• I don't care whether or not my son can read in kindergarten.
• My children have eaten things off the floor long past the expiration of the five-second rule.
• I didn't love breast feeding.
• I weaned my second son after only 11 months.
• I had two c-sections.
• I've cheated at Trouble.
• The sand in our sandbox came from the beach.
• I've reset the timer to prolong quiet time.
• I've eaten more than my share of the chocolate-covered almonds.
• I threw out the remainder of the Halloween candy.
• Ditto the Valentine's Day candy.
• I think Uncle Wiggly is a bit of a namby pamby.
• I indulge my kids at the coffee shop and buy them Fresh Samanthas which cost more than my tea.
• I threw out some of the folded and stapled pieces of paper my son gave me as "birthday presents."
• My son walked into the wall while wearing his hat pulled down over his eyes and I laughed.
• Ken laughed too.

song: Guilty • artist: Barbra Streisand

a quatrain for liz

The rhyme of the day is meant for Liz
It's pretty short - this is all there is:
Joyeux anniversaire to my tres bonne amie!
How I await your return to the big city!

Why Can't We Be Friends?

Last night I finished reading The Devil Wears Prada. It reminded me very much of The Nanny Diaries. A morally upstanding, witty, and fun woman in her early 20s ends up working for the female boss from hell and the job takes over her life. Both stories are funny in what we hope are exaggerated descriptions of how these shrewish women make life hellish for our young and optimistic heroines. In both stories the protagonist escapes with her integrity in tact, but the books are unsatisfying in that the evil boss never actually sees the error of her ways. Yeah sure, we're comforted by the fact that money doesn't buy you happiness. The boss will forever remain small-minded, friendless, and joyless. But I really wanted the boss to change, to grow, to say, "Yes, Andrea, you're right, I am a terrible person, I have no friends, I'm shallow, I treat people horribly." And then to see them somehow get better.
What is up with that? Why do I care? Why don't I just want the evil witch to go down? I do want them to go down, I was happy Andrea told Miranda, "f-ck you" although it seemed out of character since she hadn't uttered that phrase anywhere else in the book. Beyond that though, I wanted Miranda, and Mrs. X, to come back up changed people.
Perhaps I'm softening with age and trying to see both sides of the equation. Maybe it strikes a chord with my women's college upbringing. Aren't the authors propelling their female protagonists forwards at the expense of these other women? Haven't the authors created stereotypes of the worst kind? Why are these women the enemy? Aren't they just victims of a system that assumes women can't hold positions of power unless they wear a dress-size of zero and behave like battle-axes?
Or perhaps I'm just taking a beach read too seriously.

songs: Why Can't We Be Friends? • artist: War

You're the One That I Want

Last week I wrote a post card to Jude Wilbur, someone I've never met - well maybe I met him once, outside the main post office. Anyway, in the postcard I suggested he run for selectman again this spring. Then I stuck the card inside a library book, forgot about it, and promptly slid the book through the book drop. This means that either it fell out and the people at the library were good enough to put it in their outgoing mail (it was stamped), or it's tucked away inside some shelved book waiting to be discovered by some unsuspecting library patron. Now I feel that it is unlikely Mr. Wilbur reads this blog given that he's not a relative nor one of my coworkers. But if it's true that only six degrees of separation exists between myself and every other person in the world, then one of you might know Mr. Wilbur and be able to pass along this message. Come on Jude, run! The town needs you!
And while I'm on the subject: Al Gore in 2008!

song: You're the One That I Want • soundtrack: Grease

Vacation

I tried to get to bed before midnight last night. Conserving my energy is a new priority since C is off from school for the next two weeks. A vacation from pre-school - how funny is that?

song: Vacation • artist: The Go-Gos

Windy

Over the past decade and a half I have amassed a collection of floaty pens from various locations. What's a floaty pen you ask? They are the novelty pens, that, when tipped sideways, some tiny image moves across a little background, say the Eiffel Tower floating across Paris, or Elvis's pink cadillac floating in front of Graceland. Part of the rules of collecting, my special rules, is that you can never go into a store, approach the cashier and ask outright if they have floaty pens or not. You must hunt them down on your own. The search for floaty pens is part of the fun. They are often in the most cheesy of tourist shops, right up by the cash register. I can breeze through a souvenir shop and know in under 30 seconds if they sell floaty pens. Airport gift shops are good bet for finding floaty pens. They're usually right there with the souvenir shot glasses and those little spoons my mother used to collect. I used to insist that all the floaty pens be from places I'd gone to myself, but recently, in the past five years or so, most of the additions to my collection have come from other people's travels.
Thankfully I still have some friends who travel, even to places like Wichita, Kansas. Joan just got back from a business trip there and brought me my favorite souvenir. The image is of a tornado funnel whirling past what must be the Wichita skyline, sucking up in its wake: a tree, a cow, a truck, a wind turbine, and, a barn.
I wonder if the Wichita Chamber of Commerce has seen these. Do they really want to put the image of a tornado, something that screams out "national state of emergency" on their tourist products? I could see if it had a Wizard-of-Oz-type theme but this one did not. Just your ordinary - run of the mill - everybody in the cellar - tornado.
It would be like showing an image of a hurricane battering boats up against a rock jetty with the words "Welcome to Cape Cod" emblazoned on a floaty pen. For the record, the pen I have of Cape Cod has some sailboats breezing past an image of Nobska Light.


song: Windy • artist: The Association

No Anchovies Please

Nowhere but at a preschool pot luck dinner would a pan of plain pasta with no sauce be among the main entrees.

song: No Anchovies Please * artist: J. Giles Band

cerhliew for Dr. Seuss on his birthday

The distinguished Dr. Seuss,
drew fanciful animals obtuse.
His rhymes sublime
kept rythum and time.
Not like this tribute of mine.

parenting quatrain

on the last day of february i reflect
that parenting saps won's intellect.
though eye wasn't exactly brilliant be4
it seems I don't no nuthin' no more.

Teach Your Children

Boston College was one of the schools I applied to when I was a senior in high school. I was not accepted. Though if I had been, despite the shocking similarity between her first name and my last name, you can bet I wouldn't have stabbed a dorm mate over laundry. Too bad they didn't put that on the application.

song: Teach Your Children • artist: Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young

Fat Bottomed Girls

Some songs, no matter how much you like them, can never be played in front of your kids. "Fat Bottomed Girls" for example.

song: Fat Bottomed Girls • artist: Queen

She Drives Me Crazy

I went into the service department to get the car forgetting H covered my skirt in stickers this morning, though I don't think Crystal, the receptionist, noticed. They had washed the car, $650 for a 30,000-mile tune-up, gets you a free car wash. I was mortified to see that I had left a pair of tights, socks, and other clothing strewn about the front passenger seat, as if I live in the car. I was still thinking about that, wondering whether the socks were clean, when I went the wrong way out of the parking lot and ended up on the dead end row of new cars where I had to execute a three-point turn to get out.
I wonder if Crystal saw that.

song: She Drives Me Crazy • artist: The Fine Young Cannibals

Running Down the Road

The car had to be taken in this morning for service at the Subaru dealership on MacArthur Blvd. My husband set the alarm for 6:15, drove the car to the shop and then ran home. Last night I suggested we take it in after dinner but he said no, this would be easier. How many people do you know who think that it's easier to drop off a car at the shop, run the ten miles home, shower and go to work, than to drop the car off the night before?
Then of course I complained that I had to get my dad to drive me out to pick it up this afternoon. Couldn't you just run back out there after work?

song: Running Down the Road • artist: Arlo Guthrie

I Started a Joke

"Mommy, why are you always serious?" my son asked today. I was making dinner when I should have been putting a puzzle together with him.
Always serious?
What about yesterday when I wore the tiger mask and chased H around the hallway upstairs?
What about when we all played monkey in the middle in the dining room before dinner last night?
How about tonight when he pretended he was a sea lion in the tub and I, as the zookeeper, threw him plastic fish to eat?
Or today when I helped him find animal pictures and pencils so he could prepare his Uncle Wiggley puppet show - which I later sat on the couch and watched?
What about when I took digital pictures of him yesterday with the cat lying across him arm?
Or when I pretended I didn't know where he was when he was hiding under his brother's crib?
Didn't I pull him and his brother down to the end of the street in the sled on Friday, at least until he decided he wanted to pull the sled himself?
What about today when I let them crawl under me like a bridge while I was in down dog pose?
Didn't I use silly voices when reading "Little Red Hen" and "Lazy Jack" tonight?
Didn't I sing my bad rendition of "Light My Fire" when he and Ken lit a fire tonight in the living room and an even worse rendition of John Travolta's "Sandy" to his stuffed bunny of the same name?
I'm always serious. Get real.

song: I Started a Joke • artist: Bee Gees

Teddy bear, teddy bear (a remix)

Teddy bear, teddy bear, spin around
Teddy bear, teddy bear, fall on the ground

Teddy bear, teddy bear, make some noise
Teddy bear, teddy bear, throw your toys

Teddy bear, teddy bear, catch the ball
Teddy bear, teddy bear, run down the hall

Teddy bear, teddy bear, time for bed
Teddy bear, teddy bear, shake your head

Teddy bear, teddy bear, say good night
Teddy bear, teddy bear, not without a fight.

Losing My Religion

I read The Man Who Walked Between the Towers to C Thursday night. He chose it from the little library based on recognizing it from a poster we have of Caldecott-award-winning children's books. The book is about Philippe, a street performer who strings a cable between the twin towers in 1974 and does an early morning high wire act before being discovered and arrested.
On the second to last page of the book there's the sentence, "Now the towers are gone." The last pages talks about the memory of the towers and of Philippe's walk.
My son immediately picked up on this.
"Why are they gone?"
"They fell down."
"How did they?"
"There was a fire."
He would not let up. He wanted to know how they got on fire so I lamely tried to explain that some "bad men" started the fire.
"Why did they?"
This segued into a talk about how sometimes people are afraid of other people who are different from themselves and how sometimes we just don't know why other people do the things they do.
Then he wanted to know how the bad men got the building on fire and because I'm not a creative enough liar I had to tell the truth, which led to an entirely new discussion about how airplanes and cars can explode if they crash into things.
Then we went upstairs and said goodnights but I could tell he was still pondering it.
"I don't know why someone would want wreck down a building," he said as I turned out the light.
"Neither do I."
"I hope someone got those bad men in jail."
On Friday I had a check up with my dermatologist and I complained to her that I was loosing more hair than usual. It's all over my sweatshirts, the kid's sweaters, the back of my chair at work. Dr. Barnett seemed to think it was stress related though she did send me off for a blood test just to be sure.
Since then, I've been chewing over the stress factor. Have I been more stressed out this year than last year? Now I'm not sure if my hair is falling out from external stresses or from the internal stress of wondering whether I'm stressed out or not. She mentioned things like getting divorced or moving to a new house. These are the kind of big-stress events that would cause ones hair to fall out. Not the normal everyday stresses of wondering what I should do with the rest of my life or of having to explain the events of 9/11 to a four-year old.

song: Losing my Religion • artist: R.E.M.

How Do You Do?

Today's Enterprise featured a photo of the razing of Jake's Tap. I recall only being inside Jake's once, but my dad could be found there regularly when I was growing up. He especially liked to run off to Jake's on the night the family assembled the Christmas tree. I say assembled because we had a fake tree for as far back as I can remember. Part of the tree tradition was my dad leaving to go to Jake's. What could be less festive than your dad heading out to the neighborhood bar, leaving you, your mom, and your little sister at home putting your Christmas tree together (blue branches in the bottom trunk holes, red ones on top)? We thought it was all rather funny actually; it wasn't your usual tradition, but it was our tradition.
Reporter Christopher Kazarian quoted Henry Peters as saying this about Jakes: "That is where my father met my mother, right here."
Someday some young reporter will record my kids saying the same thing when they level the Captain Kidd in Woods Hole. "That's were my mom met my dad," C will say, "right there under the TV at the end of the bar. My mother always hated TV."

song: How Do You Do? • artist: Mouth and MacNeal

You Needed Me

The hospital thrift shop has a habit of trying to entice shoppers by putting some of their larger pieces of merchandise outside on the shop's front lawn. People waiting at the lights can mull over whether or not they need a new captain's chair or ironing board. Many times accessories for children are among the goods displayed.
This morning there were four items: a bouncy chair, an infant car seat, an umbrella stroller, and, a walker. Not a walker for children mind you, a walker for older adults. It was such an ironic juxtaposition of items. Perhaps the ladies who run the hospital thrift shop were trying to convey that life comes full circle. You need all these contraptions to help you as a baby and similar devices to assist you when you're older. Maybe they thought people might see it as one-stop shopping, something for the baby shower and the visit to grandma's house. It reminded me of the Sesame Street song where they used to show kids pictures of an apple, a banana, an orange, and, a bicycle and sing: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Can you tell which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?

song: You Needed Me • artist: Anne Murray

Candy

Last night I threw out what was left of my son's Halloween candy. I actually felt guilty throwing it away - not because he might find out and get mad, he's still young enough to have entrusted the candy to my care and naive enough to believe me if I tell him he already finished it. No, I felt guilty for throwing food away. As if Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and mini Snickers bars could be defined as real food. I considered bringing it in to the office for my coworkers, but sorry you guys, I thought better of it. Besides, there's only six more weeks until Easter. Jelly bean anyone?

song: Candy • artist: Iggy Pop

House at Pooh Corner

song: House at Pooh Corner • artist: Loggins and Messina

You Can't Always Get What You Want

We left the kids with the babysitter and went out tonight. Last time we were out just the two of us we noted that it had been so long between nights out that the menu in our favorite restaurant had been redesigned. This time wasn't as dramatic though we did notice that we only recognized one person on the wait staff - of course it wasn't Thursday which used to be our regular night.
The last time we left the kids with a baby sitter C stood by the front door crying hysterically while we pulled out of the driveway. This time he barely looked up. He was in the living room completely engaged in conversation with Paige.
To tell the truth I'm not sure which I prefer.
We always want it both ways don't we?
We don't want a scene, we want to know they can live without us; and yet we do so want to be acknowledged, to be validated, to know that we are important, at least for a little while longer.

song: You Can't Always Get What You Want • artist: The Rolling Stones

We are the Champions

Check it out! Daddy's on YouTube!

song: We are the Champions • artist: Queen

Honey

song: Honey • artist: Bobby Goldsboro

Nothing Happened Today

Some people probably wonder what stay-at-home moms do all day. Here's a glimpse from last week.
3PM: Post blog entry written last night.
3:05: Get C more glue for special valentine project.
3:09: Decide to make pasta and chick peas for dinner.
3:15: Run dishwasher, negating energy karma points earned by hanging out laundry earlier in the day.
3:15: Make mental note that we have three bunches of bananas hanging in laundry room. Will need to make banana bread this week.
3:20: Get more glue and toothpicks for special valentine
3:30: Explain to C why "shut up" isn't a polite phrase.
3:35: E-mail free lance writers regarding story that won't be running in upcoming supplement and address request.
4:00: Play checkers with C.
4:10: H wakes up from nap. Change stinky diaper
4:30: Win checker game.
4:31: Start second game of checkers.
4:40: C excused to the bathroom, takes H with him.
4:50: Win second game of checkers by default, H distracted by wanting to play with his penny whistle.
4:50: Feed cat.
4:55: Get out mop. Water on the floor courtesy of H.
5:00: Empty dishwasher. Cajole C into putting away the silverware.
5:10: Put in book on tape: The Smallest Cow in the World.
5:15: Play catch with H.
5:25: Get out mop. More water on the floor courtesy of H.
5:27: Notice that broom is in the living room. Return it to laundry room.
5:30: Call Judi and offer to pick her up for book club.

song: Nothing Happened Today • artist: The Boomtown Rats

I Write the Book

Have you ever read the Acknowledgements at the end of a novel or work of nonfiction? I'll never be able to write a book. I don't know that many people.

song: I Write the Book • artist: Elvis Costello

Dream a Little Dream of Me

When I leave his room after good nights my son always asks me to remember my dreams so I can tell them to him in the morning. In exchange he promises to tell me his dreams. Studies show that children his age dream about animals 60% of the time, but I don't bother to tell him this.
I almost never remember my dreams. Sometimes it seems like I lie down and don't sleep at all, I just segue from running down the list of things I didn't get done today straight into the list of things I need to get done for tomorrow, and then it's time to make breakfast. Last night though I had two dreams I remembered.
In the first we were all at some kind of road race. I think it was one of those ultra marathons because we were provided with our own little cardboard shack house on the edge of a large track.
In the second dream we went to visit friends in Woods Hole and their entire house was being gutted. There were stacks of two by fours and plywood all over the place. We barely know these people in real life and have never been guests in their home. Isn't that always the way? We dream about people that we seemingly don't give a second thought to during the course of being awake. At the house were our kids, and the children who lived in the house, and, for some reason, other random children kept coming in and out of the house. I couldn't concentrate on the conversation because I kept loosing H among all the plastic tarps, plywood, and debris.

song: Dream a Little Dream of Me • artist: The Mamas and the Papas

You Win Again

Friday morning my son was up and downstairs before me. He had breakfast with Ken and was ready to go the minute I arrived on the scene.
"What to play Trouble?"
"Mommy's going to make a cup of tea and have something to eat first."
"Who's going to play with me?"
"Maybe you could play with your stuffed animals."
"I want to play with a real person."
Finally he decided he could play Trouble in the living room with Eco - his stuffed turtle, which was great except he kept giving me play by play of the game, yelling things like "Eco rolled a six!" and "I sent Eco home!" and on and on. This made me feel: a) annoyed because it distracted me from reading the paper, and at the same time, b) guilty for not playing with him in the first place.
At least he ended up beating Eco.

song: You Win Again • artist: The Bee Gees

Pencil Thin Mustache

Some people spend their lives searching for that perfect, special someone. Me, I spend a lot of time searching for the perfect writing instrument.
The right pen actually helps me write. It enhances the mood. If the words are a physical pleasure to write and I like the way they look on the page, then it helps me care about what the words say.
Before I had kids, quit my full-time job, and achieved international fame for writing this blog, I used to be a graphic designer. I studied graphic design just before the industry became computer driven. Perhaps that's when the search for the perfect pen began.
Sometimes when the perfect pen is not available, the next best thing is a well-sharpened pencil - a #2 soft.
The perfect pen varies from job to job. For example, if I need to write a check, it's blue ink. If I'm correcting a story draft, it's red ink. For journal and letter writing, it's a black felt tip.
There's really no good reason to use plain black ink. All those pens should just be put back into the office supply closet to be used by someone with lower ink standards.
The writing line has to be even and unbroken. What ever happened to those "erasable" pens that came out back in high school? You could erase it sure, but you never got a consistent line, it was always getting broken up; and if you rubbed the paper sometimes the ink would just flake right off. Good riddance I say.
The thickness of the pen body is important. It has to fit comfortably in the hand. Not many do. Again, it depends on the job. The pen that's kept inside the checkbook can have a very thin body, that way it stays put without making the checkbook too bulky. A pen that's too thin eventually gets uncomfortable in the hand because you have to grasp with too much pressure to keep a hold of it. But no novels are being written with the checkbook pen so it doesn't matter, whereas a comfortable pen is critical if one is about to sit down and pen a letter to a distant friend.
Remember the old stationary store on Main Street where you could buy individual felt tip pens and markers? There were lots of them to choose from, in all sorts of colors and thicknesses. They were all on display so you could test them out and see how they felt in your hand before making that crucial final decision and plunking down 79¢ for a LePen. I loved standing before the seemingly endless selection of felt-tip markers. Now we have to buy pens in packages of 10 or more, all exactly the same, all hermetically sealed. "Little Boxes" as Pete Seeger would say.
Make no mistake, I'm very attached to my computer and a die-hard Mac enthusiast, but there's no tactile pleasure or satisfaction in the perfect keyboard.

song: Pencil Thin Mustache • artist: Jimmy Buffett

By My Baby

I hear that Barack Obama isn't really black.
Have I mentioned that Ken is the father of Anna Nicole's baby?

song: Be My Baby • artist: The Ronnettes

Only the Good Die Young

Logan's Run. I was just thinking about that movie the other day. I wasn't thinking about it a lot, mind you. Not as much as I think about Peter and the Wolf or what's for dinner. It was more along the lines of, "I wonder why they never show Logan's Run on AMC? It's equally as good a movie as Scarface." And then, voila! it's going to be on TCM tomorrow night at 9:15!
I remember watching Logan's Run on more than on occasion with my cousins, Christine, Karen, and Maureen. It was probably in the late 70s, maybe as late as 1980. I would have been ten or twelve, that seems about right. There we all were watching a movie about people who, "could have anything - except their 30th birthday," back when being 30 was an eternity away. We were probably all thinking, "death at 30 - what's the big deal? They led a full life. Who wants to live to be older than 30 anyway?"

song: Only the Good Die Young • artist: Billy Joel

All Cried Out

They both have colds now. My older son claims that he got the cold from his younger brother the other night when we were all on the love seat and H threw his head back, hitting C in the nose. As if there's a lot of transferable germs on the back of my baby's head.
It used to be that the cure for every bump was the magic kiss from mom or dad. Now the cure is ice. H hits his head all the time. He is a casualty of our mission-style couch. He'll have barely started crying and his big brother is running off to the freezer for ice.
Tuesday night C swung around without looking and got hit on the side of the head by a metal taxi cab car that H was holding. He was inconsolable until I offered to get him some ice. Then he played with the ice inside the plastic bag until he poked a hole in it and got water all over the sofa.

song: All Cried Out • artist: Dusty Springfield

What's Going On?

Sometimes I really miss being in the office. I miss the general convivial banter about the news of the day, otherwise known as gossip. I know the adage about gossip: "Great minds discuss ideas; Average minds discuss events; Small minds discuss people," but we can't be figuring out ways to save the planet all the time and besides Eleanor Roosevelt, to whom this quote is attributed, probably never had a 40-hour-a-week, nine-to-five, desk job.
So, for the record, I'm thinking of running for president, and Ken is really the father of Anna Nicole's baby.

song: What's Going On? • artist: Marvin Gaye

Come Fly With Me

So I've been thinking about this (perhaps a bit too much), and the whole premise of Peter and the Wolf doesn't make sense. First the duck and the bird tease one another by saying "what kind of bird are you if you don't swim?" and conversely, "what kind of bird are you if you don't fly?" Then the duck gets eaten by the wolf precisely because she can't fly.
Who ever heard of a duck that can't fly?

song: Come Fly With Me • artist: Frank Sinatra

Hungry Heart

Nothing says "I love you" like a heart-shaped pancake.

song: Hungry Heart • artist: Bruce Springsteen

valentine's day haiku

Rock salt and chocolates
Saint Valentine's Day storm front
For those who love snow

Three Times A Lady

I have three hemp skirts, all floor length, all in what one might call "earth tones." I wear them almost exclusively three seasons out of the year. Having three skirts that all look the same reminds me of the scene in the remake of "The Fly" when Geena Davis arrives at Jeff Goldblum's house to interview him and he's got a closet full of suits, all identical. He explains to her that Einstein or some other genius - someone who doesn't end up crossing his DNA with a fly - used to do the same thing. The idea being, less time thinking about what to wear equals more time to solve the world's problems.
Me, it just helps to get a leg up on my kids in the morning.
Upon close inspection, though the skirts all appear to be the same, there are differences. The green skirt is the longest. It will actually drag on the ground unless I roll the waist band up. The blue skirt by comparison is shorter. The maroon skirt has a slit up the side which prevents me from wearing it with a slip. It also has a drawstring instead of an elastic waist. Once when C was an infant, I was carrying him up the stairs when the drawstring untied. I couldn't reach down to pull it up because I was holding a baby so all of a sudden I found myself standing on the stairs with my skirt around my ankles wondering if this type of thing happens to other new mothers.

song: Three Times A Lady • The Commodores

I Will Remember You

It looks as if my son is no longer planning to save me from the grim reaper. The other day he left my room with a big fistful of hair from my hairbrush. When I asked him about it he said that he was saving it to remember me by after I died.

song: I will remember you • artist: Sarah McLachlan

Take Good Care of my Baby

While we were up in Quebec and C and I had split from Ken and H to check out the ice house and snow sculptures, some woman reprimanded Ken for having brought H outside in the cold weather.
To be sure, H was wearing tiny toddler thermals, long johns, ski pants, a onesie and fleece sweater under the ski coat, hat, gloves, boots and a neck warmer. He was better prepared for the weather than his father.
It never ceases to amaze me when that happens. People seem to feel they are rightly qualified to freely give fathers their two-cents worth. Ken has been out with the kids and has been told by well-intentioned buttinskies that his baby was hungry, tired, and shouldn't be holding that butter knife (okay, that one was probably justified).
I, on the other hand, have never been approached by anyone offering unsolicited advice about how to clothe, soothe, or feed my children.
How are we suppose to encourage fathers to be more active in their children's lives when the message everyone seems to want to send is that we think they are all idiots who don't know how to properly dress their children for cold weather?

song: Take Good Care of my Baby • artist: Bobby Vinton

Superstition

I didn't even say the words out loud. Yesterday, while driving to work, I was just thinking that the kids hadn't been sick much this winter compared to last year when we were at the pediatricians every other week. This morning H slept until 10:30 and woke up sneezing a river of nose goopies. I should have pulled over and knocked on wood.

song: Superstition • artist: Stevie Wonder

Dead Flowers

How ironic. There is a dead plant on my desk. I should not be writing spring home and garden stories.

song: Dead Flowers • artist: The Rolling Stones

Tea for Two

Every morning I make tea. This has been a routine ever since I stopped working full time four-and-a-half years ago, so you'd think I'd have it down to a science by now. Alas no. I always seem to put the kettle on and then forget about it entirely. Ultimately I end up in some other part of the house entrenched in an activity I can't disengage from, usually a diaper change, when the kettle goes off. The whistling used to inspire my older son to scream "tea!" at the top of his lungs but now he just screams. His younger brother does the same. Thus my morning cup of tea, a ritual usually steeped in the notion of relaxation, commences with bedlam.
Today I ran into my next-door neighbor at Coffee O, (I was getting the day's second cup of tea), and she remarked that her dogs had been barking more than usual this morning and she hoped I hadn't heard them. Over the normal 9AM chaos in my house? To put it in British terms: not bloody likely.

song: Tea for Two • musical: No, No, Nanette

If I Fell

My son wants us to get a tent so we can sleep out in the yard this summer. I'm all for this, I even want to move up from backyard camping to actual campground camping, or join the AMC and sleep in those huts, whichever we get around to first. C specifically requested that we get a tent with a zipper so no skunks will be able to get in. Another excellent suggestion. He further explained that we need a zipper on the tent because, and I quote, "just in case a big tree in the backyard falls over on us, we'll be okay."
A zipper will protect us from falling trees? Who knew? Perhaps he'd like to explain that to our insurance agency, which is no longer providing home insurance coverage on the Cape.

song: If I fell • artist: The Beatles

What Was I Thinking?

According to my Google homepage there are currently 3,181 articles on the web about NASA astronaut Lisa Nowak, so I figure - what's one more?
Having recently turned 39, I've done some reflecting on how I've spent the past 40 years of my life. Have I lived up to my full potential? Well, if my full potential was to be a full-time mom and part-time writer/supplement coordinator at a local newspaper than things are going pretty well. I never did one of those What Color is Your Parachute-type quizzes so I'm unsure what my full potential actually might be.
It's possible I could have gotten a higher degree, moved to the city, tried for a better job. Sure, I could have done more.
But at least I can say that I haven't embarrassed myself, my friends, my family and my employers and coworkers - at least I haven't yet - which is more than I can say for Ms. Nowak despite her degree from the U.S. Naval Academy and a masters in aeronautical engineering.
According to the Houston Chronicle Ms. Nowak "chose a juggling act of dauntingly high difficulty" as an astronaut and mother of three. As a mother of only two I can't speak from experience but I'm fairly sure that any job, coupled with mothering three children, would be a task of high difficulty and lest you all think I'm coming down too hard on Ms. Nowak that same article quotes an acquaintance of Ms. Nowak as saying "what the hell was she thinking?"

song: What Was I Thinking? • artist: Four Bitchin' Babes

How Long is Too Long

Ken had Monday off so we all went to the downtown post office to apply for H's passport. I didn't intend for this to be the only thing I got done all day but that's how it turned out. When applying for a child's passport, both parents have to appear to sign the application in front of a post office official so they know that one parent isn't trying to steal the child and take him or her out of the country.
It started with us needing to wait in line to get the mail that had piled up while we were out of town. A postman brought out one stack and then said he would go back and check on whether or not there was more. We waited, but he was gone a long time. Another postman came over to ask if we needed help. We explained that our helper had disappeared and that in fact we needed a passport photo. The second postman scowled slightly and went away. The first postman came back without any more mail for us. We explained we needed to file an application for a passport and he went away again. Later I saw him out in the parking lot moving orange cones.
Meanwhile C entertained himself by chatting up everyone who came into the post office, asking them about the quality and quantity of their mail.
The post office is equipped with a camera and a white projection screen for the express purpose of taking passport photos, the only problem is that no one at the post office knows how to operate the camera. A woman came over and made two attempts in which H came out blurry and off centered in both. After that we gave up and left to go to Ortins for the photo but before going we signed on all the pertinent lines so Ken could leave and do other errands. Did I mention it was freezing out? It was. I shelpped the kids back to the car, parked behind Eastmans, and drove to Ortins where C complained that he didn't want to get out of the car and I had to convince him that staying in the car by himself wasn't an option. We go into Ortins and the store is completely empty, no customers, no staff, no one. Beth must have been at the bank. We waited a long time. I could have made off with armfuls of I Love Lucy mugs and Elvis key chains. Finally Gary, the man behind the curtain, came out and in only one try, took a perfect passport photo of H. We pay, leave, and schlepp back to the car. Back inside the post office it's now noon and a large line has formed. C went back to making small talk with post office patrons. H started screaming which got up moved right up to the front of the cue. I handed over the photos and the postman said all that's left is to pay the fees. I said fine and handed over my credit card but alas, no credit cards for the purchase of a passport. We all went back to the car, again parked behind Eastmans, where I retrieved the check book from the glove compartment. Then there was more arguing with C about whether he could or couldn't stay in the car (he couldn't). I went back to the post office, frozen children in tow, to close the deal. This time we went straight to the head of the line without even pretending to be polite.
Afterwards, we three went to Coffee O to celebrate our accomplishment with chai and hot chocolate.

song: How Long is Too Long • artist: The Partridge Family

As Time Goes By

In the olden days (before kids) when I was the passenger on long, and even not-so-long car trips, my only responsibility was to read the map. Occasionally I had to hand Ken his sunglasses or open a bottle of Gatorade but that was about all that was required of me.
That was then. Here's the job of the mom on a two day, eight hour, car ride to Quebec. I'm responsible for doling out snacks (seemingly constantly), playing endless games of tic-tac-toe, adjusting the radio to either the front or back seat depending on whether we're listening to CBC or Big Ryan's Tall Tales, putting all of H's books back into his book bag a half-dozen times, reading the Map Quest directions, playing I Spy, guessing what C's drawn on his MagnaDoodle and then drawing something for him to guess, handing Ken Gatorade, answering the question "When will we be in Quebec," at least 50 times per day and the question "when will it be Mommy's turn to drive," another 20.
For this I got a crayon-written message (which I had to dictate proper spelling) that read "Get Well Mommy." A reference to my appendix operation of three-and-a-half weeks ago, which I will of course keep forever.

song: As Time Goes By • movie: Casablanca

a poem by ken

mommy and baby were were up in quebec
and did not hear the yell – "hit the deck"
they were walking about enjoying the town
when all of the snow came tumbling down
they did not dodge to the left or the right
but instead just froze and looked up in great fright
it came off the roof in a great big white clump
and hit mommy and baby with a big giant thump
baby was fine from his head to his toes
because he was sheltered by mommy's big nose

Don't Stop the Carnival

We call this photo: after the carnival.

song: Don't Stop the Carnival • artist: Harry Belafonte

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

The last thing we had planned before leaving Quebec on Friday was a final ride down the toboggan run. Well Ken and C were going on the toboggan run, I was suppose to stand at the bottom and document the event with our new digital camera, and H was going to watch boats navigate the ice-filled St. Lawrence River. It would have gone off okay except that at the crucial moment H fell into a snow bank and started crying and a man came and stood right in front of me as Ken and C came swooshing down the toboggan run.
As if that wasn't enough, while we were walking to the parking garage, a chunk of snow slid off the roof of the Chateau Frontenac and hit me in the nose å la Marcia Brady. I knew I should have grabbed a handful of Kleenex on my way out of the hotel, a good mother always has Kleenex in her pocket; but I didn't so I had to borrow some from Ken and tilt my head way back so I would bleed all over the white winter coat, guaranteed to -20F, that I'd borrowed from Joan. Then I couldn't get into the bathroom in the hotel lobby because we'd already checked out of our room and therefore my credit card key didn't work in the restroom door. Seems to me if you've got a lobby full of expensive boutiques, which the public are allowed and encouraged to shop in, the public should also be allowed to use the facilities. Thankfully an exiting customer let me in so I could clean up. Then I had to stick a snowball on my nose so it wouldn't swell up, which made C declare that he wanted a snowball for his nose as well.
Oh, and did I mention it was also my 39th birthday?

song: Hit Me With Your Best Shot • artist: Pat Benatar

Cover Me

The next winter olympics should include a dressing-children-for-sub-zero-temperatures event. Each team would get one child, preferably an unruly 20-month old, and a suitcase full of clothing: one set of thermal underwear (tops and bottoms), a turtle-neck onesie, a fleece sweatshirt, jacket, sweatpants, snow pants, socks, boots, mittens, and a neck warmer.
In the first round, teams of two would have to dress the child while being timed from start to finish. Points are lost if it turns out the boots have been put on the wrong feet or if the child can't see due to the hat or neck warmer covering his eyes.
The second phase of the competition would entail a neutral party taking the child outside, picking them up, and running a lap around a regulation-size track. If any article of clothing falls off, the team would automatically be disqualified from the final round.
Obviously countries nearest to the equator would be at a disadvantage in this event but they would have the upper hand during the summer olympics which would include an outfitting-your-child-for-the-beach event - complete with water shoes, bathingsuit, swim diaper, sunscreen, sun hat, and UV protection sunglasses.

song: Cover Me • artist: Bruce Springsteen