Ephemeralania

Vent

2009-10-07T20:21:00.000-07:00

When I get home from work after ten pm, I find DH fast asleep in front of the evening news broadcast on TV. Birdie is awake, his six-year old face blue in the dim light from the TV. "I'm so hungry," he greets me.

Dylan comes bounding from his room at full tilt: "Look you have to try to reconstruct the Lego Man; he has a squid head and you can pick out whatever body you like!" He is punchy from exhaustion.

"So what did you guys have for dinner?" I ask.

"Nothing!" they chime. Then they correct themselves: a bowl of cereal and two bites of toast. Between them. There is food in the fridge.

If I ask DH why he didn't feed our kids, he will explain, logically, that they did not ask for food.

The boys have to get up for school in the morning. Judging from the body odor emanating from them, they will also need showers in the morning.

So now should I hire a sitter, instead of relying on DH?

Play Date

2009-09-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

Birdie had his best buddy Evan come over. They decided to try on clothes and put on a fashion show. I played the radio while the boys strutted out from behind a curtain, sporting an array of baseball caps and tee shirts. Birdie giggled while he wore two different shirts encircling each arm. A lot of hugging, squeezing, and unfettered declarations of devotion took place: "I just love you, you are the best friend ever!"

Evan asked: "What if I lived with you and Birdie and you had three kids instead of two?"

"That would be fun." I giggled. "But I think your mom might miss you."

Evan thought about that and said: "How bout if we just have a sleepover? Can we?"

"Sure."

"Yay!" the boys squeal, grabbing each other's arms and jumping. "When?"

Can these little boys please hang on to just a bit of the boisterous six-year-old in themselves as they inevitably grow into men?

Fallen, Scraped, Skinned, and Bumped

2009-09-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

The afternoon that Birdie wore the Crocs to school, he emerged from his classroom with a large band-aid on his temple, staring at me with soulful, moist hazel eyes. He handed me a slip of paper. It was a note from the nurse, informing me that Birdie has fallen at recess, scraped his elbow, skinned his knee, and bumped his head.

"She tried to call you," Birdie said.

"Are you all right?" I asked. I had turned off my cell phone during a meeting; that must have been when the nurse called.

"I have a headache," Birdie said. There are tiny blood droplets staining his shirt.

"I saw him fall," his teacher tells me. "It's those Crocs. I have some, and I know you really can't run in Crocs."

Well, they have to be better than flip-flops, right? Now the footwear issue is a safety concern! From now until his college graduation, I will consider it my duty to be sure my kid will wear shoes to school.

CLOX

2009-09-18T08:14:00.000-07:00

Birdie is tough. What he says usually goes. The last time I was victorious in the power struggle was when I succeeded in prying him off my sore breasts for good. He went from breast feeding to bottle feeding and has not forgiven me since. The latest battle is over appropriate footwear for the first grade. He insists on flip-flops. Winter is coming, and he has to wear flip flops. It is pouring rain, the street drains are flooded with a foot of dirty water, and he is wearing his flip flops. He has PE, is riding a scooter or climbing a rock wall, and he insists: "It is OK! I can wear these!"

At the latest foray to Payless Shoes, Birdie stood horrified before the racks of size-one shoes: "They all have tongues! I do not wear shoes with tongues!"

At REI I purchased Crocs, the silly rubber clogs, hoping for a compromise, to at least have his toes covered while his feet flop around without support. So today he wore them to school, instead of the flip flops. But the morning was not argument-free. No, he does not wear socks, they are too itchy. No, he does not wear shirts that have tags, buttons, a wrinkle or spot of dirt on them. It seems to be a matter of grave principle. A stack of rejected shirts lies in disarray now, just minutes before the first school bell.

"I guess these are ok," he acquiesced once he slipped on the pricey rubber shoes.

"You like the Crocs, good," I said in a friendly way.

"Mom! You are supposed to say CLOX, with an X at the end!" he scolded.

Fine.

3 Things I Look Forward to about my Boys Getting Older

2009-06-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

1. Leaving extreme dirt behind: one day I will not have to use Pine-Sol in laundering caked-on mud, blood from picked scabs, and motor grease from prodding the car's engine.

2. No more lengthy conversations about burps, farts, bottoms, or penises: I am ready for another source of high humor.

3. A dining experience that does not include macaroni and cheese, chocolate milk, or fish sticks. And if nothing gets spilled, so much the better.

Tuff Love

2009-03-29T16:22:00.000-07:00

When I walked Birdie into kindergarten the other day, I noticed his friend Evan sobbing with his head down in his arms. The teacher's assistant asked him why he was crying and he sniffled, "I miss my mommy."

"Ay, everyone misses their mommy. I miss my mommy too. My son, he misses me. But the mommies can't stay with you all the time since they have to go to work. Valerie's mommy is going to work. Birdie's mommy is going to work. Shane's mommy is going to work," she explained in her gruff voice.

I stared at her for a second. She was not really helping to stop Evan from crying, but she was telling him the truth. There is nothing wrong with telling the truth, even if it is not the kindest response. Evan cried on.

3 Ironies

2009-03-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

1. I get disappointed that people do not read this blog. Why bother writing if no one is reading? Yet I worry about concealing my true identity; I don't want people in my real life to connect me with my virtual life. Go figure.

2. I am so busy all day, yet so much remains undone. I am up early washing and feeding kids, making sure clothes are ready for school. I bring home much paperwork which I slog through when I should be sleeping. At the end of the day, I am tired. And I remember I forgot to file the income taxes. For 2005. Again.

3. You only get one chance to be a good parent. Yet you get that same chance over and over every day. Then suddenly the kids are big, and you hope they are not helpless, homeless, heartless, hopeless, due to your missed chances.

Touchy Feely

2009-03-02T20:44:00.001-08:00

"I have the perfect gown we tailored just for you," the nurse practitioner said today. "It is a Vera Wang and you are going to look fabulous in it." She pulled out the standard hospital gown and stroked the threadbare cotton as I chuckled. It felt good to laugh. The condition I need to have checked out does not seem serious, but I still felt anxious.

Gertie was practicing her empathy skills, I guess. She took my medical history, which is mostly fine, then began to examine my breasts. She said, "you are feeling very worried but you have come to the right place. The doctor is so good, and she will take care of you."

Later on, she commented, "You're sweet." I was startled and responded, "I am?" How does she know? Then, when the exam was over, she HUGGED me. I am not too touchy feely, but the hug just seemed human and caring, and to be just what I needed then. I said, "thanks," sincerely.

I am switching to this clinic, too. They made my day.

Cat 43

2009-02-22T09:47:00.000-08:00

I came home recently to find that my little cat Sassquatch had had some kind of medical event in my absence. She could barely walk, was stumbling to her water dish and then falling headfirst into the water. In bright light, her pupils were still widely dilated. Something had happened in her brain, a stroke or seizure, and she had gone blind overnight.

It was painful to watch her falling, off balance, holding her head at an odd angle. I thought of what a good pet she has been for the past fourteen years since she attached herself to me. She had been one of a bunch of strays, and she would always come to me mewing to get picked up. Since she had huge paws with seven toes on each one, the bored kids in the neighborhood pretended she was possessed (by the devil), called her Damian, and would throw her into a water-filled ditch. But she survived, living on bugs she caught in DH’s greenhouse. DH started giving her a little food and eventually took her in. Stunted from her kittenhood, she still is tiny, weighing only five pounds. She eats only a little and consequently creates only slight litterbox cleanup. She is really clear about who her people are, doesn’t like the kids or strangers, but clings to me and DH like Velcro. I realized when I saw her crash into a door how she has been my best friend for all these years, always listening, never asking for anything but to cuddle, barely even taking up any space at all.

We rushed Sassquatch off to the pet E.R. The veterinarians tested her thyroid, liver, blood pressure, and other body functions, and shined light into her dilated pupils. The diagnosis was severe: she had bleeding in the brain, a heart murmur, an inoperable growth inside her ear, and blood pressure that was through the roof. The vet said that sometimes elderly cats balance numerous medical failings, holding it together until one thing gives way, and then all the other conditions cascade and the balancing act is over. Isn’t that true of everyone? In nature, the sick cats appear strong so the don’t get eaten or killed by enemies. Nevertheless the vets were cautiously optimistic and said the blood pressure medication might really help. I tried not to flinch at the bill when we left. After all—sniff, sniff—you can’t really put a price on a relationship like ours.

She has been stable for a few months. She has her blood pressure monitored monthly, the tiny cuff wrapped around her pencil-thin tail. But then she just had another episode. I found her with her head wobbling like a bobble headed toy, falling over at every step. We went back to the animal hospital, and sat for a while watching a video about state-of-the-art prosthetic devices for maimed animals as well as an interview with a man who invented self-propelling wheelchairs for dogs missing two limbs. I wonder about hospice care, about life support.

Sassquatch’s blood pressure is as high as ever, but the vet added another blood-pressure medication to try to keep it down. The vet didn’t carry that medication, so we drove to a pharmacy to fill the prescription, which luckily was available in generic. But hey what is a few hundred dollars between friends?

The Wonderful World of Birdie

2009-02-20T11:45:00.000-08:00

The things my kindergartener says are so cute; they just kill me. I wish I could stop time permanently so he could be the five-year-old in my life forever: all blue jeans, chapped lips, and cowlicks. Everyone needs a five year old in her life!

He found some photos of our decrepit old cat Sassquatch and put them together: "It's Sassy's baby book!"

He is a neatnik who has arranged his shelves perfectly and who MAKES UP HIS BED when it is mussed. Bed-making is unheard of behavior in our household. If I leave a book of item of clothing in his room, about three seconds later he will screech, "Mooom! What is this! Why did you mess up my room?" OK, so this one is cute to think about but annoying on a 24-hour a day basis.

Swinging, he wonders, "What is the opposite of a tree?" Good question. I figure the true answer is the negative space behind where a tree stands, and I launch into an explanation of negative space, and he laughs and says I am wrong. "The opposite is a seed!" Well, why not? Birdicus is all trick questions.

"The ants are having a parade!" Birdie is entranced by minutiae. I look in the dirt and see he is right! The ants are marching in time wearing little matching uniforms, twirling batons, and puffing on tubas.

He is so excited about the class field trip to the real mailboxes to mail a Valentine. When we pass the mailboxes he bubbles over: "There it is! That is where I mailed a letter!" Ah yes and the Valentine was addressed to me and decorated with innumerable hearts.

Eight pounds of fat

2009-02-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

I have lost 8 pounds since I started my exercise/eating plan 5 weeks ago. This bodes well. I think of an 8 pound roast beef, pretty hefty. Getting the weight off is hard, and keeping it off is harder still. A lot of it comes down to changing habits permanently, and having the discipline to keep up with the program every day. As I have said before, this is not even about looking hot at 44, but it is about being healthy or healthier as I trudge steadily into the middle-age demographic. My pants fit a little looser, which is heartening.

Yesterday I went for a long walk at dusk. My trainer has recommended brisk walking instead of jogging, which is fine with me. I have a heart monitor to keep track of my heart rate, though I usually don't bother when I am just walking. My optimal heart rate for burning fat is only 106-120 bpm, not that strenuous, and I think I can keep that rate of exertion up on my own fairly easily.

Going to workouts is a time thief though! It takes a couple hours to make it to the gym, do the workout, shower. I could save time if I worked out at home, but my motivation is always greater when I leave the house. The time commitment is worth it right now. I don't like working out, but at least I am getting some results.

See y'all in Skinnytown!

Happy birthday to me, me, me

2009-02-08T10:49:00.000-08:00

My birthday this year is all about ME. I am too old to wait around for the parties that aren't festive enough, and the piles of wrapped gifts I don't really want or need. After the childhood bereft of gifts--except for the cat puzzle-- toys, or parties, I can make my own parties the way I want them and find my own gifts. DH never gets the hints, has not presented me with a gift in years, so it is up to me to buy my own gift, wrap it, and then be pleasantly surprised to have received exactly what I wished for! This year I decided to go all out for me, me, me.

First I went shopping. Rather than waste my hard-earned money on lil' ol' me, I used the gift card DH's parents sent us for Christmas. I found a cool puzzle, well, the family can use it but it was mostly for me. It is a one-piece puzzle, so no pieces will be lost. Just what I need; we have nearly completed too many hundreds-pieced puzzles, only to find one or two of the pieces have gone permanently missing. This is a true gift for the family that can't keep track of all the puzzle pieces, a mazelike puzzle, all cut from one piece of fabric-covered rubber, so you can take it anywhere and not worry about lost pieces. I bought the 12 year old-and-up version, and it was challenging for me to fit all the intricate cuts all together, but Birdie, who is five, did all right. A fun birthday gift, and just what I wanted!

Then I planned the meals and took Dylan to the store. MMMM, salmon and cheesecake, the foods only I like or will eat in my family. It is MY birthday and the guys will have to fend for themselves. (Don't worry, this is the one weekly free day I have on my eating plan). Normally I would end up purchasing stuff the boys like. Dylan gravitated toward a coconut cake, but I explained, this year I get to choose my own birthday cake, just like he does on his birthday.

So Birdie ended up w a fast food happy meal, and guess what? The toy was an outdated holiday gift pack which contained gift cards, AND a coupon that said "good for one breakfast in bed." It took little effort to convice Birdie to fill out the coupon to Mom, and then we planned out what the breakfast would be (smoked salmon). This morning soon after I woke up, I was surrounded by plates Birdie had gathered and put foods on: a plate with an orange, one with a tomato, one with toast, and one with a package of smoked salmon. His proud smile was a bonus. He carefully carried a knife separately, since he knows he is too young to use the knife.

The only conflict, then, was that Dylan slept in, and when he found out I had already cashed in my breakfast in bed coupon, he cried because he wanted to help with the meal too. I was able to reassure him: "Don't worry kiddo, there is always lunch!"

Larry

2009-01-30T12:24:00.000-08:00

I found out at the listserve at work that my old friend died on Sunday. We had lost touch, but he is someone I have thought of, for some reason, regularly, even though I hadn't seen him in--can it really be?--ten years. I am feeling regretful--what else is new? I wish I could have seen Larry again before receiving the harsh news via email.

Before I lived with the dudes and animals who are now my family, I lived in a second-floor studio apartment in what was known as a dangerous part of town. A shelter and a methadone clinic were in the neighborhood, so, true, drugged up and hopeless souls would be out and about, but decent people also dwelled on the block, and aside from someone breaking into my car and stealing some old boots, I never had a problem. Larry lived in a little house across the street, and we happened to work at the same establishment too.

The biggest problem I seemed to have then was my own feelings of loneliness. I had my little job, which was ok, to go to, I had my apartment, an old 76 Dodge Dart, and a few friends. Larry was in his late sixties and had a strong Brooklyn accent, revealing his early upbringing in Bwookwyn. He had a rough demeanor, overweight and disheveled, was a heavy smoker whose speech was peppered with swear words, and also a slumlord who spent his savings buying delapidated properties and renting them out to the unfortunate. But he was a real person, a character, full of contradictions, and disinterested in pretending to be categorized a certain way. He knew most of Shakespeare's plays by heart, and he had an incredible singing voice, operatic.

We used to stand on the sidewalk and chat. Some weekends I would buy deli sandwiches for us and we would stand there and eat our sandwiches and talk about Shakespeare or gossip about people at our work. After my boyfriend became a fixture in my life, the three of us would hang out by the street and gab. Larry had in common with my boyfriend a willingness to talk to anyone about anything.

After a few years of not being lonely anymore, the boyfriend and I decided to build a house and get married. Then we started having babies, and our first baby died. Baffled, devastated, having just given birth, I ended up planning a memorial service for the baby Emil. I wanted everyone to come and invited anyone I could think of. (Wow, I was so intense and emotional during that time, I have not thought of this in a while.) So Larry showed up at the graveside memorial, and he bawled during most of it. There was a moment in which the people there could say something about the deceased, whom nobody had known, and Larry sniffled a bit and started singing. He sang this beautiful aria that broke through my cloud of numbness like a silver arrow. It was a good song. He was a kind friend.

Soon after that Larry retired, he and I both moved away, and we chatted on the phone a few times. We said we would get together for coffee real soon.

Rest in peace.

Pure Protein!

2009-01-28T11:20:00.000-08:00

Diet is a bad word now. Eating plan is what they call them these days. Back when I was ten (and chubby), I went to Weight Watchers, and dieting was harder back then--everything was harder back then--with the unappealing choices of diet 7-Up or celery as snacks. Trying to follow my little diet back in the day, I couldn't take it, and I would sneak to the shopping center to shoplift chocolate bars or buy these big fudge balls, covered with chocolate sprinkles, at the bakery. Once as I was doing so, in the fourth grade, I bumped into none other than my father at the shopping center. I had the fudge ball in hand, and he was very very disappointed, especially since sending me to Weight Watchers had been his bright idea. No matter how good I was at calculating the points for the different food offerings on the diet, and buying my own little packages of edibles, chocolate always did me in.

But ain't life grand in the 21st century? Now fat people have a whole industry offering them treats to help them skinny down. And I have discovered something delectable. It is PURE PROTEIN! (I read the package, so I know this.) It has 20 grams or protein in a little 4 oz bar. And, get this, it comes in chocolate fudge, or chocolate-chip cookie dough flavors. And the cookie dough tastes almost like real cookie dough, with just a slight aftertaste of chalk. So instead of sneaking mouthfuls from a tube of cookie dough for your lunch, you can eat one of these bars, and you get all that nice protein.

Braving the firemen at the gym, and my PURE PROTEIN are working, so don't knock them. I have lost five pounds! No, don't ask how many more pounds I have to go.

Blessings

2009-01-27T04:37:00.000-08:00

On my eight minute break, I needed to make some copies for my next class. There are two copy machines, one of which was blinking "misfeed" with a digital diagram showing several areas (in red) of the machine needing attention. A chatty ESL teacher was making complex copies on the other machine. The ESL teachers supply a lot of their own materials, and xerox different parts of books or pictures to customize the class handouts. "I just want to finish this," she said.

The misfed machine was hot to the touch. I opened the appropriate areas indicated on the diagrams, pulled out several wrinkled math exams, and slammed the doors. The screen still was blinking. Four more minutes until class. Then two more rushed teachers arrived, papers in hand, hopeful for copies before the next class session.

Then is was my turn. "Oh, you are next," Renee said conscientiously.

One minute to go, I quickly copied the single page I needed. "It's all yours," I announced, gathering together papers.

"Bless you." Renee hurried to the machine, focused on the task at hand.

Years ago I was out with my Jewish grandmother, and a stranger said, "God bless you," in response to a small favor (not a sneeze).

"I never have figured out what I am supposed to say when they say that," I remember Grandma confessing. "What do you say? Thanks?" As far as gods go, I think the Old Testament and New Testament gods are the same; but "God bless you," does have a proselytizing Christian undertone to it. "God bless you, too"?

I accepted the blessings of my acquaintance, a little spark of heartfelt gratitude.

But if I ever try to cut in the xerox line during break, I know the comments coming my way would be equally intense, though on the negative end of the spectrum; I am sure people have been injured over lesser slights in the copy room.

Safe

2009-01-23T10:59:00.000-08:00

I have been doing a resistance training program--weights. So I have my 7.5 pound little dumbbell that I do three sets of 12 lifts with. It is not very heavy, which of course means that my upper body strength is not great. The gym supplies some of these weights in a girly pink or girly lavender color, to remind you that you have the girl weights, not the real weights.

Members of the local fire department also work out at the gym. Yes, firemen. These are strong guys, and they are buff. None of them is slacking off on the fitness requirement; you can tell by the bulging biceps and pectorals. And they do not lift the 7.5 pound weights. They are challenging themselves, building muscles up, grunting, groaning, and sweating under huge dumbbells. Or they are running 100 mph on the teradmills, with beads of sweat flying. Well, I do not feel very feminine with my little pink dumbbell. When the fire department is on the floor, I bravely chant my positive affirmations: "I am strong!" Yeah, right. Dream on, weakling. Maybe I should join a gym for senior citizens so I can leave 'em in the dust. When I see the fire truck parked outside the gym, I am tempted to turn around and leave, but I drag myself in, all for the sake of physical fitness.

On the positive side, at least we are safe if the gym catches on fire. These big guys will be right on hand to rescue our fat butts.

What I Ate Today

2009-01-22T18:16:00.001-08:00

1/2 cup cottage cheese
1 banana
half a bowl of soggy Cheerios*
2 cups coffee w cream

6 wheat thins*
half a chewed-on turkey sandwich (wheat bread)*
cup of skim milk

big salad at Souper Salad w peanuts and vinegar on top
onion soup
1 taco#

half a Hershey's chocolate bar#

* items are kids' leftovers that were just sitting there, so I ate them
# unapproved (high fat) items

Yes, I have taken the first steps (again) to lose a lot of weight. No, I won't tell you how much. I think I lost 3 pounds in the last few weeks. I just want to be healthy, age gracefully; I don't care anymore about fitting into a 2-piece bathing suit, and I don't know anyone else who cares what I look like in a bikini either (for better or worse).

I am meeting wiith a nutritionist in two weeks. I know I have to tell her about the mini-marshmallows (they ARE low fat); and I know what she is going to say about them, too.

You Should Try This at Home

2009-01-19T12:18:00.000-08:00

Talk to your kids. They just might be listening!

After the Thing with the Pencil (see previous post), I knew I had to have a Talk with my eldest. Something along the lines of, "Kid, you are making this parenting thing hard. You need to listen. Other kids are not running away from their mothers and hiding at the supermarket. At eight years old, you need to follow some basic rules, or this is just going to be too difficult." I didn't really have an ultimatum, since I wasn't ready to quit my position as Mother-in-Chief, but shouldn't he be able to follow simple instructions? I mean, other kids, little kids, can resist grabbing things off shelves, can walk, not run inside; I know since I have seen them.

(Once a saw a mom with SIX kids, all of them under the age of ten, at a coffee shop. Each child's hair was neatly combed, and they filed into a booth like small soldiers, and sat together, quietly eating cookies. I was in awe, and I complimented the woman on her offsprings' behavior; I also had to check if they were all her own, and they were. Her secret? She said they just HAVE to behave.)

So, I had a heart to heart talk with my eldest. I explained that, especially if injured (cf the Thing w the Pencil), I could not be chasing him around stores. He needed to think of the whole picture, not just about how fun it would be to try to pull the bottom can out from a pyramid of stacked cans. He needed to think of trying to be helpful.

Dylan looked out the window as I elaborated, then he said, "Ok, I get it, I get it..."

Then the magical thing occurred: he really did get it. There was a transformation, and a polite, thoughtful child came out, asking me, "Is there anything you would like to me do?" and saying, "Excuse me, Ms. Mommy, if I bumped into you."

Then, his brother, always attuned to a nuance of change, picked up on the new attitude and started calling me alternately "your majesty" and "sir," as in "yes, sir!"

Well, I knew it was not going to last, but I have to say I liked the sound of "your majesty" for a change.

Don't Try This at Home

2009-01-17T18:23:00.000-08:00

I am thrilled when my kids get out their art supplies, crayons, paints, magazines, and I forget about being The Enforcer, I let down my guard and desist with the dire warnings about why we need to pick up messes, why we don't run with scissors. Don't let this happen to you! The kids had just sharpened their pencils, were doodling away, when we had to take a break so they left the pencils--and everything else--lying on the floor. Coming into the hallway quickly, I tripped over a pencil and --voila--that is how I ended up with a pencil stuck in my foot. Of course I pulled it out, but then the whole pencil did not come out, so a good part of the lead stayed lodged in my foot. Yes, it hurt, and I also felt like a dunce for not being careful.

I took some alone time to work at removing the pencil out of my foot. I sterilized a needle, tweezers, and nail clippers, and started picking away with tweezers. I succeeded at not throwing up at the sight of the flesh--ouch!--but could not get the pencil lead out.

The next day was Birdie's turn to bring snacks for the kindergarten, so I put SHARP tweezers on the grocery list, grabbed the kids, and hobbled off to the store. As I do every time, I lectured Dylan about the rules for going to the store, the parts about staying with me, not grabbing things off the shelf. Once at the local Tweezer n Snack mart, however, Dylan was overwhelmed by the Christmas displays.

He gets credit for seeming to be trying to follow the rules--how does he manage to do this?--but it was too hard, and after three minutes I noticed an elfin figure whirring down a distant aisle, a Santa Claus hat on his head, pushing the shopping cart as fast as it would go and then jumping aboard for a thrill ride. I limped down to where my unruly son was. He was smiling hugely, and the passing customers were grinning at his impishness. When I caught him I stopped the cart with my foot (the one without the pencil in it) and I hissed, "You are being obnoxious..you are supposed to stay with me..."

A nice old lady came up to me admonishing, "Just let them be kids, they are only young once." I gritted my teeth.

Birdie said, "You're being obnoxious. I have to get my snacks."

Dylan took off at top speed down the aisle.

I limped after Birdie to select the junk foods that were not too junky for the kindergarten snack. Birdie and I found the tweezers, picked out the really sharp ones, and went to check out line.

Birdie was gripping the granola bars and cheese Pringles like a starving child. The checker had to come around to the other side of the counter to scan the food since this junk-food junkie would not let go of the boxes. Dylan was nowhere to be seen.

We waited around at the exit and then went for a search and found a weeping Dylan in the Christmas aisle. I had hurt his feelings; he felt very criticized. I gritted my teeth.

I hobbled out to the car, snapped in Birdie, and waited for Dylan to emerge. Eventually he came out, not kidnapped, but sulking and sniffling. We would have to discuss this later.

After the kids went to sleep I got out the really sharp tweezers, took several ibuprofren, and tried again: no luck.

"You have to get it out," DH told me in the morning. He said he had pulled plenty of spines and splinters out of his flesh. He told me he had lanced a cyst he had on his neck, once, using a needle. This is a guy who had operated on his cat, and closed the wound with superglue. I was not going to get a lot of sympathy from him. He did, however, agree to try to get it out, if I wanted, "but it will probably hurt." My foot was hurting enough anyway, so I said, "do it," and got out my little diy surgery kit, including the really sharp tweezers. Offering my foot, I closed my eyes, and began counting backwards from 100 as he started picking away. I made it to the count of 95, then I told him to stop. I was going to the doctor. I think Birdie was right when he said, "If you keep trying to get it out yourself, then you will really need to go to the doctor."

That afternoon at Urgent Care, I got a couple of numbing shots in the foot, and then finally Dr. Mogle-Lichten got a half-inch long pencil lead out. I was so relieved, and light-headed, and leaned back on the gurney. When the nurse said I could leave, I said I felt faint and I was going to sit there for a minute. "Does this happen to you often?" the nurse asked.

I turned the question over in my mind. Was she asking whether I had objects stuck in my foot often? Or whether I often felt faint after having my foot cut open? Was she just making conversation, as in, do you come here often, or was she trying to get me to vacate the gurney so another unlucky patient could take my spot behind the curtains? It didn't really matter which question she was asking, since the answer to each was the same: "No."

Bunco Gal

2009-01-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

All right Bunco ladies, I am ready to play Bunco. By the time we meet, I will even have found out how to play Bunco. I was unduly excited when I was invited to Bunco night (yes, I have brought this up before).

Cheryl said, "I've been meaning to ask you what you are doing Monday nights? We've been getting together for bunco and it is really fun; food and drink and the kids always go to the babysitter."

Oh, thank you, yes, I would love to be in on bunco. Monday night. Oh dear, turns out I work on Monday night...maybe I can change my hours? I finally am invited, which is what I really wanted, but I can't even make it to the get together. The desire to be invited might even outweigh my ability to actually participate. I hope there will be other bunco nights.

Cheap & Easy

2009-01-04T18:13:00.000-08:00

1. Have you ever had an Aveeno Oatmeal bath? Aveeno sells all natural oatmeal, ground finely, to put in warm bathwater. The bath helps rashes, itches, and just feels good. My kids get rashes, especially in the summer, and I had started buying the Aveeno Baby Oatmeal bath packets. They cost too much, but the indulgence was worth it, since it really seemed to work. Hey, it is just oatmeal, right? Well if you have ever tried to make your own oatmeal bath by putting plain oatmeal in water, your result will be slimy, your kids won't go in the water (and you can't really blame them), and afterward you have another gooey mess to clean up (or you could just leave it in the tub and clean it up when you are feeling more energetic).

If you want to make your own oatmeal bath without the mess and the expense, you need old pantyhose or an old sheer sock, and some oatmeal. You can use instant oatmeal if you want the bath thick and porridge-like, or you can use organic if you are feeling virtuous or prefer organic. The rest is obvious: put about a cup of oatmeal in the sock or cut-off leg of the pantyhose, tie it at the top part of the oatmeal, and throw "snakey" in the warm bath. Kids love to squeeze "snakey" and this does wonders for red, chapped hands teachers have been squirting with antibacterial gel all week. Your skin will feel moist and fresh, too...just like, well, a plump raisin in a bowl of oatmeal. You can also try grinding the oatmeal in a blender, to make it fine, and skip the sock, but that might not be as much fun and you may be accused of killing "snakey".

2. I have been making salmon burgers, a good way to get your Omega 3's without dealing with finding, buying, and cooking fresh fish. The mess is not worse than garden burgers, and you don't have the smell from cooking fresh fish. This is a forgiving recipe: amounts can be altered, and you can throw in whatever fresh veggies you have on hand. You need a can of salmon, 1/2 cup torn up bread, 2 eggs, 2 tsp lemon juice (or Dr. Bragg's Apple Cider Vinegar), some parsley, and a little mayonnaise. I added fresh spinach and chopped onions, yum. You can also add garlic or garlic salt. You just mix up all the ingredients, shape burgers, and fry them in a tiny bit of oil.

A variation: put canned salmon in a can of clam chowder, and you have instant salmon chowder--which sounds so classy. Your friends will think you have been cooking all day, instead of just opening a couple of cans. Ok, this is degenerating from easy to sleazy, reminds me of a cookbook for guys, based on canned food, I saw titled: "A Man, A Can, A Plan." On a final note, if anyone has a tip on getting YOUR man to open a can, let me know.

"I Know a Song that Gets on Everybody's Nerves

2009-01-01T16:52:00.000-08:00

..everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves;
I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, and this is how it goes:

I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves,
I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, and this is how it goes:

I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves, everybody's nerves,
I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, and this is how it goes..."

D'Lyon learned this song on the school bus, and it is the newest sensation, which he enjoys singing at high decibels (I never realized how high little kids can shriek) while banging his feet. This is repeated indefinitely until I NEED TIME OUT.

So DH took the rugrats to visit his parents in Colorado, and I decided to stay home alone. I do have a hundred things to do--from giving blood pressure medicine to my elderly cat to filling out tax forms from several years ago--and yes, I love my kids, but I am really looking forward to having some time to myself.

One of my eldest's New Year's resolutions: "Maybe I can be politer?"

"Politer?" I comment to the kid who is a card-carrying member of the grammar police.

"And use better grammar."

Like I say, I love my kids. And I know they are having a great time driving with Dad for eight hours, since they always do have a great time.

Cake

2008-12-24T11:08:00.000-08:00

There was a kid, Javier, in my English class. Quiet, with the shaved head, numerous facial piercings, and sullen expression in vogue for young people, he exuded a message of "leave me alone." I bumped into him once late at night, at the midway at the State Fair, an uncharacteristic place for me to be, but, you know, my kids dragged me there for one more ride on the bumper boats. In his leather apparel, including leather pants, with the pierced face, and within a group of other young sulking men, Javier did not cut a welcoming image, and I would have avoided him, if he had not called out, "Hi Teacher!" with a boyish wave.

He did not offer much information about his life, and I didn't ask. When the class completed this inane exercise in the textbook on a topic of cooking lessons, he did respond aloud to the question: "What was the first meal you ever cooked?" He said when he was a boy in a little Mexican village, he had roasted a chicken. He caught the chicken in his yard and killed it himself, he said, by swinging it by the neck. File that under odd questions, odd answers.

A custom for these classes, I found out, is to have a potluck on the last day of class. Not wanting a big production, I passed out a sign up sheet and advised the students to write down their names and what they wanted to bring, if they did want to bring food or drink, but not to feel obligated to bring something. Javier put his name down and wrote "Cake."

Last day of class, I wonder if Javier is going to show up at all. He does, tardy, but treat in hand, and he does not just have a Pepperidge Farms frozen edible with him, nor is it a predictable concoction from a mix. He carries in this big three layer pink cake, with a tri-colored marshmallow design on top, bursting with fresh, pastel shaded, whipped cream, the kind of thing you would expect at your wedding.

The class sighs at the cake. This is a surprise. "Javier, did you make that?" I asked.

"Yes, Teacher."

"You must be a really good cook."

"Yes, Teacher."

I guess the killing and roasting of the chicken was a formative experience for this young chef, which is why he had told the story. File this under hot water bottles: cold on the outside and warm on the inside. The teddy bear inside the pitbull costume.

I think there are more people, more young males, like Javier out there than we realize: Sweet.

Mr. Manners

2008-12-22T08:04:00.000-08:00

There are signs of progress here. The baboons whom we formerly hired to teach the children some manners are slacking off. Birdie has been refusing to go to sleep without resting his soft little head on my arm. Now isn't that cute and snuggly? Sure, except when I'd rather not lie there with a light blaring in my eyes, indefinitely, the evening ticking away, while he burrows around and jabbers himself to sleep. There are still a few things I would rather be doing, and that is besides scrubbing the squalid kitchen. Birdie demands, "Arm," or he says plaintively, "I need your arm."

Last night he was almost asleep and I tried to ease his head onto the pillow. Almost asleep, he said, "May I please have my arm?" Of course this was not his own arm a chainsaw had dropped on, but last time I checked, this arm was still attached to my body. At some point children develop personal boundaries, but evidently we are not there yet. At least there was a "please," so the baboons did teach him some human words.

Bunco Night

2008-12-15T21:28:00.000-08:00

"Hey Birdie's mom, I'm going to my grandpa's," Birdie's friend at kindergarten tells me. "It's Bunco Night."

Oh so that was it. "That sounds like fun," I tell Jaron.

That morning I had walked into school with Jaron and his mom Cheryl, as I do many mornings. I have made some new friends with the parents at the elementary school, and I see them every day. They are cheerful people who tell jokes, share stories about their kids or their former lives without childcare duty, and swap recipes. I look forward to hanging out with them; they are the happy people who make my life happier. We have exchanged phone numbers, taken our kids trick or treating together, and had some play dates. We are the over-40 parents as distinguished from the teenage parents who look like they are 12, have lots of tattoos, and wear pajamas and slippers to drop-off.

So when we were walking into the school, Cheryl called out to another one of the mothers, "Hey are you going to make it tonight at 6:30?" I wandered purposefully toward the kindergarten, not wanting to seem like I was asking to be invited, too. Ouch: junior high school all over again.

Jaron asks if he could come over for a sleepover. "Sure, you are always welcome to come over," I tell him. "How many sleepovers has Birdie been to?" Jaron asks, and Birdie holds up a fist with no fingers showing and scowls meaningfully at Mean Mom. "ZERO". Chip off the old block.

"I have been to---oh so many I can't even count," the five year old friend goes on, wiggling his fingers. Oh boy, just like his social mom.

Bunco is a card game, I found out, but also a really carefree all-girls get together. Maybe the next year the fun parents will learn how fun I am and invite me to bunco night, too!

Why I Love My Job

2008-12-11T21:22:00.000-08:00

It is exciting: it keeps me guessing about what the student with the ankle bracelet, who is on house arrest, was in the Big House for; and also whether it would be wise to inform him he has not attained the standards necessary to pass my English class this semester. No, using the phrase "titty bar" in his paper was not the only reason he is failing. Are there bulletproof vests made in some stylish material for the anxious paraprofessional?

My students are nice to me. They don't yell, "You're a Big Meanie!" , talk down to me and say "duuuuh, Mom.." Sometimes they bring me sodas or trinkets as peace offerings.

My students respect physical boundaries. I don't get pawed, trampled, my hair pulled, snuggled by youngsters who act like they would rather still be breastfeeding than eating solids at the ages of 5 and 8.

I get to do something I know how to do. I know how to analyze prose and diagram a sentence. How do you wake up sleeping kids who are sleeping like rocks when there are only twenty minutes before the first school bell rings? What is the proper grip to force a small, clenched mouth open to brush the teeth inside? How do you control two beings SCREAMING at each other at the top of their lungs over who gets to hold the cat. How do you protect the cat? What do you say to a little person who pleads, "I'm hungry, I'm cold, and lonely." If you have also failed this quiz, the correct answer to the last question is hot chocolate, but it has to be sugary, preferably hfcs and non-nutritious so don't dare try to sneak in extra milk.

I don't have to ASK Dad, could he please be ever so nice and read a kid a bedtime story? Would he mind chasing his darling child down and scrubbing his face if he happens to have a chance to take a tiny break from answering pressing listserve questions about grasshoppers? Isn't there an amazing recipe for soft boiled eggs that he used to make, and wouldn't he like to possibly please FEED THE KIDS who are screaming I'M HUNGRY! instead of downloading photos right now? I get home really late and everyone is asleep and I do not care whose teeth were brushed, and whether they had Cocoa Crispies for dinner. At least I didn't have to cook it.

My students have problems. They are poor, badly educated, single parents, runaways, survivors of abuse, but they are trying to improve themselves and I am trying to help them. I used to want to be a counselor, but I did not want the big responsibility for someone I barely knew's well-being. Now I hear about so many problems---the evictions, the addictions, the sick kids, the violence, the untimely deaths, and I have a little beam of hope to offer, I hope, in education. Maybe the students can even get out of their own heads for a while, too, while reading the Declaration of Independence.

Wi-fi! I do not want it in my home since I would never see my family again; they would be abducted by computer games and bug guide searches. BUT, that is like not wanting potato chips in the house when I would also have my hand deep in the bag. I'd be addicted too, but I am holding out, still trying to put stock in simpler activities. Cranberry chains for the Christmas tree, anyone?

The semester comes to an end, like it is now, and then another comes as a fresh start with new faces and new challenges. I wish someone would let me know what the prison release guys had been in for, though.

Sim City

2008-12-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

Dylan took his saved allowance (about $50) to the school book fair and spent it on computer software. He was trembling with anticipation to play Sim City 4, in which he could "build and magnage huge cities, establish vast transportations networks, keep Sims on the go by road and rail, airways and waterways," and so forth as the mayor of Sim City. But first he had to build the city.

He was busy at the computer for an hour, during which time he uttered comments like, "Awesooooooooooooome," and "Holy Mother of God!" so I knew he was engaged. After another hour, he wanted to show me the city, and so I received a guided tour by the 8 year old mayor.

There was a jutting cliff on the side of which is an active volcano, surrounded by water. A robot walks up and down the cliff, throwing plates into the abyss of the volcano.

I asked, "Where are the Sims going to live? Where is the city?"

"Oh, who wants to build that?" he said.

So this is what the world would be like if eight year old boys were in charge. The robot is still flinging plates; I guess the simulated world is functional, so maybe he did not do so badly!

Things I Am Thankful for Today

2008-11-27T07:13:00.000-08:00

I am thankful that I live in what is still the free world.

I am thankful my material needs are met.

I am thankful that my kids are healthy and (when not having tantrums) happy.

I am thankful for my membership at the JCC, and the positivity of the trainers at the gym there.

I am thankful for chocolate, fresh cranberry sauce, and the occassional good night's sleep!

I am thankful that my husband and I are employed in the public sector, and seem (seem!) to have secure jobs.

I am thankful for the solar system, and that I can see stars at night and learn about constellations.

I am thankful for seasons and weather, so every day does not look the same. Sweaters. Wool hats.

I am thankful for birds, since they can fly and sing--

oh no, now I will feel guilty for also EATING a bird today!

Dreams from MY Father

2008-11-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Barack Obama's first memoir, Dreams from My Father. As you may know, Obama saw his Kenyan father when he was a baby, then his father (who already had a wife and two children abroad) abandoned him to pursue an advanced degree at Harvard. The next, and last, time Obama saw his father, a decade later, he came for a month-long, awkward visit. Nevertheless Barack's father wrote occasional warm, welcoming letters, urging Barack to come to Africa to be with his other (half-) brothers and sisters whom he had never met. Barack's young mother, Ann, maintained a legend of her ex-husband as a brilliant, inspired leader, downplaying his obvious absence in his son's life.

Barack believes in the myth, looks up to his dad, and then finally goes to Africa for the first time when he is in his mid-twenties. Amazingly, most of the many half-siblings and their mothers COMPLETELY embrace Barack as a wayward son who has come home. And Barack graciously accepts the hospitality and outpourings of love.

Since I was raised for the most part by a single mother also, I could not help comparing Barack's attitude toward his father with my own. During the first ten years of my life, my father was tenuously connected to the rest of our distressed household. I rarely saw him; he was at work seven days a week until late at night. The times I did spend with him I remember his pointed wit which seemed cruel. When my parents officially separated, my father moved several hundred miles away, and I saw him only a handful of times after that. We spoke on the phone and exchanged letters occasionally. At these times, he would often offer paternal advice, and provide verbal or written outpourings of support.

The letters were sincere and I appreciated the sentiment they held. Yet I wish I had the goodwill of the president-elect to put aside the resentment I felt at being abandoned. It occurred to me that if I were more charitable at heart, I would have a more positive take on my early years. We are what we are, however. My father passed away four years ago. Years before he died, I had let go and stopped feeling resentful, but then I never have been able to laud the heritage from my father.

In short, this is a good book which reveals exceptional (and enviable) character.

How I Spent Our Economic Stimulus Payment

2008-11-17T17:38:00.000-08:00

The payment arrived surreptitiously in the middle of October, deposited automatically in our checking account. Usually we get several notices that a tax payment has been sent, but this time, there was no notice. We had, since May, been getting promises of the check, several notices that it was on the way, that the amount had been adjusted, but no money. I finally called the toll free number and found out the check was deposted, along with our 2007 tax refund, in October.

The timing made me uncomfortable; it seemed like a loan that is paid back the night before the depressed relative commits suicide, settling debts before the ship sinks. So while we are bailing out Wall Street with money that could be spent on public issues like affordable education, or decent health care--don't get us started here, right?-- taxpayers are getting their tiny refund, without interest for the delay. Hey, is it just me?

Well, to get back to accounting:

$759.00 to NM Propane for 250 gallons of propane (for heat)
$500.00 2 years' neighborhood association dues
$250.00 10 days' worth of groceries
$149.00 to PNM for electricity (2 months)
$139.00 blue jeans, socks, underwear, gloves, hats in little boy sizes
$3.00 at Bargain Square for a Captain Underpants book, a stuffed Cheetah, and a real redneck baseball cap that says "I'm So Broke I Can't Even Pay Attention"; these were all Dylan's choices and the cap largely suits him. Bargain Square, a thrift store, supports people who have disabilities, so some of that money will be contributed to a good cause. The other $1797, I cannot say as much; have I stimulated the economy?

Pine Cone Craft

2008-11-15T19:03:00.000-08:00

When I am stressed out, or feel the hours slipping away unproductively, I feel driven to make something. Crafty, eh? I guess the mindless repetition of making a knicknack helps people unwind. Last night I came across a flyer for a craft show at Dylan's school, and I decided we would gather pine cones and greenery from our yard and make crafts out of them to sell at the elementary school. My kids were excited as we got out wire, ribbon, scissors, and dove in. So we wound some of the greenery around a pine cone or two. And this is? A bumpy monk with a green Afro? Dylan bent coat hangers into circles and we wound juniper branches into wreath shapes. I felt more focused and productive once I got into bending the twigs and tying them with ribbons. The result was anything but professional looking, nor was it something anyone would buy. But it was suitable for hanging on the front door, even if the mail carrier ends up chuckling at our efforts. With Sunday ahead, I am looking for advice on making raccoons (or porcupines) out of the pine cones.

Upward Mobility at Kindergarten

2008-11-10T09:10:00.000-08:00

A lot of times I get choked up when I take Birdie to his Kindergarten. The teachers seem so patient and good, tirelessly tying shoelaces and wiping chins. The ABC's and colorful pictures of seasons taped on the walls look vivid and cheerful. It is early in the morning, and I am still sleepy and feeling sensitive as the five year old students start bustling to attention, sorting out puzzles, marking their own attendance, ordering their lunches with color-coded popsicle sticks. From my perspective this looks like an orderly, sweet, productive and tolerant world.

What gets to me is the memory of when I was five. Since I was left alone so much, I already had a sharp survival instinct. My brother and I would wake ourselves in the cold house, make our breakfasts, and walk separately the mile to our school. I was so shy and uncomfortable with the other kindergarteners. I would have rather been at home by myself, although I did not feel safe at home either. My kindergarten teacher offered to drive me to school in the mornings so I would not be late all the time, and I guess my mother agreed, since there was a period of time when the teacher would stop by the house to pick me up, and drive me from one confusing, lonely spot to the other.

Birdie is also shy at school. Although I struggle with the effort of raising my kids in a loving environment, at least I am there for them and at least I know I am doing better than my parents did with me.

Food Schism

2008-10-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

What is a corn dog? Is there actual food in a corn dog? After school, I thawed out some Edamame beans for snack. (The lightly salted ones from Trader Joe's taste really good.) Birdie is screaming, "I want a corn dog! Where is my CORN DOG!?" Then he is shrieking as though someone is torturing him. Dylan has already fished a Coke from the fridge. He has been hoarding the Coke since the Defenders of Wildlife picnic/rally, which supplied the sodas. His dad let him bring one home. I have a sinking feeling in my stomache as I look in the cupboard at the plastic bags containing organic split peas, nutrional yeast from the Co-op. There is no way my kids are going to eat this stuff. Especially not when Dad supplies them with Ding-dongs (a chocolate version of Twinkies) and Cocoa-Crispies on the sly. The colors of some junk foods alarm me--why are Sno-Balls SO pink? The generic Hawaiin Punch Birdie snuck into the shopping cart looks like it will glow in the dark. I am dismayed that my kids are putting these virtual nonfood items, plus chemicals, into their healthy little bodies. How am I going to make peace with the Nutritional Yeast/Ding Dong Schism?

lost my keys

2008-10-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

D drove to work with my car keys, leaving me rifling through drawers trying to find a spare set to get my youngest to kindergarten on time. I was mean, yelling at my kids for minor infractions of not eating breakfast, refusing to wear socks, squeezing the cat too hard. The spare keys, it turns out, are locked inside my car; meanwhile the window of opportunity for getting to school on time has passed. DS comments, "Actually, I am feeling kind of sick," hoping the lost keys will give him a day off from school. I call D to drive back and bring me my keys, and then proceed to walk with ds to his school.

I don't like to be late often; but it is really hard to get clothing, lunches, backpacks ready; kids out of beds, hair combed, and make it to the school by 8:25. Then I rush to the bus stop to be there by 8:45 so my third grader can get the school bus to his highly gifted and talented program at another school. The nongifted parents, some of whom are half my age, are neatly dressed, as are their children, bright eyed and ready to start their work days, it seems, and dropping off their obedient children, without yelling at them, before the bell rings. Well it is a minor goal but tomorrow we will be all ready to go, bookbags packed, shoes tied, and so on, EARLY.

Cash n' Carry

2008-10-13T19:19:00.000-07:00

One of my English language students worked at a Phillips 66 station right off of the interstate, in a seedy part of the city. Aside from ringing up gas purchases, she was responsible for filling gas tanks for commercial truckers. She is a petite young woman, slight and maybe 5'1". She is 22 and has been working (in Mexico, where I guess there are not labor laws) since she was seven years old. She helps her parents and younger sister with the rent. I was surprised she held this physical job, at which there was some heavy lifting, not to mention the risk of ringing up the purchases at the self-service and convenience store. Well, the station was privately owned and the owners were going out of business, so she was going to be out of a job. She asked me to write her a recommendation for a job, which I was glad to do: I knew from her writing that she was a hard working and enterprising person.

She sent me a thank-you note, which did not mention whether she got a new job, and which included a gift certificate for a store called "Phil's". I wondered if she was now working there. Recently I had a chance to drive to Phil's. Not surprisingly, it too was located in a part of town I would not like to be hanging around in after dark. It turned out to be a cash n' carry discount liquor store. There were some closed-down gas pumps in front, so I figured this was a renovated gas station, or previously a drive-through liquor store.

I went in and asked the young woman behind the counter if she knew if my former student worked there (she didn't). Well I don't usually drink except wine and this place did not seem to carry wine, so I used the gift card for a bottle of Kahlua. I did appreciate my student's thought, though the choice of store was unusual. I hope she improves her English and work options.

Blackout

2008-10-12T21:50:00.000-07:00

The electricity in our rural house came back on this morning. There was a big cheer, and our 8 year old ran to the computer looking for his skateboarding game and our five year old rushed to the TV to find "Revenge of the Sith", in which both of them had been happily absorbed yesterday afternoon when the power went out. No power means no water, too, since our pump runs on electricity. Coincidentally the phone was also out. The sun was still up, so we played checkers for a while, until the sunlight in the house started to fade.

Secretly I welcomed the break from the electronic devices, and thought sitting around in the dark would be fun. DH got panicky about "wasting" an evening away from the Internet. Eager to take action, we went out to the car to plug in the cell phone and started calling the electric company, the phone company. Once the sun went down, the darkness was deeper than usual, since there were no lights from our few and distant neighbors. The moon was almost full and there was a warm glow to the windy, silver land outside the car windows.

Inside the house was less pleasant initially. B is still afraid of the dark, so he clung to my elbow while I fumbled with the flashlights, matches, candles. We got a little oil lantern lit and decided to tell ghost stories. I started off with, "Do you know the story of Rip Van Winkle?" Too literary. Trash that. "Have you heard about the headless horseman?" B's eyes got BIG and he hid his face. Too scary, just the title. I did remember a fun ghost story that I had heard at a slumber party in the fourth grade: the story of the vinda viper. (I remembered the giggly girls sitting around in our pajama's in my friend Barbara's den, spinning hair-raising tales. Do girls still do that?)

If you want to know the whole story of the vinda viper, check back later.

We piled into bed without even having to brush our teeth! The kids fell asleep right away. I lay there for a while in the dark, trying to discern something about the quality of my life, whether being there in the very dark house in the middle of nowhere sharing twisted up blankets with sweet little kids was a good place to be. I decided it was ok.

Then I was up at four, antsy, wanting some time to myself and to get some things done.

One thing I learned is to prepare a little blackout kit, with matches, candles, water to drink, maybe even something fun like glow in the dark paint, for the next time.

Styrofoam house

2008-10-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

Look out, big bad wolf. We just built our haunted house out of styrofoam, complete with gravestones ("Rest in Pieces"), bats, cobwebs, AND shingles on the leaky roof. Completing it was a big deal, very Zen, very of the Moment: it mattered how that the little fence around it was appropriately skewed.

There were contingencies galore: --I am not going to say how many-- years of unfiled tax returns, missed deadlines for job applications, too...But for now I am going to let that slide.

learning curve

2008-10-08T17:16:00.000-07:00

I have a really mysterious funky picture I am trying to post here. So I cannot drag the picture over from my desktop. Don't worry, it is not a picture of me, nor a picture of the 44 cats. I am geared up about getting this page going: make way for Goody 2 Shoes to rest here feet here. Meanwhile my Mommy self is building a haunted house out of styrofoam, scraping melted crayon spots off the laundry; my bring home the bacon self is trying to upload my resume for an overdue job application; the fry it up in the pan self is peeling avocados for guacamole. How far does multitasking go?