On the Right Track This Christmas?

Honk and I had decided months ago that this would be a simple Christmas. We were determined to escape the crazy consumerism that distracts us from the true meaning of the holidays. It was time to get back to basics and focus on what was really important, like the birth of the savior, the love of family and friends, and the fact that we're broke. Our poor, deprived children would have to figure out some way to survive this winter without mindblowing toys like this kiddie ice rink (which can be yours too for the low, low price of $39.99!) American conspicuous consumption at its finest...


This Christmas would not find me wandering aimlessly through Target in a trance-like state, hypnotized by holiday toy sales. You would not discover me dazed in the princess aisle, slack-jawed and muttering to myself, "Must get her more princess dolls. NEED more princess dolls..." Those frivolous spending days were just where my pre-offspring waistline was- long gone with no foreseeable plans of returning.

We agreed to only buy the kids a couple of gifts, so we had to make them good ones- ones we knew they'd really love that would also hold their attention for more than three seconds. To me, this seemed like an easy task for a couple of reasons: 1. I am very in-tune with my children 2. At this point, I will do just about anything to end Lil' Miss's incessant pleas for "the pink Hannah Atana microphone because I want to sing so beautifully for everyone". And for Baby Dude? Well, I'd already bought his Christmas present months ago.

Nice, huh? Yeah, I thought so too. We bought the train set on sale way back during the summer and the beautiful table was courtesy of Grandpa Nudge and Grandma Lainey. I couldn't wait to see him play with it. He was crazy about those cars on tracks. Every time we browsed a toy store with one of those train tables set up, he'd go nutzo, running over to it and wiggling around like a dancin' fool. He was into it, pushing the train UP the hill, DOWN the hill, IN the tunnel, OUT of the tunnel... It was a strange sight to witness such raw intensity on the face of our happy-go-lucky boy.

Giving him that train set was what I was most excited about Christmas morning. I could hardly wait to see the expression on his face, to see him scream, shake, and dance around like a fool. Maybe he'd be so moved he'd even speak his first intelligible words or cry tears of joy. I was picturing Laura Ingall's face at the sight of that shiny copper penny in her Christmas stocking. Yeah, I may have set myself up for some disappointment.

Almost one week later he still hasn't touched that train set, hasn't even made eye contact with it. He's been too busy working on this...

Snow simulation thanks to the styrofoam packaging in the train table box. Niiiicccce...

I'd be great to find some deep meaning in all of this, maybe a connection to our ingenius plan to keep Christmas simple this year, but I'm way too annoyed to bother. All I know is that if he doesn't start pushing Thomas the train through that tunnel here pretty soon, he's getting an empty plastic water bottle from Santa next year.

Crustaceas Santas

If you've been following this blog at all then it will come as no surprise to you when I say that I've always been a bit of a worrier. (At this time, please refrain from smirking at your computer monitor and yelling, "Uh, yeah... Ya think?!") I've pretty much made an art form out of it. I can worry myself into a tightly wound bundle of nerves over just about anything. Growing up, I nearly made myself sick stressing about homework, failed alarm clocks, earthquake escape routes, undetected diseases, and the resurrection of Richard Ramirez (a.k.a the Night Stalker) who I believed had some unfinished business with me. And it's only intensified with motherhood. Now my fears and anxieties involve strange-looking rashes, sharp objects in little hands, asthmatic coughing attacks, delayed language, and unlocked doors from which Bonnie and Clyde could escape unnoticed.

Unfortunately, I may have passed this worrying gene on to Lil' Miss. The girl definitely has her share of phobias. These include but are not limited to face paint, old people with long hair, masks, old people with long beards, character costumes, and old people with loud voices. As you can imagine, this does not bode well for a certain gift-giving grandpa-type who we like to make a big deal about this time of year. Santa is definitely outside the Christmas periphery in our house. Literally. Lil' Miss has made it perfectly clear that he's not welcomed in here. No rooftop. No chimney. No tiptoe-ing around our living room with that long white beard and crazy red suit. She's agreed to leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk out on the front porch for him in exchange for the presents he promised, but that's as close as he'll be getting to this house.

The advent calendar she picked out says it all.

Yep, it was the only Christmas scene where Santa was OUTSIDE, peeking in through the window.

I really thought I had Lil' Miss's Scorn of Santa all figured out. I believed in time she'd grow to love that white hair and beard as much as all the other kids in the world did. But a recent conversation revealed that I didn't have a clue about the nature of my daughter's fear.

We were all sitting around the kitchen table talking about Christmas when Honk in usual fashion pushed the Santa issue a bit too hard. "Are you SURE you don't want to sleep out on the couch so you can see Santa when he comes down the chimney?" (Why do boys taunt us so?) Lil' Miss immediately curled up into herself and hid behind one of the chairs. She wouldn't even respond to his question. She was truly panicked at the prospect of that scenario. I think it was the first time Honk realized how intense her fear of Santa was and he whispered to me, "Man, she's seriously freaked out by him!"

Wanting him to understand her the way I thought I did, I suggested, "Lil' Miss, why don't you tell Daddy why you're scared of Santa."

Slowly, she crept out from behind the chair and held up her hands like she was making sock puppets. Then she opened and closed them like Pac Man and said, "Well, there's his Santa claws..."

Are you kidding me? Had the poor girl really mistaken his last name for a pair of pointed appendages? No wonder she didn't want to have anything to do with him! Santa was really just a GIANT LOBSTER disguised behind a long white beard and red suit! Now when I think about all those times we begged her to take a picture on Santa's lap, her butt cheeks only inches away from those sharp pinchers craftily hidden in his furry gloves... I can still see the absolute terror on her face.

As much as I liked the idea of Santa, I've decided to let it go. He's not the true meaning of Christmas anyways. And now I have one less thing to worry about as a mother. There's no longer a reason to fear the day I'll have to tell Lil' Miss that Santa doesn't really exist. She will not shed tears and her heart will not be broken. Quite the opposite, in fact. That revelation would probably be the best Christmas gift I could give her.

Oye! Have I Got a Boy for YOU!

Lil' Miss's preschool teacher is very thorough. On a dry erase board propped up outside her classroom, she jots down the day's highlights and even some reminders for parents to look over at pick-up time. It's a lifesaver for featherbrains such as myself. Tuesday's board said,

-Practiced Christmas songs
-Read story about baby Jesus
-Painted wreaths
-Don't forget to peek at our work on the art wall today!

At dismissal, all the moms filed into the room to collect our kids and check out their work. The teacher had asked each child the same question and typed up their responses on festive paper. The question was, "If you could give Jesus one gift this Christmas, what would you give Him?" Their answers were precious.

Elysse said, " ... I'd give Him a baby doll for Him to hold."

Charlie said, " ... I'd give Him a shirt to put in His closet."

Leah said, " ... I'd give Him a phone so He could call my mommy."

Lil' Miss said, " ... I'd give Him my friend Sophia so He could have someone to talk to."

Huddled together, all the moms just stood there looking up at the board and smiling until the teacher suddenly piped up, "You know, I did have to tweak Lil' Miss's original answer." She was not looking at me when she announced this, and I was way too afraid and embarrassed to ask what, praytell, my dear child had said. But, lucky for me, one of the other moms was not. "What did she SAY?"

"... I'd give him a woman."

Leave it to Lil' Miss Yenta to make sure that not even the Creator of the Universe was spending the holidays alone. Gotta love that kid!

Mom! Baby Dude's Ruining Christmas!

The bad news?

Baby Grinch was definitely ruining Christmas.

The good news?

He finally found a use for Honk's dirty, discarded socks.

As Lil' Miss would say, "order-ments!"

Holy Infant, so Tender and Mild

This year, Lil' Miss is playing the angel in her preschool's Christmas Nativity and I can't decide if I'm more excited to see her perform or to see Baby Dude's reaction from the front row. I know, first hand, that holiday entertainment can come in the most unexpected ways.

Every Christmas, my community Bible study also puts on a reinactment of the Navitity for the kids in the children's program. The teachers construct a pretty cool-looking manger scene and perform a theatrical retelling of the story. It's very dramatic. Plus, their costumes look historically accurate which always earns an extra point in my book. All the VIP's are there: the shepherds, wise men, animals, an angel, Mary, Joseph, and of course, baby Jesus. The kids LOVE it.

A couple of years ago, the head honchos in the children's department decided to get all fancy and scrap the plastic baby Jesus doll for a REAL baby instead. I'm guessing the "baby-saves-the-world" theme was a hard sell to kids who were probably wondering, "Why isn't he moving? Or crying? Save the world? How 'bout just BLINK YOUR EYES, baby Jesus? Let's start with that!"

So, about this time two years ago, the children's director peeked her head into my Bible study group, the group specifically for new moms. She was full of smiles and hellos but there was something suspicious about the way she never made eye contact with us. She was too busy inspecting the precious cargo in our arms. She just stood there, smiling and scanning the room like a hungry lion among gazelles. "We need a baby. A strapping young lad who can handle a tight swaddling." All eyes fell on me and the two-month old in my arms. Baby Dude was the Chosen One. Apparently everyone was in agreement that my boy was the only one who could play the baby king. This did not surprise me. They saw in him what I saw- a sweet, contented child destined for greatness. That and the fact that he was the only boy in the room.

I squirmed in my seat as all the moms smiled in my direction. This arrangement made me uncomfortable. It felt very stage-momish, like one day I'm offering him up in the baby Jesus gig and the next I'm driving him to L.A. for a Pamper's commercial. Or like an inferiority complex waiting to happen. Would he always feel like I was comparing him to the messiah he once played? Would he become one of those obsessive kids who rewrote his homework over and over again until it was perfect and all the while ranted, "I'LL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU!"? Not to mention the concerns I had about Lil' Miss, only a two-year-old at the time. She was still new to big sisterhood and was having enough trouble just accepting the fact that we were actually going to keep Baby Dude, that we would NOT be returning him to the Rent-a-Baby center after all. The competition for attention was already fierce. Now cute little Mr. Perfecto has to be the SAVIOR OF THE WORLD? Couldn't he settle for best thumb sucker or loudest crier? In the end, I consented, but not without hesitation.

The next week I arrived a bit early and met the costumed teachers in the classroom where the Nativity would be performed. The plan was that I'd hang out behind the manger set with Baby Dude in my arms and pass him through the window to "Mary" when she arrived on the scene. It seemed like a no-brainer until the kids arrived and I discovered that Lil' Miss was sitting in the front row, dead center, just a few feet away from where I was crouched down holding Baby Dude. I held my breath, hoping and praying she would not see me. I watched as she surveyed the stage scene, examining every detail like a city building inspector. It was only a matter of time now.

Sure enough, a few moments later, she caught a glimpse of me through the window. You could actually see her thinking, "What the... ? Is that my... ?" Then she got up off her little chair and leaned forward, even squinted her eyes a bit to get a closer look. All I could do was sit there perfectly still and try to pretend that I didn't see her. But it was too late. We were in an undeniable staredown. I could see the brow furrowing, the eyes welling and the lip quivering. I panicked. That was my baby girl on the verge. So, I sheepishly smiled and waved back.

That move was stupidity at its finest. It just confirmed for her that she was only a few feet and a cardboard wall away from the loving arms of her mama. The floodgates opened and Lil' Miss started to cry. Actually, she was laughing and crying at the same time. It was so sad that I almost joined in. I could hear a nearby teacher consoling her, "It's okay, honey! It's okay." That poor thing, all red-faced and sniffling, was trying to get her act together but every time she looked in my direction a new wave of weeping would crash over her.

She finally calmed down just as the play began, but every time a new character came onto the scene, she started in again with the wailing and nervous laughing. When the beautiful white angel appeared, she reached her breaking point, blubbering all over again with tears streaming down her cheeks. The whole room was dead silent except for the heart-wrenching sobs of my daughter. And while all this was going on, my blessed son, full of grace and light, rested peacefully in the manger.

If the point of all this was to help us remember the story of Christmas, then mission accomplished. I'll never forget.

She said, He Said

Lil' Miss and Baby Dude are still young enough to think cleaning the house is fun. Not as fun as making a decent mess, but still a good time. When I'm vacuuming, they follow me around with their popping push-toys and little lawnmower. When I'm wiping countertops, they grab their own rag to "redo" my work. When I finish cleaning the glass patio door, they're right behind me, scrubbing it with a soapy sponge. Very helpful, indeed.

Of course, this optimistic view of housework does not apply to cleaning up their own rooms... by themselves. If I'm not there, singing the "Clean-up, Clean-up" song and putting away toys right alongside them, they want no part in it. It's probably because they just can't stand being away from me... Yeah, right! More like misery loves company.

Yesterday, I told Lil' Miss she had to put her toys away in her room, a chore that involves picking up her princesses and putting them in baskets underneath her bed. Simple enough for a bright, able-bodied four-year-old. Or so you'd think. I might as well have told her to paint the ceiling or build a bookshelf by her response. She was a wreck, rolling around on the carpet, sobbing and moaning. "Moooooommmm! I caaaaannnn't! It's tooooooo haaaaarrrrrd!" Think Pat from Saturday Night Live.

me: Honey, you can do this! You're a big girl and you're a lot tougher than you think.

her: No, I'm nooooot! I caaaaannnn't dooooooo iiiiiiiiit!

me: Yes, you caaaaaaan! (This did not go over very well.)

her: I CAAAAAANNNN'T!

me: Wait. I have an idea. Why don't you pray and ask God to help you do this. He's always with you and you can talk to him about how hard it is. I bet He'll help you.

her: Alright...

With shoulders hunched and head bowed, she slowly shuffled to her room and returned a few minutes later.

her: Mom, I prayed.

me: You did? How'd it go?

her: Good. God said He was going to help me.

me: That's so great! Why don't you go ahead then and get started cleaning your room.

her: No, Mom. God said He can do it all by Hisself.

Bi-Monthly Meltdown

It's like clockwork. One minute I'm going about my business, working around the house or playing with the kids and the next I'm frantically running from room-to-room, digging through drawers, pulling out couch cushions, and talking to myself like a crackhead. I've just remembered the library books are due and I don't have the slightest idea where they are.

How does this happen, EVERY TIME? Am I really that unorganized around here? I have literally torn the house apart, the kids' rooms are in shambles, and still, no books. My heart is pounding through my chest. I'm a bundle of nerves. It's that junior high I can't-find-my-homework feeling all over again except this time I'm an adult and I should know better and the librarians look like they want to hurt me and have mustaches and are wheeling in a dollie to hold the mountain of late fees piling up in front of me.

I can't help but wonder, did I miss something here? Was there a library orientation I forgot to sign up for? Or a handout titled, "The Idiot's Guide to Keeping Track of Your Books" that I didn't pick up?

Jennifer calls me while I'm flinging everything out of Lil' Miss's closet. "You do know what the librarians are going to say, don't you? The same thing they always tell me. 'Keep 'em in a bag!'" Well now, that's pure GENIUS! I wish I'd thought of that! And yeah, it'd make perfect sense if I didn't have a two-year-old who strictly adheres to the Toddler Ten Commandments, one of which states, "Thou shalt dump out all bags and scatter their contents like the wind." This comes right after, "Thou shalt stand up and pee on your sister's head when taking a bath."

While all this psycho searching and ranting is going on, the kids continue to do whatever it is they're doing, completely unfazed by the crazy lady who's running around the house screaming, "Where could they be? WHERE COULD THEY BE!!!" They don't even so much as lift an eye in my direction. They may have seen this once or twice before. Later, as they pick through the upheavel, the mounds of messes left in my wake, they'll thank me for finding the beloved Barbie lost under their bed or that truck wedged behind the chair. I have found everything that has gone MIA in the last couple of weeks, everything except for those blasted books.

Eventually though, Lil' Miss who is busy putting together a puzzle, will catch on that I'm having one of those meltdowns again (the rocking and thumb sucking in the corner usually give it away). She graciously steps in. "Mom, they're in Baby Dude's room!"

I head towards his room, a room I have already checked like eight thousand times, but, whatever. I'll humor the kid. A few minutes later, I yell out in an almost sing-songy voice, "Nope! Not in here!"

"Yeah! They are!" she sings back.

"I don't know how! I've looked everywhere!"

"Check the closet shelves!"

I do and they're right in front of me. Right there, the whole bloody time. I trudge into the kitchen where Lil' Miss is still busy with that puzzle at the kitchen table. I humbly thank her and she gives me one of her silent, closed-mouth head nods like she's the Holy Roman Pope. I'm left standing there, thinking about what a shame it is that in a couple of weeks I'll forget how she's the one who always finds them, how she always knows where they are. I'll be too busy with my crazy house ransacking to remember.

Girls Rule, Boys Drool (for now, at least...)

If Lil' Miss ever decides to hang up her zippered sweatshirts for the simpler life of the orthodox, I have no doubt in my mind she'd make a great Amish. Not only does the girl love to wear jaw-dropping, grand entrance-making costumes in public, but she's also a firm believer in gender separation. These days it's all about the "sisters before misters".

Just this morning while we were all cuddling in bed together, she scooted over by me and announced to Honk, "This is the girl's side. No boys allowed!" Last weekend, on our way to a friend's house for a Thanksgiving Potluck dinner she asked, "Mom, will all the girls be together in one room and the boys in another?" To say the kid is obsessed with female solidarity is an understatement.

This probably explains why I don't have much alone time anymore. Every outing, every errand, and every room I enter is accompanied by my pint-sized girlfriend. We are not only joined at the hip, but at the leg, the arm, and the head. (Did I mention the earlobes? Yeah, the earlobes too.) As XX chromosomes, I'm guessing she feels a special bond with me, like we're on the same team or that we come from the same litter of puppies. When we're together, walking and holding hands, she likes to say, "Mom, you and me, we're girls together!" When were getting ready in the morning she'll suggest, "Mom, let's both wear pink today because we're girls together!" Or my favorite one, "Mom, don't worry. I'll stay and watch you go potty because we're GIRLS TOGETHER!"

For the most part, I think it's sweet and cute and funny. Honk thinks it's annoying. Lil' Miss is constantly reprimanding him for invading our girl space. The other morning when Lil' Miss crawled into bed with us, we struck up an impassioned discussion about poenawlish. And right as our pink vs. red debate started to get a little heated, Honk tried to cut in with a question of his own. Lil' Miss rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. She flipped over to face him and held up a stop-sign hand, "Dad, hold on a second. HOLD ON!" Then she turned back toward me and said, "I'm sorry, what were you saying, Mom?" Feeling more than a little slighted, Honk reminded her, "Hey I'M the adult and YOU'RE the kid here!" Honk has been announcing this obvious but largely ignored fact a lot lately.

As you can imagine, this Girl Power is REALLY infringing on Honk's attempts to "mess with me". It's kind of like having a junior high best friend all over again. She's fun, sweet, and a bit on the possessive side, giving your other friends the dagger eyes of death when they come within five yards of you. Last Saturday morning, I completely overslept and was still conked out when Honk returned home from running errands with Lil' Miss. He came lumbering into our room like Paul Bunyan, all loud and obnoxious, banging things around and making a huge ruckus. Then he dove onto the bed and flopped around like a carp fish, trying to crush me in my deep sleep. When that only brought about slight moanings, he set in with the expected poking and prodding until I was sounding less like a cow and more like a ticked-off wife. But I didn't need to take action. The Girlinator had already come to my rescue. "Dad! Leave her alone! LEAVE HER ALONE!!!" She was literally shooing him out of the room. And just before she closed the door behind her so I could work out my grogginess in peace, she peeked her head in the door and said, "Sorry 'bout that, Mom. Sorry 'bout that."

I always knew I'd feel protective towards my kids. I just never figured they'd feel the same about me. I'm sure this female unity phase is just that, and soon she'll go back to being a Daddy's girl. So, I think I'll milk this one for as long as I can.

Lighting Up Trees and Faces This Christmas

For years now, we've made it a tradition to kick off the holiday season with the Fashion Island Tree Lighting Ceremony. It's always the weekend before Thanksgiving and it's always a magical affair. There's the wildly-entertaining Christmas musical performed by students of the California Conservatory of the Arts followed by the much anticipated illumination of Fashion Island's majestic, skyscraping Christmas tree. And, of course, a mob of spectators smashed up against eachother, standing shoulder-to-shoulder out in the cold to watch the show. But, 'tis the season, right?

This year we impressed ourselves by getting there a whole fifteen minutes before showtime. This meant that after much elbowing and apologetic smiling, we found a tiny spot to stand where we could actually see the stage, from the front, no less. Never mind that we were clear across the courtyard over by the Christmas tree, about a football field away from it all. We had a place of our own!

After we'd folded up the stroller and tucked it under the Christmas tree (an unexpected advantage to our location), we tried to settle into our two cubic feet of space. Lil' Miss stood right next to me and looked like a kid lost in the forest. She was encircled by a wall of adults, GIANTS towering over her. The poor girl was trapped with nowhere to go and nothing to look at other than what was at eye level, a row of saggy butts. She looked up at me and I could see the panic setting in. I scooped her up in my arms and that's when it became immediately clear the kids would have to be held THE ENTIRE TIME if we were going to enjoy any of this. I had forgotten about this.

Apparently, the show was running a little late (either that or those fifteen minutes with a forty pound preschooler in my arms just seemed like an eternity). This was not good. Honk and I exchanged "Are we having fun yet?" looks. We still had an entire show to stand through and my arm muscles were already burning. I could practically see the flames under my skin. How was I going to manage this? I needed a new game plan. I hoisted Lil' Miss onto my shoulders to give my arms a rest and Lil' Miss a better view of the stage. I must have looked like some kind of female bodybuilder to the people around us, just grabbing my kid like that and flinging her over my head. This was a nice change from the "weaker vessel" routine I'm usually trying to pull off and use to my advantage.

Finally, the music started and the show began. I sent up a little prayer of thanksgiving. Right away, I knew this was right up Lil' Miss's princess-loving, ballet-dancing, broadway-singing alley. The girl was in her element. She was mesmerized by the whimsical set, elaborate costumes, and impressive performances. Every once in a while she'd yell down to me, "Mom, this is SO beautiful!" Not fun. Not great. Not even cute. BEAUTIFUL. I was going to have to take her word for it. I was not watching the show. I was too busy dying a slow, painful death under the weight of the increasingly heavy child perched on my shoulders. She had been up there for quite a while now and my body wasn't taking this free ride lightly. The agony was almost unbearable. Sharp, piercing pain shot through my shoulders and neck. Muscles I didn't even know I had started to spasm. A continuous burning and throbbing permeated my upper back. I was losing oxygen from the strangled hold my hooded sweatshirt had on my airways. I could feel the hordes of people that surrounded us closing in on me. This was the beginning of the end. Between whimpered cries and futile attempts at pain management, I mapped out the people in the crowd best suited to break my fall when I passed out: definitely big mullet man with goosedown jacket.

But then, out of nowhere, a welcomed diversion. A drama even more dramatic than mine (if you can believe it). A mother had somehow weasled her way through the crowd and parked it right next to us. She was holding a baby in her arms and was accompanied by a little girl about the same age as Lil' Miss who had the same lost-in-the-forest expression on her face. The girl was distraught. She could hear the beautiful music and singing, but couldn't see a smidge of the show. It was too sad for words. "Mama, please! Hold me! Hold me! I can't see! I can't see!" The mother who was already balancing said baby in her arms made little effort. "I can't. I don't know where your dad is. Sorry." The little girl kept begging, pleading with her mom to pick her up but the mother wasn't budging. My heart was breaking.

And that's when the pain in my shoulders and neck completely disappeared. How could I be bothered by a little crink in the neck when a child was being deprived the magic of Christmas? An inner battle raged in my head. The socially-appropriate part of my brain was warning, "Leilen, she is NOT your child. There is nothing you can do about this. Just mind your own business and watch the show!" Unfortunately, that part was being drowned out by a much louder, more obnoxious part of my brain, the part that is convinced the whole universe depends on me, like I'm some kind of superhero to short people.

I tapped the twenty-something man standing in front of us on the shoulder and said, "Hey, there's a little girl behind you who can't see the show and I was wondering if maybe you might ask her mom if you could hold her so she could watch." He looked at me like I'd just asked him to take off his pants and fling them into the crowd. But, good guy that he was, he went ahead and asked her anyways. The mother was happy to accept the generous offer and passed the kid off to him. He lifted the girl up onto his shoulders and I watched as her whole face lit up, instantly beaming at the musical extravaganza before her. It was the most genuinely happy smile I'd ever seen.

I couldn't stop smiling either. It felt great to help make that happen. Sure, it was just a little girl getting to watch the tail end of a Christmas show, but still. It reminded me that making people happy can be pretty simple. It doesn't always require a lot of money, commitment or organ transplants. And it can even make your own pain less noticeable. Come to find out, it just takes a little willingness and a lot of khutspe.

Thanks, Tori.

Crisis in Candyland

Oh my GOSH! Would somebody PLEASE get over here right now and stage an intervention for me the way my adorably stern college roomates tried to do when I kept losing my car keys at the library and I couldn't drive myself back to the apartment and the library was too far to walk so I had to call them and they had to come get me... at midnight? The thing is, I think I may have jinxed myself a month ago when I wrote that I didn't like Halloween candy because now I seriously can't stop eating it! And I no longer have the will power to throw it out and my plan to fit in my old prom dress for my twentieth reunion is slipping through my fingers the same way those mini M&M's do when I'm frantically trying to pour them out before anyone sees me. So, please, HURRY! And bring a few mini Twix while you're at it because my supply is running low...

Port-a-Party Part II

This afternoon I suggested that we take a long walk at the beach to which Lil' Miss responded, "Mom, I want to go to the beach and go potty... in the blue thing." I think I herniated a disk I was laughing so hard. When I'd finally caught my breath she asked, "Mom, what's so funny? Can't we just go to Dog Beach so I can go potty?"

I wish I'd known the entertainment value of the "blue thing" BEFORE I'd purchased tickets to see the Nutcracker.

Out with the OLD, In with the NEW

Every once in a while, a teachable moment presents itself. I really try not to botch these up. They help off-set all the stupid "Did I really just say that outloud?" moments that plague me the majority of the time. But sometimes, no matter how wise my words or how pure my intentions, the wires get crossed and the message is lost.

A few days ago, we were cruising around a shopping center and an elderly woman walked by us. I stopped the stroller and smiled at her as she slowly shuffled along. Her back was severely hunched over and her feet barely covered any distance with each step. But eventually she passed us and Lil' Miss asked, "Mom, what's wrong with her?"

"Well, sometimes when people get older, their bodies start to hurt and they have to walk slowly."

"Oh."

"Remember when you stubbed your toe this morning and you had to walk really slow because it hurt so bad? That's how old people feel. Only their whole body is like a stubbed toe."

"Oh."

"So that's why it's important to be kind and patient with them. We need to smile, wait, and help them if we can."

"Oh."

We walked on in silence and I could tell she was really thinking about it. My mind raced to the future where I saw my little Mother Teresa to-be dedicated to the cause of kindness, living a selfless life of service to the old and frail. And it was all because of ME! My patient example, my profound words.

Then Lil' Miss turned to me and said, "Mom, some people move slow because they're OLD."

"Yeah, that's right, honey."

Then she takes off running ahead of me, pumping her arms and legs as fast as she can and yells back over her shoulder, "But look at me! I move fast because I'm NEW!!!"

In Opposition to TV Naaaaaay-Sayers!

And to think people really believe television inhibits the imagination... Pshaw!!!

It doesn't hurt that she has really smart toys.

Port-a-Party

As a mom, there are some things you just have to get over. Like how your kids suffer temporary hearing loss when you call them to bed but can respond with bat echolocation when you slowly unwrap a Twix bar from the closet. Or when people tell you how adorable your kids are and then follow it up by saying that they look EXACTLY like your husband. Or the way they top off the bath you've just given them by dashing into the backyard to sprinkle plant dirt over their heads.

Actually, this last one has given me some trouble. I'm not "getting over" the germ and dirt dilemna as well as I'd hoped. In fact, the older I get, the less tolerable I am towards it. I wouldn't exactly call myself a germaphobe, but I'm well on my way. Ask any of our nature-loving friends who've invited us to go camping with them countless times over the years and they'll tell you they've never heard so many lame excuses come out of one person's mouth. I can only assume they still invite us because they like to annoy me.

Life as a marginal clean-freak is a strange reality for me because I was the complete opposite growing up. According to family folklore, I was part gopher or wombat as a kid. In my world, every day was Earth Day. If I wasn't digging a jacuzzi-sized hole in the backyard, then I was busy building my lucrative mud pie business, or more likely, racing handmade boats down street gutters. I remember eating my dinner in the bathtub on more than one occassion because my own family couldn't stand the sight of me at the table. Every few days my poor mom had to wrestle me into the shower because the PigPen Cloud had reappeared. My childhood nickname said it all. Rather than going for one of the obvious choices like Princess or SweetPea, my family settled on something a little less conventional. Sootsie. As in SOOT, meaning DIRT. Yeah, it was that bad.

I recently thought about this transformation from grimy girl to antibacterial adult when the kids and I joined our neighbor Linda and her yellow lab, Nettie, at Dog Beach. We were so excited to spend an afternoon playing in the sand and surf with our neighborhood pals. So excited, in fact, that I didn't really consider the details of being on a beach overrun by animals- slobbering, peeing, and pooping animals. Not exactly the ideal environment for someone who can barely stomach changing her own kids' diapers.

As we followed the path down into the sand, my heart started racing. I felt like I was going to be sick. Then we were there, within steps of the sand, sand that I suddenly realized had been ca-caed on by millions upon millions of dogs for millions upon millions of years, sand that was about to come oozing between my toes. I wanted to turn around, go racing back up the trail to the car, but Lil' Miss was way ahead of me, skipping and giggling as her feet kicked up clouds of excrement. I made my way toward her and watched as she set down her bucket of beach toys. The sight of those toys by the water reminded me that we were not only going to walk across this sand, we were going to play in it. Dig in it, roll around in it, and, in the case of Baby Dude, FEAST on it. I could barely keep down whatever was trying to make it's way back up my throat. I tried to follow the same advice I give Lil' Miss when panic sets in, "Breathe, girl. BREATHE!"

And just as I started to calm down, Lil' Miss announced, "I have to go potty!" Upon further inquiry, I discovered it was not the kind of potty that can be resolved in the ocean. I looked around, half hoping a beachfront restaurant with well-maintained bathrooms in the rear (no pun intended) had suddenly appeared, but no such luck. Only a row of port-a-potties back by the trail we started at. This was pure torture. I'd have gladly taken the rack over this.

While Linda stayed with Baby Dude, I grabbed Lil' Miss's hand and half-ran across that sand over to those bright blue potty rooms, our own private cesspool. I coached and lectured Lil' Miss the entire way and in between her huffs and puffs (because I was walking REALLY FAST) she said, "I know, Mom. I won't touch ANYTHING." In moments, we stood in front of one of the doors and I just stared at it. Not moving, not doing anything. Other than cringing. I REALLY didn't want to do this, but I also knew that my daughter really needed to "go". Ironically, this filthy stall was the only civility separating us from those beach-squatting dogs. It had to be done.

Not wanting to touch the handle, I pried open the door with my foot figuring it had already been contaminated by the sand. I will spare you a description of what I saw inside. I won't tell you about the murky substance on the floor, or the soggy clumps of toilet paper, or the trail of ants or anything else. I will only say that while I was laying down enough toilet paper to mummify an Egyptian and ranting like a crazy woman, "No! Don't touch the walls! Don't touch the seat! Don't touch ANYTHING!", I failed to notice my own girl's reaction to this glorified outhouse. She'd never seen one of these, let alone used one. And while she sat there, surveying the squalor, she looked up at me with the hugest smile on her face and exclaimed, "Mom, this is so much FUN!"

On the Tutoring Altar

It's important to recognize the value of personal sacrifice. Not so much for the opportunities to build character but more for the benefits of guilt-ridden sympathy from loved ones who feel indebted to you.

Recently, I started tutoring on Tuesday nights. The deal is I drive to my students' homes for one-hour sessions while Honk stays home to watch the kids. By the time I pull in the driveway, it's usually a quarter to ten. It's a LONG day. Feel bad for me? You're not alone. Honk is not crazy about this arrangement either. As I'm leaving, he shoves a consolatory cookie in my mouth and looks at me with "I'm-so-sorry" eyes, like I'm being deployed overseas or like he's been forced to sell me to a sheik who's coincidentally in the market for a smart-alecky wife with an aversion to cooking.

Later, when I return home and walk in the front door, Honk is there, the picture of husbandly love and support. But it's no wonder why. He is only responding to me, the picture of wifely drama and pity. I am the quintessential martyr. My shoulders are sagging, my head is hanging low and there might be some deep sighing going on as well. I collapse on the couch and repeatedly use the words "tired" and "exhausting" in every imaginable context. "Man, I'm tired of the elections, aren't you?" or "Campaigning must be exhausting for the candidates..." And most of the time, I'm not making any effort at subtlety.

But the truth is Tuesday night tutoring isn't all that bad. Yeah, I'm tired, but it does have its perks. On the way to and from my students' homes, I enjoy the rare opportunity of driving in an empty car that so far (fingers crossed!) hasn't tried to kick the back of my seat or ask me "Are we almost there yet?". I also get to listen to songs with lyrics that don't involve animals playing musical instruments or animals chasing eachother around mulberry bushes or animals who are blind with severed body parts. I go to nice homes in nice neighborhoods owned by nice families with nice kids. It's actually pretty... nice.

But I see no reason why I should publicize this information. Honk's giving me the royal treatment when I get home. And the fact that it's given out of guilt really doesn't make it any less enjoyable for me. I see no point in biting hands or looking in horses' mouths. Just take it where you can get it! Last week, I came home and discovered Honk had fluffed my pillows, folded back my blankets, and in lieu of a chocolate, left a note on my side of the bed that read,

Wifie,
Thanks for working so hard for us. We appreciate you.
Love, Honk

My husband arranged hotel turn-down service for me! How awesome is THAT!!! With this kind of sympathy, I'd be a fool to open my pie hole unless it's to reassure him that he and the kids are worth all the pain of my sacrifice. Besides, a little guilt never hurt anyone. At least, that's what Bubby, my mentor in martyrdom, used to say.

Dishwasher Disallusionment

Turns out, somebody still has to load the dishes, BY HAND! And maybe that somebody's hands are a little busy these days with other things like say, TAKING CARE OF THE CHILDREN. I can't believe I fell for his super capacity tub of LIES!!!

Morning Hugs and Slugs

The morning crib retrieval of Baby Dude is one of the highlights of my day. There is some definite crying involved, but not sad, tearful crying. It's more of an annoyed "Get-me-out-of-this-cage!" cry. Sometimes I'm glad he's not talking yet.

It takes me awhile to convince the awake part of my brain that he really isn't going to stop making all that racket, but eventually I get it, and drag my body out of bed. Lil' Miss who's been up for HOURS now, reading the paper and getting her personal things in order, is either right on my tail reminding me, "Mom. Mom. MOM! He's cry-ing!" or she's already IN the crib with him, bouncing away like a circus performer.

At first sight of me, he is smiling and doing his fancy footwork in the crib. I can't help but wonder if he's really excited to see me or if I'm just his ticket out of this place. I try to make small talk with him ("Hi, my boy! Did you have a good night's sleep? How'ya doin', little man!"), but he is clearly uninterested. He wants OUT! He's whimpering and clawing at my arms, those mechanical cranes able to hoist him up, over, and into freedom. I reach in, scoop him up under his arms, and begin the ascent. But just as his hands are within reach of my neck, he grabs on and hugs me tightly, his chubby little arms squeezed around my neck and his cheek smooshed up into mine. He is even moaning a little, like a dog being scratched behind the ear.

I soak it in and let my heart melt in my chest. This hug is pure joy and I relish in it. I squeeze him back, trying to hold on to whatever I can of this moment. It's important to take it in, enjoy it while I can, because in just a few seconds he's going to lean back, give me one of his toothy grins that could launch a thousand ships, and slug me right in the mouth.

Chip Off the Ol' Block

People sometimes ask me if I think Baby Dude resembles Honk. I always answer this question with a resounding, "Yes!" But it's not just because he inherited his father's smiling eyes and mischievous grin. Their similarities extend far beyond physical appearances.

Like father...

...like son.
What is it with boys and their dirty, discarded socks? It's just a matter of time before BD is helping himself to all the cash in my purse and using my Swiss-formulated, botanically-based, dermatologist-tested face soap as body wash.

Surviving the Good Doctor Doldrums

"Good things come to those who wait." Wise words coming from someone who's probably never stepped foot in a pediatrician's office before. I don't care how "good" your pediatrician is, no amount of attentiveness or sound medical advice from your kids' doctor is going to make up for the TWO HOURS you will spend in a crowded waiting room with a sea of boogery, feverish little people, most of whom are wiping their snot all over your orifices. That's the problem with good doctors. It doesn't take long before everyone else on the planet has figured this out about them.

Over the years, I've learned to accept our pediatrician appointments for what they are: an all-day affair that require the planning and packing of a weekend camping trip. It doesn't matter if I've made the appointment MONTHS AHEAD OF TIME, I'm still going to make lunches, pack a change of clothes, and fill a duffle bag full of the kids' favorite toys and books because we'll be spending most of our afternoon parked on those multi-colored, polka-dotted, navy blue couches that already feel like a second home.

Surprisingly, this is not the time to chat or be chummy with the other moms in the waiting room. We are all in unspoken agreement that this experience is way too annoying and exhausting to "make nice" with eachother. Besides, I don't have time for small talk about preschools or potty training. I'm busy chasing Baby Dude who's on the lam, has dashed out of the waiting room and bolted down the hall into one of the patient rooms for the FIFTIETH time. And when I am not sprinting through the doctor's office, I will play referee over the only two toys in the waiting room, toys that instigate vicious, screaming fights between stir crazy kids.

Eventually though, just as I'm about to foil Baby Dude's plan to launch a children's book into the fish aquarium, the nurse will call our name and send us back to one of the patient rooms. But, this is not the end of our doctor visit nightmare. This is where the heat gets turned up a few notches. Here we will spend yet ANOTHER HOUR waiting in an even smaller room where toys and books have been replaced by dangerous doctor tools. Think Edgar Allen Poe's Pit and the Pendulum, pediatrician style.

It's about this time that my survival instincts start kicking in. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but mothers are the GRANDMOTHER of invention. With a little creativity and a lot of imagination, entertainment in these painfully boring rooms is readily available. It just comes in the most unexpected place...

TA-DA!

No, not the bed, silly stethoscope! The crinkly white paper ON the bed! You know, that laser shield of protection against germs and diseases as your two-year-old kicks, wiggles, and wrestles all over it trying to escape from the nurse's infamous "measuring of the cranium".

If ripped off and wadded into a tight ball, that seemingly useless paper can present countless sporting opportunities like...

soccer!

and trash can basketball!

Goin' in for the lay-up! Nice shot, BD!

And if sports isn't your thing, there's always the game we call "Wig-Out"!

Lil' Miss calls this one the "Rapunzel".

For more of an international look, there's the "Aladdin".

And my personal favorite, "Little Heidi".

It also works as the "Pippi" with a little tweaking.

But our adventures in paper hair coiffing are cut short because the good doctor has arrived! Can you believe it? See how fast the time went by? I actually look disappointed when she finally walks in because we hadn't tried out the "Beehive" or the "Afro" yet. And we never got a chance to play jumprope or tug-o-war! We need more TIME!

Just as I'm contemplating how we can linger a little longer in this room, alone with that thick roll of white crinkly paper, the good doctor reminds me that the kids are due for shots today, THREE SHOTS EACH! And now nothing, not the sports, not the hair, and not even the suckers waiting for my soon-to-be sobbing children sounds good anymore.

Scheduling Conflicts at the Office

I tend to be a slow mover in the morning. Of course, it has nothing to do with Baby Dude's middle-of-the-night cries from the crib or Lil' Miss's four a.m. requests from the bathroom to "Wipe me!". I'm sure it's just that I've become a terribly lazy person over the years. When I finally wobble out of bed (right about the time Honk stands in the doorway and yells, "I'm leaving now and the kids are wandering around the house unsupervised!"), I make my way to the kitchen, a place I will not leave for the next two hours. What exactly I busy myself with in there is a mystery to me. I know there are some frozen waffles involved and that I may say something along the lines of "Remember, little girl, no talking to Mommy until she gets out of her pajamas..." (something that won't happen until lunch time), but everything else is a blur.

Baby Dude, on the other hand, is quite "motivated" in the morning. In fact, he's not only gotten the worm, he's dissected it and tossed it's segmented body parts around the backyard long before the early bird has even taken its first morning stretch. Baby Dude's productivity in the day's first hours is a credit to two-year-olds everywhere. I should be so efficient in the morning! (I should also be so lucky to get a full night's sleep ever again in my life.)

Baby Dude's day begins with an early morning power walk through the park. Nothing like some physical conditioning in the great outdoors among God's creatures. My guess is he's not the only one with a raised heart rate.

Then, it's back home and into the kitchen where he whips up a quick breakfast. I encourage his interests in cooking. If I play my cards right, I won't cook anothter meal after his twelfth birthday. Ten years to go!
Then some laundry folding. He complains that he's always buried in it.

Tell me about it!

After that, he gets started on Feng Shui plans for the toy room. I'm still a bit unclear on the layout, but I'm not the genius here. One must have an eye for these things.

Next, music composition. According to today's young artists, it's all about the journey, not the destination.

And then, vocal exercises. Right now, he's belting out a deep, soulful rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun".
Then some light mechanical repairs. His first published book on automotives will be titled, Caring for Your Car, Handy Manny Style.
This is followed by some research on children's literature.

And, of course, he always leaves himself a little time for emails. Now you can stop wondering who's been sending you all those anonymous chain letters. Don't forget to forward this blog to ten people!

Right about this time, I've finally pulled myself together and am ready to take on the world, or at least Albertsons. But the timing is all wrong. Baby Dude has worn himself out from his own busy activities this morning and desperately needs a nap. We won't be leaving this house any time soon. Maybe, when you boil it all down, life is really about being flexible. That and something about loving your neighbor as yourself, or whatever.

Candy-licious

I love this time of year. The warm, breezy weather. The electric sunsets that splatter oranges, pinks, and purples across the sky. The changing leaves and pumpkin patches. And, to top it off, the arrival of Halloween. Yes, guilty as charged. I love Halloween. It is one of my favorite holidays. I could do without the scary stuff, but the costumes, I like.

Honk, for the life of him, cannot understand why. He's almost hostile about it, attacking me in angry whispers so a jilted Christmas won't overhear. "Halloween? Seriously? What's wrong with you?" The only reason he even puts up with "this nonsense" every year is because he knows there's a truck load of Smarties waiting for him when it's all over.

It's definitely not about the candy for me. I realize admitting this is grounds for stoning in America, but I really don't like candy. I mean, SURE, if I'm at your house and you put a bowl of M&M's out in front of me, I'm going to eat them. But, trust me, I'm not enjoying myself. I am merely showing respect to you, my host, who has graciously offered me food. But you are not surprised by this because we are friends. You already know the depths of sacrifice and suffering I will endure on your behalf. That being said, I do believe that under certain conditions I could be more motivated to do the trick-or-treating thing. If neighbors started passing out homemade brownies, cookies, or slices of chocolate cake instead of candy, I'd be knocking on their doors at sunrise, dressed as a singing and dancing purple dinosaur.

Lil' Miss, on the other hand, is very tolerant of the candy tradition. I'm not sure why. The kids rarely get any candy from me, so I'm guessing it's from all of you, our so-called "friends and family" who sneak them Three Musketeers and Jelly Beans when my back is turned.

Last year on Halloween, we took them out trick-or-treating in the neighborhood for the first time. In just under an hour, our fluttering, pink ballerina collected enough sweets to rot the teeth of every child in a four mile radius. After we had finished, we headed home, practically dragging Lil' Miss's five-ton candy basket along the sidewalk. She never took her gumball-sized eyes off of that bag the whole way.

When we finally walked in the door, we sat Lil' Miss down and set the terms of a candy deal. "You can have two pieces of candy tonight. JUST TWO!" She did not whine or protest at all. She chose her two pieces and happily ate them with a contented smile on her face. At the time, I marvelled at what an obedient and respectful child we had. In hindsight, the "look-how-good-and-easygoing-I-am?" routine was obviously just a ploy to win our trust and ultimately distract us.

Honk and I had just put Baby Dude to sleep when we both noticed things were unusually quiet at the other end of the house. We quickly headed back to the kitchen, but Lil' Miss was nowhere in sight. We checked her room. We searched the living room, bathrooms, and other bedrooms. There was no response when we called out her name. We were starting to panic and began rechecking all of the rooms of the house again. That's when I noticed them, a scattering of candy wrappers on the carpet in the living room. Then the tip of a size 6 ballet slipper from under the end table. "Lil' Miss? Come on out of there right now!" Ever so slowly, she crept out from under the table, toting a much lighter candy basket. Her face told us the whole story. Chocolate was smeared across her lips and cheeks and her wide eyes looked more greedy than guilty.

"Lil' Miss, what are you DOING? We told you two pieces. TWO PIECES! Look at all this! You disobedyed us. Is there something you would like to say to us about the candy?"

"I like it."

Mother Poppins and the Birthday Cake Mishap

The conversation was not going well and I was starting to get nervous.

"Lil' Miss, are you excited about the birthday party?"
"Yeah! My friends and I are gonna be ballerinas!"
"Well, no. It's not a ballerina party."
"Princesses?"
"No, honey, it's not really a dress-up party."
"Oh... A princess bounce house though, right?"
"No."
"Oh... A pony bounce house?"
"No, but the pinata is a pony."
"Oh... I know! It's a pirate bounce house!"
"No..."
"Strawberry Shortcake?"
"No. It's Curious George, remember?"
"Oh... but we're gonna have CAKE at the party!"
"No. Brownie cupcakes."
"Oh..."

And so on, and so forth. This was not boding well for the next day's party or for my children's memories of me as a party planner. I was beginning to wonder if this was how my mom felt after a birthday mishap that I've playfully tormented her about for the last three decades. Before I explain, I should probably give some background information about my mom first.

Anyone who knows my mother would agree that she's got a bit of genius in her fingertips. Whether playing a musical instrument, creating an abstract painting, sewing a quilt, or cooking a marvelous holiday meal for fifty people, everything the lady touches turns to gold. As a kid, she reminded me of one of my favorite movie characters, Mary Poppins, that heel-clicking magical mystery who was "Practically Perfect in Every Way". I marveled at the way my mom could turn ordinary household objects like paper plates, pipe cleaners, and uncooked noodles into an exciting rainy day craft. And while plenty of other kids have mothers who played the piano, I doubt any of them sat in church and watched while theirs rocked out on stage with an electric base guitar.

When the Cabbage Patch craze took off, my mom didn't go out and buy one for me, she MADE one, complete with yarn hair, clothes and movable limbs. MOVABLE LIMBS! She made most of my clothes as well. Not just because we were po (more mother eye rolling at reference to impoverished past), but because she could do it better. And right she was. My unique and stylish dresses were the talk of the playground. Except for the knitted two-piece bathing suit (a very bad idea for reasons I'm still not ready to talk about), I loved everything she made me.

But most notably, my mom is a "great cooker" and everyone knows it. How many times did my high school friends just "happen to be in the neighborhood" around dinnertime hoping for a chance to partake of her culinary delights? Without a moment's hesitation, my mom would whip up a plate for them, concocting brand new meals if necessary. I, unfortunately, did not inherit this gift. The very thought of having to feed more hungry people makes me want to beat myself over the head with a rolling pin. This beating might take some time, however, since I first must FIND the rolling pin which is probably buried in some far, dark corner of a kitchen cabinet under other dusty and lonely cooking utensils. (A rolling pin is a cooking utensil, right?) The truth is, I had no idea how good I had it in the food department until I went off to college and realized creamy chicken pot pies, succulent steaks with buttery baked potatoes, and cheesy lasagnas served with warm garlic bread don't just cook themselves in the kitchen, even if you send out good thoughts and positive affirmations to your oven.

But, as everyone knows, genius feeds on new ideas and new ideas must be tested. How else does creative talent evolve? And so, my dad, brother, and I occasionally became her guinea pigs for unusual recipes that... took the road less travelled. Most of the time, they turned out okay, but every now and then, her meal experiments resulted in cuisinary carnage that no amount of smiling or "mmm-hmmm"ing could cover up. (No offense, Mom.)

Such was the case on my seventh birthday. It was going to be the slumber party of the year, maybe even the decade. I was convinced that future second grade girls would look across the field to the upper grade playground, point in my direction, and whisper to eachother, "Yeah, there she is! She's the one who had that slumber party!" The games, snacks, dancing, and singing would be legendary. But most importantly, my mom was making the most amazing cake these girls would ever sink their baby teeth into. It was a checkerboard cake and it was magnificent! Almost too beautiful to eat. It looked a lot like this: This cake did, however, have one fatal flaw. My mom, after successfully pulling a perfect checkerboard cake from the oven, decided to "try something new" with the frosting. Now, I'm no Julia Childs, but even I could tell you this was a bad idea: sour cream cake frosting. SOUR CREAM FROSTING on a CAKE! This would make perfect sense if she was serving pieces of a gigantic baked potato for dessert, but on a CAKE? To this day, I've never seen such torment on the faces of cake eaters as I did at that slumber party. Needless to say, that exquisite cake went largely untouched and my mom has never made it since. I'm sure my tireless heckling over the years about the "Sour Cream Cake Frosting Incident" has squelched any aspirations to do so.

As for my own children's birthday party this weekend, it was a total success, despite my poor judgement in planning a party theme. Everyone came laughing and left crying. A good time was had by all. I realized though that the only reason I make such a big deal about the "Sour Cream Cake Frosting Incident" is because my mom set the bar so high. Those rare blunders are just ASKING to be pantsed right in the middle of the playground. I have to pick on Mother Poppins about something! My children will not be tempted to taunt me in this way. They will spend their childhood being surprised when I don't screw things up. And that's just the way I like it. As I've always said, "Keep the expectations low, so no one's disappointed." Words to live by.

The 409's Messin' with my Mind

Few things in life give me more satisfaction than a clean house. When all the furniture has been dusted and that last bathroom floor has been scrubbed, I couldn't be happier if I'd been handed a free week's stay at the Hyatt in Kauai. Well, that's a ridiculous comparison, but you get the point. With hands on hips, a smile on my face, and the smell of 409 in the air, I stand in the middle of the kitchen to survey the sterileness, the "next to godliness". I imagine the experience is much like that of a priest's after performing an exorcism when he announces, "Brothers and Sisters, this house is CLEAN!"

I'm not at all saying that I like house work, but it is nice to OCCASSIONALLY look into a mirror and actually see your reflection staring back. Besides, l think my most interesting thoughts come to me during cleaning, especially when I close the bathroom door and allow the chemical fumes of cleaning agents to overtake my mind. Today, I was wiping down the kids' bathroom countertop and couldn't quite seem to get rid of this...

Not a modern work of art. Princess toothpaste. Princess toothpaste smeared by two-year-old fingertips which were then undoubtedly shoved into two-year-old mouth. To me, it looks (and apparently tastes) more like the insides of a jelly donut than that which protects and fluoridates young teeth. Like his older sister, Baby Dude has inherited the recessive gene responsible for compulsive toothpaste consumption. Recent studies confirm this gene is passed down from father to child.

The sight of Smeared Princess Paste brought an almost forgotten memory to mind. I suddenly recalled a holiday trip to visit Honk's family in Boston. One of our favorite experiences there was walking the Freedom Trail. I especially loved the guided tour of the Paul Revere House with its sparsely decorated rooms, Colonnial furnishings, and tiny staircases.

It was restaged by historical preservationists to look exactly the same as when he lived there, as if the Reveres had just stepped out for a quick morning stroll or cup o' tea and would be returning shortly (only to find an onslaught of strangers traipsing through their house).

I loved this room the most. The tour guide explained that their beds were not mattresses, but a series of criss-crossed ropes that were pulled tight before they slept. Thus, our often-stated but rarely-understood bedtime saying, "Good night, sleep tight."

So, why the mini-history lesson? Well, it got me thinking about preserving life "just as it was" with everything in its place like a time capsule. What if our house is someday preserved exactly as is, smeared princess paste and all, as a museum for posterity? The childhood residence of the famed modern artist Lil' Miss and the legendary quarterback Baby Dude now open to the public as a historical landmark? Hey, it's possible! I started looking around the house and at all the things in it with different eyes, trying to imagine what a guided tour of our house might be like. Let's listen in on just a segment of the tour...

"You're now standing before the artist's first work table. Lil' Miss was famous for saying that the process of cutting paper into tiny, microscopic pieces and then scattering them across an open area, say... the entire kitchen floor, helped to clear her mind and let the creative juices flow. "

"Over here, you'll see some of Lil' Miss's very first works of art. Bathroom walls served as her first canvases and pencil was her favorite medium. She said bathrooms offered her silent seclusion, a place to quietly 'slip away and create'."

This was also the time at which she first experimented with stickers, a breakthrough technique that would later become known as 'Adhesives on Mirrors'."

"Now let's step into the toy room to take a look at Baby Dude's first ball collection. That's right. Before he could even say 'Mama', he was chuckin' these spheres right at her head!"

"And it wasn't only balls that Baby Dude threw. He also trained with this round plastic toy coin to enhance his arm strength. At the tender age of two, he hurled this toy into the toilet with superhuman force. Legend tells us his parents paid sixty-five dollars to have their plumber fish it out of the pipes. Tremendous strength for such a little man!"

"And finally, I'd like everyone to gather in close to take a look at what many of you came here to see, his very first football. Baby Dude loved to clutch this sippy cup under his arm as he'd run throughout the house. A true quarterback in the making... He could spiral throw that cup across the room and nail his target, usually his family members' foreheads, with record accuracy. No doubt, he was destined for football greatness."

Okay, I admit this might be a little over the top, but it does make a person wonder. You never know where your beginnings might ultimately lead you and what legacy you might leave behind. My legacy, of course, will be "Disturbing Thoughts While Cleaning the Bathroom".

Fifty Years and Counting...

This weekend my great Auntie Blossom and Uncle Harry celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. Family and close friends gathered around in my cousin's living room as they renewed vows in a traditional Jewish ceremony. Amid the soft glow of candles and twinkle of champagne glasses, everyone laughed, cried, and shared stories to honor their example, the tremendous gift of their enduring love and commitment.

After the service, I whispered into Uncle Harry's ear, "So, can you tell me the secret to a long, happy marriage? He yelled back, "WHAT?!" I asked the question again, a little louder this time, and he answered matter-of-factly, "Listen to eachother. How else do you know what's going on?" Simple but sound advice. Ironic too. He was asked the same question on their fiftieth wedding anniversary and his response was, "I just ignore her." But that was far from true. It was obvious they we're eachother's best friend.

In the car on the way home, I thought about the significance of the night's event. SIXTY YEARS! Holy matrimony! That is a looooong time, almost twice as long as my entire life! As my cousin Gail said during the ceremony, "Doing ANYTHING consistently for sixty years is impressive, let alone marriage!" I looked over at Honk as he was driving and singing away to some '80's song on the radio. "Well, honey, ten years down! Fifty to go!" I may have been joking, but the whole experience did make me contemplate fifty more years with this guy.

Fifty more years of unsolved mysteries like how a devoted fan to the sport of basketball could be such a bad shot when it comes to throwing his clothes in the hamper. Or how he could seriously believe that surfing is the cure for the common cold and lower back pain. Or how saying "just kidding" two days after the fact does not technically constitute lying.

Fifty more years of wet, potting soil footprints across my kitchen floor. Of his crazy, mismatched "weekend wear". Of his nearly-naked plant watering.

Fifty more years of fearful entrances into dark rooms as he lurks behind a door or under a bed. Of shrieking screams as he dangles dead spiders and trapped mice in my face. Of his pleadings that I look at his open wound or feel his popping knee cap "just one more time".

Fifty more years of watching The Deadliest Catch, Dirty Jobs, and, of course, The Bachelorette. Of sitting through all of his car-racing, jet-flying, and FBI-dodging action movies. Oh, dear Lord, fifty more years of TOP GUN! I don't even want to try to figure out how many times I've endured this dreaded movie over the years, Honk reciting all the lines right along with the characters like a dubbed-in karate movie. An exhausting experience for my gag reflex. All the self control I can muster barely keeps me from hurling a lamp at the television when that flight suit appears on the screen and Maverick says, "That's right, Ice man. I am dangerous."

But there's also this...

Fifty more years of backyard barbequing to the tunes of Jack Johnson. Of dinners and great conversations at our favorite restaurants. Of sunset walks, beach bike rides, and long drives down the coast.

Fifty more years of his legendary "booty dance" at wedding receptions. Of inside jokes confirmed with a look and a smile. Of witty one-liners that bring me to laughing tears.

Fifty more years of watching my children's faces light up at the sight of him. Of Saturday morning Donut Dates with Daddy. Of security knowing they'll never question his love.

Fifty more years of fitting perfectly into his hug. Of his knowing just what to say when I'm sad. Of a devoted family man and loving husband. Of a best friend.

Yeah, I think I'll keep him. It's safe to say that I agree with the great Lewis of the 1980's, Mr. Huey Lewis, when he sang, "Yes, it's true. I'm so happy to be stuck with you."

Tyson's Individually-Wrapped Chicken Rant

Is it me or is this the cruelest form of packaging? As if I don't have enough problems just COOKING the chicken! Now I have to pick, pick, pick at the corner openings of these stupid wrappers which never actually open anyways. I end up stabbing them with a steak knife and wrestling apart the vacuum seal after ten solid minutes of pulling, stretching, and yanking. Now I'm all sweaty, my arms are tired, and I don't even want to eat the chicken anymore.

I would've definitely called it quits if not for a little four-year-old flattery earlier today. During lunch, Lil' Miss looked up at me between bites to say, "Mom, you're a good cooker. You cook good peanut butter sandwiches!" At this point, I refuse to argue with myself about whether or not assembling a peanut butter and jelly sandwich qualifies as "cooking". It's a compliment, something I could really use right now, so I'm takin' it. And I think I'll add this to the growing list of reasons to love her. She is right, you know. I really do have a way with spreading peanut butter across a piece of bread.

Attention, Shoppers!

I love a good deal as much as the next shopper, but probably not for the same reasons. For years, I thought my frugality had to do with a sharply-disputed memory from my childhood involving a certain pair of cowboy boots. The way I remember it, my parents could not afford to buy me shoes in the third grade so I wore a pair of crummy ol' hand-me-down boots every day that year. [Cue my mother's eye rolling as she reads this.] I can just hear the exasperation in her voice as she protests, "No, Leilen. You WANTED to wear those ridiculous boots every day. We begged and pleaded with you to take them off, but you insisted on wearing them, practically wore them to BED every night. You just don't remember!" Oh, I remember, alright! I remember the bitter contempt in Bratty Becky's eyes as she looked me up-and-down on Western Day and sniggered, "I just knew you'd wear those boots today." I mean, come on! What kid WANTS to compete in the third grade's most prestigious agility competition, the Chinese Jumprope Championship, wearing cowboy boots the size of Texas?! Not exactly my idea of vessels of nimbleness.

But if I were to be totally honest, I doubt my bargain hunting has much to do with the boots (There, I said it, Ma) or with trying to stretch the dollar. For me, sales are all about stickin' it to the Man. I like knowing that in some small corner of the universe, usually the children's books section of TJ MAXX, I've got the upper hand on the free market. If I find a perfectly good Sandra Boynton board book with a few nicks in the binding, and I'm able to convince the sales clerk to mark it down a buck or two, it's as good as saying, "Ha! Take that, Corporate America! How do you like THEM profit margins!!!"

Last week, I drove for thirty-five minutes to a Mervyns out in the middle of nowhere because it had a Disney Giselle doll on sale for 30% off. Probably not one of my smartest shopping moments when you factor in the amount of money I spent driving my gas-guzzling SUV there and back, but I had my reasons. This doll, the only thing Lil' Miss wanted, HAD TO HAVE for her birthday, was no longer available in any of the stores and could only be found online where it was being sold for fifteen dollars more. Fifteen wasted dollars! Do you know how many Del Taco diet cokes that could buy? And there is no way, not even if I am led by a trail of homemade chocolate chip cookies, that I am EVER going to pay full price for something I know is on sale somewhere else. I'd sooner dip my contact lenses in tobasco sauce.

Never mind that I ended up just giving her the dumb doll on the way home, pulling the car over and untwisting every last one of those wretched metal ties from the box, just so I didn't have to listen to one more round of, "I know, Giselle. I love you too. Soon we'll be together like a real princess family..." What choice did I have? If I waited a couple of weeks to give Lil' Miss the doll on her actual birthday, she'd be lugging that box around with us everywhere we went, hugging it, stroking it, and talking to it like some crazy kid with an army of invisible friends in her head. Note to self: Don't take birthday kid with you to buy birthday present. Almost as smart as touring the L.A. King Tut Exhibit with screaming, crying, arm-flailing toddler who thinks your brilliant idea of taking a stroller nap is as poopy as her diaper. Good times, good times...

But this weekend, my sale savvyness definitely paid off. I think I proved, once again, that a mother armed with confidence and a really good coupon is a force to be reckoned with. It was time to update my boy's mug shot at the Target Portrait Studio where I have become somewhat of a local over the last few years. I arrived for our appointment with a buttoned-up, hair-slicked and wildly handsome Baby Dude, but where were my girls? Where were studio photographers Red-headed Jennifer and Pregnant-Once-Again Breann who knew my kids and, more importantly, knew my $8.99 portrait package coupon? Who's this guy? Mr. Smiley with the Mickey Mouse voice?

He ushered us back to the photo room and Baby Dude plopped his butt right down on the red light in the middle of the white backdrop. (He knows the drill.) Mickey started asking him how old he was. I was struggling to conceal the smirk on my face. How old he is? Not old enough to tell you how old he is! This is your GREAT plan to bring out my son's beautiful smile? What else have you got in that photo bag of tricks? Where's the pink feather duster to tickle his feet? Or the talking tennis ball? Tell me you've got the TALKING TENNIS BALL!!!

Nevertheless, my happy-go-lucky boy produced some of the greatest smiling shots ever, no thanks to Mickey. Photo Guy then loaded them up on the computer so I could choose which picture I wanted for the $8.99 portrait package special. And this is where most mothers go wrong. They can't just choose ONE picture. They make the fatal mistake of viewing each adorable shot as a guilt-ridden mother rather than as a hardcore business woman. I wish I had a digitally-enhanced 8x10 for every time one of my friends left for Target with an $8.99 coupon clutched tightly in her hand and returned home with a $200 portrait bill shoved way down at the bottom of her pants pocket. Ladies, photo previewing is NOT the time for tearful regrets about all the pictures you never took or bought. It is, however, the time to wear your "Don't Mess with Mama" t-shirt and to then STICK IT TO THE MAN!

But this time even I was starting to buckle. Every last one of those pictures was so stinkin' CUTE. Darn that boy and his edible face! I was seriously wavering, even considering the unthinkable- $3.99 portrait sheets! Ughhh! What was happening to me? Mickey must have seen the vulnerable look in my eyes because he immediately swooped in on me like a ravenous pterodactyl, snatched the computer mouse out of my hand, and demanded, "No, you HAVE to get this one. It would make great wallet shots and 5x7's are a must! Then some 3x5's of this one and more wallets of that one. Definitely an 8x10 of this one!" And that was all the overzealous, money-grubbing photo guy had to say to snap me out of my swindled stupor. I looked him square in the face and said, "Actually, I'll only being buying one shot because I'm using my $8.99 portrait package coupon today, thank you very much." And that was that. He rang me up, handed me my receipt for $9.69 ($8.99 + taxes), and sent us on our way.

I gave up some pretty adorable, never-to-be-seen-again shots of Baby Dude that day, especially that one of him in profile sitting on the crate. But it was a small price to pay for preserving my tenacious grit. Actually, you can't put a price on that.