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.