We Girls

It's the end of a very long day. I'm wrapping up a bedtime tuck-in with Lil' Miss when she pleads, "Mom, you yay down wiff me for a yiddow bit?"

"Okay, honey. For a minute." I scooch her over and lay down beside her. She has my neck in a choke-hug and is gently kissing my forehead the way she always does, the way that makes me feel like I'm the little girl and she's the mommy. I lean over and whisper, "I love you, my girl. Do you know you're my special girl?"

"Yeah. Mom? Are we girls, you and me?"

"Yeah."

"And Daddy and Baby Dude are boys?"

"Yeah."

"And you and me and Madie and Ella are girls?"

"Mmhmm..."

"And Daddy and Baby Dude and Andy and John and Larry are boys?"

"Mmhmmm."

"And you and me and Madie and Ella and Travis, no, not Travis, and Keeli and Mrs. B are girls?"

"Yep."

And Daddy and Baby Dude and Travis and Trevor and John Paul are boys?

"Uh-huh."

"Oh... Mom! Why don't YOU try? YOU say all the boys and girls in the whole world!"

"Hmmm, that's a tough one, Sweet Pea. No can do."

As I try a bedtime departure, she wraps her octopus tentacles around my body and cries, "No, Mommy! Don't leave! You CAN do it! I promise!"

She actually thinks this self-esteem building is going to work on me, and, in fact, it does. I lay back down on the edge of her bed and now she's squeezing me so tightly that her arm muscles are quivering. In that moment, I wonder if she feels the same way I used to feel hugging my mom: like there couldn't possibly be a safer place in the whole world. I sure hope so.

Plant Guy

me: Knock, knock! (You say, "Who's there?")
you: Who's there?
me: Palm Tree.
you: Palm Tree who?
me: Palm Tree who is dead because you forgot to water me while Plant Papa was gone on business.

What's that? Not funny, you say? Darn right it's not funny! What makes you think there's anything even remotely humorous about a dead palm tree? Trust me. I'm an expert in this area. No one knows more than I do what serious business plant watering is when you're left as Second in Command, not to mention what serious consequences lay in wait for those who don't take it seriously. Unless of course you'd enjoy being scorned by your husband who now only addresses you as "Murderess Madagascariensis".

I don't remember signing up for this on our wedding day, but back then he wasn't quite the palm enthusiast* he is today. Was there an exact moment that triggered this tropical fascination or did it grow slowly over time? (ha ha! a little plant humor for you...). Actually, no one is exactly sure when it all took root (baa haa! Help yourself to seconds!), but Honk's mom, Nana, seems to think it was the bonzai tree she gave him for eighth grade graduation. She said he was meticulous about his watering, pruning, and styling of that Japanese work of art. Never mind that she killed it months later, starving it to death while he was on an extended surf trip. Oh the wrath she must have endured! I feel your pain, Nana. He should have taken that as a definite foreshadowing of the type of care another woman in his life would one day provide (or not provide) his plants. Listen to the signs, people. The SIGNS!

Our own children, on the other hand, having been born into this gardening subculture, are very much at home with it. They completely understand that while they are Dad's favored children, they are by no means his only children. There are the "other kids" to attend to. Rather than begrudging this fact, Lil' Miss and even Baby Dude join in at the end of a long work day to help with the watering of the heliconias, flame throwers, ferns, purple royals, fox tails, gingers, crown shaft kings, elephant ears, triangle palms, giant fish tails, cannae lilies, and kentias with as much enthusiasm as their father. Occasionally, I sense a little jealous tension between Lil' Miss and the dypsis baronii or sometimes even the chamberonya macrocarpa when Dad pays them too much attention, but it usually blows over quickly. And one time, I did catch Baby Dude pulling and fondling the howea forsteriana fronds, but can you blame him? In the plant world, she's a hottie!

Plants and palms are as much a part of our kids' lives as goldfish crackers and Hide-and-Seek. Lil' Miss and Baby Dude are locals at Escondido plant sales where they munch on barbequed hamburgers and run up and down the aisles of ti plants and bromeliads. I swear they could probably even speak a broken form of Latin after listening to the plant chatter of Dad and other members of The Palm Society of Southern California who strut around nurseries talking like Roman senators and wearing t-shirts that say "Got Trunk?"

It's a strange, unexpected world I find myself in, but one I'm grateful for. Even though I whine and drag my feet when he steers me over to see new flowers on a plant, I'm thankful that he's "into" so many things in life. I like it that he has such interesting interests. It makes life, well, interesting. Besides, I love the smile that settles on his face when he's sitting out back on a bench staring out at his lush garden. A seriously impressive creation. And COME ON, didn't you see our house when we first moved in, the post nuclear wasteland we called a backyard? It's an exotic tropical paradise now, thanks to the fine work of Plant Papa.

So, to answer your question, yes, I am watering the kids, Honk. Love and miss you. By the way, Baby Dude is cleaning out your closet. At least that's what he's telling me he's doing...

*Is is me, or is that just a fancy word for "geek"?

Taking One for the Planet

For the most part, I'm not very "green", environmentally speaking. I'd probably be considered more of a lemon-lime or chartreuse, to be honest. I'm committed to the givens, throwing plastic and paper into the proper waste recepticles, turning off lights when I remember to (or at least dimming them), tailgating car bumpers for better fuel efficiency, and conserving water by drinking Diet Coke, but that's about it. It feels a bit overwhelming to think about saving the planet when I'm mostly digging around the bottom of my purse looking for spare change so I can pay for the cheaper, nonbiodegradable baby wipes in quarters and dimes.

What happened to the vegetarian high school hippie who gave away all her perfectly good leather shoes and wore puffy-painted shirts that preached "Recycle, Reuse, or Regret!"? Where is that tree-hugging, hemp-wearing girl now? I'll tell you where she is. She's in the kitchen serving up chicken nuggets on paper plates and wiping spilled milk with a wad of paper towels. When Gore called it an inconvenience, he wasn't kidding.

But since Honk left on his business trip, I'm proud to say I've been very good to Mother Earth. First of all, I'm pretty sure I never showered yesterday. That wasn't actually planned but a respectable step in the direction of water conservation nonetheless. I didn't bathe the kids either. In fact, Baby Dude just stayed in his pajamas all day which also saved me a load of laundry and water. I also didn't cook. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and Lunchables for dinner. I'd say that's pretty energy efficient. Most importantly, I found Baby Dude sucking on an almost completely full container of contact lens solution and I didn't throw it away. What a waste of money and plastic! Now that I'm thinking about it, I might be eco-friendly after all! Now, where are those puffy paints...

A Note from Young Superman's Mother

Dear Mr. Luther,

We are so fortunate to have you as our new neighbor. Thank you for helping me with Baby Dude yesterday. He runs down the street SO FAST. We like to think of him as our Little Speeding Bullet. Lucky for me you grabbed him. I'm sure he didn't mean to squeeze your arm so hard as he pulled away from you.

And yes, it's official now. My sweet, loveable boy is a "handful". Whether he's climbing on the table to help himself to a banana, throwing loose bricks across the yard, standing on the counter to turn the light switch on-off, on-off, on-off, baptising books in the bathtub, flushing candles down the toilet, or leaping tall couch pillows in a single bound, this kid is into everything. Even his sister announces his arrival into the room with, "Uh-oh, here comes Trouble!" And he's SO STRONG! Last night he disappearred for a few minutes and this is what I found in his wake.

Seriously, how did he DO that? Anyways, thanks again for your help and for loaning the kids your rock collection. What kind did you say they were? Krypto-something or other? Well, whatever. That was nice of you. Have a great day!

Sincerely,

your neighbor Leilen

Let the Games Begin!

As we are just days away from the Olympics in Beijing, I realize I have begun running my own marathon of sorts. Honk* just left this morning for a ten-day business trip (Gasp! Gulp! whimper...). But we're okay here. Go home, now. Nothing to see, nothing to see... I might be ALL ALONE to singlehandedly feed, change, bathe, clothe, read to, sing for, pray with, tuck in, give milk to, tuck back in, sing AGAIN, retuck, threaten to torch every last princess dress if she gets out of that bed ONE MORE TIME, and pray with again for "Patience, Lord. PATIENCE!" while waiting for our planet to casually stroll around its axis ten more times, but don't you go frettin' over little ol' Leilen. You just stay right where you are with your feet up on the couch sipping that pink lemonade through a straw so the temperature of the clanking ice isn't too cold for your mouth. We'll be just fine. As my Bubby used to say, "Don't worry about me. I'll get a stranger to help." (Hey, you don't survive a Jewish upbringing without mastering some of the fine art of passive-aggressive guilt.)

*Honk is husband's nickname. It was Honey which was shortened to Hon but then became Honk in an email because the "K" and Comma keys are close neighbors and I think Comma was out of town that day and "K" was over feeding her cats.

A Well-Deserved Snooze

I'm all for Good Samaritan sacrificial love, but mornings are hardly the time to practice that kind of righteousness. Sleep is too rare a commodity these days to go playing Johnny Do-gooder in the manana. In my experience, that miserable time between asleep and awake when a thick layer of grogginess sits on my head like a soggy diaper is better spent squabbling with my husband about who should take the A.M. shift of Peewee Patrol.

"You do it."
"No, you."
"You."
"You."
"You."
"You."

This impressive meeting of the minds can go on for days.

Morning arbitration wouldn't even exist if not for the rising and shining of a certain perky little girl who insists on buzzing back and forth between both sides of our bed announcing her morning requests: cup of milk, commencement of cartoons, morning paper... "Is it me, or is she talking REALLY LOUD? Go away, Little Girl. We're asleep." But like a pesky fly, she grows more agitated the more I swat her away.

It won't be long now before her cries to "get up" are drowned out by a certain baby seagull squawking in his crib. And herein lies the dilemna. Baby Dude must be "gotten" which means someone has to slide out of three layers of 600 count Egyptian cotton, lift a fifty pound head from a hotel goosedown pillow, and slink down a long hallway on spaghetti noodle legs that definitely haven't gotten this memo yet.

Around here you have to earn the right to sleep in a few extra minutes. Like a couple of rebel cowboys in a showdown duel, we bring out all the big guns:

"I did it yesterday."
"I did it the three days before."
"I was up in the middle of the night with them."
"I have an important meeting today."
"I have to take them to Costco. Do you have any idea how much energy that requires?"

We are pathetic, I know. But occassionally, the comebacks reach a calibur of such genius proportions that the other must kowtow in an act of submissive, bootlicking reverence. Such was the case this morning after we had exhausted all the usual suspects.

Annoyed and clearly running out of ideas he fires back with a simple, "Rise!"

Shaking my head at his sad attempt I respond, "That's it? Oh, dear me. You're going to have to do A LOT better than that if you really want me to get up. If you'd been smart about it, you'd have said something more like, 'Rise, my beautiful butterfly, like the dawn on a clear blue day!'"

Without a moment's hesitation he quips, "Rise, my vampire of the coffin, like a bat out of a dark cave!"

No question, I would be getting Baby Dude this morning.

Livin' the Dream

A trail of clumpy wet sand meanders across our bathroom floor and blankets the bottom of our bathtub. To most, a disgusting word picture, but to me it's beauty personified.

It's the drop-of-a-hat decision to put on our swimsuits, lather on sunblock, and hop on our bikes to the beach. It's the smile taking up half of Baby Dude's face, the half that is not being eaten by the enormous helmet on his head. It's the giggly voice of Lil' Miss strapped in the kid's seat behind me yelling, "Move it, Sister! Daddy's way up there!" It's locking our bikes together, dropping our towels and flipflops in the sand, and making a bee line for the shore. It's Lil' Miss holding Daddy's hand as they leap and karate chop crashing waves. It's her arms squeezed tightly around his neck as he carries her past the shore break to the glassy swells where they slide up and over, up and over. It's stomping, splashing, and making footprints in the wet sand with Baby Dude. It's the look of sheer joy on his face as he scoops up a wad of mud and chucks it right at my head. It's the horrified looks of castle builders as Mr. Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum demolishes their fortresses with his tiny hands of doom. It is not, I repeat, NOT the slimy sandcrabs Daddy throws at Mommy, but it is the laughter, the smiles, and the "Isn't-this-the-best?" looks we share a hundred times. It's the perfect feeling of family completeness.

This, I confess, is either a tired mom's worst excuse for not cleaning a bathroom, or the best reason ever.