Surcie

BLOGGING AT A NEW LOCATION

2005-04-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

This blog has relocated to a new home. Please visit www.surcie.typepad.com (Notice that the middle word is TYPEPAD now, rather than BLOGSPOT!) Thanks!

Mr. Clean Will Clean Your House And Everything That's In It

2005-04-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

I've always thoroughly enjoyed the fact that Pipsqueak likes to pretend to clean--he dusts, vaccuums, sweeps the floor, washes windows, etc. Aside from the fact that this pastime is cute and entertains the company, I'm banking on him being a big help around the house when he's a bit older. If Pipsqueak manages to get his hands on a papertowel or Handi-Wipe, he's instantly off to wipe the glass coffee table in the living room. But apparently, he doesn't understand the difference between a Swiffer cloth and the Kleenex that mama just used to clean his messy nose. No, he didn't attempt to blow his nose with the Swiffer cloth. Let's just say, the coffee table and two glass end tables, along with the front of our gas fireplace, and the storm door all look a lot more smeared than usual.

Oh My Papa

2005-04-21T15:06:00.000-07:00

The only thing I'm able to think about right now is my dad. He's back in the hospital. It seems the stents that were put in an artery to unclog it (following his heart attack a few weeks ago) didn't do their job. If you're a praying person, would you please say a prayer for Cal? Thank you.

The Small Things

2005-04-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

(Inspired by a favorite blogger)

Small Things:

Red, yellow, and purple tulips blooming in the backyard

Being gifted with a fist-full of dandelions picked by Punkin Head

Watching a toddler learn to sing

Eskimo kisses

Wide smiles from my 8-month-old nephew

Perfect, tangerine-colored roses from Safeway, of all places

Female cardinals in the birdfeeder (They may be drab-looking, compared to their striking, red male counterparts, but we know the red ones wouldn't exist without them.)

Funfetti birthday cake and ice cream

Vinyl placemats in Popsicle hues for dining al fresco

Birthday Greetings

2005-04-14T20:17:00.000-07:00

Between my dad's birthday, which was March 31st, and my husband's, which is Saturday, I can report that I've reviewed Hallmark's entire line of Birthday Cards for Dads. And let me tell you, it's baaaaad.

These are two of my, er, "favorites:"
For a dad who loves to work with his hands. . . (Open to find a bandaid.)

Dad, I was going to wash your car for your birthday, but since you always say, "If you want something done right, do it yourself. . ." (Open to find a miniature yellow sponge.)

The rest of the cards are for the dad who:
1.) works hard by fixing things, mowing the yard, or going fishing; or
2.) doesn't give up control of the remote from the comfort of his recliner.

Hallmark needs to employ some writers who:
1.) actually know their dad
2.) don't hate their dad, and
3.) don't use Archie Bunker as their inspiration for the Archetypal Dad.

Ode to Jo Jo

2005-04-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

Doodlebug and I sat on a flowery area rug in Pottery Barn Kids (I know. How very caucasian of us.) and waited for Singing Lady with Guitar (not her real name) to begin a performance for the gathered moms and tots. Nearby, a little girl pulled a "Jo Jo" doll out of her mom's diaper bag. Doodlebug instantly pointed and asked me, "Doh Doh? Doh Doh?" My kid adores Miss Jo Jo Tickle, star of "Jo Jo's Circus" on The Disney Channel. I barely open the door to retrieve him after his naps when he's asking, "Up-pa-pa? Doh Doh? Up-pa-pa," because he can't wait to go upstairs and watch Ti-Voed episodes of the show. He clearly wanted to touch and hug the little girl's doll, but he doesn't yet understand the whole concept of No, That's Not Yours. So, I did what I always do when it looks like things could get ugly in Toddlerville--distract. But then the little girl's mom and the mom's friend had to go and sing the theme song to Jo Jo's Circus: "Hey, hey! It's Jo Jo's Circus! Jo Jo, Jo Jo's Circus! Hey, everyone! It's time for Jo Jo's Circus!" (There's more, but this is all I can muster.) It was strangely comforting to hear them sing, actually. If my brain is liquifying, it's good to know I'm not alone.

Gock?

2005-04-11T19:47:00.000-07:00

This morning, Mugwump greeted me with the request (or was it a command?), "Gock!" He could tell I wasn't getting it. So, he repeated it louder, just to make sure I wasn't hard of hearing. "GOCK! GOCK! GOCK!" I could tell he wanted to say, "Come on Mom, you know what I'm saying." It did sound somewhat familiar. Could he be asking for yogurt? But last I heard, that sounded more like "guh-guhr." Maybe he's saying "outside?" But yesterday, that was "uht-chuh." I think I may need to devise some sort of Glossary of Terms in order to keep up with him. Tonight, he's saying what sounds like "bwish," slurred. I'm pretty confident that's "fish." I may remember it tomorrow, but I can't make any promises.

Little Boy. Little Boy. Little Boy.

2005-04-11T13:35:00.000-07:00

If I admit he's a Little Boy and not a baby anymore, that means I'm admitting that he's growing up. Which means he'll be leaving his father and me. Not soon, of course, but sometime. And at the rate time seems to be passing, sometime will be here before I know it. First, he'll go to preschool and then full-fledged, rest-of-your-youth school. And then he'll go away to college. And then he'll get married. So, I haven't wanted to admit he's a Little Boy of Almost Two. But yesterday, his little boyness was confirmed.

Last year at this time, he wasn't yet walking. So, this is the first Spring he's spent in our backyard. There is much at kid-level for a curious Little Boy like him to explore back there--including rocks, twigs, moss, and lots of dirt. (Oy. We'll have to bathe him twice as much as we did before.) Last night, when it was time to go inside, he put down the dead branch he'd been dragging around and shoved his hand toward me, presenting me with a small, grey, juicy slug. Babies don't present their mothers with slugs. But Little Boys do.

If it's chocolate, it wants me to eat it.

2005-04-09T01:02:00.000-07:00

As an adult, I'm only mildly amused (if that) by much of the things that sent me into laughing hysterics as, say, an eight year old. Similarly, the things that embarassed me have changed, too. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

One of the reasons I think adulthood is better than childhood is that I can say "I love" in reference to something (rather than someone) without having a twerpy classmate ask, "Do ya wanna marry it?" That question always made me regret my declaration. Though the classmate was the one asking the lame question, I was the one who ended up feeling like a big dummy.

Since I am no longer eight, I would like to take this opportunity to formally proclaim my l-o-v-e for chocolate. And yes, if it was possible to marry chocolate, I would, for I already am in a life-long, committed relationship with it. All forms of it. (With the exception of white chocolate which isn't actually chocolate at all.) It is my drug of choice because it truly does take the "edge" off. (By now, my life should be edge-less, but alas, it is not.) As a youngster, I preferred the milk variety. Now my tastes lean toward dark, and the darker, the better. I will gladly eat cheap chocolate, but the one who gifts me with Vosges wins the key to my heart. Speaking of my heart, the isoflavones in dark chocolate are a health benefit that justifies my consumption. God must love chocolate, too.

I also l-o-v-e cheese, and I have beheld its power at every possible opportunity during my lifetime. As a youngster, I enjoyed the Velveeta variety (which isn't actually cheese at all). Now I prefer stinky cheese, and my current favorite is Maytag Blue Cheese. (Those washing machine folks sure do know how to make a good cheese.) I would marry cheese, too, except that I have high cholesterol. So, I'm hoping to fall in love with soy cheese. But I don't see that happening anytime soon.

Singin' and Swingin' and Merry Like Christmas

2005-04-08T13:06:00.000-07:00

My husband and I don't often let Gumdrop go into our bedroom. It just seems like I should have ONE place in the house where decorative tchotchke is displayed on the end tables, where books are safely tucked in their case. But once in a while, he does enter our domain and, needless to say, he doesn't leave the place as he found it.

Yesterday, Gumdrop noticed something on my bedside table that he hadn't seen before--a small, heart-shaped blue Wedgewood dish. It had belonged to my grandmother who died last December. My aunt brought it with her when she came to visit recently, knowing Grandma would be pleased that I had it. Gumdrop snatched it up and ran to the bedroom window where he tapped it gently on the sill. Next, he set it on the treadmill, just long enough to admire it. And then, deciding it had already given him all pleasure he was going to get, he brought the dish back to me and took another item off the table.

It was a small bag made of fabric. White and irridescent with satin drawstrings. The kind a bride might use for wedding favors. Gumdrop knew it held something fun, but he didn't know what. It contained (among other things) dried, red rose petals which he gently touched through the bag. And then, in a flash, he was off! He ran out of the room, laughing and squealing, swinging the bag by its strings. The look on his face dared me to chase him. When I followed him out to the den, he was standing on the opposite side of the coffee table, swinging the bag over his head and singing, "WHEE oh! WHEE oh!" Forunately, I was able to get the bag away from him without incident.

My grandmother never had the chance to meet Gumdrop, her first and only great-grandchild, before she died. Still, she adored him and talked about him with friends and strangers alike. If she was watching us yesterday, I know she was getting a huge kick out of seeing him run around the room and laugh with abandon while swinging a bag of her "cremains." She'd be laughing, too. I can just hear her.

Say What?

2005-04-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

I could eat this little Dumplin' up. I just want to nibble his neck and gnaw on his cheek, but he won't sit still long enough to let me. The fact that he's becoming more assertive (thus, more irritated with me) at this age dims in the light of his utter darlingness.

Yesterday, Dumplin' asked me, "Up-pa-pa? Up-pa-pa? Do Do? Do Do? Deedee? Deedee? Deedee?" Trans: "Will you please take me upstairs so that I can watch 'Jo Jo's Circus' on the TV?" Okay, so Dumplin' didn't actually construct a sentence, but I knew what he was saying. And he loved that I got it. He did not, however, love the fact that I replied, "No, honey, we're going for a ride to the bookstore right now."

The language barrier can be frustrating at times. Dumplin' seems to understand me just fine. Apparently, I'm the one with the problem. It took me a good five minutes to figure out what he wanted after lunch the other day. Though five minutes may not seem like a long time, it is an eternity a toddler who believes his deepest yearnings are being completely disregarded by his neglectful mother.

Dumplin' was sitting in his highchair, pointing to the kitchen asking, "Uh-dee? Uh-dee? Uh-dee?" over and over (and over) again. What could he be saying? Some cheese? I get some cheese. He makes it patently clear that cheese was not what he asked for. I am clueless. A lost cause.

And then, it hits me: "Brush teeth! Do you want to brush your teeth?" Dumplin' smiles and nods rapidly. We both feel relieved. We brush his teeth. Not only is he brilliant, but he prizes good hygiene at an early age.

I pray he'll be this excited about deodorant when he's thirteen.

Speaking of teeth, I've had this little ditty in my head all day, courtesy of '70s Saturday morning cartoons on ABC:
They call me yuck mouth
'cause I don't brush!
Oh, I like my teeth like this,
They call me yuck mouth
'cause I don't brush!
How about a little kiss?
I got some beef in my teeth,
got some chicken, too -
OW! That's a cavity!
(Hey, that's new!)
So if you don't brush your teeth
then yes, you too will be a yuck mouth!

The Good Enough Mother

2005-04-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

My Little Thumbsucker and I skipped church and spent the morning at the local Mass-Market Bookseller where I bought two things: a book by Harvard Medical School on how best to feed your children and a postcard. And the more I think about that postcard, the more the book--or rather, my perceived need for it--just seems dumb.

I bought the postcard for myself. It features a famous black & white photograph by Dorothea Lange entitled, "Migrant Mother" which was shot in 1936 in Napomo, California during the Depression. The woman in the picture is only 32, but she seems to have aged prematurely. She and the two children who cling to her look ragged, dirty, hungry, weary. And though I have seen this photo before, I only now notice the infant lying in her lap. This image brings tears to my eyes.

Wanting to be a "good mother" to my 21-month old is always at the forefront of my mind, even though I can honestly say I haven't quite known what is Good Enough. Am I a good mother even if my boy isn't in a toddler tumbling class? Even if I'm not registering him for early preschool? Even if I don't force him to eat veggies he hates because he loves fruit?

Migrant Mother wasn't worried about living up to some stupid ideal of mothering perfection when her picture was taken. She was worried about surviving. Her family lived in dirt and slept under a canvas tent. I don't know what, if anything, she was feeding them, but it sure as heck wasn't a Harvard-approved meal. Regardless, I feel certain she was a good mother. I see the toll that worry took on her face. I know her children loved her and looked to her as their source of comfort. How could anyone judge her harshly? She reminds me of how good I've got it and how Good Enough a mother I am. I'll put her portrait where I will see it often.

Like Grandfather, Like Grandson

2005-03-08T14:35:00.000-08:00

I had gone out of town over the weekend, leaving my "boys" at home. Last night, when the taxi brought me back, Dooddlebug, his daddy, and our crazy Keeshond were standing at the front door, waiting for me. I was so happy to see them. I picked up Doodlebug and had just enough time to kiss his cheek before he insisted I put him down. He ran over to the piano and pulled out the bench, motioning for me to sit down and play piano with him. We banged out a brief "duet," just before he trotted to his room to bring me several of his toys.

Undeniably, he gets his love of the piano and of making music from his Grandpa. We both do. When I was a little girl, every time I had the chance to blow out birthday candles and make a wish, that wish was to have a piano. Sometimes I also wished to meet Donny Osmond (and for the record, that wish came true once I was an adult), but even when my Donny Love waned, I still longed for a piano. I got my wish as a teenager when Dad bought a used upright at a church sale. Today, I own the piano my husband's family had when he was a child. And thanks to my dad, Doodlebug also has an electronic keyboard, complete with built-in microphone and drum machine. What more could a 20-month old possibly want? (Maybe a guitar, vacuum cleaner or a lawnmower, but Grandpa already took care of of those.)

A passion for playing music (by ear, I should note) is just one of the qualities that I admire in my father. I also enjoy his silly sense of humor, and I hope Doodlebug has inherited that, too. I spent the weekend with Dad, my mom, and sisters at the hospital because he had a heart attack Friday morning. After my sisters and I arrived there, one of the first things he said (in his ET the Extra Terrestrial voice) was "ET, phone home!" He pointed toward us with his left index finger, his fingertip emitting red light having been fitted with a pulse monitor.

In addition to playing piano and guitar, Dad likes to sing--Elvis songs, in particular--and he sings well. In fact, in recent years, he has been known, on limited special occasions, to make appearances as Calvis Preskey. Aside from his creative abilities, Dad is an intelligent businessperson and a man of integrity. What's more, he's really good at cleaning the house! (That must be why Doddlebug loves the Swiffer Sweeper.) More importantly, Dad is loving and compassionate, and he has persevered during difficult times because of his faith in God. There is much to admire about my father.

I don't know how to convey in words, written or spoken, how much I love him. "Love" seems like such a puny word for describing how I feel and what I want him to know. My father makes me glad I have a son, happy that I named my baby after him, and thankful that my child has him for a grandfather. It is the cry of my heart that Dad will be good-as-new before long so that will hear me, his grandbaby, and the rest of his family say, "I love you" for many years to come. I LOVE YOU, DADDY!

La Dih-dah!

2005-03-01T15:01:00.000-08:00

The more I see Kewpie walking around the house with his Dih-dah (guitar), the more his style reminds me of a pre-pubescent Danny Partridge (Bonaduce). Danny didn't know how to play bass, either.

Kewpie is 20 months old as of today. People keep telling me that he's almost two. Though I may not be able to figure out how to divide up the restaurant bill, I do know that 20+4=24, and 24 months=2 years. Until further notice, I would just prefer to PRETEND that the months are not flying by as quickly as they are.

A Little Leon Goes A Long Way

2005-02-26T23:52:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to write this week because I couldn't think of anything good to say. That is, until tonight.

First, the back story. Last weekend, I reuinted with two girlfriends from college who I had not seen in ages. We had dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, and I left with a slab of chocolate ganache cake and a heapin' helping o' food poisoning. (Yes, I ate chicken.) Regardless, I still had a lot of fun with my friends, but I continued to feel terribly ill the whole rest of the week.

On Monday, while I was making Kaboom's lunch, he was toddling in and out of the kitchen, practicing his Michael Flately/Jennifer Beals move when he suddenly fell flat on his face. The fact that he fell is nothing. At age 19 months, falling is what he does best. But this time, his forehead landed square on the edge of the dog's ceramic water bowl. When I picked him up, blood was practically squirting out of his head. Lots of blood. So much, he couldn't see out of his left eye. And it was a small wound. (Okay, that's all I'll say to describe what was going on at home. I don't even want to talk about how helpless I felt. It's hard to think about it without feeling guilty about that damn bowl. Onto the hospital.)

Like everyone who visits the emergency room, we spent a lot of time sitting and waiting. But the actual process of cleaning the wound and applying some sort of Amazing Medical Miracle SuperGlue (in lieu of stiches) took mere minutes. Once home, Kaboom was good-as-new, ready to run and play as if nothing had happened.

As for me, while riding waves of nausea on the sofa, I winced every single time Kaboom looked like he might take a tumble. And when he actually fell down, I reflexively covered my eyes. I know I can't live like that and stay sane. I don't know if there are statistics on how frequently the average toddler falls in a given day, but it must be something like ELEVEN HUNDRED MILLION times.

Tonight, the boo-boo looks better, I'm feeling nearly normal, and a friend and I went to see Leon Russell in concert. His "Willo' The Wisp" album plays and important role in my memories of childhood. Dad bought it in 1975, and he, my sisters, and I would dance to it together in the living room. When I hear Leon sing "Back to the Island," I am transported. Somehow, that song makes my worries seem small and insignificant. (Cue the ocean and bird sounds.)

Well I hope you understand, I just had to go back to the island
-Chorus-
And watch the sun go down (sit and watch the sun go down)
Hear the sea roll in (listen to the sea roll in)
But I'll be thinking of you (yes, and I'll be thinking of you)
And how it might have been (thinking how it might have been)
Hear the night birds cry (listen to the night birds cry)
Watch the sunset die (sit and watch the sunset die)
Well I hope you understand, I just had to go back to the island

After the concert, I saw a small group of people waiting at the door of Leon's old tourbus. I hurried to my car to grab a piece of paper and a pen and then waited among the mostly-stoned fans for Leon to show. His bass player appeared from inside the bus and said that although Leon would not be coming out, he was willing to sign a few autographs.

When I was a kid, I got Pat Boone's autograph at a celebrity golf tournament. Since it looked like "Pot Bone," I was unimpressed and threw it away. When the bass player returned with Leon's signature, it looked like "LRu," only curly. I'll be keeping this one.

The World According to Reality TV

2005-02-16T14:30:00.000-08:00

In today's "USA Today," there is a story about kids raised in the 80's who can't function well in college or the workforce. Of course, attentive moms are to blame. They told their kids, "Good job!" (even when the "job" sucked) and screwed their kids up, royally. Apparently, all that nurturing served to create young adults who can't cope with the fact that their bosses don't reward bad or just so-so job performance. WHATever. I don't have a child who is a young adult, and I myself am not in that demographic, so what do I know? But I've SEEN reality TV, and it gives a wholly different picture of young American adults. The impression is that young women in bikini tops are willing to eat poop mixed with intestines and roach parts as millions watch for the CHANCE to win a big check. Seven Strangers Picked to Live Wherever will have drunken, unprotected sex without concern for AIDS, much less their dignity. And ivy-league lawyers will publicly demean themselves and kiss a zillionaire's ass in the HOPE of being named his Little Helper. In our country, we call this entertainment. (God, it frightens me to think these shows are airing in foreign countries.) I seriously doubt we can blame nurturing mommies for all THIS. We're damned if we do, damned if we don't.

Who you callin' spoiled?

2005-02-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

The Boy Child's auntie visited last weekend, arriving Thursday while he was fast asleep so that she could greet him first thing Friday morning. Unbelievably, it had been six months since her last visit ("A third of his life!" she'd said). On the night before she was supposed to have flown up in November, she fell down some steps and broke her leg. Her heart broke a little, too. Needless to say, she couldn't wait to see how much The Boy Child had grown and changed. Little did she know, earlier Thursday night, The Boy Child met his NEWEST best friend.

Much to our surprise, Grampy--recent giver of the talking vaccum and the John Deere mower--sent his Future Musician Grandchild a purple-and-yellow toy electric guitar, complete with a combination microphone stand/amplifier. When The Boy Child saw it, he was gleeful. Utterly enraputured. Getting him to go to bed that night was more complicated than usual for he had played with the Dih-DAH (trans: guitar) all evening and wasn't ready for the jam session to end. On Friday morning, the day of the Much Anticipated Reunion with Auntie, Daddy got The Boy Child up and proceeded with their regular routine. As Daddy approaced the changing table, The Boy Child began to point to his bedroom door and wail, "Dih-DAH! Dih-DAH!" repeatedly. Elephant tears dripped off his chin.

Auntie sat on the living room sofa, eagerly awaiting the appearance of The Boy Child. As soon as he was dressed, he trotted straight out to the guitar. Auntie wanted hugs and kisses, but The Boy Child wanted to play his "axe." And when he did, he reminded us of U2's bassist, Adam Clayton. This kisses could wait.

No need to thank me. Really.

2005-02-13T08:37:00.000-08:00

As soon as Dumplin's Daddy came home from work, Dumplin' and I were ready to be taken out to dinner. While Daddy took care of the diaper change, I packed a sippy cup, fruit and whole wheat crackers for Dumplin to snack on while awaiting his entree. I also had the job of getting the Krazy Keeshond to sit and stay while Daddy and Dumplin' walked out the door. (The homemade peanutbutter cookie from the local doggy bakery worked quite well.) It also was up to me to bring the car/house keys which were sitting on the dining room table. All of this is our typical get-out-of-the-house routine. But I didn't realize, until I was standing in the driveway with the carport door locked behind me and Daddy asking, "Did you get the keys?" that I. . . didn't. I found the hollowed-out rock in which we hide our spare housekey. It was empty, naturally.

The other thing I didn't bother to bring was my coat. Lately, I haven't wanted to take my coat when I leave the house with the boy. It's just one more thing to remember. But it was 30 degrees and windy, and we were locked out of the house. I wished I had brought my coat.

I knew our hungry boy wasn't going to tolerate sitting in the car without going anywhere for very long. So I got into the backseat (thank God I hadn't locked the car) and began feeding him banana and crackers. Daddy used his cell phone to find a locksmith with emergency service and was told that someone would be out to unlock our door in 30 minutes. About a minute later, Daddy asked, "Is the front door locked?" "I'm sure it is," I replied. After all, if it wasn't, that would mean I had forgotten to lock it. "But why don't you go check it, just in case," I suggested.

Seconds later, Daddy was waving at Dumplin' from inside the house. For once, I was glad to have forgotten something.

Just Sing!

2005-02-08T14:47:00.000-08:00

Sing, sing a song
Sing out loud, sing out strong
Sing of good things, not bad
Sing of happy, not sad
Sing, sing a song
Make it simple
To last your whole life long
Don't worry that it's not good enough
For anyone else to hear
Just sing, sing a song

Now that I watch Sesame Street every once in a while, I've been reintroduced to this classic tune by Joe Raposo. Recently, I've seen Deniece Graves and Nathan Lane perform it with penguins and pigs, respectively. I finally appreciate the beauty of its simple message which, to me, is this: Just for a moment, let go of the need for perfection and approval. Stop holding back so darn much (if only for right now), and choose to dwell on positive stuff because life is a lot more fun that way! This message hits a nerve now that I'm a sometimes-neurotic, overly self-consious adult. It calls us to just write, just paint, just dance, just do whatever--without all the excess baggage that keeps us from enjoying the moment.

At 19 months, Puddin' Pop is all about living in the moment. On Friday, we went to the local community center to check out Tot Time in the gymnasium. It was, well, nuts. I don't know how many children were there, but to me, it felt like a hundred. Puddin' was absolutely thrilled to be in the midst of all that kiddie chaos. While other tots climbed the tumbling blocks and crawled through nylon tubes, he did a kind of ode to Flashdance/homage to Riverdance thing around the entire perimeter of the basketball court TWICE, smiling and laughing all the while. His signature move is a combination of running and dancing as he kicks his feet in front of him, and his arms barely leave his sides. But unlike Jennifer Beals or Michael Flatley, my boy doesn't break a sweat. (And I seriously doubt either of them could keep up with him.) I was hot on his heels the entire time (struggling to keep up), guarding against the flying basketballs that could've come barrelling towards his Perfectly Round Noggin and ready to throw my body in front of tricycles run amok. I am his bodyguard, the defender of his life, and he doesn't even know he needs protecting. He doesn't have a smidge of self-consciousness. The kid doesn't hold back. I have so much to learn from him.

The Art of Dating

2005-02-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

My husband and I "dated" long distance for about a year after we met in the chat room of a now-defunct online service that Apple was beta testing. Much of our courting communication was done via a computer art program because it was fun to impress each other with our creativity. Nowadays, most of what we say isn't quite as colorful. "Was he poopy?" and "I can't find my keys" are two of the things you'll typically hear in our house. Though it doesn't beat face-to-face communication with my honey, I miss the art. That's why I love this.

Fun?

2005-02-04T13:15:00.000-08:00

About five months after my son was born, I finally went to the doctor to hear what I already suspected. I was clinically depressed. Looking back, I can see that I wished days, weeks, and maybe even months of my life (and my son's infancy) away as I watched the clock, counting the minutes until my husband came home from work. Now that Stinky Pie is 19 months old, I wonder where the time went. Sometimes I feel so guilty for not having enjoyed those early months more.

I recently mentioned this to my mother. She reminded me that I couldn't breastfeed, I had insomnia, I couldn't eat, the baby was miserable with reflux every time he ate, I was crying constantly and didn't know why, and I had no family or close friends nearby to help me. "Gee, I don't know WHY you weren't having fun!" she jested.

At the time, I did not understand that most parents of newborns aren't enjoying themselves, per se. They're coping. Admitting that doesn't mean you're ungrateful. It means you're expending every single ounce of physical energy and brainpower on deciphering and/or meeting your tiny child's needs, and you're BEYOND wasted. You've also discovered that you're capable of worrying more than you ever thought possible. What parent feels adequate and effective in that state? One who's heavily sedated, that's who.

My New Year's Resolution is to try to forgive myself, each day, for whatever mothering mistakes I think I've made and to relish the fun I'm having with Stinky Pie right now.

The Itsy Bitsy ARGH!

2005-02-03T12:16:00.000-08:00

I may very well be the only Suburban American Mother who doesn't know the official finger motions to The Itsy Bitsy Spider.

It's the spider's going-up-the-waterspout moves that I have trouble with. I wing it. I'm all fingers. Once we get to "down came the rain," I'm good. Even Cutekin has mastered that. "And washed the spider out" is a no-brainer, too. I'm above average as far as "out came the sun and dried up all the rain" is concerned. But then that darned persistent spider has to make another acscent.

I should point out that this is not a reflection on my mother. I know I learned the routine as a youngster. I just don't remember how the spider is supposed to crawl. Therefore, I can't adequately teach this rhyme to my OWN child. And when you're sitting in a circle with other moms who CAN perform the spider's moves. . .Well, thank God he's too young to be embarassed by his mother.

Why I heart XM Radio

2005-02-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

The 70's channel is my absolute favorite. In the car, Sweet Potato was doing his regular I HATE WEARING THIS FREAKIN' JACKET WHILE STRAPPED IN THE CAR SEAT routine (his yelling, not mine), and his "Veggie Tales" CD wasn't helping matters. Since I could stand Bob the Tomato no longer, I switched the stereo over to satellite radio. Dobie Gray's "Drift Away" was just beginning to play:

Give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock 'n' roll and drift away. . .

I sang at the top of my lungs. Ultimately, that probably only encourages the boy to do the same thing. But he quieted down immediately. And then, sans commercial interruption, "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo" (by Lobo) was next. Sweet Potato bobbed his head to the beat (yes, this white boy's got rhythm) and sucked his thumb. Thank you, Jesus.

When Oven Mitts Attack

2005-02-01T14:13:00.000-08:00

Accessories of modern domesticity are Wonder Boy's favorite playthings.

My nice, beige Williams-Sonoma oven mitts never manage to stay in the kitchen drawer for very long. They're either on the living room coffee table or in the middle of the kitchen floor. Wonder Boy loves to play with them ever since Daddy created ROBSTER CRAW! Robster Craw chases Wonder Boy around the room, and makes a scary sound--like a lion's roar. When it catches the Boy, it tickles him on the neck, under his arms, etc. When Daddy isn't home, Wonder Boy trots around the house with an oven mitt on each hand, and sometimes the roaring Robster Craw chomps on his loving mother.

Wonder Boy's fascination with The Big, Black Plastic Slotted Spoon--and carrying the end of said spoon in his mouth--began to wane once I adhered the rubber bulb of a turkey baster to the end of the handle (with a big wad of packing tape) and began calling it the Safety Spoon. Go figure.

The Swiffer Sweeper's role has officially been usurped by the toy vacuum cleaner (thanks to Grammy and Grampy). But a plain ol' paper towel will almost instantly satisfy a Whiny Wonder Boy. He'll use it to "clean" the coffee table, the floor, the storm door. . .

Someday, his wife will thank me.

Overheard at Nordstrom

2005-01-28T13:28:00.000-08:00

Salesperson to woman trying on large, designer lime-green purse: "The larger the bag, the thinner and taller you look."

That's right. Thinner AND taller. So, this is the little red number I'll soon be sporting.

Let Me Crazy!!

2005-01-28T13:15:00.000-08:00

I have an affinity for "Japonesed" English. Sometimes it's hilariously funny. The example I spotted today gave me pause for thought. A sign in the foodcourt at the mall advertises Bubble Tea. The tagline: Let Me Crazy!!

I'd be curious to hear from someone who'd like to be LET crazy, 'cause nobody needs to let ME crazy. It's Friday, and I've been at home all week with an 18 month old who is testing his vocal chords to see just how loud, how long, and at what pitch he can scream if he feels dissatisfied for whatever reason. Some days, crazy comes naturally.

He Gets It

2005-01-27T14:20:00.000-08:00

Little Bug's favorite restaurant is an asian-fusion joint where the waitresses are young, cute, and love to make a big fuss over His Darlingness. Though the entrees aren't particularly good, we like to take him there because it makes him happy (that's what I live for, really), and it's the only place where he'll eat meat. (And the cocktails are good; but he doesn't know that yet.)

Bug and Daddy had nearly polished off their chicken teriyaki skewers and I was nursing a (much-deserved, thankyaveramuch) cosmo when the boy suddenly became aware of the music playing in the restaurant. Immediately, he looked at me with eyes wide and a smile that asked, "Ohmygosh, do you hear that?" Then he began bobbing his head and singing lyrics from his favorite songs--everything he could come up with: "Nummy nummy nummy!* OOO wee-oh-wee-oh! OOO wee-oh-wee-oh!** Leedleedleedle!***" (Repeat randomly.)

I chimed in: "Our love will climb any mountain. Near or far, we are, and we never let it end. We are devotion."

The song to which we sang duet was "Guilty" by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb--an album I own and know by heart. The funny thing is, Bug had never heard that song before. But he loved it immediately and felt compelled to sing. Daddy wasn't quite as impressed as I, but some people just don't get the whole Streisand/Gibb thing.

*"Fruit Salad" (the Wiggles)
**"Hot Potato" (the Wiggles)
***"A Bushel and a Peck" (Me--and "Guys and Dolls")

Music to Mum's Ears!

2005-01-25T15:05:00.000-08:00

When I opened the front door to get the mail, a leaf blew in. I didn't pick it up. I left it for Doodlebug, who was standing next to me. As I stood at the dining room table sorting the mail, he walked up behind me. "Mum?" he said. When I turned and asked, "What, honey?" (my heart filled with glee) he handed me the leaf and returned to his vacuuming.

Why is this remarkable? Because this child's favorite word, as long as he could speak, has been Da-da. He has long known that my "name" is Mama, but he has preferred not to use it. And why should he when pointing, grunting, or screaming would do?

At least I remembered to curtsy.

2005-01-25T12:52:00.000-08:00

Last night, I dreamed I was at the mall with Sprout. As we approached an elevator, I noticed two other sweatpant-clad stroller-pushing Mothers of Toddlers waiting there along with a tall, impecably-dressed blonde who wore a sparkling-yet-tasteful tiara. She impatiently re-pressed the already lit UP button and didn't look at any of us. Because I have a knack for spotting celebs, I instantly recognized her as Lady Di (yes, I mean Diana Princess of Wales) and said hello. I even curtsied for the first time ever. She warmed up to us quickly and was the gracious, queenly woman everyone imagines her to be.

Moments later, the four of us were giggling and shopping in Nordstrom together. I thought, this is just the girls-only, child-free outing I've needed. (Come to think of it, I'm not sure where our kids and strollers ended up.) Di was trying on some dangly ear bobs, so I thought I would, too. We shared the same mirror--which I ended up regretting, deeply.

I was wearing a sleevless shirt (that's how I know it was only a dream), and when I raised my hand to my ear, we both saw It. I had neglected to shave my armpits. And it wasn't like I had gone a few days or weeks without shaving. It was as if I had never shaved my pits in my entire life and had 36 years of dark, dense growth to show for it.

I'm not sure what would've happened after that. My little subconscious siren sounded, "It's only a dream! You can wake up!" So, I did. And when I took my shower, I shaved my armpits.

Christmas Strikes Again

2005-01-23T20:11:00.000-08:00

The World's Greatest Grammy and Grampy visited this weekend and, naturally, they showered their Little Joybell with fabulous toddler-appropriate gifts. For the child who is happy to while away the hours pushing the Swiffer Sweeper across the livingroom floor, a vacuum cleaner that TALKS is a guaranteed hit. It's looks like a miniature, purple version of our yellow Dyson Cyclone--complete with see-through dirt/doghair cannister.

Owning a Dyson makes me feel a little more glam than I did when I owned a Hoover--simply because it's creator, Mr. Dyson (who stars in his commercial), speaks with an English accent. You've undoubtedly heard his voice: "Und a few thowzand prototypes laytuh, I hod it!" No wonder our boy thought the big vacuum was super cool. It may suprise you to know the Fisher Price version is significantly less refined. In fact, along with the 30-or-so cute phrases it says, it hurls underhanded insults in the direction of the child's innocently-bystanding mother. "Did a tornado come through here?" and "This place is a pigsty!" are two of my personal. . .um. . .favorites.

As if the talking vacuum wasn't enough, Grampy ALSO presented his grandbaby with a push lawnmower--not just ANY mower, mind you, but a John Deere. I told the grandbaby, "Men 20 years older than you would kill for one of these." Granted, it's a plastic play mower, but that's a detail he doesn't have to mention when he's bragging to his buddies.

Rock On, Brother Man

2005-01-20T03:02:00.000-08:00

Squidlet (his father-given moniker) is infatuated with the guitar and the piano. Being that the piano is in the living room, it is readily accessible and easily taken for granted. Daddy's guitar, on the other hand, is whoknowswhere. Our boy longs to play the guitar.

Tuesday night, we took Squidlet out to dinner at one of those restaurants that has reproduction Rock 'n' Roll memorabilia on the walls. At some point during the meal, he saw It. Pointing and frustrated squealing ensued. "Dih-DAH!" he insisted. When I finally looked out from beneath the giant faux Tiffany-style hanging lamp, I saw--mounted on the wall above our table--a guitar. (More confirmation of toddler brilliance.)

When we go to Squidlet's music "class," he doesn't really care about shaking the bells or playing with the parachute. He wants the guitar. It sits in the corner and beckons. So when we returned home from class today, I picked up the big, black, plastic, slotted kitchen spoon he likes to play with (future musician AND chef) and briefly strummed it like a guitar. The sound I made was, "Bdumm, bdumm, bdummm!" (which is, of course, the very same sound a guitar makes). Squidlet played Kitchen Spoon Guitar. And then Hairbrush Guitar. Followed by Cordless Phone Guitar, Book Guitar, and Tummy Guitar.

Watching someone play air guitar has never been so entertaining.

"I don't have a square to spare!"

2005-01-18T20:03:00.000-08:00

In the classic, beloved episode of "Seinfeld" titled, "The Stall," Elaine claimed not to have a piece of toilet paper to give to the desperately drip-drying trixie in the adjacent bathroom stall. Of course, she wasn't telling the truth. But I am not being facetious when I say, I can not spare a brain cell. I clearly need every stinkin' last one of them.

Pregnancy and parenthood seem to have obliterated my memory. That's why I had to leave a pathetic message on my Dear, Wonderful Girlfriend's answering machine today, owning my toad-dom for having forgotten her birthday last week. The thing is, it was clearly written on the calendar, AND I had bought a card! To tell you the truth, I have quite a nice collection of cards that I (proudly) purchased early and forgot to send to various people. One of them was for my grandmother who died--yes, DIED--before I could send it. How pathetic is that!? (Don't tell me. I know.)

So last week, there was the forgetting of Precious Friend's birthday. Two days before, I botched an appointment by somehow telling myself it was scheduled for a half-hour later than it actually was. I read the correct time on the calendar and left the house early to run errands beforehand. And then I killed time at the bookstore--time that was not mine to kill! Meanwhile, Appointment Gal was calling my home, brusquely asking my husband where the heck I was. Fortunately, I had remembered to charge my usually-dead cell phone so that he could call and ask, "Where ARE you?"

Clearly, my organizational system isn't working.

Happy Birthday

2005-01-17T10:32:00.000-08:00

Quote for the day:

"A country that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death."
- Martin Luther King

Just At That Age

2005-01-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

Every Sunday morning, I dread taking Lovemuffin to the church nursery so that I can attend the worship service. Sometimes it's just easier to skip church altogether. (I have more guilt than most about playing hooky because Lovemuffin's Daddy is one of the ministers, and today, he was preaching.) But I should go because I need that hour of peace and stillness to sing, pray, and meditate on God. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Actually, I'm not very meditative these days because I'm too busy clutching the restaurant-style beeper tightly in my palm (for fear that it'll vibrate and I won't know it) and wondering whether I should just go rescue Lovemuffin and retreat to Starbucks for a Grande Skim Sugar-Free Decaf No-Whip Hazlenutt Latte (mine) and a blueberry muffin (his).

Experienced parents I know tell me that at 18 months, he's just "at that age." When Lovemuffin clues into the fact that he's getting ready to be deserted in the nursery among the shelves of molded-plastic toys, he wails like his heart is breaking, clutches my leg, and cries, "Mamamamamamaaaaa!" Each time, I want to give in. I keep hoping that I'm having a harder time with this than he his--that he perks right up as soon as I leave and has a blast. But today, when I came to retrieve my boy, his eyes were red and a fresh teardrop was perched atop each precious cheek.

An Open Letter to Starbucks

2005-01-15T10:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Starbucks,

I tried Chantico.
I let its chocolatey chocolateness flow over my tastebuds and overtake me.
In the words of "Jerry Maguire's" Dorothy, "You had me at hello."
I love you.

B.F.F.,
Me

He's small and smart and round. . .

2005-01-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

. . .the swellest kid around!

Monkeyman's favorite new game is one he created. He points at an object and says, "Dis" so that we will tell him the name of that object. Then he quickly points to another object. Last night, before Daddy put him to bed, I cuddled Monkeyman on the sofa and sang Twinkle Twinke Little Star, just as I always do, while he swigged milk from his bottle. (And yes, he still takes a bottle, thankyouverymuch, but we are in the weaning process, and the nighttime bottle will be the last one to go. Anyway. . .) He decided he wanted to play Dis with my face. "Dis." Mama's nose. "Dis." Eye. "Dis." Hair. "Dis." Hair (on other side of head). "Dis" Hair (on forehead). "Dis!" FINGER UP MAMA'S NOSE! He squealed with delight knowing his plan had worked. What a stinker. Takes after his father.

Play that funky music, white girl.

2005-01-14T13:46:00.000-08:00

If you got a problem, YO, I'll solve it.
Check out the beat while the mama revolves it!
(With apologies to Vanilla Ice.)

Now if this isn't the coolest site I've seen lately, I don't know what is. Props to my homey/husband, J-Dogg, for sending it my way. (Like I didn't have enough reasons to avoid doing the laundry.)

Speaking of frivolous cyber-distractions. . .I could spend the rest of the day creating snowflakes here.

We're gonna shake, shake, shake our sillies out!

2005-01-13T14:09:00.000-08:00

The Boy Child and I had a ball at his little toddlers' music class. As the youngest member of the group, he's still putting all of the instruments into his mouth. Playing them? Not so much. The instructor sweetly asked me if he can walk. He can indeed. He also runs, climbs, and dances to whatever the Wiggles are singing. But for this class--and for this class only--his tiny hiney is Krazy Glued to my lap. And that's okay by me.

I had hoped that by the time we returned home, The Dog would have recovered from his bout with "the runs." (Discovering your dog has diarrhea is quite a way to greet the morning, by the way.) We have an "energetic" Keeshond who spins and twirls whenever he gets really excited about a tasty treat. Today, this means he's kind of doing an unintentional--and disgusting--impersonation of Jackson Pollock. Henceforth, I shall withold treats until he can contain himself.

Julia Child Rolls Over

2005-01-12T21:00:00.000-08:00

With a mere three shows currently airing on the Food Network, eight books in publication, and Who Knows What Else in the works, food maven Rachel Ray was in need of a career boost. Like Christina, Britney, and Janet before her, she (or the idiot advising her) decided to "push the envelope" and sex-up her perky/wholesome/dorky image. Et voila! (To get the full effect, be sure to scroll down to see the thumbnails.)

I learned my lesson.

2005-01-11T10:55:00.000-08:00

For obvious reasons, the cordless phone is an appealing toy for a busy toddler. Having The Boy Child carry it around and push buttons is harmless. Allowing The Boy Child to play with it becomes a problem, however, when he decides it's even more fun to BANG it on the coffee table, the floor, and the dog. That's when you have to be Mean Mommy and remove it from The Boy Child's sticky grip. And THAT is where the fun ends. In fact, it comes to an abrupt, screeching (and I mean SCREECHING) halt. And then, of course, it's time to change the diaper because The Boy Child pooped while in cordless-phone bliss. (Now that I think about it, blissful play often results in a poop. But I digress.) If The Boy Child could speak in a language I understand, he would say, "I was having fun and then it was all shot to hell, thanks to her!" To which I'd reply, "Baby, I'm just getting started."