Good Night, Bug

The instant I heard the front door open, the sound of the spring on the screen door stretching to its limit, I sprang to my feet and ran toward the familiar sound. By the time the coiled metal had sprung back to its original shape and he had firmly planted both feet on the rug just inside the door, I had jumped up into his arms knowing no fear he wouldn’t catch me. As the door closed behind him he gave me a big squeeze, a kiss on the top of my head and the first of our nightly rituals was complete.

My dad rarely arrived home before dark and when your cue for bedtime is the illumination of the street lights outside in the small world of your neighborhood, late is anytime after the first firefly can be spotted in the rosebush wrapped around the light post lighting the way from the driveway to the front door. Therefore, our time was always too short.

Our embrace at the door lasted just a few moments; Too soon I was put back down onto the floor and I watched as he tossed his jacket onto the couch and unbuttoned the collar of his blue shirt. I followed him closely, taking two steps for every one of his long strides, as he strolled straight down the short, dimly lit hallway into the kitchen.

There he was met by my mother who, having heard him come in or maybe interpreted the sound of my pitter patter correctly, had already begun to re-warm what was left of the meal the two of us had eaten earlier that evening. She turned her head slightly and smiled at him over her shoulder. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took a deep breath to smell the sweet aroma of his soon-to-be late supper.

My mother informed me that it was time for bed. I looked over at my dad and gave him my most sad, most pathetic looking face in hopes that he would allow me to stay up just a little while longer. I thought if I could keep his gaze from meeting my mother’s eyes he would smile and give me a reprieve. Tonight, he turned immediately to my mother’s face and my hopes were instantly dashed.

I turned and ran upstairs to brush my teeth and get my pajamas on. I don’t know what my parents did while I got ready upstairs - maybe talked about my dad's day at work or my day at school; Whatever it was it never took very long. I had just jumped into bed, my head hitting the pillow just as my dad came through the doorway.

He walked over and pulled the covers up just over my chest. As I pulled my arms out from under the blankets another ritual began:

“Nighty night,” he said.
“Nighty night,” I echoed.

“Sleepy tight.”
“Sleepy tight.”

“See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning.”

“Pleasant dreams.”
“Pleasant dreams.”

“I love you, Bug.”
“I love you, Daddy.”

And he smiled. He always smiled at the end of our exchange.

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. My name is Nancy and I am the proud mother of two rambunctious boys, ages two and four. I've been writing fiction most of my life, but like so many before me have become an avid blogger to tell the story of my reality. You can find Allison over at my blog, Just Thinking . . . , today where she has written a truly moving piece about her own father.

Boys vs. girls - special shoe addition

How did this happen? My sons turned into little practical Germans while my daughter is a slave to fashion. She's three years old.

When I backpacked through Europe in the early 1990's, one way to tell where fellow travellers were from was what footwear - including socks - they wore. At the time Americans wore sneakers with white socks and Germans wore sandals with white or black dress socks. I'll admit, while I'm sure it was very practical from a keeping-your-feet clean perspective, the Germans' choice of footwear looked silly to me.

Fast forward to my little family. My sons for several years have worn their sandals with socks without any regard for fashion or what country they live in. The photo shows their footwear for church this morning. I asked them to consider wearing just the sandals.

One of them replied, "But the sandals rub into my feet." So practical. I would consider myself in that camp - I'm not one for crazy high heels or super pointy shoes - although I draw the line at combining socks with sandals.

Then it was time for my three-year-old to pick out her footwear for church. She chose her new sparkling flats. These are her first shoes that do not have either straps or laces. I bought them thinking they would end up in the costume basket(s), not as everyday wear.

As she walked into the church's meeting house this morning, several people asked why she was walking so funny. She was both struggling to keep the shoes on her feet and dealing with blisters. I offered to let her walk barefoot but she insisted on wearing these silver Dorothy shoes. She danced in the front during the service, pranced like a princess and generally acted like her shoes were her ticket to the ball.

So tell me. How do 6-1/2 year-old boys chose to be so practical in their footwear while a three-year-old girl endures blisters for the sake of pretty shoes? Is it in those X chromosomes?

Art

Kruger National Park, South Africa, 1999

" The camera doesn't make a bit of difference. All of them can record what you are seeing. But, you have to SEE."

--Ernst Haas, 1985

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Ice cream for dinner

The alternative title was Mean Things Adults say about Twins. You let me know if I picked the right one.

For those of you new to my little piece of the world, I'm the mom of three children - a three year old "singleton" girl and 6 year old identical twin boys. I don't like to make a big deal about their twin-ness. I cannot deny the bond they have - or that they are these identical red-head, blue eyed, pale skin boys - but it is my job to make sure they see themselves as individuals first.

Which is a large reason why they were in separate classes for kindergarten this year. Interestingly, they still have some mutual friends but for the most part I hear about different kids from each of them.

Yet, for some reason every birthday invitation this year included both guy. Until last week when a pink princess invitation showed up for one guy. And if he didn't have a disappointed twin brother we would've let him be all happy about the invitation all week. Unfortunately he had to dampen his happiness to not exacerbate his brother's misery. And if it had been the other way around, we would've been asking the same thing of the other brother.

Then I had to think of something fun for the left-out brother that wasn't too outrageous. I couldn't set a precedent that there would be an ostentatious compensation for being on the outs.

He came with me to drop off his brother at the birthday party. Then I took him to the local ice cream parlor for a chocolate frappe before dinner. I told him he didn't even have to eat dinner if he wasn't hungry. "You mean this can be my dinner?" he asked incredulously. Maybe this was outrageous. Outrageous enough.

He asked me about my day at work. When I told him I was learning the intricacies of some affordable housing laws he commented that he'll have to explain to a friend that when he builds houses as a grown-up they'll have to be "affordable".

We went back to retrieve party boy. In the car he said that the birthday girl's mom asked where his brother was. She then said she should have written "and siblings" on the invitation.

"But she said that now she didn't have to worry about who I was because he wasn't there!" he added.

So this woman told my six-year-old kid that her life was easier because his identical brother wasn't there. And he (of course) reported that back to all of us.

Hours later, I still don't know what to say in response.

I felt kicked in the gut by that comment. I hope it went over left-out-boy's head. Or that the ice cream softened the blow.

A bit tired

I was woken up before 4:30 this morning.

Don't go blaming my darling cherubs.

Although usually if I tell this story it involves someone under 7 years old yelling "MOMMY!" and me scurrying to bring the yeller back in our bed to get him/her to go back to sleep. Sometimes it works. But then I lay awake.

This time the story involves jack-hammers. At 4:30 in the morning.

We live on a state highway. That inherently brings traffic and noise. Several years ago we needed the gas company to come in the evening to dig a hole when there was a gas leak. I recognize when loud noises are necessary for public safety.

However, this was the town Department of Public Works (DPW) using jack hammers to dig up - I kid you not - two traffic islands near our house at 4:30 in the morning.

There is no public safety reason to jack-hammer traffic islands at 4:30 in the morning.

So my husband went down to investigate and call the police. They told him it was a DPW issue. We live in one of, if not the only, state that requires a police detail for all public works project. He told the dispatcher there was no detail at the site. That got their attention. There was a police officer within 5 minutes. He also left a message on the work number of the DPW director. He joked he should have found his home number to wake him up. I told him that if our kids woke up we were calling the DPW director at his home. Somehow the kids slept through the entire thing. I did not.

I left the house at 6:55 am and the jack hammers were still going. The DPW director called my husband at 7:05 am to apologize profusely and explain he didn't know how this happened.

When asked what the crew was doing, the director said they were tearing up the traffic islands to put in flowers.

Let me repeat, I was woken up before 4:30 in the morning for frigging flower beds.

I'm not a stalker

Please be assured that I have no plans of stalking anyone. Really.

It isn't like I've been following the British synth-popster Vince Clark since the mid-1980's and own nearly every single record and/or CD he has been involved in.

Who, you ask? Who?

Vince Clark:

was a founding member of Depeche Mode in the late 1970's and wrote nearly all the songs on their first album Speak and Spell (including my favorite Boys Say Go).

left the band and created Yaz (Yazoo in England) with Alison Moyet - Don't Go, Situation, and Midnight are just yummy.

there was a little adventure called The Assembly that produced a single.

Then, the wonderful and glorious Andy Bell joined Vince to form Erasure and for the last 20 years have created such tunes as Blue Savannah, Oh L'Amour, Sometimes and Always.

I've seen them open for Duran Duran in the 1980's. That's right, I went to a huge venue to dance and scream during the opening act. The lights were on, the teeny-boppers talked through the performance and were very confused with the lead singer in a rubber top that resembled a baseball catcher's vest.

Then there was the night they performed an over-21 performance while I was still a senior in high school (therefore NOT 21). I cried at home. At one point my dad offered to take me and tell the bar owners he wouldn't let me drink. I explained it was a bar, not an R rated movie. But to this day I'm still grateful that he understood how deep this adoration goes.

So deep in fact that when they toured for Chorus AND DIDN'T GO TO NEW ORLEANS (hello - do they know there are gay people there? And hags who LOVE them?) friends at the time who were living in Houston went to the concert and got a poster signed for me. Why didn't I go? I was a public school teacher and it was during the week. Houston and during the week. Just adding insult to injury.

Even my kids - who will insist on the same song over and over and OVER again regardless of the crazed look on my face - realized they had to relinquish the car CD player last Tuesday evening so I could play the newest CD, Light at the End of the World. When there were a few whimpers I would say with reverence "But I'm hearing these songs for the first time!"

And now the song they call "# 2" (I could fall in love with you) is the new favorite for the kids. Just keeping them culturally informed.

Last week there was an article about Vince Clark in my local paper to correspond with the release of this CD. And guess what? He lives 2 hours and 59 minutes from my house. It's not like I inserted my town and his town into Google Maps and figured out he lives THREE HOURS AWAY FROM ME!!

Breath. I promise I will not jump in the car and descend upon his quaint little home. Really.

Really.

This weekend we ran away

To the new modern art museum next to the harbor.

Little Miss made her own art under a mural called "Beautiful Gas". (Figure it out.)

We spent the night at a fancy hotel with glass elevators, a pool and a view of the river and city.

It was a lovely time.

Colorful

Fabric at the India Independence Day Celebration, 2006.


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Sad

One day during my senior year of high school I came home and picked up the mail lying on the entry way floor. There was an envelop addressed to me without a return address. I tore it open and only read the first line.

It contained nothing but expletives about what the writer was going to do to me. I dropped the letter and have never seen it again.

Eventually my mom came home and did what a good, loving mother does. She became the raging mama lion defending her young. She went to the police and demanded they open a case. They tried to dismiss it as "something boys do" and she went ballistic. She demanded a meeting with the principal and got the school to compare the handwriting on the letter with students' writing folders. We also finally realized we had been getting crank calls at home and had the phone company monitor our phone line (this was before caller id).

It all pointed to a pretty lonely kid. Someone who was in a few classes with me but I had never interacted with. This kid was actually in bad shape. My mom then demanded a meeting with the kid and parents and somehow extracted a promise of mental health counseling. As the months wore on this kid looked better.

I tell you this because for the first time as a blogger I got a truly hateful comment in response to my piece about the kids' silhouette portraits.

Anonymous said...
you sound like the biggest loser I have every heard!!!!!!I pity your poor poor kids when they actually get out in the REAL world.....OMG you make me sad for you!!!

And while a dear friend of 15 years came to my defense (oh how I love you), I'm not upset by it. I am sad but not what Anonymous thinks. I'm sad that you had to spend the energy to be mean. Are you o.k.?

Paper and scissor

We ran into the children's book store and were sent to the back. The young woman had a chair up against a wall and a chair for herself a few feet away. Craig and I wondered how she would do it. Would she flash a big light and trace around their heads?

Our daughter balked at going first so one of our sons jumped on the chair. He faced us and this woman who looked to be 27 years old studied his profile. Then she started to cut a small square of black paper. As the pieces fell, our son's profile appeared. She just looked at him and cut.

Our daughter got up next and played a three-year-old's variation of "I Spy" with us to keep her sitting in profile. The artist told us she liked the challenge of cutting out curly hair. Then our other son jump on the chair and sat patiently as she cut out his profile.

She cut out three portraits of our children in less than 15 minutes.

From Wikipedia -

A silhouette is a profile traced onto and then cut from black paper and was a simple alternative for people who could not afford other forms of portraiture, which, in the eighteenth century, was still an expensive proposition. The word took its name from Étienne de Silhouette, either because the victims of his taxes complained that they were reduced to mere shadows or because he enjoyed this fad art in his retirement.

Spirit

So we're a bit slow with the kid movies here. Someone just recently gave us Spirit, the Disney movie about a horse that fights people during the US government expansion into the west. It parallels the wild horses' plight to that of Native Americans.

As the movie ends the narrator/Native American says something insanely ridiculous to the effect (and I am paraphrasing) and we both ran our ways, to our freedom. It did make me teary-eyed - because it was a big joke and my kids were hearing this.

From my father's side we are descended from a Cherokee woman who married a Calvary officer to avoid the 1838 Trail of Tears. All we know about her is the Christianized name written into a family Bible. What was that decision like for Marie? What did she give up? Did this officer treat her well? What was her life like?

So I'm sitting in the dark, stewing over this Disney fallacy, when one of my sons bursts into full blown sobs and throws himself on to the chair. "I never want to watch this movie EVER AGAIN!"

"Why?" I ask, with much concern.

"Because it is sad!"

"But the horse got away. He's still free."

"It is still sad!"

Maybe he knows more than I thought. Or maybe the spirit of Marie is trying to tell us that it wasn't a happy ending after all.

I couldn't resist

Tee-hee

Yet. Another. Rainy. Day

Take:

One boy in a red Power Ranger costume, with cape, and snow boots (because his rain boots are wet, ohhhh).

One boy in a police costume, with cap, and snow boots (see #1).

One girl in raincoat and rain boots (because she's normal).

Toy microphone.

Hot pink straw cowgirl hat.

Hobby horse.

Flashlight.

Two toy swords from a knight costume.

One pair of toy handcuffs.

Run through the rain and jump into the van. Drive to friend's house to borrow key to church parish hall. Go to church, open door and have kids run screaming into the empty dark building.

Find lights and let them run amok in Great Hall, dance on the stage, sing "Who Let the Dogs Out" 58 million times, throw the swords across the hall, slide on their knees, march, ride the horse, fight over the microphone, make grand entrances from the hallway, have stylized sword fights.

After 38 minutes they want to leave.

It's only 9:50 in the morning.

We go to the coffee shop. I ask the kids who work there, "Is it too early to tell them its bedtime?"

They didn't get the joke. But then, maybe I wasn't really joking.

Cooked

Cook [kook] -Slang.
a. to be full of activity and excitement: Las Vegas cooks around the clock.
b. to perform, work, or do in just the right way and with energy and enthusiasm: That new drummer is really cooking tonight.

Hugh Masekala cooked at the New Orleans Jazz Fest 1999

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Like mummies

The boys have been running around in my brother's old Star Wars costumes. The ones like garbage bags with hard plastic masks.

I explained they needed to be careful since the costumes were 30 year old. One of them said,

"30 years old?! That's like a thousand year old mummy!"

Yeah, and they smell like one too.

Cyndi on Monomane Taikai

In case your Japanese is a bit rusty, Monomane Taikai is a Japanese show. The title translates to literally mean "Mimicry Competition". A friend who recently finished graduate school took the time to explain the following video to me:

"Every year, on January 1st (hence they are all wearing kimonos), a bunch of celebrities, actors, actresses, and comedians get together to compete. Basically they pick whoever they want to mimic (usually singers because after all it's a singing competition) and practice for hours and hours before the show. The competition is divided into 2 groups - red and white (in accordance with our flag) and each person gets a score for his/her performance and whoever gets the highest (of the 2 group) gets to go to the next round, until, the final one is chosen. I used to watch it all the time because it was hilarious and some compete seriously while others just do it for fun, and make it funny. Sometimes they bring in the real person who sings along with the person competing.... Pretty crazy, huh?"

Thanks friend. My kids love this clip. If you look hard there are some fabulous drag queens. And that person in the silver outfit with the black circles on her/his head is just too delicious.

Although this smart, fashionable woman from Japan is now worried that my kids think all Japanese are like those folks on the show.

Don't worry friend. They just think their mother is.

Elections

Today was special election day in my town. Our state representative left office to join the new Administration so we had a lively race here. Five democrats duked it out in a primary last month - the winner won by 26 votes. Then there is the Republican who is always running. He is a one issue candidate. He opposes marriage equality (do not to tell me you agree with him. Look at how I describe myself in the top right corner of the page. Proudly!).

Then there is the Independent. Unlike many races, he is a viable candidate. He owns the local independent (no pun intended) movie theater which houses the Museum of Bad Art in the basement. He has a solid base of supporters and is well organized.

But a few weeks ago, a good friend of mine who works in the State House gave me grief for not running. Me. Run for State Representative. While I was flattered, I knew that he knew too.

I have entertained the idea of running for office. I just love the process of making a law happen. Of making sure that a law, budget item or program works. Of figuring out how to make our tax dollars work for us as a whole society. I know how to organize a campaign. I just hate the asking for money to get elected.

So, my dear friends, I'm asking for a little help to get me over this (no, I'm not asking for money).

Please vote for me in the Blogger's Choice Awards. Just click BOTH boxes below (you will need to register) and vote for me.





Thank you (and a sincere thank you to Gunfighter for the nominations/vote and to Jenn in Holland and Brillig for their votes). By doing this, you are helping me get over my distaste for asking people to do something cumbersome (e.g. registering for an e-vote; giving money).

And unlike the two elections I've participated in in the last 72 hours, I can keep track of your votes. No secret ballots here!

Special Day

Yesterday was indeed a special day. In part because of the beautiful, cloudless sky. There were also the gifts both material and invaluable. There was the bringing together of several generations to celebrate the bond of family.

It was also the first time I got to vote.

For a minister.

We are members of a church that first gathered in 1638. The most recent minister retired two years ago and we have been on a journey to find our next one. It involves meetings, surveys, serious evaluation of how we behave as a spiritual community and the compiling of a binder that explains who we are. All of this is led by a search committee and they worked very hard to find the candidate who would lead us.

I remember when my childhood church called a minister in the 1970's. I was around my sons' ages now. The memory is still strong. Our minister was going to be a woman. It was splashed over the suburban town newspapers that she was to be the first woman to lead a church in our community. And since the majority of the town was Catholic, this was a big deal. There is a lot of talk now about not voting for women simply because they are women. I'm not advocating to vote along "gender lines". I'm telling a story of how the calling of a woman minister made me as a little girl so very proud.

This Sunday, I voted for the first time for a minister. And she too is the first woman to lead a faith community in this new town I call home. She spoke last week of finding happiness in frightening times. This past Sunday she spoke of embracing change and how we are all leaders in making that change happen.

Welcome Reverend.

Five

I work near Chinatown and there are many wonderful old buildings.

[Well, old for the United States.]

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Watches

A completely vain post but I have a thing for watches. I've lost count but these are some of my favorites.




This is one of my first off-beat watches. I bought it my senior year of high school with babysitting money. The man with an eye patch and a hat is a Peter Max illustration.







Then there is this foursome.

The red face to the right of the green one has a likeness of Mao. His waving hand ticks off the seconds. A friend got it for me in Hong Kong, while it was still British.

The blue faced watch is Barbie-esque and celebrates road trips with a Route 66 theme. I got it at Century 21 with Flower Girl, years before 9/11.

And this is my all-time favorite, but I can't really wear it around the kids. They get freaked out that I'm wearing a watch with a moving hatchet, a fat king in the middle and six women on the outside. Then they hear me mutter, "Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived" as the hatchet ticks off the seconds.

Watches are suppose to tell time. That's it.

Oh but how boring.

Confession

Greetings everyone and welcome to tonight's meeting. Before we go around the room to say our names, let us give a warm hello to a first time attender. Would you like to introduce yourself?

Hi. I'm Soccer Mom in Denial. Some folks refer to me as SMID.

I'm sorry but in these meetings we use our given names. Not our, ahem, blogging names.

Oh. Hi, I'm Allison.

[Everyone in the room] HI ALLISON!

Allison, do you want to say something else?

Um. Hi, I'm Allison and I am a blogging addict.

Ooo, we are so proud of you this evening. Coming to Bloggers Anonymous. Could you tell everyone when you realized this?

I proudly participated in the One Day of Silence (murmurs of appreciation) and made a public commitment to not post, comment or even read a blog for 24 hours. It was really hard for me to not go on my site, to check other friends' sites. Thank goodness some of my blogging buddies emailed me that day or I would've gone stir crazy because....

I'm sorry dear but you refer to "these people"as your "buddies". You consider them "friends"? You haven't even met them. How can you say that about, ahem, these people?

You know, I can. These are folks who have bothered to pay attention to the little things in my life. The life of my family. They have offered me encouragement and words of wisdom. They have found my email and shared wonderful bits of their lives. I am part of an exciting community.... [gets up from chair.... starts walking to the door....]

Some of them have been kindred spirits right away. Even on paper we were meant to know each other. Some are so completely outside who I would meet in my day-to-day life that there is no other way I could've met them accept through blogging. And all of them have made me richer.

Allison, please don't leave the room. It is time for us to officially welcome you as you begin your first day away from blogging. [The room starts to rumble as people make comments....]

Oh no. I've got too many posts in my head. And please, call me SMID.

We no that

Look for this on the New York Times best seller list. The author of this three page book is my son.

The Cover Page

Page 2 - "Mom we no That you ree kind."

Last page.

Real life muppet

This is just too good.

Allison --

[noun]:

A real life muppet

I found this at

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?'

at

QuizGalaxy.com

I always did fancy Miss Piggy.

** Note: my apologies to whomever had the name definition on her blog. I loved it - more so after I found my definition brought me even closer to a beloved childhood character - and now can't remember who had it.

***

Baseball update

Some of you may recall that one of the boys' teammates had a very close encounter with a bat, to his head. While he wasn't at practice tonight, I got from a very reliable source over the weekend that he is o.k. He has three staples in his head but no concussion or other head/brain injury. And apparently he thinks it is totally cool that he has staples in his head.

Ahhh... to have a 6-year-old's perspective.

Childhood

Waiting for that perfect scoop of ice cream.

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Why I don't coach baseball

We're in the throws of the season of two sports. Last year in the spring the boys played both Little League baseball and soccer. Little League was Mondays and Wednesdays while Soccer practice was Tuesdays and games were Saturdays. This year is a tad more civilized - Little League is still Mondays and Wednesdays while Soccer practice is Friday afternoons and the games are Saturdays.

I truly love being a coach. In the winter I coach the sport I probably know the best, basketball. It is a simple, elegant game. A ball, two baskets with nets on either side of a rectangular court. Certainly there are comparisons to soccer but I understand holding, double dribble and rebounding.

I also love getting to know a group of my children's peers. I love that look they give me at the beginning of practice, that look of "I'm going to make you PROUD". I love that they call me "Coach Allison" in the grocery store.

I also love that the only way they can really get hurt is by tripping. Of course, it could be a serious hurt, but at this age nothing that involve stitches.

Baseball is completely different.

Our Little League team has had a rocky start. Essentially the dad who agreed to be the head coach didn't tell anyone he backed out so we had multiple practices with no coaches. A set of dads just stepped up to the plate (yes, I wrote that) to give these 20+ kids a chance to field, hit and run around the bases. It has been just a wonderful example of community spirit.

One dad needs to bring a younger son. This kid desperately wants to be with the older kids so last night he was on the field. According to one of my kids and some parents, he picked up a metal bat and started swinging. Unfortunately, another kid's head was in close proximity.

What I first saw was a mother running to her car and grab a handful of napkins. Then I saw a little boy run to the playground where I was with my daughter. Then I saw the dad chase the kid, barely able to contain his rage while the kid was going higher, and higher up the play set. He finally got the kid and sternly said, "you've got to be careful with the bat".

I asked another mom to go check if it was one of our kids. I watched her toddler and she ran back to say that the mother was with the struck kid so our children were o.k. Then we saw both parents bringing the boy over to the car with a big white towel pressed on the left side of his head becoming streaked with crimson. They were taking him to the hospital.

I'll describe for you

I'll describe for you a wonderful scene but won't share the photos or videos. I think you'll understand why.

For the past few days my daughter has taken a liking to the remaining guitar the wicked cool uncle and aunt gave the boys years ago. I write remaining because the other one suffered a cruel injury when one of the boys jumped off of it. Or on it. She holds it while watching t.v., marches around the first floor playing it, sets up her "stage" in the kitchen and has even napped with it a couple of times.

But when she announced she had to go to the bathroom and took the guitar upstairs I had to follow, with both the still and video cameras.

So there she was on the potty, pants at her ankles, thoughtfully strumming the strings while singing bits of Walking on Sunshine with lyrics I didn't recognize. She had turned the music around a bit and when I tried to correct her I was told to play the drums.

We'll save the images but be discreet about sharing them. Unless she wants them for her first CD cover or music video.

Walking on sunshine
And you don't need to be afraid
Oh oh oh

Walking on sunshine....

(copyright - my daughter)

Mother's Day, Every Day

There's nothing more rewarding than motherhood. Nothing is more challenging than motherhood either.

I had certain expectations about my pregnancy, labor and delivery.

I was determined to have an easy nine months of incubation, so-to-speak. It never occurred to me that pre-eclampsia and bedrest were in my future. The consistently high blood pressure readings and extremely high proteins in my urine caused my ob/gyn to restrict my activities. To this day I cannot stand to lie down on my left side.

I assumed that labor was going to be horrible. After all, my friends and family told me every horror story imaginable about 40 hours of back labor, as well as tales about constant contractions that could kill a herd of pregnant elephants.

I didn't take Lamaze classes because everyone said it didn't work anyway. I skipped the breastfeeding seminars because my mother insisted it was natural and no class can teach you how to nourish your baby.

As far as my labor went, it was easier than I expected. Eight hours long, only two hours of actual pushing, and my precious son was born.

It was at that moment that I realized he was perfect. He was the reason I went through all the pain that even an epidural couldn't take away completely. My beautiful boy was finally in my arms, his blue-gray eyes looking up at me and his tiny lips parted, waiting for a nipple to be shoved into his mouth.

The stress of trying to nurse combined with a hungry newborn who hadn't a clue how to suck, caused me to believe that my baby was going to die of starvation. I can't count how many times I thought of asking the nurses to give him formula. I wanted to nurse my baby. I started to think that because I didn't take that class about appropriate latch-on, Dawson didn't have the best start. Nor did I. But we soon figured it out and it turns out he grew into a healthy toddler.

When he was just a few days old we learned that Dawson had jaundice. His bilirubin count was higher than acceptable and a "bili-blanket" was soon delivered to our house. Trouble with breastfeeding? Ha! Trying to nurse and keep this lighted blanket on my child at the same time was insane! Not such a good time, let me tell you.

The bilirubin check-ups were worse. Each test required a sample of blood from my baby's foot. Watching his face sour and hearing his screams caused me to feel so horribly guilty. I now know where the mommy-guilt originated.

The day Dawson's navel fell out I panicked. He was only 5 days old. Our pediatrician insisted it would take a week or more and I was so nervous about infection and had nightmares about Dawson's stomach coming out of his bellybutton. Looking back now I can laugh; at the time I was a basket case. My mother-in-law comforted me, thankfully. I'm so glad I had help those first few weeks.

Here we are 2 1/2 years later. Dawson is no longer a baby. He's still my baby, but he doesn't fit in the crook of my arm like he used to. I will never again feel him clutch my finger as he nursed in the middle of the night. He doesn't want to be held all the time like he once did.

It makes the tears well up in my eyes. I'm mourning the days when he was tiny and fully dependent on me, his Mumma.

But I know he has to grow up. I can't stop time. I have to let go, little by little, day after day. There so much to be learned. There's always something new and wonderful to experience with my toddler.

I think I just wanted to hold on to part of the "baby". It's scary to think about Dawson growing up and gaining more independence, more control over his own life, every day.

But that's what a mother goes through. Constantly changing emotions rule my days. I'm a mother. Every day is mother's day for me. Nothing is more rewarding, nor more challenging than motherhood. I can't say it enough. I wonder if my mother ever felt this way.

I should wish her a Happy Mother's Day -- every day.


Dana usually suffers the mommy-guilt over at The Dana Files. She lives in Wisconsin with her hilarious husband, Doug, and their toddler Dawson, 2 1/2. When she isn't blogging she can be found chasing after her Boston Terrier, Murphy, who likes to steal her bras from the laundry basket. You can find Allison at Dana's place today and please visit the Blog Exchange if you'd like to participate and read other entries for this month.

Silence

Tomorrow I won't post, comment or read blogs. I'm participating in the Day of Silence partly because I think there is nothing more to add about the shootings at Virginia Tech. I see this effort as a candlelight vigil in cyberspace.

I am also sad that so little attention is paid to the US soldiers who die daily in a questionable war. Little attention is paid to the civilians, including university students, also killed in that conflict. And then Darfur. I'll never forget talking to a relative last year about my dad's activism around Darfur (he wears one of those Not on My Watch green wrist bands) and she looked at me blankly.

"Darfur?" I repeated. Still no response.

"It's in Africa? [Please know Africa I'm thinking] There's a genocide going on."

"Oh." Is all she said.

The organizers of the Day of Silence acknowledge that there is little recognition of those "other" deaths. I am in no way diminishing the horror and tragedy of April 9, 2007 but simply trying to put it in context.

There is too much killing going on.

Rare

My boys created these posters last summer so

"when the President drives by he'll stop all the fighting".

This is part of the Weekly Photo hunters.

Click to find other hunters.

James Joyce Ramble

There are some really amazing things about this little suburban town we live in.

One is the annual James Joyce Ramble. It is a 10K road race run every year through our town. And while that doesn't seem like a big deal there are several things that make it special.

The first is the costumed folks, including a set of identical twins, who read Joyce throughout the race course. I kid you not. The race's logo is "Where prose greets the road". One year my kids and I stood and listened to someone read from Ulysess in the rain while people ran by us.



Then the more important reason is every year they dedicate the race to journalists who risk their lives to seek the truth. This year the race is run:

... on behalf of Anna Politkovskaya, the Russian journalist who was shot dead in October of 2006 in the elevator of her apartment block in central Moscow. On the day of her murder, Politkovskaya had planned to file a lengthy story on torture practices believed to be used by Chechen security detachments loyal to pro-Moscow state officials.

(both photo and Politkovshaya description were taken from the Ramble web site.)

Several years ago the race was run in honor of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was brutally murdered. I was cryptically talking about him over the boys' heads earlier this month in the local coffee shop. I wasn't cryptic enough.

"What happened to that reporter you were talking about?"

So I started in on a lengthy discussion of religious intolerance and how he was murdered in part because he was Jewish.

"But how did they kill him?"

"They did."

"But how?"

"They used a knife and hurt him so that his body didn't work any more."

There was no way in hell I was going to explain a beheading to my 6 1/2 year old boys. They are just too young.

"But HOW?"

"You know what? This is one of those times that the information is too complicated for you to understand. I have given you enough."

And he started talking about the upcoming soccer game.

So this is a pretty special road race if it can generate that type of conversation. Over a maple oatmeal scone.

Who ARE you people?

O.k. Fess up.

I have a solid group of regular commenters. Some of you have even started off-line, or off-blog, conversations with me. I am very lucky to count each of you as an ally in life.

But then, there is the rest of you. Some days 40 or 50 more of you. Who are you?

Why do I know you are here person reading in Golden, Colorado or you in Athens (Greece, not Georgia) or even you in Kolonnowa, Sri Lanka? Because I've installed Google Analytics which shows maps of where you are from, how often you visit my site, and what pages you visit. Don't panic, I don't know who you are - that is why I'm asking.

But the funniest part is how you all are finding me. Google Analytics shows the blogs you come from (and a big thank you to all who include me in your lists) and the keywords you enter that lead you to here. The following are just a few of the phrases entered into Google search and this blog came up:

• how to dress like a "soccer mom" (I hoped you figured out this wasn't the site for that because I don't want to be known as a soccer mom nor do I have any sense of style worth emulating)
• my 6 year old is suddenly misbehaving (suddenly? yours only just STARTED? Please tell me your secret!)
• backyardigans "pink thing" (I couldn't agree more. I love Uniqua but what is she?)
• fool singing (yes, I know. Thank you)
• boy j*^king off to mom (What? WHAT!?!? GROSS! YOU EVEN THINK THAT??)

There was something even more disgusting which I won't describe. Whoever you were, I hope you get some therapy. Seriously.

So who are you? Just reply once. I promise I won't bother you. Unless you invite me over to your cyber-playspace. Which would be lovely.

Enough said (or drawn)

And what does the little cartoonist say in the bottom right corner?

Going to give the back alley a second look.

Gee... me?

I've been secretly admiring (alright, coveting) the Thinking Bloggers that everyone else seems to have. And then, one of the most thoughtful bloggers out there (seriously, he has three of these) has bestowed one upon me.

So, this is actually a double honor. A Thinking Blogger from Gunfighter.



Gee.

Thank you for associating a thought with this blog.

Now, my job is to thoughtfully bestow this honor to the blogs I admire. Some of my favorites already have one (or more than three) so you'll have to just know in your hearts or via telepathy that I admire you.

Nuren Xintan - it means Heart to Heart Talk in Mandarin and perfectly captures both Jenn's photography, writing and research. She is a Fulbright Scholar based in Nanjing. She is interviewing women about their work. Or as she writes: “how rapid economic development and reemerging traditional cultural beliefs are currently affecting women’s work.” But I'm addicted to her photography. She has images that have stayed with me. She has an incredible eye and composes photographs just beautifully. Plus, she doesn't edit her images. Which makes her even more incredible.

Something to say; about life in the Netherlands - [I'm cheating here and using parts of a previous write-up] Jenn lives the ex-pat life in Holland with her husband and three children and sees life from the glass is really full perspective. Jenn is truly one of the kindest and most pleasant people I've met, ever - in person or via the Internet. I don't mean that as an insult and her concern about people's perceptions of her life has stayed with me for days. I take it as a challenge to be a tad less bitter.

Jodifur - While she masquerades as the classic "mommy" blog, Jodi is actually a firecracker and techno wiz. Her site has inspired me to be a better blogger (which means I'm still pitiful - don't blame her for my site). She also works an incredibly difficult job which makes her humor, love of wine, and joy in parenting all the sweeter.

The Ambassador Returns - Aside from being funny, talented and really, really smart, Ken is living in New Orleans. It is a great American city that deserves and needs to be rebuilt. If the US could rebuild Europe under the Marshall Plan after WWII and is rebuilding (snort) Iraq now, then we should be able to rebuild New Orleans. Ken writes about that, about being an HIV+ gay man and what it all means today.

Following Lingling as she gives lymphoma a beatdown - this is a nomination that doesn't expect any effort on the recipients' part. I have been amazed at the poetry describing exhaustion, the honest descriptions of fear and what if. This is blog that celebrates life while honestly chronicling treatment, recovery and hope.

So if you haven't visited these folks, click on over. They make me think and hopefully you will too. Plus, see who makes the top four think. And just show Leeanne and Daniel some love.

Love

Dear daughter,

Words are completely inadequate to capture you. Joy doesn't fully describe how you bound into a room and make everyone fall in love with you. Passion doesn't convey the range of your emotions - one minute you are hugging and kissing with all the strength you can muster while another you are shoving an older brother with such force you send him across a room.

Beauty is a weak set of six letters next to you. You are beyond beautiful on the inside and stunningly so on the outside. People touch your hair in wondrous awe. People smile as you say "Nice to meet cha, ma'am." They marvel at your deep, blue eyes and clear pale skin. You are a Botticelli cherub personified.

You love food. Since you were a baby you have eaten more than your older twin brothers, combined. You used to sing to your food. Now you just take charge of your hunger. There are times when I find you, sitting on the kitchen floor eating chicken nuggets from the freezer because I am not moving fast enough. Yet even at almost three years old you have the patience to bake, to wait for each ingredient and to find something to do while the cookies are in the oven.

Generally that something involves music. You cannot help yourself. You dance. You sing. You make up songs. I've watched you going down the stairs as if you are Gabriella from High School Musical singing that ridiculously emotive song when she thinks she's jilted. Much to the delight of more than a few people at church you get up on the Great Hall stage and throw your arms out wide as you offer another song. And you will actually get up from a plate of food to dance. The look on your face when you first heard The Blind Boys of Alabama's version of Stevie Wonder's Higher Ground was one of awe. You were incredulous that anything could sound this amazing. So you danced.

Sometimes I get to be your dance partner. Other times you order me to clap as your audience. Whatever my role, it is an honor to be your mom.

Now you are three years old.

Happy Birthday, Love.

Steps

The steps in a former mill, now used for offices.

Check out more Photo Hunters.

Birthday CD

We have a birthday party this weekend. Four little girls, a big sister and some parents will descend upon our home for dancing, reading Jemima Puddle-Duck by Beatrix Potter and decorating shrinky dink necklaces of Peter Rabbit characters.

The little lady is turning three years old on Monday.

In keeping with our family's tradition, here is the list of songs from her Birthday CD along with a few explanations. We're giving these out as party favors on Saturday. I can't stand the expectation of plastic and candy goodie bags at parties. Instead, we share songs that the birthday kid(s) have enjoyed over the previous year.

1. The Tide is High - Blondie - she may not know the song very well, but it is her favorite article of clothing.
2. La Enganadora - Orquesta de Enrique Jorrin
3. Because We Can - Fatboy Slim - otherwise known as the Clown Song because it was the music the clowns danced to at the circus last year. Why does she know it?
4. Drive My Car - Elmo (channelling the Beatles)
5. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - Marva Wright
6. Catch that Train! - Dan Zanes and Friends
7. Time Passages - Al Stewart
8. Always - Erasure
9. Girls Just Want to Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper
10. Walk Along the River - Laurie Berkner Band - this song was requested non-stop during Little Lady's first trip to New Orleans, April 2006.
11. Higher Ground - The Blind Boys of Alabama - she's incapable of hearing this and not dancing
12. We are the Dinosaurs - Laurie Berkner Band
13. The 12 Yats of Christmas - Benny Grunch and the Bunch
14. Jemima Puddle-Duck - written by Beatrix Potter and read by Ewan McGregor

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.

****

And the last of the interviews is in! Please visit Jenn in Holland for her response to my queries. Jenn is truly one of the kindest and most pleasant people I've met, ever - in person or via the Internet. I don't mean that as an insult (she's recently written about, well, some folks rather snide comments about her perfect, happy life. Could that be directed to the jealous, bitter moi?). She lives the ex-pat life in Holland with her three children (I LOVE a mother of three) and just sees life from the glass is really full perspective. There are not enough Jenn's in the world.

Plus, she wrote a gushing comment on my dear friend's blog. ANYONE who writes gushing comments to my Ambassador gets nothing but adoration from me. Hint, hint.

Just jump in the puddles

Talking about it

Yesterday the boys saw an image on the computer of police running.

"What's going on?" one of them asked

"There was a fire at a college." I blatantly lied.

***

This morning, when a fuller picture was known of what happened yesterday at Virginia Tech, we had to tell the boys the truth. They interact with other kids during the day and while we don't let them watch or listen to the news, we have no idea what will be said. We wanted to control their first hearing about this tragic event.

"Guys, I need to tell you something really sad. Yesterday I didn't tell you what was actually happening at that college. There was a shooting. One student killed a lot of other students. I didn't want to tell you yesterday because we wanted to have a better understanding of what happened."

"What happened to the shooter?"

"He killed himself."

"How?"

"With his gun."

"Did he do this?" and they both pointed their first fingers at their faces.

"The news hasn't said but probably something like that."

Then they ran away.

***

A half hour later we were all dressed for yet another rainy day. Suddenly, the little girl started singing the I love you, You love me song by an irritating, purple dinosaur. Then the boys joined in. Over and over again. First they sang together. Then they paired up. Little sister sang once with each brother. Even the brothers sang it once to each other. One guy brought me into it. Each rendition required a perfectly placed kiss on the lips.

At first I was irritated. I can't stand that show. Then, slowly, light dawned. It was comfort. Comfort in a scary world. Because we are a great big family.

They're so unusual

While putting on their coats in the lobby of a museum, my boys starting singing.

But I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you

The staff member sitting at the ticket desk actually stood up in disbelief. Twin redheaded boys singing Cyndi Lauper? In harmony?

"Yes." I assured her "they are singing Cyndi Lauper".

"That's what I thought!" she beamed.

So far away from me - Special Saturday edition

So two Kiwis and two Tongans pull up in a truck.

Seriously, this isn't a joke.

Two guys from New Zealand and another two from that South Pacific island nation picked up my husband and took him to yet another rugby match. I would not mind if it was a few hours to play and then come back to be a fellow co-parent. But no. There is this lovely tradition of the "drink-up" in which after the bloodletting the teams bond over beer. So European. So being in your 20's.

I took the kids the one mile into our town center for a mid-morning snack at the locally owned coffee shop. The boys were on their bikes while little lady walked her "tubby bear" in its stroller. I told the boys how to handle a particularly big hill but otherwise didn't give them any instruction. And when I couldn't see them I wasn't worried since they always wait at the next big street for me to help them cross.

They had always waited. Until today.

Today they decided to keep going. And going. I got to the intersection. No boys. I'm trying to get a nearly 3-year-old to hustle and she's getting tired. I turn the big corner. Still no boys. Now she's starting to cry from exhaustion. I tried carrying her and run but still no boys. Over 10 minutes pass as I run and she stumbles.

We get to the center of town and the local bank has set up a table to finger print your kids in case they go missing. I fly by it. I'm seething because if there were two parents one would have the 6 1/2 years olds while the other had the younger one.

The entire time I'm hoping they will be waiting for me on the bench outside the coffee shop. I turn the corner and they are not there.

I fly into the coffee shop and tossed my daughter to a neighbor. My little lady doesn't really know her but I need to find the boys. I throw a $10 and tell her to buy my daughter anything to calm her down as she screams while I literally run out.

I run past all these people holding signs for the seven candidates running in a special election for state representative. I run past the police station and see one of my guys carefully looking both ways as he crosses the street with the other one not far behind.

"Where WERE you?!?"

Said by him. Yes, him.

We all talked about how to handle being separated, how far is too far, and reviewed crossing streets. Then after scones and water, I helped them get back on their bikes and watched them ride off to a dead end road with an agreement that I would meet them shortly. Then I rejoined my little lady for the rest of my latte.

And later we stopped by the bank table to make finger prints.

***

Another set of questions were answered! Alex Elliot, who is a fellow UU, took the plunge (couldn't resist. Be sure to read her answers to #1 and #5 ). I find her blog one of the funniest, and most affirming, around. She pokes fun at herself and manages to make me (and I hope others) feel like we are all in this together. And I keep trying to rig, err schedule, a meeting near her house since we are both citizens of the Commonwealth.

Real Moms - Special Friday Post

Jodifur and Flexible Parenting tagged me with this one a while ago:

Here are the rules, put up a post "Real Moms [insert what you do here]", followed by an explanation, a picture and a "Real Moms. Making ....". Then tag five people.


Real Moms aren't afraid to let their kids grow up.

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they do not belong to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
Not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are set forth...

from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran


Real Moms. Making adults.

Originally I wasn't going to tag anyone and but now I challenge one man to start a new one. Gunfighter - what is a Real Dad?

***

And lucky me! I have gotten to interview a slew of people. Thanks for the chance to improve my hard-hitting journalism skills! Please visit to see what queries I inflicted on them.

The smart and compassionate Jodifur replied to my questions today. She's one of those folks I wished lived near me. I want her in my bookgroup (and not just because she'll bring awesome wine).

And a new reader, Jamie, also posted her responses today. Check her out. She is in an esteemed and honorable club - the mom of three kids club.

Another example of bad parenting

I'm the first person to admit I don't deserve any parenting awards. I try not to damage my children too much but know I've made mistakes along the way.

However, there is one group of parents that I cannot, cannot stand. These are the folks that take their children's activities so seriously they resort to violence.

Several years ago one hockey dad beat another hockey dad to death. Last month it was reported that a hockey dad punched and kicked a 10-year-old kid for accidentally hitting his son with a glove. The kid apparently apologized but words were still exchanged between the kids. That's when the dad jumped in and beat up this other kid.

Let me repeat myself.

That is when the dad jumped in and beat up this other kid.

I'm completely at a loss to understand parents who have so little self-control that they feel they need to hit another person. I do not get these parents who are so wrapped up in their kids' activities that a loss or missed opportunity is somehow a reflection of the adult's skills or identity.

Having just shelled out nearly $50 per each boy for new soccer gear, I can understand that feeling of I-bought-it-for-you-now-use-it. But that is the only understanding I'll offer. If a parent cannot separate his/her child's successes or defeats from his/her own then they either need therapy or to stop attending all games and practices. Or let the kid quit and take up crochet.

When I last checked that wasn't competitive.

***

Another friend of mine, Jenn at Nuren Xintan (which roughly means Heart to Heart Talk), has submitted her responses to my questions. While you are visiting, look at her daily photos from her life in China. Her images are just stunning. I start my day checking out what latest gem she has shared with the world. Maybe you can too.

Check back tomorrow for a special Friday post to see who else is answering questions from me.

Friendship

I am indeed lucky.

I've gotten back from a late night (well, late for me) with a group of people who are wonderful. Some are folks I've known since they were babies (really) and some I've known less than a year. Some are older (but cooler) than me and some were born in (gulp) the mid 1980's. But all were people who either I have cared about deeply or wanted to get to know and got to over a few hours in a bar.

And then, there is a friend of 15 years who I would like you all to read, bookmark, and basically bring into your lives. I'm big on sharing friends. I am thrilled when people I know hit it off and have friendships independent of me. Really. So bond with each other.

The Ambassador was the first to ask for interview questions. Please read what I asked him and how he responded. Then he went on to post again in the same day about how we met. He forgot to mention the day care center named after the adult movie star or the medal we saw for that star's, err, acting prowess. The Ambassador hasn't written in nearly a year and now writes two posts in one day.

But please, add his blog to your list. His is a story we need to follow. New Orleans is a city we all need to care about. I love my Ambassador. I think you will too.

Interview

I've been watching interview questions make the rounds of my favorite blogs. I shamelessly waited until Gunfighter posted his responses to pounce at the chance to ask him to interview me. And here is what happened:

1. You have settled you're accentlessness, and we know that you weren't born in the Bahstin... er, Boston area, so... where are you from? and how did your parents come to settle in the area you are in now?, and why did you stay there?

I was born in Lexington, Kentucky to a mom from Louisiana and a dad from Virginia. My dad has his Masters in Hospital Administration and came to Boston to be part of the merger of two hospitals. My parents fell in love with the town they moved to when I was two years old and I am grateful. There was a wonderful Unitarian Universalist congregation, strong public schools with music and drama programs, and public transportation to cool urban places.

I went to college in New York state, spent a summer teaching in South Central Los Angeles and then taught in New Orleans in the early 1990's through Teach for America. While there I realized that health care access was my (initial) passion and I wanted to live in a part of the country that valued government's role in helping people. So I came back to the Boston area for graduate school and knew I was settling here.

And a really cute guy followed me from New Orleans. We've been married for over 11 years.

2. Your husband plays rugby. Do you go to the games? Have you ever had the inclination to find a women's team to play on? Do you think you will encourage your kids to play rugby?

O.k. So that really cute guy can be a tad irritating too. He discovered rugby in his late 30's. I have gone to exactly three games in the nearly three years he's played. It has just been too complicated with three little kids.

I have also had absolutely no inclination to find a women's team to play on. None. Zip. Zero. I like having my ears.

The boys were in an instructional league last summer. They were the youngest by 3 years. It was a bit painful to watch. Not that they were being hurt - it was just that they wanted the older kids to acknowledge them and they got as much recognition as gnats.

3. Are you a good cook? What is your signature dish? What is your favorite comfort food?


[Pause.... can't breath..... wait.....]


I've stopped laughing now. No one would ever in a million years put my name and good cook in the same sentence. I'm actually one of those folks that eats to live, not lives to eat. Which is sad since my husband can recall the exact ingredients in meals he had years ago. He actually wept over a plate of risotto in Italy. I am not wired to have food send me over the edge like that.

My favorite comfort foods are gin and tonics, a big bowl of cereal with cold skim milk and pasta. Not all together.

4. What are you passionate about?

My children. The world is a better place because they are a part of this global society.

5. Do you have any tattoos?

No. Really. I'm not saying that because my parents and aunt read this (Hi!). I sat with a friend while she got one in Santa Monica (see #1 about teaching in Los Angeles) and that pretty much turned me off.

6. How do you want to be remembered?

As a mother who worked for a just society. I tried to have my children think beyond themselves and I worked for organizations that shared my values.

****

Thank you GF for the questions. I had to think for a while.

Would you like me to interview you? Just leave me a comment with your email address and I'll send you some questions.

Blind Boys of Alabama

What better way to spend the Saturday before Easter than at a Blind Boys of Alabama concert? Founded in the late 1930's at the Alabama Institute for the Negro Blind, it is now the Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind. And Buster Baxtor recently visited it on the terrific PBS show Postcards from Buster.

My honey and I took the boys to the concert hall of a local music college. One of our little men started clapping literally during the 3rd bar of the first gospel song. He couldn't help himself. The other one just couldn't stop moving. Music goes through both of them.

However, there was an adult in the row behind us who had no rhythm.

None. Whatsoever.

His mistimed claps were even throwing off my kids. They would look back at him in disbelief, as if something was something terribly wrong with him. And to two boys who can sing Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Erasure and parochial school songs, there was something wrong with him.

But we focused (it was hard) and let the music in. And these elderly blind men talked about the need for world peace and an end to the wars in the Middle East.

Amen.

New Yorker covers

I've been teased for trying to explain the weekly New Yorker covers to my kids. Problem is, they see something and want to understand it. And will nag you until they understand it.

Recently, one of my sons told me that a kindergarten classmate plans to join the Army when he grows up so he can fight in the war. "I sure hope the war is over by the time you two are grown ups" I commented.

It is with that backdrop that this New Yorker cover (above) was particularly tough.

I explained to the boys that our country has a duty to help those who are in the military, especially those who are hurt. Regardless of how we feel about the war, we owe it to them to take care of them. I told my 6 1/2-year-olds about the recent controversies surrounding Walter Reed Medical Center (and yes, the link is to a "fake" news broadcast because Stewart's outrage just captures the gross, horrid absurdity. This administration is for the troops - my a**).

The son with the future soldier as a classmate was quiet for a while then said,

"I hope they fix the army hospital so it can take good care of my friend."

"Honey, I hope that if your friend goes to war, he doesn't get hurt and need that hospital."

Flowers from a friend

I left my job last week. I'm taking this week off before starting my new job to do some long-ignored chores and get my teeth cleaned. Don't worry. I won't be sharing photos.

When leaving a job, it is amazing how attached I become to people. There are people I saw every day, more often than some of my family, and now - poof - I won't see them. There are the guys at Starbucks who gave me and my boys free tickets to a Revolutions game (how's that for service with a latte?), the colleagues who put up with me and the students who let me into their lives and listened to my tales of social change. I think a couple believed me.

One guy I'll really miss is the day security guard. I think he is a Vietnam Vet, not that he talked much about himself. Accept for fishing. He would talk about fishing even as you backed into the elevator. One day he mentioned taking his family on a long car ride and we all gossiped about it for days. "He has kids! And a wife!" He did tell me what last year's Christmas presents were for the grandchildren. He was very generous.

Last year he ended up in the hospital. No one heard any news so I figured out where he was and called. I eventually got a nurse and she (appropriately) asked me who I was. "Ahhh... a colleague?" "Nice try," was the response.

She did tell me that he would be in long enough to receive a card from our office. That's all I needed to know.

So last week I handed him a small card to say thank you for all of his help, kind words and reassuring presence. And I gave him a big bear hug.

Later in the morning he walked into my office with a bouquet of flowers. He gave me another hug and had tears in his eyes. I filled up too.

When I ran out of the office to get my lunch some young kid was sitting in the security guard's chair.

"Where is he?"

"He called me this morning saying he wasn't feeling well. It's not like him."

Get well my friend. I'll come back to visit.

On the Radio

No, I didn't pull a Donna Summers (although that would be fun at karaoke wouldn't it?).

For those of you interested in either 1) hearing if I really have a Boston accent or 2) hearing me wax about immunizations, feel free to listen to Kristen Chase's Motherhood Uncensored BlogTalk Radio Show.

And seriously, is there anything this woman can't do?

Uh....oh....

Dan Wasserman can do no wrong.