Sledding

Three different days in three different places. Pure winter joy.

Happy Mardi Gras

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Are you sick of all the news coverage about Mardi Gras? Do you think the media is making too big a deal of "the recovery"?

I graduated from college in 1991, spent a month hanging around my parents' house then jumped into a 1973 Dodge Dart with no air conditioning or FM radio to drive across the country with two guys I barely knew. I'm still wondering what my parents were thinking. I spent the summer teaching in Los Angeles before being placed by Teach for America in New Orleans.

I moved to the City that Care Forgot in August of that year. If I had been placed in Los Angeles I would still be teaching. New Orleans just couldn't be bothered to teach its children. Or provide health care. Or basic safety. I'm being incredibly cynical and certainly there are many people who do care about these things. But certainly not for the poor. Or black. And that was over 80% of the city.

But it is a town that knows how to throw a party. For that day before Lent. For Jazz Fest. For the beginning of crawfish season. For someone's funeral (you haven't lived until you've second lined in a housing project - the music truly goes into your soul). For the Miss High Hair Pageant. You name it, there is a party for it.

Which is why I am so angry at both the "how can they party?" comments during the Mardi Gras coverage. Easily. They party because they are alive and because they can.

And I am also angry at the "get over it" comments. WHAT?!?!? Our government allowed a major US city be destroyed. I knew in 1991 that if a category 4 hurricane came up the Mississippi River and went into Lake Pontchartrain it would destroy the city. And I am a Yankee (as in Northerner, not the baseball team). If I knew that, surely the government did. But then our government "knew" there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.

One Mardi Gras tradition that we've introduced the kids to are King Cakes. The bakery we get them from includes little porcelain figurines symbolizing Mardi Gras. In years past there has been a Flambeau Carrier and a Mardi Gras Indian. I love that they haven't switched to plastic figures.

We have ended up with four king cakes this year and the bakery has three figurines for 2007.

CAPTAIN BLUE ROOF... a.k.a 'sub-sub-sub contractor'




KATRINA....lady? OR a hurricane?

And, my favorite, The FEMA Trailer they will live in.

Laissez-les bon temps roulez New Orleans.

If you haven't already given money to the rebuilding efforts in New Orleans or would like to give again, please consider donating to the New Orleans Musician's Clinic or the NO AIDS Task Force.

Never say never #4,702

That "never say never" list is really long.

Like my kids would never watch more than one hour of television a day.

Or they would always eat healthy foods and never, say, have cereal for dinner.

Or that I would never allow the boys to leave the toilet seat up. Now I just hope they get the seat up before the stream starts.

Then there are shoes. Specifically shoes with laces.

I vowed when I gave birth to my sons that they would never, ever, wear shoes with Velcro straps. They needed to learn how to tie their shoes. By age 3. After they swam the English Channel but before they discovered a new planet. I was going to give them until age 7 to win an Olympic Gold medal. In fencing.

Happy Valentine's Day

Last week I was prepared to give up on helping my sons create Valentine cards for their classmates. Up till now they had only given hand-made cards. I can attest that some part of each card was made by them through the years.

But this year the idea of getting them to each make 19 to 20 cards was enough to make me want to run to the local drug store to buy pre-made cards that essentially advertise a show or movie.

Much to my surprise both guys wanted to make their own cards. One guy asked me to write Happy Valentine's Day on each heart while the other did it all on his own. All 40+ cards for the two kindergarten classes pretty much ended up like this one.

That lovely portrait is not Thomas with dreadlocks. It's me. I thought you would like to know how I've aged since my protesting days. After carefully making a rendition of me, my guy decided his friend wouldn't want a maternal portrait so he made another card. And those large things under my hair are ears. He worked very hard on that part of the portrait.

So what did my kids get? Candy (these parents have got to be kidding - obesity, allergies, the current trend to give children way too much crap - can't these folks just let kids give each other written words?), temporary tattoos (groan), stickers and cards like

Nothing says love like the green and red Power Rangers.

Of course, I am amazed that Hello Kitty is still around.

Or the one that gets the "I'm a better parent because I make the card for my kid" award:

Two different card stock, a ribbon glued on the middle with a puffy sticker on the middle. There was even a candy bar artfully tied to it. Of course, he didn't notice the card. He just tore off the candy.

Misbehaving boy

We're getting to our wits end with one of our guys.

His sweet 24-year-old teacher desperately said to me one evening "do you think he's tired"? She is so nice she doesn't want to imply that perhaps my kid is being a royal jerk.

Last week, my husband had to work late (like most nights) and talked to the guy on the phone. He "helped" him write an apology to his teacher.

This is how it turned out:

He wrote "I am sorry for misbehaving tobay. I will try to bo better."

Oh so wrong. If you are going to apologize, it needs to be sincere. And look nice. So back to the pad. This time with me in charge.

Team photos

We got our basketball photos on Saturday. In January each guy had his portrait taken holding a ball with a backdrop of fans at a game. Then I had one taken of the three of us so I could put it on a keychain. Lastly, the entire team had their photo taken on the court we actually play on.

I played basketball growing up and briefly tried both soccer and field hockey. Something about people gunning at me while kicking or wielding a thick wooden stick just struck me as insane. I remember the fear I felt in elementary school as some girl came down the field with a soccer ball. How I managed to raise two boys who genuinely like soccer is beyond me.

But I played basketball the full 6 years I could in the town youth league and never once was there a day when professional photographers took our portraits. We never had a team photo taken. And we certainly never had the option to put those images on keychains, water bottles, afghans, clipboards, shirts and on and on.

Keep in mind, my guys play soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and both soccer and baseball in the spring (don't give me grief about "over scheduling" my kids - they are called The Tornadoes for a reason). That means we could have two kids' images on soccer balls in the fall, Wheaties boxes in the winter, and baseball bats in the spring. All for a small fortune.

But we don't buy all those things. They get a team photo and a set of playing cards, complete with their "stats". As many statistics a 6 year old can compile.

Plotting an escape

"Mom, don't work on the computer and don't watch the Daily Show. You need to go to bed right away."

OK. Why?

"Don't ask. And don't go into our room."

So during bath time I did the equivalent of reading the journal. I opened their bedroom door. Their backpacks were packed full of stuffed animals, underwear and light sabers. I returned to the bathroom and nonchalantly asked what was going on it there.

"We're meeting [6-year-old friend's name] outside the house after you go to sleep. We're going to walk to the train tracks and look for bears!!" with all the excitement 6-year-old twin boys can muster (in case you don't know - it is a lot).

Deep breath. Count to ten. Think of this as a test for when they tell me as 14-year-olds they've been invited to a party with no parents in the house. They are trusting me not to lose it.

After (calmly) explaining that it isn't safe for children to be alone outside in the dark, its too cold, they are too young to make plans like that without parents ["But you can come!"], the plan itself was dangerous and, finally, the clincher that I thought their friend was just being creative and dreaming up a scheme that would never happen. Through all of this there was lots of rationalizations, yelling, pleading and crying.

I even called the friend's mother to make sure he wasn't walking on some interstate highway on his way to our house. He wasn't. He hadn't even talked about it with his mom.

Which led to this heart-breaking, bone shaking sob from one guy.

"HE LIED TO ME!!"

Singing Fool

He won't stop singing.

He sings at dinner, loudly.

He sings when we need to get going. He sashays down the stairs, down the hallway singing a made up song about shoes or looking for hats or how his sister has smelly toots.

Loud opera voice, goofy country style, cheesy Disney, old standards. He hasn't discovered Gregorian chants but some day those will be in his repertoire too.

At one point during our trip to the even colder North, he was loudly singing in the bathroom. My husband was worried he was disturbing our neighbors so I went to knock on the door and just ask him to sing softer.

I found him singing naked in front of the sink mirror. (Well not completely naked. He had socks on.) His arms outstretched and he belting out some tune.

He froze when he saw me.

I started to laugh. He started to laugh. We couldn't stop laughing.

Finally I closed the door. And he sang a little quieter. But not much.

They can see

I had everyone in the van barreling home last week. An old van was on the street with us with its lights on in the back. It was one of those vans that has huge windows on the side in the back. There was a girl, about 8 or 9 years old, reading a book.

She was surrounding by stuff. It towered over her. I couldn't really tell what it was but I thought - smugly - that at least my car didn't have that much junk in it.

Then I was asked from the back,

Do they live in their van?

We talked about how some people don't have enough money to pay for rent or a house. Sometimes people do have to live in their cars, or with their family or in a homeless shelter. I said that we shouldn't assume the people next to us were living in their van but that was a thoughtful question to ask.

So much for being smug.

In another voice about a mundane topic

Today I was suppose to be visiting another blog but something happened to my hostess (I hope she's o.k.). The charge was to write in "another" voice. Can you guess who?

I’d be so proud
If the kids had found
That eating green vegetables
Would make them strong.

I don’t like cooking
I just stand there looking
At the limp raw chicken
Sitting in the kitchen.

But a diet well-rounded
The doctors have all hounded
Should be aspired
And highly touted

And hiiiiiigh-ly touted!

I don’t usually write in rhyme but this month’s charge was to write in a famous person’s voice. Can you guess who I am copying? When not attempting bad lyrics, I am a working mother with three kids and often pine for those days in middle school when I sang in operettas(really the only thing I enjoyed about middleschool). Go to http://www.theblogexchange.net/ to learn more about the exchange.

A promise

Sunday evening my husband and I were both exhausted from our weekend excursion up North. We were able to hustle our daughter into bed without a fuss but the boys were wired. It was their normal bedtime, 8:00pm, and my man had fallen asleep.

I usually give them a bedtime snack. Years ago they were waking up hungry in the middle of the night and a breakfast bar or crackers keeps their bellies calm for the arduous 8-9 hours of sleep. But Sunday I could barely keep my eyes open, they were being irritating, and all I wanted to do was sleep.

"Time for bed."

"But we didn't get our bedtime snack!"

"Sorry, you were being too silly and wasted too much time. Time for bed."

"But you promised!"

For the first time ever, both of the grown-ups fell asleep before the boys. While drifting off I could hear them setting up a camp site in the bottom bunk resigned to their hungry state.

When I woke up the next morning, this was on my bedside table.

Cold

Mom.

Yes.

My window looks funny. I can't see out of it.

Yes, honey. That's ice. On the inside of your window. Do you see the temperature shown up here?

Yeah.

What does it read?

13.

What's in front of the 13?

A line.

That's right. It is -13 right now.

And daddy is freaking out right now on this country highway that the engine doesn't freeze.

It didn't. And they got to play in lots of snow. As it fell. We rode in a two-horse open sleigh (through off the Jingle Bells reference) and swam in an (indoor) pool.

Traveling North

As if it isn't going to be cold enough here, we're driving somewhere tomorrow even colder. As in a day-time high tomorrow of 2 degrees. That's the high.

My mother called me worrying that I wouldn't dress the kids warmly enough. Now I know she thinks I am truly incompetent. Because I was thinking of having them run around outside in their bathing suits. Wet.

So we're off to snow country to actually have the kids see some white stuff associated with winter. None of us ski so we were planning to ride in a, yes, one horse open sleigh but it may be too cold for that. Not worth experiencing Jingle Bells if it means losing a nose. This could be a good hang-around-the-resort-kind of weekend. By the pool.

Don't worry. It is indoors.

Kissing Asses

One of the songs given to my family last month is the Dixie Chicks' Taking the Long Way Around. My friend told me that we "were one of the families who wouldn't care that they say 'ass'" in the song. Apparently he and his wife were concerned about some of their family and more conservative friends.

They didn't realize my kids get sent to their room for saying butt instead of bottom when referring to the part of the body that is sat on. Ass would just send me over the deep end. I get laughed at about this but I feel like allowing butt is a slippery slope to butthead. And the idea of hearing a six year old yell "Mom he called me BUTTHEAD!!" over and over is enough to send me into the bottle of gin.

So my boys are singing perfectly in harmony to the following lyric:

I drank with the Irish
Smoked with the hippies
Moved with the shakers
Wouldn't kiss all the asses that they told me to

And not once they have asked about asses or what it means to kiss an ass.

But one day my daughter, clear as a bell said, after singing that lyric:

"She kisses asses."

To which I replied:

"Actually, no, what they are saying is she DOESN'T kiss assess"

"Oh"

And that was that.

Saying goodbye

How do you say goodbye to someone before they go into a casket?

That was the question posed from the back of the van.

I told them about Frank and his call from the hospice. It was a Monday evening when they were four and a half years old and the baby had turned one year old. We had all just walked in the door. I was still in my suit when the phone rang. No one had been fed. I broke the family rule of turning on the TV before dinner to keep the kids quiet.

We talked a little about our shared memories. We met in Florence during my junior year abroad. He and his wife were American ex-pats and would take me in when I wanted to get away from the other students. Whenever we went out for a cappuccino he would always pay with a loud "Let your father's tax dollars pay for this!" He was retired from the Foreign Service and told wonderful stories about bringing his piano to Afghanistan, speaking fluent Hindi in India or getting drunk with Soviet operatives.

That night, with the kids watching television, I asked him how he felt. It was hard for him to speak. The cancer was eating away at his brain.

Frank was in his 70's so some may say he lived a long life. But he still composed symphonies and recorded them in Prague. He was working on several compositions. He had to cancel a trip to Europe because he was too weak.

He said "I'll see you this summer when I visit" I knew this wouldn't be true. That this was good-bye.

"That's right. I'll see you. Bye."

I hung up and burst into tears. He died that Wednesday morning, 36 hours later.

I told the boys this story. Crying while driving.

It's hard to say good bye to someone before they go into a casket. Very very hard.

Yucky white shirts

We played the green team again this past Saturday. This was the team we played against for our first game of the season. The "White Ghosts" just kept scoring white the green team looked lost. There was even the little guy who circled our team and called us the "yucky white team" with tears in his eyes.

Little green guy was Mr. Confidence on Saturday. This kid, who is shorter than my toddler (more a comment on the size of my toddler), scored two baskets during the game. He got past or around much taller kids and just nailed the basket. He's not on my team. I don't coach this kid. But I was so proud of him. So happy for him. And he looked like he had won Olympic Gold.

I swore never to do it

I wasn't going to compare them.

I wasn't going to talk about bodily functions.

But this cannot go without mentioning.

My guys, my six-year-old guys, are still incapable of "holding it". When they realize they have to go to the bathroom, it causes absolute panic. They scream bloody murder until they get to a bathroom, or at least a bush on the side of the road. And that has been done. On the side of very, very busy highways. With me declaring that if our van is hit they are responsible. Start that therapy fund now. For all of us.

So my daughter, my sweet, smart, funny, sophisticated daughter, has started to officially "potty train". She is 2 years old, 8 months and 26 days. Her brothers started (yes on the same day) at 3 years, 3 months and 3 days (I kid you not). Blessedly they actually finished it all in 5 days. She's taking a bit longer. But that is all forgiven in light of this actual event.

Tonight, after we got in the van to go get her brothers, she announced she needed to go back into her school to "go potty". We were late to get them. I asked her to wait. Blessedly she said "o.k." and sang along to YMCA (played 5 times). It took us about 15 minutes to get to their school. I expected her pants, underwear and seat to be wet. Soaking wet. I was just grateful she didn't scream the entire ride.

She was dry.

Completely

bone

dry.

"Honey. Do you want to use the bathroom in your brothers' school?"

"Yes."

And she did.

How can a two and a half year old girl keep her wits about her with a full bladder while two six year old boys can't?

Armor museum

Last month, my brother and sister-in-law did their annual holiday trek across the country to visit 97 family and friends in 10 days (only a slight exaggeration).

Much to my surprise and the kids' joy, we got them for an entire day. Uninterrupted.

This is the special aunt who caused the boys at age 2 years old to scream at the top of their lungs at the entrance of a fine arts museum because they were so excited to see her. This is the uncle who buys the cool shirts. These are the folks I flew across the country to visit for a long weekend so they could spend time with their then 8-month-old niece. I love these folks.

So what did we do after picking up the boys from the half day of school before Christmas vacation? We took a road trip to an armory museum an hour from our house.

It was terrific. I love bizarre museums. Do you have any?

Because you asked

Well at least Kate and Chelle did after reading Powder before the Protest. That is me holding up the blue circle in all my 1992 splendor.

Two basketball games

We went to two basketball games in less than 24 hours. Friday night we went to a professional game. It was one of those evenings that made my husband's frequent late nights more bearable. We were in the firm's suite overlooking the court. To give you a sense of where we were, the television cameras were to the right of us.

So we had food, drinks and our own bathroom. We did share the space with 8 people in their 20's. They pretty much left us alone. Or rather we gave them the space to be in their 20's at a game with free beer.

The boys were just thrilled to watch grown-ups play. I would've been too if those grown-ups actually played well. When a teammate threw a pass, and it bounced off the other player's back, in disgust I told the boys they play better.



For the most part, our daughter entertained herself with the Internet access. Which made me realize that is what we need at the little court we play kindergarten basketball on. That or leave her at home with a babysitter so my husband can watch the boys play and I don't have a ruptured disc. Essentially she wants to be held by me while I am coaching. Which means all 39 pounds of her are riding piggy-back as I am running up and down the court. Or else crying hysterically on the sidelines as my husband clutches her. At one point last week he took her to the playground outside the gym. Cars were slowing down because she was yelling at the top of her lungs "Don't take me!! I want my MOMMY!" He brought her back in the gym and I lugged her around so her father, my husband, wouldn't be accused of kidnapping.

Saturday's game with the kindergartners was a good game (especially since Little Miss Internet spent it with a babysitter at home). Lot's of passing and some of them are understanding dribbling. The two superstar shooters keep running with the ball as if they are on the football field, or couldn't be bothered with bouncing it a couple of times. Next week, I become the hard-nosed coach who demands dribbling. Baskets don't count if there wasn't some ball bouncing before the swish.

Powder before the protest

I've dragged my sons to a couple of rallies, generally to protest cuts in government programs. There are photos of them as 10 or 11 month olds wearing stickers on their hats showing support for the state Medicaid program.

What I haven't shown them is an AP photo of me from the Washington DC pro-choice rally in 1992. I'm clearly visible holding a blue "Keep Abortion Legal" sign. My mouth is wide open in mid-shout.

By then I was not a regular reader of fashion magazines. A friend called the house in New Orleans and told one of my housemates that there was a photo of me in a magazine. I wasn't home so he ran to the store and bought me a copy. He left it on my futon (don't laugh, you had one too) with a note:

How to powder before the protest, see page 36.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up in Glamour magazine.

Bodily bracelets

I was putting one of my brass bangles from China on my two-year-old's wrist. Etched in the middle of each one are dragons and birds with their swirling tails extending out. A colleague from a different job brought them back for me after she visited family in China. I was trying to explain to my daughter the significance of the bracelets.

"Someone gave me these bracelets."

"Some one (pause) gave them to you?"

"Yes. They're from China."

"They're from vagina?"

"No. China. The country. China."

"Bracelets from vagina" and she walked away.

HSM in my head

I'm not sure who to blame.

I've kept the wonderful world of Disney out of our lives (Beauty and the Beast and Mary Poppins don't count). I'm particularly horrified for what passes as music on the Disney radio station. What little I knew about High School Musical ensured my kids wouldn't hear it.

But I forgot about the school playground.

So when a friend (or at least I thought she was a friend) sent us her kids' favorite songs on a CD as a holiday greeting I was flattered. She had received our various birthday CDs for years and said those compilations were some of her kids' favorite discs. They in turn had been nagging her to make their own and specifically wanted us to have it. They even had songs from our CDs (Sweet Caroline and Fly Me to the Moon). There's Barbra singing Jingle Bells. Now my kids are learning "Love that dirty water."

And then there are these two songs from High School Musical, or HSM. One about being in this together (whatever this is) and keeping your head in the game (complete with squeaking sneaker sounds). Surprisingly my guys knew the songs. They claim other kids sing them on the playground. Alright, I can deal with the music.

Then the goddess truly conspired against me.

My brother's wife's cousin (got that?) works for a marketing company that promotes movies. She invited the boys to her office and let them walk into a room full of movie posters, promotional materials and DVDs.

She handed them High School Musical - the 2-DVD Remix. And we've watched it. Multiple times.

During the third viewing in four days I had an inspiration. The director-choreographer (really, watch the credits) must have made this to be fodder for a drag show. Seriously - who would come up with "Sharpe" as the Queen of the Drama club, or have the heroine writhe around on a school stairwell during her big emotive song if he didn't want it to be recreated by elegant men in high heels with better waists then most women? I have visions of Velveeta La Plauche returning to the stage.

Now I can barely contain myself. The kids can't figure out what is so funny.

A Kind [future] Man

Basketball started up this past weekend. Everyone was a bit rusty. One poor kid returned after missing all but the first practice. He had a minor surgical procedure requiring him to lay low for a few weeks. This truly tiny guy just looked so lost as everyone ran up and down the court, passing, getting rebounds and generally hustling.

On the other end of the spectrum was kid with the awesome name. He was also a bit rusty ("only" making three baskets instead of his usual seven) but there were these moments of sheer brilliance as he faked left only to go right (remember this kid, and everyone else, is six years old).

At one point, awesome name had a perfect breakaway and I yelled to him to stop. He looked at me blankly. I told him to pass the ball to tiny guy. He turned toward his teammate, gave him a big grin and gently passed the ball. Tiny guy got it and promptly threw it into the hands of the other team. Perfect breakaway ensued with a basket. For the other team.

What did awesome name kid do? He didn't complain or get mad. He kept passing to other kids. And he eventually got another rebound. I yelled "All yours!" He got his perfect breakaway.

Back in Black (AC/DC style)

She was a hit at the annual big city arts festival ushering in the New Year. Groups of people would stop, look at her, then laugh. Some even hung by her to be near and point. Was it her big blue eyes? The curly blond locks that make her look like a Botticelli cherub? Her bubbly personality?

No, it was her AB/CD shirt. Yet another cool gift from her cool Northwest Uncle and Aunt.

If you don't get this reference, click here. And if your child doesn't have a cool Northwest Uncle and Aunt to purchase this, you can find it here.

Inauguration

I went to the Deval Patrick Inauguration. While I couldn't see the proceedings, it was still a sight to behold.

Good luck Governor. Many of our hopes, wishes and dreams are on your shoulders.

Three troupes

The kids and I took my mother into the big city for the annual New Year's First Night arts celebration (she was a trooper). The convention center is turned into a multi-floored festival of all things artistic - music, film, crafts, fine arts, dance and singing. We saw hundreds of people watching improv and sneaked the boys into a packed room for a percussion demonstration. We also watched skateboarders and cyclists do aerial stunts and trampoline dudes do a very funny act (involving bouncing very high off their bellies then pretending to be Superman - alright it was funny at the time).

Then there were the dancing troupes that rotated on a stage in the same room with craft tables. One group was the "Latin" group. Girls (and a few boys) ranging from ages 5 to 21 (according to their announcer) did mambo, salsa, merengue and other dances from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and other places. It was funny how they were all pretty ho-hum during the performance. You could tell they had been swinging their hips, working those feet and tossing their heads since they were two weeks old.

The "black" group was also made up of girls (and a few boys) ranging from 5-ish to older teen (no announcer for this one). There was more energy in their steps. You could tell there was a comfort in their movements. They also looked like kids who had been dancing since they were born. And not in that taking-classes-forever sort of way. What they were doing was second nature.

Then there was the "white" group. Oh, the white group was made up of nine pre-teen girls (no boys) who, well, were ridiculous. They sang covers and their own songs with headsets and coordinated dance moves ("Girls Just Want to Have Fun" will never be the same). The dance moves didn't have the fluid ease of the earlier groups, rather a crazed urgency of LOOK AT US WE CAN DANCE!!!! There were some parents dressed up in crazy I'm still cool outfits and it just had a general freakishness about it.

But what was gross were the little girls in the audience - 4, 5, 6 years old - staring up at them on the stage. And the performers were winking, smiling and pointing. I hope these little girls were told later that this group wasn't talented. And then listened to Sarah Vaughan, Rebirth Brass Band or Cole Porter on the car ride home.

Because the Erasure shirt is too small

Huh? The Erasure shirt?

Change

Life is all about change. Isn't that an old cliche? My life seems to be in a constant state of change. This coming year is no different and it has me freaking out, well just a little.

Not only are we expecting our second child, we are expecting to move. The baby is exciting, wanted so badly and loved. The move, well is scary and unknown. Now sweet readers of the blog exchange, you may be wondering where we are moving this year. Me too! The location of the great, life changing move is unknown.

Sounds a little crazy right?

I am having a lot of anxiety about the vague nature of our future. My amazingly smart and dangerously handsome husband has been applying for academic positions in Canada, to take us home again. Unfortunately, the nature of his field dictates that he spend two years doing a post-doc position first. We have been in California doing just that, for a year and a half. So he *might* get an interview in the next few months or we officially apply for another post-doc in another location in the US.

Ultimately, change is in the air. Either way once our baby boy arrives we are heading on out. Hitting the open road of adventure. In the meantime I am going to try to not panic. Change is good.

Right?

My husband and I have moved a few times over the course of our marriage. Every time it gets harder to leave behind the amazing mothers I meet along the way. California has been harsh on us laid back Canadians. Neither my husband and I are cut out for this high paced, uber intense lifestyle. It really just is not our speed. Our daughter does not remember a life with out traffic jams, palm trees, beaches, zoos and Disneyland. Yet our son that will be born this year will never remembering being here at all.

Change.

Chelle, a Canadian girl living it up California style with her husband, daughter and pregnant with a son. Staying at home, keeping sane with her Apple computer, designing blog templates and going on endless adventures with a smart, shy toddler. You can find Allison, your blog host, over at http://soodz.com/blog.

And click here for more information about the Blog Exchange.

A bargain

Earlier this week my brother took the boys for the day (such a good uncle). During the day-long love fest he took them to the major league ballpark and bought them items from the shop.

One guy ended up with 50 playing cards (the other got a miniature mascot). When they came to my office he started to show a colleague the entire pack. This colleague patiently commented on each player ("He was good." "He wasn't so good." "He started off not so good but then got better.") when they came upon a card for Jose Melendez.

Jose was a marginal pitcher for the town team in 1993 and 1994. He is also the nom de plum for my colleague's blog. He's had to use a playing card on the web site from the Padres era which doesn't work for the overall feel of the blog.

Until my son stood with a Jose Melendez card. Jose Melendez wrote about the grueling negotiations. It was quite suspenseful.

One more voter

This morning I spent three hours talking about advocacy with a group of women enrolled in a computer training and job skills program. Part of the tactic is to get the group to realize that the personal advocacy they have done (e.g. getting their kids into the day care of choice, helping someone get health care) uses the skills involved in systems change (e.g. baggering people, caring about issues). The morning session hopefully changes the collective perception of a group of low-income women that they can make a difference. I hope that because I believe it.

The morning definitely started with some skeptics, some very tired skeptics (it was two days after Christmas). "What difference can I make?" "It seems there was more stuff going on in the '70's and that it mattered." "If Congress controlls the money, then why do they keep voting to give the President money for the war?"

I didn't touch that last one.

But I did tell stories about finding funds to expand children's health care coverage. About this year's successful fight to increase our state's minimum wage but how we lost the chance to link the minimum wage to a cost of living index. They talked about CORI, health care, gun violence and housing. They know how hard their lives are and how the broader system is not responding to their needs. They just need a few simple tools to know how to change that system.

And one of those tools is voting.

At the beginning several participants insisted the vote was meaningless. They acknowledged they weren't even registered. They rolled their eyes as I handed out a voter registration card.

At the end, one of those skeptics handed me a filled-out registration card and told me this was the first time she had registered to vote. I hugged her.

I hope she uses her new found tool to make system change.

Oops

We actually had a kindergarten basketball practice/game on the eve of Christmas Eve. Mr Reluctant didn't make it again and there were no relatives campaigning that he really is enthusiastic. In fact we only had 6 players. One of the two girls and probably the five most intense of the ten boys (my sons on either end of that spectrum).

Today I asked the team to focus on rebounding and dribbling. Dribbling will be the constant reminder ("hey folks, is this basketball or football?"). Rebounding clearly became every player's obsession. One guy got the "rebound" after the ball successfully went into the basket only to shoot again. Much to the other team's angst.

I had to stifle a laugh when the purple team's coach laid out some ground rules including no reaching in to take the ball while someone was dribbling. Even the timid girl on our team looked confused. Our opposition seemed to be younger kindergartners. We kept getting shots in. One of our guys would get the rebound under the basket, take the ball out and keep making three-point shots. He's six years old.

Then we came to the realization our basket was shorter. By at least a foot. The other coach accused me of rigging the game. I do feel bad about the discrepancy but come on - I sneak onto the court and lowered the net?

The net was raised to the same height. The White Ghosts kept making baskets, even the three-point shots.

Christmas letters

My mom has written an annual Christmas (now Holiday) letter since the 1970's. It is always one page and sometimes printed on red or green paper. Through the years the margins and font would get smaller to accomodate the packed lives we lived.

Its funny how the general concept of these letters are derided. Some should. The saccharine perfect people. Then there are the families that skip a year because of a death or divorce. One family we know wrote in painstaking detail about how the death of his elderly mother was complicated due to her mental illness. My husband has a friend who for years did the anti-holiday letter, sent around New Years, full of his death poetry and gruesome images. People often asked to be taken off his holiday letter list. Now he is married and the New Years letter is full of little ditties about their dog and living on the beach. I kind of miss getting a piece of mail on January 2nd with a picture of someone's eyeball hanging out of their socket.

As a child I looked forward to getting the Christmas letters from my parents' friends. For the most part they were people I didn't know. People my parents were close to years ago, before they were parents. I'm finding that there are many people in my life - people I adore and have wonderful memories with - who are just vague names to my kids.

Like the graduate school friend that let me crash at her apartment between classes and my overnight shift at the battered women's shelter.

Or the college buddy whose mom paid for my trip to Italy. She didn't want her daughter to travel alone for a month and thought I was a suitable companion. Insert laughter here.

Or the two guys I drove across country with. In a 1973 Dodge Dart. With no air conditioning. And only an AM radio.

I miss that consistent check-in holiday letters provided. I miss reading between the lines of what people were trying to say. Very few people write holiday letters now. I guess they are all blogging.

Diva

When I was 8 and 9 years old I would lip-sync to Donna Summers in the living room. The record player was in one room and there was a speaker in the living room (how cool was that). I would strut, croon and wiggle to my heart's content.

I have no memories of anyone watching me. It was my own private performance. There were no doors so various family members probably watched but they have kept quiet for all of these years.

I rarely can see my 2 year old sing in her car seat since I am usually driving and she sits behind the driver's seat. On one of those rare times we were all in the car together, I was in the passenger seat. She was singing to the song on the CD (Erasure, of course) and looking out the window. Then she broke into a perfect

You got to believe!

Complete with eyes closed, head back and teeth bared. When she opened her eyes, she saw me staring at her. I was smiling because while she was 6 years early, I knew exactly where she was in her creative mind.

"No mommy! Don't watch me!"

Change sisters

To pick up the boys at extended day, my daughter and I push a buzzer at the main entrance of the school. A teacher lets us in then uses a walkie-talkie to some subterranean place asking that the boys be brought up. We wait for a few minutes at a door for them to come up a set of stairs down the hallway.

Usually my girl does an initial walk down the hallway, asks if I want her to come back and then returns to wait next to me.

The other day an older boy we see during pick-up was greeted by his mom and little sister who is about 15 months old.

"I wish she was my sister" he lamented pointing at my daughter. "She runs down the hall and gives her brothers hugs. I wish she would do that" he says motioning towards his sister.

Then, the boys arrived and their little sister ran down the hallway yelling "BRUDDERS!!!" The three of them did a big group hug and she announced "I missed you!" One guy rubbed her back while the other showed her his latest art project.

"See?" said the third grader to his little sister. "Why can't you do that?"

One of those Commandments

Thou shall not steal. Especially times two.

After church on Sunday my husband charges up to me. "Did you buy the boys gum?" with a panicked intensity that seemed pretty silly.

"No. We don't let them chew gum. Why would I buy it?"

One of our guys had orange gum in his coat pocket. The packet was still in its clear wrapper. Now, if it was mint gum I would have thought he may have pilfered one of my packets. I've been known to buy gum from time to time. However, I don't like orange gum.

After standing like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, he admitted that he took the gum from a little convenience store. I couldn't believe my kid would steal from someone else. I trooped both boys into the store and they handed the pack over the counter. They had to apologize. The guy behind the counter said it wasn't a big deal and they could have it.

Thanks for helping with the big life lesson.

I declined his offer.

Later in the day, while goofing around in their room, I found another pack of gum still in the wrapper in the other guy's bed. He never admitted to having his own pack.

Back to the store we went. This time, the owner was behind the counter and was incredulous we returned it. Then he got that he was part of a life lesson and went into stern don't-do-it-again mode. A customer waiting to buy a lottery ticket pitched in with "Oh NO! And with Santa coming? How could you?" My little guy was so mortified he looked like he would melt right there.

Much better.

Girl Coach

This Saturday's match-up for the kindergarten league's "White Ghosts" (the team voted for that name) was much more even than last week's game. The "Red Sox" were more our size and equally comfortable with the ball. It was a good game.

The two girls finally played. Last week they spent nearly the entire game on their respective mothers' laps, usually in tears. This week, they were still a bit nervous but they played. One even got a basket and a few rebounds. By the end of the game, they acted like they owned the court.

Last week's less-than-thrilled newcomer didn't make it. He had strep throat according to his mom's email. But his aunt found me on the court to tell me he's excited to play. Seems there is a campaign to convince the kid, and me, that he should be playing basketball.

I met the other newcomer's mom. Even as a kindergartner he is a guy's guy. He's got the name of a future drinking buddy. I told her he was a terrific player and I was glad to have him on the team.

She said "Yeah, he told me 'Ma, I got a girl coach. But she's good.'"

What is she thinking?

I try not to judge other parents. I really, really do. I'm so painfully not perfect that I am in no place to judge anyone. I lost it with the boys in the middle of a gift shop at the Kennedy Space Center a few summers ago. It was so bad my husband commented the people were staring at me. I was blind with rage. No one was hit but I can still remember my fury from the constant complaining and nagging. Of course, I should have been the grown-up and stayed in control. I admit this because I know I wouldn't win any best parenting awards.

Two boys joined the basketball team this past Saturday. One seemed to have played before and was very comfortable handling the ball. He consistently made baskets, passed the ball to other players and played defense with confidence.

The other guy was sobbing as his mother brought him onto the court. He cried as she put on his team t-shirt. He sobbed as she sat him down in the team circle. "He's afraid he doesn't know anything and will make mistakes".

Uhhhhh...... you're kidding, right? I'm thinking.

She then walks out of the room. Leaving me with 10 other kids and her sobbing son. After explaining we would practice for 1/2 an hour then play our first game for 1/2 hour, everyone lined up with a basketball to practice dribbling. The other kids start bouncing the balls. Some lost control of the balls while others banged into their teammates. All done with earnest seriousness and concentration. It was beyond adorable.

The sobbing kid let go of the ball to dribble and it bounced off his foot. He simply crumbled. He couldn't see through the tears. Where was his mother? In another room talking to a parent. I scooped him up and charged out of the gym. The mother looked at me like I was doing something wrong.

"I'm alone with ten other kids. I cannot give him the attention he needs especially since he doesn't seem to want to be on the court. You need to keep him until he's ready to join us."

What I really wanted to say was:

If you were a better mother you would have stayed near him and not put me and the other kids in this awkward situation. Maybe you wouldn't have signed him up since he has been a basket case on other sports teams (we coaches talk to each other). Why don't you find something he's comfortable with. A different sport. A completely different activity. Don't make him suffer.

Of course, I didn't say any of that. Before the game I went back into the other room to check on him and he was rolling the ball with a friend's younger sibling. He looked really happy. When I asked if he wanted to come and join us his lip started to quiver. And I bolted.

Let's see how tomorrow goes.

Barbie went too far

Last night we took the kids to a large toy store. It was to prepare for their New Orleans grandparents annual trek to this store to buy them gifts. It is a thing my father-in-law loves to do. He's a guy with little joy in his life and if this gives him some, so be it.

I however, hate these huge stores. And the Barbie section didn't help.

I have nothing against Barbie. In fact, I desperately wanted a Barbie doll for years as a kid but my mother stood her feminist-ground and refused to get me one. So did Santa Claus. Apparently after yet another Christmas with no Barbie under the tree, my forlorn face made mom call my aunt for all of an older cousin's beat-up Barbie dolls. I'll never forget that box full of half-dressed, ratty haired Barbies. I was in heaven.

So I was wandering the store with my two-year-old daughter. She was more interested in the objects (a kitchen, a phone, a CD player which she knows "makes music") then the characters plastered on them. Then I saw it. Or rather her.

Barbie was wearing a cropped top, micro-mini skirt, CFM boots and holding a funky bag. Not a big deal since she is competing with Bratz these days.

However, the tiny shirt had Elmo's face. The itty-bitty skirt was topped with an Elmo belt buckle. The boots had Elmo socks sticking out. The bag had Elmo's face as well. And Mz. Thing had her very own mini Elmo that did something. I'm not sure what it did (dance, sing, poop) because I wanted to get away from it as fast as possible before she saw it.

It would be one thing if she were Preschool Teacher Barbie and had Elmo helping her. Or even Sesame Street Barbie with a bunch of characters. Or even pair her with Elmo but have Barbie wear a track suit.

With everything going on about girls body image, how could Sesame Street knowingly let a beloved character's face adorn a doll dressed as a slut.

More tales from parochial school

One of my sons keeps asking me how Jesus died. He asks how he ended up on the cross and how they got him away from Mary and Joseph. Its been going on for days. The same questions, the same responses.

Finally, while in the tub taking a bath, he asked again about Jesus being taken from his parents. Then it dawned on me, he thought Jesus was hung on the crucifix as a baby.

"Honey, Jesus was a grown man when he was hung. I know it is only a few months between Christmas and Easter but he got to grow up and become an adult."

He visibly relaxed in the bath and hasn't asked again.

I'm looking forward to when this year is over. Then we can focus on living, not obsessing about death.

First basketball game

Last year we were the Bad News Bears of kindergarten basketball. All the other teams were pretty much guaranteed a "win" (not that anyone kept score of course) when they played against our team. One of the only baskets we scored all year was because the coach for the other team told his players to back off and let our team get a basket.

Saturday, we were the taller team. The one with the kindergartners who look like 3rd graders compared to the other team. Several guys (my two sons included) were playing for the second year. One guy showed up for the first time yesterday. Aside from not dribbling the kid could shoot, pass the ball accurately, play defense and rebound. He's six years old. After 20 minutes we had 12 baskets while the green team had none. My guys were responsible for half of them.

This time I was the coach telling the kids to back off. You should have heard the green team parents cheer after the ball went into the basket. It was the sweet sound of "you did it!". One of my sons though was devastated that first of all I told them to back off and then I cheered for the green team. He was so upset he started to cry.

After the game, I had a little pow-wow with the team to congratulate them and remind them to practice dribbling ("People this is basketball, not football"). As we were talking, a really small boy in a too big green shirt was circling our team with tears streaming down his face calling us "the yucky white team". He was so upset (where were his parents to help him through this?) that it broke my heart. Which led to a stern conversation in the car.

"We'll play well this year and probably get a lot of baskets. I'll cheer for you and celebrate your good plays. Do not, though, under any circumstances be mean to the other team. Remember how sad you were after every game last year? It is hard to not get a basket. O.k.?"

One guy "yes Mom."

The other one "just don't cheer for the other team."

I've got some work to do.

Happy Birthday

As I was walking into the house from dropping the boys off at school my husband yells,

"Don't come upstairs!"

Then I hear quietly,

"Let's finish putting it on. She'll be so surprised. Be sure to say 'Happy Birthday'".

"I say 'Happy Birthday'? To Mommy?"

"Yes, to Mommy."

Then, "O.k you can come up!" and who comes barreling around the corner but my daughter. In a dress! A dress that was too small with marker stains. She picked it out herself. If you recall she had been boycotting dresses all fall.

"I pretty!" she declared. "Mommy, don't cry."

Truly a happy birthday.

Wedding songs

My daughter is the family DJ. She has discovered the stack of CDs that were taken out of the 300 disc player years ago. There is a group of 15 CDs that are just being destroyed as she plays them, rips them out of the kitchen player while they are still playing, drops them on the floor, and "cooks" with them in the toy kitchen.

She has decided that a Lionel Ritchie CD is "daddy's favorite music" which is appropriate since I didn't bring this into our marriage.

Tonight while playing Ritchie's "Hello", she stood on a stool saying "I'm dancing with daddy" and pretended to dance with him. He's working late, as he does most nights, but she didn't seemed sad or upset. Just matter-of-fact as she danced with her daddy in her head.

Then a brother stepped up and offered to dance with her. They took each others hands and swung around the kitchen, doing twirls and coaching each other through intricate moves.

Now you'll know why I'll be balling at my daughter's wedding. To who ever it is. I hope she finds the devotion from one person that she has from us four.

Boughs of Holly

I'll admit it. I just love the carol Deck the Halls. There is something about a rousing Fa-La-La that just makes me get into the Christmas spirit.

I was raised Unitarian. When I went off to college I didn't think being part of a congregation was all that important. Then my junior year, while studying in Italy, a family was in a car accident. The three children were killed instantly and the mother died five days later. The father survived. They were one of the first families I babysat for. My mom and the mother were friends. I'll never forget which phone booth I was in when my parents told me the news.

It was then that I figured out that for me religion wasn't the creed, it was the community. It was the people who saw you on a fairly regular basis that weren't family or co-workers or the parents of other children. So I joined a church in New Orleans while teaching. And we joined a church when we moved to town.

The first Sunday in December is the Hanging of the Greens service. Older children and teenagers wait around the stately meeting house until the congregation sings Deck the Halls. Then they hang wreaths in the windows surrounding the sanctuary and place electric candles underneath. They race up to the balconies and drap long garland over the sides and drop down others to be wrapped around the columns. My 6-year-olds were struggling to watch it all. And I was struggling not to cry.

Christmas for me is the traditions and wonder. The yummy treats and combining of pagan, secular and religious. It is music, color and finding warmth in the cold. It is finding the absolute perfect gift for someone and, yes, getting one too.

So Deck your Halls. And Fa-la-la.

My work is done

I put Laurie Berkner in the mini-van CD player.

From the carseat behind me,

"Um, um, um, no, No, NO, NO! I don't want Laurie Berkner!"

"I WANT ERASURE!"

There's nothing else to teach her.

That first practice

There were suppose to be 13 kids on the team this Saturday. Four girls, eight boys and one name I couldn't figure out. Leaving that message was strategic. "Hi, this is Coach. I'm looking forward to having 'Pat' on the team. So, 'Pat', come on to the school gym at 11 am this Friday." Turns out he is a boy.

For basketball there had been a kindergarten boys division and a 1st/2nd grade division. For girls they were all combined into one division - meaning little kindergarteners who had never dribbled a ball were trying to keep up with players who were entering their third year of playing.

Our town has finally smartened up that kindergarten boys and girls can play sports together. I could never figure out why they were separated for soccer and basketball but play together in baseball. Not that there are any girls playing baseball past 2nd grade.

Earlier in the week a girl who thought she would be on her mom's team asked for permission to be a kindergartener on a 1st/2nd grade team. I couldn't argue with that. Who doesn't want to be with their mom? Now we've got three girls.

Friday before I got two phone calls from a different mother. She kept telling me her daughter was shy and scared to play with boys. But then her language would change and it sounded like she- the mom herself - was afraid to have her daughter play with the boys.

My first thought was well why did you sign her up if you knew she would be uncomfortable?

My next thought was how dare you let her be a wimp. Get her out there. Break the Princess-spell and let her mix it up with the boys.

What did I really say? "Oh gee. Whatever she's comfortable with."

Of course, she didn't show up.

So two girls are on a team with seven guys (two didn't show up). They both were scrappy chicks who ran, jumped, and threw the ball with gusto. One was doing a good job putting the ball in the basket after 38 minutes of practice. Afterwards they both said they looked forward to next week. Their moms said it too.

It's going to be a great season.

Season starts

Me and 13 kids. As if mothering three weren't enough.

I'm starting my second year as a basketball coach. I do think it is completely ridiculous that our town starts basketball at kindergarten. How long have these kids been walking? Who in their right mind thinks kindergarteners can dribble a ball, pass it, deal with defense, and get the ball in the basket? Without crying? I didn't start basketball until I was in 3rd grade.

My guys' birthday is right at the cut-off for kindergarten so they are in their second year of kindergarten. This means they'll be those kids who play pretty well compared to the ones who have never touched a basketball. Last year, half of the green team were repeat kindergarteners (we were the red team). Compared to my team, they played like 8th grade stringers. At one point, the coach graciously told his kids to back off and let our team score. It was our only basket for the entire game.

If we end up being a team with some skill, I hope we are as gracious as the green coach last year. And don't worry, there will be weekly updates about this year's white team.

How it ends

I survived McEwan's Saturday. Another memorable novel. Not nearly as infuriating as Atonement. However, having a young woman strip naked in a threatening scene at the end was just gratuitous. No need for it.

I find that since having kids I'm super sensitive about violent or horrific things done to children or offspring. Reading Alice Sebold's Lovely Bones was just torture. As was Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper.

Anything that is just painful now due to having kids, growing older, or being somewhere new in life?

Sugar cereal for lunch

I'm bordering on apopletic.

Every Wednesday I give each boy $1.75 to buy pizza and milk at school. While they think this is a huge treat, the treat is really for me because it means one day a week that I don't have to make their lunch.

Tonight when I picked them up, they proudly announced they had cereal for lunch. Not Raisin Bran or Muslix. No. One guy announced he had Cocoa Crisps while the other had Lucky Charms. Dry. They drank chocolate milk. No fruit. No vegetable. Pure sugar cereal. With chocolate milk.

This parochial school has to be kidding. There is an obesity problem in this country and they are serving Cocoa Crisps as a meal?

So, while I commend my guys for their honestly, there was no treat after dinner. They had more than enough sugary treats for one day. They had extra helpings of green beans and plain skim milk. I am writing a note to both of their teachers and plan to complain to the principal. The school is suppose to be part of the team to help kids learn good eating habits.

I will be eating my dinner after they all go to bed. It'll be my favorite. A bowl of Mini-Wheats. With plain skim milk. Then I'll write the letters.

Bookgroup

Six years ago, several women I know started a bookgroup. It was held a few days after the boys came home from the NICU so I didn't go to that first meeting. Graciously they consider me an honorary founder.

Membership has grown and shrunk. We had a professor with us for a while but she agonized when she didn't read a book. Several women used moving away as a reason to join other bookgroups. One was quietly suffering that we were, well, women who liked to talk about our lives, drink and eat more than either read or talk about the books. She graciously joined another bookgroup and explained it was just easier since everyone lived in her town. The other suffering soul was a bit more vocal, even going so far as to tell that her new book group didn't allow alcohol. To me that defeats the purpose.

Tonight we met up at the home of a woman who is 38 weeks pregnant with her second child. She went into labor the day after hosting us 2 1/2 years ago and hopes we'll bring her "the same luck" again. The book this month was Saturday by Ian McEwan. We read another novel of his, Atonement, a couple of years ago. I have less than 100 pages to go in Saturday and it feels like plodding through mud. I remember the visceral, angry reaction I had to Atonement. Three years later I can still recall the him marching through the French country side, fighting the war, waiting in the cafe. To have it end the way it did was infuriating. I feel like I'm walking the plank again.

But then, what did our group talk about tonight? Two of us had finished the book and loved it (neither of them had read Atonement), two of us were in the midst and two hadn't picked it up (there are 4 other regulars who all had conflicts tonight). We talked about babies, movies, work, the new Governor (oh we are SO excited about that one), food, birth stories, twins, other books, Thanksgiving, wine....

It is what I wish for all of us. A group of friends who get together regularly to talk, laugh, support and sustain. And if a book is involved, you feel literary. But if you walk out feeling like you can face another month, even better.

To the moon

Tonight the guys took all the pillows and cushions off the sofa. They created various walls and after turning off all the downstairs lights announced we were going into space. There was a "wall" dividing the boys from the girls so my two year old and I were on one side while the 6 year olds were on the other.

I yelled loudly "We're going to the moon!"

To which the toddler announced "NO! We're going to Costco!"

Must get provisions first.

Chicks with Happy Feet

I went to the movie theater twice today. I spent $40+ this morning to take three kids to see the latest movie cartoon Happy Feet. Then I spent nearly $40 this evening to take myself to see Shut Up and Sing. $9 for the movie ticket, $26 for the babysitter and $2 for the big box of Junior Mints that I didn't have to share with anyone.

While eating lunch I asked the boys what they thought of all those penguins. Of course, Robin Williams saying something about butts to a penguin-eating seal received most of the conversation. I fixated on how the little dancing penguin was forced to leave because he couldn't sing. I started talking about how there are some religions that do that to people, forcing them to leave or making them feel horrible because they don't agree with the teachings. I didn't start on Fundamentalists (take your pick which religion - Christian, Islamic, Jewish, etc), anti-gays or our President. I'll wait until they can really understand that. When they're 8.

Before the babysitter showed up, the guys asked what my "grown-up" movie was about. I explained it was a lot like this morning's movie. These women in a band said they didn't support the war and a bunch of people gave them a hard time, similar to Mumbles the penguin getting a hard time for being more Savion Glover than Stevie Wonder.

I sat in a darkened theater (inhaling my Junior Mints with glee) watching three women be turned out by what seemed to be most of country music. I have never been a fan of country music and the movie certainly reinforced my stereotypes of stupid, rednecks who blindly follow the government 'cuz that's what you're suppose to do. Plus, the only song I knew by the Dixie Chicks before the "embarrassed to be from Texas" line was about killing an abusive husband.

They talked in the movie about reaching a new audience, starting anew, since they were not being played on country stations. I guess I am that new audience. I proudly listen to them on my iPod (I can't listening to Silent House, about a grandparent suffering from Alzheimers, without crying). Plus, two of them are the mothers of twins. I'm a sucker for anyone that understands what it is like to mother twins.

And I've got the boots to wear to a concert.

Malign the gyros

As I bit into my lunch today, I bit down on some bone. At first I thought it was from the gyros. Then, feeling my back molar with my tongue, I thought it was my filling with some tooth because the tooth felt really sharp.

I got the gyros from a place recommended by a colleague. He asked me what I thought of the gyros. I told him it was a little dry and that I initially suspected bone in the meat (pretty odd for a gyros) but then figured it was my tooth.

Don't malign the gyros. He said. He's a fan of this place.

So I left work early, dragged my dad to the dentist since I couldn't go to her office and get to my kids in time. He sat in the car to finish listening to Terry Gross on NPR (I do love this man) while I went in. I fully expected to be in her chair for an hour getting novocain, drilled and slapped with metal.

I thought that I had crossed that old folk line. It always seemed to me that old people had problems with their teeth - a cracked tooth from biting something, a filling coming out, general teeth woes - and having a filling break on a gyros seemed to signal I was ready to sign up for an honorary AARP membership (for the record, I'm 37).

However, my tooth was fine. Apparently that back molar is particularly sharp (which I never noticed).

Guess what colleague - I get to malign the gyros.

Confusing childhood

I feel terrible.

Everyone sings perfectly in the van to Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend.

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental
But diamonds are a girl's best friend

Unfortunately it is Nicole Kidman singing from the Moulin Rogue soundtrack.

That's when those louses
Go back to their spouses.

I'm sorry. To them. And to Marilyn. She does it so much better.

Friend

Little Miss woke up at 4:45 this morning. I left her to talk, moan, yell, yelp and generally growl for 25 minutes. It was the scream "I wanna go potty!" that got me up. Somehow denying a person access to the toilet seems cruel.

Ever since the boys were babies I would use those little moments when we are close to give an "extra" hug (is there such a thing as too many hugs?). Putting them in their car seats, lifting them into their high chairs, putting on their shoes would elicit a hug, kiss, "I love you" or "you're so smart".

With my daughter there is the extra issue of how will she perceive herself as she gets older. She is such a confident, happy girl. I worry about growing up as a girl in our culture. Will she like her curly hair when she's older? Will she have the "right" body type? Will she have the confidence in herself to weather the mean, nasty and ugly barbs thrown by some of her peers?

So I snuggled with her this morning, after 5am, and told her she is beautiful. Not in the "you're like a model" or "this part of you is so perfect" but as in "you are a gorgeous person, inside and outside".

Her response?

Friend.

You mean I'm your friend?

Yeah.

And you're my friend.

Yeah.

With that I gave her a big hug and kiss on the cheek. She climbed on my stomach, held my cheeks and planted a big kiss on my lips.

That's right. I'm your friend. Not that I'll abdicate my parental duties to keep you safe, embarrass you in public and insist you behave yourself. But I will stand by you. When you are ugly. And when you are beautiful.

Singing bugs

No, our house hasn't been infested. I took the boys to The Bug Opera. It was created to introduce children, and their parents, to opera.

So we drove 45 minutes from home, across a state line, to an evening performance in an old theater built in the 1920's complete with a flashing marquee board.

A caterpillar was afraid to change into a butterfly and a mosquito didn't want to try to drink blood after watching her friend be squashed to death. There was a mambo dancing spider, groovy fireflies and a beautiful luna moth. I'm partial to the luna moth. She was a high school classmate of mine and wrote the words to the opera. And she was beautiful. My boys were losing focus when she arrived and her voice and presence brought them back.

And what did they think as we left? One guy, as he skipped out of the theater declared,

"That was a big, great show!"

Indeed.

Call her

Apparently the blonde actress in the Republican ad against Tennessee Senate candidate, Harold Ford, didn't think the ad was racist.

According to Texas Politics, she said "I didn't see it as racist at all. I don't see a single couple that is not mixed."

With all the attention she's worried she'll be typecasted as a blonde bimbo.

Good.

Silence of the Lambs

When it is quiet during the day - too quiet - we call it Silence of the Lambs.

Early last month I found the boys in the attic. This is a dangerous place in our house. The stairs are steep and the attic is unfinished with exposed insulation, unfinished wood floors and boxes piled everywhere just waiting to fall. They were going through their dad's saved Star Wars figures and baseball cards

More recently, I came upstairs to find one son fly out of the bathroom and crawl under the covers on his bed. The other was sitting on the toilet with this big I've-been-caught-but-maybe-you-won't-notice grin.

He had a big clump of hair on his shoulder.

They had been cutting each other's hair with nail scissors.

Red Snake Skin Cowboy Boots

I've got these boots.

They were given to me by a friend who, since she was coming out of the closet, decided to clean out her closet. According to her, lesbians didn't wear red snake skin cowboy boots. I took advantage of her fashion misstep.

However, I didn't wear them for a year. I kept them in the closet.

Then one Sunday I wore them. I ran into one of my least favorite classmates from graduate school. She was judgmental with a fake happy veneer. She was looking down and saw the boots first. She was horrified. Then she looked up and saw me. Immediately she had a big, fake smile "Oh HI!"

I fell in love with the boots.

And I judge a person based on their response to the boots. Guess I'm judgmental too.

Twins

I don't make a big deal about having twins. My sons are individuals who happened to have been born 10 minutes apart and look alike. I rarely call them "the twins". They are "the boys".

When I am asked about my kids I reply "I have two boys and a girl". The next question is always "How old are they?" to which I say "The boys are 6 years old and my daughter is 2 1/2."

"Twins?!?"

Yes. They are twins.

Now we've got another set in the family. My bother-in-law and his wife called us with the news that they are pregnant with twin girls. Somehow this woman managed to get to her 20 week ultrasound without any indication of the growing litter inside of her. Which means she is carrying "small" (grrrr - lucky). I looked 20 weeks pregnant at 12 weeks. I kid you not. It's why I got an ultrasound at 14 weeks. Because I was that big.

My boys were also born 10 weeks early and spent 8 weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit. While obviously they were sickly - how can you not be if you left the womb 10 weeks early - one guy in particularly had a frightening time. That and they both contracted an infection that quarantined them with other preemies. So in order to visit our kids, we had to wear gowns and gloves while other parents were getting to put their babies on their bare chests to bond.

But those are the stories I don't want to tell my sister-in-law. When people heard I was pregnant with twins, I was inundated with stories of sick babies, children with severe developmental delays, babies who died. Rarely did someone say to me "Oh wow! Congratulations. You are part of an awesome club."

In fact, when my boys came early, someone asked my office if they should send a condolence card. For when someone dies. A condolence card.

So congratulations dear brother and sister. You are part of an awesome club. It is mind-numbingly hard the first year but gets easier and easier as the years pass. The bond these two children will have will exceed your expectation. Your nephews are soccer-playing, insightful, caring, talented little guys who are tall for their age. They talk about politics, poverty and poop. And it is a privilege to be their mom.

And when you nurse, you will not only lose all the pregnancy weight, you will also lose another 10 pounds. I guarantee it.

Professional singers don't perform with colds

Not that I in any way claim to be professional but, I have a nasty cough and shouldn't have attempted the low alto in my trio for this evening's performance in the church musical review. However, it was Gilbert and Sullivan.

My love of G&S predates my fag-hag-ness. In fact, I don't know many gay men with a fondness for G&S. I'm also quarantined in the suburbs so contact with gay men are pretty scarce these days. Married lesbians with kids - I meet plenty of those.

I was in four children's musicals in the church I grew up in. The second through fourth productions were G&S. I was the tallest kid in the youth choir and therefore got to play male roles. Not only male roles but the arrogant male roles. So in 7th grade I was Sir Joseph Porter in H.M.S. Pinafore ("When I was a lad...") and in 8th I was Pooh-Bah in The Mikado ("I am so proud if I allowed..."). In 9th grade I put my foot down and insisted that I not be the arrogant male. I got to play the romantic male in Iolanthe and can't remember a single tune from that production. Clearly I have a thing for arrogant males.

Fast forward to a phone call this summer asking me if I would be in a musical review at church. I was bathing someone and my response was "No". Life is too crazy, my husband is never home, I couldn't manage it. "But we're thinking of doing some G&S in the future and will include a song or two."

"Will I get to sing a girl part?"

Which is how I ended up being Pitti-Sing in "Three little maids from school are we" from The Mikado. I have been attempting to sing the low female voice, with little success thanks to not singing in public for over 20 years, a nasty cough and little time to practice. During rehearsals other performers were turning away to stifle their embarrassment.

Tonight I wasn't that bad. I even got the "you finally got it" line from the director. She was being kind. I just wore the kimono and waved the fan with gusto.

And to update you from yesterday's post, I didn't cry too hard during "For Good". And he did great. The best Do-Re-Me ever performed, if I do say so myself.

For Good

There is a song in the musical Wicked called For Good. It is sung by Glinda and the "Wicked Witch". In case you've lived under a pop-culture hole or don't embrace your inner fag hag (or fag), Wicked the musical is based on Wicked the book - a wonderful story about Oz before Dorothy. I bet you didn't know that Glinda and the Witch were college roommates and one of their professors was a talking goat (I think) who is murdered. Not sure how that all plays out on stage but the book was fun.

I have now sung For Good four times and will be singing it with a chorus this weekend in a musical revue. One of my sons is also in the production which involves songs from the last ten years of musicals done at our church and songs from productions that are being considered for the future. He's part of a group of children singing Inchworm from Radio Days and Do-Re-Me.

The first time we sang For Good it was near the end of a rehearsal and my little guy was lying on the floor, under the folding chair, clearly at the end of his rope. I looked down at him as I sang

Because I knew you
I've been changed for the better

and I haven't been able to sing this song without tearing up and cracking my voice. So wish me luck this weekend. If only he understood how a sappy Broadway show tune can turn me into a puddle of grateful emotions. My life is so much better with him, his brother and their sister.

Who can say if I've been changed for the better,
I do believe I have been changed for the better
Because I knew you
I have been changed
For good.

Back of envelopes

I love it when information is written on the back of envelopes. Not because it reminds me of getting phone numbers on the back of napkins. Because it reminds me of learning the difference between boys and girls.

My dad came home at bedtime when I was around 8 or 9 years old. I remember him walking into my bedroom to give me a goodnight kiss. He was in a grey suit, still with his tie on and a white shirt. As he leaned over to kiss me, I asked him what was the difference between boys and girls.

Did he bring up anatomy? Sugar and spice vs. snakes and snails? Peeing standing up? No.

He pulled out an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat and a pen. He wrote XX and XY at the top then four arrows pointing down. He explained the mother and father, zygotes and embryos. I felt so grown-up. Like he believed I would understand what he was talking about. I never forgot that and was well equipped for that part of sex ed and biology years later.

Last night the boys couldn't understand why this election was important if it wasn't about voting for president. I grabbed an envelope and explained the (theoretical) checks and balance of power in our government. While my simple triangle wasn't as complex as dad's genetic explanation of gender, it made me smile that my lesson was on the back of an envelope.

Wish he was running

Last night I was explaining all the things I thought the President has done wrong (among other things Iraq, destruction of New Orleans, wasted world leadership, rising gap between rich and poor) to which one son replied,

"When I'm president I will take money from the rich and give it to the poor so its more equit... equit..."

"Equitable?"

"Yeah, equitable. So it's more fair."

I wish my Robin Hood was on the ballot.

Now he's mad

"The president has done it now. I'm really mad."

Wow. What could make my husband so upset? The 100+ dead US soldiers in Iraq in October? The literally depressed state of New Orleans? The rising gap between rich and poor? The ridiculous go-it-alone stance that is making the United States a laughing stock and therefore incapable of providing leadership in Darfur or North Korea?

No.

"I can't get onto my poker site. He's going after my poker site."

Ahhh....

Interoffice mail

My husband's secretary thought the contents were a joke.

A sippy cup and a couple of diapers (size 6).

Our daughter had to spend the morning in the back-up day care at his office. I had one of those high profile meetings I simply couldn't get out of. The staff are incredibly kind to our children but it was suppose to be Mommy Day and I wanted to dash away with her.

I clearly dashed too fast and left a few things behind.

Which the center staff put into an inter-office mailer and sent up to the 20-odd floor.

Good thing there wasn't a soil pair of pants.

Gift bags

It is getting out of hand.

My guys were picked up from school for a playdate with a friend. The mom graciously fed them dinner (well, McDonald's) and brought them to soccer practice where I met them. They ran to our van with gift bags filled with candy and plastic toys. Like they need candy. Or more plastic crap.

This was a playdate. I'm already of the belief that birthday party goody bags are completely out of hand. One family insisted we bring our toddler to their 7-year-old's party. As we were leaving the mom handed her a gift bag with a large Care Bear in it. She wasn't even an invited guest.

The boys' soccer coach gave every player a Halloween gift bag. She spends every Monday evening and Saturday morning with 9 boys, none of whom are related to her. Her own son had to drop out due to knee problems. I sincerely think she is amazing. She does not need to give the kids anything more.

Gift bags are just ridiculous.

Benefits of uniforms

While I am not a convert to parochial schools, uniforms are good. I don't have to worry about their outfits during the week. Turquoise polo shirts emblazoned with the school name and a cross paired with navy pants.

However, uniforms are also lousy. They are expensive (two pairs of pants, two shirts, a set of gym clothes - all times two). I try to make an outfit last two days before washing. That means still having to pull together a respectable outfit for extended day so there is a chance the boys will come home with uniforms that are only a little dirty.

This is not the exchange I wanted this morning while furiously making lunch.

"Mom is the other short sleeve shirt clean?"

"No. Why?"

"I dropped the slime from the coffin and tried to wipe the dirt off."

"With your shirt?"

He stood before me with a huge chunk of Halloween slime (given to him by his soccer coach) sticking on his shirt. I brushed and rubbed off as much as I could while informing he cannot play with slime again until he is 27 years old.

He went to school with some orange substance still on his shirt.