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.

This is part of the Weekly Photo hunters.
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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.

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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.

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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.

Bah-stin accent

Someone wondered, after watching the first 10 minutes of The Departed (he fell asleep) if I have a Boston accent. I don't.

First, an explanation for those of you unfamiliar with Boston, or Bah-stin, accents. A few of my observations:

1. R's are routinely dropped from words, particularly with the letter A. So car becomes cah, park becomes pahk and carpenter become cahpentah.
2. What happens to all those abandoned R's? They are added to the end of words that don't have R's in them, again involving the letter A. Therefore Lisa becomes Liser and pizza becomes pizzer.
3. And my personal favorite, you cannot tell the difference between a grizzly bear and an ice cold beer to drink. Both are pronounced beh-ya.

So, try your hand at a Bah-stin accent. Repeat after me:

Liser and I were driving the cah to pick up a pizzer and beh-ya when we saw a cahpentah being chased by a beh-ya.

My Southern born and bred parents moved from Lexington, Kentucky to the Boston-area when I was one year old. All research indicates that children develop their accents from their peer groups. That is why a child of immigrants can often speak English without an accent.

In third grade I came home to excitedly tell mom my class was going on a field trip.

"We're going on a field trip to Bah-stin!"

She remained facing the kitchen sink. Her back was to me. "Where?" she said, emphasizing the R.

"Bah-stin."

WheRe?" she repeated, without turning around.

"Boston?" I asked, meekly.

Only then did she turn around, bent down to point a finger at me and declared, "No child of mine will have a Boston accent."

Yes, ma'am. And that is how my mother single-handily thwarted the influence of my peers.

And I am grateful.

Pissing into the Wind

[I'm playing somewhere else today. Read this terrific post and at the bottom find where I am.]

Here's a Link

I was originally going to call this post pissing up a rope, but Mr. Q said he had never heard of the term. Maybe it's not a flat-lander phrase; there's lots of things, apparently, that we each missed out on, what with me having been raised [as all should] in the mountains, and he in the prairies.

But I digress. Neither one of these terms - pissing into the wind nor pissing up a rope - completely describes what I'm going for, but it's the closest thing to the fact that for the past year I have been chronically and unsuccessfully pissing on a stick. [see link above for an example of the stick in question] [And, normally, I would not choose the term "pissing" but use it only for consistency in what is, really, a bad analogy to begin with. But you'll forgive me]

It has now been one year since I took my last little pink oral contraceptive pill and absolutely nothing profound has come of it. But, that's not the problem. Within the past 12 months, my skin has reverted back to it's old, bad self, my presumed pill-weight hasn't gone away, I am [apparently] a teeny wee bit moodier and I have only had 2 partial and guilt-ridden alcoholic beverages. Generally, it sucks.

I'm not upset about the not being pregnant part [okay, only sometimes. just a little during my apparent "moody" phases] since it takes a lot of people a lot longer. Really and truly, I am okay with that. There are those people for whom it doesn't take as long [and I may, occasionally, experience the irrational urge to slap them]. I am upset, though, that I haven't had a beer. The few times that I can, I am almost always on call for work [like this weekend] and, being the lush low-tolerance type that I am, can't freely imbibe. For that alone, I will accept sympathy.

But, I now must come to terms with visiting my doctor in the fall. She heaved a big "finally" last year when I indicated that yes, I was going off the pill with the intent to become pregnant. Now, we'll see what she says when I go in this year, not pregnant. I'm honestly not sure if she's the type who will send me/us for tests right away or have us wait a little longer.

I've decided that tests are all very well and good, but as long as nothing is putting me in harm or does not involve an extremely easy, quick fix, then it ends with the testing. I don't think I'm into any serious fertility stuff. I say that now. We'll see.

Any tests that she orders would at least [hopefully] mean that there would be a conclusion of some sort. And then, at least, we'd know. And then, at least, I could have a beer.

Jenn is posting here today as part of the Blog Exchange. This is one of her favourite posts, originally written August 1, 2005. By the end of September of that year, she was pregnant and the rest is now all history. Read about it, and check out Allison's favourite post, at Quarter Rest.

Tagged twice

First, I must apologize to the patient and talented Kate who tagged me months ago. I explained to her that I don't "do" chains. As in those emails which say if they are not passed along to everyone you know you will either 1) have bad luck for 7 years or 2) your favorite pet will die. Guess what? I never pass those around and have been o.k. (accept my parents' dog died recently. Hmmmm).

So I plead ignorance to the blogging community for not getting it. These exchanges are fun ways to get to know each other and break up the monotony of another cute kid story or rage against the machine.

I was picked by both Gunfighter and Jodifur (I think on the same day) to:

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

Only seven songs? I cannot tell you how hard it is. I am seriously into music. Those iPod ads with everyone dancing? I have to restrain myself to not boogie on down the road. Or on the commuter train.

And I am picking the tunes that both me and my kids are into. Can you guess which is which?

1.




John Legend - Save Room

2.



Cyndi Lauper - True Colors

3.



Erasure - Love to Hate You

4.



New Order - World in Motion

5.



Ladysmith Black Mambazo - Hello My Baby

6.



High School Musical - Stick to the Status Quo

7. My profound apologies to New Orleans. The band's name is so wrong but the song is so right.



Katrina and the Waves - Walking on Sunshine

Forgive me though for not passing the torch. Most of you were already tagged with this one and the few remaining ones either have a distinct shtick or style or just haven't posted in, oh, a year.

(And a huge thank you to Jodifur both for the inspiring layout and lessons on how to insert videos. Your patience was saint-like.)

Inner Mario faces a speeding ticket

A few days after New Years I was pulled over by a state trooper for speeding. I usually take the commuter train but that day I needed to use our car. Which means a bit of hair raising driving from downtown to our suburb.

Early in my driving days I discovered speed. As in the gas pedal not the drug. I love driving fast. After graduating from college I drove across the country with two guys and acquired the nickname Mario Andretti somewhere in North Dakota. This while driving a 1973 Dodge Dart.

So I was in touch with my inner Mario as I was driving to get the kids. And a trooper pulled me over. He handed me a $170 ticket for going 47 mph in a 25 mph zone. Yes. One hundred and seventy dollars.

What does any self respecting driver do facing $170 ticket and an increase of car insurance? Contest.

In the mail arrived a form with the date and time to appear at a court house. I lost the form.

Not a good start.

On the appointed day, I went through the metal detector and was sent to a bench in a small hallway. I had visions of a judge in a courtroom. I also thought that if the actual trooper who issued my ticket didn't show up for the hearing, I was off the hook. If that didn't work, I was going to plead late-for-picking-up-my-kids.

I was in the first group of 10 brought into a little room with a desk and benches. There was a trooper but not the one I dealt with. Sitting at the desk was a man referred to as "Mr. Clerk" with a stack of tickets.

It became apparent that the trooper was standing in for all the troopers who wrote the tickets. Damn. He would start by saying "Mr. Clerk, the Commonwealth contends that the driver....." Nearly every single one of the situations he described were on a two to three mile stretch of a particular parkway.

The first one was a guy who, among other things, didn't have his license on him at the time of an accident. The clerk dismissed the fine. Awww come on. Even I know you should have your license on you.

The next guy got up. English was not his first language (don't assume it was Spanish. I am guessing he was Lebanese) and he explained he was trying to get to his special needs daughter at after school care. She was sick. Mr. Clerk reduced his ticket to $100 and told him that he could contest that if he chose. The guy paid up on the spot.

Damn.

Then a young woman got up with her dad to explain what happened one rainy evening when her dog distracted her causing her to hit a tree and destroy her car. Mind you, the dog was in a travel case. Not sure how a dog in a box could distract you. In your lap, licking your face, pawing at the wheel - that is a distraction. Yipping in a box is a minor nuisance. Mr. Clerk asked if she was o.k. She replied yes and her dog was fine too (Phew!).

She was dismissed without a fine.

Then I was called up and I was ready to plead my case.

"Mr. Clerk", said the fill in trooper, "the Commonwealth has no interest in pursuing this matter since the trooper did not note with what method he recorded the speed."

Some scribbling on a sheet. "O.k." says Mr. Clerk, "you are free to go."

Duh. Thank you, I muttered before bolting in case they change their minds.

But now I'm convinced, just like in Better off Dead, there is a State Trooper looking for my minivan on the parkway ready to pull me over saying "I want my $170....".

Met the Governor

One part of my job I just love is making the government real and meaningful to people. In particular I get a thrill watching people who have been treated unfairly, because they are homeless, or were teen moms or are immigrants - or maybe all three - walk into the State House and have that wonder in their eyes.

"I've never been in here" they say. "It's so beautiful."

It's yours, I reply. Your tax dollars pay for this building. That gold dome over us? You paid for that. The people rushing by you? Your tax dollars pay their salaries. This is your building.

After two hours of my silly stories, tales of legislative success and failures, a couple of them start to believe it.

But this time, nearly 15 women, mostly black (African-American, and African and Caribbean immigrants) got to meet our governor. He was walking the hallway with no body guard and nearly 15 women pounced.

I have met several sitting and former governors. They are all white. And you don't go hugging them. You awkwardly shake their hands if offered, tell them what is important to you and they rush off as if you took them away from some very important. More important than you.

These women pounced on the man, because as one of them said he is "one of them". They hugged him, told him they were praying for him and his wife, told him what his governorship meant to them. He graciously lingered and shook every woman's hand as they told him things I would never, ever encourage. I, being very, very white, stood back, talked to the Chief of Staff and took photos. This was a moment I wasn't going to interrupt.

Why I cannot keep a clean house

On what seemed like the first nice Saturday since the car was invented, my guys broke in their new soccer (for the rest of the world football) gear. One guy is proudly sporting bright turquoise and grey cleats, orange and black shin guards and yellow and grey-black goalie gloves. I hope he ends up on a team that wears red jerseys, just to complete the color scheme.

The grass in our yard is still soggy so after an hour of playing with both soccer and rugby balls they came in pretty muddy. They offered to take showers to wash off the mud. I thought it was a great idea.

Meanwhile little Miss I'm-almost-three-years-old was running around the house in a pink leotard a family friend had just given her. She was "cooking" in the kitchen. As I ran upstairs to start the shower I asked her not to use real water.

So where is my husband on this beautiful Saturday afternoon? Playing rugby. The first sign of spring is also the beginning of many, many weekends in which I become a single parent. As if being alone with the kids nearly every night isn't enough.

My husband is also a neat freak. He's had to lower his standards, or nearly abandon them, during his years of marriage with me. I would rather be with the kids than clean the toilet. If the clothes are washed do they really need to be put away?

Needless to say he comes home late at night or after the matches/drink-ups to find dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor and general mayhem. However, everyone is asleep in their beds, properly fed and happy from a full day of motherly love and joy (or something close to that).

So I run upstairs to help the boys start their shower and stay up there for about 10 minutes. When I come down, my daughter is kneeling on a stool in just her underwear. Her soaking wet leotard is on the breakfast bar with fresh ink stains on it. There is a large plastic bowl full of water, vegetable oil and pink yogurt. Aside from the water she had to actively seek out the other ingredients. Remnants of her cooking can be found everywhere.

Of course I cleaned it up. But will I get credit from Mr. Neat Freak? No, because I'm still ignoring the laundry.

The other side of despair

Is hope.

After attending the rally to support the immigrant families impacted by the March 6th raids on a factory making military backpacks, I took the boys to an evening concert of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. The little lady got a special night with a beloved babysitter while their dad was attending the drink-up for his rugby team.

In the mid-1980's Paul Simon had a huge hit with the CD Graceland. One of the songs was Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes which was co-written by Simon with the leader of Ladysmith, Joseph Shabalala. The group also sang the beautiful acapella song "Homeless".

Ladysmith began in the 1950's based on the music sung by South African black men who had to leave their families to work in mines. They were brutally treated and would have to practice their singing in secret. Even the stylized dance moves involved light footwork so the company wardens wouldn't hear. When the men came back to the townships for visits, there would be competitions between different singing groups. They sang in English and Zulu.

Obviously, South Africa shed the apartheid government and continues to build on its economic and political stability. What was particularly powerful about the concert was how the men talked about the history of the music, the pain and sorrow it initially conveyed but also the joys that could still be found. And how hope perseveres.

One of my boys keeps singing snippets from the song Ladysmith wrote for and performed at Nelson Mandela's Nobel Peace Prize ceremony. It talks about struggles, racism and that now all people can vote in their homeland.

I've reminded the boys that even in the sadness of the raids, there is still hope and even some joy. And that some day we'll be hearing beautiful music that inspires us.

Despair

On Tuesday March 6th, more than 500 Immigrant and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents descended upon a factory 45 minutes from my home. Over 300 employees, mostly mothers with young children, were swept up in the raid, shackled together in groups of three by their wrists and ankles and marched to buses which took them 100 miles away. Later, many were flown to Texas. Days past before people knew where their family members were.

A story that has gotten a lot of press here is one of the mothers was nursing a baby. She was was flown to Texas without any consideration that she was her baby's primary caretaker, never mind her sole source of food. The baby became dehydrated and hospitalized. I can't imagine the physical pain (never mind the emotional distress) the mother was in from her milk building up. But I'm sure ICE has breast pumps on hand.

Over the weekend I took the kids and my dad to a rally in the vocational-technical high school of that town to protest the raids, support the families and let the community at large know that we support them in getting through this. Several posters said "Where's my mom?" The boys could read them. "Is someone going to take you away?" they asked.

One of the biggest ironies? The factory makes backpacks for the US Military. That's right. The US Government has a contract with a factory using illegal workers to make backpacks for our troops.

This is not a new story, but the story keeps getting more horrific. In recent months raids have hit nearly every state in the country. Each one of these deportations has a very human element that is about families and children.

Regardless of your view of immigrants, you cannot deny that we are a nation of immigrants. We have got to come up with a sensible policy that allows people to leave their dangerous countries, or countries with limited economies - both often caused by our foreign policies - and be allowed to prosper here. Yes, these women were here illegally. But they were hard-working, making military backpacks and paying taxes.

Train talk

While coming home from Philadelphia, one of my guys started telling me how he likes to make his friends laugh. He described doing silly things at his table and showed me an example of such silliness, complete with wild arm flailing and googly eyes. He talked with admiration of other students who fall off their chairs on purpose to make people laugh.

My little man. The performer.

So we talked about how much fun it is to make people laugh, smile and feel good. He admitted he liked people watching him do silly things. I told him there were times to be silly - recess, free play - and times to be respectful - like when his poor 25-year-old teacher is trying to teach 20 kids. The idea that my guy is one of the class clowns has me mortified.

But I promised him we would find different places for him to perform. I'm not becoming some frightening stage mother with visions of fame and fortune (o.k. - maybe a Tony award). Just a parent trying to channel a kid's energy. And it's that time of year when you have to find summer camps. I'll hold that over his head.

"You can't go to theater camp unless you behave in school!"

Think that'll work for the next three months?

Channeling the inner Black Diva

During their preschool years one of my boys' best friends was the son of a minister. The family was from Holland and while pretty liberal, they took their role in the church very, very seriously.

One evening several years ago we had pizza at the friend's house. My boys, the friend, his mom and grandmother (who was visiting from Holland) all bowed our heads for grace. In our Unitarian house grace, if we remember to say it, is:

We love our family. Amen.

With this family they said a much longer grace in Dutch. The boys and I respectfully bowed our heads over clasped hands to wait it out. They ended with an enthusiastic, Dutch accented,

"Hallelujah!"

Which led one of my boys to throw his head back, close his eyes and with all the passion his three-year-old white body could muster

It's raining men. Hallelujah!
It's raining men.
Amen!

The mother (thankfully a dear friend) nearly fell hysterically into her plate as her mother kept asking "What? What did he say?"

I rubbed his head and told him he did a great job (he actually did. He would've made The Weather Girls proud). Then we passed around the pizza.

Does the end justify

Way back in September, one of my little men fully mastered riding his two-wheel bike. He was getting the hang of it in August but on that day in September he was finally able to start on his own. In case you've forgotten, it is really hard to keep your balance while going from standing to starting.

His twin brother was a bit more stubborn about it. He was almost there. I could feel that he had the balance but he would just out right panic the second he realized I wasn't holding on to the bike. It then became cold, they outgrew their bikes, and months went by without an opportunity to work on bicycle riding.

Suddenly we had a burst of warm weather. Pleas for new bikes ensued and while it is hard to justify the horrid conditions in China for workers, those Toys R Us bikes for $59 beckoned.

But I put my foot down on training wheels. Poor little man who couldn't ride without training wheels heard "You want a new bike? It is without training wheels."

So last weekend, we went to an empty parking lot. Mr. Big-Shot-I-can-Ride went off on his own. The other one nearly drove me nuts.

He had his balance. He just didn't believe in himself. I would run along side him, let go of his seat but keep my thumb on the small of his back and he would keep riding. He only thought I was holding on. And that was his crutch. His huge crutch. He didn't believe that he could do it.

Before you jump on me that I was comparing him to his twin brother I wasn't. If I had been, he would have been forced to figure this out last fall. What was beyond frustration, beyond my comprehension was that he had the skill. He could balance on his bike without training wheels. He just didn't believe in himself.

I finally took my thumb off his back. He rode for 5 or 10 seconds on his own, without me holding him. Of course, when he realized what was happening he promptly let go and fell to the ground. I tried a few times to get him to ride but I finally had to walk away before I said it.

"I can't believe you are such a -----".

I almost called my kid a wimp. To his face. Later there were moments when he expressed fear that he would hit a light pole. A light pole that was 1/2 a mile away. He feared a pot hole. That was no where near us. I could barely keep it together. My kid was not going to feel the freedom, the joy of riding a bike because of fear. If he didn't work through this, what else would limit him? What wonderful opportunity would he lose because he was fearful?

Fortunately, I kept myself in check (barely). And when he did it, finally, there was relief on both of our faces.

But now, there is pride in his face. He brags about riding a bike. He's actually behaving better in school. He seems to hold himself up straighter.

How will my children remember these moments? Will they recall falling off the bike? The getting back up and trying again? Or will they remember their mother, running along side, nearly exploding because they were fearing what if something bad happens?

Twin humor

We've discovered that Junie B. has moved on to first grade. My guys haven't fully embraced chapter books so that is a section of the library we don't usually visit. However, while one guy was finding more books on ancient Egypt, the other was looking at the Magic Tree House books when he grabbed two Junie B. books.

The first book has her starting first grade, relieved to see last year's best friend, Lucille, in her classroom. Lucille won't have anything to do with her because she has new best friends, Camille and Chenille. When the identical twin sisters walk in, Junie B. yells

"TWINS! TWINS! THEY'RE TWINS, LUCILLE, THIS IS OUR LUCKY DAY!"

Then it goes on,

"Come on, Lucille! Let's go touch them! Hurry! Hurry! Before a line forms!"

(All caps and exclamation points are from the book.)

We stared at each other. I immediately thought of all the times people stare and point at the guys. All the times kids yell "LOOK MOMMY THEY'RE TWINS!!" or when adults say "How can you tell them apart?" Or my favorite (hear my teeth grind) "Oh no! Double trouble!" Thanks so much for implying my kids are trouble.

I then burst into side-splitting hysterics. The boys joined in. I sputtered something about how people do this to them all the time. They each yelped "I know!" "Yeah!" and "Ouch, my side hurts."

Thanks Junie B. One good laugh.

Definition of a Fag Hag

I do miss those days. When I would get all dolled up and go dancing with incredibly good-looking men who didn't want a thing from me. Accept maybe to confirm that the cute guy across the room is really cute. And interested in them.

So this from the New York Times about the closing of the Roxy dance club just was too much fun:

The doors opened at 10 p.m. sharp, and a thick column of men and the odd female friend here and there advanced up the sloping entry hall, checked their coats and dispersed on the dance floor.

That's right folks, "the odd female friend". All of us odd female friends should get up on the loudspeakers (or in my case an overturned Lego box) and yell

We're Fag Hags and Proud!

My new (blog) toy

I've got this new toy that is so much fun.

It is a (free) map that shows who is visiting my web site. I've just moved it up from the bottom of the page to under the fancy image of my fabulous red cowboy boots.

Now, a dear friend is reading me from China so that explains the dot over there. And another in New Orleans.

But get this. There is a dot in Spain! And another in South Africa. And India. If any of you have a friend in South America who could look at my site, please promote me. Then I'll have a red dot on every continent (except Antarctica).

Big thanks to Gunfighter for having this on his web site. I've been enjoying his posts in the monthly Blog Exchange (you haven't laughed until you read his March post).

And check out all the hits Jose gets. And yes, his dot in China is a mutual friend.

Ice Cream and Men

As a little girl, before 3rd grade, I have vivid memories of summer evenings walking to the neighborhood Friendly’s for an ice cream cone. We’d get our cones from the walk-up window and then make our way back home, licking our ice cream. An important part of the walk was getting up on the stone wall near a church. My brother and I would hand off our cones to our dad to climb onto the wall.

We could never get the cones back once on the wall. My dad would be busy “cleaning them”. He would lick all the drippings along the side of the cone, half of the ice cream on top and possibly even nibble the cone. All in the name of cleaning up.

“MOM!!” we would both yell. “Get our cones back!”

She would order him to return the cones. While handing them back he would sheepishly say the same thing, “I was just cleaning them up.”

In fourth grade we had a real treat. We were going to an island as a family and our beloved Aunt and Uncle from Georgia joined us. The island had an ice cream parlor. Our uncle offered to share a sundae with my little brother. Talk about a set up. This grown man was going to eat all of the ice cream. Steal from a kindergartner.

Uncle would carefully collect ice cream, hot fudge and whip cream on his spoon. He talked about what a great looking spoonful he had. He delayed putting it in his mouth.

My brother scooped it right off of Uncle’s spoon and gobbled it. My Uncle made another “perfect” spoon. My brother did it again. Here was a man who was willing to let a kid take his ice cream.

Today, I married a man who eats ice cream on the sly. The kids and I will have carefully kept track of the ice cream, making sure the box lasts the entire week. They will do a good job eating their dinner and run to the freezer, pull out the ice cream, only to find that the box has barely enough ice cream in it to fill a thimble.

So begins their lesson you cannot trust daddies with ice cream.

Luckily for them, Aunt and Uncle from Georgia will join our family for this year's summer vacation on a different island. Thirty-one years after sharing a sundae with my brother. I’m already scouting out ice cream parlors.

This post was submitted to Scribbit's March Write-Away contest. The topic was childhood memories. For more about life in Alaska, check her out.

Bag of worms

I can finally throw away the bag of dead worms in my refrigerator.

For our trip to Philadelphia I brought fruit on the train. Apples and clementines. It was my attempt to have healthy snacks during the ride down. I wasn't sure what would be our food options around the hotel so I wanted some things from the large part of the food pyramid.

They weren't all eaten and ended up in the little kitchenette of our room. The boys actually asked for the clementines on Saturday. I was thrilled! They were asking for fruit.

After eating nearly all but two slices, one guy said "this was in my clementine" and dropped a small thing on the table. It was the length of my pinkie fingernail (I have small nails).

It was a worm. One of the remaining slices looked fine. The other one was full of worms. They didn't move but they were there. In the clementine. That my son was eating.

He thought he ate two worms. So I played it calm. Got them into their bathing suits for the 2nd trip of the day to the hotel pool in the basement. While they changed I left a message with the pediatrician's office that I thought my son had eaten some dead worms in his clementine. Not being an expert on worms I don't know if they can play dead. Or if they could come back to life. In my kid's intestines.

Once down at the pool the nurse called me back. While she thought everything would be o.k. "since they appear dead" she told me to watch my son for stomach pain and bloody stuff coming out of him (oh lovely). She also stressed I should hold on to the remaining worms for a week just in case anything were to happen.

"That way we can test them to see what is going on."

I'm happy to report my son didn't become the host of a colony of resurrecting parasitic worms. I can throw away that bag in my fridge.

Not usually one to plug but...

I don't usually write about things, shows, etc that I like or my kids like. However, I can't let this one slip by without comment.

The Backyardigans is one of those cartoon shows with oddly colored animals (and what is Uniqua?). It attempts to get kids to think of their backyards (if those young viewers are fortunate to have one) as a place of adventure complete with dance, song and some moral about being friends. The animation isn't too bad and those characters can really shake their computer-generated hips.

Last week I nearly fell of the couch as that pink thing Uniqua sang about non-stop rain to the tune of Poor Little Buttercup from HMS Pinafore.

Folks, the same brilliant men who wrote HMS Pinafore wrote The Mikado. And The Mikado is where Three Little Maids is from. That was what I sang in the November show.

Oh be still my little Gilbert and Sullivan-loving heart. I am now a HUGE fan of The Backyardigans. Any kid show that incorporates 19th century show tunes has my heart.

Play Hurt

Our last game of the season was during the second weekend of February vacation while we were in Philadelphia bonding with ancient Egyptians. Last year the game had been the first weekend in March which was much better since everyone was back from vacation. According to the dad who helped me out, only four of our 11 team members showed up.

I'm actually glad we missed the last game. While I got much more out of this year's team (because I was a much better coach) I didn't want to face the last game this year. During our final game of 2006, my dad was watching. While having a heart attack.

Of course, I rationalized his distraught looks. I thought he was utterly horrified that after 3 months these kids still couldn't dribble, pass or shoot. One kid could consistently hit 3-pointers but he ran down the court like a running back. He was the only player who could make a basket.

My other rationalization was that he was completely dismayed that his child was such a lousy coach. My dad played basketball in high school and briefly in college. He coached both my and my brother's childhood teams. He had season tickets to the town team for years.

At one point during that last game in March one of my 5-year-old players came up to me whimpering he had hurt himself. I then said something I thought would never, ever come out of my mouth.

"Play hurt."

I said "play hurt" to a 5-year-old. He looked at me with opened mouth shock. But he turned around and played. I remembered my own open mouth shock when my dad said it to me as a 3rd grader on one of the downstairs courts of the high school gym. I vowed never to say that. And here I did.

So as we were going back to our cars, my dad panting as he was carrying the 30+ pound granddaughter, I told him my horror at saying to the little guy "play hurt". His response was a half-hearted laugh. He was, foolishly, playing the ultimate hurt.

He drove home the 10 miles back to his house (recently a beloved state representative died after her car crashed while she was having a heart attack). He went to the couch to "rest". Finally my perceptive mother called him on his symptoms and got him to the hospital. My brother flew over from the other coast. Five days later he had triple bypass surgery.

This weekend my dad spent time bonding with their new dog, monitoring his basement for flooding and attending church. He is still very much part of our family. And we are all so glad.

Smell of beer

"Mom! They're putting in new soap in all the bathrooms at school!" yells one boy because that is the only way they seem to communicate. By yelling.

"Really?"

"Yeah! Foam soap!" Yells the other even though I am three feet away and there is not another sound in the house. Although with their volume you would think they were trying to talk over a jack-hammer. In the living room.

"Yeah! And it smells like beer!"

This is when I look at my 6 1/2 year old sons and ask "How do you know what beer smells like? Someone told you that."

And this is where I am grateful that they can't pull one over me yet. Their eyes cannot lie. They were clearly in a bathroom today with a friend who made that statement. Maybe he was were trying to think of the yuckiest smell. Or the one that would make grown-ups upset. But they didn't want to rat on their buddy.

Pause.

One finally yells "Daddy did!! He let us smell his beer!"

Really?

Too bad your daddy's alcohol of choice is bourbon.

For Good

I'm writing on someone else's blog today. First read her amazing piece then find the link to mine.

From the Musical Wicked-

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you:

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

We have all had people in our life who have come and gone, and it hurt. Maybe they left because they died, maybe they left because you had a fight, maybe they left because they moved away. But there is someone, for all of us, who came and went and changed us irrevocably. And we never forget them.

For me, it was an ex-boyfriend from college. He saved my life. I mean literally saved my life. I was having a violent altercation with an ex-boyfriend, and a male friend walked into my dorm room unexpectedly and beat the crap out of him. We started dating the next year.

We had a terrible relationship. He was a rich pretty boy who never really worked for anything in his life. He came from a lot of money. He believed he was just entitled to things. He had graduated and would never call, but would just show up at my door and expected me to be there.

But he loved me, and I loved him. But we fought, not violently, but we fought. We had that kind of ignitable passion that makes for good love and bad arguing. I expected things of him and he had never had anyone expect things of him. He couldn't get fired from the job because it was for Daddy, so he never had to show. We broke up after 6 months and it was bad. It ended with me saying to him in a bar "best of luck to you in life."

For most of my adult life, before I met my husband, I somehow believed we would end up together. I really thought I would walk into a room somewhere one day and he would be there. And that would be it.

I still think about him, because I honestly believe if it was not for him I may not be here. At least not the me as I am now. Something very bad was going to happen to me, and he stopped it. I like to think that he thinks about me, and knows that I am grateful for what he did.

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend:

Like a ship blown from its mooring
By a wind off the sea
Like a seed dropped by a skybird
In a distant wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you:
Because I knew you:
I have been changed for good

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. Jodi is mom to an almost 2 year old, a part-time lawyer, and wife. She blogs at Jodifur about all these things and many more. Please visit her terrific site, and you will see Allison's post!

Hostess note: And yes, for those of you that read this blog regularly, I wrote about the same song in November.