Cultured girl

This is the last weekend the Americans in Paris exhibit will be at the big city museum. I missed another wonderful exhibit over the summer at a different museum and was determined to get us to this one.

We got ahead of the crowd and walked into a gallery. Before us was Sargent's The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, one of my favorite paintings when I was a little girl. Here we were, all alone, me and my daughter, with this grand painting of four sisters. It was a moment to tear up for.

Accept all she wanted to do was "swim" on the bench in front of the painting. And yell. Loudly.

It is so easy to forget, especially with a kid as good-natured as this one, that she is a kid. A typical two-year-old. And while I wasn't expecting a lengthy discussion contrasting the brushstrokes of Mary Cassatt to Sargent, I was hoping for a bit more "Look for the dog on the blue chair" or "What colors are in that painting?"

Nope. Swimming on the bench.



At least I got a 54-piece puzzle with the Boit daughters (on sale). I can look at that.

Read the books

Last week USA Today ran an article about how parents can show movies to teach their kids about history. For instance the Holocaust section included Diary of Anne Frank and Civil Rights included To Kill a Mocking Bird.

What about reading the books? Actually getting them out of the library, buying them used at a bookstore, borrowing from a friend or family member?

Not that this book should even be considered in the same posting but while on vacation last month Craig put in The Princess Bride DVD one evening for the kids to watch. I flipped. Admittedly not the most rational or mature response but I've been waiting to read that book (yes, it started as a book before the lovely Cary Elwes starred as Wesley) to my kids since I first read the book - as a 14 year old.

I can't enjoy a book after I've seen a movie version. I think it would be the same for my kids. So Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl, To Kill a Mocking Bird and The Princess Bride will all be read before seen.

Jazz, blues and soup

While in St. Louis, I was determined to find a local place to hear music. And have a grown-up night out involving grown-up conversations, grown-up drinks, and grown-up music.

So I convinced 12 people from the conference to walk 1/2 a mile in a strange city towards the highway and the baseball stadium, during a Cardinals game, into a stand-alone building in the middle of parking lots. We walked into BB's and a gentleman who had to have learned the piano during the Great Depression was playing the keyboards. It was exactly what I hoped for.

When a place has under its name (and in its domain name) soup, it makes sense to order it. A bunch of folks ordered gumbo and complained later that it wasn't very good. Hello? As my friend in New Orleans says "If the state don't border an ocean, don't order seafood!" My chicken soup with rice and corn bread was very filling and much more appropriate fare for the state of Missouri.

Now the music. After 9:00 the band came on (we heavily tipped our gentleman piano player) playing old standards and awesome covers (Sitting on the Dock of the Bay will never be the same). Then the dancing. We all cut loose and before I knew it, it was 1:00 in the morning!

Before we left, the band invited a guest singer. A very, very large man, he sang without a microphone over a saxophone, electric guitar, base and drums. He got off the stage (we all worried he would fall) and proceeded to walk down the long length of the club. We could still hear him. He sang with passion, sweat and presence. It was a sight to behold.

If you're ever in St. Louis go to BB's. If you live in or near St. Louis, go there. I was so impressed I bought two hats emblazon with BB's - Jazz, Blues and Soup. One for me and one for my dad's birthday present. This is a place to patronize.

What is love?

Start reading this by singing Howard Jones' 1984 song.

My guys pretend to be on a Zoom cafe segment as they make their favorite meal on earth - peanut butter and pepperoni sandwiches. I kid you not. For a while they added Cheerios for extra crunch. They talk through the steps ("Now you put your knife in the peanut butter and spread it over the bread. Wheat is the best." with a knowing nod to the invisible camera) and start eating with an enthusiastic "Bon appetite!"

This week one guy has decided that the ultimate addition to peanut butter and pepperoni is grated cheese, either cheddar or Mexican combo. And today he insisted I make a sandwich for myself.

Now, I didn't want to squelch his creativity or discourage his limited protein intake. So, with Howard in my head I ate a very small peanut butter, pepperoni and cheese sandwich. With lots of milk.

It wasn't too bad. Bon appetite!

Na-no na-no

I can't take credit for this but it was funny.

My guilt-inducing work trip was to, drum roll, St. Louis. I'll write about a night of jazz, blues and soup another time. But when in St. Louis, especially when the trip didn't inspire me to return with the family, I used a break during the conference to go visit the Gateway Arch along the Mississippi River (yes, this whole time I thought it spanned across the river).

I found it fun to be up so high even on a cloudy day.

However, in addition to not knowing that the Arch didn't span water, I also didn't know how one got to the top.

I rode a little, bitty pod-like elevator that jerked, tilted and groaned up the Arch. It had no windows, was bright white and had little 60's mod seats.

When the doors opened for the first time, one of my counterparts declared "Look, Mork's spaceship!"

Guilty as charged

I love to travel. I actually tear-up when they show the pre-flight film about how to deal with emergencies. Not out of fear but from excitement. Excitement about the possibilities this journey will bring.

While I enjoy taking my kids all over in any mode of transportation (one hasn't lived until you've flown with 18-month-old twins to a foreign country in which you don't speak the language) I love to travel without them.

Yes, I feel guilty about not being with them at the end of their first day of kindergarten II (today) or taking them to yet another soccer practice. I feel rotten that my daughter doesn't understand I will be back. Somehow Thursday doesn't make sense to her.

But I will get to read, uninterrupted, for hours. I read all of Lovely Bones on one solo flight. I have Geraldine Brook's March packed and ready to break open. I have my iPod charged and set on Pet Shop Boys. I'll get to be in the company of grown-ups for several days and not worry about peanut butter on my clothes. I'll get to sleep until I need to get up, not because someone woke me up.

And while I am guilty because I'll enjoy it, I'll feel guilty too.

Finally

And not the CeCe Peniston song.

So often older people talk about the days when kids would be sent out of the house with no more direction than "go play". We live on a state highway across from a gas station so there is no chance of sending the boys out there. But we're lucky enough to have a large enclosed backyard. The best I can get out of these two boys is 10-15 minutes of soccer before someone offends, hurts, upsets, etc the other.

Today, today, they played for over two hours outside. Uninterrupted. Needing no guidance or mediation from me. They even asked for their lunch out there. Now, a chunk of that time involved using the garden hose and causing a minor flood in the basement but I'm not complaining.

Denial officially begins

There I was tonight, sitting on wet grass with my 2-year-old as her "brudders" played soccer with 7 other boys. I've now got 10 games to look forward to and another 10 or so practices. The dads stand around, at times helping the truly amazing coach, while moms either talk on their cell phones or go off to gossip. I'm not cut out for this.

However, watching my boys run around and really happy for an hour is an alright exchange for the discomfort, both physically and socially. That and watching a kid who was new to soccer try to show one of my guys how to kick. "Watch this!" this boy yelled as he threw the ball in the air and missed kicking it.

My guy just silently turned around, dropped the ball and solidly kicked it in a graceful arc. Then did it again. His new teammate dropped his jaw.

How sick am I that I loved watching that?

Remembering vacation

Always the first question I'm asked upon returning is "So, how was your vacation?"

Should I respond with "Oh it was great. So relaxing and nice to get-away."

Or do I say, "Honestly? It was fun and incredibly stressful. The kids can be really hard to be with for such long periods of time. But then they do or say something priceless that just blows me away."

"Oh, and it rained a lot during the end of the week."

Riding away

This morning I stood in the empty parking lot of a municipal pool and watched one of my sons finally master riding a bike. For several weeks he had been able to ride long distances but needed me to hold him to get started. Today, he could go from standing to starting.

As he was marveling at his ability to hold both feet off the peddles and make quick turns ("Look Mommy!" was yelled often this morning) I kept wiping away tears. There he was, going farther and farther away on his own. I told him since he was old enough to ride a bike, he was old enough to pay attention to cars (within reason. I have no plans to take him riding along a major highway).

Old enough to ride a bike. Watch for cars. My little man, growing up.

Funny thing

So, we go on vacation to escape - work, our dirty house, routine, endless Katrina-themed retrospectives - to what?

A new friend named Ernesto. Now we're under a tornado watch until 5 am tomorrow morning. One kid was still awake when we learned this so we just explained that if need be we'll be using the bathtub next to the boys' room to hide from the wind.

Just what I want him to remember from his vacation.

Baby Girl

A year ago, we awoke to hear Craig's home town was drowning.

As our then 16 month old daughter was sitting in her high chair, singing to her breakfast, he looked over at her.

"I never got you to my hometown, Baby Girl."

She kept singing, oblivious to her daddy's sadness. He had never called her that. I walked out of the room to cry.

We've been calling her Baby Girl since that day.

Not so bad

As I was standing next to the van waiting for the men to return from yet another potty break on this drive to a different part of our glorious nation, a woman who was smoking with some other women asked me if the boys were twins. She told me she was the mother of 14-year-old twin girls and that they would fight in the car when they were little.

She said that years ago their fighting was so bad she pulled over the car, made them walk to the front of the car, "bungy-corded them to the grill" and threatened to drive like that if they didn't stop fighting.

"I don't know why I just told you that. But then it's not like you know me."

I'm not sure why she told me but it sure made me feel like I deserve the mother medal of the year for not having tied the kids to the front of the car during the previous 15 hours of driving. And don't worry, I didn't the last 2 hours either. The bungy cord was busy keeping the portable crib together.

Traveling Man

Why traveling with my husband is such fun.

As we drove past a sign that said "Welcome to town name. Where traditions meet the future."

His reply was "well, it looks like they met in a seedy bar."

Yup, we've been on the road. 17 hours over two days (lots and lots of potty breaks for the boys). Now we're hanging in a house by the beach. The boys spent tonight figuring out their new boogie boards. Harper is not too happy with the sound of the ocean. Or the sand. Or the general discomfort of hanging at the beach.

But at least Craig can make funny jokes about it all.

Elevator ad

My husband tells me about an ad that plays on the television in his office building (yeah, it is one of those buildings). It shows a fence with a guy in a backyard wearing a bathrobe acting like he's got bugs in his pajamas. The camera angle switches to the other side of the fence and he is furiously fencing with sticks with a little boy.

I had to wait with my daughter for a prescription this evening. I found myself in the school supply aisle with both of us clutching a day-glow roll of something in each hand. She was doing an interpretive dance complete with falling down and rolling to James Taylor singing "In my mind I'm going to Carolina...".

Then she ordered me to dance.

So I waved the day-glow things over my head. But I didn't roll around in the aisle.

Yaz: music or medicine?

This is horrible. I love '80's music too much. Particularly angst ridden techo.

Midnight it's raining outside he must be soakin' wet

And not because it is some hip retro funny thing to listen to at clubs. Like, oh, 70's music.

Everyone is sleeping tight, God knows I tried my best

No, because I actually remember when the songs came out, on radio, and we bought the records (funny vinyl things) that we flipped over when we wanted to listen to the other 5 songs on the second side.

Darling you know, it looks bad, just I lost the best thing that I ever had...

So much to my horror, I found in this month's Jane magazine an ad for Yaz. I thought it was about Yaz, as in Yazoo, the British band with singer Allison Moyet and keyboardist extraordinaire Vince Clark (now with Erasure).

No, it is a birth control pill.

What's next - a condom named Depeche Mode? A diaphragm called Spandau Ballet?

The Red Balloon

A little girl pointed to a red balloon high up in a very tall tree. Neither the little girl nor her mother had a balloon with them that day so they didn't know where it came from.

"Balloon come down" she told her mother.

"No dear," her mother said knowingly. "Balloons like that only float up. That balloon won't come back down."

A while later the mother looked over and saw the balloon floating along the ground near where they were sitting.

"Oh my! That balloon did come down! You were telling me what you saw" the mother excitedly said to her daughter.

The little girl pulled the balloon behind her, held it over her head and called it "an umbrella" and dropped it to the ground to chase it. At one point she sat on the balloon.

Suddenly the red balloon started to rise off the ground. The girl and her mother watched as it went up and over the fence. It disappeared.

"Where did it go?" asked the mother.

"It come back," declared the little girl.

Birthday party

My boys had their 6th birthday party this weekend. While wanting a Power Ranger theme party, I still try to fight the total commercialism of childhood. Instead they designed medallions for capes. While the designs were either images or variations on their names, every boy pretended to be an established character - we had two Supermans, a Batman and a Robin - rather be one of their own creation.

I figure this will be my last year of giving a CD of their favorite songs from the past year. I've been making CDs since they were two years old. It was a way to remember what songs they loved and at the time be a different guest gift after the birthday party ended.

Last night I stayed up to burn the following:

1. Roll Away - Papa Grows Funk
2. Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond
3. Country Roads - John Denver
4. Tomorrow - Annie the Musical
5. Hard Knock Life - Annie the Musical
6. We are Family - Sister Sledge
7. Four White Horses - from their camp CD
8. I love the Mountains - same camp CD
9. Right By Your Side - Eurythmics

Of course, while I am trying to avoid a completely character-themed life for my kids, I still have very fond memories of watching Wonder Woman on television. And I probably would have begged my parents for the Wonder Woman cereal, underwear, flashlight, books, toothbrush and nail polish if it existed. In fact, at 37 I still keep a look out for a good t-shirt.

And if I buy one, each boy will get a character t-shirt.

National (Public Radio) Exposure

O.k. So Melissa Block said my last name wrong during All Things Considered tonight.

And was the quote about something meaningful like low-income women's needs for adequate job skill training to be economically self-sufficient? Or the importance of world peace?

No - it was a "letter" to NPR about how I listened to English Beat at work.

On Tuesday, Robert Krulwich reported on how people lose their sense of adventure, or willingness to try new things, as we get older. Get older as in past age 35. I'm 37. Krulwich's piece mentioned that part of the reason we stick with what we liked as 19 and 20 year olds (or in my case 14 years old) is that it brings back pleasant memories of being young and adventurous.

For me, while writing a project workplan I was having flashbacks of drama club dances in a church. A good memory. Really.

And there I had been, the morning before the story ran, listening to English Beat on my iPod (at least it was an iPod and not mixed-cassette tape on a Walkman) writing a project workplan. One of my colleagues came in, one who is 7 years younger than me, to ask something. Of course he inquired, "What are you listening to?"

"English Beat"

"Oh" with that tone that it might as well have been Jack Benny.

Orange peel mouth guards (plus yogurt)

Says it all...