Thanks, kid

Boy Wonder this morning: "Mommy? You're the best mother in the deep blue sea!"

Way too much Spongebob around here lately. WAY too much. Still, I appreciate the sentiment.

You can't go home again

Especially if it wasn't actually where you lived. But visiting is still nice.

Becoming unemployed three months after acquiring a mortgage sucks like a Hoover. Or a Dyson. Or perhaps Jenna Jameson. However, it does give one the leisure to say, "Hm. Can the boys and I come along?" when one's mother says, "Your dad and I are making the drive to visit your grandparents." And it gives one the leisure to pack a load of duffel bags, backpacks, and laundry baskets full of toys, books, and tiny outfits, borrow a portable DVD player to keep Boy Wonder happy on the four-hour drive, and go.

Visiting my paternal grandparents was always an event. We drove down every year on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and stayed through the long weekend. The train tracks are visible from the house, and my cousin and I slept on the sun porch, so we got to watch (and listen to) the passing trains. The day after Thanksgiving, my mother would head out shopping with her two sisters-in-law. After my cousin and I hit junior high and got interested in shopping, we'd go too. Before then, we'd hang around with Grandma all day, eating leftover turkey and playing Scrabble, Yahtzee, and all sorts of cool card games. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, we'd all go see a movie, and I still remember the year my dad and uncle picked the movie and we saw Highlander II. My cousin and I hadn't seen Highlander, and since we had no idea what was going on, who any of the characters were, and why so darn many people had to be decapitated, we found the sequel pretty disturbing. Anyway. Last time I visited my grandparents, things were a bit different. It was 1995. I was 19 and majoring in English. Working two jobs, still living at home, and beginning to wonder if I was really accomplishing anything. I had just started dating Dragon.

My grandparents' house hasn't changed very much in twelve years. The sun porch is still there, but no one slept there; it had been converted to the smoking lounge for the duration of our visit. (Grandpa: pipe; Grandma: cigarettes; Anithe & Co.: asthma.) Reader's Digest condensed books fill the shelves, but this time I didn't have time to read any of them. (Or anything else, for that matter.) The cuckoo clock is still on the wall of the second spare bedroom, which the boys and I took over, and it still, thankfully, doesn't cuckoo. There's still a park at the end of the block, within easy walking distance.

Of course, being there feels different. Growing up, Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa's house was always a special, carefree time for me. Well, of course it was. I wasn't the one making the mortgage payments, or worrying about how to keep a kid occupied on a four-hour drive, or looking at the giant wooden play structure and wondering how many splinters my kid was going to get. Now, "carefree" is so far removed from the realm of how I'm feeling these days that I go off into gales of laughter just thinking about it. I can't help but wonder if Thanksgiving was always a special, carefree time for my parents, too, or if they were usually consumed by thoughts of work, finances, and other assorted grownup things.

And of course, we had a nice time anyway. Boy Wonder did very well with the drive, chattering away and then happily watching movies, and Baby Boone alternated between sleeping and babbling happily in my general direction. My grandparents found them both charming, and decided that Baby Boone is the happiest, smiliest baby in the world. And, although the Worry Train is running endlessly in my head, my kids weren't worrying about anything. Boy Wonder loved the long hallway in the house, the blue swing at the park, and the geese at the neighborhood pond. Baby Boone hardly cried at all, unless I left his field of vision (Velcro Baby is teething).

And the train still passed by and whistled at night, and a faint odor of tobacco smoke still hung in the air. And, for a moment, I felt comforted and secure, just as I used to feel after my cousin and I finished chatting about boys and clothes and settled down to sleep.

For a moment. And then I ruffled a sleeping Boy Wonder's hair, hugged a sleeping Baby Boone closer, and vowed to do my best to make their childhood holidays special and carefree.

Variety show

Baby Boone news
Still walking. Four or five steps at a time, even! He is also babbling a great deal, saying, "Na na na na!" so much that I expect him to launch into "Hey, Jude" fairly soon.


Converation with Boy Wonder
"Mommy? I lost something. I lost my driver's license." (Not sure where he got that turn of phrase. Dragon and I have not misplaced any licenses lately.)

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I lost my driver's license in the woods, so we need to go find it. But we need to watch out for the bear. Bears are angry when you wake them up. Especially when they live in the jungle."

"Uh-huh."

Christmas decorations, inappropriate use of
I was attending to Baby Boone in his highchair when I heard, "Mommy, thank you so much for these Christmas boots! They're just what I always wanted! I love them!" from the living room. Now, there weren't actually any boots in the living room, as far as I remembered, but sometimes Boy Wonder will forget about something he hasn't worn for a while and it will be "new" again--I thought he was talking about his Thomas the Train slippers. Until I walked into the living room to see him walking around in his underwear with a Christmas stocking on each leg. The stockings reached fully to his hips and then some, and he was strutting around like a cowboy wearing heavy chaps. (Very festive chaps that would have gotten him laughed off the range.)

I ain't no fortune-ate one

Here is what yesterday's fortune cookies had to say!*

"Seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion."

Well, shoot. I can't tell you how absolutely useful this advice is in my current unemployed situation.

"The world is always ready to receive talent."
Uh-huh. I don't think the place I interviewed with is ready to receive talent, because I haven't heard from them yet. I haven't heard from anyone else yet either.** I expect the anxiety dreams to start any second now. Possibly even when I'm awake.

"Your playful spirit heals and inspires others."

How heartwarming. Well, I was cracking jokes nonstop as I packed up my office. I sure hope someone found them healing and inspirational.

*Yeah, I ate three fortune cookies. With the mood I'm in, I'm lucky I didn't run behind the counter and grab them all. I would have analyzed all the fortunes, too.

**Except the pizza place. I use my Yahoo email for ordering stuff online (um, when I'm ordering stuff online, which is not now), and also for my resume. Unfortunately, this means that I'll see that there are new messages, get all excited, and then crash when I find three coupons for cheese sticks and the Big Giant Pizza special.

One small step for a baby...

... one cry of "HOLY HELL, WHAT NEXT?" for all mankind.

I mean, seriously. Baby Boone rolled over the day before he turned three months old. He started crawling at five and a half months, on a Saturday, and by the following Monday he had figured out how to pull up to a standing position. He has spent the last few months doing the walking-while-holding-on-to-furniture thing, and his latest trick involves happily pushing a laundry basket around the room, shopping-cart style. And yesterday, at the age of eight months and seven days, he took his first steps. Tiny, shuffling steps, but steps nonetheless.

I am a bit afraid about what this means for the future. Boy Wonder climbed out of his crib two months before his second birthday, and he walked at eleven months. If Baby Boone is walking at eight months, when's HE going to climb out of his crib?

Random acts of grossness

Yesterday, Boy Wonder came running into the kitchen and said, "Mommy! Mommy! Baby Boone has a snot bubble!" He did indeed, and was not best pleased when I attempted to remove it with a tissue. He also let loose several Sneezes of Terror, and found those somewhat distressing as well, freezing in place until I raced for a tissue to wipe his face. Fashion tip: if you have a sneezy infant, DO NOT wear a black shirt.* Your infant will leave very visible snail trails all over it.

Later in the day, we went shopping. Boy Wonder jumped into the front of the cart, bent down, and, to my very great horror, picked up a piece of popcorn from the floor of the cart and put it in his mouth, all before I could react. Oh, man. I managed to stop him from picking up the second piece of floor popcorn, and we discussed appropriate reactions to seeing popcorn on the floor in a public place. (There's only one appropriate reaction, in my opinion: LEAVE IT ALONE.)


*I can't actually follow this advice myself, since we have a lot of black clothing around here. Black clothing that needs to be washed frequently.

Sorry, wrong number. No, really.

We've now had our non-cell phone hooked up for a few months, and have been getting the usual assortment of wrong numbers--mostly, people who haven't updated their address books and are trying to reach JaVon and Queena. However, this time we get a bonus. Apparently, someone named Dennis used to have our phone number. And apparently, Dennis had some outstanding debts. We have gotten a load of those "Hello! This is Debt Collection Agency! Call me at 1-800-COUGHITUP immediately!" calls, and I have had the very great joy of calling these numbers to get our number taken off of their lists post-haste. It doesn't seem to be working.

Compare & contrast

Around this time of year, my father-in-law and his wife head off for a nice tropical vacation at an all-inclusive resort. This year, it will be even nicer than usual. On Thursday, his wife called to tell me that they'd arrived safely...and that their room had been upgraded four levels, so that they have a particularly luxurious suite with free room service and a free in-room bar for the duration of their ten-night stay. I am immensely happy for them, and hope they have a wonderful vacation.

Also on Thursday, I think our high here in town was fifteen (15) degrees. Boy Wonder spent the day producing Sneezes of Terror ("Oh, honey, don't cry; I'll wipe your nose! No, don't use your hand...oh, gross. I'll get a washcloth. Hold still, OK?"). Baby Boone didn't fall asleep until after 10PM, and shortly after I placed him in his cozy crib, Boy Wonder woke up screaming with an attack of spasmodic croup, and I was up until midnight comforting him and trying to get him breathing comfortably again, and then Baby Boone, who had of course woken up screaming about twenty minutes after Boy Wonder started screaming, had to be comforted (by me, because for some reason he was having none of Dragon) and placed back in his cozy crib. Which happened sometime around 12:30, I think. Poor guys. I thought croup was supposed to fade away as kids grew older and their airways got bigger, but I'm pretty sure that's what it was. I guess Boy Wonder is just lucky!* And I still have no job, of course, and have the added bonus of being in Interview Limbo--I had an interview on Monday, which is of course great, and it seemed to go just fine, but I have now thought of approximately 567 things that I should have said during the interview.

On the plus side, I have now thought of 567 things that I should say during my next interview, whenever it may be and whoever it may be with. Boy Wonder appears to be feeling better now, although he still sounds quite congested and was extremely cranky at bedtime. Another company expressed a vague interest ("We'd like to see some writing samples, please"), which is reassuring. And I may not have a free in-room bar, but I am having a beer.

And we'll go to Story Time next Thursday, I think.

Snow, man

Overall, I like living in Wisconsin. It's an interesting mix of cities and farms. A friend who moved to Washington, D.C. mentioned that she kept getting lost while using the public transportation; she'd stay on the train for a few extra minutes and wind up in front of the Treasury Department. That sounds pretty exciting, actually; in Wisconsin, getting lost gets you to several cows and a grain silo. Unless you're downtown in the city, in which case you'll run across every one-way street known to humankind. But the lake is beautiful, the skyline ain't bad either, and there are trees everywhere. I like it here.

Good thing, too, otherwise I would be entirely distraught when we get days like Friday. In case you live in a bubble and did not hear any news about The Storm that Slammed the Midwest, we had quite the blizzard on Friday, with twelve inches of snow falling in our very own neighborhood. As first-time homeowners, we went through the special experience of having to do all of our own snow shoveling! And my car got stuck at one end of our alley, and I had to dig it out! With the assistance of some of my new neighbors, and a police officer! And then Boy Wonder's boot came off as we walked through an alley full of snow, and he absolutely lost his tiny mind!

He was better on Saturday, though, when the snow had stopped falling and we went outside to play in it. Unfortunately, our foot of snow does not consist of the kind that's good for packing into snowballs and snowmen. At least we tried...

Dreams vs. reality

Over the summer, I had occasion to do a bit of work-related research at the local bookstore. It soon became apparent that I'd arrived in the middle of Story Time, and quite a well-attended one at that, with at least twenty small children and their accompanying parents. This was shortly after my maternity leave ended, and I was feeling a little nostalgic about being at home with the kids. I idly thought, "Oh, how nice. I wish I could take my kids to Story Time midmorning on a weekday" and then went about my research and trotted back to work.

For a while, anyway. Be careful what you wish for, because you might up with plenty of time in your schedule for weekday Story Times. Right before Thanksgiving, I was on the receiving end of the "We're restructuring. Without you. Do you need some boxes?" speech. Well, yahoo! Happy holidays!

Now, overall, I think I am doing pretty well with all this. (It took some quiet reflection time and a lot of chocolate ice cream to get to that point, but still. Humor me.) Officially, the position was eliminated, so I am "unemployed," not "fired." I have severance through the end of the year, and there are certainly worse things than being unemployed with severance during the holiday season. Daycare is willing to be flexible with the kids' attendance schedule. And if I don't find another job by January (as seems most likely; I imagine most HR managers have their hands full with employees trying to blow through flexible spending accounts and accrued vacation time before the end of the year), I can collect unemployement benefits while I'm searching. Which is good, considering, you know, we just BOUGHT A HOUSE.

My subconscious, however, is freaking right the hell out, and has been tormenting me with anxiety dreams, each displaying new and exciting dimensions of inadequacy. In one dream, I was trying to explain to CPS that I did not let the children play in the basement, but they did not believe me and were threatening to take them away. In another dream, Dragon was yelling at me for not doing the dishes correctly; I didn't have anything else to do, after all. In yet another dream, I was attending a job fair (held at the office of my former employer, no less) and was offered a position that paid $5 an hour and involved rinsing a sidewalk with a hose. I was required to start immediately, and someone yelled at me for not using the hose correctly. So far, my subconscious has not provided me with visions of my kids shivering and crying for food, but I'm sure that one's coming soon. Maybe for a special occasion, like Christmas Eve.

I think my subconscious is right. About some things, anyway. I don't even let the kids go in the basement, we take turns washing the dishes, and I hope I would be considered way overqualified for a sidewalk-rinsing position. But overall, it's got the right idea. Finding a job isn't easy. It may take a while. Once I get another job, I'll have to adjust to a new workplace and loads of unfamiliar people. This is scary. And WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE. Boy Wonder loves his blue bedroom. The boys will probably have to go to a new daycare, because their current one? Was close to work, of course.

But for now, I'll have to let my subconscious do the heavy worrying. The boys are still attending daycare two days a week, to keep some sort of routine going, but on the days they're home with me, I can't be crouching in a corner tearing at my hair and wondering about how I'm going to support them if I don't find another job immediately. (You're welcome for that lovely mental image. It's a gift, really.) And on the days that they're at "school," as we call it, I'll be looking for that other job. I've always been proud of being able to leave work, and any bad moods associated with work, at the office. I don't let job stress come home with me. My job is not my life.

So, not having a job? That's not my life, either. For now, I'll live it. Sure, I'll comb the classified ads and every job-seeking website I know of, visit the local career center, and try valiantly to think of people I know who have contacts at other relevant companies. But I'll also spend time with the kids, enjoy having Christmas off without having to burn vacation days, and maybe get some things done around the house.

We might even go to Story Time.

Oh, deer

I live in Wisconsin, and it is November. Blaze orange jackets are everywhere, the term "hunting widows" shows up frequently in conversation, and The Hunting and Fishing Cookbook is being displayed prominently at local grocery stores and bookstores. In other words, it's deer-hunting season...and today I got a rather tangible reminder of that.

After a stroll to the library, the boys and I were heading back home. Boy Wonder, in the front of the stroller where he could see everything, was commenting on all of the houses we were passing.

"Look, some train tracks! A white house! Christmas lights! I wish we had some Christmas lights. With Mickey Mouse! And...Mommy, what's that?"

I looked, and was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Uh! Well, those are some men! And they're standing by their truck!" I said brightly. "Now, about those Christmas lights..."

"No, Mommy, that's a DEER on top of the truck! It's SLEEPING. And there are more train tracks! And pumpkins! Why are pumpkins on that porch?"

Well, there you go.

I can be your hero, baby

Tonight, as he was ascending the stairs to the playroom after dinner, Boy Wonder paused and turned around on the bottom step.

"It's all up to me now!"

...

"I need to a be superhero!"

Then he struck a grand pose, gracefully stepped down, and raced into the living room to look for a "cape" (we generally call them "blankets").

Further questioning revealed that he would like to be a green superhero. He will be big and strong, but he will not fly, or run fast like Dash Incredible, or shoot lasers from his eyes (whew), or be REALLY big and strong like Mr. Incredible. Just a green superhero, twirling around with a blue blanket around his shoulders.

Crash, rattle, and cold

So, tomorrow (or later today, actually, judging by the clock) I'm having a small housewarming-ish get-together. Just Mom, Grandma, and the aunts, and possibly a second cousin, but hey! It's a group of people, coming to see the new house! We can show them the two painted rooms! And the pantry Dragon built! And the playroom! There will be wine, and cupcakes! The air is vibrating with excitement, anticipation, and the scents of glass cleaner, dishwashing liquid, and citrus antibacterial wipes. Why, even the furnace is excited, merrily clanking and rattling away in the basement, and...

Oh, wait. Furnaces aren't supposed to do that, right?

Yeah. Dragon called me on Friday afternoon and said, "Just a warning...in case you see the repair truck in front of the house, the furnace made a godawful noise when I turned on the heat. The company will be out to check it presently." The noise was less godawful by the time the boys and I got home, but it still sort of sounded like there were some little model cars running around inside of it. Now, the furnace and AC are actually shiny and new, just installed in June by the local HVAC place down the street. The broker who sold us Charming Bungalow made much of the shiny-ness, but we noticed during our walkthrough that he hadn't exactly chosen the most energy-efficient model. As it turns out, it's the cheapest one. It needs a new motor, which should be along on Monday.

Dude. Shouldn't even the cheapest furnace perform well for more than a couple of months?

Fuzzy wuzzy

I am a dark-haired woman. Sometimes, this surprises me; I used to get blonde highlights in my hair, which made it look a lot lighter overall, and I got used to thinking of my hair as light brown. Until a blonde coworker and I were discussing hair color, and she said, "Oh, when I was little I always wanted red hair. Or a nice dark brown, like yours." I started to say, "Oh, my hair isn't that dark," but then I looked at a strand of it and, well, it is indeed dark brown.

In grade school, I was teased frequently. For many reasons, but one that showed up frequently was something that my blonde coworker probably never had to worry about: girls with dark hair have very prominent leg hair. In my case, I was doubly blessed, with lots of dark hair on my arms as well. I did not like this at all, but eventually I got over it. (Very eventually. Like, ten years later.) Every once in a while, someone whose brain-to-mouth filter was out of order would say, "Hey, you have a lot of hair on your arms!" OH REALLY? I NEVER NOTICED. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LETTING ME KNOW.

Don't worry, there is a point to this.

Our current rotation of bedtime books includes one featuring Elmo, that fuzzy little red guy from Sesame Street. It's called My Fuzzy Valentine, and the images of Elmo are covered in something velour-ish, so kids can touch fuzzy Elmo. Anyway, Elmo gets this mysterious valentine, trots up and down Sesame Street, and finally discovers that it's from his mommy...because she loves her fuzzy little Elmo! Feeling cheesily maternal, I concluded my rendition of the book with, "Just like Mommy loves her little Boy Wonder!"

Boy Wonder smiled, and said, "But I'm not fuzzy!"

Then he looked at my arm, patted it, and said, "But you are, Mommy."

Somehow, it's OK coming from him.

Who's that guy with the tuba, then?

Boy Wonder was eating breadsticks on the drive home today.

"Mommy? These are my drumsticks."
Oh, that's nice. Are you playing drums?
"Yes! Because, Mommy? I have a band!"
Hmmm.
"Mommy? It's a PRETEND band."

Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, then he pretended the breadstick was a pencil, and spent the rest of the drive home asking how to spell my name, Dragon's name, his name, and Baby Boone's name (his syntax was a bit garbled; he was asking, "And what is the start with next letter? D? OK! And what is the start with..."), and then "writing" the names on his knee.

Holy $#!t

I never wanted to be one of those mothers who calls the doctor when her child so much as develops a sniffle. But after today, I'll be rethinking that.

This morning, Baby Boone had an unpleasant crust in the corner of his eye. Now, Boy Wonder just finished up with his course of antibiotic eyedrops, for the same sort of eye grossness, so I said, "Aw, hell. I bet this gets worse." And lo, it was true; by midmorning, his eyes were oozing. I felt rather bad for him - he's been all sniffly since Tuesday or so, and had just developed a cough overnight - and to have an eye infection on top of that seemed grossly (sorry) unfair. But I wasn't particularly worried; sure, he was coughing and sneezing, but he didn't have a fever and seemed in good spirits.

So off we went to the doctor's office, where the doctor said, "Well, he's definitely got a cold. And an eye infection, so we'll get you some eyedrops for that. And...hmm, he's wheezing a little. You know, I usually like to do a chest X-ray the first time a child wheezes, just to check on things."

So off we went to the X-ray department, where Baby Boone's cuteness was much exclaimed over, and all were stunned by the fact that he did not cry when placed in the infant X-ray restraints. And then we went back to the exam room, where the doctor came in to say, "Mrs. Anithe's Lastname, I need to show you something." And I carried Baby Boone into his office, where he pointed out the spot of pneumonia on Baby Boone's right lung.

Pneumonia.

When Boy Wonder had pneumonia, he was ten months old, and he might as well have had an orchestra standing behind him playing the "Your Child Has Pneumonia" Overture.* He was bloody miserable. He was running a high fever. He was having visible trouble breathing. I knew he had pneumonia before we even went in for the X-ray.

I've had pneumonia many a time myself: several times during grade school, a couple of times during high school, and one memorable time during adulthood (I was 22 and didn't have a regular doctor at the time, and I walked around for three weeks feeling miserably short of breath before finally calling an allergy/asthma specialist and saying, "I think I need my medication adjusted." He said, "Um, well, you might. AFTER we treat the pneumonia. Which is in both your lungs, by the way. Take these antibiotics, go home, and don't get up from the couch for at least a week." Ah, reckless youth). And, except for the Reckless Youth incident, it was always quite obvious when I had it, what with fevers and audible wheezing.

But Baby Boone has pneumonia, and I had no idea. I wouldn't even have taken him to the doctor today, except for the eye infection. (Which, incidentally, is now raging. A six-month-old with conjunctivitis is quite a heart-wrenching sight.) So now, I wonder what's in store for us. Every time he gets a cold, will he need to go have an X-ray taken? Will I flinch, remembering how unconcerned I was earlier today, every time he coughs? And, of course, I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't gone to the doctor today. How sick would he have gotten before I knew? I like to think that I'm a reasonably informed patient. I've been told that I am by various medical personnel. But Baby Boone has pneumonia, and I missed it. How informed can I be?

*Not an actual musical composition. But please feel free to give it a try. Be sure to include a piccolo to symbolize the piercing shrieks of an unhappy infant being separated from Mommy, a small, very fast drum to symbolize how babies' hearts beat faster when they have fevers, and a steady trumpet to symbolize the whirr of the nebulizer.

Lost and found

The Christmas before Boy Wonder was born, one of my Christmas gifts was a very nice new cordless phone. We used it enthusiastically for a few months, and then decided to get a cell phone, for the usual reason that couples get a cell phone during the last few months of a pregnancy. We ended up liking the cell phone so much that when it was time to renew our phone contract, we decided to get a cell phone for each of us and drop the land line entirely. The fine new cordless phone went into a box, and a month later we moved from Arizona to Wisconsin. We didn't get a land line hooked up in the new apartment, and so the phone stayed in a box. Now, however, we have decided to have a land line in addition to cell phones, and lately I have devoted some energy to searching for the cordless phone so we can use it. It was not where I expected it to be, and then it wasn't in the other place I expected it to be. Still, I knew it was in a box. Somewhere.

During the last trimester of my pregnancy with Baby Boone, Dragon and I searched frantically for the bag of newborn-sized clothing. We looked in the apartment, in my parents' attic, and in the storage unit. We did not find them anywhere, but I knew they were in a box. Somewhere.

Most recently, the weather turned chilly for a few days, and Dragon was reminded that during winter, he needs to wear an extra layer under his work uniform. So we searched the storage bins and a variety of packing boxes for his thermal undergarments, and we did not find them anywhere. Still, I knew they were in a box. Somewhere.

Last weekend, we finally moved all of our possessions into the new house, and everything from the storage unit went into our basement. And tonight, I decided to go on an expedition. My object: find the cordless phone.

I found the newborn-sized clothing packed away in a box with the Christmas decorations. I am not sure why I put it in there, but I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, now that Baby Boone is six (!) months old, he's already outgrown it.

I found the thermals, and they were where I expected them to be. Yesterday, while in the basement, I noticed a large tote bag, and opened it to find a large plastic bag; through the top of it, I could see a few polo shirts. This morning, I thought, "Hey! I'll bet Dragon's thermals are in that bag!" And lo, they were.

I found an astonishing variety of tote bags, many of which were crumpled up and shoved into other tote bags. And when I say "astonishing variety," I mean, "at least a dozen, including a rather nice insulated lunch cooler

I found an old purse, which I may wash and kick back into action; my current one is too big and getting overstuffed. (The amount of junk I keep in my purse expands to fill the purse.)

I found all of our cassette tapes, including all of the workout mix tapes I made when I was going to the gym regularly...which was in 2001. Oh, dear.

As for the phone...no luck. The search continues, although quite frankly I have no idea where to look next.

Hey...St. Anthony?

The thin plastic line

The hero approaches the opposing army.



"General Dust Mite? Colonel Green Cup? A word, if you please."



This is not going well for the opposing army.



"Conquering is hard work. Where is my dinner?"



(Before anyone decides to comment on my lax personal grooming habits, those are Dragon's legs in the last photo. Not mine.)

Conversation piece

"Mama! Mama! There's a baby under our coffee table!"

"Hmm. Well, is it Baby Boone?"

"Yes..."

"Well, that's fine then. But if another baby shows up under the coffee table, you let me know right away!"

I should've been more specific

My favorite episode of The X-Files is "Je Souhaite." (I always liked their Monster/Supernatural Entity of the Week episodes better than the whole Aliens + Government arc anyway. But I digress.) In this episode, a genie grants wishes that end up causing more harm than good, because people just aren't specific enough when making them - or because they don't consider the consequences. Want to be invisible? Great, but remember that trucks can't see you when you go outside to run around. Wish for peace on earth? Well, Earth is awfully peaceful with no one else on it. Late in the episode, the genie reveals that she, too, wasn't all that smart about wishing - one day, back in fourteenth-century France when she ran across a powerful genie, she made two practical wishes. Then she wished for great power and long life...and that's how she ended up rolled up in a carpet for six hundred years, granting wishes to everyone who unrolled her. She says, ruefully, "I should've been more specific."

Having a three-year-old is kind of like that - the having to be more specific part, I mean. My problem is, I don't always realize how specific one needs to be around a three-year-old. Apparently, when I said to Boy Wonder, "Hey! Get your finger out of your nose!" I should have added, "And just in case you're thinking of sticking puzzle pieces in your nose, don't do that either! Same goes for markers! And action figures!" And when I said, "Stop kicking the TV stand!" I should have also said, "And don't put a cup over your foot and kick the TV stand, either! And don't whack the TV stand with an action figure!" And don't..."

21st-century digital boy

Boy Wonder picked his own outfit today. Last time he did this, he ended up with dueling camouflage: a light blue camo shirt with desert camo pants. This morning, he left the house wearing a Buzz Lightyear T-shirt, an Elmo sweatshirt, and Thomas the Tank Engine light-up shoes. (He has a thing for Thomas footwear, even though he doesn't like the show. Last time Grandma took him shopping, he picked out Thomas bedroom slippers. The furry Elmo slippers freaked him out a little.) Oh, and Spiderman underwear. Kids' pants: the final character-free frontier.

When I went to go pick him up at daycare, he and the rest of his class were playing outside. He and another boy were each sitting on big plastic blocks, with another couple of plastic blocks in front of them. I wondered what they were doing: flying rocket ships? Driving cars? Steering fire engines?

"Hi, Mommy! I'm watching the TV." said Boy Wonder.

"You're...watching TV?"

"Yeah! I have a really big TV!" the other little boy chimed in.

"Yeah, I'm watching TV here. But you know what? This TV's not working very well, Mommy. I think we should go watch TV at home."

Yo(ga), baby

Baby Boone is on the move. On Saturday, he started crawling. On Sunday, he started assuming the above position, which I've been informed is a reasonable approximation of the yoga pose "downward dog." As he is only five and a half months old, I've taken this opportunity to explain to him that he is not actually required to start walking for quite some time yet (and we will never require him to take up yoga). But he persists in attempting even greater feats; as of yesterday, he began trying to move his feet while striking the above yoga pose. Rather like he's trying to walk on all fours.

I wonder if he has any superpowers.

The annotated home

Everybody sing!

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
A garage with a padlock, not a key.*

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
Two clogged drains
And a dad who snaked them out for free.**

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
Three dirty floors
Two leaky faucets
And some locksmith guys who came to re-key.***

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
Four new appliances****
A third leaky faucet
Two smallish closets
And a guy installing cable TV.*****

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
A BASEMENT GAS LEAK
Four trips to Home Depot
Three trips to Menard's
Two trips to Target
And a credit card that wept, "Stop using me!"******

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
Six cans of paint
A BASEMENT GAS LEAK
A wet basement floor
(But at least the floor drain works)
Two wet feet
And a centipede as big as a tree.*******

In the first week of residence, my new house gave to me
Seven garden tools
(Found in the garage)
A BASEMENT GAS LEAK
Fifty billion boxes
Lots of misplaced things
Several strong curse words
And a thousand prayers to St. Anthony.********

I am totally running out of steam now. Perhaps I'll see what verses present themselves over the next several weeks.


*Fortunately, Dragon pointed this out before I had a chance to lock myself in the garage. The side garage door now features a proper doorknob that can be opened from the inside.
**Boy, have I got a nice dad.
***And had to come back for their toolbox, after they left it in the middle of the living room floor.
****And we only had to pay for two! The other two were purchased to be sold with the home.
*****"Hi, I'm Boy Wonder. How are you doing today? The Disney Channel is broken. So is Mommy and Daddy's bomputers. You are here to fix them?" Also, the cable guy left a large box of cabling here. He has so far not come back to retrieve it.
******Some things (like sobbing credit cards?) you just can't buy. For everything else, like the 5,637 things you need upon purchasing a house that was built in 1924, there's MasterCard.
*******OK, so it wasn't quite that big. It was big enough, though. The shriek/WHAP combination is big around here these days.
********Who totally rocks. Why, just this week, St. Anthony has helped me locate glasses, keys, and buckles for the high chair.

Dream home

There is still plenty of stuff to pack, but for the moment I have run out of boxes. Hopefully, more will be acquired tomorrow, but until then...

Tomorrow, we will be visiting Charming Bungalow for our final walkthrough before closing. I am perhaps feeling a bit anxious about this, as evidenced by a recent dream.

Now, Charming Bungalow is entirely vacant, and has been for some time. The seller, a realtor who purchases, updates, and resells homes as a nice side business, has never actually lived there. Occupancy after closing is immediate. However, in my dream, the seller had decided to move his entire extended family in a week before closing. And when we arrived for our final walkthrough, they were all there having a poker tournament.* Piles of clothing and furniture were everywhere, and no one seemed at all concerned about how they were going to move everything out in the three days that remained until closing.

On top of that, the house had rearranged itself, and the downstairs bedroom had increased in size by about thirty feet, and featured a sloped ceiling, stairs, and several layers of carpeting. Another bathroom, with a giant bathtub and a tiny, dishpan-sized hot tub, had appeared. There were some other differences, but I can't remember just what they were now.

I shared this dream with a few relatives and coworkers, and in return, I got to hear some interesting stories. A lot of people dream about houses, it turns out. One coworker, who has done the purchase-remodel-resell thing a time or two herself, said, "Well, when the kids were little, we never seemed to have enough space. I used to have these dreams where we'd suddenly discover a whole other wing, or sometimes just a room, that we'd somehow forgotten about." My mother said, "Remember the linen closet upstairs, at your grandmother's house? I used to dream that it was a bathroom instead."** I periodically dream that a door in my parents' attic opens to a library. Well, not exactly a library, just a nice carpeted room with the walls covered in bookshelves. Sometimes, this dream room is haunted; other times, it's just a bookshelf-lined room. Also, I used to have dreams that Dragon and I had just found a beautiful apartment, with all sorts of wonderful features, and once we moved in, we'd find out that something was drastically wrong with it. Maybe there were no locks on the doors. Or all the walls were glass, or it had been cleverly disguised and was actually located in the middle of the museum or a mall, so curious museum-goers or shoppers could peer in at us whenever they wished.

Anyway, houses are a big deal in many ways. No wonder we dream about them.

*Dragon likes to watch those televised poker tournaments. They have been on frequently lately. Scary that they're creeping into MY dreams now.

**This brings to mind an entirely different type of dream. I'll be running around a college campus, gym, museum, movie theater, or some other large building, walking in and out of bathrooms. Dozens of them. All of them filthy, or crowded, or otherwise unsuitable for use. Eventually, I'll wake up and realize that I need to use the bathroom. I discussed this once with a former coworker, and we both were (oh, no) relieved (sorry) to discover that we weren't the only ones to have dreams like that. As I recall, we practically fell out of our chairs laughing, saying, "And then you sort of start dreaming lucidly, and think, Why the hell do I keep dreaming about BATHROOMS, for crying out loud? Why can't I dream about something pleasant? Oh, wait. I better wake up now."

Boy howdy. If there's a graceful ending after that second footnote, I'm too tired to think of it. Have a nice evening, 'kay?

Homeward bound

Whoa. Just, whoa.

My household has gotten rather a lot accomplished in the past month.

1. I turned thirty.

2. So did Dragon.

3. Baby Boone is almost ridiculously beautiful. His post-bath hair is charmingly curly, and I just about melted with the cuteness when he smiled and squeaked in happiness after a bath earlier this week. He has also has been acquiring new skills at a furious rate; he WAVED at me in the grocery store today. I had been joking that he'd waved at me through the daycare window the other day, but really I thought that he'd just decided to take a good look at his hand, and any semblance of a wave was wishful thinking on my part. Now I'm wondering if he really was waving, because that sure was a wave in the checkout line today.

Also, from his daycare report sheet on Friday:

"Baby Boone had a little road trip today! I put him in the exersaucer and he really liked the steering wheel. He kept turning it. I don't know where he was going. :) "

Brilliant, that child.

4. Boy Wonder is rather brilliant also, having decided entirely on his own that wearing Big-Boy Underwear is the way to go. One Sunday morning, he asked to wear underwear, and I told him that if he stayed dry until it was time for grocery shopping, he could color with markers. (He loves markers, but his have been in hiding for some time, due to Excessive Coloring on Inappropriate Surfaces. Just because the markers are washable doesn't mean that you SHOULD use them on your breakfast plate and the coffee table.) He got to color with markers, and he has also remained dry since, except for a couple got-too-busy-playing-and-forgot-to-go accidents.


5. And, yeah. So. Remember that house hunt? All signs indicate that it is over. We found The House. (In correspondence with Hawkins, I've been referring to it as Charming Bungalow, and thus shall it be known here.) If all goes well, Charming Bungalow will be ours on Thursday. (Then, and only then, will I post the story of how we found Charming Bungalow. The whole thing reeks so strongly of of This Must Be Fate that I don't want to jinx it.) Hence the lack of blogging lately; I have been consumed with making an offer to purchase, waiting for the offer to be accepted, cheering upon the offer's acceptance, scheduling and attending a home inspection, securing financing, being nervous about whether or not we will really get financing, thinking about paint colors (we've been living in apartments for ten years; we REALLY want to paint a couple of rooms now), picking out paint colors, packing, calling the realtor and mortgage lender with last-minute questions, looking for packing boxes, packing some more, cleaning, packing, doing laundry, packing, trying not to lose any of the Important Paperwork, packing, wrangling Boy Wonder as he tries to help me pack, packing, shopping for appliances, and packing.

Speaking of packing...yeah, I've got some stuff to do.

Recognizing that you have a problem is the first step...

Today, in the car to and from various errands, we got to listen to The Tired Monologues, courtesy of Boy Wonder. Some of the monologues made sense; others, begun right after he woke up from dozing in his car seat, did not. My favorite: on the way home from grocery shopping, he said, "Sometimes, I get angry. I get angry when I am tired. And I get cranky when I am tired. I get CRANKY."

Truer words? Were never spoken. He certainly does get cranky when he is tired. And, since he is an energetic three-year-old who likes getting up at 5:19 and strongly dislikes napping, he is frequently tired. Sometimes, I forget to ask his daycare teacher if he napped during the day; however, I can probably stop asking entirely, as it soon becomes obvious on the drive home. If he is cheerful, eats his breadstick snack happily, and wants to go home and make pizza for dinner, he took a nap. If he starts out cheerful but moments later bursts into tears, says that he hates pizza, cries that he doesn't want dinner at all, shouts weepily "I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE!" (the latest tantrum-pronouncement, and I have no idea where he picked that one up), and then falls asleep, he has not napped.

Who's a slacker now?

Overheard on the way into the infant room at the kids' daycare:

"I am so sorry. I can't believe his dad didn't dress him today. I'll make sure he's wearing something other than pajamas tomorrow!"

The parent who said this really did seem horrified that her son, who is about six months old, had been brought to daycare in his pajamas. Wait, there's something wrong with that? I sent Baby Boone to daycare in pajamas a lot, earlier this summer. We had a cool, rainy spell, and it was really the most convenient way to make sure he stayed warm. Plus, wearing footie pajamas is a happy alternative to wearing those little baby socks that get kicked/wiggled off so easily.

Now, if someone had dropped a pajama-clad Boy Wonder off at daycare, I might have been a little irritated. He's three: they go outside, they play in the grass, they need to be wearing clothes and shoes. But in the infant room? They sit in bouncy chairs, roll around on blankets playing with little educational plastic toys, and are held a lot. For that, they need to be dressed in an actual outfit?

Confessions of a slack-jawed reader

So, a while back I read the book Confessions of a Slacker Mom. I was expecting to like it, a lot. I thought it would be sort of like, "Well, I let my kid eat at McDonald's and watch Sesame Street, and that's OK!" What do I get for having expectations? I get, "Well, I was raised a certain way, and my brothers and I turned out JUST FINE, thanks. So that's how I'm raising my children. Everyone should, really."

There are many things about this book that bother me. Here are just a few of them.

1. The author grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. She's from a ranching family, and grew up doing ranching chores on her family's ranch in Wyoming. Her ranching family did things a certain way on their ranch in Wyoming, and she and her brothers turned out just fine after growing up in a Wyoming ranching family. Did you get the part about the ranch in Wyoming? It's OK if you didn't catch it the first few times. The subject comes up frequently.

2. The author doesn't like to take or organize photos, really. Her mother wasn't really into keeping photo albums either. Therefore, women who make scrapbooks are building little shrines to their children; their scrapbooks are full of trivial and predictable content, and their children will develop an overinflated sense of importance (and be totally embarassed) when they see the scrapbooks their mothers made. Oh, but due to her personality type, she could no doubt make a wonderful scrapbook if she felt like it. But she doesn't.

3. The cardboard tube story! This one sent me into fits. As a toddler, the author's daughter found a cardboard tube from the inside of a paper towel or toilet paper roll, and began playing with it: using it as a musical instrument, looking through it, whacking a fence with it. The author seems very impressed by this, and later wonders if her daughter is a prodigy, or if she was just using her imagination to turn the cardboard tube into a toy because she wasn't overloaded with regular toys. My vote goes to, "She's a kid. They do that with cardboard tubes. Whether or not they have other toys." In my family, we even have a special name for them; we call them doodle-oos. This is because every child in my family, when presented with one of these, would put his or her mouth to one end of the tube and say, "Doodle-oodle-ooo!" or some variation of that. Generally, dancing was involved as well. We have home movies of my cousin and I dancing around on a beach with a couple of cardboard tubes. I have a picture of Boy Wonder using one as a telescope. I think it might be universal.

Anyway. Where did my point go? Oh, there it is. There seems to be no middle ground in this book. (Which I suppose is par for the course if you're coming up with a parenting philosophy. It's your philosophy; better stick to it!) The author was raised a certain way, so that's the way to do things. The author doesn't care about pictures with Santa or the Easter Bunny, so no one should. The author does not believe in praising children for doing everyday things, so all parents must save praise for carefully selected special occasions. The author doesn't buy a lot of toys for her kids...etc. And, finally, someone invented the LeapPad, so children will turn tnto dullards who can't read books for themselves.

Well, Boy Wonder has a LeapPad. He likes it; it makes fun sounds. But it hasn't turned him off of traditional books. And he sure as hell doesn't ask the LeapPad to read him a bedtime story. He asks me (and Dragon too, of course). And I will try my darndest to be there at his soccer games (or school plays, or chess matches, or whatever his activity of choice might be). I'll praise him for small things, and I might make a scrapbook or two filled with photos of him. And I'll do the same for Baby Boone, and for any other children I might have someday. I'll even buy them toys (although my relatives pretty much have that covered). Because that's how I was raised. And I like to think I turned out JUST FINE, thanks.

But I'm not about to write a book advocating that people do things my way.

News in brief

1. The biggest news of the week: Baby Boone rolled over! The milestone way, from back to stomach. He did this about a month and a half earlier than expected. I put him in his crib, and he rolled onto his side and began wriggling around, frantically trying for some reason to eat the crib sheet. I walked into the other room, and said to Dragon, "Poor kid, it looks like he's trying to roll over! It will probably be a while, though." Then I walked back into the boys' room to check on him, and said, "Or, not. Hey, he rolled over! Come and see!" We praised him for being clever, and I rescued him from the crib, whereupon he frantically began trying to eat my shirt.

2. We went to visit Nanny and the raspberry bushes again, and Baby Boone was awake this time, so Nanny held him while Boy Wonder and I headed out with our little plastic containers. We filled them with raspberries and headed back indoors, and Boy Wonder once again scarfed down a bunch of raspberries. Later, on the way home, he fell asleep, and I deposited him in the living room recliner for his nap. He kept turning over, and after a while I noticed his hands moving: one of them was moving across the chair, grabbing at something, and the other was reaching for something in the air. I think he was still picking raspberries.

3. The Wild Hunt is on: Dragon and I have begun house-hunting in earnest. We went to several open houses on Sunday. That was fun.

House #1 lacked a basement, which meant that the laundry facilities and water heater were behind a curtain in the kitchen. (Gong noise.) This is how our current place is laid out, so we're sort of trying to ditch that. Also, the listing mentioned "beautiful murals," one of which was of a unicorn flying over a rainbow. Er, no. (Whack that gong.)

House #2 had a fabulous basement, but was rather cramped otherwise, with two tiny bedrooms. (Gong noise.) However, if there had been THREE tiny bedrooms, we might have considered it. Also, the realtor was fairly pleasant.

House #3 was quite attractive, with a stained-glass window and a built-in china cabinet, but had about three feet of counter space in the entire kitchen. (Gong noise.) And, we think the homeowners were watching us on a webcam somewhere; there were tiny cameras stationed all over the house, and a large server in the basement. The realtor claimed to have no knowledge of such a thing. We did not believe him.

House #4 was an impromptu stop; we saw an open-house sign, decided to go check it out, and were rewarded by being shown a very attractive home. Another fabulous basement, along with four reasonably sized bedrooms, a kitchen with more than two feet of counter space, and enough storage for all of the table linens my mother keeps passing along to us. Sadly, this was all accompanied by a high property tax and an even higher price. (Bang the gong slowly.)

4. Baby Boone has amazingly long eyelashes. They brush the tops of his cheeks.

5. Boy Wonder has amazingly loud tantrums, although it didn't stop him from falling asleep in the middle of one tonight. I suspect he did not take a nap today.

6. Quoth the spam filter:

Hi, opera cloak!
Your health, melba grass
Order status, peacock ore
Order status, flower blaster
Your cash, nerve-trying

I have to argue with that last one, there; in fact, my LACK of cash is what's nerve-trying!

Good night...

"Good night, Boy Wonder. Have pleasant dreams."

"NO! No pwesant dreams. Daddy told me to have SWEET dreams."

Hey, whatever works.

Twelve weeks

I am realizing that I post about Boy Wonder a lot. Well, duh; I started blogging mostly so I could blather about my children. But I have two, and what I meant to say is, I haven't posted about Baby Boone very much. And, although he might not initiate surreal conversations, put on puppet shows, or loudly sing the alphabet on the drive home, he's definitely worth talking about. So here goes.

Baby Boone was born on 4/5/06, which is a pretty neat birthdate. He has lots and lots of dark hair; right now, it's about collar-length. We're not sure what color his eyes will be; under a strong light or outdoors, they look almost gray-green, but in normal light, they look gray-brown. We'll see what happens. He's very contact-oriented and cuddly. So cuddly, in fact, that for the first few weeks we were home, he woke up crying after twenty minutes in the bassinet, but would sleep soundly for several hours if cuddled against someone's chest or in someone's arms. Usually mine; on days when just the two of us were home together, I'd park in the recliner with the baby, the remote control, and a pile of books, snacks, and beverages. He would wake up to eat, and then drift back to sleep in my arms, and I would hold him for hours.

He's a very mellow baby. Boy Wonder was pretty easygoing as well, but Baby Boone is seriously laid-back. He is also a very quiet baby; until he started cooing recently, he was eerily quiet. He does like to coo, though, and will sometimes interrupt a meal to gaze up at me and say, "Lah! Hai. Oooh," and other charming, vowel-heavy things.

His smile is like the dawn breaking, and I will do any number of silly things to see it spread across his face. He seems to enjoy watching his brother, as Boy Wonder dances around his bouncy chair waving a stuffed dinosaur at him; this morning he smiled hugely, and made a noise that was almost a laugh.

He is beautiful. He will always be, to me, and you can quote me on this. Even in twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen years, when he will no longer be a cuddly baby and might tell me that he hates me, or that the way I dress, or talk, or walk, or do anything is horribly humiliating to him. His sweet baby smile will always be with me.

Baby Boone is twelve weeks old today. Happy twelve-week birthday, kid. May you have many more.

The peacock scared my popcorn

Another statistically improbable phrase! Here's how it came about.

We were at the zoo on Saturday. Boy Wonder was happily ensconced in the front portion of the double stroller, looking at a polar bear and munching on popcorn (we'd placed some in a plastic cup instead of giving him the whole giant bag). Then it happened. A peacock sauntered by, casually glancing at the stroller scene...and then it turned around, postured, and squawked in Boy Wonder's face. Loudly. Boy Wonder jumped about a foot, bursting into tears and tossing his cup of popcorn into the air. Popcorn scattered, tears flew, and passerby were highly amused. Boy Wonder was provided with more popcorn, tears stopped flying, and the peacock once again sauntered by casually, heading straight for the scattered popcorn. (I think that was her intention all along.)

This post brought to you by my spam filter

Messages with the following headers were quarantined as possible junk or virus-infected mail today.

Your cash, nose dive
Your cash, peach aphid
Your cash, nerve-shaken
Your cash, night-singing
Your health, moon taught
Your health, nit grass
Order status, noble metal
Order status, mouse-colored
Order status, passage boat

I can't imagine why those were all quarantined. I mean, those sound like they are the subjects of perfectly legitimate emails, don't they? DON'T THEY?

Odds and ends

On the home front: Our upstairs neighbors appear to be moving out! I'll admit, I was very startled to see them carrying various pieces of furniture out the door this afternoon. I would have expected to see them leading out a herd of elephants, a road construction crew, six Clydesdales, and the entire cast of Lord of the Dance. I am not kidding. I have no idea how two normal-sized grownups can make that much noise, unless they eat a lot of canned goods and are the two clumsiest people ever. Now, we live on the second floor, and we have a child who is currently fascinated with hopping and jumping, so I can't imagine that living downstairs from us is a real treat either. We're working on that. In fact, the air fairly vibrates with all the cries of "Boy Wonder! STOP JUMPING NOW! There are people downstairs!" However, at least Dragon and I, the grownups, are trying to be courteous by not stomping around ourselves.

On the road again: I took the boys to visit my grandmother, aka Nanny, today. While she watched Baby Boone sleep in his carseat (he wasn't feeling social today, I guess), Boy Wonder and I went to go pick raspberries in her yard. (My late grandfather grew up on a farm and loved to garden. The raspberries nearly took over the whole yard a few years back, but were tamed slightly. Still, there are a lot of raspberry bushes.) Boy Wonder was wildly enthusiastic about raspberry-picking, and I had to supervise him closely (well, duh, he's three; of course I did). I was trying to explain which berries to pick, and finally settled on telling him to pick the ones that were "all the way red" before he stripped the bushes of the pale pink ones. Which led to many shouts of, "Is this one all the way red? Where are some berries for me to pick? It's my turn to pick one!" We didn't pick that many, which may have been a blessing in disguise, because once we got back inside he proceeded to scarf down every single one.

On the home front, redux: Soon, we hope to emulate our upstairs neighbors--not by making noise, but by moving out. Having a second child makes things a bit more crowded than I thought it would, and I think that fairly soon the closet doors will come flying off because they are all ridiculously full. It is Rummage Sale Season around here, and I keep seeing all the signs and saying, "Hey, we should go! Oh wait, no. Where would we put anything else?" So we are sort of in the beginning stages of looking for a house. With a basement.

Early to bed

And later to rise, I guess? Boy Wonder went to bed at his usual time last night, and slept until 6:15 this morning. He woke up in a pretty good mood, too. Whew.

On the other hand, this evening he spent ten minutes (and harnessed a lot of screaming energy) telling me, "It's not bedtime! It's still LIGHT out!" Nothing like a kid who's about to fall asleep on his feet screaming that he's not TIRED, it's still LIGHT out, he doesn't WANT to go to bed. These statements are particularly amusing when accompanied by huge yawns, extensive eye-rubbing, and the special Tired Salute*. After several books and a bedtime story about an upcoming zoo trip, he finally went to sleep. I wonder what time he'll wake up tomorrow.

*He holds his hand in front of his mouth, almost like he's blowing on his wrist to cool it off. He has been doing this since he was about six months old.

Mission accomplished! Well, sort of.

This morning's mission: get out of the house by 7:10, get children safely to daycare, get self safely to work. Status of this morning's mission: complete, with a few technical difficulties along the way.

I woke up at 2:00 this morning (Baby Boone was hungry) and couldn't help noticing that I had a roaring headache. Baby Boone ate and fell asleep again, and I went back to sleep as well, hoping that sleep would cause the headache to quit roaring. It didn't, as I discovered the next time I woke up, at 4:40 (Baby Boone was hungry again). As I was feeding Baby Boone, I heard another voice:

"Mommy? Mommy? Is it morning yet? I want a waffle and orange juice! Is it time to get up?"

(For some reason, Boy Wonder has been waking up ridiculously early lately. He used to sleep until about 6:15 or so, but the past few weeks have seen wake-up times between 5:13 and 5:47. Fortunately, if I turn on his bedroom light he'll play quietly for a while, until it actually IS morning.)

"No, not yet." I called back. "But as soon as I finish feeding your brother, I'll come turn your light on and you can play for a while."

"No! NO! It's morning! I want to get up! It's light out!" And then I heard the sound of a tantrum starting to be thrown. Well, usually he's fine with playing quietly for a while. (He was today, after a few minutes of blowing off steam, and the official getting-up time was 5:55.)

The morning proceeded fairly smoothly after that, with Boy Wonder being presented with orange juice, cartoons, and a waffle. Baby Boone was still sleeping, and I was able to shower, dress, quickly pack two diaper/extra clothes bags, one lunch, one breast pump and its assorted equipment, one general stuff-to-take-to-work bag, and a partridge in a freakin' pear tree.

Then, the time came to put on Boy Wonder's shoes. As he'd already been awake for two hours, he was becoming somewhat cranky and wanted to wear a pair of dirty socks that had been hanging out on the kitchen floor for a few days. (Note to self: clean kitchen floor more often.) I think I had just said something like, "Get over here and get these clean socks on NOW!" when thunder crashed, Boy Wonder looked very startled, and I jumped about a foot. Then I opened the door to reveal a full-blown summer thunderstorm, complete with torrential rains. Seriously, I started wondering if someone had received instructions to build an ark, and I'd just missed the memo.

Boy Wonder (who was eventually persuaded that clean socks were better than dirty) and I got soaked during our twenty-foot dash to the car, although he did get a kick out of running in the rain. The foot of Baby Boone's car seat got a bit damp, but he remained dry. And I pulled out of our parking spot at exactly 7:10!

Just in time to knock over my water bottle, which I'd carefully placed on the seat beside me after forgetting that I lost the cap about a week ago.

Tomorrow is anothah day.

Here's your fizzy water!

Disclaimer: No one has ever actually asked Boy Wonder to bring them a beverage of any sort. He's just started doing it on his own; last time we had dinner at my parents' house, I heard my mother getting me a can of sparkling water and Boy Wonder saying, "No, I want to bring Mommy her fizzy water!"

Today being Father's Day, the boys had some cards ready for Dragon. (I purchased the cards, of course, and then Boy Wonder customized them with some crayons.) So this morning, I sent Boy Wonder to perform the Wake Up Daddy ritual, and gave him the cards to take with him. Dragon was sleepily looking at the cards, and I suddenly heard Boy Wonder rummaging around in the refrigerator.

"Boy Wonder, what are you doing?" I called.

"I'm getting something for Daddy!" he replied.

I started to hear things falling over in the fridge, and went to investigate. Then I saw what Boy Wonder was carrying, and became too busy cracking up as I followed him back into the bedroom. Where Dragon was very surprised indeed when Boy Wonder said, "Here, Daddy! Here's your fizzy water that I brought for you!" and presented him with...a beer. At 8:00 on a Sunday morning, no less.

La leche post

First of all, a big shout-out to the local convention center, the staff of which did not bat an eyelash when I arrived there for an all-day event and brandished my breast pump at them. A nice gentleman showed me into a room with tables, chairs, and a sink, and then got on his walkie-talkie to spread the news that the room would be in use.

And now: Oh, for the love of heaven

Now, I'm all for breastfeeding. I own a copy of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding. I nursed Boy Wonder for sixteen months. Except for, like, three, bottles of formula he had during the week we were both hospitalized and on IV antibiotics, he received no milk but mine until he was nearly ten months old, when I just wasn't able to pump as much during the workday. And by "not as much," I don't mean "less frequently;" I was actually pumping more frequently, but I think by that point he was drinking three 6-ounce bottles a day, and that is a LOT of milk to come up with on a daily basis! My supply was still fine when he was nursing (babies are much more effective than pumps), but I did need to supplement his daycare bottles with formula for the next couple of months, until he switched to drinking regular milk. Even after that, he still nursed at naptime and bedtime until we were through. And, obviously, since I have a two-month-old and was using a pump yesterday, I am nursing Baby Boone. He has not yet had any formula; my employer provides a secure and private space for nursing mothers, and I'm still in the heady days of having a rockin' milk supply. My freezer, it runneth over.

But I am sick, sick, sick of hearing it implied that mothers who don't breastfeed their babies for very long, or don't breastfeed them at all, are causing their children grave physical harm. Yes, breastfeeding is the best nutritional choice, and it would be very easy for me to say, "Why doesn't everyone just give it a try?" But I had a good supply, no big problems, and babies who latched on easily, decided breastfeeding was just fine with them, and proceeded to gain weight rapidly. (And, let's not forget, I also had/have employers who said, "You want to pump? No problem; we'll slap a lock on the empty office down the hall. Here's your key; use it as needed." Not everyone has that.) And, I am here to tell you that even if the nurse who teaches your breastfeeding class tells you that all of her breastfed children never, ever, ever got sick, and only visited the doctor for their well-child visits, not everyone has that experience. By the time he was ten months old, Boy Wonder had had three GI viruses, RSV, pneumonia, and four ear infections.

I have rather a lot to say about this, but very little time. So, in summary: Breastfeeding is good, but formula is not poison, yo. And, if you want to encourage women to breastfeed, provide every new mother with a free, high-quality breast pump, free in-home visits from lactation counselors, and free whatever else is needed to ensure that they'll breastfeed. Maybe with some of the money that's being spent on this ad campaign.

The mother monologue

Here's what I said on the drive home today. See if you can fill in the other end of the conversation.

So, you had a fun day at school? Oh, good.
I'm sure Grandma will take you to the flower garden. You'll have to ask her, though.
You can call Grandma when we get home.
NO. You can call Grandma when we get home.
Yes, I know I called Daddy on the way home yesterday. (Whoops.)
I'm sure Grandma will think that's fine.
YOU CAN CALL GRANDMA WHEN WE GET HOME.
You had what for lunch?
And did you like it?
Yes, Daddy likes meatloaf.
I'm sure Grandma and Grandpa do too.
No, your brother is too little to have meatloaf.
No, he can't even have little meatloaves.
I know he's getting bigger. But he's not big enough for meatloaf yet.
Yes, you're growing and growing!
Yes, the big sign with the dancing man is gone.
I don't know.
No, I'm pretty sure our neighbors didn't move it.
Yes, it was a silly sign.
ABCDEFG, HIJKLMNOP. QRSTUV, WXY and Z. Now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me.
Because the light is red.
No, green means go.
No, red means...never mind. You'll figure it out in a few years.
No, I don't have a lollipop for you.
I'm sure the doctor will have a lollipop for you next time.
That's right, your brother can't have a lollipop.
Not even a little one.
Yes, he just made a little noise.
No, it's not because I said he couldn't have a lollipop.
Oh look, we're home!

(This is why I don't listen to the radio in the car anymore. The live entertainment can't be beat.)

Note to one of my neighbors: your son needs to wash his hands

The Monday Night Screamfest almost drove an utterly bizarre experience straight out of my mind, but fortunately I remembered it today.

So I was standing outside the car, planning my strategy for transporting a sleeping three-year-old, a sleeping infant, two diaper bags, and my purse from the car to the apartment (not as difficult as it sounds, trust me), when I heard a noise behind me. I jumped about two feet, and the voice continued...

"Look at meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. I have a live birdieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

I turned around to face a young boy, perhaps seven years old. He was indeed holding a live birdie: a very uncomfortable-looking pigeon.

"I liiiiiiiiiiiiiike birds," he said.

"Oh. How nice. Bye now," I responded.

The boy and the live birdie moved on. I briefly wondered if I should be concerned about the pigeon's welfare, and decided against it. A moment later, I noticed that the live birdie had staged an escape, and was leading the boy on a merry chase.

Good times.

Cue circus music

Three-year-olds are a trip.

Yesterday afternoon, Boy Wonder fell asleep on the way home from school. He's been doing that a lot lately, since he pretty much quit taking naps. Sometimes, he will fall asleep on the way home and sleep through until the next morning. While I am fine with him doing this once a week or so, I don't want it to become the status quo. The kid weighs 29 pounds; he doesn't need to be skipping meals. So we usually wake him up for dinner. Mostly, he is fine after a few cranky minutes. Sadly, last night was not one of those times. Waking him up resulted in more than an hour of screaming blue hysteria. First he agreed to calm down if he could talk to Grandpa on the phone, so I called my parents and explained his urgent need to speak to Grandpa. For whatever reason, though, my mother decided she'd try talking to him first. I am unclear as to why she thought that was a good idea. More screaming blue hysteria ensued, and by the time Grandpa got on the phone, Boy Wonder was absolutely incoherent and had to lie down on the floor. He finally calmed down enough to get in the bathtub (after half an hour of "I don't like a bath! No bath! I had a bath already! I don't LIKE a bath!"), where he mostly sulked for a while. Then I put some shampoo in his hair; this was the wrong thing to do, apparently, as he started in with the dramatic weeping again, and finally shouted, "I don't want to talk to you! Don't look at me!"

Then, thirty seconds later, he looked up at the ceiling, smiled, and said...

"Is it starting to rain in here?"

Huh?

Wow

Baby Boone slept from 9:00 last night until 4:45 this morning. He is only two months old, so I wasn't expecting that for a while. I can't remember Boy Wonder doing that until he was nearly four months old!

Statistically improbable phrases

No, not the ones that are part of Amazon's search feature; I'm talking about an entirely different sort of improbable phrase. Once you become a parent, you find yourself uttering phrases that you never in the world suspected would come out of your (or, really, anyone's) mouth. This is especially frequent once your child begins talking. Some of these phrases, such as "Is there corn in your nose?" and "Did you just hit your brother with a spatula?" and "No, you can't throw a pillow at your brother in his bouncy chair. Where did you get that idea?" are probably pretty common. However, some of them, such as "No, you were not born at the zoo," and "Not all airplanes are flying to Arizona," and (my current favorite) "Yes, your pink blanket is on vacation with the giraffes," are not so common. They're pretty darn entertaining, though.

Quoth Boy Wonder

"I was NOT borned in Arizona. I was BORNED at the ZOO."

Ok, kid.

Gonna wash that...oh, never mind

Ok, so. The washer? Broke. Again.

I thought that having it break three times while I was in various stages of pregnancy (the last time when I was officially nine months pregnant) was enough. Nope. Then, I thought that having it break the day before a holiday weekend, when only one maintenance person was working and therefore could not fix it unti the Tuesday after the holiday weekend, was enough. Nope, although we did get to use the washer in a vacant apartment, and I got to spend the holiday weekend merriliy trotting laundry between our apartment and the empty one.

And then, the washer was fixed! On the Thursday after the holiday weekend, not the Tuesday, because maintenance was just too busy. And then it broke again, four days after it got fixed. Ironically, it is Resident Appreciation Week at our apartment complex. We are feeling profoundly underappreciated.

But now, the washer is fixed! For the time being.

Brand recognition

Target is my favorite store. There are Targets everywhere, they are open most of the time, and they have great clearance sales; in fact, most of my wardrobe comes from their clearance racks. And, for the past few years, we've been lucky enough to live in apartments that are very close to a Target. This came in especially handy after Boy Wonder was born; once a baby joins the household, there is always something you need, and chances are you can find it at Target. (Which reminds me, I need to go buy wipes.) So I went there at least once a week. And then, we moved cross-country when Boy Wonder was eleven months old...and once you move, there is always something you need, and chances are...etc. So I spent a lot of time at Target then, too.

Therefore, I'm not surprised that Boy Wonder quickly learned to recognize the Target logo, and to request trips to Target in his chirpy little voice. We've visited several of the Targets in our fair city, and he's designated them as Mommy's Target (the one at the end of the block), Grandma's Target (the one near my parents' house), and The Big Target (a new, spacious Target about ten minutes away). All of these different Targets can lead to some confusion, sometimes.

So yesterday, Dragon and I were not satisfied with some of the produce options at the supermarket, and we decided to hit the local fruit market. Boy Wonder asked where we were going, and we told him...

Boy Wonder: We're going to the fruit Target? Where is that?
Me: No honey, the fruit market.
Boy Wonder: The fruit Target! Target is having a fruit sale!

Fortunately, he wasn't too disappointed when we pulled into the parking lot of the fruit market.

The power, alrighty, of doing your own thing

(With apologies to The Harvard Lampoon and Bored of the Rings.)

Before the show Joan of Arcadia was cancelled, I watched it weekly. (Of course, that's why it was cancelled: too many people my age and not enough people Joan's age were watching. But I digress). I especially liked the first season, during which the main character was surrounded by people who were all very good at one thing or another. Her dad was a cop, and a good one. Her older brother had been a gifted athlete, and her younger brother was a gifted student. The guy she became interested in was a gifted artist, and so was the other girl who was interested in him (got that?). And her best friend was...well, a gifted rebel. Joan spent much of that season trying a variety of different activities: photography, band, cheerleading, working in a bookstore, babysitting, and I can't even remember what else. I could really relate to that. I did the same thing in high school, and I wasn't even talking to God; I just wanted to be good (really, really good) at something.

I am very good at reading, but that becomes obsolete once second grade is over. I'm good at writing papers, but lack the self-discipline and dedication to write anything longer. I can carry a tune (at least the kids haven't complained too much) and have recently learned an impressive collection of nursery songs, but I would be laughed off the stage of American Idol. I used to be a pretty fair actress (at least all of my acting teachers said so), but I got out of the theatrical habit in college while working two jobs. I was a decent student, managing to remain on the honor roll throughout high school while barely cracking a book. (Textbook, that is. I cracked plenty of novels.)

I've learned to knit, crochet, scrapbook, rubber stamp, and make beaded jewelry. I can do all of these things reasonably well, but I'm not passionate about any of them. I can skip stones, but only a couple of times. I'm very polite, can get along with just about anyone, and have had several employee reviews that feature the phrase "Everyone seems to want to work with you more often," but I don't think that doing my job without being a drama queen is above and beyond the call of duty, you know? I'm good at making people laugh, but my sense of humor is fairly dry and sarcastic, and not for everyone.

However, I think I've finally found something that I'm really, really good at. When my first son (Boy Wonder) was born, in April of 2003, I discovered that I could talk (and write) about him--what he was doing, what he was learning, how he was learning it, and how cute he looked while all of this was taking place--for hours. Watching a tiny human develop is endlessly fascinating. This has only intensified with the recent arrival of Baby Boone, now two months old.

So I'm damned good at talking about my kids. And, being a Leo, I'm not half bad at talking about myself, either. I may even talk about books sometimes.

Feel like listening?