So are the days of my life

First, there was Halloween. And lo, my kids were cute! They were so cute, in fact, that I was getting ready to come here and tell the entire Internet about how cute they were. I was even going to provide photographic evidence of their cuteness. But, since we cannot have everything in this life, a virus ate my computer. Ah, viruses: the e-mail forwards that keep on giving. My computer was functioning quite normally all day Saturday (way back in November, this was, the first weekend after Halloween), and suddenly pop-ups starting appearing with amazing frequency, and some scanning revealed that my computer had more viruses than Boy Wonder got in the winter of 2004/2005, when we were at the doctor's office every other damn week. Instead of blathering on about my adorable children, I needed to back up photos of said adorable children (along with any other photos within a twelve-mile radius, my homework, my freelance work, and two years' worth of e-mail) and reinstall EVERYTHING. All hail the holy flash drive, which I borrowed from my dad and have yet to return. At some point during the festivities, rap music came blaring out of my speakers. This (the backup/reinstall, not the rap music) put quite a damper on computer-related festivities for a while.

Then, there was Thanksgiving! I am seriously considering assembling snack platters and cooking turkey more frequently, if such will make Boy Wonder (normally a touch fussy) eat with the gusto that he did on Thanksgiving. I meant to blog about Thanksgiving too, but there was homework to do, and there were things to do around the house, and there is also Action Hero, who every day accomplishes great feats of physical dexterity (see below).



And then, there was...sewage! Charming Bungalow, like many old houses, seems to really enjoy knocking us for a loop every once in a while. (Bats in the attic! Bat in the basement! Birds in the eaves! Mice in the garage!) However, the most recent house-related event, in which foul-smelling water rose through the basement floor drain whenever I did a load of laundry, takes the prize at the country fair (so far, anyway). It also wins the Totally Most Inconvenient Prize, since I do a LOT of laundry. More details are coming soon; for now, things have been cleared up via Roto-Rooter. I celebrated by doing eight loads of laundry today.

And now, relative calm has returned. For the moment, the drains are functioning properly. My semester is almost over (final on Tuesday), so homework will drift softly over the horizon line, ready to reappear in January but blessedly absent for the holidays. My children are still climbing the walls (and the furniture), but are also lots of fun, and the elder of said children is beside himself with holiday excitement most of the time. May we continue living in wildly uninteresting times.

I want candy

Sort of. Only certain kinds of candy, though.

This just in: Boy Wonder has received his first Pez dispenser. His latest October-birthday classmate (there are 10 kids in his class, and FOUR of them have birthdays in October) brought in party favor bags on Tuesday, and they were a Boy Wonder dream: a Spiderman cup, a Halloween pencil, fruit-flavored candy, Tootsie Rolls ("For you, Mommy!") a couple of other Spiderman toys, and a Halloween Pez dispenser. (We thought it was a Black-Suited Spiderman Pez dispenser for a minute, but it's just a black skeleton.)

Boy howdy, does he ever like Pez. Before I knew it, he had scarfed down a whole package of them. I thought he was playing with the dispenser as he chattered away, but then he said, "Those sure were good, Mommy! Can I have another package?" I had been doing the nod-and-smile thing, saying "Uh-huh" every few minutes as he expounded upon topics such as Halloween, Spiderman, who else in his class is going to be Spiderman for Halloween, when trick-or-treating will be, Spiderman, wanting to find his pencil sharpener, and Spiderman, and said, "Uh-huh...WAIT, WHAT? NO YOU CAN'T! Give me that Pez dispenser!" It was shelved until after dinner tonight, when he was permitted to eat four Pez (since he is four years old, he likes his snacks in groups of four). Hey, we'll be trick-or-treating on Sunday. Soon, there will be enough sugar around for ten people.

Of course, I'll get to eat half of it (or my coworkers will get to eat half of it). I don't think I've mentioned this here before, but Boy Wonder is anti-chocolate. I think it's a texture thing; my mother used to keep those little Hershey candy bars in her cookie jar, and two-year-old Boy Wonder was fascinated by all those shiny, pretty wrappers. So she gave him a bit of chocolate, and he put it in his mouth, looked horrified, and said, "Grandma, chocolate is HOT." She tried explaining to him that chocolate GETS hot when it is in our mouths, and that's called melting, but he was having none of it. And since then, he has had none of it.

Not that he's anti-candy, or anti-sweets. His favorite candy is Smarties, and he's quite fond of the astonishing array of fruit-flavored snacks available in grocery stores today, all branded with favorite cartoon characters guaranteed to make your child take fifteen minutes to decide if he wants to bring Ninja Turtled, Spiderman, Scooby-Doo, Backyardigans, Dora the Explorer, SpongeBob, Care Bears, or Sesame Street snacks to daycare for his birthday treat. (One box of Ninja Turtles and one box of Scooby-Doo, in case you're interested.) Basically, if it's fruit-flavored and can be chewed, he likes it. (This does not apply to lollipops; he also had his first lollipop when he was around two, licked it once, and then stuck it to the side of his neck.) He loves vanilla ice cream, likes Rice Krispie treats (bleargh), and he likes cheesecake (Dragon is particularly proud of this last preference). He also likes cake frosting (this works OK; he eats the frosting, I eat the cake).

Action Hero, so far, has no such preferences. Sure, he likes vanilla ice cream, frosting, and Smarties; he also likes whatever else is not nailed down. This will likely be challenging on Halloween; we may have to institute a rationing system.

Thy rod and thy staph, they comfort me

Wait, hang on a second. There is not, in fact, a rod involved in this story. I wish I could say the same about the staph. Which, actually, is quite the opposite of comforting. This post title really has nothing to do with the post topic. However, I couldn't immediately think of another well-known phrase in which "staph" could be inserted so readily.

Sign at the daycare on Monday: "We have had one case of Staph Infection in Your Child's Classroom. Please watch for rashes or sores, and see your pediatrician if you have any questions." Unfortunately, Action Hero's classroom is prime territory for such a thing; the toddlers are both drooly and mobile.

Sign at the daycare on Tuesday: "We have had two cases of Staph Infection in Your Child's Classroom. Please watch for rashes or sores, and see your pediatrician if you have any questions."

On Wednesday afternoon, upon removing Action Hero from his carseat, I noticed that the corners of his mouth seemed irritated, and hoped against all hope that it was just because of the extra drool sparkling against them (he's cutting his eighth tooth right now). However, by bedtime, they were looking downright sore-ish. I spent some time cross-referencing "staph" and "mouth sores" with Dr. Google, concluding that if they were indeed sores, they were most likely impetigo, a bacterial skin infection which would need a course of antibiotic ointment.

And indeed, there were definite sores this morning, so we paid a visit to the real live doctor, who diagnosed impetigo and provided (free!) samples of the needed ointment, which should put things right by the weekend. Technically, it probably is a staph infection; impetigo can be caused by either staph bacteria or strep bacteria, and considering the signs at the daycare, my money's on staph. Meanwhile, I have talked with Boy Wonder about the importance of not sharing drinking glasses or treats with Action Hero, and made a note to stop at the drugstore for some bleach.

I can't think of anything further to say, except a resounding, "Yuck."

Casual where?

Over the past couple of years, I have met various parties who tell me something surprising about their wardrobes. With perfectly straight faces and an earnest attitude, they tell me that they do not own any jeans. Or sweatpants. Or yoga pants. On weekends, they wear khakis, or cords, or cotton slacks...anything but blue jeans. I would imagine that the khakis and cords are accompanied by button-down shirts...perhaps even neatly ironed ones.

I do not understand these people. Business wear is fine for the business world, but at home, I like to be as comfortable as possible, and for me, that means jeans, T-shirts, and sweats. I like to be so comfortable, in fact, that, "Uh. Are you really going to wear that to the grocery store?" is a frequent weekend phrase around here.

However, these people do have one advantage, which is as follows. When a neighbor unexpectedly stops by to drop off some freshly baked cookies one evening, she will not find them cooking dinner in flannel pajama pants and a gray T-shirt that was purchased in 2002.

News in (very) brief

Back soon.

Oh, you didn't notice I was gone? Whew, then.

But, in case you care, suffice it to say that I don't recommend taking on a freelance article two weeks before going back to school. At all.

Perhaps I'm insane. But, you know, money. Is nice. As is maintaining contact with sources of freelance work.

I appear to have left my complete sentences in my homework.

Going to bed.

"G" is for...

Boy Wonder is almost done with his first official week of kindergarten; he had two half-days last week, and a full schedule this week. He really seems to be enjoying it; his teacher is quite nice, the after-school care room is also nice, and he even has a new little friend already. (More on that later.) Plus, he went to his first all-school liturgy this week. I was expecting to hear all about God, and saying prayers, and how church is still a singing place, after that. Instead, I've been hearing about...gingerbread.

Apparently, his class learned the story of the Gingerbread Man this week, and Boy Wonder has told it to me about six different times. It changes each time; so far, my favorite version is, "And then he jumped out of the pan! And the little old lady called her husband, and some old farmer. And then a woodcutter...no, a fox...wait. Run run run as fast as you can!" His first official gym class was today, and he was under the impression that his class was going to the gymnasium to look for the gingerbread man. They must be talking about baking gingerbread men, too, because he keeps asking when we can make gingerbread cookies. With frosting. In fact, can we make a whole gingerbread cake? For dinner? Tonight?

Actually, having a whole gingerbread cake for dinner sounds rather appealing; I like gingerbread cookies, but baking them from scratch is kind of a project so I don't do it that often. However, we're about to have a long weekend, so a baking project sounds nice. Maybe we'll find the Gingerbread Man in our kitchen...

Sticks, stones, and eye-rolling groans

Today's insult, courtesy of Boy Wonder:

"You're a...a...a...MEAN UNDERWEAR! I DON'T WANT TO LIVE HERE ANYMORE!"

(I think that was right after I told him, for about the fiftieth time, that he could wait until after the kitchen table was cleared off to play with his paper and glue. Or after I told him to stop sliding off the arm of the couch, or perhaps after I told him that really, not being able to find the safety scissors did not warrant a full-blown floor-flinging tantrum and ten minutes of wailing.)

Overheard at the grocery store's deli counter:

"I am just so sick of cutting the cheese."

To their credit, the other employees did not break out into mad giggle fits or say, "Haha! Well, I'm sick of you cutting the cheese too!" Instead, they commiserated morosely with, "Well, I'm sick of this JOB." I suppose that if you work full-time at the deli counter, any jokes about cutting the cheese get old real fast.

Religious education

Boy Wonder on his day:

"Today I meet God! And learned about NameofFatherSonHolySpiritAmen." (accompanied by little hand-waving motions, mostly correct) "And Papa is up in heaven with Jesus."

Well, that just about covers it, don't you think? Especially that first bit. Two half-days of Catholic kindergarten, and he's already met God.

Passages

As many people do, I have anxiety dreams every once in a while. Usually, they focus on either school or work. In the work ones, which usually occur during my first few weeks at a new job, I'm either standing in a conference room saying absolutely ridiculous things, or performing one repetitive task (past work dreams have consisted of shelving in an endless warehouse of books, swiping items across a scanner, typing countless address labels, or copying and pasting data into an Excel spreadsheet). In the school ones, I'm back in high school, and my math homework, which always seems to consist of several hundred incomprehensible algebra problems, isn't done. Or it's the first day of a new semester, and I have no schedule, no textbooks, and no backpack...and I can't remember my locker combination. Or I'm just running late, very late, and getting to school at midnight. And, many moons ago, during a particularly stressful week at Former Employer, I got a a double whammy, dreaming that I was back at my high school...and so were my coworkers.

A new era of anxiety dreams has dawned, though. Last night, I kept waking up in a cold sweat, sitting bolt upright, and checking the alarm clock; this happened at least three times that I can remember. What was I dreaming about?

Well, you know you're a grownup when you stop dreaming about being late for school, and start dreaming about making your kid late for school. Today was Boy Wonder's first official day of school, and since it's been thunderstorming a whole damn lot here and we had a power outage that knocked out the alarm clocks* night before last, I was somewhat concerned (more than somewhat, judging by what my subconscious was doing) about oversleeping and making Boy Wonder get his very first tardy. I don't know what he dreamed about; perhaps nothing, as he fell into an utterly exhausted sleep after melting down completely before bedtime. To hell with the subconscious; when you're four, everything comes whooshing right out your conscious. (After his third bout of howling hysteria, we sat and talked about how school will be fun and exciting, but it's TOTALLY OKAY to be a little scared about going new places and making new friends.)

As it was, though, we got up early and arrived at school right on time, and I got to stand on the playground (in a light drizzle, because it's still raining a whole damn lot here) watching the classes line up and enter the building. I even got to hold Boy Wonder's hand as he followed his new classmates down the hall, and wave at him as he placed his backpack on the table and joined his class for morning circle time.

*Hey, the kids wake up at 5:51. Who needs an alarm clock anyway?

Let my spam filter entertain you

(Because my brain is melting.)

Today I received six separate spam e-mails with the header "Stop going to bars to meet people." Spammers do not know me very well (thank you, Queen of Stating the Obvious), as I don't even go to bars to drink, much less to meet people.

Other spam topics, both recurring and standalone, from today's e-mail check:

PHONES WITH RINGS ARE HOT

I thought phones with rings were...standard issue. I have never had a phone without a ring.

DO YOU NEED TO PULL MONEY FROM YOUR HOME

I need to pull money from somewhere. I suppose my home is the least offensive option.

GET YOUR CRIMINAL JUSTICE DEGREE WHILE YOU TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS

Are these two tasks related somehow?

THE ABSOLUTE HOTTEST TOY OF THE YEAR

Judging from the e-mail's text, the hottest toy of the year is a remote-control toy helicopter, perfectly safe for indoor flying. Hey, if the bat ever comes back, we'll have a trained air force all ready for it.

WHAT DOES YOUR CREDIT REPORT SAY

Plenty. But nothing I want to hear right now.

CURIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOUR CREDIT REPORT SAYS

Wait, I just said...no. No, I'm not.

WANT TO GET TO KNOW SOMEONE FIRST

Better than going to the bar, I suppose.

Recent hits

School Supplies

Boy Wonder will be starting school--real school; heaven help us all, where did the time go?--next week, and in preparation, his batch of school supplies has been boxed up neatly, awaiting transport to his classroom during next week's open house. Action Hero really likes these boxes, and occasionally will remove the lid, examine the box's contents, and rearrange things a bit. Then he'll replace the lid and move along. At least I thought he was moving along.

My parents were visiting this weekend, and Mom noticed the boxes. "Oh, are those his school supplies? What kind of stuff does he need?" she said. I opened the boxes, and said, "Oh, just standard stuff. Crayons, markers, glue sticks..."

"What will he be using the CDs for?"

"Nothing...I mean, they weren't on the list...wait, what? There are CDs in there?"

"Uh-huh. Oh look, there's a sock too! And a little toy dog!"

Needless to say, socks and little toy dogs were not on the supply list, nor were CDs; apparently Action Hero felt the need to pack a few extra things. He has good taste, however, as one of the CDs was a Hawkins-compiled mix.

Bathroom talk

Many years ago, when I was an eighth grader babysitting for the neighbor kid, his mom said to me, "I'm just at a loss! He and his friend use bathroom words all the time! They change the lyrics to songs and think it's the funniest thing ever! Last week one of them sang, 'Santa Claus is coming to...FART!' and they laughed for a good twenty minutes about that! What should I do?" At the time, my younger cousins were making similar jokes, and I was like, "Uh. Well, I think all boys do that. I'm sure he'll stop sometime."

And it is now time to tell myself, "Uh, well. All boys do that. I'm sure he'll stop eventually." The bathroom humor has landed, and lo, it is gross. For once, I'll spare you the details. The daycare teacher has confirmed that everyone is now doing this, not just Boy Wonder. Must be a fun classroom these days.

Two out of three ain't bad

Earlier this summer, during my first conversation with the principal of Boy Wonder's school, she said, "And how old is Boy Wonder?" I said, "He's four. Which he'll tell you himself, within five seconds of meeting you. He will then tell you that he has Shrek shoes. He might also possibly tell you that he has a baby brother called Action Hero."

Later that day, we went to go tour the school and meet the principal. She said, "Hi, Boy Wonder! How are you today?" He said, "HI I'M BOY WONDER I'M FOUR YEARS OLD! LOOK THERE IS SHREK ON MY SHOES!" (pause) "Where is your bathroom? I need to go potty."

Well, I was close.

Batman returns

So far, no more sightings of the flying mammal kind have occured, but that doesn't mean that I don't jump three feet whenever a door squeaks...and, as Charming Bungalow was built in 1924, that's a frequent occurence. Batman did return, and I hope this is the end of the bat situation, because I'm running out of bad bat-related puns to use in blog post titles and also because I DON'T WANT WILDLIFE IN MY HOUSE ANYMORE. Batman said that he could not find any, um, signs that bats had been visiting recently, and usually those are quite evident.

As a special reminder, however, dinner tonight featured soft flour tortillas. Boy Wonder was eating his with great concentration; he then unfolded it to reveal that he had nibbled his tortilla into the shape of a bat.

Yeah, I think he's ready for kindergarten.

A new classic

Quoth Boy Wonder, trying to entertain Action Hero, during today's drive home:

"Eeny meeny miney mo. Baby in the seat! Catch a baby by the toe!
Baby has a toe! And shoes!
Let him holler! Let him holler! Give him a cracker!
Baby Action Hero! ONE YEARS OLD! Eeny meeny miney mo!"

When bat things happen to good people

Alternate titles for this post include "Getting the Batman to Cometh Back," "The Curious Incident of the Bat in the Night-time," and "Mother Nature, What Did I Ever Do to You?"

Previously on About Some Boys: Anithe relates an absorbing tale about how bat exclusions are done, why her house needs one, and why the previous homeowners didn't know about the bats. Join our intrepid heroine now as she shares an even closer encounter of the bat kind.

So, it's Saturday night, around 10:00. The kids are asleep, Dragon is off having fun in California, and I am relaxing on the couch and watching an episode of Medium. (Good one, too.) I am briefly distracted--was that something I just saw out of the corner of my eye?--but decide that I am crazy and turn my attention back to the television.

Unfortunately (at least this time), I am not crazy, as is soon evidenced by a flying creature zooming across the room. I briefly wonder if it is a bird, having recently had the family of birds living in one of our eaves called to my attention by a neighbor, but after a couple of seconds realize that it is not squawking, not issuing forth any white splats, and not feathered. In short, it is a bat. You know, the type of creature that was supposed to be GONE from the house after the bat exclusion? Yeah, one of those.

After letting out a few girlish shrieks (which is OK, as I am a girl), I get up and take a few minutes to observe it, having researched via Google what to do in this very situation. The bat whizzes around the room at a furious rate of speed, circling the ceiling frantically, and it becomes apparent that the bat does not want to be anywhere near a human--its radar is in fine working order, and it neatly avoids me every time it completes a lap. This reassures me slightly. I grab a T-shirt, thinking perhaps to trap it under a T-shirt and escort it outside, but bats fly awfully fast and have excellent radar, and it dodges the T-shirt expertly. Then I try holding open the front door, thinking perhaps it will fly out, but even passing by a human on the way outside is too much for it to contemplate...and it flies into the kitchen. I chase it in there, still holding the shirt, close the door to the upstairs and thus the sleeping children, and lose sight of it. Oh, dear.

Thinking "Oh no! It's gone in the basement and I'll never find it down there," I flip on the light in the back hall. Nope; having had enough of Crazy T-shirt Waving Lady, it's decided to hit the deck and hide by the recyclables. I drop the T-shirt on it, grab a bowl, and remove the T-shirt as I place the bowl over the bat, which is sort of cute up close. (But I still don't want to share a bedroom or living room with it.) Then I put the T-shirt over the bowl and call the local bat rescue lady, who a couple of months ago said she'd be happy to come pick up any bats I might encounter, but she does not answer. So I decide to leave the bat contained until morning, see what advice the Humane Society has, and sleep at my parents' house until then. The children wake up slightly when we get there; Boy Wonder falls asleep again readily, but Action Hero wants to stay up playing peek-a-boo with Mickey Mouse and a blanket. Yawn.

In the morning, I call the Humane Society ("I trapped a bat in my home last night. As far as I know, it is still under a bowl which is underneath a T-shirt. May I now retrieve it and bring it to you?"), and they say, "Sure, bring it in; we'll take it from there." (They also say, "You're so logical about this! Most people call up in a panic, asking if we can send someone out to pick up the bat--which, being a nonprofit organization, we can't--because they'll NEVER EVER GO IN THAT ROOM AGAIN. Thanks, it's nice talking to you.")

But alas, when I (along with my dad, for moral support) go to retrieve the bat, it has escaped. Mother Nature is far wiser than I am, it would seem. I try to be rational about the whole thing, and decide that if it can get out from under a T-shirt-covered container, it can certainly find its own way outdoors. But I do spend a few minutes complaining ("Why do I have to have bats? And birds? Why can't I just have the occasional centipede? Sure, they're hideous, but at least they don't whiz around the living room at 40+ mph!"). And I do call Batman back, saying, "I hate to tell you this, but there was a bat in my living room last night!" and he will stop by this week to inspect and, hopefully, re-exclude.

Despite my thinking that I will never be able to sleep again, the kids and I pass an uneventful night back at home. The bat rescue lady, who was out of town, calls back just before bedtime, and we chat briefly about my encounter. She also feels that the bat could probably find its own way outside, and suggests that the bat was probably a baby bat just learning to fly. I had been thinking that too. From what I've read, adult bats are very good navigators; once they've been roosting somewhere for a while, they know which crevices lead outdoors and which crevices lead to rooms that contain shrieking humans brandishing T-shirts, and make their choices accordingly. Baby bats, on the other hand, are lousy navigators and will crawl through random openings, making them somewhat likelier to end up freaking out in my living room.

BatWatch 2007 remains in effect, however, and the return of Batman is eagerly anticipated. And, as mothers often do, Mother Nature has the last word. This morning, I noticed a dark spot on the living room carpeting. As I got closer, I thought it was dryer lint. And after I turned on the light, I realized that it was...a centipede.

Mother Nature has a fine sense of humor.

Welcome to the Hotel (in) California.

I'm hoping that the above is a phrase that Dragon will be hearing sometime tonight, before too much more time passes; he's off to California to visit a friend, and called from the airport earlier this evening to say that his flight was delayed. I hope it's not delayed too long; he enjoys flying about as much as I enjoy finding a bat in the basement, so sitting in an airport is rather stress-inducing for him.

Speaking of things that induce stress...well, four-year-olds are crazy. At least mine is. Lately he's been having more mood swings and "unpredictable" behavior than Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan combined. One minute he's cheerfully waving Mickey Mouse in front of Action Hero, singing "Mickey Mickey you're so fine! You're so fine Mickey Mickey! Here, Action Hero, let's play Mickey! And cars!" And then he is flinging himself on the floor, howling about how he does not want to go to bed, ever again. Actually, he never wants to go anywhere lately. He's very much in a "the grass is greener" phase; he'll ask where we are going, I'll tell him, and without fail, the response is, "I don't WANT to go there! I want to go SOMEWHERE ELSE!" Even if we're on the way to Grandma's house, which, as the place where root beer, apple juice, and fruit-flavored snacks can be had simply for the asking, generally rates as a favorite.

Example, from today's drive home:

"Blah blah blah blah need to get home so we can give Daddy hugs and kisses before he rides the airplane to California!"

"I don't WANT to go home!"

"Well, where do you want to go?"

"The doughnut store!"

"Oh, haha! We don't have doughnuts for dinner!"

"NOOOOOOOOOWAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHH." (cue noisy tears) "I don't WANNA go home to home or anyfing I WANNA GO TO THE DOUGHNUT STORE AND GET DONUTS FOR BREAK....BREAK....BREAFIST!" (more noisy tears)

"Calm down, hon. I think Grandma will probably have some doughnuts at her house tomorrow."

"NO NO NO I DON'T EVER WANT TO GO TO GRANDMA'S HOUSE AGAIN NEVER! I ONLY WANT TO GO TO THE DOUGHNUT STORE!"

I am usually at a loss about what to do when he designates a particular event, conversation, or observation as Something to Freak Out About. Obviously, if we're in the car, there's not a lot I can do (other than keep my eyes on the road even as my car begins to sound like an entire three-ring circus is taking place inside it); I just wait for the tantrum to pass, and he'll either fall asleep mid-sentence or fall silent for a few minutes and then continue whatever surreal monologue preceded the tantrum. At home, it's more difficult, particularly since he frequently stages screamfests at bedtime, when he's so tired he can't see straight yet refusing to admit it. (Side note: I don't just have one child who does this. After 9PM, Action Hero also tips over, giggles, stands up and waves cheerily, and then trips again. But he's not tired, of course...) It's hard to avoid getting frustrated at these times; as an adult, I know that he's utterly exhausted, and an exhausted kid flipping out over what color his toothpaste is is rather run-of-the-mill. However, as an adult, I think, "He's TIRED. Why can't he just admit that, lie down, and go to sleep already?" And the four-year-old mind just doens't work that way; it just tries to come up with more ways to keep Mommy in the room, and throwing a ferocious tantrum does the trick.

Working on that. Will keep you posted. Meantime, if you happen to live near me, buy earplugs. Boy Wonder can scream loudly, and my New Year's resolution about not yelling at him so much is going horribly.

My decade with Harry

Last week's headlines included alarmist gems such as "What Will Bookstores Do After Harry Potter?" and "What Will People Read Now?" (I can't find any of these actual articles now, but I do recall reading several articles to that effect last Thursday and Friday.) Gosh, what WILL we ever do after Harry Potter, do you think? I plan to keep reading, myself. That's how I got into this series in the first place. My affair with various fictional worlds is not going to end just because one series is. As for the bookstores, they might not be able to have midnight release parties for a while (however, having formerly been on the front lines of bookselling, I think that is probably just fine with them), but they were selling books long before 1997. I think they'll make it too.

Still, I'll miss this series. It's been enjoyable to read...and the decade that it has spanned has been a big one for me, as well. Please enjoy the following chronology of two journeys: mine and Harry's.

Book 1, 1997: Harry Potter finds out that he is a wizard, begins his first year of school at Hogwarts, and has his first run-in with Lord Voldemort. I pay no attention, having not discovered the series yet.

Book 2, 1998: Harry begins his second year of school at Hogwarts, and starts hearing voices. Again, I pay no attention, having decided, "EVERYONE is reading this series; why should I join the herd?"

Book 3, 1999: The general public prepares to read the chronicles of Harry's third year at Hogwarts, in which he discovers that he has a godfather; I, being a bookstore employee at the time, open the mail one day and say, "Hey! Here's an advance galley of that third Harry Potter book. Anyone want it?" And my supervisor says, "You should take it. I can't believe you haven't read these yet; they're right up your alley. Read the first one, and if you still want someone else to take it after you're done, let me know." I survey a few coworkers, who say, "Oh, shut up and READ IT already. You'll like it." And I not only read the first one, I stay up all night to finish it. And the next day, I do the same thing with the second one. And I take the advance copy, and my supervisor smiles. (Thanks, Julie.) Shortly thereafter, the general public reads the third book.

Book 4, 2000: Harry begins his fourth year at Hogwarts, going up against dragons, merfolk, and giant spiders in the Triwizard Tournament. Ms. Rowling promises to kill off a major character. I begin my first real non-retail job, going up against deadlines, printers, and art directors (not really. we got along fine. at least I think we did. Hawkins?) in the publishing world. As I am no longer working in a bookstore, I miss some of the hype surrounding the release, skip the midnight party, reserve a copy for Saturday morning pickup, and join most other readers in saying, "Cedric who?"

Book 5, 2003: Harry begins his fifth year at Hogwarts. I begin my first year as a parent. Although I am undoubtedly up at midnight, Boy Wonder being just two months old, I skip the party, and again pick up my book when the bookstore opens on Saturday morning. Boy Wonder, being a fairly mellow baby and perhaps sensing the day's momentous nature, takes a lot of naps, and I am finished by dusk. Boy Wonder, as seen below, is not impressed.




Book 6, 2005: Harry begins his sixth year at Hogwarts. Due to the vagaries of business trips, I am in Chicago on the release date. Before the trip, I'd joked to one of my business trip compatriots, not a Harry Potter fan but a good friend, that she would need to drive myself and our other compatriot, a good friend AND a Harry Potter fan, to a bookstore somewhere. I considered this a joke, as I did not actually intend to ask her to do this, but around 10PM, she said, "So, should we find a bookstore, or what?" We are stunned, yet grateful, and select a bookstore from the concierge-provided list. Five hours later, after some fun experiences (a Jane Austen quiz book!) and not-so-fun experiences (there are some awfully cranky people in Chicago bookstores at midnight), we leave with two copies of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I stay up another few hours reading it (I do not finish it, and am very tired at the trade show), and finish it on the way back home, my friend being kind enough to tolerate my ignoring her as she drives. If you're out there, guys, thanks again. I'd do it again anytime, although this time I'd volunteer to drive.

Book 7, last Friday/Saturday: Harry comes of age as a wizard (17), and prepares for his final battle with Lord Voldemort. Me, I'm also in a milestone year (30); although there are no Dark Lords in my world at the moment, I do fight a number of battles daily, including I Don't Want to Wear That Shirt, I Don't Want to Go to School, No Candy for Breakfast, and Stop Hitting Your Brother with Toy Cars. I'm on my fifth year as a parent, with the added bonus of a baby brother for Boy Wonder. And, after the kids are in bed, I go to the midnight party at the local bookstore, because it's the last book and the last release party. Being at home instead of in Chicago, I get my very own reserved copy (placed on hold back in February) by 12:45, go home, and read until 3AM, whereupon Action Hero wakes up, sneezes, and calls, "Mama? Mama? Maaaamaaa...." and settles happily against my shoulder when I lift him out of his crib.

The last ten years have provided plenty of magic, in Harry's world and in my world; I'm sure that plenty more is waiting. And, although I don't need a series of books to remind me of that, I won't stop reading, these books or any books.

And, although I don't think that my own boys will ever have to defeat a basilisk, clobber a mountain troll, or track down and destroy the divided soul of a dark wizard, I can't wait to introduce them to Harry.

My turn: Get some new (*%&$*&(%$ friends

Carrie Friedman needs to get some new friends and acquaintances, and perhaps switch eye doctors and take a different yoga class too. Seriously. In what social sphere is it acceptable to, while at a party, place your hands on the belly of an acquaintance, UNDER HER SHIRT, and ask personal questions about whether or not she plans to reproduce? Or to not discipline a four-year-old who whacks someone in the face? Or respond to "I am very proud of my recent work accomplishment!" with "You'll never be happy until you have kids!" (Then again, I don't go to a lot of parties. Maybe if I did, evil spirits would possess me somehow and I'd start spouting horribly intrusive questions. Like a fountain. But probably not.)

I know that hyperbole has long been a hallmark of journalism, particularly the personal essay form of it. And I know that when you're writing a persuasive piece, everyone who has ever done you wrong, on any topic possibly related to that piece, will get a mention. And, of course, if you're writing a piece that involves taking a stance on some aspect of motherhood, every single self-centered mother you've ever come across is put front and center, making it easy to trot out the "All Mothers are Blithering Idiots, Unable to Focus on Anything but Their Own Precious Spawn" stereotype.

Whoopee! Anyway. I notice that the author lives in Los Angeles, so yeah, I'm pretty sure that she lives in a different social sphere than I do. Actually, I've noticed that most Horrible Stereotypical Parents tend to live on either coast, where it seems that people really do spend hours in line waiting to get their children into exclusive preschools, agonize over buying just the right stroller and accessories, and spent thousands, if not tens of thousands, of dollars on kids' birthday parties. Me, I live in flyover country, where, for the most part, people behave...well... normally. Strollers are purchased at Target, some schools have waiting lists but not waiting LINES, and kids' birthday parties are usually fairly simple affairs held in rec rooms and backyards, with the occasional "destination" ones at Chuck E. Cheese or that tea party place (when I was growing up, birthday parties were at the roller rink).* And, oddly enough, parents are capable of holding conversations--coherent, worthwhile ones, even--on topics other than themselves and their children. We may not read as many books as we used to, but that doesn't mean that our brains have flown out the window. Surely all mothers who can converse in a pleasant, rational manner cannot be concentrated in the Midwest?

This may be just the "Midwestern nice" talking, but you couldn't pay me to say some of the things that Friedman relates as being said to her. If someone doesn't have kids, I'm not going to ask them why they don't, or if and when they're going to. Sure, it's none of my business. More importantly, however, I don't care. Unlike the people this author knows, I don't really think that much about other people's reproductive plans, or lack thereof. I am too frackin' busy...working, playing, being a new homeowner, and, yes, parenting.

Which, although it is very noisy and involves far more bodily fluids than I would have ever imagined possible, is wonderful, and I do think that I am the happier for it. However, I think most grownups are smart enough to know what they want out of life, and whether or not that involves being a parent.** My personal views are thus: people who want kids should be able to have them, easily and in the manner of their choosing. People who don't want kids should be able to NOT have them without being asked why they aren't pregnant yet. And people who feel that their way is the One True Path to Happiness would be granted the good manners to shut up.

And people who have to contend with strangers groping them would be granted the ability to say, "Man. I have GOT to start hanging out with a different crowd."


*I realize that money is no doubt a factor in this; if I rubbed elbows with the well-monied denizens of my city, I'm sure I'd know some people who rent ten jumping castles for Suzie's birthday party.

**The rest of the grownups can be viewed on daytime talk shows, regaling the audience with Tales of Raging Dysfunction.

I: Camp Wannahockaloogie

Last week, on the way back from T-ball practice:

Boy Wonder: I am so tired! I will go to sleep! Good night, everyone! pulls hat down over face and begins to "snore" loudly

Note to the uninitiated: when Boy Wonder pretends to snore, he actually sounds like he is trying to...well...hock a loogie. A big one.

Action Hero: Cough! Cough! Garf! Haaackkkkkspl!

Me: Oh no! Is he choking? Does he have something in his throat?

Action Hero: Garf! Cough! Hahaha! Hahahah! Garf! Hacckpspl! HAHAHA! Bleh!

Me: Oh, dear God. He's trying to "snore" too.

The sound of loogie-hocking traveled merrily across the summer sky for the next few minutes. Ah, the wonder of boys...

II: Call Me

New toy: a Spiderman "cell phone." Looks sort of like a real phone. Boy Wonder has been "calling" Spiderman a whole lot this week.

"Mom? I don't think I'll call Spiderman while we're grocery shopping."

"That's fine; we've been calling him a lot. And you know, he might be busy sometimes too!"

"Mom. He's not busy. He just spends all day swinging around on his web."

III: Guess Who?

"Hello, Spiderman? Hi, it's Boy Wonder! Yeah. OK. See you later!" (sound of toy phone being hung up) "Mom? Spiderman is coming over for dinner!"

IIII: Visualize eaten peas

"I don't want my peas. I don't LIKE peas. We have begtables at school. Not peas here. I don't like peas." (sound of post-dinner Rice Krispie treat being offered) "I realize now that I like peas."

"Realize" sounds hilarious coming from a four-year-old.

IV: Gratuitous '80s Songs

Action Hero has recently developed a liking for a small stuffed Mickey Mouse, purchased for him by Grandma last year around this time. He brought it over to me one day, and I tossed out the first few bars of "Mickey." Of course, now I have to do this EVERY TIME he shows me the stuffed animal. He must like this a lot, as he keeps running over, handing me Mickey, and then standing there clapping and looking expectant.

Then I had religion

Recent quotes from Boy Wonder on random topics:

"Mom? Winnie the Pooh is a friendly bear." (Said thoughtfully, as though he is just now realizing this about Pooh. I can't even remember the last time we watched a Pooh movie.)

"Mom? Do ducks go peepee in the grass, or in the water?"

"Mom? Do worms bite?"

"Mom? When I am 30 years old, how old will Action Hero be?"

Boy Wonder is once again having Big Thoughts in the car. (Lots of them seem to be about nature; perhaps, in thirty years or so, he'll build his own little Walden so he can focus on attaining answers.) His thoughts are about to get bigger, though. Because this fall, he'll be starting K4...at the Catholic school down the street.

During recent efforts to find quality daycare for the boys, I wasn't sure whose needs to place first. At four, Boy Wonder is now old enough to know that he's going to a different school, old enough to ask why, and old enough to miss his former caregivers and friends. (And to tell me so. Repeatedly.) On the other hand, he's four; he'll only need full-time, year-round care for at most another year. Action Hero, at just over fifteen months, won't remember much about this time, and he'll be in daycare for at least three more years. He's younger; he needs to be at a center that posts health alerts and communicates effectively with parents. I couldn't decide what to do, and found myself wishing that our school district, which does feature an after-school program, had all-day K4, rather than their current half-day program (which, being just over two hours long, isn't even half a day). Then I remembered my cousin's wife talking about enrolling their son in school, and about how some of the local Catholic schools had all-day K4. And, the next time I drove the boys to their old daycare (the bitey one), I noticed a sign saying, "Now enrolling: K4-8!"

And I called the number, and as I found out more information about the program, it sounded better and better. They have an after-school program as well, and there will probably be just 10 kids in Boy Wonder's class; much better than the two dozen or so that were on the list for Bitey Daycare's summer program. Boy Wonder and I took a tour of the school, and he said that he liked it. He seemed particularly captivated by the music room; all grades have "official" music class, and there's a separate art class once a week as well. Kids in K4 and K5 are assigned "buddies" from the upper grades, who help them with their lunch trays in the cafeteria and sit with them when the school attends Mass together. The principal is nice. It feels like a good place...as does the daycare that Action Hero will be attending once a spot opens up for him.

Of course, as it is a Catholic school, there is tuition; if you're a parish member, that tuition is cut in half. Since parents with children at the school are expected to take said children to Mass weekly, joining the parish seemed rather sensible. And it doesn't seem like a big deal, either. I'm already comfortable with most of the Ten Commandments, although now I'm going to have to work on not taking the Lord's name in vain. Keeping the Sabbath day holy should be fairly easy, especially since Boy Wonder is up by 6AM on weekends. The church is pretty, with a nice open-concept design and lots of stained glass, and the priest materialized beside us to introduce himself as soon as I filled out my sign-up form. He was quite good-natured also, particularly when listening to me explain to Boy Wonder that no, I didn't have any coins, but in any case, that fountain is not the sort that we throw coins into, and those candles are special candles that people pay to light. (Yes, that would be the holy water fount and the prayer candles.)

I'm looking forward to this. Sure, they have uniforms, but those can be purchased at Target these days and consist of navy blue pants and navy or white polos. And Boy Wonder, like Dragon, looks grand in navy blue. He'll get to make Advent chains, learn Christmas carols and all sorts of obscure hymns, and hear interesting stories.

And, last but not least, he'll no doubt come up with some REALLY interesting questions during commutes.

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday to Wordwitch! Your birthday this year is so auspicious, hundreds of thousands of people are getting married today. Apparently, it's a very powerful day for those who believe in numerology. Or slot machines. Anyway, all good wishes to people getting married, believing in numerology, or playing the slots today. But even better good (huh?) wishes to you; hopefully Hawkins and Gomez managed to work up a special day for you.

As she often does, Wordwitch brings up a good point. Those of us who work full-time outside of the home spend A LOT OF DAMN TIME at work. Having cordial relationships with your coworkers is quite pleasant, particularly if you do something that involves hours spent staring at a computer screen or pile of papers and doesn't require a lot of face-to-face interaction. Being cordial does not take a lot of effort (well, at least I don't think it does), and everyone HAS a birthday; it's not that hard to remember when someone's is, and how (or if, for all you Jehovah's Witnesses out there) they might like it to be recognized.

Having friendly relationships with your coworkers is even nicer. I don't know about you, but I like to know all kinds of things about my coworkers: where they commute from, where they hail from originally, what they studied in school (I find that particularly fascinating: not only what they studied, but how they ended up in the current job if it's not something immediately related to what they studied), if they watch TV and what shows they like, if they enjoy reading and what sort of books they like, etc. It turns out that I'm far more social than I would have thought, had you asked me back when I was in high school wearing my black trench coat. Or maybe I'm just practical. I'm spending at least forty hours a week working in close proximity to these people, and I like my workplaces harmonious, thanks.

I've had both "cordial" and "friendly" workplaces (shoot, even when I had that temp job back in February, I ended up in a department full of people who watched Lost and 24, and those are great icebreakers right there) and haven't often realized that I've been fortunate to have such. Thanks for reminding me. May your office wise up and get cordial. If they don't, send them to me for lessons.

I get knocked down

Update on the previous: today was the boys' last day at Reality Bites. Earlier this week, enough red flags began waving at once that I said the hell with it, called their old daycare center, and asked if they could chill there awhile until a spot for Action Hero opens up at another center closer to home. This one comes recommended by Once Former, About to be Current Again Daycare, and is run by a nice director who was kind enough to sit down with me and talk about her center when I arrived at ten minutes before closing accompanied by two rambunctious children who converged on the center's snack cracker basket like a horde of ravening wolves. Future Center won't have a spot open for a while, so once again the boys and I will be spending a lot of time in the car. But at least we'll be spending our time going to, and coming from, somwhere that they will receive proper supervision. But...wait! I've only mentioned a spot for Action Hero! What will Boy Wonder be doing this fall, you ask?

Watch this space.

In the meantime, having recently posted about the awesomely intelligent Boy Wonder, I'd like to dedicate this post to the little guy, Action Hero, who remains a sweet, smiley, mellow toddler despite the recent high-stress daycare experience.

Today, Action Hero is fifteen months old! Developmental check: just as physical as his big brother was at this age. During a recent visit, a friend mentioned that her friend's daughter, just turned one, could now stand on her own. Well, so can Action Hero...on the coffee table. After he climbs up there all by himself. I had to do a little furniture rearranging after I observed him trying to step right up onto an end table from his then-current perch on the toybox. He can also climb onto the futon, couch, and recliner, and then will proceed to dance on all of them. It's no wonder that his first phrase is "Dit dow!" I'm not sure if he's shooting for "Sit down!" or "Get down!" Could be either, as he hears both frequently.

That's his only phrase, but he has a few other words. Oddly enough, four of them (hi, uh-oh, dog, and ball) were Boy Wonder's first words too. Another one, of course, is "no," used vociferously and in context. His most recent, and most important (ahem) word is Mama, said so clearly that in one instance I thought Boy Wonder had called me. I am rather impressed with that last one, as it took Boy Wonder a darned long time to get around to the "M" sounds and words. Of course, he didn't have another small person, running around shouting "Mama! Mom! MOMMY!" every three minutes, to provide an example.

He is very clingy and cuddly at the moment...could be recent daycare stress, or could just be what toddlers do at this age. If he is tired, hungry, angry, lonely, or otherwise in discomfort, nothing will do but the Shining Maternal Presence. If the Shining Maternal Presence leaves the room, or is in the room but not holding him, gently patting his hair while he sucks his thumb and rests his head on her shoulder, the tiny tears flow like a river. When the Shining Maternal Presence must perform domestic duties, such as preparing a meal or washing the dishes, Action Hero must be right there with her, "helping" by noisily rattling pots, pans, Tupperware, and kitchen utenils. (The other day, he grabbed a large Tupperware container and filled it methodically with smaller containers and container lids. If I were writing a parenting memoir, I'd use that as an example of his brilliance: why, my child doesn't need TOYS! He can make a toy out of ANYTHING! Since I blog to an audience of perhaps five, I'll just say that it was darned cute.)

Action Hero likes his older brother, and wants to do everything he does. He is sometimes happy to play with him, and will cheerily subject to being covered by a blanket, given a stuffed animal, and told, "Go to bed, Action Hero! It's sleepytime!" Other times, he will get up, grab the blanket, and run away, oblivious to the cries of, "Mom! Action Hero isn't playing! It's his pretend bedtime and he WON'T GO TO BED!" (Gosh, I wonder where he gets that.) He plays peek-a-boo with great flair, likes stuffed animals, and still has a fondness for plastic toys that beep, talk, and sing. And he just loves, for some reason, the Dora theme song. Boy Wonder recently experienced a resurgence of Dora love, and we had to get some Dora movies from the library. Now I think we should watch Dora movies all the time, because once that song starts, Action Hero begins dancing and clapping, whirling crazily around the living room and laughing like the happiest toddler in the universe.

Dance on, little guy!

Bite me: This time it's personal

(Note: This ought to explain why I've been scarce lately. Well, this and the vomiting, fevers, and general malaise.)

Yo District Manager (don't have a name yet),

(Background about my kids, their names and ages, and where and when my kids have attended Daycare Centers. Edited to be concise. I was kind enough not to charge myself freelance rates for the editing services.)

I would like to bring an issue to your attention. On May 31, upon arrival in the toddler room, I noticed a large bite mark on the back of my son's calf. I pointed it out to the two staff members, who were unaware of it, and mentioned it to an office staff member on the way out. On Thursday, June 7, while bathing my son, I noticed a bite mark on his back. My children do not attend the center on Fridays, so I called the next morning to let the director know. The next Tuesday, June 12, I arrived at pickup time to find two fresh bite marks, along with what appeared to be another small bite, on the front of his shin. This time, the bites were accompanied by an incident report, which explained that another child had bitten my son as he walked up the playground stairs.

At this point, as I felt that three bites in three weeks seemed excessive, I asked an office staff member (the center director had left for the day) if there might be a child with a biting problem. She said yes, there was. When I spoke with the morning-shift teachers in the toddler room, they gave the impression that they agreed with her.

Over the next couple of days, my son's shin became quite bruised, and I called the center director to express my concern again. At pickup time, she approached me to say that she understood my concern, and wanted to reassure me that it was not the same child each time. I am not sure how she was able to say this with such confidence, as two of the three bite marks had not been noticed by staff members, and decided to ask the toddler teachers to clarify on Monday. They explained that there was not actually a child with biting issues in my son's classroom, but in the next age group up, and the age groups were sometimes combined oustide on the playground or in the late afternoons. This made me wonder if levels of supervision were adequate during the times that these age groups were combined.

My concerns intensified the next day, Tuesday, June 19, when once again I found a bite mark, this time on my son's wrist (it featured more teeth marks than he has teeth, so it was not self-inflicted). Again, there was no incident report. I reported the bite to the center director the next morning, and she said that she would talk with the teachers about it.

Over the weekend, I noticed a sore, with a scab forming over it, on one of my son's fingers; since the daycare had not mentioned this, I thought he'd injured his finger at home. I was very disappointed when I arrived this morning and the teacher informed me that there was an incident report for me, dated last Thursday, June 21: another child had bitten my son on the finger. I took the report to the center director immediately to inquire why I had not received the report earlier, as it is now Tuesday, and mentioned that I was particularly disappointed because this bite had obviously broken the skin and I had not been informed in a timely fashion. She said that sometimes they forgot to leave the reports with the afternoon teachers.

I do not want to overreact; I am well aware that children, particularly those in this age group, are very oral and frequently express such by biting. However, my fourteen-month old, one of the younger toddlers in his classroom, has been bitten five times in four weeks. The center director's handling of the matter seems to so far consist of reassuring me that he is not always bitten by the same child. Again, since three of the five bites were not observed until I found them, I don't see how that can be stated with any accuracy, nor do I find it particularly relevant; I would think that one child being bitten five times over four weeks is problematic no matter what the situation. If one child has biting issues, that needs to be handled with the child's parents. If multiple children are biting with this frequency, the level of supervision in the toddler room needs to be addressed.

Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you.

If you say it loud enough, you'll always sound precocious...

At Boy Wonder's four-year checkup, the doctor began with a series of questions. Could he walk forward and backward, jump, and hop on one foot? Why, yes. Sometimes all at the same time while standing on the couch. Could he speak clearly, so that strangers could understand him? Check. At the dentist's office: "Hi, Dr. Dentist! I'm BoyWonder Last Name! Are you going to check my teeth?" Dentist to Dragon: "Wow, he's really outgoing. He's only four?" At the mall: "I'm Boy Wonder. I'm the one who's bigger and has teeth! He's the baby brother. We call him Action Hero and he has four teeth." (In response to "Aw, what a cute pair of brothers!") Could he draw with a crayon? Yeah; actually, he can write his NAME with a crayon. (Or a marker or a pencil. I just about fell over the first time I saw him write his name; I still have the name-tag sticker he wrote it on.) Build a tower of blocks? Check. Name at least four colors? More like all of them, for a while now. I still remember going Christmas shopping with him in the stroller, a few months before he turned three; we were walking past display tables draped in various colorful cloths, and he was pointing and shouting, "Rett! Lello! Green! Hurple! Bew!"

The questions went on; I don't remember any more of them, but the answer to most was, "Yes, with flair." This doesn't mean that I think he's a Gifted Prodigy, although I think he's pretty smart; he's been doing curriculum-ish stuff at daycare for a while, and he's got a good memory, like someone else I know. (Blush.) He is pretty verbal and outgoing, though. And watching him learn, listening to him ask questions, watching him puzzle over the answers...all fascinating. One of the most enjoyable things about being a parent is getting a crash course in Early Childhood Development.

There's a lot to absorb, though, and the wires do get crossed sometimes. Please enjoy these recent examples.

We've been talking about days of the week a lot recently (Friday is Grandma Day, Saturday and Sunday are days when Mommy and Daddy are home and not at their offices, Monday is a school day). He also likes to count.

"And then there's sixteen. What comes after sixteen?"

"Seventeen! Eighteen! Nineteen!"

"Wow, you're doing great. What comes after nineteen?"

"Friday!"

From the scientific frontier:

"Mom, mosquitos suck butts, right?"

Body art:

(patting Dragon's tattoo) "Daddy has a dragon on his arm." (pause) "When I grow up, will I have a dragon on my arm?" (Me: "Well, if you want one. But someone will have to draw it with special ink...but not until you're at least eighteen, or until you...oh, never mind.")

Bite me

First things first! I have recently hit two big blog milestones: I recently whizzed right past my 100th post without even noticing. Go me! And, not to detract from that milestone, please enjoy the first gratuitous use of "bitch," available in the comments. Go Anonymous!

And serious things second.

I have been so busy worrying, for the past couple of months, about the kids getting undetectable bat bites. Meanwhile, I'd forgotten to worry about a slightly more common type of bite: the HUMAN bite.

Kids, particularly toddlers, bite each other frequently. I was shocked and horrified the first time it happened to Boy Wonder; he must have been about 15 or 16 months old, and another child at his daycare bit him. Which is a tough age, for the bitee and for the biter. There's not really a lot that can be done at that age; the daycare center will of course inform the parents that their child bit another kid, and the parents can talk themselves blue in the face about how we don't bite our friends, but then the child will simply forget about it until the next day. And it's my impression that unless the issue becomes very serious, with a child biting constantly, breaking skin and drawing blood, the daycare center isn't able to do much except keep an eye on the biter and fill out reports every time someone is bitten. After enough paperwork has stacked up, I imagine it's probably suggested to the parents that the other children in the classroom might be better off without mini-Dracula. It never got to that point with Boy Wonder; no one in his class was a serious biter, and over perhaps two years with a bunch of other toddlers, he was bitten perhaps four or five times. Overall, not bad.

However. The boys have been at their new daycare for six weeks now, and three of those weeks have featured bite marks for Action Hero. And the first two times, the teachers didn't even know that he'd been bitten. I am not quite sure how they did not notice the first time, since he was wearing shorts and had a BIG HONKING FRESH BITE MARK on the back of his leg. The second time, I found a bite mark on his back later in the evening, and called the center in the morning to let them know. They were apologetic, and mentioned that since Action Hero is such a mellow kid, he probably hadn't even cried about being bitten. Which may be the case, as he is quite a laid-back child (except when I try put him down so I can, I don't know, make dinner or pick crackers off the floor, whereupon he turns into a tiny red-faced screaming creature and clings to my legs, but that's a story for another time). Still, BIG HONKING BITE MARK. Seriously.

At least the one today was observed and written up right away; apparently, the toddlers were out on the playground, and Action Hero was walking up the steps when another kid grabbed his leg and bit him. Twice. Pretty hard, judging by the way his shin looks: no broken skin, but it's almost bruisy-looking. Two little rings of teeth marks, with another half-bite in the center of one of the rings. Good grief. And I was pretty irritated, and explained how I am aware that kids bite each other, and certainly my older son had been bitten a time or three, but four bites in less than three weeks seemed a little excessive, and did any of the toddlers perhaps have biting issues? And they said yes, actually; one of the toddlers had been biting rather a lot lately; the mother had been informed, and just didn't know what to do about it anymore.

I'm not sure what to do, either. Yes, kids bite, and while I was never pleased when Boy Wonder was bitten, it was infrequent enough that I didn't consider it a serious problem. Action Hero getting bitten weekly, though (and he's only there four days out of five)--that's a problem. I hope the daycare handles it properly; I'm already wishing that their former daycare would vanish from its present location (which is in exactly the opposite direction from my office) and materialize at the end of our block, so they could attend that one again. This does not help much.

This is your captain speaking?

Not QUITE the result I expected. Thanks to Wordwitch for the link!

Your results:
You are James T. Kirk (Captain)

James T. Kirk (Captain) 70% Chekov 65% Uhura 60% Beverly Crusher 60% Deanna Troi 60% Will Riker 50% Worf 50% Geordi LaForge 40% An Expendable Character (Redshirt) 40% Spock 35% Leonard McCoy (Bones) 30% Mr. Scott 30% Data 24% Mr. Sulu 20% Jean-Luc Picard 20%

You are often exaggerated and over-the-top in your speech and expressions. You are a romantic at heart and a natural leader.

Click here to take the Star Trek Personality Test

Background noise

So, I think I'm going to read another parenting book.

Wait! Before you tell me that I'd be better off sticking a nail file up my nose, let me explain. I just read an essay by this woman, and did not fling the magazine containing said essay across the room in disgust. In fact, I said, "Hmm. That is a topic that I've often thought about. I would not object to reading more of her work."

Here is the essay...oh wait, that's not all of it. Well, here's the essay's introduction, then. Sorry.

And this is, indeed, a topic that I've often thought about. Or, at least, I've often wondered whether people think the boys are adopted. I am about as white as you can get; my larger veins, in fact, are quite visible through my skin. True story: during the days of retail and slightly less tequila, a coworker said one day, "Hey, you have some blue crayon or marker on your face!" I went into the restroom to investigate, since it wasn't like I carried a pack of Crayolas around the store with me, came back out, and said, "Jenn. That's a vein. I don't think I'll wash it off." And she was just entranced, saying, "That's your VEIN? Really? I've never SEEN a person with such prominent veins!" She rattled on in that (oh no) vein (sorry) until I felt like a circus freak. Fortunately, that was before I wore glasses; now, my glasses cover up the most prominent vein, and no one has told me to wash the marker off my face in years. Or maybe I just work with people whose brain-to-mouth filters are in better operational order.

Anyway. I have brown hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin that sunburns easily. Dragon is half Filipino, with black hair, brown eyes, and a tan (but during his baby and toddler years, his skin was paler). And the boys are tiny little copies of him; the resemblances are eerie. Action Hero looks just like Boy Wonder did at the same age (he wears a lot of hand-me-downs, so pictures are extra-eerie). Boy Wonder looks just like Dragon's baby and kid pictures. Clearly, they are all related.

I seem to run across people with better manners, though, because no one has ever asked me the question that spurs the author's essay. Have they assumed my kids are of a particular ethnicity? Sure. Boy Wonder has been greeted in Spanish on a few occasions, and I think in Chinese a couple of times. He was even recognized as Filipino once. At the hospital where he was born, the nurses and techs on the maternity floor would go see the babies in the nursery, so they could chat with the new mothers about the new babies, and one of my techs was Filipino. She was utterly delighted about the fact that Boy Wonder was, too, and brought me all sorts of extra stuff--I got piles of graham crackers and little cartons of grape juice, and left the hospital with two free diaper bags.

Perhaps I have an aura that says, "Keep the obnoxious commentary to yourself." Many women write about total!strangers! asking to touch their pregnant bellies, and that never happened to me. So far, no one has criticized my kids' behavior in stores, restaurants, or other public venues (although now that Boy Wonder is ridiculously verbal and amazingly contrary, and is accompanied by a vocal toddler who likes to climb, I'm sure our day is coming). Instead of, "Such beautiful children! Where did you get them?" I get, "Such beautiful children! And your husband must be...Latino? Or Asian?" I suppose even that could be considered rude, in a way; it's still saying, "Tell me about your child's ethnic background!" Which is not necessarily anyone else's business. When in doubt, say, "What a cute child! You must be very proud."

At any rate...where did my point go, again? I'll let you know after I read a couple of this author's books. Somehow, I think I'll find them more enjoyable than I found the other ones...

*(I do have an essay topic of my own, though; someday, I'll write one called, "No, They're Both Boys." Remember that black hair? The boys have lots of it, and always have. Apparently, people are not used to seeing boy babies with hair, because I have gotten, "Oh, what a lovely little one! Look at the smile on her!" more than once. Not about Boy Wonder now, of course. But once, when he was a baby, a woman and her daughter, in front of us in the grocery store line, held a lengthy conversation in which they tried to decide just how to phrase their cute-baby compliment. And Action Hero has certainly gotten his share of "Oh, she's adorable!" comments. I've never quite understood it; sure, the boys have more hair than many grown men do, and Action Hero's curls rather charmingly, but their clothes are plastered with trucks, dinosaurs, and Spiderman. They've always looked boyish to me.)

Lost in thought

Random thoughts on the season finale. Hopefully, some of you watch the show?

1. Dominic Monaghan must be BFF with the producers and screenwriters, because Charlie got one heck of a sendoff. Nobly volunteering for a suicide mission, having several chances to change his mind and not changing it...and then finding out that he was the right one for the mission, because I don't think anyone else on that island played the piano. I'm somewhat sad; I always liked the character.

2. I will assume that Walt (no wonder they shuffled his character off; the actor's growth really outpaced the character there!) told Locke that the boat was not a Happy Rescue Boat. I will assume this because I like Locke even more than I liked the previously mentioned character.

3. No, I don't have any guesses as to who was in the coffin. Looked like someone short, though, which sort of lets out Saywer and Locke.

4. Are we sure that Mikhail's name is not Rasputin? Good grief. Did he die in the grenade blast too, or is he going to chase Desmond to the surface?

5. I briefly wondered if the mother/son accident victims were Claire and Aaron, once I realized that it was a reverse flashback episode.

6. My own personal theory, which is probably utterly ridiculous: Ben is not in charge of the Others, although he's welcome to think that he is. Richard is really in control and has always been. Ben is an experiment, meant to determine just how crazy someone will become, and how far he will go, given the right circumstances.

Brokedown parable

(This goes out to everyone who's experiencing A Series of Unfortunate Events lately.)

Many years ago, during the days of tequila and retail, a coworker told me this story.

One Sunday night, his girlfriend called; her car had broken down. Actually, it didn't so much "break down" as "speed up uncontrollably"; her gas pedal had gotten stuck in the down position. Fortunately, she was driving on the highway at the time, and was eventually able to brake enough to take an exit into town and pull into a gas station. And, since her car was rather unsafe to continue driving, she asked if he could come pick her up.

So he went to pick her up, and they examined her car in the parking lot. They decided to just take his car home, and worry about towing hers somewhere later. Unfortunately, once they decided this, his car wouldn't start.

So, since SOMEONE's car needed to get fixed fairly quickly, they decided to call a tow truck and send one of the cars to the repair shop. A tow truck arrived, and promptly broke down. The tow truck driver was mortified: "This has NEVER happened before." he said.

At that point, they decided the hell with it; they'd take the bus home and worry about the cars in the morning. They walked to the nearest bus stop, waited for a while, and then boarded the bus, happy to be on the way home.

And, at least eight years later, I can still see him, clear as day, saying with a grin and trying not to crack up again, "And then, and then, the BUS broke down."

I've had a few runs of luck like that myself, although usually they haven't taken place over one evening. Among the more memorable: two years ago, my grandfather got really sick, and eventually passed away, giving the family a one-way ticket on the Stress Express. Boy Wonder spent that same winter getting every virus that hit southeastern WI, developing a stunning array of fevers, ear infections, and GI viruses. Then he fell off the couch and onto the coffee table, biting through his lower lip and inspiring our first child-related ER trip. Then he got a nasty bacterial infection. Then I dropped the VCR on my foot, causing broken toes and a nasty bruise. Then Boy Wonder had his ear-tube surgery, followed by a solid week of nasty gunk draining out of his ears. (I think I could use the word "nasty" once more, if I tried really hard.) That was a really long few months.

And among the more recent: well, 2006 started out wonderfully, what with having Action Hero and buying a house. But then my metaphorical security blanket was whisked away with a vengeance. Just bought a house? Great, but you don't have a job. Getting one won't be easy, either. You won't get one before the year's out. And your transmission needs rebuilding! Hey, it's 2007! Still no job. Your basement leaks. Oh, hey, have a job. (Yay!) But you'll have to change the kids' daycare center. Boy Wonder will seem really excited about it, but after being there for a couple of weeks, he'll start telling you that he wants to stay home with you and Grandma all the time! AND THERE ARE BATS IN YOUR ATTIC (and, momentarily, in your basement)!

Of course, things aren't all bad. With the kids around, they never are. Boy Wonder and Action Hero are awesome; more than awesome, really, and I'll have to blog about them more often, just so I can share their awesomeness with the Internet, my small corner of which consists of five friends and my in-laws (hi!). (Bit from today: my cousin graduated from college today, and had a little family get-together at a local restaurant. Me: "Boy Wonder, time to change clothes! We need to get ready for Cousin's party!" Boy Wonder: "OK! (pause) Mommy? What color does Cousin like?")

And really, the inconveniences can march merrily along. I'll take those in a minute over some of the things that I've been reading about in the news lately.

The batman cometh

Bat Exclusion has begun around here, and I can't tell you how happy I am about that. Technically, the bats may have been excluded by now, but Batman generally likes to give them two full weeks to vacate the premises.

I had better explain that.

Right around a month ago, I saw a bat in the basement. At least, I was pretty sure it was a bat. It was flying too smoothly, and too darned fast, to be a bird (or, at least, to be the type of bird that's common around here; besides, there weren't any big splats of white on the floor). I went upstairs and told Dragon that there was something flying around in the basement, and he did his darndest to try to convince me that it was a bird. Or a really, really big moth ("We're not living in the tropical rainforest!" I said). Or, if it was a bat, it was, in fact, in my belfry, and did not actually exist. I was unimpressed, and soon we donned hats and gloves and took a flashlight down to the basement. We did not, however, find anything.

The next day, I e-mailed the local bat conservatory, careful not to phrase things in an "OH MY GOD I SAW A BAT GET IT OUT OF HERE NOW!" way. It's a conservatory; these people like bats. (Of course they do; they've had all their shots. The people, I mean.) I described the situation, asked if they thought it was likely that I had seen a bat, and if so, what I could do about that. A nice lady called back, and, unfortunately, responded very much in the affirmative. "Probably one of these guys," she said. "In Wisconsin, they're generally coming out of hibernation right now. They prefer attics in winter, but once the weather warms up and they wake up, they sometimes like basements due to the warmth and humidity." Yeah, my basement is a little more humid than I would like. Rain, rain, go away. Anyway. She also said that she thought it highly unlikely that I'd see the bat again, as he was probably about as thrilled to see me as I was to see him (and yes, it probably was a him; females of that species tend to send the guys out for groceries), but that since I have young children, I would probably want to contact a licensed professional about doing an exclusion.

Boy, did I ever. So I checked the list on their Web site and called Batman, who stopped by a few days later and confirmed that yes, we probably did have a few of those guys hanging out, and had for a while, probably since well before the previous owners of Charming Bungalow moved away...and the previous owners, being older and perhaps harder of hearing, and not needing to do late-night laundry, probably hadn't even been aware of them. So he explained the process. Which I will now detail, just for you. Oh, you're not interested? Too bad. Neither was I, really, until I saw a BAT in my BASEMENT. If I had to learn about it, you can too.

Basically, bats are protected, and exclusions must be humane. So, the exclusion specialists determine where the bats are entering and leaving the house (usually through a small gap on the roof or near the chimney), put up a one-way door, like capped PVC tubing or some sort of netting, over their main entrance, and seal up all other openings. The bats will be able to leave through the one-way door, but will not be able to get back in, and will find somewhere else to crash during the day. Hopefully. In Wisconsin, this needs to be done by the end of May, when bats generally celebrate Mother's Day. Baby bats cannot fly, and would not be able to leave, putting them in an inhumane situation. And I did not want to wait the whole summer long until the baby bats could fly. Especially since, once they do begin flying, they sometimes get lost and go whizzing around the house, frantically looking for a way out.

So Batman came; this confused Boy Wonder a bit. ("Not that Batman, honey. A different one.") He had a Brag Binder with him, which I rather enjoyed. I think all independent businesses must have these: photos, documents, or other memorabilia of well-known, rich, or otherwise noteworthy clients. In this case, it was mostly photos of fancy homes that he'd performed exclusions on; one belonged to a famous actress. ("So this is meant to make us not feel so bad about having bats, right?") Dragon was concerned, saying, "But if he's in such demand and working for famous people, why is he coming to OUR house? Or charging us more?" I tried to reassure him, explaining my Brag Binder philosophy. I assume that he works on regular houses the majority of the time, but they don't end up in the binder; it's not all that impressive to say, "And look, I did an exclusion on this little three-bedroom down the street! And here's a garage where bats were roosting. And a barn, too!" Much grander to keep a photo of the fancy historic mansion downtown, even if it's a Polaroid. Anyway. He came and started the exclusion last Friday, and we now have two one-way doors on roof sections and a bunch of other sealed-up cracks. In another week, he will come remove the doors and seal the openings. ("Did Batman come to take the bat away? He did a good job! I never even SAW a bat, Mommy! He did a great job!")

I sure hope he did, and that they will be gone soon, if they're not already. Bat-free is the way to be! Whee! Whee! Whee! Ahem. Naturally, Boy Wonder has recently become entranced with all things Batman (the one with the cape, not the one with the Brag Binder), and is now the proud owner of Batman pajamas, Batman underwear, and Batman sheets and pillowcases.

Perhaps those will serve as protective talismans.

I inHALE, dude

(We interrupt My Awesome Kids stories for this unscheduled mini-rant.)

I inhale. Regularly, in fact. I've been doing it since before I was in high school. Back then, I did it once in the morning and once in the evening. Now, the frequency has increased: twice in the morning and once in the evening. Over the years, I've experimented with several different kinds, but I've always come back to the one that does the job best. I always have some of it with me. Back in high school, it was no big deal; I didn't even had to pay for it. Now, though, I pay. Mightily, and I'm not too pleased about it, either. It's going to make a serious dent in the budget. In fact, when I first got the letter that my insurance company was changing the asthma inhaler that I use the most from a Tier 2 to a Tier 3 medication, almost doubling my copay, I...

Really now. What did you THINK I was talking about?

Anyway. Back to paying through the nose. Ironically, the healthcare organization responsible for this currently is running a series of commercials about how they are making things better, easier, and more affordable for patients. You've probably seen the commercials; the most recent one features a variety of medical gear wrapped in layers of red tape. They should make another one, featuring a woman reaching into her pocket over and over with a bewildered expression on her face, realizing she doesn't have enough cash for her copay, and then searching frantically for her credit card, and then searching for a different credit card. Perhaps, for dramatic effect, she could be coughing, or even gasping for breath.

I am seriously not thrilled about the increased copay. I did know about it beforehand, after I received my, "We're increasing the cost of the inhaler that you've used monthly for more than ten years. Ask your doctor about this new one, which you've never heard of in your life, as a lower-cost alternative!" letter. This is, of course, an entirely reasonable suggestion. But I really have tried several different types of inhalers in the past, and the results? Have not been pretty. They worked very well from a breathing standpoint, but I could have baked a dozen loaves of bread with what they made grow in my throat. I am not currently open to trying a lower-cost alternative now, thanks.

In additon, my generic rescue inhaler, aka albuterol, is being phased out as a generic. Why? Because albuterol inhalers contain CFCs. This confuses me slightly, because generally, people who use albuterol inhalers do not spray them into the air like aerosol hairsprays. They INHALE albuterol. Into their LUNGS. How does that affect the ozone layer? (Is this why I sunburn so easily?) If someone with a science background can explain this to me, I'd appreciate it. Because the name-brand rescue inhalers cost four times as much as the generic ones. (Granted, my asthma is well-managed by the daily maintenance meds and I am rarely in need of rescue, so I may not need to get another one for a while. However, spending $10 is still preferable to spending $42, even if it is the answer to life, the universe, and everything...)

So, my recent trip to the drugstore, for my now-more-expensive monthly inhaler, my no-longer-generic inhaler, and my other daily inhaler (which inexplicably cost a fraction of the other two) cost $100. This healthcare company is making things easier, all right; at least, it made the decision to switch to New Job's health and prescription plan a very easy decision indeed.*

And, in other news, OH GREAT NOW I HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO WORRY ABOUT.

*I am, as always, grateful for what I have, and should mention that this stuff costs WAY, WAY MORE without health insurance, and that I'm lucky to even have the option of switching to an insurance plan with lower prescription copays. And that plenty of people are gasping for breath on a regular basis because they can't manage the cost of maintenance meds. Breathing easily should be a right, not a privilege.

The stressed alphabet

A is for Anxiety.
B is for Bat...and Basement. And, as of this afternoon, Bigass Bumblebee. Because I'm not nervous enough about going in the basement, apparently. (The bee was caught and released.)
C is for Crazy, which I am driving myself.
D is for Darkness, which I am striving to avoid whenever I go in the basement.
E is for Exclusion (of Bats), which should begin sometime next week. E is also for Eagerness to get that Exclusion going.
F is for...oh, Forget it. I am not going to be able to think of anything else.

Up next: happier topics, such as Boy Wonder's birthday party.

Four!

Boy Wonder turned four today. This has caused him to ponder some weighty matters, like when exactly his Batman cake will be arriving, who will be coming to his birthday party, and whether or not he wanted to turn four at all. This morning featured Wild Mood Swings, involving a dramatic floor-flinging and shouts of, "I don't WANT to be four! I want to be THREE LIKE THIS forever!" This was after, upon waking up and being informed that it was finally Tuesday, his birthday, he said, "I'm four NOW? Really? Wow! I'm FOUR today!" and smiled charmingly.

He did make one important decision, though. On the way home today, he spent ten minutes deciding what he was going to be for Halloween. He's got it narrowed down to Batman, the Green Goblin, Spiderman, or Batman. Or maybe the Green Goblin. No, Batman! Or Cookie Monster. (That last one threw me. We still have roughly ten zillion Sesame Street DVDs, acquired back in the day where he'd burst into tears if one was not played for him immediately upon arriving home and I had a constant loop of "Honker Duckie Dinger Jamboree" playing in my head, but he hasn't asked to watch one in ages.) No matter what he decides about HIS costume, though, he is quite sure about mine. He has decided that I will be Catwoman. So, if you'll excuse me, I need to go exercise. A lot.

The joker

Boy Wonder is learning about jokes lately. Knock-knock jokes in particular. In fact, he spent Friday's drive home (about 35 minutes) telling me a wide selection of them!

However, "learning" is the operative word here. He knows about knock-knock jokes, and knows that people think they are funny, but he doesn't quite understand why the plays on words or sounds are funny. Therefore, his knock-knock jokes are not so much jokes as verbalizations of random adjectives and nouns, with a "Knock, knock?" thrown in for flair. He thinks they are all hilarious. I'll let you judge for yourself; please enjoy the selection below.

Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Potatohead!
Potatohead who?
POTATOHEAD HOUSE! HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHH! THAT WAS A FUNNY ONE, MOMMY!

Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Fire engine!
Fire engine who?
FIRE ENGINE BICYCLE!

Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Tree!
Tree who?
Tree grass! No, tree grass marker! HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!! THESE ARE FUNNY JOKES, MOMMY!

Basement got bat

I have three very nice essays, all handwritten (on my lunch hour at work!) and ready to be keyed in and posted. However, regular programming has been temporarily suspended while I obsess about the BAT in my BASEMENT. Not the nice blue plastic kind that's used to hit a whiffle ball; that one's in our backyard. No, a REAL bat. Brown, winged, about the size of my hand. Seen on Tuesday night, as I entered the basement to do laundry, flipped on the light, and very nearly hit the deck as an unidentified flying creature zoomed around the basement a few times before vanishing. Surprisingly, I did not shriek.

There is a BAT in my BASEMENT. Some bats carry RABIES. Rabies makes people DIE. I've gotten a degree in general bat information from Google University over the past few days, and have run across many sites about Beneficial Bats, and how they eat insects, and really, only 10% of them might carry rabies, and we are all statistially likelier to get hit by cars than we are to catch rabies from a bat. This does not make me comfortable with a family of bats living in my insulation, however. Professional help (of the bat exclusion kind, not the psychiatric kind) should arrive early next week.

Back to continued freaking out over BAT in BASEMENT.

Parenting by the book

Every once in a while, I get the urge to read a parenting book or two. Of the "parenting memoir" variety, that is. I find being a parent a fascinating experience, and obviously I enjoy writing about my kids and my experience. So of course I'm interested in reading about the parenting experiences of others.

Next time I get the urge to read a few parenting books, however, I will announce it here. At that point, please remind me that I should really be doing something else with my time. Like cleaning my basement. Or cleaning the garage. Or even sticking nail files up my nose. Because EVERY TIME I've picked up a parenting book lately, I've ended up rolling my eyes and saying, "God. What a twit. I can't believe someone got paid to write that."

On the parenting bookshelf lately:

Alternadad. I grabbed this book off of the freebie table at my former office, and then didn't get around to reading it for quite a while (mostly because I grabbed it about an hour before the place became "my former office"). If you spend a lot of time online, you've probably heard Neal Pollack's name at some point. He writes for Salon.com, and sometime last year he wrote a piece about his son getting expelled from daycare for having a biting problem. Many, many people had many, many strong reactions to this piece. I wasn't fond of it either; I recall reading it and thinking, "Boy, he and his wife sound like a couple of twits. Really unsympathetic twits, too. And if I were the parent of the other kid and read this story, I would be livid. I can't believe he got paid to write that." (He writes about it in more detail in this book, and makes everyone involved seem a bit more sympathetic.) But he also inserts lots of references to smoking weed, and about how he is a WRITER, and his wife is an ARTIST. It got distracting, rather like the Slacker Mom's constant references to her childhood on a Wyoming ranch.

I'm Too Sexy for my Volvo: A Mom's Guide to Staying Fabulous!. Oh, man. This one is for affluent women who live on either coast, and not for normal people who live in flyover country. She lost me at the part where you're supposed to take the money you'd spend on fine wines, which you're not drinking during pregnancy, and spend it on fifty-dollar soap to pamper yourself.

It may not seem like the two books I'm snarking on here have a lot in common, but. One focuses on being a cool dad with a creatively fulfilling career, smoking a lot of pot and delighting in the kid dancing and saying, "Rock and roll!" And the other is subtitled A Mom's Guide to Staying Fabulous! Seems to be a lot of concern about parenthood not changing Who You Are, and having the need to trumpet that from the rooftops. Perhaps it's because I was never cool or fabulous to begin with, but I was never worried that becoming a parent would drastically alter my personality. Pre-kids, I read a lot, and had a couple of favorite TV shows. Sometimes, I went to book discussion groups, or out to a movie with a friend. Now, I watch a lot more TV (yay DVR), but I'm still reading a moderate amount. And once, I went to a movie with a friend.

The Motherhood Manifesto: What America's Moms Want--and What to Do About It. A foray into nonfiction! This book certainly seemed to have some valid points (American women would probably really love having flexible work schedules, and being able to work from home, and being able to find high-quality daycare that fits their schedule and their budget, and having longer, and paid, maternity leaves to start with). Unfortunately, I couldn't concentrate on those points, because this book was edited by a crew of drunken monkeys. What with the misplaced modifiers, misuse of commas, and general grammatical hilarity, I was too distracted to read more than a couple of pages without giggling, rolling my eyes, or both.*

So, that's enough of that. Until next time, when I pick up a paperback with an interesting jacket design and some intriguing back cover copy about One Person's (or One Family's ) Unique and Special Parenting Experience. Coming soon to a bookstore near all of us, I'm sure.

*If you find a typo here, sorry. I try to self-edit as much as I can, but if you decided that I'm hypocritical and go looking for typos, I'm sure you'll find some. Anyway, keep in mind that this is a BLOG, and it's FREE; it's not an actual published book produced by an actual publishing house, which presumably has some sort of editing process in place.

You can always go...downtown

Today, I re-entered the world of Gainful Employment. I forgot to mention this earlier, perhaps because it freaked me out a little, but my new job is downtown. In the city. In an actual high-rise building. Surrounded by a lot of other tallish buildings. This is somewhat exciting; even before my 19-year-old self headed off to Arizona, I'd never spent much time downtown.

As it turns out, high-rise buildings have their advantages. The one I work in now features an attached parking structure, a small coffee shop, a restaurant, and a convenience store. There are electrical outlets in the bathrooms (er, at least the women's bathrooms); if I were so inclined, I could plug in a curling iron and style my hair right there. (That's a pretty big "if," considering I can't remember when I last used my curling iron, don't even remember where I put it when we moved back to Wisconsin three years ago, and don't ever bother actually styling my hair anyway. But if I wanted to style my hair in my new office building, I could.) The convenience store proved remarkably convenient this morning. I don't know what possessed me to wear a skirt today, what with the six (!) inches of snow we were expecting, but wear a skirt I did, and stick my thumb through my pantyhose I also did. I had just decided, rather anxiously, to arrange myself mindfully so that the large run forming in them could not be detected easily, and then I walked past the convenience store and delightedly beheld an entire RACK of pantyhose. So I bought a pair, and once again displayed a professional appearance. Which lasted until about noon, when I stuck my thumb through the new pantyhouse. There's got to be a lesson in this somewhere; I think it's probably "Don't wear skirts. Stick to pants. And stop telling the Internet about what you wear under your skirts."

So I'll tell you, briefly, about my new office. (But not too much, since now that I have a job I'd like to keep it.) I have a nice cubicle, which is located next to some windows. I can see a good portion of downtown, including some nostalgic landmark-type buildings. (This is a nice change from seeing the parking lot, a dumpster, and some geese.) Free coffee and tea are available in the break areas, and the coworkers appear quite pleasant.

And then we all got home for the evening, and Action Hero said, "Hi! HI! Hiiiiiiiii! Ha! Hai! Hi! Hei!" and waved frantically. Then he climbed up onto the couch and started walking around on it.