21st Century Woman

I just need to document that this weekend I...

• Took myself to the doctor (woot! sinus infection);
• Shopped for groceries;
• Went to a 40th birthday party and danced to '90's house music, stayed up too late, and maybe indulged more than I should have (especially considering the sinus infection);
• Took my daughter to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese (REMEMBER: late night + vino + sinus infection = I am a Woman of Steel to venture into a Chuck E. Cheese, ESPECIALLY one that has a placard reading 'No Firearms Permitted'*);
• Noticed some leaking around the toilet, confirmed leaking in the basement under where there toilet lives, correctly identified it as a cracked wax ring under the toilet, and REPLACED that sumbitch because Past Self is a rock star and had a spare wax ring laying around.

 So, yeah.  Normal weekend. Right?

*I mean, are firearms EVER permitted in a Chuck E. Cheese? And if the fine employees at a Chuck E. Cheese noticed that someone was bringing a weapon into said establishment, how on earth would they enforce the placard?  Most of them are tiny teenagers.

Vintage Baltimore

We're clearing out my parents' home.  Fun, right?  It's the de-accessioning of my nuclear family's belongings, natch.  But also my grandparents', and whatever familial detritus was handed down from them.

One of the things that I happened upon was a random collection of negatives.  My father, for the entirety of my life, was STRAPPED.  With cameras.  Lots and lots of cameras. The result of which were lots and lots of pictures.  But sometimes, we only have the negatives.

Know what?  I *enjoy* the negatives.  Because the negatives are kind of like secrets...  I'm finding places he went, compositions he considered, family events he participated in, but stood slightly apart from...  And, I've uncovered  dozens of photos of Baltimore from the '40s and '50's.  I think I'm going to do something with them...  What, I'm not quite sure.  But some of these?  Really need to see the light of day, and not hang loose in a dank basement.

I Probably Should Have Planned That Better

A couple of years ago, my Dad added me to his bank accounts.  This was after my mother passed away, and just at the start of what I now recognize as his debilitation. He never veered off into full-on dementia or anything like that, but became more and more forgetful. Didn't remember conversations, quips he'd just made, things like that.  Anyway, I started tracking his finances and paying bills, and he added me to his accounts to facilitate that.

In the initial wake of his death, this actually made things bunches easier.  We didn't all have to pitch in to pay bills until we could start using some of the estate money or anything like that -- since he added me to his accounts, I just wrote checks against that money.  Yeah, my name was on it, but it was his money.  Didn't feel right to use it for anything but his bills...

He had this one account that only had a few hundred dollars in it, and I've been letting it drift for the past 6 months.  It wasn't hurting anything to let it lie, and he had a a decent chunk of change in the other account to which I had easy online access.  But, the easy account dwindled down to a few dollars, so I knew it was time to close the other account and siphon that money to help cover the electricity bills for his house (still working on clearing that out and selling it, but that is another post).

His bank branch is a stone's throw away from my office Since today was a fairly meeting-free day at work, I decided to carpe diem.  Or carpe argentum?  Anyway, I knew that this task would be tinged with emotion. Saying the words, "My father passed away," well, that's never easy.

Here's what got me:  she went to retrieve a few papers after I turned over my license and his death certificate.  When she sat back down, I glanced at what she'd placed on the desk as a reference.  It was the little slip of paper that my father and I signed three years ago when he added me to the account.  There was his signature, a scrawl I've seen thousands of times, floating next to mine.  Memories of that day came flooding back, and I was very grateful that the bank staffer had to get up and make a photocopy of some other documents.  I didn't need her to see me getting all melty over a scrap of paper, no did I?

Everything Is Awesome

If you've seen "The Lego Movie," that title likely triggered an earworm that is more persistent than Chekov's parasite in 'Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.' (I am a very happy gigantic nerd.)

My kids have seen the movie.  My older two have seen it twice, and I am so very happy that it has re-ignited their love of all things Lego.  My oldest boy has persistently, ardently loved Lego for many years now.  But he drifted into the kit zone.  'The kit zone,' in my completely made-up parlance, is the zone in which a kid thinks s/he can construct ONLY the thing in the instructions.

The underlying message of The Lego Movie is: Dude, you can mix and match and do whatever the heck you want with Lego.

And so they have...

My coffee table is currently decorated by roughly one billion Lego.  Among them are a cannibalized Joker's play set (currently occupied by Superman, the Human Torch, a hairless Indiana Jones-lookin' sumbitch, Patrick the Starfish, and a pink fairy), half a Star Wars pleasure barge, and some 'Friends' pink and purple and purple and pink blocks.

Most precious to me, though, is the 'house' that my oldest boy and my daughter co-constructed.  According to the two of them, within it, you will find two families -- my son's and my daughter's fantasy families -- having a dinner party.  The menu?  Pizza.  Here, take a look:

I'm not really sure what the trophy's about?  Being awesome?

My son's family comprises his wife and his son, whereas my daughter's family (whom you can't see) comprises a boyfriend/partner (she don't need no ring!) and they have two adopted children.

(I don't know who the angry dude through the doorway is.  Maybe my youngest son? Who is the opposite of angry at the tender age of 4.  Maybe my other kids think he will become embittered with age?)

I love this. Love it like I love coffee.  Which is a lot, let me tell you.  Anyway, maybe (read: certainly) I am reading too much into this, but I feel like if my 9-year-old son and 7-year-old daughter are envisioning futures where they are partnered up with wives and boyfriends and raising children, that maybe they feel like my husband and I are doing an OK job. 

Our DVR Must Be So Confused

Since my father passed away, (one of) my older sister(s) has been staying with us for multi-week stretches.  (Don't sigh!  This post won't be maudlin, I swear!)  She has a diagnosed intellectual disability.  In layman's terms, she is a forty-something seven-year-old.  Actually, in a bunch of situations, she presents older than that.  Like, she can cook without burning the house down, and can call pharmacies for prescriptions.  And, socially, she comes off as downright teenagery.  Be that as it may, she's not able to live on her own, so she's been circulating among those of us who happen to have spare bedrooms.

She is lovely, if at times challenging.  The challenges are familiar to parents of younger children, and are nothing outrageous.  Not putting wrappers in the trash, having to be reminded to tidy up, etc.

The biggest, most hilarious impact she has had on our home can be found in the scheduled recordings feature of our DVR.  Now, to really appreciate this, you have to understand that there are exactly two household chores that my husband owns.  By 'owns,' I mean he took the chores upon himself, and performs the duties with no external forces (translation: I never, ever, ever, have to nag him to do these things).

These chores are:  maintaining the DVR recordings, and taking out the trash.

He is especially on top of that DVR thing.  He gets the season preview of Entertainment Weekly, plugs in the shows we intend watch, manages conflicts, and prompts us to watch things that have been sitting for too long.  It's like the platonic ideal of stewardship.

My sister is also an enthusiastic television-watcher.  If you stir in the fact that she struggles a little with reading the digital guide, well, you get someone who is a little trigger-happy with the record button.  As such, a really eclectic mix of programs has started popping up on the DVR.  Her tastes swing further than Big Ben's pendulum.  Around the holidays we would find things like, "A Puppy for Christmas," followed by "Sleepaway Chainsaw Ghost Murders."  "Christmas Teddy Bear Parade" and all of the episodes of 'Bones' ever made.  Seriously.  I think through some sort of time warp she's even snagged some future episodes.

And so, it makes me giggle when I see my wonderful husband purse his lips and furrow his brow when there's a recording conflict between 'Sherlock' and the latest Eddie Cibrian drama on 'Lifetime.'

My Dwindling Wineglasses...

My husband's a bit of a teetotaler.  He's no Carrie Nation. Or...  Is he?

He's destroyed seven wineglasses in five years.  I can't remember the last time I broke a glass.  He claims that he is not personally wreaking this havoc.  The dishwasher was blamed for three of them.  Okay, fine.  But the other four?  Those, he says, simply slipped and exploded when they hit the granite counter tops.  (I know, I know... My diamond shoes are a total bitch, too.)

In an attempt to thwart either his (a) passive-aggressive booze prevention methods, or (b) legit butterfingered-ness, I bought shatterproof wineglasses. Shatterproof!  Elegant solution, yes?  Except, they are plastic.  As such, they are not immune to the melty nature of the dishwasher.  It's tough to see, but observe:

Oh, yes, those are warped lips to the wineglass.  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ENJOY THE BOUQUET OF A $12 BOTTLE OF YELLOWTAIL SHIRAZ IN A VESSEL SUCH AS THIS?

So, anyway, I'm having a very 'we can't have nice things' moment about my wineglasses, because if I buy fancy ones, they will inevitably end up shattered or melted.  Do they make wooden wineglasses?  Besides the Holy Grail prop from 'Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade?'

Happy New Year!

So, it's 12:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I'm under a blanket watching 'Celebrity Ghost Stories.' 'Cause I'm cool like that.

I have uncharacteristic energy at this time of night because I've spent the past two days in bed.  Not for any good reason, mind you.  I came down with whatever my husband and sons were infected with (tortured by?) earlier in the week.  Looking back, it was unwise of me to indulge in an evening snack of summer sausage and red wine while the threat of stomach flu hung in the air.  Trust, that is a meal that does not look good in reverse.

My husband's a hero and took care of all of the things around here (meals, groceries, JumpZone birthday party) so that I could loll around and recover.  The lolling happened in various places.  If you are ever a guest of ours, please note that the bathroom floor is *nearly* as comfortable as a bed!  Especially if you are lying prone and helpless.

I don't have any good reason for sharing this, except that I wanted you to know that my New Year started off with a bang.

Resolve

And I don't mean the carpet cleaner, neither. Though we've been using plenty of that the past two days.*

I'm writing this post for people who, as the year closes, find themselves surrounded by New Year's resolution-list-making-fools.

Here's the thing: I don't believe in resolutions.  Not really.  At least, not the ambiguous ones like, "work out more," "spend less," "learn to let go."  Sure...  Tell me how that works out for you.

See, in my professional life, we teach folks that goals have to be incremental, achievable, and measurable in order for them to be "good" goals.  Good goals would be things like, "work out once or more per week," "save $100 per month for vacation spending."  

If you don't define them like that, the bar is insanely low (I worked out ONCE this year, which was more than last year!) or completely un-check-offable.  Like "learn to let go." Ugh.  Just...  Ugh.

That's one of those twee-meant-to-be-empowering sentiments, like "live life out loud!" and "learn to put myself first sometimes." These are things that, to me, feel like an awful-behavior excuse cloaked in a credo. "Sorry you want me to read you a story, sweetie -- Mama's gotta go to the bar again 'cause I'M PUTTING MYSELF FIRST LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO!' 

Where was I?  Oh, right...

Lists don't work for me. Resolution lists feel like my online shopping experiences at Gap.com.  I fill my cart with everything I could possibly imagine wearing.  Then, I look at the thirty-three items and the $800 tally and think, "Okay, these two things.  These are all I really need."

Vision boards? Those just seem like arts & crafts projects.  Putting a picture of the Eiffel tower on a cork board is not going to get me to Paris. Honestly, just ask my freshman-year roommate at Georgetown.  There I was, at my #1 choice of school, thrilled to be there.  My mind was challenged and engaged by my courses, and I fell in with a pack of theater nerds who had *also* watched Monty Python's oeuvre in its entirety. Joy! And my roommate?  Lovely girl, but absolutely dolorous over the fact that she hadn't been able to go to Oxford (because she didn't want to take the extra year to do her A-levels and fall behind her friends, year-wise).  So, in what struck me as a particularly effusive sour grapes episode of vision-boarding, she papered her side of the cinder block dorm cube with postcards of Cambridge.  Which she also did not attend.

My point is, the wish lists are the easy part for me.  The challenge is wanting something enough to create a blue print for how to get from the wanting to the having.  Not that my blue prints are solid.  Nope.  My blue prints generally look like Georges Seurat painted them.  Step back about twenty feet and I can see what's happening.  Up close though?  Kind of a dotty mess. That's OK, though, because ultimately, if I can see the whole picture, then I'm probably going to achieve it.  

At any given time, I have blue prints for two or three goals that fall outside of my ongoing goals to be a kind wife, mother, and maintain gainful employment (all interrelated, of course).  Because, honestly?  That's all that fits in my wee brain space. 

Here are my current goals (okay, fine, its a list, but I swear that I actually have blue prints and outlines and quite possibly footnotes for each):

1) Publish a short story.  Not self-published, and not through my current employer.  But through some sort of third-party:  a periodical, an anthology, a contest.  I'm hungry for that validation.

2) Work with my brothers/sisters to clear out and sell our parents' home.  There's no urgency to this since my parents were totally fiscally awesome and owned their home and left an unfathomable estate that will cover the expenses of maintaining it for awhile.  But as long as we have that home in our names, I feel a cloud hanging over us.  It doesn't offer comfort. It offers work, and sadness, and a huge blog post in which I sift through all of the feels I have about it.  Which leads me to...

3) Blog weekly.  I stopped doing this in 2013.  I know why.  My learning technique, my processing technique, is to write it down.  Always has been.  And I did not want to process this year.  I wanted to be numb.  I wanted to fold up the sadness, the missing, the hurting, into a neat little origami crane and stuff it way, way, way down where maybe it would just disappear and I wouldn't ever have to actually go through any of those feelings.  Unfortunate side effect to trying not to feel things:  it blocks up all of your other creative flow.  So that novel I've been working on for two years?  I'm only just finishing it. And oh, the editing it will need.  But the more-regular blogging will hopefully clear the blockage.

*My youngest and my husband either came down with a stomach virus procured at one of the fine rest stops along the Cleveland to Baltimore highways and byways, or should not have eaten that many of my reduced fat potato chips during the Ravens-Bengals game on Sunday.  It's kind of a toss up.  GET IT?

So Stupid (Holiday Edition)

I'm only two Christmas cards into my list of approximately eleven thousand (because, big family) and I've already shed my first tears.  I brilliantly decided to combine my holiday missives with my thank-yous to those who reached out to me via cards, e-mails, or visits when my Dad died.

And by brilliant, I mean stupid.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Time to go medicate with some red wine, I guess.  But before I do, I should note that I have no expectations for this season.  I will put on my game face, and I do have some lovely visits and celebrations planned to which I am unabashedly looking forward.  And,I  know that I will enjoy them.  But there will be moments when the reality surfaces, like styrofoam in water, that I am an orphan. That my parents are gone, and that the family norm must once again be re-set.

So, if I need to disappear...  If I need some quiet time... If I spend an excessive time in the bathroom...  Please know that it's not personal.  Or outrageous bowel trouble.  I just need some time to gather myself before I return in good humor and smiles.

For the Love of Sci-Fi

Gah.

There's just been too much lately.  Too much fun, too much sad, too much excitement, too much booze, too much commitment, too much anxiety, too much work, too much TV, too much PTA, too much writing...

I can't really distill life events when my mental still is flooded with...  Too much.  So, let me start...

Today, I deposited the checks for my share of my Dad's life insurance payout.  What a mindf*ck.  Yay!  The equivalent of what I net in a half a year!  That's awesome!  And I have this money...  Because my Dad died.

I took out some cash from the deposit.  Not a lot.  Just a little.  And I took my kids and my sister to the Maryland Science Center.

See, my Dad was a child of science fiction.  He was born in its Golden Age.  His shelves were thick with Isaac Asimov, Carl Sagan, Ray Kurtzweil, Ray Bradbury, Jules Verne, Aldous Huxley, Frank Herbert, Philip K. Dick, Orson Scott Card, Michael Crichton, Ursula K. Leguin, and hundreds of other lesser-known authors.  He had two replicas of the Starship Enterprise in his bedroom (which I'm sure my mother loved).

Did I tell you about the time when I was a seven and my Dad invited me to go to the movie theater to see 'Bladerunner'?  (I nearly went.  Mom tempted me to stay home with ice cream and potato chips, a rare treat in our family.)

One time, my husband (who shares my Dad's love of sci-fi), asked my Dad if there was anything that danced on those thousands of pages in his den that he was disappointed hadn't yet come to fruition.  My Dad thought about it for a second, sighed, and said, "I really thought we'd be living on the moon by now."

Sorry.  That got a bit jumbled.

My point is, my father loved all things science.  He was fascinated by how things worked.  So, it seemed like a good use of what I consider to be his money on a pursuit that he would have supported.  The kids loved it.  My sister loved it.  We toured the standing exhibits, then explored the current exhibit about Mummies (which is AWESOME).  That's a separate post, I think, because there's some hilariousness there.

Speaking of separate posts... I have to write about what it's like to gain from my parents' deaths, when all I really want is for them to have had more time. Don't let me forget to do that.

Stupid Outlook

I logged into my Outlook calendar this morning to see what was on tap for this week.  I noticed a personal appointment that needed to be flipped to the following week.  So, I meandered over to the next week, and boom. October 7, I was scheduled to take my Dad to a routine follow-up visit at the Wilmer Eye Clinic. Guess I have to call them to let them know that he's passed away.

Fun way to start the week.  Oh, wait.  By fun I mean depressing.

Dealing with Condolences

So, people are kind. They are sending heartfelt messages, lovely cards, gorgeous flowers. For this I am grateful.  I cannot say I handle the expressions of sympathy with grace. I try. I well up, but the tears don't actually spill. The sympathizers don't feel they've poured salt in an open wound. I think. I hope.

Anyway, before I launch into this next Tale of Wha-huh?, let me please make it clear that I am so very grateful for any/all acknowledgements of my father's passing.

Tonight, I went to a PTA meeting.  What?  You can be cool and an officer on the board of the PTA. At the conclusion of the meeting, the teacher liaison, who happens to have been my daughter's kindergarten teacher, who also happens to be my neighbor (yay, Smalltimore!), approached me.

"I just wanted to say, I'm so sorry," she said, touching my arm.

She said this without preamble, but I wasn't confused. There is only one thing about which people express their sorries to me these days.

"Thank you so much," I respond. What I can't figure out, what makes me wrack my brain, is how she knew my father had passed away.

"[Your daughter] told me about your father, and I thought, 'Oh, my gosh, I met him." Her eyes went all shiny.

It was all I could do not to wrinkle my brow. She met him? When? Since my mother passed away, my father didn't really get out and about.  He came over to my house for some events, though not many.  He came to one of my daughter's dance recitals, but that had nothing to do with school.  So where did my neighbor meet my father?

Oh, wait.

She's thinking of my father-in-law.

This occurs to me about three minutes into our conversation.  What do I do here? Do I tell her she's thinking of the wrong guy? That her near-tears are for a fella that she actually never met?  Or do I just try to keep my father-in-law hidden the next time he visits so that she doesn't think some kind of wraith walks the earth?  Or, just let it go, and let her be weirded out and figure it out for herself if she sees my father-in-law sauntering around our yard in months/years to come?

That last one.  That's what I'm going to do.

When My Mother Was Terminally Ill, She Said My Dad Would Only Last Six Months Without Her

She shared this with me as she pointed out where they kept their wills.  She was wrong (to her eternal consternation, I'm sure). He lasted nearly three years without her.

My Dad died on August 18, 2013.  At home, in his sleep, without fanfare.  It is, I think, how he would have wanted it.  Really, goddamn, isn't that how we all want it?  The ultimate Irish Goodbye.

I'm so sad. I loved him so very much, and haven't absorbed the myriad ways in which his gone-ness will impact me.  But, some truth:  since my mother passed away, my father has repeatedly said he was 'despondant.' He would also tell me that he thought he was very clever, marrying a woman thirteen years his junior, cementing (in his mind) the notion that she would outlive him, and take care of him in his dotage.

When that didn't happen, when she got sick, it threw him for a loop.  I remember hugging him as he sobbed -- for only a half a second -- in the waiting room when the doctors said that the sample they'd extracted from her innards confirmed small cell lung cancer.  It claimed her five months later, just as the stats said it would.

He never really recovered.  He put on a brave face, and was there for my mother in every way.  But they were so entwined, so thoroughly enmeshed in each other, that when she died, he didn't know how to be.

I don't fault him for this.  That's love.  Pure, unadulterated adoration.  She was gone, he was done (in spirit).  The week before he died, his heart rate was elevated.  We weren't sure why.  We took him to see his doctors (geriatric specialists at Hopkins) twice that week.  They ran tests, drew blood, and gave him the all clear (with scheduled return visits for monitoring).

But then he died in his sleep.

He was 82.  This is not tragic, in the grand scheme of things.  But he was my father, the man who sang 'reveille' to me to wake me up for school; who walked me to school while whistling complicated scales; who read to me and my younger brother every night, asking us to 'stay sweet'; who embraced scatological humor at the dinner table; who read us 'the funnies' in the morning when they made him chuckle; who taught me how to wield a hammer to frightening effect; who gave me a wildly expensive camera when I was thirteen because it was a shared interest; who listened to my plea to go to art camp while he was bedridden and recovering from a hernia operation; who picked me up from a bazillion after-school events; who, despite initially greeting my husband by the incorrect 'Jake,' went on to have endless sci-fi conversations with him (which only makes sense since he was born on the cusp of a golden age of comics and science fiction); who knelt down and played on the floor with all of my children, and delighted in their every milestone.  This man who loved me, who would help me whenever I asked, whom I was helping as he grew older...  He's just gone.  And I am bereft. 

Parenting Milestone

I had a kid over for dinner who has a lethal peanut allergy, and I didn't kill him!

Am I (neighborhood) mother of the year, or what?

Some of my nephews have really bad allergies, so they are not a foreign concept to me (the allergies, I mean; not the nephews).  The boys have eaten at my house plenty of times, and I didn't kill them either.  But, their mother -- my sister -- is usually around, and I'm able to ask her, "Hey -- Fleischmann's margarine doesn't have peanuts in it, right?"

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my former peanut-free hosting duties were a little...  Lazy.  Lazy is what they were.  Sure, I'd read food labels for the obvious stuff, but I'd still thrust the package at her to make sure I didn't miss something.  I had back-up.  She'd tell me if that chicken bouillon is no good, or if that sauce is a problem.

In a play date situation, though, the other parent hands you an epi-pen and waves buh-bye.  His Dad does not stick around to serve as a safety inspector.  You have to make sure that the hamburger buns aren't manufactured in a facility that also handles nuts, and that you scrub the table where your daughter ate a deadly, deadly peanut butter sandwich a mere eight hours earlier, and then you have to give your husband the stink eye because he made her that sandwich when he KNEW a kid with a peanut allergy was coming over later (and sometimes kids drop food on tables then pick up that food and put it in their mouths), and you have to buy special desserts like these because you can't be sure that any of the other desserts you already have in the pantry are OK because you threw out the packaging during your weekend organizational/purge frenzy, and (deep breath) you have to stare at the kid's mouth like a felon to watch for any hive breakouts.

It is only when the kid finishes his meal, eating mostly the gobs of fruit you heaped upon it, and disappears into the basement to play, that you can breathe.

Phew.

Nine

Today, the Boy is nine. NINE. We are mercilessly careening toward double-digits. Ah, who am I kidding.  I'm not really worried about him morphing into some hairy were-teen or anything like that.

It seems to obvious to articulate, but I love this boy, and his sister, and his brother, and their father, with all that I am.  So many, many times I think to myself, "I am so grateful for this life."  We are well, we are stable, we are together, we have a home, we have food, we have easy access to antibiotics.  We flop all over each other, unafraid to request a cuddle.  We make each other laugh.  Most of all, best of all, we aren't chintzy with the hugs and the kisses and the 'I love yous.'

We enjoy each other.

This has been my life for...  For always, actually.  My childhood, my family, was like this.  My dating and engagement and marriage has been like this.  It's only natural that the family that proceeds from my husband and me results in the same.

It has to be said that we also get on each other's nerves, but, you know, this is supposed to be an ode to the boy.

The boy, at nine, is a prize. His chief interests right now, in no particular order, are:

(1) Growing his hair.  I've told you my policy on this, right?  While it kills me that he looks like a greaser whereas I am more of a soc, I am fairly confident that he will lose his hair in his early twenties. I promised myself that I'd allow him to wear it however he wanted to wear it while he has it.
(2) Baseball.  He likes sports, he likes math.  Baseball is all about stats, so, my only question is: why did he not discover this sooner?
(3) 'Radioactive' by Imagine Dragons.  If you haven't watched the video, you really, really must.  Trust me on this.
(4) Riding his bike (WITHOUT TRAINING WHEELS).  This particular feat was a loooooong time coming, and finally FINALLY came to pass during a two-week stay with his grandparents.  Seriously, I think my father-in-law willed this ability into existence.
(5) 'Kickin' It' from DisneyXD.  Unlike #3 up there, I can't really recommend this.  It's awful in the same way that most of these shows are awful.  Snipey, sarcastic kids; doofy adults; and situations that are wildly unlikely.  This probably makes it just like the stuff that I watched at his age.
(6) WWE:  He's still a big fan of wrestling.  I kind of am, too.  It will always have a special place in my heart, because this was the first thing that he brought to us.  Sure, he loved 'The Wiggles' with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns, but they happened to be on the channel that his daycare provider had on when he arrived in the morning.  If it had been, say, 'Barney,' I bet we would've gone to 'Barney' concerts with him.  Actually, I take that back. I would've paid someone to take him, but I just would not have been able to endure it.
(7) Water slides.  Swimming + rides = awesomeness.
(8) Lego.  The Boy still loves the Lego.  This may be a lifelong thing, like the Hulk is for my husband.  I may be buying Lego kits for every Christmas and birthday for the Boy.
(9) Being funny.  He prides himself on being part of the funny group of kids at school, and, truthfully, he makes us giggle all the time.  He doesn't prat fall or anything.  He just makes jokes.  A recent classic:

The Boy:  "Hey, Mom?  Why did  Tigger inspect the toilet?"
Me: "I don't know.  Why?"
The Boy:  "He was looking for Pooh!"

And on that note, I'll close this post.

Sympathy Bargain Shoppers

I had to pick up a sympathy card a few days ago, so I stopped into a drugstore on my way to work.  Having been the recipient of a stack of sympathy cards when my mother passed away, I am actually kind of picky about the content.  I gravitate toward the ones that basically say, hey, I know this is an awful time, and I'm thinking of you. That's it.  Anything else just feels like you're trying to smooth over the recipient's loss.

So, there I was, sandwiched between the all-singing, all-dancing birthday cards, and the marshmallow fluff of the anniversary cards, when I saw it:  a twelve-pack 'value' assortment of sympathy cards.

How grim is that?

I spent the next couple of minutes thinking about the customer for that product.  Is it someone who is a planner by nature, knows a bunch of people who are ill, and wants to stock up?  Does that make them a realist?  Or a pessimist?  Is it someone who just sends sympathy cards at the drop of a hat?  Is it someone who doesn't really care what the message is, and they want to check the sympathy card from their to-do list as soon as possible?  Is it someone who fishes for a bargain in any pond?

I shook my head to clear the jumble of questions, picked out the very lovely card that was completely appropriate for the particular person for whom I purchased it, and checked out of the store.

But, I'm still thinking about that bundle...

Fireflies

"Do you want to catch some fireflies with me?" asked my oldest, the words whistling over his grown-up front top teeth.  He's still not completely accustomed to their breadth, so his tongue hasn't figured out where to go to properly form his 's' sounds.  That, like all things, will come with time.

"Yes," I answered, unhesitatingly.  His younger brother was fast asleep in bed, and his sister was out gallivanting with his aunt.  It was just the two of us, which is not often the case.  We ventured outside, barefoot, with the Gladware container his Gram had butchered so that we could catch fireflies, and keep them without killing them.

The grass was soft under our feet, rendered so by the frequent showers that breezed through Cleveland since our arrival. I was already in my pajamas, as was the Boy.  He's nearly nine, which means he's morphing from a boy to a tween, and then a teen, and then an adult.  But he's only nearly nine; he's not in college yet, or experiencing heartache.  He's still my Boy.

"Oh! I caught one!" he breathed.

"Here," I said, peeling back the lid of the Gladware. "Pop him in here."

The Boy scraped the bug from his thumb and into the waiting plastic.

"Why isn't he lighting up?"

"Well," I leaned over the container, bumping heads with the Boy. "He might be kind of afraid.  But here, I'll add some leaves."  I slipped a few sprigs of green into the dish.  "There.  that should make him more comfortable."

"Maybe," the Boy drawled, "maybe we shouldn't put them in there.  Maybe we should just catch them and let them go?"

And that's what we did.  We ran around his grandparents' yard, in the deepening twilight, catching fireflies and throwing them back into the air. Between us, we must've caught about a hundred. We meandered our way around the side, admiring Gram's bountiful blooming garden, and found ourselves on the front porch.  We were headed to settle on the swing for a mother-son cuddle, when something caught the Boy's eye.

"Oh, Mom!" he said. "It's stuck!"

He'd discovered a firefly caught in a spider web. And proceeded to rescue it.  I helped him, and we scraped away as much of the web as we could before releasing the bug back to the garden.

And that's when I felt it, viscerally: no one will ever be good enough for him.

I reserve the right to change my mind whenever I meet his intended, but in that moment, he was the sweetest, kindest, dearest boy that ever there was, and I can barely imagine the person deserving of him.  I suspect all women feel like this about their kids, but the strength of this nearly took my breath away.

I Am So Squishy

Headline:  we moved our youngest to a more convenient daycare provider.

Here's the rational side of this story:

His previous daycare provider is wonderful.  As great as she is, though, the reality is that the Little Guy is the oldest kid in her regular care.  Basically, he's hanging around with babies all day.  This does not do wonders for his speech development.  He's very baby-talky.  Not uncommon for third children since the older siblings do most of the talking for him.  But, still.  There's some work to be done there.

Also? He's hitting some boundary-testing milestones, so it seemed a good time for his boundaries to be extended. This is accomplished by placing him in an environment where he has lots of new stuff to explore.

Lastly, this place, which is where the Girl went to Pre-K, is wildly convenient.  It's located on the college campus that abuts (hee!) our housing development, so it's a five-minute drive away (as opposed to twenty-five).

Win-win-win, as far as we are concerned.

Here's the utterly irrational aspect of it:

"Are you ready for your first day of school?" I asked.  I unbuckled the Little Guy from his car seat, sliding the pieces of chest harness apart so that he could hop down and step out of the car.

Okay, fine, it isn't really his first day of school, but they have a curriculum for the three-year-old room.  They may only learn by osmosis, but that's OK.  This transition is about more socialization, a bigger environment, and convenience.  If he picks up some spelling, that's cool too.

He stood next to me, clasping his hands together.

"Don't go anywhere, sweetie.  Let me get your backpack."

I grabbed the strap of the blue book bag, embroidered with our last name.  It is a hand-me-down from the Boy, who, as a recently-graduated third grader, prefers a black-and-silver affair with approximately forty-seven pockets, one of which is for a laptop.  The Boy does not have a laptop, but I guess he's planning ahead.

The Little Guy turned away from me so that I could slip the padded straps over his shoulders.  Stuffed with his nap time blanket and travel pillow, the backpack was enormous.  He looked like an astronaut circa 1969.  Well, except for the helmet and the suit.  But, it's the same backpack-to-person ratio. Theirs had jet propulsion.  His contains fleece.

"Mom? Which way do I go?" he asked. He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the low rise of the brick building in front of us, like an English Pointer that has locked onto game.

"Straight ahead, buddy. Wait for me on the sidewalk."

He took off, bounding to the pavement as fast as his dimpled legs could carry him. As soon as he got to the sidewalk, he stopped again.  Swiveling his head back and forth, he called, "Mom? Which way?"

"Keep going straight, right up to the doors."

He took off again, the backpack patting him on the back as he bounced toward the door. I hustled behind him, carrying his lunch, his changes of clothes (because, you know, three-year-olds), and we crossed the threshold into his first day in a bigger world.  As I talked to the room teacher, and we unpacked his backpack into his cubby, he stayed close.  Not because he was scared, but because the guinea pig cage is right next to the cubbies.

"That's a bunny!" he exclaimed.  My Little Guy has this sweet little Mona Lisa grin that plays upon his lips when he's happily entranced by something.  He gets that way when he is playing with some Bubble Guppies figurines, or, most recently, the Girl's Barbie Squinkies.

"That's a guinea pig, pal." He'd never seen a guinea pig before that morning. I know. We deprive him of all of the awesome stuff out there.  Like rodents.

"He's eating!" he giggled.

"Is he?"

"He had a drink of water! With his mouth!" he giggled some more.

During this live commentary of Mr. Guinea Pig's breakfast routine, the room teacher was very kindly reassuring me that they have other picky eaters in the class (Little Guy isn't always picky. There are just some days where he decides he will subsist on milk and goldfish and air.).

Once we we'd unpacked his things, his room teacher led him to the area where the other kids in his 'class' were playing.  The play space was anchored by a Rubik's Cube-patterned carpet.  Toys were sprinkled over the colored squares, one of which was a Thomas the Tank Engine figure.

"Mom! I found Thomas!" the Little Guy held it up to me like he'd found the Holy Grail.

"Are you going to play with him?"

"Yes."

And so he did.  I watched him run Thomas up and down a track for a few minutes.  He seemed very happy, very at ease.  So, I said, "Okay, buddy, can you come give me a hug goodbye?"

Little Guy marched right over, still clutching Thomas, and said, "Buh-bye!" Then he hopped back to his spot in the middle of the carpet.

And, tears, huge pools of tears welling, threatening to spill.  Mine, not his.  I had to blink jackhammer-fast to keep those tears firmly on the correct side of my eyelids.  Him?  He was stoked to have a fresh Thomas to play with.  Me?  I had just taken my youngest to the next station in his life.

I Pulled a Tick Off Of My Daughter This Morning; How Was Your Day

"Are you almost ready for me to brush your hair, sweetie?"

"Yes," the Girl calls from the other side of the open closet door.  She was sitting on the floor, strapping her shoes to her feet. All I could see from my vantage point were Hello Kitty sparkles winking in the morning light.

She stood, shut the door, and skipped past me toward the bathroom.  Currently, she sports a squiggly crop of hair that defies taming.  Think young Merida, except blonde.

"What do you want today?  Ponytail? Floppy ponytails? Braided bun?" I asked, pulling the brush, detangler spray, and myriad elastics from the Drawer for Such Things.

"Pigtails!" she yelled.

Pigtails it would be.

I liberally sprayed her hair with the detangler, caught up a hank of it, and dragged the brush through it.  She screwed up her face in truly gymnastic ways, entertaining herself as I worked my way through her hair.  Because of the ariadnic (yes, I made that up) way that my daughter's hair knots itself together, I can't get the tangles out in one stroke.  Nope, I have to work at the tangles, layer by layer.  It isn't arduous -- the whole thing takes about five minutes.  But, it is a process.

Anyway, I brushed the hair back from her temples to the fistful that would become the pigtail.  And that's when I noticed the dark spot over her ear. A tick.  And not the cool kind, either.  It was small, and a little engorged, so it had been there for a little while.

This is one of those moments where you know if you freak out or make a big deal out of something, it's going to make the whole removal process much, much more dramatic than it needs to be.  So, I finished with the pigtails.  As soon as the elastic was wrapped around that second pigtail, I said, "Sweetie?  I just noticed something  next to your ear, and it's a tick. I have to remove it, and it'll only take a second, but I've done this before for you* and I'm very good at it."

"Oh." The Girl wrinkled her brow and frowned.  "Is it going to hurt?"

"Maybe a little," I answered. "But it will mostly be a weird tugging.  It'll be okay. Just hang on."

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a paper towel, some olive oil, and a sealable plastic bag. I went back to the bathroom, and my daughter looked even more concerned than she had before. She's only six, so I was kind of surprised that the wailing and the gnashing hadn't started.

"Ready?" I asked.  Before she had a chance to answer, I doused a small portion of the paper towel in oil, pinched it around the tick, and pulled.  It came right out, no problem. I dropped it into the bag, sealed it up, and took a look at it's creepy crawly self.  Which, why was  doing that?  I don't have a database of tick pictures in my head.  I can't tell a deer tick from a deer.

I resolved to compare it to pictures online later.  Lyme Disease, which is spread by the deer tick, is no joke. One of my brothers suffers from it, and his joints are perma-achy.

But, she was a trooper, wanting mostly to inspect the bug and then discuss the traits it shares with vampires.  There were no tears, and only a little flinching when I put the smear of antibiotic ointment on the bite mark.

Sniff.  My little girl is growing up so fast.

Apparently, My Children Think I'm a Drug Addict

The following is a transcription of the conversation I had with my older two children during bedtime last night.  Context:  they were having a 'sleepover.' This means that they bunk down in the pullout couch in the basement and watch kid-friendly Netflix 'til they pass out, which is about twenty minutes after they would normally fall asleep.

Here we go...

Me: [Boy], where's your blanket?

Boy: I don't have one.

Me: You need a blanket -- go grab one from the linen closet in the bathroom.

Boy: Okay.  (37 seconds pass.)  Mom? I can't find one.

Me:  You owe me a dollar if I can find a blanket in less than a minute. (I march toward the bathroom.)

Boy: Oh, I found one!

Me:  (looking at the blanket he selected) Aw, that's the one that Grandmom crocheted for you when you were a baby. I always think that when you snuggle with a blanket that she made for you, it's sort of like she's giving you a hug.

(The Boy skips over to the bed, flumps down, and drapes the blanket over himself.)

Girl (having overheard the conversation between the Boy and me): Mom, I miss Grandmom. But, (shrugging her shoulders as though she is a preternaturally mature teenager in a late-80's sitcom), she got sick because of smoking*, and all of the drugs.

Me: WHAT? (Laughing). Grandmom didn't do drugs. What do you know about drugs, anyway?

Girl:  Well, she drank beer, and alcohol is a drug.

Me: (Wishing Baltimore County Public Schools was a little more circumspect in how they group together drugs, tobacco, and alcohol. And also trying to figure out how to tease out the differences between beer and, say, heroin, without undermining what the kids are learning in school.) Listen, guys, I know that school teaches that alcohol is a drug...

Boy: You do drugs every night!

Me:  I DO NOT DO DRUGS. 

Girl: You drink wine.

Boy: Yeah, there are like, five wine bottles on the kitchen counter every night.

Me: No! No there are not. There's a bottle of wine. One. Listen, I drink wine, but it's not the same as drugs.

Girl: (Shrugging again) Well, wine is a drug.

Me:  (Sighing. Heavily.) Okay. Good night!

(Hugs and kisses, followed by mama having a glass of wine.)

*I have been honest with my kids that my mother developed lung cancer as a result of a fifty-year smoking habit. I don't want them to smoke. They should know what it does, and the kind of pain it causes.