Much Ado

I can't believe yesterday has come and gone. The kids have started school. They are preschoolers. And we survived without a hitch. I'm definitely relieved, but a little surprised. For months, several months, I've worried and cried about yesterday. And sure, some of that worry help me be prepared and to prepare the kiddos. But in the end, it wasn't awful. Yet? Maybe it will be hard and awful tomorrow, my first day doing it alone? Or maybe, with all the worry and planning, we at some point became ready for school? All of us?

Because Sis and Bud marched into school, dragging along their wheelie backpacks with snackpacks inside, went right to their cubbies and started to unpack. Sis even hung Shirt on the hook. And then Bud went off to find the tools and Sis headed straight to the sand table. Mama and I pretty much just stood there, having been so ready for tears and trouble. So, we "beep-beeped" the kids and left. We left.

Left them there. I had cried the night before while packing their snackboxes with dried apricots and crackers. How many should I pack? My word, how much do my kids eat? Would they be able to get the twist off lids open? Would they find their napkins? Would they find their little notes. Would someone help them? Who would help my babies? I had always been there to feed them.

And so, yesterday, while busily cleaning the closet, our designated keep-busy task during the first day of school, I realized it was snack time and I started to cry again. And insisted that Mama call to check on them. They were "great." The teachers "want to take them home." Whew. A few more tears, a lot more cleaning.

And the rain started to fall. We hurriedly finished cleaning and left to pick them up early because they wouldn't be able to play outside (the school recommends early pick up on rainy days during the first weeks as everyone gets settled). And as we entered the school, they rounded the corner. Buddy looked like he was trying so hard not to cry, so relieved to see us. But he didn't, just gave me a long hug. Sis sniffed Shirt and went straight for Mama. But they were both happy, or proud, maybe, and relieved. The teacher told us that they had played with fake food, making coffee for them all, and with some of the other kids. Sis had made a picture with markers. They had had a good first day. A great one. So we got all the assorted bags and pictures and book orders (YAY!) and newsletters and left to have a celebratory Chinese food lunch, despite the torrential rain. And so, it was in patches and pieces, that we learned about singing "Twinkle Twinkle" and "Hokey Pokey" and sitting on stars for circle time and Bud going to the potty and how they didn't go play outside. Luckily, there had been a note posted that allowed us to ask all the right questions about what they had done, not just "what did you do today?" Which we asked repeatedly anyway.

But it wasn't until late last night that I unpacked their snackboxes (from their new "cubbies" on the porch) and realized that Bud had eaten all his apricots but left a few crackers and Sis had eaten all her crackers but left most of her apricots. I had guess mostly right on who ate what and how much. And I cried all over again.

A True Artist

Check out the touching and fascinating article on Maurice Sendak in the NYTimes on the occasion of his 80th birthday.

Did you know he was gay? And just lost his partner of 50 years.

I think we only have Chicken Soup and Where the Wild Things Are, and, of course, all the Little Bears. I'll check out some others.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

My parents are, as I type, emptying their bayhouse of all valuable and sentimental belongings, moving boats inland, and boarding up windows. So are my aunts and uncles at their nearby houses.

A few counties away, my aunt and uncle are under mandatory evacuation orders because they are on the waterfront. The town will turn off water on Friday morning to encourage people to leave.

It's coming . . .

We Did It! (with apologies to Dora)

We woke up on time
and ate some toast
We did it!
We got "school cones"
and a happy day sign
We did it!

We did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!
Lo hicimos, we did it, we did it, hurray!

We picked our own clothes
and went to the potty
We did it!
We packed our snacks
and our school bags
We did it!

We did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!
Lo hicimos, we did it, we did it, hurray!

We took pictures
and left on time
We did it!
We got to school
and Mommy didn't cry
We did it!

We did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!
Lo hicimos, we did it, we did it, hurray!

We filled up our cubbies
and got our nametags
We did it!
We found our favorite spots
and beeped moms goodbye
We did it!

We did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!
Lo hicimos, we did it, we did it, hurray!

Our First Date

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

About 12 years ago, Mama and I went on our first date. We weren't even officially dating--see, I was still, um, confused--but we both got dressed up, she brought roses, and we went out, theater and dinner afterwards. We saw Rent. It was a magical night, probably the night that eventually led us to getting together 11 years ago last month. We laughed, we cried, it was better than Cats.

We had bonded over musicals, though she was a devotee of Les Mis and I loved Phantom of the Opera. We compared notes on Gypsy, which we both saw with Tyne Daly (her on Broadway, me the touring company), also Secret Garden, Miss Saigon. I knew all the "old school" shows, from my dad's old albums and from going to the theater with my mom at, what seems now, a very young age--Yul Brynner in King and I, Donald O'Connor in Showboat, Robert Goulet in On A Clear Day, David Cassidy in Joseph, and so many others. And Mama loved the movie Pete's Dragon, which songs I could sing as soon as she mentioned it. She's always said that my knowing the lyrics to those songs--and doing a great Elliott imitation--made her fall in love with me.

But Rent was always our show. And not just because of the lesbians. In fact, we much prefer the duet between Angel and Tom Collins. The show encapsulated for me my first years in NYC, even if my life was nothing like theirs, and spoke to Mama's rebellious side. That, and she had wanted to go into the theater instead of computer--even got a full ride to NYU's Tisch School of Drama, in production, but didn't go. Though, if she had, would we have met (her Buddhist self says that we would have, since it's all fate)?

We never went back to see the show, even recently when we heard it was closing--it's last show was yesterday-- because nothing could top that first viewing together. She had even studied the lyrics and knew when the sad part happens and put her arm around me just before (see, I had seen the show a few months earlier with a grad school friend and had told her how that part had made me cry). We've seen some musicals together since then--Lion King, Ragtime, Jane Eyre, Whistle Down the Wind (we even went to Lincoln Center to see La Boheme upon which Rent is based)--though not so many since the kids and Connecticut (we're woefully behind). But it's always the sounds of Rent that take us back to the very beginnings.

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.

In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love? Measure in love

Seasons of love. Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes!
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned,
Or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned,
Or the way that she died.

It's time now to sing out,
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love!
Remember the love!
Seasons of love!

Oh you got to got to
Remember the love!
You know that love is a gift from up above
Share love, give love spread love
Measure measure your life in love. (Jonathan Larson, Rent)

Wedding Bells

"Bud, we're getting married," Sis said.

I warned him that that's how it sometimes happens, as she dragged him into proper couple formation. She was wearing her new dress-up pink princess/ballerina twirly dress and he had on his green pocket tee with his new dress-up pink twirly tutu (yes, his.).

"Okay, let's kiss," he said. Followed by the cutest, sweetest kiss. And more marching, while our babysitter and I sang the wedding song.

Best wedding ever.

(Apologies to the "other" new bride and groom).

Hurricane

Please, please, please direct your thoughts towards Hurricane Ike and hope it dissipates into some wimpy rainstorm. And doesn't hit Houston (where my parents are) or the Matagorda Bay area (where their bayhouse is, and also, inland, most of my mom's family) or the Corpus Christi area (where my aunt and uncle live 10' from the water).

Do-Over

Albus was slinking around again this afternoon, so we called our daytime vet, who had gotten the report from last night's ER visit, and said to bring him in. I laughed that maybe it was psychosomatic, that Albus might be stressful about preschool like the rest of us. Turns out, he probably pulled his back(like the rest of us! though, not recently, knock on wood) or bumped his spine. He definitely has a tender spot. And now has some painkillers. But he should be fine in a few days.

Again

Our cat Albus was acting funny this evening--disoriented and uncertain on his feet. We don't think he ate anything (it's always been that in the past) but something has happened. So, at 9:45 pm, Mama headed to the emergency vet. It's going to be a long night. Poor cat.

Update: Mama is home, about an hour later. They couldn't find any problems with Albus. Hmmm, maybe the stress in the house has finally gotten to the cats too. I think we'll be up awhile watching him.

36 Hours

Thank goodness we've reached the final stretch. Yep, 36 hours until school. Finally. Here are some snapshots of the last few days.

Make Up a Story: this is a game Mama came up with at dinner last night as a way to entertain the kiddos. Well, it's not new, but it's new to us: someone starts a story and the next person continues it. Last night, we told a long one about a kitty and a skunk who can't find his mommy. And then one about a giant playing in the mountains and clouds. This then became what kinds of things would we like clouds to "rain"--Sis choose chocolate; Buddy chose strawberries; I asked for yarn; Sis said Mama would choose "bars" as in granola bars. "Make up a story" was the first thing they asked for tonight.

-=-=-=-=-

"What's the good word?" I asked Buddy, just wondering what he was up to. "Please," he said.

-=-=-=-=-

A fly was caught in the car. It must have landed on Sis. "Mommy, I got . . . BUGNESS on me!"

-=-=-=-=-

Schultuten: I made the kids' "school cones" last night. It was Mama Teacher's idea to use foam and it worked great. We laced up a foam square--pink for Sis, green for Bud--and I decorated them with foam shapes and foam markers. Tres eco-friendly. I filled them with gifts--horses and cookie cutters for Sis, cars and baseball cards for Bud (mercy, it sounds so gender specific). I'll also put a felt heart in there, just a little token (also a suggestion of Mama Teacher's); I couldn't cut them in half as some had suggested, to match up with the other half that I carried when school was over--that's just too macabre for 3 year olds, I think.

-=-=-=-=-

We have new backpacks, though I'm not sure we need them for preschool. We already have snackboxes. That means that upon arrival and departure, I will be carrying four--count them, 4!--bags. I'm going to need a bag. But when I laughingly chose a cupcake one at the store today, Sis firmly reminded me that I was done with school. And thus shouldn't get a new bag. Well, it wasn't big enough anyway.

-=-=-=-=-

We had a great outing yesterday to see the model trains and then go for ice cream afterwards. Yep, we did win the "best mommies ever" contest.

-=-=-=-=-

It seems like the ABCs are everywhere these days. We had alphabet soup at lunch and the kiddos picked out letters, mainly those starting their names, and we came jup with other words with the same letters. Then, after lunch, Bud and Sis actually wrote those starting letters on the chalkboard. Without our help.

-=-=-=-=-

Practice: we've had two practices for our "drop off" day of school on Tuesday. First, we had visiting day on Thursday. That went pretty well. And then we had the first day of Sunday School today. A little less smooth. In fact, Mama stayed in the class for the whole 15 minute sesson today, just to calm nerves and reassure. But there were no tears or hysterics, so we'll see how it goes . . . .

. . . in less than 36 hours.

Deja Vu

I would be lying if I said I wasn't completely unnerved by the arrival of Tropical Storm Hanna. A tornado warning--which means rotation has been spotted-was issued for parts of the county. The kids even noticed the pounding sound of rain as they went to bed and were unsettled. Luckily, they've fallen asleep. But we're awake: flashlights nearby, weather tv tuned in, lights on outside so we can watch the remaining trees, stomachs churning.

Oh, Happy Day!

Two great things today:

• We had a happy and successful visiting day at school, with a little hesitation but lots of excitement. I think they'll/we'll be fine in the long run, maybe with a few bumps these first few weeks.
• We had no accidents despite refusing to go in a "foreign" potty and a 2-hour car nap (we did stop at home before lunch to go, though)!

It's 4 a.m.

Gosh, it's early, though I know I could pick up the phone and call my friend Mama Teacher and she'd be getting ready for work. I am too, in my own way, I guess. Today is visiting day at school, just another step towards starting school--and leaving them there--next week. We have new haircuts, new shoes, new backpacks. Not really any new clothes yet as none of the stores are carrying short sleeves and at 87F today it's still a little warm for long sleeves. But they'll have new (and new-to-them) clothes soon. I have a list of things I want to do before Tuesday, including the schultuten I'm planning, a felt heart "hug and kiss" to carry, notes for their snackboxes, a poster wishing them a great day at school (also to be used to date first day pictures), labeling everything they own, and cleaning off the porch. Okay, that last one is odd but I realized--as many people have noted ("I finally get them out of your house and then it starts all over again with the toys on the porch!)--all the toys on the front porch really slow down our departures and I want them out of there (yes, sometimes the obvious escapes me). That might take awhile. But we're supposed to have the remnants of Hurricane Hanna this weekend so we won't go anywhere really anyway.

I was really impressed at orientation tonight. I love the school, I love the teachers. I'm excited about all the activities. I was reassured by the attitudes and philosophies of the teachers, who really seem to work as a team. I'm looking forward to joining the parent committee and helping out on activity days. It's a little intimidating to meet all these new parents, as I have been so comfortable in my own little playgroup and church niche. But we already know two of the families, though the kids probably don't remember one of them. And I guess it's just a taste of the nerves the kids will feel. But I loved school and am comfortable in that environment--especially because there are no midterms, SATS, or orals for me (yes, yes, I'm sure it's going to be tougher watching them go through all of the academic and social hurdles, but I'm trying really hard to embrace the happy here; the worries come easily enough).

I remember preschool. It was surrounded by really tall pine trees, with a circular drive, and had long, low buildings. I remember one of my classrooms, where a boy I would go to school with through senior year, once tried to dramatically embrace me and ended up dropping me on my head on the linoleum floor (see, that NEVER worked). I remember that we put on a "3 Little Bears" play, complete with costumes. I remember the day we sampled crackers with butter, peanut butter, and jelly, or any combo of the three--I tried them all together--mercy, you wouldn't do that today. I remember dyeing blown out eggs but having one of my beautifully-colored creations roll out of my basket under the car on departure. These are real memories my mom couldn't have told me, some of the earliest things I remember absolutely on my own. I wonder what memories the kiddos will create without me?

And isn't that why I'm up at 4 a.m.?

Time Travel

Want to know how to go back 30-odd years in time?

See a Scholastic book order form at preschool orientation! It's still a folded colorful sheet with an order form.

And we get to order once a month!

I LOVE book orders: looking at the offerings (even when you were supposed to be listening--what were they thinking to pass those out before the end of the day), begging your mom for more than you "need," (hate the waiting, waiting, waiting), finding the pile of new books on your desk after recess (my teachers never seemed to use them to bribe us into good behavior. Apparently Mama's did, which pissed her off because she was always good), remembering and being surprised by what you had ordered, the smell and feel of brand new Scholastic books, the entire afternoon reading period we always got on book day.

WAIT, I'm the mom now. No begging! I can buy as many as I want (though, truthfully, my parents never really limited my book consumption. I'm going to continue that tradition, even though I'm sure it's an expensive one.).

And then there was book fair, usually coinciding with the week of Open House so you could coerce your parents into buying even more books.

I can't wait for the first book order! And we'll get two forms--one for me and one for Mama. It's like being 6 all over again.

The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

THE KIDS WENT OUT TODAY WITHOUT ANY DIAPERS!!!!

MY GOODNESS, I THINK THEY'RE POTTY-TRAINED!!!!!

Free to Be

Johnson & Johnson's ad about how babies change everything is patently obvious.

But I forget how even the things least affected by having children have changed for me. Take Bend it Like Beckham, a movie we really like. We were watching it last weekend and I wondered, what would I do if one of the kids wanted to be something I didn't support? Not a soccer player, mind you, good luck to them (which they'd need if sports are a goal). But athletics was a real challenge for the Bamra family in the movie, who did not approve at all.

What would the kids want to become (or find out they are) that would send me into fits? Gay? This might be a problem for many American parents, but, um, not us. Been there, done that. The opposite on the continuum--a priest or nun (okay, I use "opposite" loosely here, folks)? A murderer? A pro-life activist? A Republican?

Okay, okay, seriously (Before readers get upset, I'm not saying those things are synonymous, mind you, just on the opposite end of the continuum from us, each in its own way). How do you handle when your kids take the opposite path you did? I guess it happened to my parents, though I don't think of me being in opposition to them. They are great and accepting about my being a lesbian, about Mama, and the kids. It's a non-issue. Even to say they are great about it seems to indicate there is a problem; there isn't. They are amazing people that way. But still, I didn't turn out the way any of us, including myself (though, as you have probably heard me say, looking backwards, many more things make sense now. Duh.), expected. Mama didn't either. And I have relatives, not even Catholic relatives, whose son is a monk. Would I be able to accept that? Just as the Bamras eventually do in the movie? And my parents have? Even as Mama's parents have now. I hope so. I think so. It's the first UU principle: respect the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Even if they do become Republicans (sorry to pick on the GOP today. Well, no, not really).

It just occurred to me, as I was about to wrap up this post, that many young children's books are about this very theme: Mommy, will you love me anyway? My favorite of the genre is Mama, Do You Love Me? where the young girl imagines greater and greater trials she could present her mom, from breaking eggs to running away to becoming a terrible polar bear (it's set in Alaska). In response to each imagined ordeal, the Mama responds that she still loves her daughter.

I will love you forever and for always, for you are my dear ones.

Voting with My Vagina

McCain has had me in mind, I know. I'm a pro-Hillary Democrat, supporting her in our state primary, and angry at the Obama campaign for their treatment of her.

But I'm not an idiot, which I'd have to be to consider voting for a Republican for president. Especially after the last eight years. Even with a woman on the ticket. Especially the woman he chose.

It's not the vagina, stupid.

Meal Deal

Sesame Street ran a segment a few weeks ago about what's a meal, kind of a game show (Mama says it's based on a real show but I don't know it) where you have to decide if the food is a meal or not. It certainly struck a chord here because we now find ourselves defining a meal frequently. "Is ice cream a meal?" Sis wants to know when we say it is mealtime. No, that's a snack (we try not to talk about dessert, not wanting to make that a habit).

What is a meal? Um, a protein (it can't be easy, can it? As vegetarians, we don't want to say it's a meat)--meats, beans, or eggs--with vegetables and fruit and some bread or rice or pasta (are they too young to understand "carb"?). So, then, Bud wants to know, can he just have blueberries, strawberries, and grapes? Sis would like just cinnamon raisin bread. We're not in the clean plate club and we don't reward eating, so we dislike saying they can have one food only after they finish another. But you can't just have bread or grapes. It's tricky, defining a meal, especially because as a nation, our concepts of food and meals are so skewed.

To make it more complicated, they still don't understand the difference between breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so we try to keep it to meal and snack. Until Sis wants grilled chicken for breakfast, which I'm not sure I could handle at 7 a.m. At that point, I'd rather give her ice cream!

McMuseum

Sis noticed the paintings on the wall first. "Look, Mommy, McDonald's is an art museum." Sure enough, there were four framed posters on the walls.

Ironically, the posters depict cute little Parisian streets, including a boulangerie and a bistro. Because, when you're lunching on Happy Meals, you think classic French cooking.

The Only Constant

Sure, we've all heard the saying that the only constant in life is change.

Ha, ha, ha. I hate change.

And I've had a lot of it recently. But as my neighbor, who has had more than her fair share of life's ups and downs, says life is about settling into the "new" normal; there is no getting back to normal. I think change must be the quintessential experience of parenthood. I've had more change in three years than I've had in a lifetime, practically. It's change on speed.

And, I don't handle change well. It's partly emotional, partly physiological (see this article in the NYTimes on irritable bowel syndrome/IBS. For those of you who don't know, I was diagnosed with this as a teen but can remember the first bouts of it in 1st grade. So, that's why sometimes I don't handle new experiences or going places well, especially parties, parks, movies, or new places. Ask Mama, I'm much better than I used to be)--change upsets my stomach. Even small ones that other people don't notice. I'm more comfortable with the predictable (or controllable), the familiar, or at least the similar. Which makes me, at times, a boring, unadventurous, rigid but also dependable and (at least I used to be) organized gal.

Hmmmm, that doesn't sound much like parenthood, does it? So, the change of school, even the change to potty-trained, plus numerous other little changes--a friend about to move, a friend back a work, the loss of my car, a change in our household routine--have me completely on edge, when added all together. Sure, change means growth. Yada yada yada. Do you know the saying about experience? It's what you have when you don't have anything else.

My mom loves that part in the movie Parenthood where they compare life to amusement park rides, rollercoaster vs. carousel. I don't like real or metaphorical rollercoasters. But I do love a carousel.

I hope that doesn't change too.

All the World's Their Stage

I'm becoming a very good audience. I sit attentively wherever I've been assigned. And I clap vigorously when the performance is over. See, I have new season tickets to "Twin Theater." I've been treated to Bud's Magic Show, complete with lots of abracadabras and items disappearing from whatever proffered hand you choose; a sea chantey concert, with Sis stomping her foot and playing the guitar accompanied by Bud on drums, with both of them singing into microphones to "Strike the Bell"; numerous concerts featuring "The Bubbly Nose" song ("la la la la nose, wherever it goes, la la la la toes."); and some sporting events, such as soccer or baseball or football. I wonder what's coming up next season? I'll definitely keep subscribing.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

First, we are so glad that New Orleans and the Gulf Coast were spared repeat hurricane devastation this week.

We've been pretty lucky with weather recently, too. Mild--even some days with highs in the low 70s and lows in the high 50s AND it was AUGUST--with little real rain, a blessing, since the kiddos are actively re-living their storm experience. Sis particularly has been re-enacting the night of the storm. With toys, the fairy houses we built outside, or even just her and Bud in their playhouse, she imagines the rain coming, going into the basement, the tree hitting the house, the car being damaged, and people coming to help. She also remembers the "scary storm hotel" and how the car and tree were taken away. She misses the car, the only real tangible change in her world, since it's gone for a few more weeks at least. Over the weekend, we pulled out the sprinkler--it was warmer than the low 70s--and they pretended that it was raining and would run into their playhouse. Then Bud would be the roofer and come over and fix Sis's roof. Luckily, in all these games, people help out and everything ends well (we were encouraged by our pediatrician and minister to help them "finish the story" with a happy ending). But I'd still like the rain to stay away a little while longer. Bud and Sis want to play.

Who Do You Ask if You Don't Know Which Way to Go?

So, we have a GPS for the car now, "so I don't get lost" (read: so Mama never gets lost again with witnesses in the car as happened 48 hours before purchase of said GPS.) But I am prone to getting lost, even to places I go regularly, so a GPS is a good thing for the family chauffeur. And it really paid off in Texas when Mama had to drive for car naps in a "foreign" state (and I think she'd use that term with numerous connotations).

Anyway, Mama likes to play with her gadget, even when she knows where she's going because she wants to see how it works. And the kids are fascinated. Because, like Dora's companion, this map talks. It says, "turn right" or "turn left." And the like. And Sis, being the ultimate budding backseat driver says, "Mama, are you turning right?" Which, because Mama is often not doing what the map says, is not always true. It's made for some interesting conversations in the car, as Sis insists that Mama follow Map, with a capital "M." It's gotten to the point that Mama will turn off the sound until, of course, Sis notices and asks why Map isn't talking. At least she'll know left from right!

Bud likes maps too, but prefers paper ones like you find at highway rest stops or in travel guides. In fact, he's mighty obsessed right now with world maps. He particularly likes globes, like the one at our friends' house or the inflated globe ball we have--he always wants to know where we live, where our friends and family live, not really grasping the scale of the globe. And he really doesn't understand that it is a planet, of course, saying he doesn't want to live on a planet. We have a world landmarks puzzle with about 16 pieces that he loves to complete, naming the pictures of the "step pyramid" (Chichen Itza) or "stadium" (Colosseum) or "stones" (Stonehenge). Now to explain the significance of the Taj Mahal . . . Mama has also been saving a huge laminated map of the world with animals which she bought a year ago (Mama loves maps too, and I laughed at the time, because they were just 2, mea culpa) but pulled out just this weekend. We spread it on the living room floor and then brought out our considerable collection of plastic animals, matching up animals to their habitats. "Mama, all the white animals go together!"--in the Arctic, Sis noted. And we located where kangaroos, belugas, manatees, lions, monkeys, and beavers lived. Bud thinks all the continents are islands--which makes sense in its way--and began to make up names for them, even as we stressed Asia or Africa. No big deal. Sis then tried to group the families together on the continents so that soon the whole map was covered in plastic critters. We left the map out for the whole weekend.

The cats liked it too!

(What the kids--and cats--don't know is that Mama has an even better world map in reserve--a giant, felt board with puffy buildings, animals, and people cut outs with velcro--but we're going to wait at least, well, another week to pull that out!)

Milestone

That was my 500th post!

My word, how much will I write with 5 extra "free" hours in my week??

Best Wishes

. . . to our friends who started school today.

And their parents.

Our turn is coming, so we're definitely with you in spirit.

I Can't Think of Anymore Garden Sayings

It's another gardening post, but with no cute title.

Last week, Sis noticed that our ignored, storm-ravaged plants had actually born tiny little fruits: we found half of a mini yellow squash on the ground, clearly the snack of some desperate rodent, and a tiny green tomato hanging from the beaten stem of one of our tomato plants. Sis loved that little tomato--"Mommy, I didn't know we could grow a tomato!" She was so enthusiastic about seeing it turn red and in that excitement called her brother over to see it. He promptly (and probably unintentionally) pulled it off the plant. Ohhhh. I had to explain to her that it wouldn't turn red, even as she sat on the front step to watch it happen. Why, oh, why, hadn't we thrown out the withered plants right after the storm? For more than a brief moment, Mama and I toyed with substituting a bright red cherry tomato overnight. We didn't.

And so, this weekend, we decided to go to a local farm and orchard to pick thriving fruits from the proverbial vine. We got Ginger Gold apples, Canadian-something (honey?) peaches, green tomatoes (which we put in newspaper to ripen . . . please, please, please. If not, I have a fried green tomato recipe), yellow squash, zucchini, late late raspberries (it took 30 minutes to find 15 decent ones, but Bud thought they were divine! And they were pretty good), but no pears, as Sis likes to remind us. We were going to pick Asian pears but felt they weren't quite ready yet. Of course, Sis is still talking about the pears we didn't pick.

But at least she has forgotten the withered squash and little green tomato.

And as we have told them both, we'll try again next year.

-=-=-=-=-

Mexican Lasagna

3 squash (I used 2 zucchini and 1 yellow), sliced
1 onion, chopped
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 can red kidney beans, drained and rinsed
1 jar salsa
1 cup enchilada sauce
2 cups cheese (cheddar or Mexican blend), plus a little extra for topping
1 cup sour cream
6-8 whole wheat tortillas

Preheat oven to 350.

Saute squash and onion in skillet.

Mix beans and salsa in separate bowl. Mix cheese and sour cream in another bowl.

Spray 9 x13 baking pan with cooking spray. Pour about 2 tablespoons of enchilada sauce in pan.

Layer tortillas, then vegetable mixture, bean mixture, then cheese mixture. Pour some enchilada sauce over it. Repeat until done, ending with tortillas and a layer of extra cheese.

Bake covered for about 30 minutes, or until bubbly. Remove foil for last 10 minutes to brown cheese on top.

Inspired by Claire's Corner Copia, New Haven

Labor Day

Well, we weren't either a). free from Labor or b). celebrating laborers here this weekend. Instead, we were engaged in that milestone labor of toddler parenting: potty training.

For some reason, it's working. Sis has had one accident since Friday. Bud has had a few but he is getting very good at knowing when he needs to go--if only I remembered fast enough that "MOMMY!" has more import now.

We have washed hands more in one weekend than we have in their entire lifetimes! I know this because we have to drag the chair to the sink each time and turn the water on for them and then hand them the towel. Nothing is their size in our kitchen (our little bathroom off the kitchen doesn't have a sink).

But we made new sticker charts, which, oddly, aren't even that exciting to them. I think it really is the feeling of accomplishment that they are succeeding. It has nothing to do with new undies (and gosh it's hard not to call them panties, which is what I call them but we don't want Bud to be beaten up in preschool), or stickers, and they haven't even asked for a reward from the candy store.

That, and we aren't calling it "potty training." I realized perhaps our words were getting in the way because even now they say "I don't want to be potty-trained."

And then you know that it's long overdue!

Chez Bud

"Here's your menu. What would you like?" Waiter Bud asked.

"Grilled cheese and ham," ordered customer Sis.

"Grilled cheese and ham it is."

"I want to keep my menu. This is a menu-keeping place."

"Sure."

Mama and I order, all at different tables.

"Here's your peppers. And soup."

"Restauranter [could she possibly have meant "restaurateur?"], where is my grilled cheese and ham?"

"Goodbye, I'm going to the store. We're closed. Here's the check."

I don't think Chez Bud is still in business . . . .

The Art of Museums

"I didn't know that art museums could be fun," Bud announced as we entered the Yale University Art Gallery recently. We had already reviewed all the rules--no touching, quiet voices, stay together--and explained we would see paintings and sculpture, but I think Bud thought it would be a children's museum, the only kind he can remember going to.

We went first to European painting and, after searching for paintings of food or animals, we alighted in front of a painting of bugs. Perfect. There we commenced a game of "I Spy" to the apparent delight (I hope) of other gallery goers. We spied caterpillars, dragonflies, butterflies, and a frog, among others in the still life (I didn't catch the artist or title, bad art historian that I've become) and loudly identified colors and counted things. I think that was enough for Bud though, because again in a stage whisper said that he was ready to go.

So we went to Asian art, where there promised to be three-dimensional works. He was fascinated with a Chinese Han tower, with several stories, people on the different levels, and even a dog in the entryway. He noticed a bird on the roof and flowers at the corners. Sis meanwhile was entranced with a relief of Buddha's giant footprints and a statue of Guanyin. And then they took turns telling the other about their favorite works. "Do you see the dog, Sis?" "Look at the feet!"

But across this gallery were African masks. We should have known better, but with Halloween approaching we took the costume approach. No go. Immediately, using one of his new favorite phrases, Bud said "That's not a good idea." And we made a hasty departure back to the lobby, where we exited to the outdoor sculpture garden for a change of scenery.

When asked their favorite part, did they remember the tower or footprints or even enormous cubes? Nope. "The big elevator," they both said. And Bud spent the rest of the day saying he didn't like the scary masks.

Lest I get discouraged, I should focus on what happened at home a few days later. Sis had found the coloring sheets from Mama and pulled out her mini markers (for the anti-coloring sheet among us--I know, I know. Not creative. But great fine motor practice and good in a pinch. We do plenty of other art). Both she and Bud spent a good amount of time coloring images of airplanes, animals, and trains. Then, Bud wanted to hang his completed work up and so he ran to the magnetic chalkboard and affixed it there. Others followed. "It's a museum," he said. And then he played "I spy." He has since then given tours to me and Mama of the gallery. I almost feel like I should write up some labels. Met, here we come!

In and Out

I've written at length about my time out practices but I've been trying something new, inspired by an article in . . . Mothering? Brain,Child? I really can't recall. But the article rejected timeouts in favor of "time in." It's basically a dialogue between the parties involved to resolve any existing and escalating conflict. For instance, if Bud and Sis are really beginning to argue, to the point that a timeout for one or both looks inevitable, I call a "time in." They now know that means to stop what they are doing and come over so we can sit together. Then we talk. Each side gets a turn, with me just acting as facilitator. Usually, I start with "what's going on?" And then I ask the other kid the same question. Eventually, we discuss "how to fix it" and "what we can do better next time," with a focus on sharing, taking turns, and using words. Nowadays, having gotten the book Hands Are Not For Hitting, I usually reiterate its themes. They like the sound and cadence of the saying. Usually, just talking seems to diffuse the situation and so far we've agreed to take turns to resolve the conflict.

But there is one conflict we are having a lot of trouble fixing: what they say to each other. Bud loves to tell Sis that she has "disappeared," sometimes going so far as to "abracadabra" her. Sis, on the other hand, drives Bud to distraction (and even fear) by roaring or acting like a monster. Neither likes to stop and I don't, as yet, put them into time out for this. And time ins haven't worked for long periods of time. How do you get preschoolers to ignore one another, especially when we as adults don't even do it that well?

Regardless, the new technique must be working, or at least in their consciousness: I've seen them play time in alone!

A Rising Star

My star is in the ascendancy. In fact, for the first time ever, I was a happy thought--#4--for Sis a few days ago. And last night, I was #1! She even wants to sing the bedtime song with me. She made me a picture at Mystic Seaport, working very hard and including my favorite color purple, and then she gave it to me and told me to keep it forever. She just gave me a playdough creation and again told me it was for me and that I should keep it forever. I will (at least the picture) forever.

Mind you, I've been waiting a long time not to be mama non grata (which I think would be a great name for a blog!). I've been her least favorite immediate family member for weeks now, maybe even the whole summer. I haven't taken it (too) personally but I am happy, relieved, excited to be back in favor.

Mama says to enjoy it while it lasts. I am.

-=-=-=-=

Just now Sis said she didn't want to go to preschool: she wants to stay home with me.

Smooth Sailing

We made smoothies today. I was having one of my WW ones (with tons of calcium and protein, perfect for my still veg diet) and the kids wanted their own, having liked the ones at the hotel in Austin. So I threw together some vanilla yogurt, frozen cherries, and a fresh banana and BAM! our first smoothie. Officially, because Sis wanted it to have a name, "Our Very Cherry Banana Smoothie." And they liked it, well enough. Not bad for a first try. Which means the food processor, which had recently been relegated to the basement to make room for the toaster, might get to come back upstairs, especially because no one but me seems to like toast. (And, as a peanut butter addict, I try not to have any more reasons to eat PB than occur normally. I can eat a jar in 2 days.)

-=-=-=-=-

Our Very Cherry Banana Smoothie (because I believe you can write a recipe for anything, and I actually looked up how to make smoothies on the net and in a magazine)

1 1/2 cups vanilla yogurt (this was lowfat)
15 frozen sweet cherries
1 banana, fresh

Combine in food processor/blender. Let kids watch. Server immediately.

Favorites, Do-Over

On the occasion of the recent birthdays:

Sis's List
Tv Show: Caillou
Song: she sings the "Mama loves me" bedtime song with me every night.
Color: pink
Number: 3 (she insists on 3 kisses at bedtime)
Food: chocolate anything; crunchy anything; chicken
Flavor: chocolate
Day of the Week: Saturday, when Mama is home
Ice Cream: chocolate
Restaurant: Mexican "chip" restaurant
Toy/Thing: Shirt, of course; her beloved stuffed bunny Amy; her little plastic animals; her stuffed orca
Thing to Do: paint; play "school"
Place to Go: Mystic Seaport, Seaworld

Buddy's List
Book: The Philharmonic Gets Dressed; Good Night, Chicago; Zchock's book on NYC; Animal Orchestra
Tv Show: not sure really, but he'll watch Caillous with Sis
Song: loves singing the "family song" at dinner
CD: Chanteens CD of sea shanteys from Mystic Seaprt Sea Music Festival
Color: green
Number: 2 (he gets 2 kisses at night)
Food: berries!!!!
Flavor: strawberry
Ice Cream: strawberry (decorated as clowns or in ice cream sandwiches)
Restaurant: probably Friendly's!
Toy/Thing: stuffed orca; sporting goods--baseball, soccer, football
Thing to Do: play baseball; play band/parade
Place to Go: Mystic Seaport


Mommy's List

Book: Pausch's Last Lecture; Radical Hospitality; and just about done with Eliot bio
Movie: Waitress has really stuck with me
Tv Show: Olympics; Shear Genius (until Top Chef comes back)
Song:
CD: my Hildegarde von Bingen (chants) recording
Color: purple
Number: 12
Food: lentil soup (for now)
Flavor: chocolate; tamarind (candy, ices, chutney)
Day of the Week: weekends
Ice Cream: Tamarind ice (both here in town and in San Antonio)
Magazine: Penzey's One for good, simple recipes
Restaurant: I've been craving Indian, and, as always, Bertucci's rolls
Toy/Thing: stamp set; arts and crafts
Thing to Do: nap, read, blog, make cards
Place to Go: church
Saying/Words: much of The Last Lecture has stuck with me, but I regularly remember my WW leader saying, "Forgive yourself. It's what you do next that matters." And that's not just a diet thing.

(Mama is still working on her list, mainly because she humors me and my blog).

Raising the Bar

We were going to make Penzey's "Elfie" cake with apples and raisins yesterday for playgroup, but Miss T was making apple bread pudding (YUM!) and so Sis asked for chocolate. We didn't have enough time for dozens of cookies from my grandmother's recipe, nor the right ingredients for an indulgent chocolate cake (or more manageable cupcakes). So, I thought: bar cookie. Instead of consulting any of my zillion of cookbooks and clipped recipes, I searched the net (really, why do I bother with paper these days?). I kept coming across the Nestle cookie bar recipe and so, in a flash of inspiration, flipped over the bag of chocolate chips I had and used that. It was easier to make the cookies than to find the recipe! And they are all gone, having been very popular. Especially with Sis.

-=-=-=-=-

Nestle's Chocolate Chip Pan Cookie Recipe
2 1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter, softened
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs1 (12 ounce) package semi-sweet chocolate chips (we used milk chocolate)
1 cup chopped nuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 375F. Grease a 15x10-inch jelly roll pan (I used a plain 9 x 13" glass baking dish, increasing the baking time about 5 minutes). Combine flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, both sugars and vanilla in large mixer bowl. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each. Gradually beat flour mixture into butter mixture. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts. Spread into prepared pan. Bake 20-25 minutes or until golden brown.

back of Nestle Chocolate Chips bag

Picture Perfect

If you drive by our house, you will notice some changes. No, not a new roof, yet; that's coming (we might get the date today). We have decorated some of our windows with window paint markers. On the side window of the front porch, we painted a rocket ship, astronaut, and planet, plus stars painted by the kiddos and a Milky Way suggested by Bud. If you go around back, to our patio doors, you will see a montage of night and day, with a sun, moon, clouds, stars, bat, and rain drops. Painting the house windows was great fun (the kids are so proud and point them out to everyone), even with only red, black, blue, and white. While we used markers I bought at the store, I'll be tempted to create my own paints next time, by adding dishwasher liquid to regular kids' paints. I'll let you know how it goes.

Go in Peace

Lesbian activist, and California newleywed, Del Martin, age 87, has recently passed away. She is survived by her wife, Phyllis Lyon, 83, with whom she formalized her vows, for a second time, in the first marriage in San Francisco this summer. They had been together more than half a century.

New New Yorkers

An article in the NYTimes recently had me thinking about my first days and months as a New Yorker. Almost exactly 15 years ago, when I left Texas for graduate school in the city. Oh, how terrified and excited and proud I was. Most of my friends and family had never been to NYC, much less lived there. Of course, the majority of them thought I was nuts, but I think my mom, while also terrified (apparently she cried all the way back to Texas), understood.

But oh, those first few days. I'd read a number of guides to NYC, though all tourist guides, not for living there. Someone really needs to write a guide to living in NY for newbies. Somewhere I read not to look at anyone. And if, goddess forbid, you did make eye contact: Don't. Ever. Smile. Practice looking pissed, maybe even slightly crazy, for the best protection. Also, don't chitchat, which means no making pleasant conversation about the weather in the elevator or in line at the store or with any service person (waitress, check out guy, whomever). Always, always keep moving on the sidewalk. Only tourists stop in the middle of a sidewalk. And never look up. Only tourists look up. And never ever ever ever consult any kind of map when you are trying to find your way. Just keep walking. Even against the light. Real New Yorkers don't wait for the crossing light. Only tourists cross when told. Obviously, not being a tourist was the main definition for being a real New Yorker.

Besides these behavioral modifications, many of which I found intimidating and even difficult (like no small talk), there was the sound. And the smell. And the feel that I remember. Oh, how dirty my hands felt all the time those first few weeks. And this was before Purell. I wish I'd known to buy baby wipes. I just felt grimy. Mind you, this was August and so it was hot--the city is skanky in August. That first night we slept in my grad housing, we tried to sleep with the fan in the window to keep us moderately cool but it was so noisy from traffic and sirens that we closed the windows and then sweltered all night.

Navigating the subway was never that much of a problem for me, mainly because I mapped out my route and memorized it before I left. Also, I only ever took the (then) 1/9 or the M104. This was before Google or much internet usage (I didn't even have a computer!!!) so I kept maps of the city stuck everywhere--my room, my backback, my purse--in all sizes from business card (bought near Central Park), to small fold out, to Streetwise NY (from Barnes and Noble). Of course, in the beginning, I was only venturing to well-known tourist places anyway. (Even though that quickly qualified me as not a real New Yorker, but about this one thing, I didn't care. I preferred riding the bus--better view, easier to cope with a delay--but always, always stressed about getting off at the right stop or through a crowded bus. I still stand up too soon.)

And when we walked into the Met for the first time, I cried. And immediately bought a membership. I loved it and it is always, along with Times Square and Grand Central, one of the first places I return to in NYC. It was also a convenient bathroom stop on the way downtown, if need be, I kid you not. Because of my IBS, I know the tricks of finding bathrooms and the best ones to go to. And this was before Starbucks.

Going to grad school provided me an instant network and sense of place in the bustling city, something the youngsters in the article have trouble connecting with. It would have been much harder on my own. And I was never interested in being hip or part of the "real" NY scene, so finding the right club or restaurant didn't bother me. This was before Sex and the City, too, more in the days of that show with Kerri Russell, what was that called? Besides, I was a serious grad student.

The article talks about how new New Yorkers feel when going "home" to their land of origin the first few times. I remember thinking my hands weren't as dirty. And that people walked--when they ever walked!--slowly. And that everyone moved through lines slowly. Especially with all that extra chitchat. And that non-urban grocery stores were soooo much nicer than the urban marts.

Other things I learned:

• Never buy more than you can carry.
• Always have cash for a cab.
• When tipping a cabbie, it's easier to tell them exactly how much you want back (instead of getting all the change and then having to pass the tip back over).
• Don't rely on finding a cab between 5-9 p.m. in Midtown.
• Avoid Times Square 15-30 minutes before curtain.
• Know what you want when you get to the front of the line.
• Don't hang back if there is not an obvious line. And beware of the one line feeds all registers vs. one line for each register. And of course, New Yorkers stand online. Which sounds even sillier now in the internet age.

That's all I can think of now, especially because I don't live there anymore. It was a wonderful run--off and on across 8 years. But, when I go back, I fall into my old habits: I still won't smile at anyone, even if I chitchat more than when I lived there. I think, once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker, even if an "ex-pat" in the suburbs. Where I and the other ex-pats still refer to it as "THE City."

I Scream, You Scream

We had our first experience with a real ice cream truck on Saturday, in the city.

Mind you, we've played ice cream truck before. We have the one that Mama played with as a child, that her parents kept all this time, a real Good Humor truck with all the ice cream bars and coins still intact. And we've ridden and played with the pretend motorized one at the mall. What's not to love with these? You get to pretend to give people ice cream. I've even seen Bud and Sis play ice cream truck with megablocks and wooden nuts and bolts. And they make up fabulous flavors, some real, some absolutely imaginary.

But on Saturday, at Ar-Ma and Ar-Gong's house, as we were loading the car in the late afternoon to come home, I heard that familiar jingle. And, being a huge fan of the ice cream truck myself, from warm days after elementary school to hot summer days on our cul-de-sac, with rainbow snow cones and red/white/blue lemony rocket pops and creamsicle bars to candy offerings such as jawbreakers and gobstoppers, I knew we had to get some.

"I hear the ice cream truck!" And the kids came running down the driveway, never having seen the real thing (which is illegal in our town after a fatality a decade or so ago, I hear).

It stopped far away at the end of the block and we decided to wait til it passed us, giving us ample time to prep the kids and decide. In the excitement, Sis slipped off the sidewalk and scraped her elbow, a nasty boo-boo needing ointment and bandaids. But ice cream made it all better.

It was our turn. And the kids couldn't decide. Bud wanted strawberry, which they didn't have. He got a cherry dip cone, this electric pink-red monstrosity as big as his face. Which was soon covered in pink and red and white. Sis went for a regular chocolate cone, which she licked slowly and meticulously. I had a chocolate dip cone, with memories of Dairy Queen flooding back. Only Goo was game among the others, and he got a cherry dip too. Bud thought it was cool that they matched and insisted on sitting together.

So, having had a delightful day at the beach, then swimming in the kiddie pool at home where we played catch with water balloons (then later, how can we burst a water balloon?), and a BBQ chicken lunch (plus noodles and other good things), we finished the day with ice cream. A real ice cream truck. The stuff memories are made of.

Time After Time

"What time is it?"

"Six twenty-five."

"I don't see a five."

How do you explain a clockface to kids who don't even have a grasp of the length of a minute, an hour, a day, a week, or a year? Much less the esoteric way a six can be a six or mean "thirty minutes." I had trouble reading non-digital clocks for years and am still slow; at least I have my fives multiplication table down. But every night at dinner, we stare at the clock over the patio door and talk about the time.

"What time is it now?"

"It's still six twenty-five."

"But when it gets to the top, what will it be?"

They know that when the second hand reaches the top, the time will change.

"Six twenty-six."

"I see the six."

The same thing happens when I tell them we're going to do something in an hour, the next day, or next week. Mind you, if it's not about an hour away, I try not to mention it at all because they have no idea how long it will be. They just keep asking. Most of the time, I say later. "Later" must seem like an eternity.

Now, the challenge is holidays. They keep asking about Halloween. "After school starts," I say. But when is that, exactly? Next week. Right. And then, when is Easter? And birthday? They at least seem to get the progression from summer to fall to winter to spring, so we try to go with seasons. That's in the spring, after it's been really cold. But then, when it's chilly in the morning, it's winter. Just like when it's dark at night, it must be Halloween.

They are so interested in the passage of time, just as I'm trying to slow it down.

Zoo Animal Toob

First, it was big puffy plastic Fisher Price animals, A-Z and others. Then it was soft little stuffed animals that we bought at various science museums in thematic packs like woodland and jungle. Now, we have a veritable menagerie of little plastic (phthalate-free) animals, again from thematic packages (called "toobs") like sealife and arctic, that we use for everything. We even gave out some for birthday party favors. We build them block houses, take them on model train rides, let them party in our Rescue Center, hide them so we can go exploring and "discover" them, and Sis even puts a few treasured ones in a spare sock to sleep with. Sis is partial right now to the whales and dolphin set, turtle and frog set, panda bear set, and a few woodland critters; she likes to classify them into groups (sometimes sophisticated habitat groupings, sometimes just by color). She particularly likes if there is a mommy and baby (there are "baby toobs" but oddly, some of the babies don't have mommies in the other toob, i.e. we have a baby manatee and otter but no big ones); otherwise, she'll say the baby or mommy is lost and the remaining one is sad. I've taken to buying bigger animals from Schleich just to make families! Bud is all bugs all the time, looking at them through his magnifying jar. The farm set is sadly and routinely ignored. I like the odd little animals: the panda with the bamboo, the otter with the rock, the skunk, the raccoon.

Actually, the animals take me back to my childhood. I had a shoebox filled with plastic animals, mainly the grocery store variety, with 20 farm animals and a fence, definitely not phthalate free. One set of farmyard animals, I know, came from my grandmother's neighbor Mrs. Swanson, whose house I would visit when we went to my grandma's. I don't know where I acquired the rest, probably the traditional shopping trip bribe. My favorite ones were my sea animals--strange and exotic aquatic life that I could set up to make an ocean on my carpet. On other occasions, I would carry them outside or over to my nextdoor neighbor's house and we'd play together. I wonder where the box is now, probably tossed long ago or lost in the fire at my parents' house. But happily, some 30+ years later, I can revisit my childhood games and make an ocean on my carpet, a jungle on my coffee table, and a forest on my couch.

Name Calling and Other Funny Things

"I'm a cereal head!"

"And I'm a yogurt head!"

"And you're a blueberry head!"

This is our new game: if a preference is shown for anything, that person becomes a "head." I'm a "coffee head," a "cereal head," and a "bar [as in Lara or Luna] head." And then yesterday, as we ate at Claire's in New Haven, we noticed that the art on the walls literally showed "coffee cup heads." And so we spent the meal coming up with hilarious "heads." And discussing what it would be like to, say, spill your head or eat what your head was. What if you were a "soccer head?" Would people kick you? What if you had a "soccer head" but "football hands?" Gommie has her own version of this game. She calls Sis "Gigglebox" and Bud "Chatterbox," which has become "giggle head" and "chatter head." And then, related, but not exactly, the kids love to make up their own non-sensical words and names. Apparently, I used to do the same and my parents always say they wished they'd written them down. Well, I'm smack-dab in the middle of the humor and I'm not sure how I would spell any of these names, if I can remember the crazy, multi-syllabled things.

All told, a sense of humor seems to have kicked in over here. The kiddos tell knock-knock jokes. Sort of. They don't really understand the specifics of the humor, or even the structure of the joke:

"Knock, knock. Who's there?"

"Orange."

Hilarious laughter from both sides. Sometimes it's "Boo." Sometimes it's "Goo." I had told them some knock-knock jokes earlier--I forget why--and this is the version of it they remember. I'm sure it's just the beginning. But it's okay, laughing each day keeps the doctor away.

e(vil)Bay

I should know better than to go on internet auction sites. Even when I have a very specific item in mind, I end up either a). finding something else or b). spending more than I decided I would. Both of these happened this weekend.

See, I needed a specific stamp set for a project I'm planning. But it had been retired from the catalogue. I had been told that I might be able to find it on eBay. And I did. So I bid and was immediately outbid. Harumphf.

I was bitten. I bid for another offering of the same set and was looking around. Lo, and behold! Another stamp set that would work with the one I wanted. So I bid. Yesterday, one of the stamp sets auction time came up (pretty sure that's not the right lingo, but I don't know it. I really try not to spend any time there). And about 10 minutes before time was up, someone over bid me. Ooh, that riled me up. I wanted, no, I needed, that stamp set. And so I upped my bid a few dollars, so did they. Just a minute or two left. Then 19 seconds. Should I up again? Was I going to win? Would my computer refresh in time? Confirm bid! Confirm bid!

I won. I was elated. I was jubilant. I was violent. I had crushed the other bidder, who had put in 7 bids in 10 minutes. I had spent $2 more than I had mentally projected (which is peanuts on this site, I know). I was the winner. Ooh, it felt so good. The stamps themselves almost became secondary for a little while. It was all evil.

And so, Mama took the computer away from me.

But she's not here now . . . .

We've Got Mail

There is a small, flip top stationery box on our piano that we check everyday. It is our family mailbox. And almost everyday, Mama has left postcards for the kiddos inside. Always decorated with stickers, these cards have one line questions or comments. Depending on the day, Sis got a "get well soon" and a "can you match the animals?" (there were two of each barnyard stickers on the card). Buddy has gotten "let's sing 'Old MacDonald' tonight" or "what did you see at the zoo today?" The messages are often relevant and look forward to Mama coming home in the evening. There is no mail on weekends.

Sis has started making cards to put in the mailbox for Mama. In fact, we're decorating cards with new glitter glue after lunch. Just in time for evening delivery.

Gold Medal

While the kiddos aren't watching as much of the Olympics now, Olympic fever is still high here, especially for Buddy. Everything is a race: when I drive, we are racing the other cars wherever we are going. When we walk up the stairs, we are racing. Same with any transition from A to B. And it's not that he speeding around, he just likes to say it's a race and then cross a finish line.

And now he's taken up weightlifting. Yesterday, on the porch, he knelt down, picked up his wooden hobby horse (you know, horse head on a stick) with both hands, stood up with it at his chest, then raised it over his head while stepping one leg back. The perfect clean and jerk. Did he even see that competition? Maybe a few attempts. And now he'll weightlift anyting; this morning it was throw pillows.

He had already been practicing the volleyball bump and "put up your dukes" boxing maneuvers. And he loves shouting goal, after we watched a soccer game with a few. He also "calls" swimming, with "jump in, go, touch the wall, YAY!" He was entranced by archery but hasn't figured out how to mimic it.

What's next BMX trike?

Quips and Quotes

"Tea-are-one-in-one-tea what is that?"

"Why."

Buddy had read almost all the letters on my t-shirt: T-R-I-N-I-T-Y.

-=-=-=-=-

"How did Gommie and Pop make you?" asked Sis yesterday.

"Um, love." I said.

And luckily, that sufficed.

-=-=-=-=-

"Why is the sky blue?" asked Bud yesterday.

Um, do you know?

Good things there are websites for these sorts of questions.

But we were in the car.

-=-=-=-=-

We went to the bookstore yesterday. And the kids decided to navigate their own way to the children's section and went running ahead. Other customers looked at me as they scurried off and I walked behind.

"I have it all under control," I deadpanned.

When I caught up, they were playing happily. And the lady already sitting there said that Sis had politely asked to play.

"May I have a turn, please?" she had said.

Wow.

-=-=-=-=-

A less impressive quote at the bookstore, from Sis as well, "I only want a book I can see on tv."

The Man with the Little Penis

Well, at least I assume his penis must be small, because he is driving like a maniac to overcompensate.

A youngish (30 something?) man driving on the highway almost just killed me and the children. I was signaling to move into the left lane and had him clear in my rear view mirror and had checked to see that there was enough space by turning my head around and then moved into the left lane. Instead of letting me into the space that was clearly there, he sped up and then tried to pass me on the shoulder, honking and gesturing, both him and his friend, the whole time. I had to swerve back into the right lane to avoid an accident, despite already having been 3/4 in the left lane.

So, I can only assume he has a small penis. Maybe some incontinence which occasioned his huge rush`and need to pass me.

And in case anyone ever needs to know who this little dick was: Black Range Rover, Connecticut License Plate # 944 WGJ.

Prick.

Happy Halloween

I know, early right? But hey, they already have the candy and costumes in stores, so why not?

My kids have been planning for weeks. I think it must be their favorite holiday. They love being out at night, getting all the candy, and dressing up. It's the latter that has occupied all the recent attention. They are definitely deciding what they want to be. Last year, they decided on Baby and Mama Jaguar this early and stuck with it. But not this year. Jaguar was in the running early on, but Sis alone has considered vet and dentist and pirate since then. Buddy considered dentist too but baseball player is at the top of his list. And I'm sure there will be others before I actually have to make the costumes.

I wonder what I'll be.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

Today, I have been blogging for one year.

I've looked back at that original post and some things have changed. For the most part, my posts have become longer, less refined, more philosophical, less about food, more social (in that I actually have readers and some blogger buddies). I'm still on Weight Watchers, though Flex, not Core, and am trying to lose the weight I gained after I lost it. The story of my life. And my kids don't have any allergies that we know of, though we're totally off nuts and shellfish until the doctor gives us the green light.

In many ways, today was emblematic of my blogging year. We had a playgroup outing in the morning, at the zoo, to see the bird show. The kids napped in the car. I finished The Last Lecture, having thoroughly enjoyed it and picked up some inspiration. Then Buddy woke up hungry and Sis woke up with a fever of 101.4. To the doctor we went, with expectations of strep--first test negative but all signs are there (including red throat). Mama met us at the doctor's and then escorted us to the bookstore and out to dinner. For Mexican. The "chip restaurant." The only place we knew Sis would be tempted to eat. And she did. Bath, stories, happy thoughts, bed. And now we're going to watch the Olympics.

I picked up an anniversary present for Mama at the bookstore--we celebrate 11 years later this week--a book on how to draw cats. Cats and drawing, two of her favorite things. And she then handed me a present--the complete first volume of "Mommy, Hungry!" All 595 pages of it! That's longer than my dissertation, more than double (but this has a bigger font, and I wasn't counting images or bibli). I flipped through it--recipes, pictures, diatribes, poetic ramblings, quotes, and all--and just marvel at all that has happened this year. Two Laurie Berkner concerts. The loss of naps. The trip to Chicago and the death of our friend. My sister's wedding. Physical therapy. Mama's new job. Chinese class. Ni-hao, Kai Lan. Bud's dislocated elbow. Salt dough ornaments. My sermons at church. Not to mention all my ramblings about death, dreams, rituals and traditions, legacies.

It was a wonderful year. And I have a record of it all. I can't wait to keep going!

To Live Perchance to Dream

• Seeing the Parthenon
• Learning ancient Greek
• Learning fencing
• Participating in an archaeological dig
• Learning to play the piano
• Learning ASL
• Working at the Metropolitan Museum of Art
• Election to Phi Beta Kappa
• Acquiring my Ph.D.

I'm still reading The Last Lecture, by Randy Pausch, and have been struck by his discussion of childhood dreams. Those are some of mine above, and in one way or another, I've achieved all of them. Some are more complete than others--I'm not great at any of the things I've learned, but I have taken classes in each--I can still strike the basic fender's pose, can hold a conversation in ASL with a patient person, can chant part of the Iliad in Greek, and can pick out any song in C major. I was on a dig in Tunisia, at an old Roman bathhouse. I was elected to PBK in college. I was an intern at the Met. I have my Ph.D.

But there are other dreams that still need work. I want to take Italian. I want to be able to speak some Mandarin. I want to see the Forbidden City. I want to go back to Italy, with Mama and the kids. I'd love to go to Ireland or Scotland, after seeing London yet again. I want to become an expert bread baker and pie crust maker. I want to be a better gardener. And I want to work at the Met again. These are more recent dreams. Some just take money and time, others require actual skill and mastery. All are, I believe, attainable.

These last ones aren't my childhood dreams, but I think they are no less important, no less lofty, for not having been dreamt of when I was younger. I think the fact that I am still dreaming, still planning, is a good thing. If I stuck only to my childhood dreams, I wouldn't have children. Or be "married." Neither of those were on my original list, but they are what really make my life complete. I try to embrace new dreams and ideas as they occur to me.

Many days, though, my dreams are small. Not really dreams at all: an organized basement, a neater house, thinner thighs. Those are goals. Dreams are somewhat bigger, somewhat out of the realm of my ordinary life, somewhat less attainable, more enriching. But I get bogged down in these smaller goals and forget to dream big, or at least, bigger. What can I do each day, or week, or in the near future to achieve my dreams? For instance, what is the best way to get to work at the Met? Do I need to publish more articles now? Volunteer at a local museum? Work part-time as a collegiate lecturer to stay in education? Get my alternative route to teacher certification and teach history for awhile? What will get me what I want later, while still fitting into what I want now, which is to be a loving, present, active mom?

I daydream about my kids but don't have specific dreams for them. In other words, I'm not planning that they become doctors or astronauts. I want to give them the imagination and creativity to come up with their own dreams and the tools to achieve them. And along the way, maybe we can fulfill our dreams together, like we'll be taking Chinese together this fall. I wonder where they will take me . . . and my dreams. I know that one of my dreams took my mom to Greece to see the Parthenon and that she encouraged me to fulfill others alone, as when I went off by myself as a 19 year old to Tunisia (at that time, polticially suspect because of the connections with the PLO). I think that enabling and helping your children to fulfill their dreams is one of the greatest gifts you can give them, something that Randy Pausch mentions too. And not just with cash, either, but with skills that will lead them on to other achievements as well.

It's not just for your own children, actually, this gift of dreams. Mama and I help each other, with encouragment, support, inspiration, practical advice, time, money, and love. And we dream dreams together. The gift of dreams--to loved ones, friends, even strangers--is one of the greatest gifts of all.

I have a friend, Lambeth, who is I-forget-exactly-how-old-but-older-than-my-parents. He is one of the most active and well-travelled friends I have. And right now, he is walking the Thames. I don't know how long he has dreamed of doing that--I hope he talks about his inspiration on his blog someday--but he is doing it. And so many other things (a recent trip to the Balkans, tracking down obscure and long-lost relatives, wasn't there a mountain in Scotland you climbed recently, Lambeth?). He is a constant source of inspiration to me that dreams are achievable. As Dara Torres recently said, on winning in her 5th Olympics at age 41, "There are no age limits on dreams."

What are yours?

Everything's Better with Cheddar

The other day, my friend, a mother of three (including a relative newborn), made us lunch. It was turkey hot dogs (veggie burger for me) with vegetables in a cheese sauce. And there, with an almost 6 year old, an almost 4 year old, and an almost 3 month old (apologies if I have the ages off), she was cooking. Cooking lunch. I sometimes barely cook dinner. And she was making a cheese sauce, from scratch. I was impressed.

I'm always impressed. This woman, a trained early childhood educator now SAHM, is always calm in the middle of chaos, comforting when there are tears, clever when there are challenges, patience with trouble, fun, happy, creative. Eagerly watching for new ideas and approaches, I learn something new each visit. For instance, last Friday, I picked up two great ideas, besides the cheese sauce. When one child wanted to tattle on the other, she suggested they go to the person who could fix it, not to her. In other words, if Sis was complaining that Bud took her toy, she should tell him what she wants first, not me. If only adults, if only I, could be that direct with my needs. It's a great lesson. She also had a frank talk with the eldest about exclusion, as she wanted a "no boys allowed space." There my friend was explaining prejudice in clear terms to an almost (homeschooled) first grader. I used the same talk two days ago, when Sis mimicked her friend's game. These things might see pretty straightforward to others, but oftentimes it's the idea or even just the wording that turns on the lightbulb in my head.

Her husband, a child psychologist, is equally as amazing, mainly because he is a big kid himself. The kids, especially Sis, respond to him on a gut, intuitive level. But he also maintains rules and boundaries and is so calm, so patient, so clear in explaining what behaviors are and aren't acceptable. I remember several months ago one of his daughters disappearing and not answering when she was called. Instead of flying off the handle when he found her (they never fly off the handle), he explained to her about questions and calls that must be answered and meted out the appropriate discipline, a modified time-out (they count to 20), after a one-on-one discussion about the issue at hand. And then he goes back, instantly, to being fun. That is so much harder than it looks, for me, anyway.

When I hear myself talking to the kids, especially if I'm on the verge of not being patient or calm, I often think "WWSD"? When I feel tired, I remember that I don't have a newborn whose breastfeeding on demand. When I don't feel creative, I remember that they can make fun out of almost anything or even nothing at all. Now, I know they're not perfect, no parents are, but they inspire me to take my parenting to the next level.

And that's even better with cheese sauce on it.

-=-=-=-=-=-

"Church" Miss L's Magic Cheese Sauce

1 1/2 tablespoons butter
1 1/2 tablespoons flour
1 cup water (or you could use milk)
1 packet stock base (she used Trader Joe's liquid vegetable stock base)
2 cups grated cheese (approximately)
2 cups pureed vegetables (approximately)

Make a roux with butter and flour, until flour is cooked. Add water/milk and stock base. Heat through. Add cheese and vegetables. Cook until heated through. Serve over warmed vegetables (she basically microwaved a 2 lb bag of veggies, pureed some, and then served the sauce over the rest), mashed potatoes, pasta, or anything. Freezes well. She said she has even added eggs and made it a quiche!

Fingers and Toes

Recently, a friend mentioned that doing the laundry was always bittersweet, as it reminded her of how big her boys were getting.

For me, it's cutting finger and toenails. I've always been in charge of the cutting, except for a short stint after nipping one of Sis's fingers when she was just weeks old. The crying, and blood, had us calling the pediatrician at 8 pm on a Friday. Oh, new parents! Now they fall off playsets and I just dust them off.

But it's easy to cut their nails now. In fact, it often takes me two nips at each nail, when I used to need one (or even a half)--mercy, I could've chewed or filed them off back then! But now I have to cut them, usually with the tv on for a distraction since they want to help. And they have dirt and food and paint under them, or the toenails are ragged from running. These are the nails and hands and feet of bigger kids. I'm glad I have their itty bitty prints preserved in ink, in marker, in paint, even in clay. But you can't see the nails in any of those, the nails I know by heart.

And, one day, I won't be in charge of cutting them at all.

Clowning Around

In my continued attempts to be the "best mommy ever," before summer ends, we painted all over the patio glass doors today with window paint. One panel is a sun with clouds, the other panel is the moon with stars and a bat (Bud's addition). There are lots of other dots and swirls. I think more paint ended up on hands, clothes, and hair than on windows.

Then, at Sis's request, we decided to make clown ice cream sundaes (something she saw on Caillou). We went to the store (with the kiddos wearing their "My Mom Can Fix Anything" red t-shirts) and got ingredients and came home and had ice cream for lunch. I bought neapolitan because she wanted chocolate and he wanted strawberry. I scooped the ice cream into a cone, then turned it upside down into a bowl. There we decorated the face with M&Ms and decorated the clown hat (the cone) with either canned whipped cream or chocolate syrup (guess which was whose). They ended up bagging the cone and having seconds of the clown head.

Later, after our successful dentist appointment (which was successful because we don't always have ice cream for dinner), we went to the store for treats (I know, I know, this runs counter to my parenting ideals about not rewarding things that you should do that are good for you but they were so good and, well, I'm the "best mommy ever."). Bud picked up some race cars for his track (which turned out to be too wide. Oh, well). And Sis bought four elephants: a mommy, a mama, a sister, and a brother.

But of course, when Mama came home and asked what we did today, all Sis could say, erroneously, was that we bought kolaches at the Starbucks.

Oh, well, does "best mommy ever" count if they don't remember?

The Birds and the Bees

With preschool approaching, we've started to weave certain topics into our interactions with the kiddos. One: no one touches your private parts, which are the areas covered by your swimsuit. Two: only talk to people you don't know if a mommy is nearby. But I didn't think I'd have to add three: where babies come from.

But repeatedly over the last two weeks, I've been asked directly, always by Sis, "Mommy, how did you make me?"

Um. Well. Let's see.

"Mama and I made you. At the doctor's office."

"Why?"

"Because we wanted children."

"Why?"

Um. Well. Let's see.

"Because we thought it would be fun. And we love you."

Same question about Bud.

Then, later, "Mommy, how did you make the cats?"

Easy. "We got them from the rescue people."

Then, "Mommy, how did you make Real Shirt?"

And so, at OSV this weekend, we showed her a loom and told her about weaving fabric and sewing. And she beamed from ear to ear as she hugged Shirt close and sniffed him hard.

At least we didn't need visuals for question number one.

On the Rocks

Sis loves hockey. We're not sure how nor why, but we do not question. So, trying to interest her in the Olympics, which she doesn't like as much as her brother, we DVR'd field hockey. I excitedly showed it to her.

"Mommy, that's not hockey. There's no ice."

I tried to explain that it could be hockey without ice. But she's a purist.

And we didn't watch it.

Call Me Crazy

As if I weren't having enough separation anxiety, I picked up a copy of The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch at the warehouse store this weekend, you know, the professor who recently died of pancreatic cancer who created a national phenomenon by talking about "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams" in an effort to leave a legacy for his young kids. It certainly puts my issues with preschool in perspective but is making me cry. Just what I need. George Eliot is a much safer read.

Overdrive

We said we were going to take it easy this weekend.

Instead, we went to Old Sturbridge Village on Saturday and Mystic Seaport on Sunday. We had our usual wonderful trips to both places, with stick candy and horse-drawn carriage rides at each place. Plus crafts for mommies and kids, music, and children's playspaces. A good lunch, a nap in the car for 3/4 of us on the way home. A pretty good weekend.

While going to OSV on Saturday was not a surprise, going anywhere on Sunday, especially after being out the day before, was. But it was a beautiful day. And we knew that one of our favorite parts of the seaport, the Charles W. Morgan, would soon be in dry-dock for 3-4 years. Not being sure if we'd get to see it again before it was off-view--our fall weekends are already booking up--I suggested we try it.

That, and I wasn't sure I could play "teacher" to their school day yet again. It's good practice, for all of us, but some days it's harder than others. We've gotten the game down: put the new lunchkits in their "cubbies" on the piano bench, have writing/art time, the read a story in circle time, snack, recess, go home. Ad infinitem. But at least it makes them happy, right?

Of course, going to both Sturbridge and the Seaport (which was Sis's suggestion Sunday morning) was another way of making these "last" weeks before school as fun as possible. I think I'm establishing a dangerous habit. By college, I'll have to take them to the moon!

Prom Queen

Mama recently heard a piece on NPR and immediately thought of me. The essayist spoke of his internet addiction, not because he is unusual in needing to check his email, IMs, and such (I wonder if he has Facebook.), but because he was analyzing the source of his need. He mentioned that he repeatedly checks his email, "but I noticed recently that once I've received an e-mail, text message or comment, I feel a certain letdown. Before it arrives, it could be anything: a new opportunity, an old friend emerging from the past, a summons to the palace, because the king has decided that only I can save the kingdom. Once the messages arrive, they seem so mundane: friends I already have, requests that ask nothing of my special crime-fighting abilities, entreaties from Nigerians to whom I've already sent checks." He's Batman, looking for the Bat Signal.

Mama came home and giddily played the piece for me. You see, she thinks, well, knows, that I have an email addiction too. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've sat on our free evenings checking my email bemoaning the fact that no one has written me and that I don't have much adult interaction (hell, I'm doing it now!). No, she's not chopped liver. But she doesn't send me email either.

But I don't want to be Batman. I want to be Prom Queen. I want to be at the center of a circle of friends, in touch with what they're doing, sharing what I'm doing. Often. No, constantly. Not because I'm vain or needy (though, I am a little bit of both, more of the latter, I think, unless the vanity is academics), specifically, but because I am isolated during the day and like to connect with people, even briefly or superficially (some would say artificially), through the internet.

But isn't that the stereotype of the Prom Queen? Popular but not really friends with anyone?

Hmmmm, maybe I don't want to be the virtual Prom Queen, but I was nominated Most Friendly in school, though not chosen. I'll settle for internet runner-up friend. But I'll still be checking my email.

Reaction Time

I have realized that we have our roughest days when I am just a reactive parent, instead of a proactive one. Somedays, I just don't plan in advance--we do things but usually activities and games we've done before (which, to my credit, used to be novel and interesting--like baking and art--but have become too familiar). I need to plan new and different activities in advance. Not just "let's play with trains" or "let's dress Baby." Today we finger painted outside on the deck table. Bud and Sis loved it, and, though we only painted for 15 minutes, it jump-started almost 3 hours of playing outside. I need to plan activities like I (ideally) plan meals: getting supplies together, checking what I have, varying the offerings, trying new things, etc.

It's funny, but I feel like, with preschool starting, that my role as entertainment director, even as teacher, is decreasing, if not disappearing. As the summer wanes and school approaches, I feel like I have just two more weeks to make my last impression/my final difference before I "lose" them to school and I don't matter as much anymore. It's crazy, irrational, untrue, but it's this unshakable feeling nonetheless. Which is probably why I have been racking my brain to figure out how to make these "last" days not just good but great.

I guess it's no wonder I'm so upset about school starting.

Home Alone

My mom recently balked at being reminded that she had let me spend entire summer weekends by myself when I was 15. She swore she would never have let me do it, but she did. I remember that as soon as I had my driver's license, I had already done it a few times and it wasn't that big a deal (to me, or, apparently, to her). Of course, looking back at the 1980s from the 21st century, I cannot imagine leaving a teenager home alone either and swear I would never do it. Even when I'm home and nearby, things happen. I read recently that most tragic swimming accidents happen in the first five minutes that an adult is not paying attention. This five-minute rule applies to most mischief, injury, and aggression in our house. If I go to the bathroom, leave the room to check email, take a phone call, in the next room or even with my back turned, something ALWAYS happens.

And so, today's article in the NYTimes about when you can leave children home alone had me thinking forward to the late 2010s and my own children. The article addresses leaving 9-, 10-, and 11+ year olds home alone for hours at a time, particularly by lower income families with few childcare options. There are not laws addressing the practice, perhaps because then governments would have to address affordable childcare. Apparently, Connecticut actually suggests that children be 12 before they are left alone, and 15 before they can watch younger siblings. Before that, children do not recognize nor appropriately respond to risk or danger. But it's not a law. There is a law, however, mentioned in another article in Brain, Child, that children in Connecticut cannot be left alone in a car until they are . . . what was it? . . . 7 or 8. I wish our local Starbucks had put in a drive-thru. Five years is a long time to wait for coffee.

THE Storm in Words

I have been considering for days how best to approach my post about the storm that felled a tree on our house and cars. In the end, I've had to consider why I blog: to relay information to family and friends, to entertain, to express myself, to clarify (for myself) my thoughts and ideas, to record my experiences, impressions, and emotions as they happen. And so how do I relate an experience that encompassed all of my childhood fears of storms that still haunt me in adult nightmares as well as threatened my family and home, even though now it is more of an expensive inconvenience than a real crisis, while at the same time being one of the most profound experiences of friendship I have ever encountered? I have a draft that tells the tale in prose, but I am forced to reconsider that structure, and now, therefore, give it to you in a list, entitled "Things I Learned in THE Storm":

• When the sky turns green and the hail pummels the house, take cover even if you feel like you are overreacting. It's cliche, but better safe than sorry. Because sometimes, Texas storms happen in Connecticut.
• A storm doesn't have to be a tornado to cause damage. Microbursts and straight line winds of 70 mph (hurricanes start at 75 mph) are dangerous too. Friends did see rotating clouds, but there was officially no tornado.
• Mythbusting: According to NOAA, "Forget about the old notion of opening windows to equalize pressure; the tornado will blast open the windows for you!" But it is true that a tornado sounds like a train engine.
• Know where your flashlights are and, once you retrieve them, don't put them down because you won't be able to find them when you need them. And the kids will cry until you do.
• When in doubt, call 911. Especially if there are power lines down. And stay in the house.
• Then call your parents.
• And the insurance company.
• Sure, PDAs are great, as are speed dial and memory in your phone, but keep a hardcopy list of important phone numbers--friends, relatives, doctors, insurance adjustors (including policy numbers), local hotels--for when modern technology and your memory fail. I keep mine over the phone but will also now put a copy in a plastic zipper bag in our emergency tub downstairs.
• Decisions you fret about in advance (i.e. if the cat gets away during an emergency, what would you do?) become simple in reality (let the cat go and get to the basement). Vice versa, though: things you didn't consider in advance will be a challenge (when, when, when do you go to the basement?). Don't worry, both of the cats are fine now (because, in the end, Mama left the basement and fetched the other cat from the second floor. It was, as she calls it, "my stupid hero moment.")
• Centering myself in the moment made it easier to stay calm and reassure the children, but it was hard to stay centered with thoughts swirling in my head about what could have happened and what would have to happen next. And so Buddy and I drew pictures on our chalkboard once we were back upstairs; it made us both feel better.
• When we knew we had to leave the house, I wrote up a list of things to take for Mama to pack and we handed each child a bag to take a few toys to the hotel. The kids took predictable things. Bud had his banjo, trains, and cars. Sis took books and several small plastic toy animals. They both took their Sea World orcas. Our list, besides including clothes, toiletries, and special papers, included our wedding picture, our two baby's first year frames, our computer (and several backup harddrives--this includes all of our pictures, my 3 cookbooks, my dissertation, etc.), and the urn of Morgan's ashes. Everything else in the house was secondary at that point. Since then, it has been a lot easier to clean out the clutter. I might change the list a little but in essence very few things matter.
• If you have pets, know where the pet-friendly hotels are (like Homewood Suites). Not that you'll get any sleep; stiff hotel curtains are great for climbing.
• Friends. I don't even know how to summarize what I learned about friendship, generosity, kindness, support, and love. We have been buoyed by our friends at a time of crisis. Knowing we were not alone, either literally (because several friends and neighbors came by in the hours after the storm, especially two who stayed with us for several hours that night) or figuratively gave us the strength (and car seats and dinner) we needed to get through the night. It was the epitome of radical hospitality and a lesson to us in love and friendship. Yin and yang, with the darkness there is light.
• Frozen pizza, salad, and Girl Scout cookies are real comfort food for me (Chinese take out the next day for Mama).
• Everything really does look better in the morning.
• But take lots of pictures anyway.
• When dealing with insurance companies and contractors, keep one notebook so you have everything you need in one place. If possible, let one person (i.e. Mama) be in charge of all of it.
• Repack your emergency tub when the emergency is over. Ours (kept in the basement next to the tub with all my entertaining stuff) is in disarray, but will finally include juice boxes, water, nonperishable foods, first aid kit, blanket, flashlights, batteries, radio, kitty food/little litter box, copies of special papers, diapers (for now), a change of clothes for all, a little emergency cash, and a few toys. I've heard that used cell phones can still dial 911, if the battery is charged; if we had one, I'd put that in too.
• Even several days after the actual event, we are all still reeling and healing. Be gentle with yourself and others. It's okay to be upset, even if everything did turn out okay.
• The continued "how are you doing?" and "are you okay?" and "what can I do?" are wonderful, even several days out.
• But don't talk too much about it in front of the kids as they will get unnecessarily nervous. I made this mistake today at playgroup and Sis ended up quiet, with Shirt very nearby. We do talk about it, when it's relevant or they bring it up, but mostly in postive "we're okay" kind of ways.

Because, in the end, we're okay.

I'm a Big Girl Now

. . . because I went to the dentist all by myself today. I don't like going to the dentist, positively hated and avoided it for years. But I have children now and needed to grow up. So we have a family dentist. And we've all been and like it (as much as you possibly can--did you know the urban myth that dentists have high suicide rates because no one likes their profession?). And I went for my check-up today and everything went well. See, as a child, I had numerous cavities and remember several trips to have them filled. I can still see me in that dentist's chair, in a tiny closet of a room, surrounded by techs and the dentist, the pain of the shot, the sound and smell of the drilling, my absolute terror at the repeated experiences. And once I was old enough that I was responsible for going on my own, I quit going. For years. And years. No harm done, though, because I floss daily and brush and use Listerine. And now, like the big girl I am, I can go to the dentist all by myself. And I didn't have any cavities.

Disloyal

I ordered Chinese food from a new place tonight. And I feel so disloyal. We like the old place--the food is good, quick ("10 minutes"), and the people are nice enough (even though, after 6 years, they only sort of recognize us). But they don't deliver. When we were at the hotel this weekend, we tried a new place with Ar-Ma. The service in the restaurant was slow and grumpy but the food was good. And they deliver. So tonight, with hungry kids not wanting the chicken I have in the house, I decided to order take out because they would fall asleep in the car if I went to go get the other Chinese food. The owner's wife/co-owner brought the food, remembered us, and was glad we'd ordered. I mentioned I had switched places and asked her, laughingly, not to tell. She asked who else we ordered from and was surprised they didn't deliver. But told me that they themselves had been in business 19 years. Good enough for me. And they deliver. But don't tell the other Chinese food place, please.