Cheese

*Clap! Clap!*

"Very well, then children!" I say to J-dog and V-meister at the breakfast table on school picture day. "Let's practice your smiles. V-meister, you first."

The V-meister curls her lips up towards her ears in a tightly stitched crescent moon.

"That's not a bad start. Now, can you show me some teeth? But try to make it look natural, Okay? Less stick figure, more pageant queen."

The V-meister recreates the same expression, only this time with a dose of constipation.

"You are definitely on the right track. We'll keep working on it in the car."

Then, turning to the J-dog who is busy stuffing soggy Kix through a plastic straw I say, "Your turn, Jay-Z."

The little J-dog contorts the lower half of his face into a feral snarl.

"Hmm . . . Can I have a little less fang and a little more sincerity?"

"No."

"Okay, just do what the photographer tells you and try to act natural."

With that, I crossed my fingers and sent two neatly dressed and perfectly coiffed children off to school.






Meh. It could have been worse.

The Ritual

"Are you ready?" the P-Dawg inquires every night at eleven.

"No! I'm still brushing my teeth!" I tell him through a mouthful of foam. He stops in the doorway, adjusts the drawstring on an ancient pair of hospital issue scrubs-turned-pajamas, and waits.

When we have both completed our nightly hygiene routines, activated the security system, and dimmed the lights, it is finally time. Hand-in-hand, we make our way down the upstairs hallway to perform the ritual that has been bookending our days for the past six and a half years . . .

The Checking of the Kids.

We enter the V-meister's lair first. She is nearly always lying flat on her back and so still that I'm compelled to lean in close enough to let our molecules mingle. A pink flashlight and a copy of The Grapes of Math rest on her warm, narrow chest. For kicks, the P-Dawg takes one gravid little hand by the wrist and lifts it high into the air, then lets it drop like a weight onto the mattress. V-meister could sleep through the apocalypse. I brush tendrils of sweaty hair away from her forehead as I kiss it.

We close the door and cross the hall.

Some nights we find J-dog slumbering on the floor, some nights on his mattress with derrier in the air. And sometimes he's kneeling at the side of the bed with his face planted in Dr. Seuss's Dictionary. There is a never ending procession of items to be removed from underneath his sheets: a Twilight Turtle, a walkie-talkie, a city of Legos, an armada of matchbox cars. The P-Dawg whispers subliminal messages into his ear. "You will poop on the potty . . . you will not wake up before seven o'clock." I kiss his forehead and he flinches, swatting at my greedy love.

We close the door gently and pad off to bed. At least for one more night, everyone is safe and accounted for. Our day's work is done.

******************************************************************************************

When my brothers and I would return home from college for the holidays, our mother never failed to state how good it was having us all together under one roof. I could never understand this. What difference did it make where we were sleeping?

Oh, I get it now. And even though I still think it's creepy, Lord help me I am starting to identify with the old lady in the childrens' book Love You Forever.

You know, the one who would sneak into her grown son's house at night to watch him sleep?


The V-meister, three months old. We could
not figure out why, the first night we brought
her home from the hospital, stuck a pacifier in
her mouth, swaddled her burritolike and set
her down in the middle of a vast expanse of crib,
she would not fall asleep.

Vocabulary Lesson

As the J-dog was staring out the car window en route home from a weekend road trip, something magical caught his eye:

J-Dog: "Mama! I see a MackDONALD ovah dare! Right dare I see a MackDONALD!"

P-Dawg, feigning blindness: "I don't see a McDonald's, do you, Rima?"

Rimarama: "What is McDonald's?"

V-Meister, clutching her stomach and moaning: "I'm soooo hungry! Can we go to McDonald's, Mama? Puh-leeeeeeeeze? I think McDonald's would make my tummy happy. Because my tummy is very sad."

Rimarama, sighing dramatically: "Don't you guys remember what Daddy and I were just discussing? We are not going to eat at McDonald's today. It is not healthy. We are going home for lunch, and then we are going to visit some schools, capische?"

V-meister, resigned: "Cupeesh, Mama." Then, turning to her brother, "We can't go to McDonald's, J-Dog, because Mama and Daddy were disgusting, and they said, 'No'."


(Note: This picture is from a previous road trip - they did NOT get to go!)

I'm Watching You

I had the pleasure of observing the V-meister's last gymnastics class of the session yesterday. Except that in my excitement and haste to secure a good wall-side seat, I forgot the V-meister.

Don't worry, I had only been in the gymnasium for about a minute, fiddling around with the film option on my new iPhone 3G, before the mother to my right asked, "So, which one's yours?"

Thankfully the V-meister, who I'd left inside the climbing structure of the lobby play area, was still blissfully unaware of my absence when I scrambled back to retrieve her.

(I will be accepting my mother of the year award later this week at a private ceremony in Switzerland.)

Once class got underway with all students accounted for, I just couldn't get enough of watching her, my lithe and fragile little girl. She is the youngest and littlest one in her class, but very nimble - just like her gymnast mother before her.

One thing she doesn't have, however, is my fierce turf protection instinct. Because while the little V-meister was twirling around and talking to herself in line for the vault, this saucy little Nadia Comaneci look-alike kept cutting in front of her.

Why wasn't the V-meister standing up for herself? She seemed to care not a whit that a communist was taking advantage of her, not to mention flagrantly disregarding universally accepted rules of order and decorum.

It took every ounce of my emotional intelligence to keep my mouth shut. The V-meister, I understood, needed to learn how to stand up for herself. So I sat on my hands and hummed Eidel Weiss to prevent myself from executing the roundoff/back handspring tumbling pass that would bring me face-to-face with her aggressor.

But Nadia Comaneci was ruthless, and continued to cut in front of the V-meister with wild abandon.

That's when an invisible motherforce completely beyond my control caused me to stand up and yell, "HEY, V-MEISTER! DON'T LET THAT KID IN THE RED LEOTARD CUT IN FRONT OF YOU ANYMORE!" Then I tried to make eye contact with Nadia Comaneci by re-enacting Robert De Niro's "I'm watching you" maneuver from Meet the Parents.

It worked.

I am not proud.

If they ever let me into either one of my childrens' sports related functions again, I will be wearing a straitjacket and a muzzle.

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started.  Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls.  Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day.  And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff.  So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two.  And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is.  But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world.  And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins.  To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of.  How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity?  How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation? 

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better.  I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.)  I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket.  I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown,  and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns.  And  - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear.  If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech.  I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty.  But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

Hands Free

Next week, after the J-dog completes his neverending Montessori orientation period, both my children will be in school together all morning.  In other words: the moment I've been anticipating for the past six years of my life has arrived.  This post isn't about me not knowing what to do with my time now that I finally have some to myself, or about how much I want a third child now that two are flitting about the periphery of my nest.

I am happy.

But it's increasingly difficult to remember now how their baby bodies felt: the V-meister spare and birdlike; the J-dog pillowsoft and round with a steady, humming core. I lay in bed this morning post dream, chasing the essence of their infantness as quickly as it receded in smoky wisps from my morningscape. There was an ache, as there always is, and then a quick surrender to the reality that I am best as mother of two.

I'm still occasionally startled by this fleeting, vicelike grip on my gut, a selfish longing for their baby selves. It's not another child that I want - just the J-dog and V-meister for a moment fresh and new, unsullied by the desperate, anxious imprint of a new mother and her constant longing to have two hands free.

I want, of course, to correct my naive babymothering mistakes. But also, just once again, to lift their soft, malleable, diaper-clad bodies into the air, little toes and feet ensconced in the pods of footed pajamas, to walk with them feeling warmth nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and to hold them there with full knowledge of the moment's brevity in time.

Whistleblower

We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.

She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)

***************************************************************************

V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."

Me: "That sounds excellent!"

(pause)

V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"

(!)

also:

(Crap!)

P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."

V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"

Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."

P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"

V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"

Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)

V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."

*****************************************************************************
Ouch.

You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.


"This is total bull$hit."

Seconds

My parents took the V-meister on a day trip to visit her out-of-town cousin yesterday and the P-Dawg was working, so the little J-dog and I were left to our own devices. Before my parents pulled out of our driveway Sunday morning with our daughter, I made sure to remind my mother not to let V-meister out of her sight for any length of time, especially in the highway rest areas. "And if she touches anything - anything at all - don't hesitate to bathe her in this," I said, slipping her a trial size container of Purell.

A short fit of hysterics ensued when V-meister and I discovered that my dad had jerry-rigged her booster seat into his vehicle using an elaborate pulley system that did not at all match the diagram provided by our Owner's Manual. But this was quickly sorted out and then off they went, the V-meister radiating all the energy of a loaded spring at the delicious prospect of an entire day with her grandparents and sans the little brother.

J-dog and I spent a pleasant Sunday morning together. We braved eleven o'clock Mass and afterwards treated ourselves to lunch at the Nordstrom cafe. He was a perfect gentleman: coloring his menu quietly, making pleasant conversation, eating with utensils.

It was so easy, this out-and-about-on-the-town with only one kid business, that I decided to walk around the mall for a bit after lunch. We hurled some pennies into the fountain and darted into a store or two before arriving at Baby Gap, where I began perusing sale racks while J-dog peeked and poked around a nearby display as per his usual custom.

A minute later, he was gone.

I didn't panic at first, sure that he was just hiding. I had been standing at the entrance to the store and watching out of the corner of my eye, so I knew he couldn't have left. I combed the floor, looking for little croc clad feet poking out from behind a rack somewhere, but saw nothing. The store was connected through a door in the back to the regular Gap and so I did a cursory check of that (much larger) store, even though I was positive he couldn't have possibly made it that far in such a short period of time. It was a really short period of time.

Still no J-dog.

I went back to the Baby Gap and started calling his name loudly, starting to panic a little now because it was getting obvious that he wasn't in either of the two stores. I looked in the dressing rooms, the stock room, behind the counter, everywhere. People started to notice my growing hysteria and asked what he looked like, what he was wearing, what name he answered to. Before I knew it, one of the sales associates was radioing security with a bulletin and his description.

I peeked out into the mall, then ran back and forth between the two Gap stores, sure that he would appear momentarily. No longer a person anchored in time and space, I scurried frantically about and thought, "This is how it happens."

An eternity few minutes later, the sales associate, who was still radioing back and forth with mall security asked me to follow her out of the store. I was hesitant to uproot myself from the general vicinity where I had last seen the J-dog, but she was an authority figure and I a brainless creature on a fruitless trajectory.

"They think they might have found him" she said as the two of us walked-ran towards a mall cop who was standing by a fountain in the main atrium talking to someone on his radio. "I am not a bad mother," I said.

When we finally reached the atrium, I planted myself in front of the giant mall cop. "DID YOU FIND HIM? WHERE IS HE???"

"Just hold on, Ma'am!" he snapped, still talking to whoever it was on the other end, beads of sweat popping out over his brow. "Okay, now. Up that way, past the fountain, just by the main entrance."

So I ran.

And he was there. He had made it halfway across the mall, apparently following a woman he'd mistaken for me. As hokey as it sounds, in my mind's eye our reunion happened in slo-mo, me running with tunnel vision, blurry storefronts in the periphery, towards a still oblivious J-dog who was being held by a kind looking grandfatherly sort.

He hadn't been crying, probably had only realized he had been lost when I scooped him up and wept. I sat down on a bench with him wrapped tightly around my neck and that's when he started to sob. Even on the drive home, after we had both calmed down, he'd hiccup periodically and fight to catch rapid breath. I decided we would never set foot in the mall again.

Thing is, I honestly believed it couldn't happen to me. Because I am hyper-vigilant - I've caught the J-dog from falling backwards out of an open deck door with one hand and less than a second to spare while looking in the opposite direction. I regularly intercept falling sipping cups in mid-air and, until yesterday, believed that I had an infallible second sense with regard to my childrens' position in the universe.

And I will admit to you now that in the past, upon hearing the line, "I only let him out of my sight for a minute," I shamefully assumed that "minute" really meant "five" or maybe even "ten."

But it doesn't. It's a minute, maybe even seconds. And while I know that the little J-dog was probably in no real danger at any point during our little ordeal, those moments of not knowing were a loaded eternity. I almost didn't write about this because doing so is admitting that it actually happened, that I let my guard down long enough to allow my three-year-old to wander away.



Since we've been home, the J-dog has gotten a wad of Play-Dog jammed up his right nostril and squashed his index finger in a door jamb, which just goes to show you that home is not that much safer than the big bad world.

But still. SECONDS.

Can it Be the J-Dog's Three?

We celebrated the little J-dog's birthday this past weekend - he is three years old now and feels very strongly about things. Don't try to correct him, for example, when he insists that the Senior Transport vehicle in the next lane over is a SkooBus, or that those weeds in the median are not DayfaDales.

Things our newly minted three-year-old enjoys: talking to himself, singing at the top of his lungs, tormenting his sister, headbutting stuff, and being sinfully cute.



The V-meister was more excited about J-dog's birthday than the J-dog himself. She made him a gift back in early March and had it hidden in her closet all this time. It was so long ago, that I thought she'd forget all about it fo' sho, but on the big day, she ran excitedly up to her room and came down proudly bearing a cardboard box with a hand drawn card taped to the top. Inside, wrapped in a baby blanket, was an eyeball creature constructed from Kid Kinex pieces.


V-meister, helping to open the gift.

The J-dog was thrilled. He loves eyeballs. And it was heartwarming to see the V-meister display such tenderness toward her little brother. She's a good kid.


The bequeathing of Eyeball Creature. This picture doesn't quite capture the thrill.


Not sure what's going on in this one. An appendage re-insertion of some sort?

J-dog got a little stressed out when presented with his lit birthday cake, but was more than happy to eat it once all the singing/wishing/blowing formalities had been dispensed with. He is pictured here with his cake and best friend:


"OMGWTF"

One of his other birthday presents was a set of musical hand bells (if you are thinking of purchasing some for the three-year-old in your life, might I suggest that you not?) Although they are not being employed to make beautiful music, they do have some good uses.

Whenever I start obsessing about swine flu, the P-Dawg jangles the G chime directly into my ear. He's also taken to using bell therapy when one of the kids doesn't immediately respond to a request. You'd be surprised how hard it is to stay focused on despair or dawdle at bedtime when someone is all up in your face with a hand bell. And for what it's worth, the P-Dawg has told me it's not a pandemic until he says so.

Hell's Bells


P.S. I noticed that someone from Flippin, Arkansas visited my blog yesterday! I LOVE flippin' Arkansas!!!

Memory Lane: Busier Than It Used to Be

With a little time to kill on our way to a christening, we took the kids for a drive along the lake shore yesterday and passed the spot where P-Dawg proposed to me almost ten years ago. With a captive audience buckled up in the backseat, I started waxing nostalgic about the glory days.

"Hey, V-meister, see that field over there by the water? A long time ago before you and J-dog were born, Daddy and I went for a walk here, and he got down on his knee, gave me this ring, and asked me if I would marry him!"

"Mama, J-dog is looking at me. Tell him to stop."

"There's no law against looking, V-meister. On the day Daddy asked me to marry him-"

"And he keeps talking! The J-dog is talking when I'm talking!"

"Just ignore him. Anyway, when your father proposed-"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaa! He KICKED me!"

"No! V-meister kick ME, Mama! She kick me!"

(commence stereophonic wailing)

P-Dawg: "Don't make me stop this car, kids. And quit kicking my seat back, J-dog, I mean it."

"Daddy, I can't stop crying."

"Why don't you take a deep breath and count to ten?"

"One, two, three, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! I just can't stop!!!"

"Hey, kids, look at the lake. Isn't it nice? We used to hang out here all the time and-"

J-dog: "We go swimming, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go swimming in the ocean."

Daddy: "It's not an ocean, it's a lake. And no swimming! Church. We're going to church."

V-meister: "Daddy said no swimming in the ocean, J-dog. Maybe tomorrow."

Daddy: "J-DOG! I told you to stop kicking the seat back. You do that one more time, and I'm pressing the EJECT button. You got that? The EJECT BUTTON!!!"

J-dog: "I see funpark. We go funpark, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go to the funpark."

Daddy: "What are you talking about, "funpark?" There is no funpark. Church! WE. GO. CHURCH."

J-dog: We go church, Daddy? Is funchurch, Daddy? Is funchurch?"

Daddy: "YES! FUNCHURCH! WE GO FUNCHURCH AND WE LIKE IT!!!"


And so we did. Ah, how times have changed . . .

Nothing But the Tooth

At a friend's birthday party yesterday, the little V-meister became thoroughly entranced by a book that depicted Dora the Explorer's first visit to the dentist.

It was perfect timing, since she herself is scheduled for a long overdue first visit later this week and she's been obsessed with losing her teeth ever since she learned it happened to one of her friends. In fact, when the V-meister overheard me and the P-Dawg discussing finances recently, she informed us that "If you need money, you just pull your tooth out and put it under your pillow." Duh.

In the book, Dora is introduced to the various tools a dentist uses, including a mirror, floss, toothbrush, and the Scraper of Death (which they called an "explorer.") I kept my opinions about dentistry to myself, because not only was the V-meister completely transfixed by the nirvana that is a dental office as depicted by Dora and company, but a small crowd of her friends had begun to gather 'round as I continued to read aloud in my loudest, most convincing rainbows and unicorns voice about Dora's dental x-rays and the cavity that they unearthed. ¡Excellente!

When the reading was over, the V-meister and her friend, V-boy, were beside themselves with excitement. I overheard them discussing their upcoming appointments. V-meister wanted to know if we could go right after the party was over and V-boy, whose mother has not yet scheduled his visit, thought that he might be able to get in on Friday. My daughter had her fingers crossed for a cavity, and both of them looked forward with guarded hope to the prospect of free toothbrushes. Nobody's even told them about the laughing gas yet.

The V-meister's appointment is on Wednesday afternoon. Despite the fact that she has it circled and starred on her calendar, she has asked me no less than twenty times if the hour is yet at hand. While I'm all for the idea of presenting a trip to the dentist as a positive experience, I hope that saucy little cartoon tart hasn't set my daughter up for a fall.

Good Thing I Passed on the Fruit Loops

J-dog and I ran into our family pediatrician in the supermarket checkout line today.

Dr. W is young, hip, and witty, which is why I spazzed out, turned beet red, and had nothing constructive to say when she greeted me.

Would I be forced to tell a bald-faced lie if asked how J-dog's potty training was going? What if she wanted to know whether I'd finally signed V-meister up for Safetytown? I tried to shield my purchases from view and chucked a box of Uncrustables into the gum display. How did this junk end up in my cart? Gawd.

But as I was attempting to pay for my groceries with my library card, I noticed that Dr. W was herself looking visibly frazzled. Her twins were climbing out the back of her grocery cart, and darned if that cart wasn't chock fulla Valentine's Day candy and artificially flavored grape juice.

I think Dr. W was having a bad morning. She tried to make small talk with me while her babies moved along the conveyor belt, but you could tell her heart wasn't in it. I'll bet she went home and popped in back-to-back episodes of Dora the Explorer.

Thing is, I almost followed her there. Because I've decided I would like to be her best friend forever. Would it be awkward to stalk your pediatrician in that way?

Frisky

I had to get a CT scan* today and even though I was very cooperative, it made me think fondly of the time when, six weeks into my first pregnancy, I refused to go through the airport metal detector.

It doesn't make much sense in retrospect, but I wasn't 100% clear on how those things worked. I was convinced that passing under the metal detector would somehow result in trauma to the unborn V-meister, and, like wine, caffeine, pain killers, hot baths, lunch meat, hair dye, lying on my stomach, and riding roller coasters, was to be avoided at all costs.

"Excuse me, but I'm pregnant?" I said to the security officer. "And I really don't think I should walk under that thing. It might not be safe at this critical stage of gestation, you know what I mean?"

He gave me a weary once over while I tried to pooch out my first trimester belly.

"Lady, I guarantee the metal detector won't hurt your baby, but if you want, you can have a manual search over there," he said, indicating a female security officer standing a few feet away.

I shuffled over.

"Hi! I'm six weeks pregnant and would like a manual weapons search, please."

The female security officer gave me a look that had, "Bitch, please" written all over it. As it happened, she was pregnant, too, and she passed under the metal detector like twenty times a day.

I gave her a look that plainly said, "Good luck with your three-headed baby." I wanted that manual weapons search, and I wanted it bad.

The two of us engaged in a little staredown, and then I had the distinct pleasure of getting frisked by a hugely pregnant, hormonal, and very pissed off airport security officer.

So, I saved the V-meister from being born with an extra toe, but later on I accidentally ate a hot dog and negated the whole damn thing.


*No cause for alarm. Even though I'm feeling much better now that the Q-Tip debris has been removed, my ENT wanted to get a look at my sinuses, which are still kind of wonky.

Mission

It was on the day the space shuttle Columbia disintegrated that I took the pregnancy test.

We had decided just a few weeks before that the time was as ripe as it ever would be for babymaking and I, with a green light from my psyche, the P-Dawg, and the ob/gyn, made it my personal mission to beat the estimated odds of conceiving in “six months to one year.”

P-Dawg’s input and DNA would be required, naturally, for implementation, but I took greedy ownership of the planning and strategy phases with the same singularity of purpose I had once dedicated to making the Dean’s List, getting the scholarship, scoring the interview, landing the job.

To this end, babymaking books were purchased and studied religiously. Google searches employing phrases like, “How to get pregnant super fast” were performed, and morning temperatures were charted. I was tuned into my body’s every twitch and secretion in the way that only a woman meticulously planning conception can be.

One afternoon just days after our first scheduled attempt, I was driving home from work when I noticed how uncomfortable the tug of the seat belt across my chest had become. My ta-tas, as it happened, were sore in a whole new way, and they heralded a light bulb moment the likes of which I hadn't experienced to date.

I began groping myself right there in the driver's seat of my blue Saturn sedan, cautiously at first, then with no holds barred. Does it hurt when I press here? Yes! What about here? Yes! If I mash them together? By, God, it does! And if I press myself full tilt into the steering wheel? I just might be pregnant.

It was too early to take a test, yet impossible, from that point on, to ignore the goings on: continued soreness, strange, cramplike twitches in the nether regions, and a sharp, stabbing pain that woke me up in the middle of one night to be followed by unmistakably rosier than usual cheeks the very next morning.

I endured the requisite number of days before an early pregnancy test could be taken. On the morning of that day, with the P-Dawg still on his overnight call shift at the hospital, I planned a deliberate trip to the drugstore. As I prepared to leave, the cable channels were playing and replaying the same few clips of space shuttle Columbia breaking up in blue skies over Texas.

And in the car on the way to the pharmacy, listening to a DJ announce news of the tragedy with thinly veiled excitement, before the pregnancy test had even been purchased or peed on, I knew with certainty that a catastrophic space mission would always be entwined in my memory with the day I learned that my first baby would come to be.

The test, of course, was positive: my dear little V-meister in her earliest iteration, as evidenced by a blurry pink line. Yet I was surprised at how closely my initial joy was followed by a pang of fear and the very first inkling of the buzzing, baseline anxiety that comes part and parcel with the act of bringing a child into this world.

And I've been living with the uneasy knowledge that ecstasy and despair are never more than a heartbeat away, one from the other, ever since that day when my fervent hope was confirmed as inky smoke trails, obvious evidence of human frailty and ultimate demise, arched across a Texas sky.

Obstinate Toddler Snubs Foods with Co-Mingling Ingredients

J-Dog Rama, 2, has been refusing to eat vegetables and foods whose ingredients touch, reports his exasperated mother.

“I slave away in my new gourmet kitchen with the granite counter tops and the double oven I have no idea how to operate, to prepare him nutritious and delicious organic meals, and this is the thanks I get,” snorts Rima Rama.

“The other day, I presented him with an exquisite bowl of chicken and dumplings, made from scratch. I myself found them so appetizing that I had to refrain from inhaling a second helping, but the little J-dog pushed it away with great disdain saying, “I no eat dis, Mama, I no eat dis.”

If he is not offered more palatable fare, the J-Dog will often skip dinner altogether, preferring to derive what sustenance he can by scavenging rogue Cheerios and dried bits of Play-Doh off the kitchen floor, then break his fast in the morning with milk and a waffle.

“He will only eat things in the brown/beige color palette” reports Rima. “The only exception is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she continued, “But even then, he has specific requirements with regards to presentation.”

Reportedly, J-dog insists upon crustless triangles.

"And don't even think about trying some fool stunt, like blending spinach into his smoothie" warns Rama, adding "I'm looking at you, Jessica Seinfeld."

"That kid can sniff out vegetables faster than a hound on a blood trail. It’s enough to drive you totally (redacted) crazy” she said, shaking her head. "In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn't developed scurvy.”


"Whatchu talkin 'bout, Mama? I just ate some a dis here Play-Doh."

Hooked

There are two habits we cannot seem to break the little V-meister of:

1. Taping her artwork to every inch of wall space in the house.
2. Sucking her thumb.

We thought we might curb the interior decorating compulsion by cutting off her Scotch tape supply, so when the last roll ran out, she was told it would not be replaced. And all week she's been plotting, plotting, plotting ways to get her little hands on some of the sticky stuff.

The thumb addiction, however, is proving to be a real challenge.

The other night at bedtime the V-meister, whose been hard up for tape going on a week now, made the following suggestion:

"Daddy, maybe you could tape up my thumb? To help me stop sucking it?"

Now, you tell me, gentle reader: is the V-meister ready to kick the habit, or is she just jonesing for some Scotch tape?

Your guess is as good as mine.


V-Meister In Utero

A Lesson to Live By

"Do Not Knock the Coffee Cup off the Table"
written, bound, and illustrated by V-Meister Rama (with special assistance from P-Dawg Rama)


Mama's making coffee.


Mama drinks the coffee.


Mama puts the coffee on the table.


Do not knock it off.


Watch for the sequel, "You Break It, You Buy It," in stores December 2009. (20% off when purchased together with "You Smelt It, You Dealt It")

Also in this series:

• Don't Wipe that Booger with Your Sleeve (20% off when purchased with "And Don't Even Think About Putting It In Your Mouth")
  
  
• Don't Eat That Cheerio off the Ground
  
  
• You Are Going to Crack Your Head Open
  
  
• Just Get in the Car
  
  
• DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!
  
  
• Oh, My God, SPIT IT OUT!!!
  
  
• It's Always Funny 'Till Somebody Loses an Eye
  
  and
  
  
• I'll Give You Something to Cry About
  

Party at the Pediatrician's

One of my most abhorred parental-type tasks is taking the kids to the pediatrician. (It's possible the pediatrician is not crazy about seeing me, either.)

I remember how much I hated going as a kid, how I'd all but start convulsing on the spot every time my mom would announce it was time for the yearly checkup, and I just want to spare the J-dog and V-meister the pain.

But I also want to spare them a lifetime of negative associations with doctors' offices and their own father's profession, so if you can ignore me while I wipe down the magazine table with my handy-dandy anti-bacterial cloths, I'll make a great show of being the very picture of maternal composure - like a soccer mom on a trivial errand! - even though my internal voice is screaming "ZOMG kids, let's get the H-E-double hockey stick outta here!"

I'm the mom who backs into the office without touching the doorknob. If the J-dog or V-meister so much as think about grazing a surface contaminated with critters of any kind (and aren't they all?), I'm up in there with my trial size bottle of Purell faster than you can say "Bubonic Plague."

So the V-meister had her yearly check-up today, where she was the epitome of pediatric health and decorum, answering all of Dr. W's questions clearly and succinctly, acing her hearing and vision tests, and enduring two mean booster shots (which she insisted on watching) with nary a flinch. My heart swelled inside of my chest cavity, popped right out onto the floor and bounced into the hallway.

But now that she's five and knows all, I had an internal debate on whether I should give her advanced warning about the shots that she would be getting. As a child, I remember Them springing shots on me without any advance notice, as if this would somehow lessen the blow, and I remember being positively incensed about it. Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it was the seventies, man, and they gave us those shots in the hiney. I'm not saying I wouldn't have carried on as though I were being skinned alive if they'd given me a heads up, I'm just sayin' "respect."

So just when the V-meister thought she was home free, I told her about the certain doom ahead. I said that yes, it would hurt for once second per shot and she could squeeze my arm and yell "Ouch!" as loudly as she wanted to.

And she said, "No thank you, I don't want any shots today," but acquiesced once I explained the cost-benefit involved in getting pinched in the arm a few times versus coming down with measles, mumps, or rubella. Plus, I was totally blocking the exit.

We both left today's appointment relatively unscathed. I'm glad I told the little V-meister she would be getting shots because it made it possible for her to look those bad boys in the eye and say, "Bring it, mofos."

But I'm not entirely certain that I've been forgiven, because she just came inside from raking leaves with her dad, set a bottle full of red winter berries down in front of me, and said, "Mama, I picked these poison berries for your birthday next year."

Five: It's Pretty Good

My Dearest Little V,

You turned five last week.

Five!

Four years ago, when George W. Bush was re-elected, I distinctly remember thinking with great chagrin that my baby girl would be five years old before we could have a new president.

And I really wanted a new president, but I didn't want your growing up to be a prerequisite. Because even as I longed to set you down for just a moment and give my leaden arms a rest, I was already mourning the time when I could no longer carry you, call you by the diminutive form of your name, select delectable little girl outfits carte blanche, or kiss the warm delicious spot on your forehead a thousand times a day.

It's ironic that I've wanted to keep Five at bay. It was always your age in my dreams, when I'd conjure up the daughter I didn't dare voice a longing for until you were here in flesh, more perfect and beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

There's an important threshold that's crossed at Five, I think. You've been angling toward it for awhile now, and sometime during the past month, you arrived, crossing over into girlhood with poise and self-assurance.

I perceive this change in your daily observations about the word around you, in the way you have begun to cultivate friendships, and in the increased control you exert over your emotions.

You take Five very seriously, eager to meet its expectations of you. When you are Five, you sometimes let your brother swipe your toy, you tell me. When you are five, you do quiet work at your desk, you say. When you are five, you can have Barbie roller skates, as long as you wear protective gear and a helmet.

When you are Five, you select your own outfits, taking great pains to ensure that all available patterns and color combinations are represented.

When you are Five, you sit for hours at a time, cutting paper hearts and covering every inch of them with glitter. Each one is for your mother.

When you are Five, you want to know WHY.

You provide running commentary and astute observations about everything around you. You continue to talk after I buckle you in, close the door, and walk around to my side of the car. You begin talking when you wake up in the morning and you fall asleep in mid-sentence, while reading your picture dictionary aloud to your webkin.

You remember promises made days, weeks, months ago and hold your hapless parents accountable for every one.

You no longer fall apart at every little one of life's curve balls. You can get out of bed and dressed for school without bringing your mother to tears.

This time last year, I wanted to believe that we would round the corner. How, I wondered, could the relationship between a four year old and her mother already be so volatile, so tenuous, so fraught with emotion? I thought you were four-going-on-fourteen and I worried, little V, that our best moments were already behind us.

But while it's not uncommon for me to walk into a room to find you standing on tiptoes at the highest point you can access, holding a toy high above your head while a distraught little J-dog wails below, I've noticed a gentle outward shift in your consciousness, a kindness and concern for the fellow inhabitants of your world obviously emerging.

Of course, I've always believed you would be kind, intelligent, and beautiful in every way that counts, but now I see it's really true.

I love you so much, my dearest little V. Your baby years were everything that they were meant to be, but I'd be a fool to think that your debut into a strong, lovely girlhood could be anything less than a pleasure and honor to behold.

Still Kickin'

Each day, I have a few very narrow windows of opportunity to do important bidness, which generally falls into one of the following categories:

• blogging
• paid freelance writing/editing assignments
  
• half-assed management of household affairs

And when I say, "narrow windows of opportunity," I'm talking really, really narrow, people. Like something you'd see on a medieval turret, say.

Lately I've been using up all my windows working on a project deadline and scheming ways to get the most bang for my 18 POINTS a day We1ght Watcher$ buck. That's right, I joined the POINTS counters online a week ago, and my life is now consumed - consumed, I say! by POINTS.

It's a twisted little addiction, this We1ght Watcher$ business, perfect for a hyper-vigilant, compulsive personality who derives an ascetic thrill from squeaking in under the 18 POINT wire at the end of a long, hungry, day.

Back when I was on my Tetris kick, I'd see blocks falling out of the sky when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. Now it's all about the POINTS, my friends. I can't look at an animal, vegetable or mineral without guesstimating it's POINTS value. Just the other day, I glanced out the picture window to witness one of our squirrel neighbors munching away with relish on a huge nut, and in my head I was like, "That's a five pointer, betch. I hope you're having celery for lunch."

I've been a little hungry, is what I'm saying, and hunger is not so conducive to good writing. And busy, too, what with the freelance work and all. It seems that I just can't have it all, for crying out loud. I can't be a stay-at-home mom, a paid professional, an online diarist, and a skinnybitch all at once.

Something has got to give and it's the blog, at least for just a few more weeks, while I complete a very important freelance project and lose ten pounds. I can't divulge too much information, but let's just say that the health of American industry is totally dependent upon my cranking out a robust, yet seamless and user friendly piece of technical documentation. You think the future of our great nation is to be determined by the result of the upcoming election, but I'm telling you, people, it's the tech docs.

(Remember "Tina the Tech Writer" from Dilbert that no one ever took seriously? That's me, except I'm on my couch wearing yoga pants and barking out orders in between changing diapers and switching out Dora DVDs.)

So that's that. This post has been a not very seamless or user friendly way of informing you that I'm still kickin,' and I'll be back soon . . .

Special Note to My Plagiarist: I'm onto you like a bad suit, sistah.' Here's fair warning to cease and desist.