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.

Perspective

We had decided to meet at a restaurant - one of their favorites. Having arrived before they did, I stood by the front window and waited.

From there I watched as my husband pulled into the parking lot, stepped out into the snizzle, and gently unbuckled my son from his car seat.

I observed my daughter climb slowly - so very, very slowly - out through her side of the Jeep, dropping something on the pavement as she did. It went unnoticed, except by me. Under normal circumstances, I would have been impatient. I might have snapped at her to hurry up. But I today I had the luxury of standing dry and removed to see her enact the careful ritual that drives me batty every single day. And suddenly it dawned on me. She doesn't want to fall. The ground is far away.

I saw him take them both, my little daughter and my little son, softly by the hands and guide them through the parking lot towards the restaurant's front door.

I took tender note of my daughter's black Mary Janes, her brown pants, her green shirt, her red headband and the wisps of baby fine flyaways poking out here and there. I remembered the text message I had received from my husband as I sat in a conference session two hundred miles away the day before. "Which way do you part V-meister's hair? On the side or down the middle?" I had pictured then my husband standing with her in front of the bathroom mirror and tenderly, awkwardly, brushing her hair.

As they approached, I saw my children's guileless faces, one looking this way, the other that, and taking in the world around them - a flat, gray parking lot - as though it had infinite possibilities on offer. They hadn't yet noticed me and I wasn't sure if they knew that I was waiting within, just fifty feet and still a world away.

And after having been away for a mere handful of days, watching through that window I saw them, my husband and my children, for the exquisite, the ethereal, the good, the trusting souls they are.

And I was glad, so glad, to be home.

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

I attended the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop in Dayton, Ohio this past weekend. I have much to tell you about this experience, but I'm still sorting through my impressions, so it will have to wait for another day.

The Operation Has Been Totally Compromised

I found the V-meister engrossed in this book yesterday:



It's Deceptively Delicious by Jessica Seinfeld. You know, the one where you trick kids into eating healthy by pureeing the daylights out of vegetables and hiding them in more palatable fare?

(Probably ain't gonna happen.)

Playing Hookie

We did not make it to V-meister's gymnastics class yesterday afternoon.

The sun was out.

The playground beckoned.

In it, a great puddle of mud with J-dog and V-meister's name on it.





People got wet.



And it was thrilling.



The very reason why galoshes were put on this earth.

N'est-ce pas?

B-Baller

I had a great aversion to organized sports as a child and made it my business to become invisible during game days in gym class.

If we were playing dodge ball - and we always were - I would cower in the back of the court until my number was up, hoping against hope that I didn't get hit in the face, chest, or rear. These were by far the three biggest danger zones, but strictly speaking, there is no graceful way to exit a dodge ball game.

During softball season, I was the kid picking flowers in the outfield and praying that the ball did not come within a ten foot radius of my person, lest I be forced to catch it or, more horrifying still, decide where to throw it next.

Soccer was the most benign of the sports evils because you could stand around looking vaguely occupied and pre-emptively skedaddle when the ball started heading in your general direction.

The P-Dawg, who spent his youth league years hiding in the broom closet, also confirms having had a great disdain for organized sports.

Which is why we were both surprised to find that the little V-meister has been dreaming of becoming a baller and dying to join the junior Lithuanian basketball league which meets in the church gym on Saturday afternoons.

If you've never had the opportunity to watch a group of five and six year-olds play basketball as I did yesterday, I would highly recommend it on the basis of entertainment value alone. The aspiring athletes did fairly well with the dribbling, passing, and blocking drills, but things started falling apart about thirty minutes into practice when the scrimmage game began.

There were about three kids who actually knew how to play, and the rest of the motley crew traveled up and down the court on their periphery, like electrons spinning around an atom's nucleus. Every once in a great while, a proton or neutron would accidentally gain control of the ball, and then one of two things would happen:

1. He/she would stand paralyzed until someone came up and plucked it clear out of his/her hands.
   
   
2. He/she would take off running in the wrong direction.

For us parents watching from the sidelines, it was excruciating. Periodically, you would hear someone screaming instructions like, "PASS IT! PASS IT!", "Other way! OTHER WAY!" and "Take your hands out of your pants!"

The V-meister, for her part, was an enthusiastic though cautious participant, running up and down the length of the court on the exact same trajectory (just inside the sideline), but never attempting to take control of the ball or receive a pass. Whenever her team scored, she would shout "Yea!" and do a little jig. Every once in awhile when playing defense, she would remember what Coach Cliff taught her about blocking and randomly stick her arms up in the air - never mind the fact that there was no one from the opposing team, or any team, anywhere in her general vicinity.

But she loved it. She has advised us that she wants to play again next week, and is requesting that the P-Dawg install a net in our driveway so she could practice every day.

I'm proud of her. Basketball is the most entertaining and least offensive of the ball-centric sports.

Still, she must have gotten a recessive gene.



(I was too busy screaming from the sidelines to take any pictures of the game, so here's a random gratuitous V-meister shot, just for the heck of it.)

Unrepentant

And speaking of bread, the V-meister was caught red-handed throwing her sandwich away at school recently. When I arrived at pick-up time, her teacher pulled me aside to explain what had occurred.

"I noticed her throwing her untouched sandwich in the garbage can," she confided gravely, leaning in close. "It appears that the V-meister does not have a taste for whole wheat bread. But we had a discussion about it, and as a result, she wrote you this note," the teacher said, handing me an envelope festooned with hearts, balloons, flowers, and the word, "Mama" written across the front.

I waited until we were back at home to open and read my daughter's tender note of apology.

It said:


"Mama I do not like whole wheat bread so I want just wheat (white?) bread for my lunch please."


Nice.

(Tomorrow I'm gonna pack her the butt end of some European rye.) (Just kidding.) (Not really.)

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!)

Decisions, Decisions

I am mired in indecision about the V-meister's academic future. Her tenure is up next year at the shining beacon of a Montessori pre-school/kindergarten where she's been happily ensconced since the age of three, and though I would gladly continue to deposit her there every morning until college application time, we must move on.

So I have been diligently attending open houses and scheduling classroom visits at area schools in hopes that one of them will speak to my heart. In fact I am really hoping that one of them will speak directly to me and just tell me what to do already, so I can stop picking my cuticles while sitting on the couch and staring vapidly out the picture window. The choice pretty much boils down to a private Montessori school with no religious affiliation, or a Catholic parochial school.

This may be a case of over-analysis, but in my head I have already made a future Nobel laureate or slovenly derelict out of the V-meister based on where she attends grade school next year. And the problem is, though I always assumed my children would attend Catholic schools, now that I've witnessed the Montessori magic firsthand, I can never go back to not knowing the kind of opportunity it affords.

The P-Dawg, who has been guzzling Montessori Kool-Aid, feels certain that if only he'd gone to Montessori school, there would be a cure for cancer today or at the very least, he'd be surgeon general. He was very bright as a child, but felt completely unchallenged in the traditional school environment. Consequently, the P-Dawg spent over fourteen years goofing off in the back row before deciding to get his act together. And the V-meister is a lot like her father, so for P-Dawg the choice is obvious.

I, on the other hand, enjoy a healthy Montessori Kool-Aid buzz, but still sometimes crave a good old fashioned glass of parochial Hi-C. I'm pretty sure that if I'd gone through Montessori school, I could add fractions today instead of Googling "what is two-thirds times two" whenever I have to double a recipe. But I did get many good things from Catholic grade school, even though a lot of my memories involve desperate cowering in the back right quadrant of a dodge ball court.

As much as I believe in the Montessori method, a part of me thinks my children would benefit from a mainstream school experience. I already feel a little defensive when I tell people my kids go to Montessori school because they are obviously assuming it's interpretive dance all day long while the teacher smokes a hookah pipe out back. And even though the P-Dawg could have become surgeon general, he just as easily might have grown up to be an incense burning, basket-weaving, dulcimer playing Naderphile who can't hold down a desk job. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

So I can't totally give up the idea of sending V-meister to the bright and cheerful Catholic school around the corner, where she can wear a cute little uniform jumper, ride an orange bus, watch Old Yeller, get Jesus, memorize multiplication tables without understanding what they mean, and be bullied by pint sized tyrants wearing clip-on ties. I won't lie, I want her to fit in with the kids in the neighborhood and have friends at the pool.

But I also want her to enjoy school, learn fractions, grow independently in the direction of the person she is meant to be, see things in terms of the big picture, and have the opportunity to work ahead in the areas where she's ready.

I know the decision seems like a no-brainer, but it isn't.

Anyone out there a product of Montessori education? What do you think, in the long run?

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.

Ghost and the Mermaid

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them*

Yesterday morning, I was practicing my note on the violin when I remembered that I hadn't fed Valentine and Clementine yet.

After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.

As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.

Carp! I mean, "crap!"

I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)

I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.

When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.

"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."

"To make sure he's still dead?"

"Shut up! He might be constipated."

The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.

"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.

The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.

When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.

The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.

But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her

. . . a honkin' pack of lies.

(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)

Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.


*Apologies to Al Franken

A Fairytale

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called, "Ohio," there lived a little girl named V-meister who wanted nothing so much as a goldfish and for all girls to dress up as princesses on her sixth birthday.

On the birthday morning, she woke up and . . . there was an empty aquarium on her dresser.

Later, her mama took her to Petc0, where she picked out two fish:


"Valentine and Clementine" (Someone is going to have to remind us to change that filter in a couple of weeks.)

The princess's second wish came true the next day, when her grandparents, two uncles, brother, cousin and closest friends gathered for a birthday feast at Chateau Rama.



It was the V-meister's heart's desire that her mother, Queen Rima de la Rama, wear her wedding gown to the ball.

The Queen negotiated down to an old bridesmaid's dress and a tiara:


Princess V-Meister and Queen Rima de la Rama

Queen Rima de la Rama was a "beta mom" who normally snubbed themed birthday parties that would require her to lift a finger and only spoil the children more, but the idea of a princess party was somehow appealing.

Even Grandma M. and Uncle M. came in all their finery:



While there were no bouncy castles, red carpets, or hired court jesters, the princesses did do a craft and played several party games.


It was a foam craft.


(Some princess identities have been protected.)

Queen Rima de la Rama's friend, the Duchess of V, (wearing a black turtleneck and jeans) regaled the assembled princesses with super scary L1thuanian fairy tales featuring nine-headed fire breathing dragons and an assortment of cats, foxes, and roosters:


She was the hit of the party.

Afterwards, it was time for refreshments. Some princesses announced that they do not like pizza, turkey roll-ups, hummus, carrots, grapes, pretzels, or chocolate cake with ice cream.

Queen Rima de la Rama suggested that those princesses drink water. Does she look like the sort of queen who makes grilled cheese sandwiches on demand?

Then there was much present opening, wand waving, shrieking, and prancing throughout the kingdom as the princesses oohhed and ahhhed over gifts and began burning off their sugar highs.





Throughout the proceedings, the little Prince J-Dog (who refused to wear his knightly helmet for any length of time), was quite a trooper.

. . .Until the assembled princesses began chasing him all over the kingdom and calling him names, at which point he flipped out and had to be redirected.

He cannot be held accountable for his actions.



After the princesses partook of a delicious C0stc0 cake and some ice cream, they beat the living crap out of a pinata and stuffed their little pink polyester princess purses full of party spoils.

And they lived happily ever after, forever and ever,

THE END.

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.

Saved by the Bell

On Saturday, I was hanging out in the kitchen of our church hall, waiting for the V-meister to complete her first day of L1thuanian school.  The V-meister actually speaks fluent L1thuanian already, but I like to run around like a headless chicken six out of seven mornings a week and besides, my daughter is not yet old enough to realize that she could be doing gymnastics or watching cartoons instead of reciting noun declensions of a Saturday morning.

Anyway.  There was another mom there prepping ingredients for some chili she was planning to serve at a dinner party that night.  Because I know that hers is a non TV watching family who also bakes their own bread and probably composts as well, I asked her if the chili was vegetarian.

It was! And before I knew it, I had launched into a monologue about my new flexitarian diet.

Now, I didn't know what flexitarianism was until I read about it in Martha Stewart's magazine two days ago, but I liked the sound of it and wanted to impress chili mom with my healthful ways.  All of a sudden, not only was I a flexitarian who eats nothing but grains, fish, poultry, and the occasional Big Mac, I was also making my family healthful recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook every other night. So while my friend V, who also happened to be in the kitchen listening to our conversation, shot me a look that said, "I saw you eat three pounds of ground chuck yesterday," I went on about the versatility of bulgar wheat. (What is bulgar wheat?) 

My friend V was on to me.  She said, "So. Do your kids eat these Moosewood recipes, too?"  And I was all, "Um, if I'm making something I know they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, I'll give them soy nuggets instead."  And she was all, "You are so full of crap."  Which she didn't actually say out loud, but it was written all over her face, as was, "I'd like to see you turn on a stove."

My point is that while waxing poetic about quinoa, I realized that I have an affliction whereby I feel compelled to match my tastes and convictions to those of whoever it is I happen to be speaking with at the minute. And it's not that I'm lying, exactly, because I do like salmon and while I was speaking with chili mom, I was 100% convinced that I would never eat another Chuck Peterson Hungry Heifer special again as long as I lived, until I came home to find the P-Dawg making spaghetti and meatballs.

Before I had a chance to exchange wheatgrass smoothie recipes with my soul mate chili mom, the bell rang and I had to go retrieve the V-meister.  But now that I'm aware of my condition, I'll be working on developing a better sense of self.  Let's just hope that in the meantime, I don't meet any communists or trekkies.

Spaghetti with meatballs is a regular part of my flexitarian diet

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."

The Decorators Are Coming!

P-Dawg and I have really wanted to make some updates to our new digs ever since we moved in almost a year ago, but are paralyzed by laziness and indecision. So we finally enlisted two friends who run their own interior design business for some much needed help.

They came over last night for our initial consultation and ended up staying for several hours, walking around the house saying things like, "How do you feel about this banister?" and, "I'd like to see a window seat/reading nook here surrounded by floor to ceiling drapes" (I WOULD LIKE TO SEE THAT TOO!!!)

After being introduced, J-dog and V-meister, who only minutes before had been launching themselves headlong off the furniture, scattered to various corners of the abode faking shyness, leaving us to peacefully discuss our tastes and "vision" with Chris and Brett over a bottle of wine. I learned that I could talk about my pattern and color preferences for hours, and also that the P-Dawg has an enormous secret collection of Japanese prints and a bottle of Absinthe stashed away under lock and key in our wine cellar.

Eventually P-Dawg went upstairs to check on the kids and found our daughter sitting up in bed, sucking her thumb and twirling a lock of hair around her index finger with great intensity. The V-meister was clearly stressed out.

"What's up, V-Meister?" asked the P-Dawg.

"Are those decorators still here?"

"Yes."

"Are they decorating the house right now?"

"No, we're still just talking about it."

(*suck, suck, suck, twirl, twirl, twirl*)

"Daddy, I don't want those decorators decorating my room."

"Okay."

(*suck, suck, suck, twirl, twirl, twirl*)

"I will decorate my OWN ROOM."

"Okay."

"With balloons and streamers."

"Okay."

"I will decorate it with balloons and streamers, and also butterflies."

"Agreed."

"Those decorators will NOT decorate my room."

"That's fine."

With that settled, the V-meister relaxed into sleep and the P-Dawg went back downstairs to learn about the exciting differences between broadloom and berber.



And example of the V-meister's mad decorating skillz.

The Tooth Fairy is an Irresponsible Slacker

After weeks of persistent nudging, the V-meister finally wiggled her first tooth free very early one morning last week. Very early.

Because the ragged little pearl was presented to me in bed a mere four hours after I had finally fallen asleep for the night, it was difficult to muster up the enthusiasm I'd always planned to display upon such a momentous occasion. My morning breath and I congratulated V-meister as heartily as we could, advised her to keep the tooth safe for the Fairy, and gave a brief lecture on the importance of going back to sleep.

The V-meister and her tooth climbed in beside me.

"Are you sure you don't want to put that tooth on the nightstand?" I urged, eyeing the impossibly tiny specimen my daughter held precariously between two fingers. No. The tooth would remain in V-meister's possession, and she would hand it off to the Fairy herself.

Soon it became apparent that the V-meister, who was trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, was expecting the Tooth Fairy momentarily. Unfortunately, T.F. is union and her shift was over for the night. Also, she'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner and stayed up late watching the Colbert Report. The tooth fairy, I explained, would not be making her appearance just yet, but she would love it if the V-meister tried to lie in bed quietly until the alarm went off.

I rolled over and feigned a deep sleep. Moments later, there was a great rustling of sheets, followed by some scrabbling which robbed me of my covers. Irritated, I drew those covers back over my body in a rough, impatient manner, causing the tooth V-meister had inadvertently dropped somewhere in our king sized bed - and had been desperately trying to locate - to become airborne and land in an undisclosed location. And thus an earnest, yet futile early morning tooth search and recovery mission was launched while a hapless, grief-stricken V-meister looked on.

That evening, the V-meister went to bed toothless on several levels. We assured her that the Tooth Fairy, with her X-Ray vision, would be able to find V-meister's tooth wherever it may be. It was only after she had fallen asleep that P-Dawg finally located the renegade incisor on our bedroom floor. It was too late for V-meister to put it under her pillow, so P-Dawg placed it for safekeeping on top of our dresser, where it was accidentally disposed of during a vigorous dusting session the very next day.

Luckily, we were granted a chance at a do-over when a another tooth jumped ship three days later under our babysitter's watch. She had the foresight to immediately put it in a ziplock baggie and place it directly under V-meister's pillow at bedtime, where it was later spirited away without incident by Alert and Responsive Tooth Fairy.

P-Dawg says that in ten years time V-meister won't give a crap whether I saved her first tooth or not, but I still mourn the one that got away.

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!!!