Finally, the !*%&^@ Santa Picture!

In years past, I've gotten the boys in to get their Santa picture taken the week before Thanksgiving. It was my little secret: Santa was there and the lines weren't. This year, however, I was not as organized. So we went on Black Friday and braced for crowds. We were late in the day, and just had a couple of kids in front of us. Great, right? And then we see the picture. Um. Eddie's blurry. Can we do a retake? OK, take 2 and Eddieis perfect! But Chas is blurry. We take it and go shopping while Santa feeds his reindeer. But Steph knows it's bugging me so we go back for the third try. The people taking the pictures tell us the camera is just very sensitive to movment etc. I kept muttering loudly about the shutter speed but I didn't ask to look at it because I figured it was probably set up for them and they were told not to touch it or something. Anyway, it was blurry again but we gave up. Steph told me our standards were just too high and that we'd have a great story to tell about this year's picture.

So we got home and I tried to photoshop Eddie's non-blurry head onto one where Chas' head was also not blurry. This looked not great. And I was having a blood pressure spike every time I thought about it.

So finally, this afternoon, I put them back in their sweaters and dragged them back tthe mall, this time bringing my own camera. They protested a bit, but I told them the more times you see Santa, the more presents he brings. They seemed to buy it. Either that or they already recognized that when Mommy is obsessing about something it's best just to get out of the way.

We walked up and the girl behind the camera remembered us -- as did Santa. I thought they might run away, screaming. But no. "After you left I realized my shutter speed was too slow," she said. No kidding. so they took another one, getting better smiles from Chas anyway.

So here, at long last, is our 2008 Santa picture:

Fa Ya Ya Ya Ya

Chas announced the other day that he "really has the Christmas spirit." And he's right. Sadly for him, the spirit is coming out in the form of quite possibly the worst carol in the world for a boy who cannot pronounce his Rs or his Ls. He keeps singing this refrain. Over. And over. And over.

Deck the halls with bough of hawee!

Fa-ya-ya-ya-ya Ya-ya-ya-ya!

'Tis the season to be Jahwee!

Fa-ya-ya-ya-ya Ya-ya-ya-ya!

It's our family's new signature carol.

Christmas Trees: The Hidden Trauma

For the first time since the boys were born, we decided to get a fresh cut tree this year instead of hauling out the old artificial pre-lit K-mart special. (Which we still have, despite its rather tattered look and the fact that it fell on Steph's car causing us to submit a ridiculous insurance claim.) In fact, we decided to go cut our own. I figured the boys would be thrilled. Not so much Eddie.
"I don't want to cut down a tree," he said, his voice filled with distress. "Trees help us breathe!" Ahh, my budding environmentalist. As much as I want to nurture and support those impulses, Mommy wants a happy family memory and the smell of fresh cut Christmas tree this year, dammit! So I explained that we would cut a tree from a farm where they were grown for the express purpose of being cut down and that the farmer would replant in the place of the one we slaughter, etc. and he decided it would be OK.

So we got the tree, which was indeed fun. I got lights -- we didn't have any because -- Hello! -- our artificial tree didn't need any. Anyway, one light string didn't work and we were looking for this little tester gadget that I loaned out a couple of years ago and suddenly, Chas has come in, looking forlorn and explaining that he was trying to find the plug for the lights that were already on the tree. Steph sensed what had happened far sooner than I and immediately ran to the living room. Yes, the tree was down. Water was everywhere -- because fresh cut trees need water, which frankly is another strike against them. We told him he wasn't in trouble, it was an accident etc. etc. as we mopped up and righted the tree. A few minutes later, he sat solemnly and muttered, "I feel terrible." Yes, he was feeling guilty about having knocked down the tree. We reassured him AGAIN that he wasn't in trouble and hadn't done anything wrong because we should have had the tree more stable than it was etc. I'm not sure he was buying it.

Body image and the 5-year-old male.

Tonight I read a book with the boys called "I Like Myself." Right away, Eddie said, "Well, there are some things about the way my body is that I don't really like." Oooh, I'm thinking. He's already got serious body image issues. Must be gentle here to draw him out and have a meaningful discussion about whatever is weighing on his mind. Is he unhappy that his brother is taller? Does he want to be faster or stronger? Whatever it is, I'm going to parent-up and come up with some insightful and helpful discussion points that will leave him happy, well-adjusted and confident throughout his life.

"What is it about your body that you don't like?" I asked.
"My hair," he said. Hmm. Maybe he wants brown hair like Chas. Or he didn't like the haircut he got Monday.

"What would you like to be different about your hair?"
"I would like it to be orange."
Huh. Well, orange IS is favorite color. We read more book and I brought it up again, figuring maybe he'd been evasive and unsure of whether he wanted to really open up.

"Is your hair color the only thing you don't like about your body?"
"No," he said. "I also don't like my legs."
Aha! We're on to something, I thought. Until he elaborated.
"I wish they were turquoise."
He'd also like blue, or maybe red arms. His back would be much better in another color, maybe yellow. In all, I can safely say, he wants more of a rainbow look to his body.

I don't even know where to begin with this. He's just going to have to find a good therapist when he's older.

A few words on the election...

This isn't from me It's from Joe Solomonese, president of the Human Rights Campaign. But it speaks what is in my heart. I am generally not one of those "in your face" types. I try very hard to be non-threatening to those who disagree with me and my family. But there comes a time when even non-threatening lesbians have to speak out the simple truth. You may disagree with me on many things political. But this thing, this right to have my family respected, is not political. It is personal. That's what people need to know. It may not change your mind or your heart. But know that when you vote to deny my family equal rights with yours, I am going to take it personally. How else can I take it?

Or, as this excerpt from the essay below says it:

I am not giving you a pass for explaining that you tolerate me, while at the same time denying that my family has a right to exist. I do not give you permission to say you have me as a "gay friend" when you cast a vote against my family, and my rights.

So here it is from Joe. And me.

You can't take this away from me: Proposition 8 broke our hearts, but it did not end our fight.
Like many in our movement, I found myself in Southern California last weekend. There, I had the opportunity to speak with a man who said that Proposition 8 completely changed the way he saw his own neighborhood. Every "Yes on 8" sign was a slap. For this man, for me, for the 18,000 couples who married in California, to LGBT people and the people who love us, its passage was worse than a slap in the face. It was nothing short of heartbreaking.
But it is not the end. Fifty-two percent of the voters of California voted to deny us our equality on Tuesday, but they did not vote our families or the power of our love out of existence; they did not vote us away.
As free and equal human beings, we were born with the right to equal families. The courts did not give us this right—they simply recognized it. And although California has ceased to grant us marriage licenses, our rights are not subject to anyone's approval. We will keep fighting for them. They are as real and as enduring as the love that moves us to form families in the first place. There are many roads to marriage equality, and no single roadblock will prevent us from ultimately getting there.
And yet there is no denying, as we pick ourselves up after losing this most recent, hard-fought battle, that we've been injured, many of us by neighbors who claim to respect us.
By the same token, we know that we are moving in the right direction. In 2000, California voters passed Proposition 22 by a margin of 61.4% to 38.6%. On Tuesday, fully 48% of Californians rejected Proposition 8. It wasn't enough, but it was a massive shift. Nationally, although two other anti-marriage ballot measures won, Connecticut defeated an effort to hold a constitutional convention ending marriage, New York's state legislature gained the seats necessary to consider a marriage law, and FMA architect Marilyn Musgrave lost her seat in Congress. We also elected a president who supports protecting the entire community from discrimination and who opposes discriminatory amendments.
Yet on Proposition 8 we lost at the ballot box, and I think that says something about this middle place where we find ourselves at this moment. In 2003, twelve states still had sodomy laws on the books, and only one state had civil unions. Four years ago, marriage was used to rile up a right-wing base, and we were branded as a bigger threat than terrorism. In 2008, most people know that we are not a threat. Proposition 8 did not result from a popular groundswell of opposition to our rights, but was the work of a small core of people who fought to get it on the ballot. The anti-LGBT message didn't rally people to the polls, but unfortunately when people got to the polls, too many of them had no problem with hurting us. Faced with an economy in turmoil and two wars, most Californians didn't choose the culture war. But faced with the question—brought to them by a small cadre of anti-LGBT hardliners – of whether our families should be treated differently from theirs, too many said yes.
But even before we do the hard work of deconstructing this campaign and readying for the future, it's clear to me that our continuing mandate is to show our neighbors who we are.
Justice Lewis Powell was the swing vote in Bowers, the case that upheld Georgia's sodomy law and that was reversed by Lawrence v. Texas five years ago. When Bowers was pending, Powell told one of his clerks "I don't believe I've ever met a homosexual." Ironically, that clerk was gay, and had never come out to the Justice. A decade later, Powell admitted his vote to uphold Georgia's sodomy law was a mistake.
Everything we've learned points to one simple fact: people who know us are more likely to support our equality.
In recent years, I've been delivering this positive message: tell your story. Share who you are. And in fact, as our families become more familiar, support for us increases. But make no mistake: I do not think we have to audition for equality. Rather, I believe that each and every one of us who has been hurt by this hateful ballot measure, and each and every one of us who is still fighting to be equal, has to confront the neighbors who hurt us. We have to say to the man with the Yes on 8 sign—you disrespected my humanity, and I am not giving you a pass. I am not giving you a pass for explaining that you tolerate me, while at the same time denying that my family has a right to exist. I do not give you permission to say you have me as a "gay friend" when you cast a vote against my family, and my rights.
Wherever you are, tell a neighbor what the California Supreme Court so wisely affirmed: that you are equal, you are human, and that being denied equality harms you materially. Although I, like our whole community, am shaken by Prop 8's passage, I am not yet ready to believe that anyone who knows us as human beings and understands what is at stake would consciously vote to harm us.
This is not over. In California, our legal rights have been lost, but our human rights endure, and we will continue to fight for them.
Warmly,Joe SolmonesePresident, Human Rights Campaign

And the answer is: Pretty darned tall.

2006 2007

2008

Help! My 5-year-old is better at math than I am!

After early dismissal from school today (bliss!) we were driving to meet Grandma and Auntie for lunch. From the back seat, Eddie asks me, "Mommy, what's 99 minus 9?" Figuring he needs some work on his math skills, I decide not to straight up answer, just to toss it back. "What do you think?" I asked. "Mmmm. 90?" Eddie replied. Yes! Cool! He's understanding basic subtraction!

Then he said, "There are 90 two-digit numbers!" Wait. What? It took me a minute of rolling that around my decidedly non-number-oriented noggin to realize that, absent negative integers of which he knows amost nothing, he's absolutely right. "How did you figure that out?" I asked. "You helped me," he replied, "by helping me figure out what 99 minus 9 is."

Forget that I, in fact, did NOT help him figure that out. I was just becugled (That's for Stacey) that he was able to run that whole problem through his head. Still can't wipe his bottom worth a darn, though, so at least I've still got THAT on him.

R.I.P. Doc

Saddened today to learn of the passing of Paul Newman. I didn't know him, of course. But I knew of him. And from what I knew of him, he was one of the most truly decent, honest people who walk this earth.

I know he got in big trouble with his wife and others for his statement about why he didn't cheat on his wife : Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home (paraphrased)? And yes, it wasn't exactly cool to compare your wife to a cut of meat. But I found it utterly charming. The words may have been imperfect but the sentiment behind them was. (And, for the record, if anyone has any grainy footage of him cheating or a secret love child -- I don't want to know. Just keep it to yourself. Just as I didn't really need to know about Bill Cosby's indiscretions, I don't want to know if you dig anything up on Paul Newman. Heroes and role models are hard to come by these days. No need to knock them all down just because you can. Not that I think you will, but just in case...)

And the food. Oh, the food. With Newman's Own I can buy high-quality organic foods AND feel great about the price because the profits go to charity. How awesome is that?

He was an unabashed liberal, but he wasn't an elitist type -- you know, the ones who never dirty their hands or drink anything without a vintage. I mean, the guy loved auto racing, one of the most redneck sports around. As one of the few liberal NASCAR families (not so much me and Chas, but Steph and Eddie for sure) we related. And we loved him for it.

Acting -- yes, he was an actor, too. And while I adored him in films like Butch Cassidy, The Sting and Cool Hand Luke, the role that forever and completely endeared him to me as an actor was Doc Hudson in Cars. Because he touched my boys in that film. And because he was great in it. Still, I won't mourn his passing as an actor. He had a long run and the films are still there to enjoy. I mourn his passing as a human being who made the world a little bit better for having been on it.

(And here's a great story that makes my point so much better.)

But never during choice time...

I was reminded of an old Steve Martin bit the other day. Steve-o used to say he never smoked pot. Except in the late evenings. But only then. Oh, and maybe early-mid morning... it went on and on until he finally said definitively, "But never at dusk!"

The occasion was talk of kindergarten and crying. Turns out, the boys have both cried a bit at school when they miss me. When? Eddie: "Well, at the pledge of allegiance. And at center time."Chas: "And then we both cried after lunch. And a little bit at recess. Eddie: "A few times."

I don't know whether to laugh or join them in a good cry.

Construction work: More fascinating than Phineas and Ferb.

Work began today on our addition. So far it involves tearing out our small wooden deck and our small concrete patio, along with digging the foundation. I'd post a picture, but frankly, I'm too lazy to take one. The boys are riveted, staring out the windows with the same sort of expression normally reserved for the Disney Channel. And now they REALLY don't want to go to school tomorrow and miss an episode of "Tearing Up the Back Yard!"

Chas has researched this...

So the other night, Steph went in to give the boys their bedtime snuggles. As she left the room, I heard Chas yell indignantly, "That was not a snuggle!" She returned and then reported that he had told her that a snuggle involves a big person and two small people, or just one small person, ALL under the covers. He knows this because, "I looked it up on the computer."

That's my little liar. Just wait til he really CAN Google. Then we're all in real trouble

For Halloween, Chas will be a Costco employee.

While doing his homework (In kindergarten! An abomination!) Chas stuck the pencil behind his ear, looked up and said, "Look, Mommy. I look like a Costco worker!" And he was, of course, right. I ran to grab my camera, laughing all the way.

Tell me if you've seen this one before...

So I feel a bit like I'm living a particularly bad episode of "The Brady Bunch" or maybe "Facts of Life." You know the one: Protagonists briefly take posession of someone else's beloved pet. Beloved pet dies. Protagonists desperately search for identical replacement to keep the death a secret. Protagonists overlook something stupid like gender and get found out.

Here's the scoop. The boys both got beloved -- and I mean BELOVED -- stuffed Koalas when we went to San Diego. Getting the first one, in fact, was quite an ordeal because Eddie saw it, loved it, had heart broken by it when what seemed like the only gift shop that stocked it closed before he could make his purchase. (But that's another episode in which I think we somehow leave Dad's important architectural drawings or some secret voodoo thing or something on a roller coaster. I may be mixing these up.)

Anyway, they sleep with these Koalas (both of which are named Flyer for reasons that escape me) and often drag them into our bed (aka "The Big Bed") when they join us at 0-dark-30 in the morning. (Begin to see the foreshadowing here...) I changed the sheets last week and noticed absolutely nothing. But I had a meeting that night and didn't get them moved to the dryer. I asked Steph to do it in my absence. She noticed a Flyer (Chas') in with the wet but clean sheets. Assuming there had been some urine incident, she tossed him in the dryer.

He emerged a bit worse for wear. Actually, everything was OK but his tufts of long black ear hair. They were matted and slightly melted. This displeased Chas greatly.

Thinking myself smart, I sneaked in and ordered a replacement FROM THE SAN DIEGO ZOO. I paid for shipping. It would be worth it, I figured. Meanwhile, we told the boys that sometimes a stuffed koala can regrow its ear hair. OK, admittedly this is where the story gets a little weird, but stay with me.

Today, the package arrived. By golly, it was the same koala! I was a genius! I hid Old Burnt Ears. I even cut a small notch in the tag of the new Flyer to replcate the marking we had given the old one to ensure that they could tell them apart. Then I put New Flyer in bed where Old Burnt Ears had been. Sure enough, when Chas found him, he was thrilled to see the ear hair had regrown! But. Wait. His face. His face is lighter. I didn't notice it until Chas said something, but sure enough, the face is a tad lighter. The whole fur of the thing is a sort of mottled gray so I didn't notice, but he did. He carefully examined the body and noticed a couple of other spots that were every so slightly different.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold. "It's like someone took a new Flyer and cut his tag to look like my Flyer." We did some fast talking and managed to convince him that when miracles like stuffed animals regrowing hair occur, well, there are bound to be side effects.

And I'm much more careful now to check what is in the sheets when I wash them.

The Feared Day...

Today, Eddie and Chas started Kindergarten. Eddie was very excited through breakfast -- pancakes! Then, the dread began. He said his tummy hurt really bad and he was going to "frow up." I told him he'd be fine. Chas was a bit more brave as you can see. But he did admit, "Well, guys, I am a little bit scared."



I worked in the classroom -- which was very necessary because there's a lot for a poor teacher to do. And this was half the class! (They staggered the start day.) To my mind, this is the size a full class should be. (Three years ago, it was: I have a friend who reported that her daughter's kindergarten class was just 17 children. E and C's is currently at 26, but they are trying hard to get more into the full-time program ad drop the class size by one or two. Still too large for me.)



The day went well, including lunchtime margarita for Mommy. They had a great time -- Eddie is pretty sure he counted higher than anyone else in his class. Chas told me the reading time was "the opposite of fun," but then said he was teasing. Or not. He went back and forth so much I'm not sure what he really thought of it. A couple hours afterward -- they were bushed -- Eddie got a bad headache and sick stomach again. I'm sure it's stress, but I'm remaking the doctor appointment that I'd canceled today when I thought he was over the headaches. Ugh.



Oh, and we celebrated Flyer's and Flyer's (beloved stuffed koalas) birthday. We've decided we'll celebrate it on the first day of each school year.

Chas cuddled Flyer II while Eddie could barely make himself stand...

Mr. Confident and Mr. Not

Eddie puts on a brave face.

Today I cried.

OK, not so much cried as misted-up. Here's the situation. The boys start kindergarten on Monday. Eddie has been having headaches and tummy aches for a couple of weeks and I strongly suspect them to be brought on by the stress of the unknown KINDERGARTEN.

This means that once again, I have to be the grown up in this relationship. SO unfair. Anyway, I've been doing a jolly good job of keeping my own emotions about this whole abysmal state of affairs in check. Then, today, driving back from Seattle where we saw A. the allergist and more importantly B. visited the Children's Museum, I glanced in the rear view mirror. This is what I saw:

Or, more accurately, that is what I saw with my eyes. With my heart, this is what I saw:

In his expression, his eyes, his nose and of course, his position, I could see that tiny, fragile baby I met 5 1/2 years ago. I loved him and his brother then, but honestly, not as much as I do now.
Still, I miss those babies. I miss the grinning, drooling, crawling babies they became and the giggling, mischievious toddlers who replaced them. I miss the inquisitive, creative, physical preschoolers who came after that.

Don't get me wrong. I want them to grow up and have amazing experiences and all that good stuff that parents are supposed to want for their children. It's just that I wish they'd do it all just a little more slowly. Because the past 5 1/2 years have rushed by so quickly I may lose my breath.

Palin comparison....

OK, enough of the bad VP puns. Sorry.

I'm just so very annoyed with this pick by McCain on so many levels. Annoyed with Obama for not picking Hillary. Annoyed with McCain for being so incredibly crass and thinking so little of Hillary's supporters as to assume we'd accept anything in a skirt. (I'm thinking of the old Dan Quayle/Lloyd Bentsen debate moment and wondering if we'll hear anyone say to Mrs. Palin:
"I know Hillary Clinton. I've worked with Hillary Clintion. Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine. And you, Governor, are no Hillary Clinton."

And then there's the comment Palin made today about how American women are showing that we're not going to be satisfied with Hillary's 18 million cracks in the glass ceiling, we're going to smash it. Um, excuse me? But, the last I heard, Palin isrunning for VICE president. Until we elect a female president, I think it's a little premature to pronounce the ceiling shattered.

And ANOTHER thing. Like we're going to let someone like Sarah Palin get the distinction of being the first female VP? A woman who seems to have absolutely no regard for the rights of other women?

But finally, the thing that most annoys me is that this choice has finally eroded whatever respect I once had for John McCain. To select as a running mate a woman who has served LESS than two years as governor of a state whose biggest financial problem is how much money to give to its citizens each year from the oil surplus tells me he is far less interested in the security and prosperity of the nation than he is in his own political advancement.

So, in summation, neither major party candidate has impressed me with their VP selection. I can only hope whichever wins can govern better than they've picked running mates.

If only they were old enough to vote...

We stopped by a small campaign event to get the boys' picture taken (again) with my old boss, Chris Gregoire. She did a masterful job of pretending to recognize/remember me, which is pretty important for a politician.

Oh, and the boys got their hair cut the next day, I swear.

Village People for a new generation? Nope.

So, in Eddie and Chas land, this is consider preparation for a weekend camping trip. First, you go through your dress up clothes and select an interesting array of old Halloween costumes and various headgear, including headlamps. Then you load as many toys as possible into the candy-carrying pouch of said costume. Finally, dump it all in the living room while using the dimmer switch to simulate night, dawn, and of course the ever-popular lightning storm.

Sadly, this year our camping trip will be pretty mild. We were even later than usual in making reservations. So instead of our usual choice of a mediocre site in a decent campground or a good site in a mediocre campground, we were faced with selecting from an array of crappy sites in crappier campgrounds. So we decided to ditch the state parks and just pitch a tent in my niece Erin's huge yard in Ellensburg. Pathetic? Of course. But there's a fire pit and an unheated pool which I'm told needs to be cleaned but the pump is broken so it will be "swimmable" but not necessarily sparkling. In other words, not so different from swimming in a lake at a state park.

Biden my tongue

So I knew it wouldn't be Hillary -- but Joe Biden seems to be a particularly tone deaf pick for Obama's running mate. Not only does it do nothing to appease the Clinton faithful, it's actually kind of a finger in their eye. And it makes him seem the elitist the GOP is trying to paint him as. Why? Because it seems like he's saying he's smarter than the voters. Biden gathered a few thousand votes after going for broke in Iowa. He was offered up and rejected by voters. (More than once, I might add.) Clinton, on the other hand, was the choice of 18 million voters.

Now, like I said, I didn't think it would be Hillary. But I also didn't think it would be someone who actually ran in this election and lost so badly.

Sigh. I know I should be more excited about this ticket. And of course, Michelle and the girls were adorable tonight.

Plus, he can't do worse than the current occupant of the White House, so he'll get my vote come November, however unenthusiastic.

She's alive!!!

And seemingly well. I managed to get myself sprung from the hospital yesterday with a promise that I'd get a stress test scheduled ASAP as an outpatient. Most of yesterday was spent sleeping, which you absolutely cannot do in a hospital.

So while I'm not looking forward to the battery of tests and appointments that no doubt loom before me, I am actually happy that the hospital actually seemed to check things out quite thoroughly. It's funny -- I have three family members who had major heart attacks. One, my father, actually died. Which, come to think of it, isn't really funny, but I digress. What's funny is that the people I know who actually had heart attacks were either first misdiagnosed and sent away with antacids only to return in an ambulance hours later, or very nearly sent home with nary a test because they had no significant risk factors. I, on the other hand, apparently did not have a heart attack but got the full treatment. It seems that when it comes to heart attacks and my family, the medical profession has an abysmal track record of knowing when to take symptoms seriously. I am also quite happy to be the one who got what turned out to be unnecessary tests rather than one who missed necessary testing.

Dreamy divers, bully brats, oh, and heart attack scares...

I've been meaning to blog -- really I have -- about all sorts of things. Like my nephews' dive meet and how dreamy they are. (Just call me Auntie Perv I guess.) About the ongoing saga of the bully next door. Maybe even something about Eddie falling nose-first off of his bike and the resulting skinned up nose.

But I never got around to it. Now, however, I've got nothing but time on my hands. Because I'm stuck in a stinkin' hospital. Because I had chest pains. And they've been doing blood work and EKGs since just after 9 this morning and aren't letting me go until tomorrow, even though everything looks normal. Oh, actually, they want me to stay tomorrow for a stress test that will take ALL DAY. But I think I've negotiated a break from that if I promise to schedule one and visit a cardiologist as an outpatient.

From all of this, I have learned three things:

1. nitroglycerin tablets burn and then make your whole body feel weird -- and end with a headache.
2. don't go to the er with chest pains unless you really have no interest in seeing your home anytime in the near future.
3. I'm a really bad patient. (Mostly because of my efforts to get the hell out of here ASAP by denying all pain and discomfort anywhere near my chest.)

I miss my boys. I miss my bed. I do not like listening to men loudly vomit up blood. (Sample overheard convo in the er: "So how many times have you vomited blood?" "Just twice today." "So when did this start?" "Two months ago.")

Anyway, I've got a lot of work to do and a looming deadline and let's just say this little hospital "vacation" is not reducing my stress levels.

Still here. Just tired.

So I haven't blogged for a while. But I have an excuse, of course. Steph was gone to a work thing for four days. I gotta say, I have newfound respect for single parents. It's just plain hard to not have another adult coming home at the end of the day to give you a break.

And yet... there was something oddly enjoyable about it. First, there was a certain novelty. As sad as it seems, it kind of felt like an adventure -- like the boys and I were roughing it and somehow proving our survival skills. And second, it freed me from all pretense of a schedule. I didn't have to worry/think about whether Steph would be home late and/or what she would want for dinner. When we got hungry, we ate. Truth be told, mostly we got hungry and ate at a restaurant -- I gotta have some luxury when I'm roughing it, after all. As tiring as it was to do everything for the boys myself at night, I missed her the most after they were asleep. That's when we get to talk/veg out in front of the TV. It's just not as satisfying to watch TV by myself -- even if when Steph is here she's only half-watching as she works nonstop on her laptop.

It was a brief change of pace that wasn't too bad. But I'm glad she's home. Maybe now I can actually get something done besides just keep the boys alive. As if.

Adding a little edge to a dental appointment.

I had to have a filling replaced yesterday. Whine, whine, whine. I found out my dentist DOES offer nitrous oxide -- aka "laughing gas" -- for a $20 charge. I decided to try it, since the boys get it (well, so far just Eddie) when they need dental work done.

I'm sure it had nothing at all to do with seeing this headline on the Seattle PI's web page just before I left for the appointment.

Anyway, I felt nothing from the gas except annoyance that I'd paid extra for it. This was even after they turned it up for me. This is the same thing I recall from my last experience with it -- but I was in high school then and I thought maybe I wasn't remembering right.

Oh, and my tooth is still sore. Whine. Whine. Whine.

Amphibians with a death wish...

As I grilled a couple of ginormous steaks tonight, I noticed a small frog had hopped up on the table at the side of the grill. The boys weren't right there, so I quickly shooed him away before they could see him and demand his capture.

Seriously, the frogs around here seem either despondent or just really stupid. First, it's a hot grill. Not the sort of thing a frog should be hopping on to or even nera. Second, there are two 5-year-old boys in residence. You should know what happened to the last frog who ventured this close. Sheesh.

Not quite "Mobile Home Disaster," but close...

The other day a couple of neighbor kids came traipsing through the house. I was in the bedroom when I overheard this assessment from one of them: "Your house is messy... But it's awesome!"

Now, when a 7-year-old boy notices your lack of general tidiness, well, there's no real positive spin you can put on it. But the second part was as nice to hear as the first part was hard to.

He's right, of course, about it being messy. On any given day, there is a miniature Nascar race reinactment paused somewhere in the living room. We're not talking one or two cars -- we're talking two or three dozen. (To be fair, they are often lined up quite neatly... just on the floor.) You will alsofind books strewn about anywhere someone might have felt like plopping down to read for a few minutes. I swear, some public libraries have fewer books than our boys -- but the libraries do a better job of keeping them shelved. You're also likely to find an easel out and/or some artwork or project drying somewhere. The dining room table is either in the process of being cleared so we can eat, or defiantly covered with someone's crafty project -- my scrapbooking (rarely) or the boys' you-name-it.

The walls? Well, at adult eye level, it's a photo gallery of a certain set of twin boys you may have heard of. At kid-level, the walls are covered with the original artwork by those same boys. I don't keep every single thing they draw, paste or otherwise create. But I sort of feel like if they make it, well, it deserves to be displayed for a little while at least. So the walls are a constantly rotating exhibit of their work.

So messy? Yup. Guilty. But to be honest, I kind of feel bad for kids who don't get to live with a little bit of a mess. Because life is messy. And fun. And you ought to have the things you love -- whether it's books, homemade art or tiny race cars around you and out where you can enjoy them as much as possible.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

The Tooth Fairy has been here at last!

Last night, Eddie was finally willing to part with his teeth. Or rather, with most of them. He wrote her a note asking if he could please keep just one. Being an enormous sucker, she agreed.

This morning, both boys were in bed with moms when Chas woke up and ran back to their bedroom. Eddie was still sleeping soundly. A minute later, Chas was back, the familiar sound of coinage clinking in his little hand. I asked him what he had. "Money! It was under Eddie's pillow!"

I explained that Eddie would probably like to find it for himself and instructed him to go put it back, which he did. Then he came and woke up his brother. Eddie was quite pleased to get $12 in gold coin. (Dollars, but he thinks they are pennies. And he's still thrilled. Hmm.) He also kept one of his rooty teeth AND had a note from the Fairy thanking him for his manners in asking nicely to keep a tooth and congratulating him on his excellent oral hygiene while gently suggesting that he work a bit harder at it.

There was also a sprinkling of "fairy dust" left at the site, which Chas dismissed. "Well, I see some blue glitter," he said when it was pointed out to him. Eddie didn't care -- he was busy counting his coin. And losing one already.

It's now safely in the piggy bank. Oh, and the first point of his second adult tooth is now through the gums. Steph and my sister Cathy insist that they can tell that his first adult tooth has already started moving forward now that the baby teeth are gone. But I'm dubious.

Breaking the Tooth Fairy

While we were at Sea World last month, I noticed one of Eddie's adult teeth had broken through -- behind his baby teeth. Hmm. Today, we saw the dentist.

I broke my usual insistence that he go back alone. I had questions. He had questions. Well, actually, he had question. "Will it hurt?" So I went with him. He got nitrous, but just a little because Bad Mommy didn't think to have him avoid eating anything beforehand. Oops.

Anyway, x-rays showed some serious crowding, so the dentist said he was going to have to take four. F-O-U-R teeth. I had expected 2 at the most. I was in a little shock, but I didn't let it show.
So some nitrous, a series of shots (He only whimpered during the first few, his eyes filling with tears. Mine didn't -- but only because I was concentrating so hard on staying cool and relaxed for him.) and a few hard twists of some very shiny plier-type instruments and voila! Four baby teeth on the gauze, four nasty-looking holes in Eddie's mouth.

He's sleeping now, bloody gauze clutched in his mouth. He was exceedingly brave and very sweet about it all. And he expects some serious love from La Tooth Fairy tonight.

So here are the before and afters -- with a real after to come after he wakes up. Notice that only one of the baby teeth had a dissolved root. I guess we need to start saving for the orthodontist now. Sigh.

Last smile with a full mouth of baby teeth. (Poor kid doesn't

know what's gonna hit him.) And, as promised the new, holier grin.

The not-so-fantastic four


Sleeping it off...

SNUGGLES!!!!!!!

Last night Eddie's dry spell ended. This is bad because it's literal. In other words, he wet the bed. Then he crawled into my bed. And onto me. Once I sensed the dampness (and the pleasant odor) I pulled off his pants, changed my night shirt and decamped to the living room to spend the night on the sectional. It was a good plan. He hadn't actually wet in our bed, so it wasn't worth waking the whole family over.

About 15 minutes later, I hear his feet hit the ground and a scream much like Mel Gibson's "FREEEEEEDOMM!" in "Braveheart." But it wasn't freedom he was yelling for. It was "SNUUUUGGGLES!!!!" I yelled myself and told him to snuggle Mama. "MOOOOMMMMMMMMMYYYY SNUGGLES!" So I called him in. As he crawled onto the sectional with me I told him it was just for a minute and then he'd have to go back to bed. "OK," he said as he snuggled down between me and the backrest, sound asleep.

So that's how we slept: Side by side on, essentially, a couch. It actually wasn't too bad. I had almost as much room as he gives me in our King sized bed.

A Victoria's Secret catalogue writer he ain't...

Discussing their new favorite movie -- Wall*E in the car the other day, the boys were giggling over the best parts when Chas came up with this:

"Remember when he had his eyes covered up with one of those booby things our moms wear?"

Welcome to our campground/water park

I got the boys a cheap tent the other day and told them they could spend the night outside in it. Whoo to the hoo. So last night they very excitedly got ready for bed, hauled 42,000 stuffed animals out (I exaggerate only slightly) and climbed in. Of course, they needed a light -- though it was really only twilight outside and they could see perfectly well. So we obliged with a camping lantern. The biggest problem was our pain the tushie rear neighbor who had his back hoe or something running. Still, they settled nicely and Mama and I headed to the living room to watch The Devil Wears Prada -- which we'd downloaded about a year ago and finally had a chance to watch.

About 10 minutes in, we saw a flash in the windows. Uh-oh. Lightning or fireworks? Definitely lightning. Let's bring the fellas in. By the time we reached the hallway, Eddie was there to greet us. He wasn't scared -- no way. It was too cold out. That's his story and he's sticking to it. So they got into our bed after a brief try at their own overheated bedroom. (Moms have A.C. and took pity.)

Today I got them out their old slip n slide. On their own, they improvised and ran to the backyard to run a hose down their regular slide. I added their pool to the bottom and voila! Instant water park, according to Eddie and Chas. We had a playdate last week with friends who have a gorgeous in-ground swimming pool set in an equally gorgeous yard. Eddie and Chas said we should invite them over to see our "water slide." Hmm. Somehow, I think they will be less than wowed.

Requiem for a frog.

The other day, while getting ready to grill up some chicken, I discovered a frog on the deck. We see them fairly regularly through the summer, but I called the boys out to look. Then I agreed to go open up the frog habitat they'd gotten from a friend for their birthday. I followed all the directions to make sure it was safe for froggy -- including filling the ponds with bottled spring water. When I went to look, sure enough, froggy was still there.

We caught froggy. We put froggy out of direct sunlight. We showed froggy to Mama when she got home and even caught a small moth to feed him. Then it was time to let him go, because we don't keep wild things for our enjoyment permanently. Cue the wailing and gnashing of teeth from Sirs Eddie and Chas.

So we caved. We kept him overnight. And I checked on him the next mid-morning. Fine. The plan was to release him to the wild that evening. Sadly, froggy didn't make it. Shortly before Steph came home I checked again and it looked like he was swimming. Cute. Until I jiggled the habitat and realized he was actually just floating lifeless. Ugh.

We started off telling the boys he'd just left. But they were so angry and sad and I didn't want a repeat later that I decided the painful truth was the best. Froggy died. He went to froggy heaven. Steph even put on gloves and brought the little corpse in for a final goodbye. Eddie was particularly bereft. I told him that 100 years from now when he dies he can ask God to see Froggy Woggy (his given name) in heaven. "What if I forget?!?!" He sobbed. So he drew a picture so he will always remember.

In the end, I decided that this was probably as good an introduction to death as they'll get. And they need to learn not to try to capture and keep wild creatures.

Unless, of course, you're the World Famous San Diego Zoo. As promised, here's a panda pic from the zoo. To help make this post seem all cute and cuddly and not like the confessions of a wanton frog killer.

In preschool, it's what you'd call an "A/B pattern."

So a weird detente of sorts has been established between Eddie and Chas and the neighbor boy, Daniel. It started the other day when Eddie walked up to him and said, "We should be friends because we still know each other."

That broke the ice, for now, and they've been playing together happily. At dinner tonight,Steph asked how they liked playing with Daniel again. They said it was nice. We all agreed it's best to be friends with your neighbors if you can and I said I was pleasantly surprised by the renewal of their friendship. "It's a pattern," Eddie said nonchalantly. "Wha?" I asked. "It's a pattern," he repeated. "First we're friends, then we're not. Then we're friends again and then we're not. Now, we're friends again." Then he gave me a "whaddya gonna do?" shrug and took another bite of cous cous. (Which he and Chas have decided to call either "goose goose" or, more ridiculously, "mongoose." Don't ask.)

Home again, home again, jiggety jig...

Just returned from a week of fun in San Diego and a day in L.A. We rocked the animal world -- from dinner with Shamu to an overnight camp in San Diego Zoo's Wild Animal Park. We played at the beach, swam in the pools, fed everything from giraffes to dolphins to lorikeets. And save for the first night when we turned on the TV and learned of Tim Russert's death, we managed to avoide most news.

Oh, we enjoyed the local San Diego news -- including coverage of California's first gay marriages -- yay! And lots of talk about heat waves etc. But the constant drone was turned off. So today when I log in I'm greeted with the following: Typhoon in the Philipines, boat overturned, 700 missing. Elderly man drives into the Sound -- wife dies. Two killed in a shooting here, two more in a shooting there. Teen drowns in a local lake. Teen beaten for bringing home bad grades.

I can't believe I used to do the hard news for a living. Not just do it -- but revel in it. I loved covering the mayhem and madness. Now it just makes me tired -- Like I wanna go look at some pandas or watch my boys frolic in a pool. I know that within a day or so everything will be back to normal. But after a week of not being really plugged in, the bad news is kind of assaultive.

On a lighter note, I'm downloading the thousands of pictures and will surely have something to post soon!

And that's why they call it hard ball.

So we played T-ball in the rain tonight, this being the next to last game and no one wanting to try to squeeze in a make up game tomorrow.

Things were just fine -- the usual screw ups -- until the bottom of the second inning. Chas was "pitching," which means he stands generally in the area of the pitcher's mound (or in this case, gaping hole in the turf that seems just perfect for tripping an inattentive 5-year-old) while the opposing team hits the ball off a T.

All's well -- pitcher gets lots of action etc. Then a kid rips a line drive off the T and straight into Chas' face. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for the first time all season I was standing just behing the back stop so I had a perfect view. And the sound. Oh, the sickening sound. He fell to the ground but didn't cry for a couple of frightening seconds. I immediately ran to him -- probably faster than I've run in at least 20 years. And, just as people say happens in a time of stress, I developed complete tunnel vision. Everything around him was a blur as I ran and scooped him up. I cradled him a little too protectively as the coaches from both teams strained to get a look. I glanced up and saw that they were shaken and worried and I didn't want Chas to see that as I tried to calm him -- because the crying had triggered an asthma attack already.

Finally I pulled back to look myself, frightened of what I would see and fully expecting a trip to the hospital. He sobbed a question: "Is there blood?" In fact, there was not. The ball had miraculously hit right between his eyes. Lower and his nose would have been busted. To either side and we'd probably be looking at an eye injury if not a broken socket. But it hit at probably the hardest part of his little head.

As I carried him off the field -- he was done for the evening -- I realized the day will come in the not-too-distant future when he will be mortified to have his mother run onto the field -- especially when there's a live ball in play. But for now, kindergarten or no, he's still my baby.

Oh, and the next inning? The coach had Eddie scheduled to play pitcher. He looked at me and said he could switch positions but I told him it was O.K. It's all part of baseball. But I was mighty glad when the game ended without Eddie catching one with his face.

Finis. Until Saturday.

So after graduation (mostly for the parents) the boys and their classmates had a last day of school with pizza and root beer floats and lots of free play. Eddie and Chas chose to spend much of it with their newfound girlfriends wrapped around them. Seriously. It's the other set of twins in the class and the four of them are smitten. They had arms around each other at every opportunity. Chas likes his girlfriend because she's silly. Eddie likes his because she likes Cole and he likes Cole. Hmm. Twisted relationships in his future if he doesn't get over that one.

But Temple and Rory can just hold on -- for now the boys are still all mine to be silly with:




Even when we weren't posing for silly pictures at the end of school today, I didn't cry -- even a little bit. Though my friend spent nearly the entire night crying. But I'm definitely feeling a little odd about it all. Since they're out of preschool, I guess that makes them officially kindergartners. Of course due to the scheduling genius at the preschool this year -- NOT me, for the record -- we still have an event -- the ice cream social on Saturday. Extended goodbyes are a pain in the a**.

Commencing life with school-aged kids. Sniff. Sniff.

So here the boys are with their Pink Grandma after preschool graduation. Honestly, I don't know which was harder to get to pay attention and look at the camera: The 5-year-olds or the 83-year-old. Oh, and Grandma was sure to tell them this would be the last of their graduations she would make it to. 'Cause, you know, she's old and will die before the next one. Thankfully this seemed to go over their heads.



And here they are with Grandpa Harold. He's just happy to be here.

Balancing act

Saturday, Eddie and Chas had friends over. (We watched them and next weekend their parents will watch Eddie and Chas. The kids love spending time together and the grown-ups actually get to go do grown up things. Like shop.)

Anyway, as part of the marathon of outdoor fun, we got all confident and took the training wheels off one of the bikes. Lo and behold, Eddie can ride with no training wheels. He can't really start on his own -- we've got to work on that. But he does great once he's rolling. His friend's parents were so impressed that I got a call from them today: Their son is now doing it.

Chas, ever the cautious child, is not so keen on trying this yet. I gotta say, I understand. I was a very aged 6 years old when I first learned to ride sans training wheels. I remember I felt so old and ashamed. And it took what seemed like an entire day of my dear old dad running along beside me. But in retrospect, I doubt it was more than an hour. We celebrated by getting dangly streamers and a horn for my bike. Oh, and I skinned more knees on my bike than I care to remember. Eddie, for his inaugural attempts, was fitted with elbow and knee pads (mostly because he was wearing shorts). Oh, and always a helmet -- something I never even heard of as a kid. Despite the fact that they will be the only kids on the street who wear 'em, the boys have known since they first got on a trike that helmets are required for people in this household. It's one of the few rules I know without a doubt I'm going to be a hard ass about. Too many years of covering crime and safety for me to do otherwise.

And now a break from my children to talk politics...

So CNN reports that Hillary and Barack campaigns are negotiating an end. good. As annoying as I find it that it's over for Hillary when she's so close (and that pundits have been calling it over for waaay too long, in essence creating a self-fulfilling prophecy) it is over. Apparently the Clinton camp wants to be able to publicly turn down the VP spot or have Barack retire her campaign debt.

Barack, I know you read my blog religiously. So listen up. You need to give Hillary what she wants. Show respect, not just lip service. Because the only thing that will motivate the mighty base of over 40 women who have felt some kinship with Hillary is to have her give a stirring and heartfelt endorsement. Otherwise, we're waiting to see what happens in 2012. Remember the old slogan "When women vote, Democrats win"? Please do.

Please also remember that the general election is going to be a lot different. For one thing, its rules are more closely aligned to the Republican primary than this proportional primary thing the Democrats did this year. And to remind you, if votes were counted in the primaries the way they will be in the general and the way they have been in every election until now -- winner-take-all -- Hillary would have been the presumptive nominee for weeks.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Don't call me "Sweetie."

"Mommy, you're the best cook in the world!"

Don't get me wrong. I have no illusions about my culinary abilities. But I have, on more than a few occasions, worked hard to create a meal that would both nourish my family's bodies and their souls. I've cooked to present meals that would be a tangible expression of my love. Invariably, those efforts are greeted by "Eh" or "I don't YIKE it!"

But today, I got the payoff. Eddie said it first, and Chas quickly chimed in. My heart is full...with laughter. Here is the recipe that garnered such accolades:

Toast (with jam)

Ingredients:
2 slices of Multi-grain bread
1 pat of butter
Aprox. 1 tsp. Marionberry Jam

Take bread and insert in toaster -- one slice per slot. While bread toasts, soften butter in microwave (5 secs on high). When toast pops out, spread with butter, followed immediately by jam. Out of sheer laziness to avoid having to slice the pieces individually, put two slices together with jam and butter sides together to avoid mess while slicing (diagonally -- always diagonally!). Hand each boy a half "jamwich" without separating the pieces, again, out of sheer laziness. Repeat as necessary to quell the clamoring for more of this amazing dish.

The. Greatest. Toy. Ever.

So Eddie's discovered something great. Something amazing. Something that can fill his days and nights with fun and excitement.

And it came from the Dollar Store.

What is this miracle? A calculator. More specifically, according to Eddie, a calculator that adds and subtracts. (For the record, it also multiplies and divides and I think even calculates square roots. That's of little interest to him. I, however, am amazed to see that he can pick up for a buck essentially the same machine my Dad bought in the early '70s for aout $70. Actually, it's better in many respects. Ahh, the ever-declining price of technology!)

Eddie views this thing as his own, personal miracle machine. It has given me some respite from constantly being asked to add increasingly large numbers for him. (Kid, I became a journalist for a reason and it wasn't because I was good at math.) However, now I'm getting peppered with questions like, "Wow! Mom, did you know that 1,100 plus 1,100 equals 2,200? You did? Wow. That's a really big number isn't it?" And on. And on. All of this because his preschool teacher started the 100 Club for kids who can count to 100 by 1s, 5s and 10s. Curses for actually getting my kid interested in math!

The good news is that if this trend continues, I'll not have to worry about him getting some girl pregnant in high school....

A little too much Nascar Love

Eddie loves Nascar. Eddie, like many Nascar fans, really loves Dale Earnhardt Jr. Sadly, it's been 2 years since Junior's won a race. Last week, Eddie thought he'd do it. He didn't. Eddie cried.

This week things were looking good. With 15 or so laps to go, Junior was in 2nd and gaining on the leader. At about that point, I checked in with Eddie and his chin quivered. The cars went three wide and Junior moved into the lead in most exciting fashion. It was too much. Junior lead the field and Eddie sat crying in my lap, covering his eyes but peeking between his fingers every few seconds. "I don't want to hear who won if it's not Junior!" We were reassuring and muted the TV. At this point, even I was getting tense. With three laps to go, the dastardly Kyle Busch (who, until he won last week, was Eddie's second favorite driver) tried to pass. Somebody "got loose" and Busch hit Junior, pushing him sideways and spinning him around. Junior ended in 15th place.

Steph, meanwhile, had tried to reassure Eddie that even if Junior lost, he wouldn't cry because he'd tried his hardest and that was all that mattered. Then they interviewed Junior and by golly, the guy seemed on the verge of crying. Oy.

Anyway, we calmed Eddie but we now have a new rule. Eddie cannot watch another Sprint Cup race until Junior wins one. Until then, he's only going to watch Nationwide races, in which Junior does not compete. Oy.

Look, Ma! No cavities!

OK, when I was a kid, I went through dentists like most people go through well, I don't know. Something they go through really quickly. My parents, I am led to believe, switched dentists nearly every visit because they were always so mortified by my absolute hysterics. Oh, and my teeth were rotten hotbeds of decay.

Finally, when I was 7, we moved to California and we settled on a dentist whose sole qualification, as near I can tell, is that he overcharged the insurance company and then let his patients off the hook for their portion. That is the only reason I can imagine anyone would go to the sadist. On one of my first visits, he slapped me because I was crying for my father. Then during the drilling, filling and torturing I overheard him complaining to his assistant that he had to do two extractions and he wasn't looking forward to it. Not knowing exactly what an extraction was, I was nervous -- remember, I was 7. So you can imagine my relief when he told me we were all finished. As I started to get up, he reached from behind, pushed me back in the chair and proceeded to extract two molars. I can still picture the tool he used.

So fast forward a few -- ahem -- years. Eddie and Chas went to the dentist today. In the past, Eddie's had to have two fillings. You'd think the kid would be hesitant. But no way. They were actually excited to go. Because you get to pick out a prize at the end. And because mom waits in the front room and boys get to feel very grown up. Oh how I wish I'd had a Dr. Gallegos in my childhood.

Anyway, the boys have no cavities. (Yay!) They're doing a great job of brushing. They were able to get x-rays of Chas and I saw his great-big-honkin' adult teeth already nestled against his front two baby teeth. The Tooth Fairy should expect to have to start making payments in this house before their next dentist visit, I'm told. Sigh. They really aren't babies anymore.

Oh, and I had to go to my own dentist today. I got chastised for not flossing regularly enough (I know!) and not wearing my night guard religiously. (I know!) AND I have cracked a filling that will have to be replaced. My danged kids are showing me up.

Heartbreaking .. or so I thought.

OK, so clearly I fret a LOT about Chas and his allergies and how it makes him feel. Last night I came home from a meeting and Steph was fixing his MedicAlert bracelet. It had gotten snagged and one of the links broke.

She looked sad and said he told her while she worked on fixing it that he really liked not having to wear it. I felt so bad. He hates his bracelet -- it's a nagging reminder etc. etc.

So I took him in and we looked up the MedicAlert site so I could order him a sport band version etc. and I asked him why he hates wearing his bracelet.

"Because it says I am allergic to soy. And I'M NOT ALLERGIC TO SOY ANYMORE!"

Turns out, the bracelet doesn't bother him. Its inaccuracies do. So we're ordering him a new bracelet sans mention of the outgrown soy allergy. And probably with sporty zoo animals on it.

Oh, and Eddie wants one, too.

She's officially "the Dad"

Today Eddie came to me with one of his beloved Nascar cars whose wheels were not turning satisfactorily. I looked and told him I thought the axel was bent pretty badly. "How do we fix it?" He ased. I told him I wasn't sure we could.

"Oh. Mama will fix it. She can fix anything."

HUMPF!

This is Chas' latest little expression of displeasure. (It's like a shortened version of Harumpf.) It is frequently delivered in an angry tone -- but often the tone is not enough to express the severity of his displeasure, so he needs to describe it. So we get this. "Humpf! A very, very big HUMPF!" I try not to laugh or smile when he does it because he's already pretty angry/disgusted and I don't want to belittle him. But it's just danged funny. We have no idea where he got it. This is a slightly less angry phrase than his classic angry, "Too bad to you!" When he says THAT, he sounds a bit like the Soup Nazi. And again, it's hard not to at least smile. Because he is always so filled with righteous indignation, and it's usually over something trivial.

Anyway, I'm going to start using Humpf! in my conversations. Because it's a pretty good sound and conveys a lot. Especially when it's a very, very big Humpf.

When my son the racist becomes sexist, I don't wanna know...

Today Eddie announced to his Mama that he felt a little racist. Cue spit take. Of course, he meant that he felt like racing. So she told him he should probably say that a different way because that's not exactly what racist means. So he said he was feeling racy. Better. Sort of.

All I know is that if he announces that he feels sexist before heading out on a date in a few years, I'm taking the car keys.

Not the question I expected to be stumbling around with...

So I figure at some point the whole issue of "where do babies come from" is going to arise and I'm sure I'll having a stumbling, fumbling answer. But as a preamble, tonight we got "where do elephants come from?" Sort of.

The boys got these woolly mammoth excavation kits for their birthdays. Essentially it's a plastic skeleton and select innards of a woolly mammoth. You put it in a mold, cover it with water and freeze. Then you use tools with warm water to excavate. They love them. Eddie told me that the woolly mammoth is his favorite ice age animal, better than even a saber tooth cat. So far, so good.

Then he asked how woolly mammoths turned into elephants. And thus began my attempt to explain evolution and natural selection to a couple of very intrigued 5-year-olds. They weren't letting me off the hook, either. They asked follow up questions about the evolution of humans and more. Frankly, I'd rather answer the whole sex question. And you can remind me of that when they ask it.

Nothing to fear ...

Eddie announced today that he is NOT afraid of the dark. "It just startles me," he said.

Allergies suck.

So I got the call I'd been waiting for from the allergist today. Last week, I was eager to hear the results. Now I think I could have waited a long time without hearing this. Basically, I had Chas tested for treenuts just to see if we could slip him a pecan or an almond. The results were worse than I imagined. He's allergic to all tree nuts except pine nuts. (Pesto is now OK, which is a blessing I suppose.)



Yes, that's a tear you see.


But wait. It gets worse. His egg allergy seems to be persisting. And worse yet, his peanut allergy has gotten dramatically worse. When he was diagnosed, he was at 40.60 for peanut. A year and a half later that had dropped to 8.5 -- a dramatic drop that led us to hope he would be in that minority that outgrows it. A year after that, it was up slightly to 12.9 -- still in the same "class" and no reason to lose hope. This year it's 45. Higher than ever and way past the point where you let yourself dream of outgrowing it. What I don't know is what this means. Is he more sensitive? That seems to be a resounding yes. But will his reactions be worse? That seems to be a resounding maybe. Severity of reactions does not seem to correlate with sensitivity, which is what the blood tests measure. However, peanut reactions have a nasty tendency to get suddenly worse. Which means we may use the epi-pen yet.

I know it's not cancer or diabetes or any of the other awful, horrible things that can happen to children. But it's scary and it makes my boy sad way too much. I keep thinking about a study I read when he was diagnosed that said essentially that children with diabetes have a better quality of life than children with peanut allergy because diabetes gives them a level of control while peanut allergy means you never know when something life-threatening and scary as hell is going to happen. Also, kids with diabetes have darned few times when they absolutely cannot have something. This was Chas' reaction when a mom brought snack to a field trip in violation of the no-nuts rule chocolate granola bars with peanuts and almonds.)

Today I gave a small child a bloody nose.

Not a mean kid or anything. He's a perfectly nice child, as far as I can tell. His only mistake was in landing on a t-ball team for which I am the assistant coach. Today was our first practice and I was tossing balls (gently, but clearly not gently enough) at kids to catch. He didn't. His nose, however, stopped the ball quite well so no one had to run after it. My first instinct, which I followed, was to hug him. Upon reflection, this was probably not real "coachy" behavior. But he's 5 and I'm a better mom than a coach anyway. I also grabbed a cold pack I had packed just in case. I helped him hold that on his nose. I felt terrible until I saw the blood. Then I felt worse. I mean really, the first freakin' practice? His dad tried nobly to make me feel better. But come on. I just bloodied your kid's nose. And right after joking about bringing the high heat. Oy.

The sad thing is that I'd hit Eddie in the nose with a ball during a pre-practice session of catch. His nose didn't bleed at least, but clearly I'm doing this wrong.

So before the next practice, I need a new cold pack. (I tossed the one that had blood on it -- go ahead, call me wasteful.) And rubber gloves.

Five years ago today, on March 28, 2003 ...

0328 going home (1)
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

We brought home our two tiny bundles of boy. I remember being a nervous wreck on the drive home because I had them in the back seat and they just seemed so precarious, so fragile and so my responsibility. We'd roomed in with them at the hospital the night before, a situation that resulted in zero sleep. Then Steph had to go to work and I waited at the hospital with them all day -- taking a break for my own medical appointment -- until she could come help me make the big move.

We got them home, took them out of the car seats and put them on our bed. Then we stood back and looked at them and each other and felt completely and totally overwhelmed. I called my sister and told her to come help. She did. And stayed for the next week, taking the night shift so that two new, overwhelmed and nervous mothers --including one with postpartum depression -- could at least get some sleep. Looking back, I can think of so many things I would have done differently. But I also know that I'm not the same person I was then and the person I was couldn't possibly have had the presence of mind to do anything differently. So I'll give myself a break. And just be so glad that five years later, they're bigger, sleep longer and I'm no longer petrified just to drive with them in the car.

What a difference five years make!

Daniel doesn't want to be our friend.

So, I've written before (quite a while ago, actually) about the troubled relationship Eddie and Chas have with the neighbor boy, Daniel. He's about 6 months older than they are and I sense a bit envious of both their toys and their maternal attention. He's kind of a sullen little guy. Anyway, today I heard him come to the front door as I was working on the program for the school auction. The boys had been out riding the new pedal cars they got for their birthday.

"I have a dad and you don't," Daniel said.
"Yeah. We have two moms," Eddie replied nonchalantly.

The conversation moved a bit out of earshot. But soon, Chas was back complaining that Daniel doesn't follow clearly stated rules of racing and doesn't want to be his friend, so he doesn't want to be Daniel's friend. Then Eddie comes in and says Daniel told him that they were supposed to have a dad, not two moms. I asked Eddie what he thought of that. "Well, it's wrong," he said. "A family can have a mom and a dad or two moms or even two dads or just one mom or one dad," he said. I told him he was absolutely right, then asked, "What makes a family?" I expected the word "love," but no.
"Four," Eddie said. Huh?
"Four people make a family," he said quite confidently. And then he reiterated that Daniel did not seem to understand the way families work. I agreed. And I must say, I felt both a twinge of sadness at knowing this is just the first of much teasing my boys will face, along with a twinge of maternal pride because frankly, both Eddie and Chas gave such perfect responses to the pipsqueak's homophobia.

Apparently copy editing is NOT a core value.

Got this invitation in the mail today. It's for the 125th anniversary of my old employer, The (Tacoma) News Tribune. I think it speaks for itself. (Click to see an enlarged version you can actually read.)

Birthdays and gunfire...

OK, they aren't actually related. But in the time since my last blog post, Eddie and Chas have turned 5. They say they actually feel different. More, fiveish. They had a great party with their friends at eh Science Center and will be having one with family this Saturday. The night before their actual birthday, we had the same meal for dinner that we had the night before they were born. I remember it so well only because I was throwing it up about an hour before they actually debuted. I think we'll make it a tradition.

And now for gunfire. There was a shooting at the Southcenter Mall last night. A couple of hours later, I got a phone call. My grandniece was not only in the mall, but near the shooting. She was with her Tolo date shopping for an outfit or something. The gunfire started and her date ducked behind a kiosk. She froze. At this point in the story I'm thinking she needs a new date. But it turns out that he quickly jumped back up and pulled her behind the kiosk with him. Now I'm thinking he is a fine choice for a date. Regardless, they were sequestered inside a cell phone store by the police for several hours. I haven't heard anything since then (she called her mom from inside the store) but I know she was pretty upset, naturally. About an hour after we heard, I turned to Steph and said, "You know, if I were still covering crime at a newspaper, this would have been a pretty cool 'get' for me." Then we laughed about how different our reactions were to this now than they would have been back in the day. Now we just got to be concerned aunties, notworrying about anything but Paige's wellbeing. It's kind of nice.

Swimming and Soccer = Exhaustion

So Thursdays are a little tough around here. Swim lessons at 11, followed by lunch, playground break and soccer at 2:15. Shortly after we got home, this is how I found Eddie:





It was a split decision, however, as Chas remains perky and alert:

Duck, Duck, Crash.

I think the worst thing about what happened to me tonight is what could have happened. I mean, not to be all melodramatic but, this is exactly the dumb kind of thing that kills people. And then Steph would have had to explain that I died from a Duck, Duck, Goose injury. What a humiliating way to go.

OK, here's the story. Eddie really wanted to play duck, duck, goose tonight. We've removed our coffee table in anticipation of a new sectional Thursday, so there's just enough open space to kinda sorta do it. All went well for the first few rounds. We called out things like "cow" or "giraffe" instead of duck and it was the height of hilarity. Then I tagged Eddie as the goose and took off running. But I was wearing my beloved winter crocs and somehow I tripped. I slammed face first -- hard -- into the arm of the loveseat that had been pushed aside (also in anticipation of the new sectional). My head snapped back quite sickeningly both for me and for Steph. I crumpled as Chas joyfully jumped on my back, clearly not recognizing that this wa not a funny-ha-ha kind of moment. I was seriously afraid I had broken my back or my neck and thought I'd be leaving the house in an ambulance. After a minute or two on the ground, where Steph gently eased me. My lip is quite swollen, I'm a bit nauseated and my neck and head are killing me, but I think I'll survive.

Actually, the first sign I had that I was alright was when I started to worry about having to tell the emergency room people that it was a Duck,Duck,Goose-related injury. Had I, in fact, injured myself any other way, I may indeed have gone to the hospital just to check things out. But a $75 copay coupled with the humiliation of having to explain it is just enough to keep me home with an ice pack. I will, however, be thinking of a good story to tell people about my fat lip and it will NOT involve D,D,G.

The new black

Loved this. Loved, loved, loved this.

My eyes! My eyes!

OK, another pinkeye post... When he got his first eyedrop, Eddie began to scream. I pried open his left eye and put in the next eyedrop. He then leapt up and began crying, "I can't see! I can't see!" At this point, I used my most calm voice and instructed him to open his eyes. It took a few more seconds of panic about his sudden onset blindness before he reluctantly opened his eyes and said, "Oh."

The new color in eyes this season is pink

If you're a rabbit, that's no big deal. But for human boys, it means a trip to the doctor for you and a $50 prescription bill for your mom. Fortunately, I think we caught it fairly quickly -- their eyes are a very light shade and the crusting is minimal. Honestly, if they were just about 10 years older (or, who am I kidding, less) I'd have suspected they had been smoking the wacky tobaccy -- glassy, bloodshot eyes and all. Fortunately for them (and me) it's just conjunctivitis, so lecturing is limited to the importance of handwashing and not rubbing your eyes.

Unfortunately, every time I think about their condition, my eyes start to itch. I'd be a great patient in hypnotherapy, I think -- I'm quite prone to suggestion...

Dirty Old Woman

So today I went to my grandnephew Dylan's high school dive meet. He made state, which I'm told is kind of a big deal. Anyway, he did great (Personally, I would have given him all 10s, but the judges minds were clearly muddled my colds. Or was that mine?), made it to the next round which we won't be able to attend because of the boys' basketball game but that's not really why I'm posting. Stay with me here.

So I'm watching these teenage divers as they get on the board, stretch and flex and, oh my. They are exquisitely proportioned. Now, I wasn't getting all hot and bothered -- that would just be too, too icky. (Besides I have a terrible head cold so with blood flow being what it is, it woulda been difficult.) But I couldn't help notice just how beautiful these boys' bodies were. And how utterly stupid it was that there weren't a ton of teenage girls there watching. Seriously. These were gorgeous, muscular in just the right proportion guys wearing speedos. And though I've never been a fan of Speedos, if anyone is going to wear them it should be these boys. Alas, it all appeared to be wasted on their moms, grandmas and aunts. Teenage girls who miss this opportunity should have to deduct 150 points from their SATs or their WASLs.

My boy the Super Girl

Last night Chas and I were both feeling pretty miserable with this cold and as we lay in bed snuggling away the chills that hit us both, we talked about school. Specifically, about the "mean kids" at school. He named names and I must say, I wasn't surprised. Later, as he slept, I asked Eddie about this. He also named names, but his list was much longer and included virtually every boy in his class save him and his brother.

The gist of Eddie's story is that the other boys play Mutant Ninja Turtles and play fight and -- with the exception of Chas, of course -- take toys from Eddie and the three girls in the class. "We are playing Super Girls and fixing the house and they just take our toys when we aren't even through playing with them," he said. I asked him to repeat, to confirm that I'd heard correctly that he plays "Super Girls." He was quite nonchalant in his affirmation.

At that moment I was so happy he does not have a father. Because I think that's a hard thing for a dad to hear without worrying. Men are so tied up in their sons' masculine identities that even the most progressive of them would surely feel a twinge and somehow start sending a message that it's not cool to be a Super Girl. I find it charming that he's still so secure in his own essential "maleness" to not be disturbed by labels. And I'm thrilled that he finds fighting -- even "play fighting" distasteful. (Though I wish he'd feel the same about fighting with his brother.)

And speaking of distasteful fighting .... Today to break up a battle I told them that if you fight with someone you love on Valentine's Day, your Valentine's candy will turn bitter and yucky. Eddie told me he doesn't believe it, but I insisted and since then, they've been getting along beautifully.....

Ho hum, I know. But another Hillary post...

Actually, more of a link to what I find to be a post by Erica Jong (who knew?) who just so perfectly sums up how this whole thing feels to me...



Here's a link to the whole brilliant post:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/erica-jong/patriarchy1000-hillary_b_86408.html

Have enough people voted yet?

Well, anyone who knows me well knows this was bound to happen. The boys have now gone to their first political rally. OK, not their first. They also went to a religious gay marriage thing. But this was their first rally for a candidate for office. It was cold, then hot, and long and crowded. But they can always say they were there, cheering on the first serious female contender for the presidency. They wanted to know who Hillary was and we told them we hoped she would be our president -- if enough people vote for her. As we left, Eddie looked up expectantly and asked, "Did enough people vote?" We told him the voting would still be a while off, so today he asked again. "Have enough people voted yet?" We're still waiting, buddy. But let's hope the president for the second five years of your life is a whole lot better than the one you had for the first five. Though realistically, that seems to be setting the bar pathetically low...

Why I Heart Hillary

OK, I admit it. I would love Hillary to be our next president. Yes, I know she was wrong about the war. Yes, I know she's a manipulative, political insider. But at least she's a manipulative, political insider working mostly for the right things.

Will I support Barack if he's the nominee? With some heaviness in my heart, but yes. But I'll always be wistful for what could have been. I've searched my soul looking for a reason I'm not excited about him -- is it racism? No. But identity politics do have something to do with it, I'm sure. I look at him and see a powerful man who has certainly overcome a lot. But I don't understand and feel the things he's overcome the way I connect with Hillary's trials and challenges. (And I think gender issues are just naturally closer to gender identity and sexual orientation issues -- I think she "gets" those in a way he doesn't.) It just feels all too familiar seeing people jump to support the younger, charismatic guy while dismissing the woman "of a certain age" for someone who's just plain sexier. Yeah, she knows her stuff. Yeah, she can do the job great. But geez, look at those crow's feet. And aren't we kind of bored with her?

So I'll be caucusing for Hillary. Nothing against Barack -- I'm sure he's a swell guy who would make a great president.

Oh yeah, and here's what prompted this post. It's a letter to the LGBT community that Hillary posted to a gay website. http://www.ourchart.com/node/299303.

GO HILLARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!