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!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The best Mommy in the whole, wide world.

This morning Chas awoke, hugged me and very sleepily said, "You are the best Mommy in the whole, wide world." It's the kind of affirmation I needed after last night's kindergarten readiness panel. At this panel we were essentially told that if we didn't put our kids in full-day kindergarten -- and probably hold them back a year as well --they would remain academically behind their peers, social followers prone to illegal behavior in their teen years and generally ill-suited to leading happy, productive lives. On the other hand, we were also cautioned that these are precious days when they are able to learn so much that if we hold them back too long, they will be dumb as bricks.

I have no intention of holding them back -- they're ready, according to their preschool teacher. Nor do I intend to spend $500 a month so they can attend full-day kindergarten. I mean, it's not like they'll be in daycare or sitting in front of the boob tube on their off days. (OK, not ALL of the time...)

I know much of what we were told was a load of crap. But it was a wake-up call to the realities of public school in 2008. The WASL looms large, even in kindergarten. The pressure is on and there's no time for 5-year-olds to waste looking for worms, building forts or checking out the animals at the zoo. I suppose all of this hit me -- and my friends -- hard because it was the first time we weren't the over-achievers in the parenting department. We're used to being the ones who did it all "right." We're involved parents who give our kids a healthy mix of structured and self-directed play, of group and solo activities. And suddenly we were being told that what our guts tell us is right for our kids is all wrong.

But the truth is, though it made me uncomfortable to hear my decisions challenged and derided, it didn't change my mind. Whether it's a decision about going to the ER because someone's breathing is funny or sending them to kindergarten half-time, I'm going with my gut. It's worked so far. And who are they to challenge me, the best mommy in the whole, wide world?

Watch Out Spielberg...

The boys have decided they want to make a movie. So last night, Steph started telling them what they would need to do to begin, like write a story, come up with storyboards etc. So Chas asked me to go buy them storyboards. We clarified and today, after playing in the snow, Eddie got some paper and drew out the storyboards for their first feature. The working title is "Sea Flux." It is heavily influenced by "Finding Nemo." I am now going to have to find a way to film this. Which is going to be a neat trick, since I had to get Eddie to confirm for me which side is up. Anyway, at the risk of having a studio steal their movie, here is the storyboard for the epic "Sea Flux!"

SNOW DAY!!!!!

So the downside to being president of the boys' preschool is getting a call at 7 a.m. about the snow. Followed by roughly 300 additional calls in and out to make sure everyone knew we were closed. The upside is that I was up, so when the boys stirred about an hour later I could whisper "Go look outside." I've never seen them strip off their pajamas so fast.

After grudgingly eating bowls of oatmeal, they put on their snow pants, hats and coats and headed out. We made a snowman, pictured here. They tried for snow angels, but it was kinda iffy. (Eddie initially wanted me to cover his eyes because he doesn't like to look at the sky when he's lying on his back -- because it's so far away it's kind of scary. I guess the opposite of a fear of heights?) They threw snowballs at each other and at the older neighbor boys who were genuinely impressed with their packing skills. Then they took their jeep out for a spin to watch it make tracks. When they got stuck with too much snow on the tires, the older girls converged on them (see below), clucking over them and generally battling to be the most helpful. Too bad the feminine attention is wasted on 4-year-olds.

The only tragedy of the day is that Eddie bogarted the whipped cream for the hot chocolate, leaving Chas bereft and highly suspicious of the mothering skills of anyone who would have a single, nearly empty can of whipped cream and a pantry devoid of any marshmallows. I gotta say, he's onto something.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day from a 4-year-old perspective

According to Eddie, we celebrate MLK Jr. because before him, dark-haired people had to sit at the back of the bus and there were different schools for dark-haired people and light-haired people and he said you should be able to go to school and ride the bus together because it doesn't matter what color your hair is.

As I tried to figure this out, I realized they had read a book about King in preschool. And skin color means absolutely nothing to my boys. But, with one of them a blondie and the other with "black" hair, (brown, but don't tell Chas) hair color differences they get. In fact, it defines them in some ways, as Chas more than once has called himself "the black boy" because he has black (again, not really) hair.

I wonder when skin color will be a part of the equation for them. Not for a long, long, long time, I hope. And I can only hope that segregation based on race will always seem as foreign and absurd to them as segregation by hair color.

The thing about Moms ...

According to Chas, the thing about Moms is that they have boobs and jay jays. Oy.

My son the potty-mouth

Today when I picked the boys up from preschool, their teacher pulled me aside to explain an "incident" during circle time. (It was all I could do not to say "Oh, shit," when she said she wanted to talk to me.) It seems one of their little friends was absent, and after sending her good thoughts, Chas raised his hand to elaborate. "I thought poop," he told the teacher, or something to that effect. Wisely recognizing that this was going to set off a veritable poop-storm of such utterances from the whole class (as "poop" is just about the funniest word in the English language when you are in preschool), she told him it was bathroom talk and inappropriate. He apparently got quite red-faced, teary-eyed and she said she was pretty sure he cried.

I tried to be sensitive and reassuring, prompting him to tell me all about school, hoping he would volunteer and thus give me an opening to talk about it. The closest he came to 'fessing up was to blurt out "I didn't cry" when I asked if anything upsetting happened during circle time. So I just told him I knew the story, which probably wasn't the coolest thing in the world, reminding him of what must have been a mortifying moment and worse, letting him know that someone told his mom about it. Anyway, I told him about how we all make mistakes and that he wasn't the only kid in his class who has done this. I also told him the truth: that I was as much to blame for it as he was because it's my job to teach him when words aren't appropriate and that I've just laughed along at the poop jokes for too long. We then agreed we would try to help each other clean up our vocabularies.

I figure this is just practice for dealing with the inevitable F-bombs that are in his future.

Is this a symptom...

of having to stretch a story about a nondescript building to 2,000 words as I recently had to??? That last post was a long one. Sheesh.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

As of now (well, yesterday actually) it has been five years since I left my home in the morning and trudged off to work. Five years ago the sainted Dr. Dashow put me on bedrest for the duration of my pregnancy and I never went back.

Do I miss "working outside the home?" Not really. I thought I would and, truth be told, once in a while I get nostalgic for the newsroom atmosphere. Outside of home, that's probably the environment I'm most comfortable in. I do still get to stretch my writing muscles with freelance work. And, honestly, one of my favorite things about working in a newsroom (aside from the bad jokes and worse wardrobes of almost everyone in the room) was always reading the wires. Imagine, just sitting at your desk and being able to click and read hundreds and hundreds of AP news stories at will! Why, it's almost like having an internet connection! Since that little thrill is now available at home, why leave?

Ahhh. Friends and colleagues. Yes, I miss seeing some of them more regularly. But many of them have moved on -- waaaay on -- and I wouldn't see them anyway. The ones I really care about, I'm still in touch with -- albeit irratically. And now that the boys are in preschool, I have a whole new set of friends who are mostly younger than I am but still in the same "stage" of life as me. They aren't newsies -- most don't even follow the news. But, I like them and we have a lot of fun on our "girls night out."

I hear people say that being a stay at home parent is the hardest job in the world. I disagree. Parenting the most important job in the world, but it's not harder just because you stay home to do it. It's easier -- at least for me. I can't imagine the chaos of trying to get boys, Steph and me out the door on time every morning. Heck, they're late for preschool more than half the time, an it doesn't start until after noon. Speaking of which ....)

So, I'm happy staying home. I think it makes me a better mother. I don't think it makes anyone else a better or worse mother to make a different choice or even the same one. I'm not a martyr for doing it. (Good God when I hear mothers talking about how much they are sacrificing on the altar of their children by staying home, I want to scream: "GET A JOB!" Because I think if you are unhappy, unfulfilled and full of resentment, you probably aren't doing your kids any favors.) To the contrary, I do it because it's much, much easier for me. I know I am going to pay for it in things like career growth, future savings etc. (Note to some "feminist" scholars who like to opine about women fooling themselves into thinking they can take time off from the workforce without paying a price: "Stay-at-Home" is not a synonym for "brain dead.") But it's a trade-off I'm happy to make.

In other words, even after the boys are in kindergarten next year (gasp, sob) don't be expecting to see my resume popping up in your inbox...

Cherish is the word ...

We were driving back from Chuck E. Cheese this evening with my nephew Gavin and his friend Gibson in the back seat. They are 9. Eddie and Chas are 4. Gibson quite seriously offered Eddie and Chas this nugget of wisdom: "Eddie, Chas, cherish this time in preschool. And next year, cherish the time you are in kindergarten. Because in first, second, third grade, you'll have homework. And that's baaaad."

Meet Harry, The New Year's Eve Chicken...

This afternoon, while the boys decorated yet another Christmas ornament (don't ask) I looked up to see a chicken looking through the window on our back door. I called the boys to look and took a couple of snapshots. Chas named "him" Harry. After a while, they got bored watching him and I only got occasional reports of how he was near their swingset etc. Then, Harry was gone.

Early this evening, however, Chas started laughing and pointing out the window to the front porch and saying something about silly Harry. Lo and behold, the damn chicken was settling in to a hanging basket full of dead flowers that should have been removed months ago. (By this point, it's almost a challenge to see how long I'll let it stay.) He's been up and down a few times now. I was going to ignore him until Eddie said, very sweetly, "But Mommy. He's far from his home. We have to take care of him while he's here." So Harry got some corn and some cornmeal. My sister came by and reports there are neighborhood cats skulking not too far away. Steph called to question about whether chickens will freeze to death in current conditions. Now despite allowing him to be named, I truly do not care about Harry. Circle of life and all that crap, you know? But my boys would be traumatized to find Harry either mutilated or frozen to death. So I just hope the dang thing has the sense to find her way home soon -- wherever that may be.

UPDATE -- 5:47 p.m. Eddie just walked in, looking very somber. He's been looking for Harry. "I think a cat might have got him," he reports. I assure him we would have heard the clucking, then go investigate for myself with a flashlight. No Harry. Fortunately, no Harry parts, either... Eddie has now, completely independently, come up with an explanation for Harry's absence. "Maybe he made a new friend!"

You may call it Wretched Excess...

But around here, we just call it "Christmas." Yes, the Jolly Fat Man has come and gone and left behind a veritable toy store. But we had two boys jumping up and down in glee and excitement, gasps of pure joy and overall giddiness Christmas morning, so I don't regret a single overly endulgant purchase. Not even the ones I forgot about until late Christmas Eve when we finally got the boys to sleep and managed to drag out the hidden loot.

Of course, today, poor Eddie paid in what can best be described as the preschool version of a hangover. He was sick and vomiting most of the day. He may have contracted a bug -- his cousin was sick last night. But it's just as likely that 48 hours of a diet that consisted of 80 percent sugar coupled with extreme self-imposed sleep deprivation was simply too much. Either way, I spent the day either snuggling a sick boy (the best part of the day), holding his head over the toilet (the worst part of the day) or playing with the healthy boy who desperately missed his much more fun playmate. I have too much work to do to have a day like this -- two deadlines loom at the end of the week, the kitchen is a disaster area and I have a turkey to cook Friday -- but that's what late nights are for I suppose.

At any rate, Eddie's much better -- he requested a trip to Red Robin for dinner and promptly stole his auntie's most garlicy french fries -- and the bedding is in the dryer, so all's well that ends well.

Best. Christmas. Present. Ever.

And it's not even Christmas Eve. Eddie has been working on this card for his Mama and Mommy this morning, pestering me to help him spell some stuff. This is what I got after I agreed to spell out "Love, Kids" to him, and write "Santa Claus comes tonight" as a sample for him to copy. Note the word "love" is mysteriously topped by a heart. What can I say? The kid knows how to suck up before Christmas.

Squawkers McCaw is a Squawkin', Talkin', Pain in My A**!

The boys reallly want a Squawkers McCaw talking parrot for Christmas, so we got 'em one this weekend at Costco. It was in the back of Steph's car so, while the boys and I were supposed to be sleeping this morning, she brought him in to hide. But there's a problem in that the little F'er seems to be motion activated. So I heard a screetchy "HELLO" as she came in. No biggie. Except that Chas apparently heard it to and it yanked him into full consciousness.

"I heared a talking parrot!"

"It must have been a commercial."

"But the TV isn't on."

"A commercial on the computer."

"But that's not what it says on the commercial."

"It must have been a dream."

"It wasn't a dream. It was a talkin' parrot!"

Things went like this until Steph came in to kiss us goodbye and confessed that she'd been "talking in silly voices." I'm not sure he was entirely convinced and I'm wondering how the hell Santa's going to put him under the tree without waking up at least one boy.

Robo Ed

Last night, after the boys were in bed, we heard complaining from Eddie. Not unusual. So Steph drew the short straw (also not unusual) and went to investigate. When she came back a few minutes later, she looked at me stone-faced and said, "You're gonna laugh."

Seems that Eddie was tired and trying to sleep but Chas kept pestering him. Chas explained that he had a question that he really, really needed Eddie to answer. So Mama asked what it was because maybe she could help. "Eddie, if you were a robot, would you tell me?" Eddie was trying to sleep and wouldn't answer, so Mama assured Chas that he would confess. Part of her wanted to say, "It depends on what kind of robot he was. If he were an evil robot, he wouldn't tell you." But for the sake of everyone's night, she didn't elaborate. Thank God.

Just when I thought my children were geniuses, a couple of dough balls knocked on the door...

OK, for the record, I've never thought Eddie and Chas were actual, bona fide geniuses. But sometimes I allow myself to think that they are very, very smart. And then something like tonight happens, and I have to reevaluate.

It began, innocently enough, with dinner out at Chevy's. Chevy's is one of those places that gives more than crayons to keep the kids from getting bored and screaming loudly enough to disturb other patrons. It also gives pre-flattened, pre-cooked tortillas to amuse them. Yes, dough balls. Last time we were there, the boys were utterly bereft to have left the dough balls behind. So I said they could bring 'em home. Which would be fine, except that on the way home, the dough balls fell to the floor of the car several times, gathering enough dirt and God-knows-what to turn gritty and a bit gray. The dough balls were endlessly amusing to the boys who stuck them on the windows and giggled. Then someone got the idea to let the dough balls drive. Steph put them on the steering wheel and we had a laugh riot when they were unable to make a proper right turn to get us home. This put us on a dead end street next to a field. I said the dough balls wanted to go home to find their families and Steph "threw" them out the window.

Now, we played this little charade to see if we could get rid of the dough balls without having to listen to excessive crying. We could not. So shortly after we got home, the boys heard a knock at the door, opened it and found their dough balls sitting on the porch, waiting to be let in. (I would have said they were shivering in the cold, but that woulda been ridiculous.)

I don't know if Eddie and Chas think they've witnesses a Christmas Miracle or what, but they seem to truly believe that the dough balls knocked on the door. They had to call their Auntie and two cousins to relate this amazing story -- which they could barely tell because they were laughing so hard.

Perhaps the worst of it is that, after being told that Mommy could make them more dough in the morning, they were perfectly willing to let us throw their miraculous door-knocking dough balls away because they were, by this point, truly disgusting.

That thing in Paris

After watching a particularly enthralling episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, in which Mr. Rogers plays with some blocks, Eddie ran back to pull out his own blocks. This was his second creation. "What do they call that thing in Paris?" Eddie asked when showing his creation to me. "The Eiffel Tower," I replied. "Yes. That's it. This is the Eiffel Tower."

Playing Favorites

This morning, after a looong night of coughing, Xopenexing (Yes, I have decided to make Xopenex a verb.) and restless sleeping from Eddie, we all woke in surprisingly good moods. Chas announced that he loves Mommy, Mama and Eddie. But the person he loves the most is ... Eddie. He's sticking to this decision. It's very sweet. Maybe it's because last night we took them to see "Fred Claus," which is all about brotherly love Santa-style. (Near the end of the film, Chas announced, "This is a great movie!") But whatever the cause, with his bad cold and nasty asthma symptoms, Eddie can use the love today.

He knows when you've been sleeping, but he's got no clue about your family...

Took the boys for their annual photo shoot with the jolly old elf today. Once I realized malls are starting to do this before Thanksgiving, I became enamored of early pictures because it means I can get them printed up for Christmas cards AND miss much of the long lines that form once the turkeys are nothing but carcasses.

Shortly after pulling them onto his lap, Santa began asking questions. Personal questions, really. First thing out of his mouth was "Do you mind your mom and dad?" I sort of sucked in my breath, wondering what the boys would do or say. Eddie, concentrating as he was, refused to risk disrupting his perfectly fake photo smile to answer. Chas, however, put Santa straight. So to speak. "We just have two moms," he said, pointing to us on either side of him, shooting video and stills. give the old guy credit, he didn't get confused. Flustered, but not confused. "Well, some people have two parents and some children only have one and ... I'm just going to stop now." Then he went into a whole spiel about keeping their rooms clean. Chas was not nearly so honest when that came up -- he is trying to make himself look worthy of the "Nice List" after all.

Anyway, they were very excited and asked for two gifts -- having arranged prior to the visit a plan to write a much, much, much longer list to mail to the North Pole. For now, Eddie has requested a Dinoco 400 race set and Chas has requested Willly's Butte race set, both from the greatest movie of all time, Cars. I have it on excellent authority that they will not be disappointed -- at least not as it pertains to these particular requests.

An epic poem by Eddie

This was composed several weeks ago, but I just came across the paper I scribbled it on.


Bumpy coral in the sea;
Swift, soft coral in the sea;
The whales and sharks are eating
Their salad and
Their fish.

OK, Robert Frost he ain't.

Chicken Nuggets Are ANIMALS!!!

So the boys are still reeling from the laugh riot that was "Chicken Run," our family movie night selection last week. They keep repeating the line, "I don't want to be a pie. I don't like gravy." Which seems a little weird, but whatever.

Anyway, tonight I was reading them one of their all-time favorite books, "Robot Dog." Apparently the picture of the robot dog factory machinery reminded Eddie of the chicken pie machine in "Chicken Run." We talked for a minute about how most pies are sweet but some pies have gravy then he asked, quite innocently, "Is there really such a thing as chicken pie?" I said that was true and his expression quickly became a cross between perplexed and horrified. "Amimal chickens?!" Yes, animal chickens. Now horrified is pushing perplexed off the face. "Do we really eat amimal chickens?!" At this point, Mama has been called in because I recognize this as both A. potentially damaging to my lunch options and B. Sweetly funny. Mama was not helpful.

"Yeah, Buddy," she said. "What do you think is in chicken nuggets?" His little face registered an expression that let us know this little factoid was a little like learning that "Soylent Green is PEOPLE!" We told him it was OK, that's what the chickens are for and that there aren't WHOLE chickens in pies or nuggets. (Though God only knows what parts there are in them, they are only parts.)

And just like that, another piece of childhood innocence is gone.

Growing boys

What a difference a year makes. Amazing, really. I mean I hadn't realized just how much they'd changed until I looked at these pictures. It's not that they're so much taller -- though they are. But they had such little baby faces last year. And now they are darn near manly. Sigh. My little Punkins.

The Brown Family Vacation

Tonight Chas sat on the toilet, doing what boys are normally doing when they choose to sit, rather than stand. This is the conversation I overheard between him and his Mama.

Chas: "A family of poops came out of my bottom."
Mama: "They're taking a trip."
Chas: "And they're never coming back."

What can I say? They're both weird.

First Day of Pre-K: Girl things and Boy things and how to tell the difference

On their way to Pre-K!

Today was the boys' first day of Pre-K. Last night I asked if they wanted me to just drop them off and leave or if I should stay. Unlike The Clash, they had no difficulty with this. I should go. Now. "I promise I won't miss you," Chas reassured me. Why not? "Because I like my teacher." I, being a glutton for punishment, asked if the teacher was more beloved than Mommy. They both quickly answered that they like "The Five" all the same. The Five?? 1. Mommy 2. Mama 3. Auntie 4. Heather 5. Mrs. G (their teacher). I was torn between pride in knowing they had figured out it the number in their heads so seemingly easily and horror at knowing precisely how unspecial I had become. I mean, I gave myself top billing, but it's pretty clearly an ensemble and I ain't a featured player.

So school went well. Their friend Kaylee shared some Cinderella thing which they said was cool but they don't want because "it's a girl thing." We asked for elaboration. Turns out girl things are pink or purple, come in an aisle at the store and are soft. Or hard. I think the boys feel the same way about "girl things" as the Supreme Court Justice felt about obscenity: They can't necessarily define it, but they know it when they see it.

That's what he said.

Went on the now-traditional annual Labor Day campout this weekend. A grand, if smoky, dirty and sort of disgusting, success. We rocked Millersylvania in the wilds about 10 miles south of the State Capital. Anyway, my grand-nephew Berkeley brought a friend -- a 12-year-old boy named Martin. Martin was a very nice kid. Too nice, as it turns out. See, my niece and Berkeley's mom, Delsa, kept getting after us for making dirty jokes in his presence. In our defense, these weren't "The Aristocrats" jokes. More along the lines of things like "get your hands off my wiener" while roasting dogs. (The semi-frozen wieners were a particular laugh-riot.) There was a bit of Michael Scott from The Office humor in the form of "That's what he said." or "That's what she said." The kind of stuff that most self-respecting 12-year-old boys would revel in.

Or so I thought.

After just one night of that he called his mom who drove down to pick him up bright and early in the morning. I didn't believe it at first. But it's true. My family sexually harrassed a 12-year-old boy with hard wiener jokes. Now, I know we are a little crude. But this is, I admit, a new low. Still, I have to think that if our kids grow up feeling like it's OK to make wiener jokes in front of us while camping, we've got a good shot that they'll feel like it's OK to talk to us about the stuff that really matters.

Which is really just a pathetic attempt to somehow justify saying "That's what she said" when somone complains that I put the tent pole in the wrong hole.

Things that make me giggle...

So we're still in that stage where pretty much any use of the word "poop" is considered a hilarious punchline. And just now, I realized where they get this sense of humor. It happened when I saw this headline. Now, I know that's not how you pronounce it and all. But it still caused an involuntary giggle. And most of the story kept me giggling, too. Sigh. It's one thing at 4, but at 43, I think this just makes me juvenile.

Rare view shows big changes for Uranus
By DAVID PERLMANSAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
Strange things are happening to the rings of Uranus, that little blue planet way out there in the solar system...

The time for the rare views is now, and astronomers from the University of California-Berkeley and the SETI Institute in Mountain View, Calif., has seen some dramatic changes -- some rings are growing brighter, at least one is fading away and another is either newly formed or unexpectedly moving outward from the planet by thousands of miles. (Sounds painful. But there are OTC treatments...)

At the same time, a broad, diffuse cloud of microscopic dust particles seems to be pervading the entire ring system....(Oh, is THAT what they're calling it now...)

De Pater said in an interview that "the ring system looks completely different" from the way it did 21 years ago when the Voyager 2 spacecraft flew past Uranus and photographed its rings and moons. (Hey, in 21 years, anyone's rings are going to change...)
"The rings are exquisite now," de Pater said, (quite the sweet-talker.)

...
We're starting to realize that studying the rings and moons of Uranus is more like studying the weather than planetary geology," Showalter said. "Things are moving."
Uranus itself, the seventh planet from the sun, was discovered in 1791, but its rings were not detected until 1977.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I enjoyed that. Oh, the shame.

Arrrgh! This be a pirate blarrrgh entry!

0807 Arrgh! Pirates!003
Originally uploaded by MommyCheryl

Avast! Or is it Amast! Or Aghast! I've no idea, matey.

For some unknown reason, the boys decided to play pirates tonight. They had the hats and a couple of scarves from our cruise LAST summer -- along with a couple of plastic swords. Except we could only find one plastic sword and deep in the recesses of our minds a vague recollection of one breaking. Arrgh.

This, naturally, made for one happy boy and one unhappy boy. I decided to rectify the situation by pulling out a piece of cardboard and cutting out a sword for Chas. But Eddie, being the crafty little bugger that he is, just had to get in on that action. So he used paper, scissors and tape to make some dangly thing that he called a sword. (Insert your own naughty joke here.) Chas wanted Mama to have a sword, too. And then it was decided that I must have one. And hats! We must have hats! But we only had the two, plus a random pirate scarf. So Steph put on her Rosie Hadit head band thing. Only Eddie thought THAT was just the coolest. So he took that, Steph took his hat and I tried to figure out how to wear a pirate scarf. Steph said I looked more like the cleaning lady on a pirate ship.

Anyway, a few sword battles ensued in the backyard. Fun was had by all. The plastic sword that started it all is discarded on the floor, not nearly as much fun (but much more likely to put an eye out) as the homemade varieties. The boys are now in the drink (bath for you landlubbers) and the seas of our backyard are safe to travel. For now.

Trains, Trains, Trains!

By Eddie Reid-Simons
With help from Chas Reid-Simons
Transcribed by Mama

Tank engines are the best in Africa. A tram engine is the best one in the snow. When trains go by, an American white train is fastest.

Engines are diesels, but some are not.

The Madagascar train that likes to carry bugs works at the quarry for 45 days.

Cars are the most important freight. Passenger cars take people where they need to go.

Lots of engines there are so good. Some trains go past some people's houses.