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.