Lucky Number 7

Today we survived the boys' 7th birthday party. I use the word "survived" advisedly. We all have colds. And a new puppy named Peach. All of this combines to make for an exhausted, sleep-deprived family. Nothing like hosting 20 kids when you're ready to drop to make you feel you're alive. Because if you were dead, you wouldn't feel so horrible.
OK, it wasn't quite that bad. I didn't actually feel tired until it was over. The kids had a blast, got way too many toys and made a total mess of the game room. Life is good.

I think the Groundhog was wrong...

So while the East Coast has been gob-smacked with blizzards, we're enjoying unseasonably warm weather. We were doing yardwork today. (Technically yesterday since it's after midnight, but whatever.)

Eddie and Daniel, Founding Members of "The Brave Boys Club."

The boys turned into muddy messes. Eddie and Daniel formed a Clubhouse with "coloring and cars and no adults allowed." Later they formed the "Brave Boys Club" and concocted a way to get "super abilities" or something. Chas helped me plant flowers. A lovely day, even when Eddie and Daniel chose to ride the teeter-totter down the slide, nearly giving me a heart attack.

Fairy Dust Blues

So here's the thing. When your first kid loses his first baby tooth, it's almost as exciting for you as it is for him. It's like the last vestige of babyhood has just fallen bloodily from his mouth and it needs to be marked. And not just with a quarter under a pillow. So you make it extra special. You get gold dollars. Then to really seal the deal, you sprinkle fairy dust, aka glitter, around his pillow when you make the switch. This is a big hit. You congratulate yourself for another happy childhood memory, another bit of magic for him to believe in.

Then he loses the next tooth and you do it again. Then his brother loses a tooth and you do it again. Eventually, you're on your fifth go-around and that's where I was last night (or more accurately early this morning). At this point, there is no way I can just skip the fairy dust. It's expected. So at 1 a.m. I find myself rummaging through the bins in the craft room looking for glitter and cursint the invention of glitter glue because that simply won't work. I come up with some purple glitter and go to my secret stash of fairy coins only to discover that last time around I had helpfully stashed the silver glitter in with the coins. There's another tooth just hanging on for dear life, so this will be repeated in the next few days. Hopefully I'll remember where I put the glitter.

Meanwhile, Chas is wanting to apply his $2 (I know, $2! I got a lousy quarter when I was a kid!) to his Mama's credit card so he can buy something more expensive. Clearly he doesn't know how credit cards work. Equally clearly he has not inherited my extreme aversion to debt. Sigh.

Back from the darkside...

So it's been a while -- nearly a year -- since I posted to my blog. And the reason is as clear as the book on my face. Or rather the posts on my facebook. Yes, I've been tempted by the dark side. By the quick and easy posts to Facebook. But today, I was reminded that's not why I started this thing. I started this for my own personal use. As a way to remember and journal about the journey of being a mom.

Unlike Facebook, I can actually look old stuff up with the blog, as I did today when someone reminded me the story of the penis and the monkey and the moms. (Look it up yourself. If you're reading this. Which I'm pretty sure you're not. Unless you're me.)

Anyway, I'm back to the blog. Because it doesn't matter if (that) no one else knows or cares. I do. And this is for me.

Oh, and for the record, Chas lost one of his top teeth this evening. More like stolen by an impatient Mommy, but still...

I don't know why I'm laughing, because it most certainly is not funny.

First, the background. At Great Wolf Lodge they have this "Magic Quest" game where you take a wand and go on an electronic scavenger hunt. One of the stops is a box with a video of a sleeping, snoring guy who grumpily wakes up when you point your want. To Eddie and Chas, "Snoring Guy" is extremely scary.

So, on day 2 of our most recent visit, we were exhausted and resorted to using the elevator for a couple of items. We got on floor 2 with a big crowd of people, many of whom needed off on floor 4. We were headed to floor 5. So at floro 4, we all jostled and moved to let the 4th floor folks off. Chas says, "Where's Eddie?" I look around. "Where's Eddie?" Chas asks again. Now, as the doors begin closing, I'm on the case, looking around. Steph says he's in here with us, but I didn't see him. As the elevator begins moving up we hear -- from outside the door -- a plaintive (but fading as we rise) wail of "Heeeeey!"

We got out and Steph double-timed it down the flight of stairs to find our boy. He was holding back tears semi-successfully, but lost it when he saw her. Then he told us the worst part -- it happened to be Snoring Guy's floor, and he's right by the elevators. So Eddie was abandoned right next to something he's terrified of. Great moments in parenting. We kept chuckling every time we recounted the story, but Eddie was rightfully upset by this. Because, really, from his perspective, it's not funny now and probably won't be for another couple of decades.

What exit?

So heading to the Great Wolf Lodge yesterday, Steph and I mused how on our first trip there, five months ago, we missed the exit and had to turn around. We were trying to remember which exit to take -- did it say "Grand Mound" or what? From the back of the van comes a voice. "Exit B -- 88," Eddie said.

At least, that's what he remembered. We were amused. Until the exit came into sight. Yup. Exit 88. But no "B" designation. When we left today, however, we glimpsed the exit from the Northbound freeway -- which is the one we took, again, five months ago. That's right. From that direction, there is an A and B designation and our exit was 88 B. I can't remember the number of the exit for our house -- or half the time, where I left my keys. But Eddie can remember an exit from five months ago. He's an odd bird, but a very nice bird to have around.

Making better friends: Why Eddie is destined for playground heartbreak.

OK, so the on-again, off-again friendship between Eddie and Daniel, the boy next door, has been on-again -- albeit with some disagreements. Today, Eddie took it upon himself to try to teach Daniel to read. This effort was not met with enthusiasm and joy.

Steph explained that while Eddie was trying to do a good thing and is a very good teacher, sometimes when your friend is trying to teach you something like that it can make you embarrassed and unhappy which is why Daniel tore up the paper and yelled. Eddie thought about this and it must have seemed reasonable. The next thing I know he's in the office asking me to help him spell "Daniel." He asked me to write it down and leave the room because he needed to do something (which he obviously didn't want me to see.) I was able to catch a peek later. It was a big heart shape with the words "Eddie hrts Daniel" in the middle. He took it to Daniel, explaining that he was trying to make them better friends. Sigh. How to you explain to a 6-year-old about homophobia on the playground and not actually letting people know you care about them because they will interpret that as weakness and use it to taunt and harrass you?

The Secret Tunnel

Tonight the boys asked about the word "retired." Actually, they asked what Grandpa's job is and that was the answer. Steph explained that when you work for many years and you get older, you get to (hopefully) stop working. Eddie said he can't wait for Mama to be retired.

This led to me telling them both that when she's retired they (again, hopefully) won't even be living with us. This blew their very-nearly-6-year-old minds. So we told them they could live with us as long as they want (crossing our fingers as we said it) but that they would probably want to start families of their own and make their own homes. Chas thinks that's a fine idea -- as long as he can move into the house next door. Then he elaborated that not only would he move next door, but he would build an addition that would be a hallway that connects to our front door. Later, it was decided a secret tunnel would be better.

Eddie asked if we'll live in this house forever. I told him we'd live here for a long time, but probably if they moved to California, we'd move there as well. This was hysterical to him -- he said he could just imagine getting on an airplane to go to California and his moms would have to get on the next airplane right behind it.

When the time comes, I shall remind them both that this all -- us living next door, with adjoining houses even, us stalking them if they move out of state -- seemed like a fine idea to them at one point. Their wives (or husbands) are just going to have to be understanding.

The ultimate labor-saving device is an eraser.

Chas hates to color. I mean, really, really hates to color. So today as he did his homework -- writing three words that begin with "J" and then drawing those things -- he was dismayed when I told him he had to color his drawings. He asked me why he had to and I told him it was part of his homework.

Instantly he flipped over to the instruction page for the homework packet. He looked at it intently for a couple of minutes, then looked up at me, pointed to the page and asked, "Where do you see 'color'?" Indeed, the directions did not say he needed to color his drawings. But I persisted.

So he grudgingly turned back to his page, where he had an intricately pencil drawing of a jet, a jar full of jellybeans with more falling in and a plain jar and began erasing the jellybean jar. He then drew in a single jellybean and colored it and the second jar angry red. By which I mean, he made no attempt to disguise his disgust for the requirement by doing something like staying remotely in the lines. "Less coloring," he said when I asked why he got rid of his lovely drawing of jellybeans cascading into a jar.

This is kindergarten homework. What the heck am I going to do when he's in 8th grade????

Mr. Know-It-All

So yesterday I told the boys it was time to do their homework and Eddie protested. "I already know everything so I don't need to homework!"

I knew he was advanced, but I didn't realize he was a teenager already.

So last night, Steph got drunk...

For many people, this wouldn't be a big deal. But let's put this in perspective. The last time I saw her drunk was in 1999. I know this because it's such a rare thing. Anyway, and the last time, I was also drunk.

Because she's a seldom-to-never drinker, it didn't take much to push her over the edge. Three or four shots of God-knows-what. I'm happy to report that she is a happy drunk. A very happy drunk. I, however, was filled with worry and concern that she was going to feel horrible today. I kept giving her glasses of water, which she dutifully drank. People kept giving me the hairy eyeball and telling me not to get mad at her. As if. In a way it was nice to see her really let go. Or it would have been if I hadn't been so busy worrying about how she was going to come down from this.

After we got home, she began to have a tinge of regret. She realized that our young teenage niece had seen her tipsy and that made her feel bad. I assured her that she wasn't that far off her normal nuttiness.

But in the end, the whole episode reaffirmed my feelings about inebriation. Which is, it's not worth it. It always seems to come with a side order of regret, even if you don't wake up hung over. Plus, it's not something you can just turn off, like, "OK, I'm done being drunk now. Sober me up!"

Still, if one of us getting drunk every decade or so is what it takes to remind us why we don't do it more often, it's cool with me.

Plus, let's face it, she WAS pretty funny.

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.