Is he trying to tell me something?

Megan said "Maybe you can be my teacher next year at my school."

Logan cut in, "Maybe you can be MY teacher next year at MY school."

I said, "I can't teach at school but we can learn together any time you want at home." I explained that I didn't have the right certification - the right paperwork - to be a teacher at school. They, of course, asked why. "I didn't go to school to be a teacher" I explained.

Logan, without missing a beat, replied, "Well, maybe when you grow up you can be a teacher."

The hills are alive. . .

I feel moved to write a list. I know. I know. You're jumping with joy at the thought of reading this thing. Humor me, ok? Julie Andrews is singing in my head and the only way to stop her is by listing some of my favorite things:

- Sharing reading duty with Logan. At bedtime tonight I read one book. Then he read to me - "Hop on Pop" by Seuss. I'm not sure which of us had a bigger pride filled smile.

- Logan's frustrated voice as he says, "Mommy, I am not four-and-a-half. I AM four-and-three-quarters."

- Not having to worry if we're out of diapers or not. Yipee!!! Little Miss Meg, at 2 1/2 years old has offically been diaper AND accident free for a month now. Again I say, AMEN!

- Meg's rendition of the wedding march. Mind you, she's learning the march because our entire family of four is in a wedding this fall. Few adults (outside of maybe the couple and even that's sometimes questionable) think this union is a good idea. Megan has taken to singing (with NO prompting I swear) "Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb" to which I say "exactly! You got it!"

- Having a job that actually 'gets' that family comes first.

- Seeing my son tear through the park with his 'very best friend ever.' This being the first very best friend ever (VBFE) he's made without me setting up a "blind [play]date" for him. Luckily I find VBFE's mom to be an actual human being that I can enjoy talking to for a few hours at a time. Yipee! Logan set *me* up on a friend-date this time. Way to go kid!

- Hearing the following exchange after a sibling blow-up:

"Wogan, I am very, very sorry. I am sorry I threw your toy. I am sorry I hit you."

"That's ok, you're still just a little kid. You're learning."

- My whim to remove all the plants from one flower bed and transplant to other flowerbeds has yet to kill said plants. (Fingers crossed!)

- Knowing my anniversary weekend sans kids is almost a month away!

- Megan staring at the white hair that is starting to creep into the side of Daddy's head. Then her brash little voice declaring "Daddy! You have stripes!"

- Finally getting around to painting my living room which sorely needed it.

- Knowing my dear husband will finally get to use his new toy (I mean tool) to cut molding. The man asked for a mitre saw for Christmas so he could mitre me some molding. Now that the room is painted he can get to work. He's so giddy with anticipation it's cute.

Well look at that

Last night I attened a program through our school district on Kindergarten curriculum and readiness. I learned a bit about what to expect and how to help prepare the boy child for his upcoming school year.

I also learned that my little boy born in 2002 is about to become part of the class of 2020.

I know. I'm odd. This amuses me though. . .once my eyes stopped tearing up.

He's so cute

I don't even remember what prompted the conversation, but suffice it to say someone taught the boy how to flatter. (And no, it wasn't me)

"Mommy, Daddy is in his 70s right?"

"Ahhh, no. Daddy is not in his 70s. Daddy is in his 40s," I replied and amazingly I did not laugh.

"Oh, but you're in your 20s right?" he said.

"I love you Logan," I replied. Then I remembered that I've been raised in the family that lives by the 'it's this or dead so why worry about age' matra. "Thank you, honey, but no. I'm in my 30s. I'm 33."

"But you'll be 34 on your birthday and your birthday is in May?" he pressed.

And I nodded.

"So you're in your 30s and Daddy's in his 40s, right?"

More nods from me.

"So Daddy is still older," he concluded.

A few more nods.

"When I'm 18 Daddy's going to be really old, right?" he asked.

"Well, he'll be 60," I said, knowing Daddy does not always like to think of such things.

Logan mulled that over a moment and then said, "Right, he'll be really old...but you'll still be in your 30s then right?"

I love him.

So long, farewell

This relationship has been going on for almost 5 years. Although I'm still a little nervous to let go, I must confess that it's really time to move on. We need to part ways, you and I. I will no longer come to you for security and protection. I will no longer depend on you - except maybe at night when sleep settles upon my house.

Yes, Pampers, we're through.

Can I get an Amen?

A week ago Megan woke up and announced she was done with diapers and that was that. She does still need them at night, although she did go one night dry after waking up mid-way through to use the potty. She has had the occasional accident when she tries just a little too hard to be independent and a button slows her down. I still insist on a pull-up OVER underwear when we're going to be out of the house and I won't be with her - like child care at the gym or church.

For all intenstive purposes, however, she's an underwear wearing, potty using big kid.

Wow.

Can't say I'm sad to see the diaper phase pass.

Gardening Puzzles

Megan pointed to a yellow and white bag and some of it's spilled out dark, rich brown contents. She said, "Grandma? What's that?"

Grandma said, "That's food for the garden. It's fertilizer."

Megan pushed further with more questions. It didn't look like the fertilzer she had seen on lawns we passed on our walks lately.

Grandma explained it was a different kind of fertilizer. It was manure.

"What's manure?"

"It's cow poop," explained Grandma.

Megan was quiet. She started to look around with a puzzled look on her face.

"Grandma? Where's the cow?"
---
Today Meg and I trekked to the home improvement center to pick up our own hefty bags of hummus-manure mix for both my vegetable garden and both the kids'. As we got out of the car Megan said, “Why are we getting strawberries and cow poop?”

I said, “I thought you might like to grow your own strawberries and the manure will help the garden grow”

Megan said, “Yuck. I don’t want to eat cow poop!”
--

One of the employees helped us load up the cart. Megan smiled sweetly at him and said:

"Man, can I see your cow?"

He gets it and he knows

Logan can be a confident kid. I mean really, how can one lack confidence when they're apt to roll his eyes a little and say, "Mom, I know everything." Yet sometimes he can be easily steeped in a little self-doubt. The boy that would readily tell us he knows something about everything didn't seem to have a grasp on exactly how well he could read.

It began two years ago. Logan was 2 1/2 and could tell you what sound every letter made - albeit short vowel sounds only. He began to understand how these sounds bled together to form words. He learned sight words. He learned to recognize familiar words. He started to read phrases which led naturally to short sentences. He was a master of Reader Rabbit games on the computer.

He'd seem to do it when no one was paying attention -- most of all him.

For a long time he denied it. We didn't push. When he would read I'd commend him for it. A little high five and a great job. One day he admitted what single fear held him back - he was afraid no one would read to him any more if he could read to himself.

In response we began to read big classic books: Wind in the Willows, Tom Sawyer, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Stuart Little, etc. We explained that even if he could read picture books and early readers, we'd still climb into his bed with him every night to read something bigger to him and/or with him.

He began to experiment more with words.

Yesterday he sat down with one of Megan's board books and read it aloud to her - fumbling over only a few larger words he was unfamiliar with. Tonight we cuddled up in his bed just before lights out and we took turns reading pages from another book. I nearly broke out a present the Easter Bunny is bringing him in two weeks -- the book "You Read to Me. I'll Read to You."

When I tucked him in tonight I kissed him on the forehead then moved close to his ear. "I'm so proud of you," I whispered to him knowing he didn't want me to make a big deal when Daddy and Meg could hear.

I could see his smile through the dark. He whispered back, "I can read! I'm proud of me too."

I might have to scream

Am I the only one that thinks it's pretty low-class to even *joke* about how someone else's loss puts a crimp in your weekend plans?

I have to do something tomorrow I'm dreading. I'm shopping for bridesmaid dresses. It's not so much the dresses that have me in a foul mood, it's the bride. Don't ask. I'm too ticked off to explain that one.

So one of the other maids can't make it tomorrow. Know why? No, of course you don't. I will tell you why. She can't make it because SOMEONE DIED. She has to go to a funeral - not a family member, not a close friend. It's an aquaintence of a friend's. Regardless, we're talking death.

And the bride? All she can do is crack jokes inferring that this deceased woman had the nerve to die and set a funeral on the same weekend she's going to pick out gowns. What the hell?!

I want to smack her. I do. I really do.

Hard.

In a blink

We had one of those days that often leaves me threatening my husband to leave work on time or find me on our roof where the children can't find me. From time to time my sweet little cherubs become possessed by who knows what. I just know it ain't pretty.

And yet within a split second of wreaking havoc on my strained nerves they revert back to those sweet little cherubs that bring my heart peace with a simple little smile.

Tomorrow it could snow. No, really, it could. Today, it hit 72. (Don't ask me. I don't get it either.) In the midst of our on-again-off-again battle, we headed out to enjoy the weather tease - me, two kids and the dog we've borrowed.

Oh, wait, the dog. Let's back track a moment here shall we. A year ago we had a dog. She was old. She was sick. She had to be put down. Meg remembers Tasha enough to talk about her but has no concept of where she is other than she's not here. Logan completely understands the dog is dead. To him, that means the dog is laying on Heaven's floor refusing to play fetch with Jesus because you know, why should we change in the after life? No fetch on Earth. No fetch in Heaven.

Logan's preschool class has started a new "good deeds" program. Last time it was a chain of paper links. This time it's a plastic barrel. Get caught doing something nice and you get to put a dog treat in the barrel. Yum. When the barrel is full, the class is going to donate it to the local animal shelter. I knew this was coming, it was in the little month-in-review letter the teacher send home last month.

I saw the barrel on Monday. As is our custom, I asked Logan questions about his day that require him to contribute more than "yes," "no," or "nothing." You know, nice things like, "So, tell me about the dog shaped barrel in your class." So, he did. Tell me that is. Then he throws this curve ball:

"Do you know what the animal shelter is?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I will tell you anyway. It is where pets live when they haven't found a family that will love them and take them home," he says with conviction.

"That's right," I say and I attempt to change the subject but apparently not far enough off topic. I said something witty like "So did you get a biscuit to put in today?"

"We should get a friend from the shelter," he says. And with her impeccable timing Megan yells, "I WANT A DOG!"

"What?" I say, because if you've read this blog long enough you know I've got a gift for eloquence.

"Yes," said Logan. "I think it's time we get a new dog. It's ok if it's an older one. Some day it might die and then I'd have two dogs in heaven. They can be friends there."

Megan interjects again, "I want a dog. Please! Let's go get our dog."

"A dog," I say trying to force my brain to work better, "A dog. Well, I'm not sure we're quite ready for a dog again just yet. Let's just wait and talk to Daddy."

They still chattered about this new pet they expected to get. I felt my heart leap a little. I'd like another dog some day; I just don't think today is that day. Call me chicken, but potty training a strong-willed toddler, getting a pre-adolescent 4 1/2 year old cooperating (remember, bad day, loads of attitude), AND house training a puppy - ahh, yeah, no. And I know the husband person feels the same way. No way.

There is, however, Grandma's dog.

Grandma's dog gets this quasi-love-annoyance thing from the kids the two days a week I work. They love her, but she makes them insane. It's not the food stealing (although that does get to them) it's the herding. Syd is an Australian Shepard. They herd things. She, lacking sheep, herds children. Personally I find it an admirable quality.

And Grandma has a birthday this week so she and Papa are away for a few days. That leaves the dog in the care of my brother, who works long, long hours. Oh and then toss in the construction on a new addition that began this week. The back fence is down. Aussies, I'll have you know, run the first chance they get - open door, gone is the dog.

All this means *I* have had a part-time dog the last two days. Not all day. This dog gets horribly homesick if you keep her out past bedtime. The last time we tried it (years and years ago) I took her home at 1am lest I not sleep at all with her whining and pacing. The last two days she was, however, here several hours of each day.

We played with her. We took her for a walk. (I'm insane, by the way. Two kids and a dog that likes to run on a mile and a half walk. No strollers.) By the last part of this afternoon's romp in the yard we had one preschooler yelling, "SYDNEY GIVE ME BACK MY SOCCER BALL!" and one toddler crying, "SYD! NEE! GIVE! ME! DAT! FRISBEE!"

The yelling stopped long enough for Logan to softly whisper, "Ahh, Mommy. I'm trying to practice soccer and Syd pooped in the goal."

Great.

I smiled sweetly. I cupped the boy's chin in my hand and I whispered back, "This is why we're not getting a dog yet."*

When the three of them weren't fighting over toys or what belonged between the post of the goal net, we had moments like this:

And those led to moments like this:

And some how, it almost made the whole trip to the shelter seem worth it. Almost.

*Logan is not amused. I have told him we can talk dog when he can work the pooper-scooper.

Meme Time - and this one is a MUST read!

When you're looking to buy holiday candy for a peanut allergic child you tend to buy safe items as soon as you find them. In my case that means I had enough Easter candy and small toys to fill two Easter pails shortly after Ash Wednesday.

At Christmas I hid the secret loot throughout my basement: a little under the stair case, a few things buried in a pile of 'to be donated clothes', a little more mixed in with 'why won't the in-laws take it back' baby items. My heart leaps in my throat each time my kids decide to take the "short-cut" from the garage to the house. In other words, instead of heading straight up the basement steps, they wander through big space looking to see what in storage they've forgotten. It's just a matter of time before they find my not-so-clever stash.

Easter has been no different. I've got stuff tucked under my bed and in my nightstand. Suddenly ever bouncey ball or small toy in the house manages to roll itself under my bed. Right behind it goes a giddy 2-year old with a flashlight. Behind her is a boisterous 4-year old yelling "Let me find it!" The bunny is about to be outed.

As a mother, I worry that the Internet isn't much better of a hiding place than the dust bunnies under my bed. With two fairly computer savvy-kids in the house, I know that parental controls are a must - and I know it's only a matter of time before they find the way around them. It won't take much for Logan, a child that reads more than he realizes, to find himself in one of my free-spam-eating email accounts. I shudder to think of places he's going to find the words "big" and "fun" buried in the invitations to porn that seem to tally up quick in the "Junk mail" bin.

They are both at an age where they're never alone online. And yet, that's not going to last forever. That's why when Peggy tagged me to participate in this online movement focusing on Internet porn, I couldn't say no.

Listen, I'm all for freedom of speech. In fact, as often as people use it in ways that can infuriate me I shudder to think where we'd be without that 1st Amendment. That said, freedom of speech does not come without responsibility -- and with Internet porn so easily accessible to children of all ages, it's time we start demanding some responsibility.

PowerBlogger has a great solution to the question of how to keep so many kids away from this really accessible online porn:

"Please require a password-protected login before allowing even free access to explicit adult content. We understand that selling porn is your business and we respect your right to make a legal living. But understand our legitimate concerns and work with us. You already have the “warning adult content” on your websites. Yet kids, who are not legal customers of your product, ignore the warning. So to prevent them from having direct access to explicit images, texts and sounds, the simplest way is to have a password-protected login. No more “free tours” before a visitor supplies basic information."

"How can I help?" you ask?

PowerBlogger simply suggests that we copy and paste the previous statement and post it to all "adult site" webmasters. We're not asking to get rid of all the porn sites. We're just asking that some responsibility begin to emerge -- make the porn less accessible to children. That shouldn't be too much to ask for. If you agree with me and Power Blogger, read An Open Letter to Bloggers Around the World: Help Make the Web Safer for Children and consider helping out.

The best way to success is to recruit more people to the cause. With that in mind, I'm passing the meme on -- I tag all parents and adults that care for children and maintain blogs to join in. I am, however, specifically tapping Nicole and Sandra.

Please - pass-it-on.

Defiance

It finally snowed here. Ok, wait. I *think* it may have snowed while we were in Disney, but since I wasn't here, it does not count. At least the two little people in my house who have been longing for a good snowball fight did not count the missed snow as having fallen.

A couple of weeks ago it snowed enough "wet" snow for us to launch a few snowballs in the evening. It was all melted by the time we woke up in the morning thanks to the rain that began to fall shortly after we went in.

This morning we had nothing. Kids got up. Kids got dressed. Boy kid went to school as the flurries started. Girl kid went to the doctor to ensure her cough was simply an annoying symptom of a mere cold. (It is.) Snow kept falling.

By the time we picked Logan up from preschool the secondary roads were becoming slick. I said at least two prayers or thanks for anti-lock brakes. It was nice to be back in our house - snug and warm. Slowly going stir-crazy.

I didn't intend to take them out. I mean after all, Logan is just getting over the cold. I sound like a 900-phone operator (no I will not call you, don't even ask) and Meg, as already noted, went to the doctor this morning. Something kept nagging at me though - this was our first, and likely last, accumulating snow this winter. Chances of us getting another day to give the ole sled a work-out were nil to none. And so we bundled up.

If the "first" snow could arrive in defiance of pending spring, then we could romp in defiance of flu and cold season's last start too. Granted I may live to regret this (after all, Megan has fallen asleep quite late in the afternoon while watching Thomas the Tank Engine. Drat!) but sometimes we've got to live in the moment.

I took the camera with us as we played. (Is there any other way?) I noticed we weren't the only things defying the weather today - there, poking out of the snow were the daffodil and tulip bulbs I had written off as goners for pushing up green stems and leaves late in December.

What did we do wrong?

A month ago, give or take couple of weeks, I had plans to meet up at a local coffee house with a friend. I arrived, approached the "hostess for the moment" and asked if anyone was waiting for anyone else to show up.

"Not yet," she said, "But you can look." So look I did. I did not find my friend. The "hostess for the moment" decided she'd sit me nonetheless so I could wait in comfort. There are two rooms to this joint. She sat me in the backroom across from the night's local musician -- a guy on guitar who did not sing.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I gave up. I grabbed my stuff and left my complimentary glass of water and two menus on the table. I scanned the other room quickly as I made my way to the door. Outside I called home, "Did S happen to call, by the way?" I asked Bruce. No, no messages, no calls. I headed home.

I got around the corner when my mobile phone rang. "S just called. She's sitting at the place wondering if you're there. I told her you had just called and left." Umm, ok. The car did a u-turn and I hurried back. Too late, she had left.

We managed to hook up on the phone shortly after - laughing at the confusion. When she had arrived the "hostess at THAT moment" knew of no one waiting and sat her down at a table in the front room (aka, not the one I was in) so she could see people come in the front door. Except you can't really see the door well from those tables. Clearly the two of us lack highly attuned observation skills since neither of us noticed the other when I passed from back room to front door -- despite the fact we were both there.

We laughed it off and planned for another attempt at getting together. Except work/life got in the way of that one and we had to postpone.

Tonight we tried again. Margaritas with some food on the side at Chili's. Lots of catching up and chatter. Our few and far between get togethers tend to last quite some time. We ate. We talked. We ran out of food, plunked our money on the table with the check and talked some more. The waitress never came to get the money (perhaps her ploy to get ALL the change as a tip? Not that we actually had enough down to warrant getting money back but she did not know that.)

The restaurant was nearing "empty" save for the staff and a few tables of late diners. We continued to chat, completely oblivious of the hour.

I heard them before I saw them -- employees. One was yelling about "getting out of here" with a colorful expletive or two tossed in for good measure. His co-worker chided him "Customers!" And I thought perhaps the cranky boy was simply mad that the small lot of us hadn't gone home yet, while his buddy was reminding him not to curse about the customers when they were sitting right there.

But that wasn't it.

One of the black shirted young men came to our table, speaking to us and the table near us, "We have to get out, there's a fire in the back."

Well ok then, why didn't you say so.

"Fire in the back", to me, meant "grease fire that we're going to squirt with the extinguisher but we need you to leave lest you want to sue us later for the trauma of being in a burning building." I had thought I might have smelled something burning but hey, sometimes that happens at an eatery. When we got outside, however, there was noticeable smoke coming from the edifice itself and the smell to go with it. S and I got in our respective cars -- parked near enough to the building to want to move out of the fire trucks way. Perhaps out of "flames' way" for that matter.

To get out of the parking lot, one must drive around the side and out the back into the larger lot of a shopping complex. That's when I saw our "grease fire" was so much more. I'm talking "big shooting flames out the back door" fire. Holy crap!

I stopped a moment in a parking spot in the main lot - a feasibly safe distance from the event. I could hear the sirens screeching in the distance already on their way. I saw my friend pull around the and drive past me with a wave goodnight. We were both safe. The trucks were on their way. We headed home. Safe. Sound. Unscathed.

Yet I have to wonder, is there a reason we've having so much trouble having dinner out together? I mean really. I might develop a complex if our luck continues.

This is what we call counterproductive

I decided it was high time the imp's room got a good cleaning. We started with the bookcase, her and I, and made our way through the toys. The problem with cleaning a room with a two year old is that the "out of sight, out of mind" rule ceases to exist. Suddenly it's all in sight...and therefore all in mind.

That room was clean for about 45 seconds.

Need I explain why?

For the Love of Spam

Dear Mr (or Ms) "Money for you to Shop",

Listen, I'm quite flattered that you're thinking about me but I think we need to chat. Ok, so here's the thing. I really love that you've got this great stash of money earmarked for me and all that, but how about we make a deal. How about you just send me the actual check or something instead of flooding my "free-and-just-for-junk" email account with a few dozen messages a day. Everything you send tends to end up in my "junk mail" box and the vast majority of the time I don't even know it's there. I have this compulsive habit of emptying that bin without peaking in it first.

I know you're there though. I see the total number of crap, I mean messages, sitting in that virtual spam can. I know it's you. Well ok, I know it's you and your friend "Laptop for you", sandwiched between a few girls that want to show me what they've got and a couple of "medical" devices that could either put a certain little blue pill out of business or bring an end to embarrassing "the water was cold" moments for men everywhere. (Which, by the way, is quite ironic since, you know, I'm not a guy.)

Yes, I admit it, sometimes I do sneak a peak in the junk box. Every now and then something I do need (or want) ends up trapped in the abyss. Every now and then I rescue it. Usually, however, my adventure into the great pit of despair ends in nothing more than some rolling eyes and groans.

Speaking of which, please do pass on my condolences to your buddy on the loss of whoever or whatever it was he/she was going on and on about. I only got to skim her pleading missive. From what I can tell it is such a terrible thing to endure and yet, I can't seem to feel comfortable helping him/her funnel money through my bank account. I'm sure you understand - I mean obviously you know a little extra cash would be useful here, it's why you've got some for me to shop with, right?

I'm curious. Do you even know my name? I mean every time you send me off a love note you address it to the first half of my email address -- you know, the part before the @. And the thing is, it's not even a name. It's a silly misspelling I created as a goof years and years ago. So am I just some miscellaneous 'gur' to you (I ran out of letters or I'd have been a gurl)? Do you want me to shop simply because you've got a thing for red heads? Suddenly I'm not feeling so special any more - at least not special in your eyes. I bet you're sending your genorsity to other gurs too, aren't you?

Sincerely,
the holder of the free-email account you keep sending your love notes to.

All at once

When we had our children two years apart we knew there'd be times when their milestones managed to overlap. Big moments coming at us all at once.

Wait, first you need to understand something about me. I'm not the type of mom that really mourns the passing of a particular stage. I didn't get sad to see my baby grow to toddler. IN fact, I was almost relieved. I adore my children. I loved their little fingers and their baby quirks...but frankly, I'm really not a big 'infant' fan. I prefer the interaction and the give and take that the toddler years brought and I'm loving these preschool years. We get to a new beginning and I get excited about what comes next - to excited to miss what we're leaving behind.

So, you see, when it came to the big "start of school' ages, I didn't expect any lump in the throat or catch in the chest. I figured it'd be more of the same. More building excitement. More "yup, we're moving on and that's ok." what I didn't bank on is that it'd come all at once. . . even though I knew it would.

A few days ago we began to get information about Kindergarten registration. Our son will turn 5 over the summer and begin school in September. He's excited. He can't wait for the bus and the 'real big kid school.' He's practically counting down the days.

Then today I reach into my mailbox and see a familiar return address - our preschool. What was different was the way the envelope was addressed. It was in regards to my daughter. My baby. She'll turn 3 in September and she'll begin preschool at the same time. She's dying to go. She's begging. She's even willing to give up the diapers to go. (In fact upon seeing the letter today she ran to the bathroom giggling about being a big girl! Granted, she put a pull-up on right after that, but hey, baby steps.)

There it was - all at once. One off to elementary school and the other starting her adventure at preschool -- all at once. Suddenly I found myself looking at my oldest thinking "Wow, he's going to ride that school bus next year on his own. Without me? How's he going to get to class? Holy cow!" Then I looked at my headstrong daughter, "She's really going to sit in circle time? She's going to be gone for two mornings a week...on her own?"

It wasn't that one kid was on the precipice of a giant leap forward -- it was that both were, all at once. And suddenly that lump started to build and my heart skipped a little beat.

Gift receipt required

I was raised in a family that poured a lot of time into gift buying. We mulled. We pondered. We danced around the edges of conversations looking for hints. We wanted to find the 'right' gift that would mean something to its recipient - or at least be appreciated.

Sometimes we don't get it right. We know. It's fine. Here's the gift receipt if you need it. Feel free to exchange it.

Yet I'll admit, when every gift you hand a paricular person ends up disgarded - handed down to a daughter, not even as a 'regift' - it starts to get a little irritating. Why bother wasting the money on the token acknowledgement of a birthday? The 9 year is going to end up with whatever I buy. When I think of the list of items that got a "oh, thanks" and then later "here, you take it" I cringe. Any gift - spa gift certificates, gym certificate (which she asked for, mind you), bath lotions and gels from her daughter (yes, given to her daughter with a "I can't remember who gave me this, but I have no use for it. You have it.), and on and on and on.

My mother was grousing about it a few days ago. The pass-it-on-gift-getter was about to have a birthday and mom was getting cranky just thinking about what to buy that wouldn't be handed over.

"I have one word for you," I told my mom, "MONOGRAM."

And that's exactly what she's going to do. A nice, monogramed blanket - two hearts with both the birthday girl and her future-spouse's name on it.

Yeah, try to give this one away.

Can't argue with him

Megan is clearly overtired and easily melting down over anything and everything. She came to running over asking for help with the bathroom. So we dashed down the hall. She was wearing a diaper but insisting she take it off on her own. The problem, however, is that she’d already gone in it and it was a mess. Not something I wanted her yanking off and getting every where. I took it off for her – and the massive melt-down ensued.

I cleaned her, cheered for her as she did use the potty, calmed her tears and finally got her to lay down on her bed to ‘rest.’ In the midst of all that, Logan comes into the bathroom. “Excuse me,” he says ever so politely, “But I need some ice cubes and a straw for my drink of water. Can you please come get them.”

I said (maybe not as the complete paragon of patience since Megan was flailing around in a fit on the toilet at that moment) “Logan it needs to wait until I’m done here.”

“But I have the hiccups,” he said. I pointed out that I hadn’t heard a single hiccup and he needed to wait.

During a break in the action, I got him his ice and the straw. I returned to Megan and settled her on her bed, then tracked down Logan to chat. I explained that I wasn’t mad at him but that sometimes even saying “excuse me” doesn’t mean you can interrupt. You need to simply wait sometimes. “Logan, you could have had the drink you already poured without the straw or the ice. I needed to clean and calm your sister at that moment. The ice and straw could have waited for a few minutes while I did it.”

He thought about it. He left the room to retrieve his construction paper to make even more Valentine’s. Then he stopped and said, “Hey Mommy. I have a question.”

Ok?

“What’s more important, cleaning a kid or curing a kid?” he asked.

“Well Logan, it was the hiccups which go away on their own and I’m not even sure you actually had them. In this case, the answer is cleaning the kid.” I said.

He shook his head, “Mommy, it is always more important to cure the kid.”

--

Megan finally drifted off to sleep for what has become the rare nap. Logan and I made Valentine's for Daddy. He wanted to play hangman - which, for some reason has become one of his favorite games of late.

He drew the gables, not knowing the true nature of a hanging man, he finds this amusing. He drew dashes under to represent the letters we were to uncover. There were a lot of letters.

"Do you know what that word is supposed to be?" I asked him, wondering if he had something in mind or just liked making the dashes.

"No," he said matter of factly.

"Then how do we know if we guess the right letters?" I asked.

"It's a mystery," he said and he set about guessing.

I think Bill Cosby had it right

Do you remember that show Bill Cosby had in the late 90's? The one with the cute kids spouting comic gems with no effort? Yes, "Kids say the Darndest Things."

Anyone sitting for more than a few moment with a young conversationalist knows this is true - Cosby (and Art Linkletter before him) simply had the good fortune of exploiting it on national television, while the rest of us get to enjoy the show (and possibly the humiliation) from front row seats in our day to day lives.

A few days ago, WordNerd explored the same topic (even referring to the same Linkletter show, which, by the way, is not something I had remembered until I went back to the site for the url to link.) Reading her thoughts reminded me that I had also slacked off from writing in the kids' respective blogs - the ones I like to use for future blackmail by preserving these comic gems for future reference. Then it occurred to me that some of those aforementioned topics (see yesterday's post) swirling 'round my brain were such prime examples.

Of course the tragedy is I have forgotten many of them already. Yet fret not. There are children involved here and they are apt to provide more fodder before I even realize I need it. For example there is Miss Independent Megan who likes to put her own shoes on yet does not always get the right foot and the right shoe matched up properly.

Grandma said, "Meg, honey, I think you have your shoes on the wrong feet."

Meg stopped running. She stared at her feet as she lifted her toes up and down a few times. Then she gave Grandma a puzzled look.

"No, Grandma, they're on my feet."

Or there's Mr. Romance Logan who sat at the table writing out his Valentine's Day cards for the preschool friends. I handed him a card and said, "Is this one ok for Sophie?"

And he said, "Mom! It's not like I'm going to marry her or anything. Geesh!"

Oh, lest we forget the joys potty training can bring. Megan, who knows darn well what to do on the potty and does so when the whim hits her, has developed that oh-so-charming-knack of discussing her (or anyone else's bathroom habits (or lack thereof) at any given moment. For example, kid-gym on Monday. She was lounging on mats waiting for her turn to tumble. She looked up with her eyes really wide and then started to giggle. "I peed and now my diaper is really hot," she informed me and every other mother in a 5 mile radius. Needless to say we took a quick break for a diaper change.

Or last but not least, there was the fine skill of peer-to-peer tutoring. As we left preschool the other day Logan's friend D came running over to a giant bear hug good bye. Logan's pretty particular about who is allowed to hug him. Mom/dad/grandparents/sister? Yes. Rest of world? Not so much. He pulled away, clearly not thrilled with the affectionate display. Seeing the boy was about to attack again, I jumped in with "Oh! Logan, can you high five him good bye?"

Both boys loved the idea. Logan held out his hand. His friend held his high, "Slap me high!"

And Logan did.

"In the middle," said the friend as he moved his hand slightly lower. And Logan did.

"Down low. . ." said the friend who moved his hand quickly away when Logan tried to catch it. "You're too slow!" the boy yelled in a familiar refrain*.

Logan laughed and patted his friend's shoulder. We left the class and as we did, Logan shook his head a little and smiled really wide. "I taught him that you know," he said in the prideful way any master might display when his prodigy excels.

*Damn those cousins in the far away place. It's so nice the things they teach.

Sometimes you just have to leap

The thing about blogging is it's a lot like riding a bike. They say once you know how to ride a bike you can take a hiatus of any length and return to the point at which you left off. Well, I've tried it and I've got to say, it's only half true. I took a long hiatus from riding actual bikes that have two moving wheels. Years later I climbed back on and guess what. I could pedal sure. I could keep myself balanced without the training wheels reappearing. BUT, and it's a big but, I was shaky. I lacked confidence. I was quivering a little and the bike quivered with me. Certainly in short order it was smooth sailing again, but those first few pedal strokes were almost painful.

Blogging is a lot like that. You take a break and then as you decide to return you falter a bit. What will you write? Where do you leap back in? How do you get those folks you've abandoned to return to you? You start with a few words. You peck at the keys and you pound the backspace. Start. Restart. Gather speed. Gather confidence and go. You're back in the groove.

And *that* is where I hope to be after tonight.

I slowed down my writing prior to our trip in the hopes that it wouldn't be quite as obvious I wasn't around. We left here January 27th and returned February 2nd. I posted the Mickey-eared kids as a way to explain the absence. I had full intentions of actually picking up the virtual pen again but I fell off the bike. I had no idea what to write. Or, more accurately, I had too many ideas and no clarity of where to begin.

This morning I answered a question about blogging. It made me stop and reflect a bit. Why do I blog? I had to go back. I had to retrace my steps and remember why I began. It was the muscle -- the writing one. I blogged to keep my muscle moving even when I wasn't using it professionally. I wrote to get the ideas bursting in my mind onto some virtual paper. I wrote to keep in touch with new and old friends. I wrote for love of it not the glory.

And I was letting a little thing like a hiatus get in my way.

Well not any more. I can't promise I'll be regular, but I can promise I won't disappear.

Give a wave, friends inside the computer - those of you that lurk and those that don't. It's sometimes easier to get myself moving when I know I'm not talking to myself. Not that I'm begging or anything.

Why I've not been blogging

Three guess. Do you need them?

Do you take your glass half-full or half-empty?

In my neck of the woods it's been quite unseasonably warm. That is until very recently. Right now it's down right frigid. With the shift in the weather has come a sudden shift in attitudes. Gone are the casual smiles exchanged with ease and the nice cheerful small talk. In it's place are a bunch of scowls and grumps.

I was checking out at a local grocery store last week. The sky was grey and the wind was cold. For the first time since last winter snow flakes had begun to drift aimlessly down from the clouds. It wasn't much. It wasn't even a threat to leave a dusting in it's wake. It was simply a few flurries destined to be forgotten as quickly as they had appeared.

The cashier, however, was living in the moment. She glanced out the window near us and groaned. "I'm so NOT ready for winter!" she said and went back to slowly dragging my purchases across the scanner as if by reflex.

"You are aware it's the middle of January right?" I said to her.

She glared at me and shrugged a little. I, not being one to care much for shrugs like that pressed onward.

"I mean, you've had lots of time TOO get ready for snow. It should have been snowed at least one good snow by now," I said, satisfied I had made a point.

She just squinted her eyes a little and said, "Yeah, but last week it wasn't cold."

I think I might have rolled my eyes, but I can swear to it. Here's the thing - there are somethings in life you simply can't control. What you CAN control is how you respond to it.

Another Perspective

I don't even remember how the conversation began. I do, however, remember very clearly how it went.

Logan said, "Some day I will grow up and be a man like Daddy."

I said "Yup" because I know that if you fail to give Logan at least some sort of verbal nod at minimum he will repeat himself until he's convinced you heard him.

He added, "A big man. Tall."

I changed subject slightly, "And when you're a big grown-up man, what will you do? What kind of job?"

He thought a moment and I expected his usual litany of career options to begin it's march from his aspiring lips. Instead he smiled big and said, "I'm going to sit at my desk all day until it's time to eat. Then I'll get up."

And to think, he's not actually *seen* Daddy at his desk job in at least two years. I figured I'd press a little, "Ok, but what will do at that desk?"

"Work," Logan said in that familiar tone that speaks volumes. As in: Geez, Mom!

He nodded. "Yup, I'm going to do work at my desk until it's time to eat. But before that I'm going to be a Daddy."

"Oh, well, honey, it might be easier if you get your job at the desk first and THEN become a Daddy. That way you can buy food for the baby and live some place that's not my house," I told him for all the obvious reasons.

"Why?" he asked.

"It is just better that way," I told him, wondering when it was time to give him the "Honey, girls prefer employed men" speech. He's 4. I figured it wasn't time yet.

"Why?" he asked.

"It just is," I told him.

--
And yet another work-related laugh:

I'm related to a chef. Not one that ever cooks for us, mind you, but a real, honest to goodness, trained at one of the top culinary schools in the world chef. One with a job as a head chef/general manager.

He's getting married and ends up dragged along to a lot of bridal shows. (And as a good big sister I laugh at him much for going. I've been to those - loaded with grooms they are not.) His favorite thing to do at these shows is sample the food and fill out all those little slips you're supposed to fill out if you wish to win things.

Last one he went to he won.

A personal chef is coming over tomorrow night to cook him and his future wife a dinner.

I know. It's sick.

So this is what a workaholic feels like. . .

I'm tired.

And yet I'm wired.

Last week I got a call. There I was innocently trying to get some lunch at my most favorite supermarket in the entire world (hey, if you were where I was you'd understand the obession) and my mobile phone starts ringing. Although when it first rang I did not hear it. I climb in the van and turn in the direction to return to the office where sane people work.

The phone rings again. This time I hear it.

It's the old office. They have been desperately trying to track me down. They need help. Fast.

And so I, in the interest of generating some extra cash for a 10th annivsary weekend away in late spring, heard them out. Then I accepted the very labor intensive job within it's unbelievably short deadline.

Let me first say that even now, nearly 5 months to the day of bidding bossman adieu, I still tense up when I hear his voice. Is that warped or what?

But on to the good stuff. I work sporadically over the weekend. I work at the real job today, come home to a snowball fight with the remaining vestiages of the itty-bitty snowfall we got last night, watch brainless TV and then settle back in to working for oldplace. I finished just a short-time ago. Still flush with the heaps of thanks and praise from bossman. I know it's a fleeting thing - it always is - and yet it never stops to make me gloat a little when he's laying it on thick.

Soon I will settle to sleep. I will confirm there are no edits needed from me tomorrow and then I will produce the nice invoice that will subsidize my trip to a truly romantic little getaway an hour from here. And then I will be thankful that this is not my norm - this workaholic stuff sucks.

This little piggie

New parents often have a weird obession with their newborn's toes. At some point in those early hours of life, there's a tally taken - do we have 10? Yes we have 10. Well all right then! (I have no idea what we'd do if we ever counted more or less.)

Then there are the non-parental adults in a child's world that seem to have a baby foot thing going. A friend of mine was giddy waiting for the day she could get peek at the little baby toes of both my kids. So tiny to the point you questioned their reality. Could a person be THAT small?

I must confess to finding the small feet in my house a bit of an intrigue. They're invovled in some pretty big 'firsts', if nothing else - those often well documented first steps. The 'biggie' as notable milestones go. And yet, they are so darn small. So flat and so fat. Yup, we're talking puffy little toddler feet.

A few weekends ago when the weather denied it ought to celebrate winter and we basked in the warm sun on the beach Megan gave up her insistance that beach sand on naked toes was unacceptable. She plugged her foot deep into cool, damp piles of sand. She ran across the uneven ground sending clumps of sand about knee high (to her) out behind her to illustrate the nature of speed. She sat and wiggled those toes in the fine grains.

And of course I took pictures.

I sat looking at this particular one for a while. It seemed a little odd at the time to take it - but that never stopped me from doing so before. My husband laughed a little when he saw it. Megan finds it terribly amusing. Yet it illustrates something to me in a way other photos can not.

In our hallway there is a picture frame with a black and white photo of Megan merely days old. Below her photo is a black stamped footprint next to her name and details of her birth stats. (We have an indentical frame for Logan on the opposite wall.) When we stamped her foot that day, it seemed so big - She seemed to have such 'huge' fit as newborns go. Yet now that print seems so tiny it's surreal. So hard to believe my bundle of energy was every that little bundle of baby.

And yet this photo. That foot. Still so small.

Megan is not quite two and half years old. She's got so much life ahead of her and at the same time, so much change already behind her. She's done some major growing recently - not just in size. We've come to know her personality and have begun to understand how to make adjustments in our behaviors to have some success with hers.

And then there's her brother. When he's on his own or with her seems so big. When he's with "big" kids though, he still so small. He's wise beyond his years. He's still such a little kid at the same time.

In the next few weeks we're going to sit with his teacher at the preschool and we're going to talk about his progress this year - and the antipation of next year. The big "K."

He's excited. He can't wait ride a school bus and hit Kindergarten!

Me, I'm a bit in a daze over it. I look at that tiny foot print in my hallway. I look at the photos of his first steps - the big pride-filled smile on his little 10 month old face. I look at the mix of joy and nervous on his face his first day of preschool last year. I look at his foot today - so much bigger and yet still quite small in a way. This same foot that's going to walk him up the steps of that big yellow vehicle and then into those big brown doors of elementary school. I can imagine the years ahead as that same, albeit much larger foot, walks him down an aisle with a cap and gown - so many years away and yet not so many.

Those little feet taking them so very far.

ARGH!!!

So I finally figure out something I wanted to write and I even have a picture I wanted to put with it...and I can't get a damn photo to upload.

Sure, I could blog it without the illustration but what fun would that be? Instead I will go off and pout now. I'm sure there is something not worth my effort watching on TV.

Old Man Winter fights back - but he's still losing

This was Saturday:
It was nearly 70 degrees out. I do not live in Florida. This is not supposed to be January weather here. But that's ok. We did not complain, we went to the beach and we enjoyed it.

This is today:

Yes it's snowing. It is 33 degrees outside and it is snowing. Or at least it was. It was fleeting. It lasted all of 20 minutes. Her coat was in the car, we about to head otu to pick up the big kid from preschool. We took a moment to dash out back to get what could be our only chance at snow this year. (At least if we use the last two months as an indicator.) She demanded her snow boots and her sled. We left the house instead.

The boy got to go out with his class. They caught snowflakes on their tongues. By the time we were all bundled in our coats and our way to the school parking lot the snow had ended. By the time we left the craft store 20 minutes later, the snow was melted - gone. Over. Done with.

It's still cold and blustery. It could flurry again at any minute.

But this coming Saturday it's supposed to hit 60 again...with rain.

What the hell?!

lasting impressions

Yesterday was unbelievably mild for January. We're talking short-sleeves and jeans...in January. When it's usually sweater and coat weather. Maybe snowing. Or at least really cold rain.

We took advantage of the pleasant temperatures to renew our annual pass to the best beach around. And then we spent time on the beach. Some of us found it a great day to take our shoes off and dig our toes into the cool, damp sand. Some of us found it a good excuse to take some photos. Some of us found it worth our while to do both. I'll let you guess which one I was.

The wind wiped my hair into a frentic dance about my head. My bare feet relished the chance to feel the tiny grains of sand tickle the soles. All around me were images begging to be perserved. Some of them spoke to me the way photos can. Reminders that no matter what occurs to us in a living moment, everything we touch or do has great potenial to create a legacy. Images like this:

(And for the record, the new image in my header was also a product of yesterday's beach day.)

So that little big thing

Anyone that knows me well, knows that I don't typically care much what another person does or doesn't do as long as it causes no harm to me or others. To each his/her own. This particularly extends to relationships. Frankly, as long as I'm not the one dating/marrying a person, I don't have to like him/her. If you do, great, I hope you're both happy for a long time.

Unless, of course, things don't appear to be very healthy - and by healthy I mean detrimental to either or both parties. This, is why I was fretting weeks ago about that little big thing. I was worried. Yet I had to keep quiet. It wasn't a time or place for me to speak up. It wasn't up to me to make this call. I had to just watch from a distance and be ready to catch if someone should fall.

And someone did trip just prior to Christmas. So I caught. And then I talked. I shared what was in my heart. He listened. He mulled...and he's still marching on ahead. But at least he now marches with caution. And at least I know I was honest and I know whatever he elects to do, he does so informed. I can not ask for anything more.

For the record, maybe it's just me, but if you love someone, you love them completely. You don't seek to change them into something better. If you love them you don't tear them apart behind their back to anyone in your email address book. If you love them you don't place the blame for anything and everything squarely at their feet. If you're honest with yourself and your mate you take responsbility when you screw up. If you're honest you recognize the person you're with needs to be the one that wants change - and you support not shove them in their effort. If your honest you recognize your issues are best worked out between you, not between you and any sympathetic (or not) ear you come in contact with.

I'm sad but I'll be supportive. He's made the choice despite knowing what he knows. I'll just grin and make nice again. I'll be here to catch if he should falter again. It's back to our status quo - but at least I'm back here without the heavy weight on my shoulders. I said my peace. It's all I can do.

I'd wish ya a Happy but I've got a plug instead

New post is up over on SoccerMom Vote. Go. Read me. But, if you feel the urge to comment, promise you'll be nice. :)

Oh, and Happy New Year!

The kid view of holidays

We wade through the remanents of Christmas here at my house - the piles of unwrapped toys that slowly make their way from tree skirt to new resting place, the decorations that will eventually come down, the left-over food in the fridge, the birthday decorations the kids insisted we put up on Christmas Eve. (Including a Thomas the Tank Engine birthday banner because Baby Jesus is a boy so he'll like Thomas.)

And now we prepare for New Year's.

Logan 'got' Santa a few years ago. This year he's asking questions that start my wheels turning fast. "Doesn't Santa get full?"

"Huh?"

"He gets cookies at every house. Doesn't he get full?" he asks with one eye partially squinted at me in way that tells me the question is really about him analyzing every itty bitty detail.

"Well, all that hard work makes him very hungry."

"I'm leaving him one cookie. He's going to get fat eating too many at every house."

"Honey, Santa is fat. That's party of his charm."

"Yeah, but I think he needs an apple."

There was the discussion Santa coming to his school: Mommy? Is it the *real* Santa coming to preschool or just a fake one?

WHAT?!

And finally, "Why can't I stay up to see Santa on Christmas Eve?"

"Well, Santa is shy," I say with a wink to Dad as we sit in the front seats of the darkened car.

"He wasn't so shy when he talked to me at school," Logan quips back.

Crap.

Megan caught on to Santa too. She requested a big, fat, squishy red Veggie Tale tomato. Ask her today why she begged Santa for one.

"Because Mommy said no. I tell Santa can bring it."

Mommy said no to a lot of things leading up to Christmas. Apparently Santa hasn't learned that word. (For the record, Grandma bought the tomato and gave it to us to stick it with the rest of the Santa loot.)

Yes, they both "got" Christmas. This year, however, Logan actually 'gets' New Years Eve. He's understood days of the week prior to this. He'd even had an understanding of the months. This year, though, he's got a full appreciation of a year change beyond the realm of his own birthday. To boot, this year he wants to party, baby.

And so we are.

No. The preschooler and the toddler will not welcome the year with the drop of the sparkley ball in Times Square. But they will get party hats, noise makers, confetti and sparkling apple cider in fake champagne glasses before their natural bedtime. I've told Logan to start thinking - during the celebration he's to share one thing that was special during 2006 (his soccer team, he's already decided) and one thing he looks forward to in 2007 (the school bus and Kindergarten.)

It'll be a nice start to a new tradition.

15 years too early

I told Megan that we had to leave to pick Logan up from his youth group program at our church. She was resistant to leaving. She had plans to play Thomas. I made it clear this was not negotiable. She thought about it and then nodded.

“Ok. I’ll drive, you sit in the passenger seat,” she said and headed off to find the car keys.

“Ahh, Meg, you can’t drive,” I said because sometimes you have to state the obvious to a two year old on a mission.

“Why?” she asked.

“Well for starters,” I told her, thinking I had a good angle, “You’re still wearing your diapers.”

You could see the little mental shrug. “Ok. I’m going to use the potty ALL. The. Time.”

For the record when I got her strapped in her car seat and stuck the keys in the ignition myself she cried and cried and cried, “I was going to drive! Bad mommy! I’m going to use the potty all the time and drive!” (And, as a matter of fact, she’s in the bathtub as I type this telling Bruce all about it – I wanted to drive the car and I tell mommy I will use the potty but she still say no!”)

I’m so much in trouble with this one!

4 year old frienship

Today was cuddle-and-story time at preschool. I dropped Meg off at Grandma's and headed over for my date. Logan was quite excited to see me arrive. I was instructed on how to sit (criss-cross-applesauce...or for those that don't have children in a PC world - Indian Style.) Logan snuggled himself onto my lap and leaned back against me.

He turned slightly to look at me and whispered with some measure of excitement, "I asked Mark if I could go to his birthday party and he said yes."

"Oh, ok. Well that's great," I said. I glanced at the row of cubby boxes on the wall but my vantage point wasn't one that allowed a good peak. I assumed I'd find the invite when Logan retrieved his papers at the end of class. I mean surely this came up because the kids were talking about a party - right?

Yet, there was no invite. No sign of any pending party.

We walked out the car - Logan yammering on about this and that. I helped him with his seat belt, climbed into my seat and waited for a pause in his running commentary.

Finally my chance.

"Logan? When is Mark's birthday?"

" I don’t know. I guess he’ll tell me when it is and when I’m supposed to come to his party."

Mushy Mush

If you're easily nauseated by outright parental gushing, a word of caution - proceed at your own risk.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm simply an emotional girl with easily misting eyes; I don't know. Sometimes one of my kids can say something or do something that makes me so proud of them I start to tear up a bit, which is what happened tonight.

Today is Meg's December sleepover. It's also Bruce's big trek to the perfect barber night. This left Logan and on our own - a date night. He picked the where and the when. I had to supply the wallet. We had dinner out together with plans to come home for a rousing Monopoly match and a good video before bed. We got sidetracked at the mall.

First it was to peek at Santa. Not speak to him, just peek at him. We peeked. Then it was chocolate at the forbidden zone (aka, peanut laden). And then it was the Disney store. I reminded Logan that he had recently spent the generous porition of his helping bucket money on a gift he'd donate through the church school program this weekend. He nodded. I pointed out the Toys for Tots table and asked if he wanted to get someone else a toy this Christmas. He nodded again and clapped.

The Disney store presented lots of nice options and so we rooted through their giant white plush winter animals marked down generously. Logan picked out the winner - a big, soft, cuddly white Heffalump. We paid. He marched back through the ball - both hands on the oversized Disney bag. He was determined to do this himself. When we got to the donation bin, Logan reached inside the bag, removed the prize and placed it gingerly in the bin with a giant smile. The two volunteers exhaled deeply and told him he was sweet. They offered him a candy cane. He took it with a nod and thanked them.

As we walked away he took my hand, clutching his reward tightly in the other hand. "You know what?" he asked me. I responded appropriately - What?

"My favorite part of Christmas is giving gifts to other people," he said with the sort of complete sincerity 4 year olds have yet to figure out how to fake. He went on to explain why he picked the toy he did - it was soft and squishy. Certain to make someone really happy and so therefore perfect for this sort of thing.

I was so proud. I *am* so proud. And I'm just a little teary eyed.

What would she say to John? and other kid stuff

We have the original Little People Nativity.

Of course that's not as antique as it sounds up there in italics. We got ours about 5 years ago when you could only order it from the catalog and the animals were not yet the new "touchy-feely" variety. We have no shepards quaking or drummer boys drumming. Just a few wise men and a new family with a angel to watch over them all.

It's been a favorite toy in our house from it's debut, in large part because it only appears in December each year.

Megan has spent a great deal of time playing with this thing since it came upstairs a few weeks ago. Sometimes she replaces the wise men for Little People kids dressed as Easter Bunnies and (LP styled)Dinosaurs.

We egg her on. After all, the baby did come for all and not just a select few.

Tonight, as we huddled with our collective runny/stuffy noses under quilts and watched the Grinch steal Christmas yet again, Megan dragged out a camel and a handful of wise men.

She'd place each of the two kings she was toting around upon the camel's back and take them for walks. Until she got bored of that. Then she retrieved the poor baby laying in a manger. She pet him with one finger as gently as a two-year old can. Then she tilted her head to one side and said, "Come on. You have to take a bath Baby Jesus."

Luckily the Grinch and Max distracted her before she filled a bowl up with water from the water cooler in the kitchen.

-

In other holiday goings on, Santa's going to get this mom in trouble. We were shopping for a book at small shop. Megan spied the tomato from the Veggie Tales. Mind you, Megan has never actually SEEN the Veggie Tales unless they've shown a video or two at church that I didn't know about. She just knew this big, red, stuffed tomato was soft and squishy....and something she did not already have.

"Mommy, I want the tomato," she said to me quite sweetly.

"Honey, no. I'm not buying you a stuffed Veggie Tale that you'll play with today and then forget about tomorrow. Besides, it's so close to Christmas and you're going to get so many neat things."

"I want the Veggie!" she wailed.

And I stood firm.

When we got home she was still pouting. I reminded her again about Christmas and the lovely gifts that awaited her. She didn't care. Instead she's launched a new mantra -- one that continues a week later:

"I want tomato but Mommy say no. Santa will bring me Veggie Tale!"

Damn it.

--

At least I'm not the only one she's harping on. We took their soon-to-be cousin (pending a family wedding) Christmas shopping yesterday afternoon. Three kids - 9, 4, 2 - and me in the massive chaos that was Target. I know.

As we stood in line waiting to check out, Megan spied a small stuffed elephant with a tag around it's neck - the tag is where you're supposed to put a gift card.

Hmmm.

Stuffed? Check.

Cute? Check.

Not already in inventory? Check.

Megan wailed, "Elephant! I want that! Can Santa bring it to me?" (Now, frankly folks, Santa's all done with her shopping and she's not buying another thing no matter how cute the kid is.)

Instead cousin-to-be-G stepped in. She decided to get it for Megan as her Christmas present. "But you have to wait for Christmas," she said to Megan as she put it up on the belt. I didn't bother trying to explain the whole "two-year-olds-lack-patience" problem to the 9-year old.

Megan saw her new toy-in-waiting when we got back to our house. She asked. G said no. Megan flew into full pout mode: “G say no. I can not have my elephant. Bad G.”

To prevent future outbreaks of toddler scolding big kid, the cousin decided to hide the elephant at our house. Logan suggested they hide it where he has Grandma’s gift hidden. G decided to put it near Logan’s laundry basket. Long story not so short – Megan found it tonight. We won’t telling her cousin.

--

Movie review? Happy Feet - Logan loved it and is now on a real "don't liter" kick. Megan says she liked it but she's judging the total of 20 minutes she sat still (scattered throughout the film, of course.) She will also tell you that when Daddy took her out of the theatre the fourth time he would not let her return again.

"Daddy say no I can not go back in. Bad Daddy not let me see Happy Feets."

Unless you catch on her on happy upswing in moods. Then she'll say "I saw Happy Feets Pang-in in the feeture"

Logan saw his first movie at 29 months old -- The Polar Express. He did not flinch the entire time except when he was clapping wildly in the right places. Megan, on the other hand, clearly *not* ready for the cinema.

--

Speaking of the boy. . .his teacher is working on a 'good citizens' unit at the moment. They've started a "Good Behavior Chain." Each extraordinary good deed is considered for the day's link. (Being preschool everyone is going to end up with a link sooner or later.) Logan loves this and has instituted his own chain at home -- for him.

When I pick the kids up on my work days, they both have a tendency to talk. Without. Pause. At. All. No. Stopping. Ever. On these days I sometimes have to work at talking over them saying repeatedly, "Logan. Logan. Stop. Talking. Listen. Shhhh....."

Except today I could not talk over him because it made the throat hurt too much. I told him this. He got quite and then started talking again after a pause too short for me to say much more.

"I think when we get home, I need to get your water so your throat might feel better." he said. He's thinking of what we do for him in the morning when he wakes up with a dry mouth/dry sore throat. The water always helps.

As soon as we got in the house he ran for the kitchen, dug out his favorite plastic Diego depicting cup and added water from the water cooler. He handed it to me (with about a sip worth of water in it - haste never equates to full cups.)

The hand off complete he eyed me thoughtfully and said “Ok, do I get a link on my chain for this?”

Cough. Hack. Sneeze.

The girl is sick - her nose runneth and runneth....and runneth.

The boy is getting sick. He coughs at night and occasionally races his sister to the tissue box.

The husband is sick. Sore throat he says. Tired.

The mom is sick. Mack truck ran her over. Lack of sleep compounds the problem. Did I mention the girl spent most of last night either awake and complaining or asleep and complaining?

Send chicken soup. Send much caffeine. Send lovely little videos that mesmerise children for hours. Send Grandma.

Ahh, yes. Grandma is coming. She is taking the children. Mom is going to work. Some how I think work will be more restful. Hey, I'm not new here.

That little big thing

Something fairly little has gotten in my way of blogging this week. It goes like this: I want to write about something in this outlet - I NEED to write it in some outlet - but I can't. That's the little part.

The big part - well what I want to write about is fairly big I guess. It does not impact me directly, per se. But it does impact someone close to me. I'm worried this person is making a mistake -- the sort of mistake that alters the rest of your life. I just can't tell him that. And since I can't tell him that and since I never know who's going to read this blog...well I can't blog about it either.

I've spent a lot of time mulling this. Loads of time biting my tongue and smiling sweetly. I'll keep doing it. And I'll keep wishing I could write about it while not writing about it.

Shameless Plug

So there's this bloggity friend of mine that had a pretty neat idea. First, let me say, that outside of this pretty neat idea, Nicole of Sitting Still is one of those bloggers that make you thankful you took the time to poke around sites beyond your 'inner circle.' Seriously, if it was possible to hold a coffee and/or drinks mom-a-thon across the world wide web, she's the sort of person I'd want to include. I know we'd have a great time.

So anyway, she has this great idea - a political blog. But not just a political blog, mind you, a political blog centering around the voices of an important voting block: The Soccer Mom. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. That mini-van driving, carpooling, thinking-all-the-same block of voters either side of an election likes to woo. Except we don't all think alike (and some of us don't even have mini-vans.)

This blog, The Soccer Mom Vote, gathers many different voices from this demographic in one place. Each day a different team member waxes poetically (or debates fervently, depending on your view) on the political or social issue of her chosing. And who is that wearing Jersey #2 (and therefore posting on the 2nd of each month)? Why it's me.

First post goes up tomorrow. It's nothing earth shattering. I'm sure neither political party will be quaking in their boots in the aftermath. But it's a start.

If you're blog hopping around, come and say hi. You don't even have to wait until tomorrow. Go say hi to some of the other roster members now. Great stuff showing up there already.

Kid at heart

Some people spend their "Friday after" knee deep in crazed shoppers trying to get the best price on whatever hits their must-have lists for the holidays. Not me. At least not this year. (I do confess to storming the doors of a particular craft store at 5am one year so I could use a 60% off coupon on a particular wooden train set only to return two hours later to use the 50% off coupon on smiley faced trains for said set.)

No, this year I spent "Black Friday" at a children's museum in upstate NY near the in-laws. We spent last year much the same way and with good cause. The moment we mentioned a potential return visit my now four-year old began to shot off a long list of questions relating to whether the things he remembered (quite accurately) from last year would still be there. Luckily the answer was yes, plus a whole lot more.

I'm not sure which of us enjoyed the visit most - it's a toss up between me and the two people under 4 feet tall that are in my charge. I do know that Logan did not enjoy my favorite excitement as much as Meg and I did. He had this notion that butterflies actually LANDING on you was quite horrific and not nearly as much as fun as knocking over giant chess pieces in the Giant's (of Jack and the Beantalk fame) playroom.

I (as well as the two other adults and the two-year old) found the butterfly garden to be nothing short of amazing. My only disappointment is that those two beautiful bright blue insects did not stay still long enough for a photo. And that's fine. Perhaps I'm just a glutton. I did get photos like this (click to view larger image):

Obligatory Thankful post

We leave tomorrow for the annual pligramage (pun intended of course) to the in-laws'. It'll be...well it'll be. It's a long ride. It's two young children. It's, oh never mind.

I am thankful, however, that I have two children healthy enough and articulate enough to complain on that long ride. I won't enjoy their "are we there yet?" ritual, but I rejoice in their ability to say it. ;)

I am thankful for the inlaws because they mean I have the husband.

I am thankful for my own health. For my family. I am thankful for the chance to sit and take it all in. For the reminder that I need to step back and take a deep breathe long enough to appreciate the things I've been gifted with.

I am thankful for the challenges because they make who I am. I am thankful for the easy roads I've stumbled upon because they give me a rest.

I am thankful for those I've yet to meet for they represent tomorrow's adventure. I am thankful for those I no longer see because their impact is still felt. I am thankful for the things it's sometimes hard to be thankful for because they help me appreciate what *is* easy to be thankful for. They also help me learn and grow.

Happy Thanksgiving.

out shape or old

There's this tree in our back yard that I've hated for a very long time. It's an evergreen - long and scraggly with feathery green fingers instead of pine needles. Late in spring I noticed it wasn't doing well. It had two primary trunks and every branch growing off the back trunk was dead.

No green. Just brown.

And then, as spring passed into summer the brown spread. With fall, came bare branches.

I don't normally nag the spouse but sometimes he just asks for it. This tree was one of those occasions. I asked him to cut it down. I nagged. I reminded. I nagged some more. I gave up. Life just got in the way and when we did have free time, other household and yard tasks demanded our attention. (Did I tell you my subconscience knack for getting rid of things I hate is to break them? The garage door last year, the storm door this year...and then the outside light fixture that I managed to break off the base of a lightbulb in?)

The boy and I headed out back today as the girl napped. I started pulling up the annual flower beds despite the few live bloosoms that clung to them. I stood back and admired the raw earth thinking how sometimes the empty bed in the crisp air felt so clean and fresh - ready and waiting for a new beginning. Then I thought of that dead ugly hated tree. The boy wanted to help - because he thinks he thinks he's much older than he is. His job, easily enough, was to stand a safe distance away and cheer me on.

I retrieved a saw. Then an ax. And hacked away. I sawed away. I worked. I swore silently under my breathe realizing why my dad used to have "under the sink language" when doing various household projects. I slung the ax again. I heard some give. I grabbed hold of a branch about as high up as I could reach while flat footed. I pulled. I changed angles and pulled again. Snap. I got better grip, a new angle and I pulled with all my might. Down came the tree.

I put the tools away in the garage home. The boy hung onto a lower branch and "helped" me drag the monster dead trunk to the front yard. It's up to the husband to discard of the thing. I have no idea what he'll do with it but I'm sure having it in his way will prompt him to do it faster than it took him to cut it down.

I felt good for about 2 minutes.

Then it hit me. I was hot. Very. Very. Hot.

I was winded. At least I was with each swing of the ax.

And my arm is killing me.

Years ago a heavy dose of spreadsheet work for a catalog I was developing started the twinges. The right hand. The repetitive stress injury (rsi). It got bad. It got better. It went a very long time without recurring. I lost the wrist brace. I forgot the way it hurt. But lately it's been back. Perhaps the height of the desk in the new office or the time spent working/playing/emailing/blogging at home. I don't know. What I do know is that using an ax clearly is not 'RSI' friendly.

I'm trying to make myself feel better about this panting for air and nursing the sore arm by believing anyone weilding an ax on an old tree would feel the same - at least anyone with an old 'mouse-related' injury. Yet I'm not sure that being relatively out of shape (despite the regular spin class attendance) or the fact that I'm not 23 any more (which would have been the last time I slung an ax, I think) wasn't a contributing factor. Then again, I'm not sure I care why it hurts. Instead I will take my sore forearm, stop trying to close my fingers into a fist (because I can't at the moment), locate the ibruprophen (nicknamed Vitamin I in our house) and convince the boy child to remain quiet long enough for me to take a hot shower while his sister finishes up her nap.

Wish me luck.

Thanks Stuart Smalley

I've had a few conversations about happiness lately. With different people. Completely independent of each other and always initiated by the other person. How to be happy. Where to find happy. What to do get happy.

Is this a hot topic in anyone else's world?

The talk always lands at the same spot. Me saying gently, "You know what. The *only* way you're ever going to be really happy is when you stop looking outside yourself to find it. Happiness grows inside out."

And then I wonder where my big mirror is so I can turn to it with a huge, loving smile and purr, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."

So much to say

It's been one of those weekends - the kind where you run around a lot and get almost nothing done. Nothing. Almost.

Instead I spent it relishing the final vestiages of warm temperatures mixed with the crisp smells and sounds of dying leaves beneath the feet. I mean really, who can get anything done when you've got this:

And now we remember. . .

The old bossman had a bad habit. He'd toss out a project with a deadline. Very clearly and emphatically let you know that you had best meet that deadline. Then the resulting draft would sit in his inbox for untold lengths of time. Out of the blue one day you'd get an email with multiple puncuation marks. (As in "Where is my draft???????") To which I would usually reply, "Draft is attached. Please refer to my email below dated xx/xx/xxxx for details."

Yeah, because really I can be discretely bitchy. (Or not so discrete perhaps.)

Well yesterday I get another email from the old place. The old bossman is missing a draft. Or more specifically he's fired off an email in the "what happened to this?????" vein. I spend time last night finding it. I send it with a reference to the original draft date.

Are you ready?

I submitted the original draft for editing in April. APRIL! Seven months have gone by from a piece I did (by the deadline) and when it's deemed important enough to review.

At least I get to bill for the search. Not to mention I've been reminded once again why I left in the first place.

I'm back!

The trip was fantastic. The shopping was divine (and prolific!) The bonding time was perfect and the photo taking opportunities to die for.

I have nothing else to say. I'm tired. My poor little shopaholic feet are aching. My "lugged lot of bags around" shoulders are sore and my head yearns for it's pillow.

Here's a sample of the photos I snapped in between bleeding my wallet dry:

The rest of the photos can be viewed here: Lancaster Trip Album

Buy me some quilts and shoo fly pie

Truth? I've never eaten Shoo Fly Pie. The heavy smell of molasses makes it seem so very unappealing to me.

That's not the point however.

The point is that this week marks my 10th annual "girl" weekend. Me. Mom. And inn of our choosing. No house to clean. No children to chase. No dinner to prepare.

Nothing to do but shop and languish in the complete and utter lack of responibility for three days.

For the last 8 years we've been going to the same place - Lancaster, PA. The last 6 years we've stayed at the same Bed and Breakfast. This year we're returning to the Amish land, but we've selected a new inn. . .one we're 'testing' to see if it's "Megan appropriate." Next year she will join us in our girlie bliss. (So much for the 'no children to chase.)

So there you go my bloggity buds. I will not be around to blog hop and commiserate. I will be forking over my cash for crafty things to scatter about my house and a vast array of items purchased at the very, very big outlet mall. I will be wearing real "dress-up" clothes that no one can smear runny nose or remenmants of mac-and-cheese on. I will be sleeping late. I will be having adult conversation that no one can interrupt with "But she took my toy!" I will have someone else clear the table without looking for praise in doing so. (Tip, yes, pack on the spousal back no.)

And then, after two nights and three days I will return home very content and very happy to be wrapped up in three sets of loving arms. I will laugh (not cringe) at the "What did you bring me back?" that all expectant sets of hands will be pulling for. I will settle in amongst my pile of bags and locate the different "I was thinking of you" gifts and I will feel quite loved and estactic to be right back home.

And I will be refreshed.

And then the next day I will begin planning/saving for next year's trip.