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?