The Children's Circuit

In the last five years, I've attended my share of children's performances. Daddio has attended his share, too, but still fewer than me. We've braved Blues Clues, Sesame Street Live, Dragon Tales, the Big Apple Circus, the Wiggles and Disney On Ice. I imagine that subconsciously I've forgotten various other performances, but that shows how meaningful those experiences actually were.

I don't recall attending or even the availability of so many children's productions when I was a youngster. Perhaps I was sheltered in this respect, but more likely, kids created their own performances outside on the neighbor's lawn, in my day. Kids programming was limited, at best.

Yesterday evening, we attended The Wiggles Concert.



To say the least, The Wiggles Concert, live and in-person, is an experience. It would be virtually impossible to find yourself nodding off as Jeff, Anthony and Murray scurry through the audience and Greg jokingly plucks out a few notes of Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven for the adults' benefit.

When I originally heard about these four Australian guys, prancing around onstage belting out children's tunes, I assumed they were gay. Who in their right mind would do this for a living? I assumed, they either must be out of their minds, or consumed large amounts of uppers, namely Prozac.

Then, two years ago, I heard a "cool" dad, dropping off his children at school, remark to the preschool teacher, "Hey, sorry the kids are late, today. We went to the Wiggles concert last night. Boy, they were amazing! They're like the Rolling Stones for kids."

Like the Rolling Stones, eh? I figured I better check it out. So, I set up our Tivo to record the show. My kids were immediately hooked. Within a few weeks, the kids demanded to dress in their ballet attire and dance to the Wiggles on television a few times a week. They could watch the same episode three times in a row, possibly more, if I'd allow it.

Last year, we attended our first Wiggles concert. I recall being stunned by the energy. The parents (particularly the mothers) seemed just as mesmerized by these four Aussie fellows as the kids. The mommies belted out every word of every tune as their children swayed their hips and clapped their hands. Not that I've been to a Rolling Stones concert, but it was like stuff I'd seen on MTV.

Now, over a year later, of Tivo-ing the show and listening to the Wiggles tunes, I, too, can belt out the words to nearly all the Wiggles tunes. I've become one of those mothers who is just as mesmerized by these Aussie fellows as are her children. Even Daddio, sang along to the songs he recognized.

However one feels about the four Aussie men, collectively known as the Wiggles, depriving a child of a Wiggles Concert is like depriving them of their childhood these days. If there is one thing that a parent could choose to do with a child, I strongly recommend attending a live Wiggles show. The energy present at both shows I've attended is as exuberant as Times Square in New York City.

I hope we attend the Wiggles concert again next year! At one point, Daddio asked if all the adults actually brought children to the concert. I wonder myself... maybe we will become the sort of parents that will continue to attend the annual concerts when our children are in high school and college.

Doubtful, but not beyond the realm of possibilities.... Why knows, by then, we may find the Cheetah Girls tolerable.

Turnaround

Today, being the last day of this set of swim lessons, Scooter had a 180 degree turnaround.

Here's the proof:



And some actions shots of Teacup:

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Basis of Need

Teacup has begun to compare notes with her schoolmates.

When she returned home from school earlier this week, she announced that her buddy, Alisha, received more gifts from the Easter Bunny than she did.

Quick on the draw, I responded that the Easter Bunny brings kids things based on their individual needs. Aside from too many jelly beans and too much chocolate, this year, Teacup and Scooter received new swimsuits, beach towels, flip-flops and a small toy in their Easter baskets. I assured her that she received the items she needed to start the summer.

Letting that sink into her noodle, she paused. Then, she asked, "Why does Alisha need more than one kite? I need a kite, too!"

I'm having trouble keeping up with the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny antics. What am I going to do when Santa comes around again in eight months?

Swim To Me

This week, the girls are taking swim lessons at a friend's pool. These pictures quite accurately sum up the current state of affairs.

Teacup takes on the persona of a mermaid in the water.



Clearly, she is pleased with her abilities.

Scooter shows a totally different side!



While this last photo will garner some yucks, I hope to post more flattering photos of Scooter by Friday.

Paralyzed by Technology

Last week, my life came to a screeching halt when my computer crashed.

In the working world begot with paychecks, when technology failed me, I called the IT help-line. The 5 digit extension was etched into my cerebrum. Even though the IT department was outsourced by the time I turned in my resignation letter, those guys were always just a call-a-way. I never cared if they thought I was some ridiculously ill-informed user. Nor did I mind if they mocked my technological ineptitude. All I cared about was their ability to fix my machine while I took a ten-minute walk around the building to relieve my frustration. Documents and emails never get lost, unless the company is under investigation by Eliot Spitzer.

The IT help-line was another advantage of the working world. There was always someone there to fix my stuff. Even when my home computer faltered, some tech guy could always keep me surfing the net at work.

It took five days of daddio's dedication to fix my home computer problems last week. I offered zero help. It's not that I didn't want to, I just couldn't. Honestly, the only form of assistance I could have offered would have been brownies or chocolate chip cookies. However, I mucked that up, too, given that I didn't consider it until now. Go figure.

During those long five days, I tried not to think too hard about the potential damage to my life. I had a few minor inconveniences. I would have lost some contact information that would have taken time to recover. Most importantly, I would have lost nine months of precious pictures.

I've never lost a limb. Perhaps it's not fair to compare. But, I sure felt dismembered!

Fortunately, Daddio saved the day. I'm back up and running with none of my photos, contacts or documents noticeably missing.

Thank you Daddio!

Anti-Antibiotics

Scooter awoke with a red puffy eye two days in a row, earlier this week. Her eye appeared crusty due to some sort of nasty discharge. By the afternoon of the second day, a pinkness encircled the puffiness of her eye. It deteriorated as her pupil peered at me through a diminishing slit.

Pinkeye was the first mom-diagnosis that entered my mind. I've never had pinkeye and I've never formally spotted pinkeye, but I assumed that's what she'd caught from some other germ-infested preschooler.

So, I dragged Scooter and Teacup to the doctor.

As the pediatrician examined Scooter, he seemed to struggle internally about what to do. Eventually, he confirmed that she had not caught pinkeye. Phew! However, she needed antibiotic eye-drops and an oral antibiotic for seven and ten days, respectively. In a rush to be dismissed, without question, I accepted the instructions and immediately filled the prescriptions.

The first day, Scooter liked the idea of the "treatment". With minor opposition, she drank the citrus-flavored oral antibiotic and allowed us to squirt a drop in her inflamed eye.

Her eye quickly returned to a nearly normal state. Then, she strongly refused the oral antibiotics. By her age, a few weeks shy of three years old, when she refuses to ingest something, I can no longer squeeze her cheeks and force it down the hatch. I knew any effort to force the issue would result in her spewing the medicine out of her mouth and me wearing it. I've been down that road with Teacup. No need to repeat that experience....

I focused on the eye-drops. By the time the next dose was to be dispensed, she started to put up a bit of a struggle. She fought to cover her eye. I eventually pinned her to the ground and forced a drop into her somewhat swollen eyeball. The next time, the minor struggle blossomed into a wrestling match with me holding her arms behind my knees and prying her eyelid open. Finally, Scooter added a head-thrashing motion to the full-fledged brawl. So, I gave up on the eye drops for fear that either my fingers or the eyedropper would do more harm than good.

Making excuses, I convinced myself that the pediatrician must have been overly cautious to prescribe both eye-drop antibiotics and oral antibiotics. I figured in the overly anitibotic-crazed society we live in, she doesn't need to OD on antibiotics.

When we returned to the pediatricians office for a follow-up visit, the doctor expressed pleasure regarding Scooter's recovery. However, he hesitated when he peered down her throat.

"How are those oral antibiotics going?" he asked.

"Well..... um..... Scooter doesn't seem to like them. So, I didn't force the issue." I ashamedly stammered.

"Oh. Well, just watch her pretty closely because Scarlet Fever is going around." And that was the end of the discussion.

Now you tell me!, I thought.

Since that visit, I've decided that we are an anti-antibiotic family despite being entirely ignorant of the real issues.

Does this make us pro-biotics?

Birthday List

This afternoon, Teacup and I sat down to jot down her birthday list. She's turning five years old. Here's what she enthusiastically asked for:

1. Jewelry Box
2. Princesses (which one? All princesses!)
3. Make-up
4. Polly Pockets
5. Princess Game
6. Princess Purse
7. Guitar

As we finished eating dinner, she said, "Oh yeah. One more thing. Mom can you get me HOMEWORK for my birthday?"

Phone Preview

With Daddio focused on the NCAA basketball tournament during dinner, the girls and I ate dinner together. Okay, they watched me eat my dinner and they talked about their respective days. After I finished my meal, theirs untouched, I took the opportunity to practice using the telephone. Teacup knows the important telephone numbers - the house phone and my cell phone number, including area codes.

To date, she's never let her fingers do the walking.

I gave her the house phone and held onto my cell. To start, she practiced calling my cell. Getting the hang of it, we switched and she called the house phone from my cell.

Making telephone calls is no longer intuitive. When you tell someone to "hang up" the phone, there's nothing to hang up. Telephones rarely hang from the wall anymore. Furthermore, it's rare to see a telephone receiver attached to a long, spiral cord (unless you live in California and deal with earthquakes).

One day, when I'm old, grey and wrinkled (more-so than my current state), the phrase "hang up the telephone" will become obsolete, if it hasn't already. (Teacup blankly stared at me as I instructed her to "hang up the phone" this evening.) At some point, I imagine a youngster asking me the origination of that silly, meaningless phrase. What will people say when they can no longer explain the derivation of the phrase? "Press the button" just doesn't have the same connotation. Given all the various buttons in our lives, which button do you press? Even "end the call", still doesn't seem to cut it. Maybe I'm just old-school.

I regress.

Teacup enjoyed the telephone exercise. Then, Scooter wanted to get involved. I handed over the telephones and walked away (yet still nearby).

I captured this moment:



and fear the teenage years.

Deluge of Incoming Information

Recently, I've been drowning in paperwork. There seems to be this increasing, insurmountable amount of mail, junk, semi-junk, and non-junk amassing in my kitchen. Among those three mail categories there are school flyers, notes and documents that must be sorted.

They must be sorted and there is only one person able to do the sorting. Me. I'm self-appointed. I schedule the calendar. I know what's worthy of keeping and what can be chucked. Why? Because I chose to serve as the family manager. Plus, in my past life (pre-children), I was incredibly organized. I was so organized I had my spice rack in alphabetical order.

So what happens if I don't sort it? What will I miss? A bill payment? A book fair? A birthday party? Camp registration? Another credit card offer? A birth announcement (seems to be a baby boom among our friends)? Introduction to Libby Lu's Pooch Parlor?

Having recently sorted one of the many paper piles on my kitchen counter, I noticed that we receive more credit cards offers than is prudent, or financially healthy, for any household. I don't know how many trees have been sacrificed to propose consolidated credit or an incredibly low APR. It never matters what we're offered because I submit these overtures immediately to the shredder, located ten feet from the amassing paper piles.

Then, a friend enlightened me to the small print found at the bottom of every credit card offer.

1-888-5-OPT-OUT

I could have saved so many trees by now. I should have done more.... but who reads this junk anyway?

Way To Go, Daddio!

Daddio ran the LA Marathon today.



When he hobbled into the house after the race, his three girls were lined up and thrilled to see him!

Teacup shouted out, "Daddy, daddy, did you win?"

Daddio, smiled, and responded, "No, honey. I didn't win. But, at least I finished the race!"

I interjected, "But in our eyes, Daddio, you won!"

Way to go, Daddio! You are our hero!

Life Is Short

And for some, life is even shorter.

I signed on to be a sorority advisor at CSUN last August. It's the same sorority I became involved with during my college years. As an active member many years ago, the sorority served it's purpose. I made some friends, I learned how to make small-talk at parties. I learned how to organize and conduct meetings. I wasn't the most enthusiastic member, but I wasn't entirely apathetic either. Eventually, I outgrew the group and closed that chapter of my life. But, I have loosely maintained a connection to the women's fraternity to find acquaintances when I move to a new locale.

Since the beginning of the current school year, I have advised these young women on matters of Academic Excellence, whether or not I'm qualified. More than anything, it's interesting to see how far I've come in the last thirteen years of my own life since leaving the college scene.

Early this morning, I received a telephone call from a fellow advisor. Surprised to hear a voice instead of reading an email, she informed me that the outgoing chapter president celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Hollywood last night. Apparently, a drunk driver hit her. She passed away early this morning.

The shock of the news is mind-numbing. While I had only met this young, twenty-one year old woman a handful of times, I am keenly aware of her charisma and presence. Overall, I'm paralyzed. I don't know what to say or do. I can only think about this tragedy from the viewpoint of her parents, whom I have never met. I empathize with them despite having never lost a child of my own. It's not supposed to happen this way....

We know that we raise our children to be independent, to make their own decisions. As parents, we teach, we guide, we support. Subconsciously we know that our protective shield is finite, but it's hard to accept this fact. We tell ourselves to trust that our children will be safe in the world without us. We tell ourselves this, but deep down, we know this is a self-comforting fabrication which allows us to go on with our own lives. When tragedy strikes, the truth comes crashing down around us.

Life is fragile.

So, in my fog, I bend down to hug my kids throughout the day, for no apparent reason, other than that I love them.

Life is short.

As Abraham Lincoln once wrote, "In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."

St. Patty's Day

Ready for St. Patrick's Day, all dressed in green!

Snow Day

When I was a kid, between December and March, I longed for as many snow days as Mother Nature could afford in any given year. I didn't want one during the weekend. What a letdown when that happened! The idea was that snow days meant "holiday", like winter break, spring break or pupil-free days. But, those days were less appealing being scheduled.

The allure of a snow day was the spontaneity of it. Instead of doing math problems and answering reading comprehension questions, I wanted Mother Nature to throw a wrench in the teacher's lesson plan allowing me and my friends to build snowmen, pummel one another with ice balls, and more than anything, sled down the schoolyard hill on our toboggans in the fresh white powder. Triumphantly, we would glimpse the dark, icy windows of our classrooms while repeatedly marching up the hill and sledding down in the schoolyard. If we were as advanced as kids are today, we probably would have waved our middle fingers toward those empty halls. Eventually, we trudged home with chattering chins, stomped our moon boots clean and begged for a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

That was Iowa.

Living in sunny Southern California, my kids don't experience snow days as I know them. Out here, snow is imported on snow day. It's a planned activity conveniently scheduled in the teacher's lesson plan, right after the math problems and before reading group. In fact, the teachers send home a note to ensure that parents send appropriate clothing for the snow. Perhaps they fear the kids will contract frost bite.

Imported and scheduled snow is not really snow. Not the white fluffy kind that beautifully lines the trees and freezes your nose hairs. California snow is brought to the kids' schools by the ton. It's made from giant ice cubes ground into little ice granules that immediately stick together, harden and melt. To me, there's no fun in it. It's like removing the presents from Christmas or the chocolate bunny from Easter.

Don't get me wrong. I have no intention of moving back to the chillier four-season climates experienced by much of the rest of this country unless I'm handcuffed to a moving van. I have little interest in purchasing another shovel to clear paths to my car or the mailbox. I've done my fair share of scooping and blowing snow.

But a part of me feels like my girls are missing out on the realities of snow day. They are overly excited to wear hats, gloves, scarves, winter coats and snow pants. Honestly, they don't need that apparel, it's more for fun. It's like dressing up for Halloween or being a princess for a day. If anything, they are more likely to encounter heat exhaustion around here on snow day than frost bite.

In fact, one teacher wore a skirt, sneakers with no socks, gloves and a white tank-top as she pushed kids on a toboggan down a hard, manmade snow hill on Scooter's snow day. The external temperature gauge read 74 degrees in my car. Not a cloud hung over our heads. It was clear and sunny. For us, snow day required little more than the use of sunglasses and sunscreen.

Only in California!

Flat Stanley

Flat Stanley arrived safely at our house yesterday afternoon. He was sent to us from my niece in the midwest.

I hadn't even heard about the Flat Stanley Project until my sister called me about it last week. Apparently, Stanley Lambchop has even been in the news.

Stanley has a very busy schedule while visiting the Los Angeles area. He plans to accompany Scooter to school this afternoon, Daddio to work tomorrow, and may make an appearance for Teacup's "share day" on Thursday. So far, he's been an asset to our family.

He helped Teacup discover the lost bagel from last week and accompanied us to gymnastics. He's a great car companion, since he never screams or whines. Her certainly doesn't add to our already mounting laundry pile and surprisingly he doesn't eat us out of house and home. He's been perfectly well-behaved. We shall see what sort of cultural experiences we can give him over the next few days.

"Te Amo!"

Last night, or early this morning, I was in a deep sleep. Normal people do this at some point after sundown. Subconsciously, I must force myself to sleep deeply in order to survive the heavy breathing, some might term snoring, emanating from my copilot.

In my state of oblivion, unaware of the digits on the nearby clock, I heard "Te Amo" bellow through the baby monitor. It continued, steadily, "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause.

I knew there was only one thing responsible for interrupting my beauty rest.



Lizzie!

Between pauses, I waited for someone else in the house to awaken and sob over the disturbance. Surely someone else would be abruptly awoken besides myself and this dumb doll! It must have been that subconscious "mommy instinct" kicking in during the wee hours.

Silence. I returned my head to the pillow and closed my eyes.

"Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!"....

I don't know if I adjusted to the intermittent "Te Amo!" announcement, or my daughter rolled her head away from Lizzie's knee, the one you press to learn how to say, "I love you!" in Spanish.

By four am, my copilot's alarm-clock rang at eight minute intervals. No less than four minutes after the snooze button was pressed, Lizzie would declare, "Te Amo!" through the monitor.

Aware enough, I forced myself out of bed, trudged fifty paces down the hallway, into the dark, pink kids' bedroom and grabbed Lizzie from underneath Scooter's sweaty head. I wanted to shake that doll and scream, "Don't you know it's 4 am and everyone in their right mind is SLEEPING???"

Instead, I moved her to the toy-box, in the event she had a short-circuit. I returned to my own bed in hopes of resuming a state of REM.

Note to self: Don't EVER let a child take her Language Littles doll, or any talking doll to bed. If it happens by mistake, at least turn off the monitor.

Oh! The Miles You'll Drive!

When Daddio and I agreed to procreate, I knew at some point we would have to drive our offspring around town to various attractions and activities. But, that was when we lived in Brooklyn, NY. The subway was our primary mode of transportation. When we envisioned uprooting and moving out of our NYC borough, we assumed our furthest destination would be across bridges and tunnels to settle somewhere in the Garden State, the Constitution State or in Westchester County.

Back then, we hadn't a clue that we would ever relocate across the country in one of the most public-transportion-challenged cities of our country - Los Angeles. Now that the inconceivable has become our reality, I realize that Los Angeles is a car-lovers dream, but a small-town girl's traffic nightmare.

To avoid encounters with traffic jams and other Los Angeles realities, I've limited our lifestyle the last two and a half years to a ten-mile radius. Only when we purchase Wiggles tickets or visit a museum, do we have to leave our bubble. And those excursions are special and rare occasions.

My bubble forcibly burst when the kids started school and made friends. A child making friends is a parent's dream, but the convenience of these friends is equally important. It's hard to encourage a friendship when you have to drive 30 miles for a play-date. Apparently, this is normal out here.

Today, I drove 63 miles round-trip for a birthday party. It was a typical party. The kids played, they ate pizza and they sang Happy Birthday to their friend. Will anyone besides the birthday boy remember this party in two weeks or three years from now? Was it worth the 63-miles? Ask Teacup because my view is tainted.

If only I could encourage my children to choose friends based on their proximity to our residence....

PTA Purgatory

Does anyone really LIKE being a PTA mom? Or, is it something mothers of school-aged children are enforced to endure? For me, it's the latter.

For better or worse, I've become a PTA mom. I don't appear at every PTA-sponsored activity, but I admit to having attended every PTA meeting this year, so far. I hope I'm not one of THOSE superior-acting PTA moms, just someone trying to endorse my children's education. More than anything, it's a signal to my kids that school is important. When I show up at school and Valerie sees me, the light on her face is reward enough.

For now, I'll withstand the cronyism, cattiness, and mind-numbing crap the teachers ask me to do. I'll put on a smile (albeit sometimes a fake one), talk with people I wouldn't otherwise associate with and try to get by until my time is over - which is fifteen years from now. Why did I quantify that? FIFTEEN LONG YEARS ahead of me!

I guess, being a PTA mom helps me to get to know better my children's classmates' families. I may not normally associate with the majority of these people, but my daughters will likely enter these people's homes. To the extent it involves MY off-spring, I want to know what goes on behind closed doors.

Furthermore, I want to advocate for my kids. If I don't, who will? If I see something I like, I'd be happy to support it, even if it involves spending a day cutting hearts out of red felt. If I see something I don't like, I hope to constructively address the issue. Most of the time, I plan to quietly follow directions. I don't want to be one of those loud action-less complainers that I've already encountered so often. The complainer population is growing like guppies.

A few months ago, 20/20 did a segment entitled "Stupid In America" in which the reporters largely blamed teachers' unions and the US government for the failure of our education system. I can't say that I disagree with their report. But, I would like to add that parents, also, are failing their kids.

In my short involvement as a PTA-parent, I'm aghast by the lack of parental support and involvement at the school. So many have strong opinions on not just WHAT should be done, but also HOW things should be done. So, with all of these opinions, why is it that only a handful of parents appear at the monthly PTA meetings? Because it's a private school, do parents expect tuition dollars to buy everything? A checkbook doesn't buy parental involvement. Lack of parental support is a growing epidemic in our educational system.

Currently, I am preparing and recruiting parents to help make costumes for a school event. Yeah - it sucks. I can't sew and my creative ability is largely deficient. Fortunately, the costumes involve scissors, fabric glue, and duck tape (no joke). As I do this, I am tired of hearing, "How do you have time to do it?" "I don't like doing this kind of stuff." "I figure someone else will do it!"

First, I DON'T have a lot of extra time, but I MAKE the time. I opted not to watch Oprah today!
Second, I DON'T want to do this crap any more than anyone else does. But, maybe if we did it together, it would take less time and BOTH of our kids would be proud.
Third, no one else is going to do anything. Everyone has something to offer. And even if you don't have anything to offer, help is always welcome. Please leave the complaints at home.

When I recently lamented about the age-old PTA subject to my own mother, she offered, "Been there, done that. Better you than me!"

One day in the future, I look forward to telling my daughters the same.

Honey, Where's the..... My Head?

I've succumb to the slow and steady depletion of wrinkles in my brain. I imagine my cerebrum appears more and more like a cue ball, round and smooth. Certainly, I'm not happy about this development, I just seem to lack control over the slow, steady ooze of brainpower depletion. So, embracing the glass-is-half-full attitude, I've opted to accept the facts.

In my daily rush to get out the door, I packed into a Ziploc baggy the uneaten plain mini-bagel with cream cheese from Scooter's breakfast. She begs for snacks when I take her to Child Watch at the YMCA while I sweat and get a mental grip on life. I don't work out because I actually like my appearance in spandex, I do it so that I can eat more treats (six Girl Scout Cookies last night) and maintain some mental sanity.

In my rush to prepare breakfast, supervise getting dressed, make Teacup's lunch, load up her backpack, and get out the door, I managed to misplace the uneaten mini-bagel smothered with cream cheese in a Ziploc baggy.

Desperate to find it, but more to convince myself that I wasn't losing my mind, I searched the refrigerator, garbage, pantry, laundry room, family room, backpack, and bread-box.

It's a day later and I still haven't found it!

Eventually, it's turn up. When it reappears, will it be located by sight or smell?

When losing your mind, do the senses start to deteriorate, too? I can only hope.

Role-Playing

Lately, Teacup often suggests that we take on different roles around the house. She gets to be the baby and Scooter gets to be the big sister. Yet, why am I always assigned to play the "mom"?

Admittedly, I limited my role-playing options when Valerie offered to be the mommy awhile back. A little too enthusiastically when she offered to be the "mom", I answered, "Cool! You can be the mommy! That means, you get to do the laundry, drive everyone around, sort through the deluge of incoming papers...."

With fervor, Valerie shouted, "Yeah! I'll be the mommy!"

"... and you get to make dinner, too!" I continued.

Apparently, THAT was the show-stopper. She sorrowfully stated, "But mommy, I don't know HOW to make dinner!" (As though she could reach the buttons on the washing machine without a ladder or push the accelerator and check the rearview mirrors while backing out of the driveway.)

Pleading, I offered, "Oh, dinner's easy. I'll show you how to do everything. And if that doesn't work, we could always order out!"

"No.... I guess, I'll be the baby and YOU can be the mommy!" she suggested.

So, that's it! I thought I was stuck being the mommy until today. At age thirty-five, I got to be the "grandma" and Scooter was assigned the role of "mom".

Despite the age factor, I think I just might enjoy "grandmother"-hood one day.

Crazy for Cosmetics

Being a girl, nearing kindergarten, Teacup has developed an obsession for makeup. When I pick her up from school, her teachers announce that she is playing with her friends underneath the various slides and monkey bars. (In my school years, playground equipment was termed jungle gyms). Apparently, my daughter and her friends give one another makeovers with rocks, pine-cones, leaves and other found fauna.

This interest in maquillage has invaded birthday party goodie bags, to my dismay. This purple goop is disguised in a plastic princess necklace pendant. Not only does this substance smell like grape Bubbilicious Bubble Gum, it stains anything it touches, including skin.



Unfortunately, I found the substance a little too late.

Having survived this particular application of makeup, I opted to address the issue.

"Teacup, did you know that women use makeup to hide flaws? Usually, older people use it to cover up moles and wrinkles. Younger people don't need makeup because their skin is nearly perfect," I tried to explain.

"So, why do YOU wear makeup?" she asked.

Dumbfound, I stuttered and changed the subject! So much for quick wit as a mom.

Since that conversation, I've reduced my already minimal application of mascara, a dab of eye-shadow and lipstick, to my trusty ChapStick®. And, I avoid the mirror.

The Tell

I've finally decoded "the tell", as it's called in poker. Phil Gordon taught me that.

It's not that my youngest is trying to bluff. She is often too busy to take the time to dispose of normal bodily functions in a socially acceptable manner.

It's clear as day to me, now.

In Scooter's case, she suddenly appears like the speed tablets she swallowed have kicked-in and she runs in place on her tip-toes. Some kids' "tell" appears when they place their hand on their privates while crossing their legs. It's certain to be number two when they turn quiet, hide in a corner, seem focused on a particular toy and stick-out their rump. If not caught in time, you'll hear grunting.

Regardless, when "the tell" appears, running their naked bottom to the toilet before a downpour of urine runs down the legs and pools on the floor becomes an Olympic sport.

Now that I know "the tell", I just have to react quickly and quietly because I have seconds, not minutes, to spring into action.

Running with Scissors

I recently finished reading Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.



Minimally, the book was disturbing.

The book chronicles part of Burroughs' childhood. I survived the narrative only because Burroughs tells the story in such a composed manner. Throughout, I felt like I was reading a letter written by a close friend about his experiences at summer camp. His tone and writing style spoke to me in an every-day manner, but the sum of the words amounted to shocking accounts.

I was struck by his descriptions about feeling trapped by too much freedom as a teenager. The guy basically had zero authority figure in his life and virtually no limits placed on him by anyone, let alone an adult.

Burroughs wrote, "Freedom was what we had.... So why did we feel so trapped? Why did I feel like I had no options in my life when it seemed that options were the only thing I did have?"

No one gave this guy any direction. If he wanted to skip school for 21 days straight, no one cared but the school district. And even, then, they don't care either until an underage child misses 30 consecutive days of school. No one cared if and when he went to bed. No one cared if he got drunk and puked his brains out on the living room couch.

Honestly, I can't imagine spending my teenage years like this. However, this freedom is what nearly every teenager claims he or she desires most.

Burroughs continues, "More than anything, I wanted to break free. But free from what? That was the problem. Because I didn't know what I wanted to break free from, I was stuck."

The author finishes the chapter with, "The problem with not having anybody to tell you what to do, I understood, is that there was nobody to tell you what not to do."

So, for as much flack as I receive from loved ones about the rules I have set in our home, this memoir gives me solace that my kids have some structure and some limitations in their lives. The limits give them a sense of control over their sheltered world. Once they have independent lives in their own homes, they can have all of the freedom they want. Until then, it's Daddio and my house and our rules!

Indian Dinner Fiasco

Last night, we were invited to the home of the parents of Teacup's friend from school. They are Indian and vegetarian. Daddio and I relished the idea of being served a tasty meal and of conversing with adults.

At first, the children played together in the toy-room transformed from a garage. Being kids, they will play anywhere and with anything given the obligatory parental consent.

After appetizers slithered down our throats and filled our swelling bellies, we encouraged the kids to take a break from their amusements to nourish their little bodies. I settled each of my children into their seats and sniffed the air.

Did I smell a horrible sulfur-type odor emanating form my youngest daughter's behind?

As I casually moved my hand toward her rump, I felt the all-knowing warm lump through her clothing. Politely, excusing ourselves to the restroom, I quietly and quickly cleaned my daughter's underwear. Tossing around the various options in my head, I determined that her panties could not be salvaged. Having not brought extra undergarments, Scooter was forced to wear her pink tights, sans panties for the remainder of the evening.

Returning to the kitchen, I discreetly tossed the soiled panties in the garbage compactor. However guarded I tried to be, Teacup loudly asked, "What are you throwing away, mom?"

To which I responded, "Trash, honey. I'm throwing away trash." Noting the raised eyebrows among the rest of the group seated at the dinner table, I added, "And trash isn't polite dinner conversation."

Relieved that the crisis was averted, I triumphantly sat in my chair to enjoy the rest of the evening.

Within minutes, the kids decided they were no longer hungry and wanted to continue playing. To maintain harmony, the parents endorsed their decision and excused them from the table.

Just as the conversation began to roll smoothly among the adults, the host's housekeeper ran into the room announcing, "Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor! Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor!"

Having just taken a bite of my dinner, I looked over my shoulder, praying she wasn't talking to me. When it comes to kids and their problems, why do people always look at the mother? Why couldn't she have run into the room seeking Daddio?

I stumbled out of my chair to follow the trail of urine from the bathroom. At the end of the trail, Scooter stood frozen in the center of a pool of tinkle holding her dress above her waist.

"Holy Shit!" was all I could think. Externally, I smiled and asked for some cleaning products and paper-towels. There was no way to discreetly deal with this potty faux-pas. It was now a public humiliation, mostly for me.

After cleaning Scooter and the hosts' soiled hallway floor, our hostess graciously offered an essential pull-up.

Eventually, the adults returned to the dinner table, encountering cold food and lost appetites. We politely stayed for coffee and dessert. As we bid our new acquaintances good-bye, I wondered if they will accept a return invitation to our home.

Tiny Cracks

Only moments ago, I discovered my youngest daughter pushing her lunch into a tiny crevice in one of our kitchen chairs.

Developmentally, she is at that exploratory learn-about-my-surroundings stage. Perhaps a child psychologist would tell me how wonderful it is that she's learning about spacial relationships in our world.

All I can see is how she shoved pasta particles from her soup into an unreachable spot. These small pasta bits dissolve as easily as stale crackers turn to dust. It will be impossible to clean. Could a dog help to lick it out of such a tight spot? Will it take years before it hardens and falls to the ground in specs unseen by the naked eye?

Some parents may be more lenient, but they don't live in this house. That move was just plan disgusting. So, Scooter, please, PLEASE don't do that again!

Forgetting So Quickly

Scooter was awake last night between 11:30pm and 12:30am. At first she complained of a tummy ache. I fetched the "bucket" to prevent her purged her tummy contents from landing on the floor or bed.

At her insistence, I laid on the hard, but carpeted floor next to her bed, offering her support, "just in case." I listened to her toss and turn.

I indulged her. Maybe she didn't feel well.

So, I accompanied her to the potty a couple of times. No success on either end. I got her a tissue and a drink of water. Each time, I returned to my post on the floor, struggled to find a comfort zone and closed my eyes. Within moments of closing my eyes, a little voice whispered, "Mommy! Mommy, I need..... "

Next, she needed her Duke-bear from the toy chest at the foot of her bed. I satisfied her desire because everyone could use a supportive friend when they hork, right? I stayed. I listened. I waited.

My flexibility waned when Scooter requested "a friend" from her toy-box for the third time. My doubts of her needing to hork rose. She was yanking me around, but it took me an hour to figure it out. It was a critical hour, too.

Today, I'm a mess. In the blink of an eye, our newborn babies learn to sleep through the night. How quickly we forget how physically tired we once were.

A Room Mom's Predicament

For Teacup's class Valentine's party at school, I organized the festivities with the help of the other room mom. We carefully planned out the games (something developmentally appropriate), the craft (something that wouldn't require "drying" time) and snacks (something to accommodate everyone's allergies). We carefully called extra moms to volunteer their time to help.

Asking for parent volunteers is always a balancing act. On the one hand, I can't ask for too many volunteers because the teachers don't like the parental intrusion (understandably for many young kids, a mom's presence or absence can be awfully emotional). On the other hand, given the young age of these kids, nearly every parent wants to volunteer. Being as reasonable as possible, I try to be fair, rotating the parents among events. As expected, there are more volunteers than there are opportunities.

There's always at least one parent in every group who seems to think they're above what's "fair".

One, unnamed mom, tends to be a continual thorn in my side. She complains about everything - the order of activities, the quality of the craft, the lack of drink options appealing to her son, etc. The list seems endless with her. In my mind, I remind myself that I'm the room mom, not a social director or a cocktail waitress. I'm volunteering my time to be with the kids, show my support to the school and help my child to enjoy her education. Furthermore, this unnamed mom was given her chance to volunteer previously.

At the Valentine's party, the unnamed mom appeared unexpectedly. As she helped myself and the other teacher-approved volunteer moms set up for the party, I battled internally. How should I handle this situation? Clearly, she's not supposed to be here. What should I do? My fear was that the moms who were scheduled to be there would be "boxed out" of the activities.

I approached each mom and doled out assignments. She finally asked, "What do you want me to do?"

Given the lack of diplomacy I sometimes (okay, often) have, I blurted out, "Well, I don't have an assignment for you because you've already had a chance to volunteer and these other moms haven't. I'm sorry."

Huffy, she eventually departed. As I recounted the story to Ken, he assured me that I've made a school enemy who will probably be out to get me for the remainder of our children's school years together.

Sadly, I know he's right.

Where Babies Come From

I was alone with Valerie in the car recently. The time spent together, alone, is such a great treasure. With each passing day, our conversations grow a smidgen deeper.

Surprising me, she recently asked, "Mommy, where to babies come from?"

Thinking how well I could nail this, I carefully explained, "Babies grow inside mommies' tummies." Sometimes, less is more!

Looking for more, Valerie probed, "No, before that, WHERE do babies come FROM?"

Not sure what she was getting at, I offered, "Mommies and daddies love each other a lot and decide to have a baby. Then, the baby grows inside the mommies' tummy." I worried, how much does my soon-to-be-five year old know about the birds and the bees?

Growing irritated, Valerie slowed down so I could catch up, "NO mom, what STORE do you go to, to get a BABY?"

Imagine the population problem we'd have on this planet if we could buy babies at the store!

Loud Laundry

During a recent visit from the in-laws, my mother-in-law remarked how loud the dryer seemed. I agreed, but assumed the immense clatter resulted from the metal hooks of Dagny's overalls clanging against the heated metal cylindrical interior of the dryer.

Until I peaked inside.

I discovered rocks. Apparently, I've in the practice of washing rocks because it's not the first time I've uncovered pebbles in my laundry facilities. My kids, with their compulsion for collecting gravel, stuff their pockets full of stones. Subsequently, they neglect to empty their coat compartments prior to dumping their soiled garments into the hamper.

Admittedly, I'm partly responsible. Any good mother checks the pockets of incoming dirty laundry, right? As far as I'm concerned, moms who have the time to check the pockets of each article of clothing prior to entry into the laundry just have too much time on their hands. Or, perhaps, I'm just less detail-oriented than they are.

Either way, I'd take rocks over crayons any day. With many things related to motherhood, it could always be worse.

ABCs vs The Alphabet

In the bathtub yesterday evening, I washed Dagny and overheard her singing, "R S T U V W X" and she stopped abruptly.

I asked, "Dagny are you singing the alphabet song?"

She corrected, "No, mommy! I'm singing the ABCs!"

Duh! Moms can be so silly sometimes, eh?

The Tarzan in My Midst

I live with Tarzan.



She's been doing this for months. I just happened to catch it on the camera today.

Next, she will swing from couch to chair to kitchen table to countertop. She already climbs atop all of these places, so how soon will I wake up to see her actually swinging from our home's domestic vines?

Note: It's not just the climbing and potential swinging that makes me believe I live with a child akin to Tarzan.

Begrudging Mom

The question haunts me, How Does She Do It?

I'm talking about my own mother. I'm nearly convinced she's superhuman. Even Ken is sure to point out, "Your mom IS impressive!"

Last weekend, Ken and I enjoyed a short, but relaxing weekend in Mexico, while my parents watched the girls. I wrote a seven page document outlining when to go where and how to get there. I even included medical contact information and insurance cards should the need arise. With limited time, I tried to be comprehensive.

I admit that I've been fretting about my maternal inadequacies since last weekend. To explain, last Friday morning, Ken and I departed the house before normal humans rouse their rested souls from their cozy beds. Sitting in LAX airport at 8:05 am, I thought I would call with my parents to make sure everything was going smoothly during the morning rush hour. As I've noted before, for me, it's a whirlwind daily routine that I feel is barely accomplished each weekday morning. Each day we arrive at school fed, coifed and on-time, I feel I deserve a metal.

As I talked on the phone with my mother, she informed me that the girls were dressed, with hair and teeth brushed. So far, so good. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, my mom continued by recounting that each of my offspring had eaten three pancakes for breakfast. I thought, "What, my children actually ATE breakfast?" Could she be talking about my Valerie and Dagny?

She proceeded, "Yes, and they ate their vitamins and juice and I packed Valerie's lunch and backpack. We're all set to go to school now. So, we'll probably leave in about ten minutes!"

WHAT? Not only did you make fresh pancakes (not the frozen kind you put in the toaster oven), but YOU HAVE TIME TO SPARE? In shock, I just accepted the news, hung up and blocked it out with my new IPOD earphones plugged into my head.

I've wondered about the ten spare minutes for several days now. I can't seem to let it go. HOW did she DO it? So, I expressed my concern to Ken. He laughed and flatly said, "Julie, as impressive as you are at getting stuff done, you're NOT your mother."

I grew defensive in that high-pitched whiney voice, "But, you see, she had a lot of things in her favor..."

As I grew more defensive, the truth of his statement hit me. My mom is truly superhuman at accomplishing just about anything. So, instead of focusing on my own inadequacies, I'll revel knowing that my children were well cared for last weekend in my absence and my seven page document was read and followed.

No Tax Deduction Please!

Dagny finally discovered the potty over the holiday break. She went straight for the big one, attached to the pipes. We had the little potties left over from Valerie's potty transition, two years ago. I guess watching her older sister and being blessed with longer legs than her sibling, she completely ignored the tot-sized crappers.

Works for me.

Having allowed the potty progress to continue for nearly three weeks, I finally decided I'd had enough of those dirty little potties. Yes, we used them in our house, but only as stepping stools. Sometimes the kids would hid things inside, much to my dismay. Yesterday, I battled internally, "Should I continue to shelter these dirty plastic potty-slash-stools? Or, should I donate these and shell out the ten bucks to purchase real stools that don't double as potties."

I opted to purge the dirty crappers. Despite cleaning them, or trying to clean them, the thought of these potties is just grotesque.

I carefully packed the potties into plastic bags and placed them in my car. I drove directly to Goodwill. I had tried to dispose of our crusty old highchair at Goodwill, but was informed they do not accept baby items. This time, with the potties in tow, I wasn't sure if this donation qualified as a baby item or not. I crossed my fingers and hoped they would accept the bags. If it weren't for the security camera to discourage dumping, I would have left my offerings after dark for fear that I would again be turned away.

When the Goodwill donation receiver met me halfway to the drop-off area, I practically threw these potties at him. He didn't ask about the contents of the bags. Instead, he robotically asked, "Do you need a receipt for these?"

I had already turned back toward my car (which was still running). Over my shoulder, I retorted, "No, not this time. No tax deduction here. But thanks anyway!"

It felt like I sprinted toward my car, though I tried to appear calm. I feared that as he peered into those bags, he would turn back and run toward me with the bags exclaiming, "Miss, sorry but we can't accept these items! Miss, please come back!"

So, I found my way into the car, and drove away as quickly as possible, trying not to screech the tires on the pavement. Valerie noted my expedited departure, "Mommy, why are you going so fast!"

Because it feels so good to have purged those potties, honey!

I Want Yours....

Many mornings, I eat cereal for breakfast. I may not eat with the kids, due to the rush occurring at day break, but I always eat something at some point before lunch.

This morning, we survived the morning rush (brushing hair, brushing teeth, feeding my offspring, packing lunch, unloading the dishwasher, gulping coffee, filling the backpack, loading the car and driving to school). After dropping Valerie at school, Dagny and I returned home and I allowed myself a tranquil breakfast. As requested, I turned on the Wiggles to occupy my youngest child. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice.

I peacefully sat at the table and scooped the first spoonful toward my mouth. Before the flakey grains could enter my mouth, little feet pattered on the kitchen floor in my direction. I looked down to notice Dagny grinning in her charming way. She asked, "Can I have some, too?"

Sure. I stood up and moved toward the pantry.

"No, mommy, NO! I want YOURS!"

But, honey, don't you want your own?

"NO mommy. I want YOUR cereal."

But, it all tastes the same. It's all from the same box. It's going to be EXACTLY the same, just a different BOWL, okay?"

"NO NO NO, MOMMY! I WANT YOUR CEREAL."

Fine you can have my cereal and I'll get another bowl. As I get another bowl, I watch her take a bite of my cereal. She eats the one bite and watches me fix the next bowl. As I head toward the table with my second attempt of eating, Dagny clearly stated, "I change my mind. I'll have my own bowl, mommy. You take this one back!"

Isn't that what I suggested at the beginning? So, I ate the soggy cereal....