Invasion of Sorts

Culture shock is inevitable when you move to a different part of the world. M and I have lived on the west, east, midwest, and even crazy Canada since we've been together. Every place has offered us something new, and presented its own set of challenges. And, naturally, with all of those places under our belts, we could design our own utopian city--climate from here, food from there, entertainment from yet a third. And yet, in some ways, life in the deep south has been the most foreign.

Sweet tea, grits, humidity higher than my shower, all of these are commonly cited as hallmarks of the south. True, it did take me a few weeks to remember to ask for UNsweet tea, and adjust to a slightly slower pace of life. But, the biggest change has certainly been the climate and its accompanying menace: The Bugs.

After about five days of deluge, the mosquitoes are out in force. And they are vicious. The are so big, I can see the stripes on their legs. Apparently, these are Asian Tiger Mosquitoes, and they seem like something concocted by an evil doctor in an evil laboratory as part of an evil plan to take over the world. Clooney was out in the yard, and came to the door resembling the Peanuts character, Pigpen. Only the cloud above his body was not dirt, but rather a mini-swarm of mosquitoes. I began a search for non- to low-toxic pesticides for the mosquitoes. A pesticide made from chrysanthemum extract is available, but for children with ragweed allergies can be fatal. I am NOT going to put that out there--who knows what children are allergic to? Isn't everyone allergic to ragweed to some degree? I looked at foggers, misters, spray-on lawn treatments, all of which are toxic on some level to beneficial insects and marine life. Bummer. I even considered garlic sprays and granules for the yard. (Mosquitoes are kind of like vampires...) Right now, I am using the lowest toxicity spray I could find and my children are being attacked every afternoon and evening.

Then, there are the termites. so many things I did not know about termites. They swarm, they are drawn to light at night, and they have wings! They can get in to your house from the smallest crevices, and also, per Terminix, having a few in your home does not mean you have an infestation. The ew factor is not reduced by knowing I do not have an "infestation."



Finally, there is the bane of every southerner--the cockroach. These are not the cockroaches of the west or really the rest of the country. In fact, I am not sure they are the cockroaches of this particular geologic era. These are bugs from the Jurassic--they are huge, and maybe hairy, and they smoke cigars, and laugh at my cockroach traps. They occupy my walls, presumably, as their own personal Ritz Carlton, and my pantry as their smorgesbord. Everything I have is in tins or canisters, although I am convinced those bugs can open a vacuum sealed canister if a couple worked together. They can fly, allegedly, too. (Although I have never seen one do it--unless I mistook it for a plane.) They are huge and oily looking, and when I first found their droppings, I mistook them for rodent poop. I find a couple every week, belly up somewhere in my house, antennae still twitching.
Even in their death throes, the cockroaches are mocking me. C'mon, bitch. I see that paper towel. I dare you to come get me. Remember that scene in The Princess Bride after Wesley was brought back to life, and he invades the castle to rescue the Princess, but he can't move or walk, and bluffs his way through a fight with the prince. "I could be bluffing. I could be lying here because I lack the strength to get up and fight you OR not." I always creep up on the bugs before I kill them, because they COULD be dying or they COULD be bluffing. They could be lying in wait for me, waiting to mug me, take my jewelry, or worse...
I am waiting for reinforcements. The Terminix man is due in half an hour. He's armed.

Summer Wear

I sometimes feel compelled to offer wisdom, sage advice, and sometimes formal guidelines for moms. I realize that I am not above reproach, and yet, I am very opinionated and superior- feeling about some things. (Look, I know my flaws.) One of the things that I feel strongly about is moms who abuse their purchasing power: they see products available in stores and buy them with senseless disregard for 1) their own dignity 2) our eyes and 3) their age and station in life. I want to qualify everything here by saying that just because we are moms, we do not need to roll over and die in terms of fashion, style, or flair: we just need to pause that extra moment before going in to Forever XXI and realize, that NO. We are not. We are now at least XXXI, and that age carries certain privileges and responsibilities. One of which is to keep on walking, right past Forever XXI.
There are certain things, at my current age, body weight, and familial state, that I simply should not own. Bowing to the necessities of age and waist measurements, I have ceded most of this property to charities and garage sales. But every now and then, something creeps out of my closet, or cupboard, or makeup drawer to remind me that vigilance is required, lest I let down my guard and step out wearing something wildly inappropriate.
The most recent of these incidents happened with a pair of Levi brand "skinny cut" jeans. After a traumatic trying-on attempt, I realize that ANYthing with the word skinny must be purged from my closet. As my mother says about all things mysterious or inappropriate, "it has no business being there." Which is unfortunate, because the skinny jeans with the rolled up cuffs are really cute. But then I have visions of the me in the Saturday Night Live alternate universe and buying MomJeans from JCPenney. Shiver. I'm rather sad to see the "skinny jeans" go: they have the upside of sparing me from actual shorts when cuffed cutely.
Which brings me to the subject of shorts. I am a mom of two with a marginal weight problem. Shorts offer limited options: low waisted patches of fabric that let the top of my buttcheeks show, or Momshorts which are gargantuan when viewed from behind and have a fly 12 inches long. Is there no hope besides capris? Thank God for capris. They are populating my closet like bunnies.
Another thing I would never own, but saw a mom at the beach wearing: string bikini. There are rock star moms who can pull off the string bikini. Confidentially, I say they've all had work done, as even the most fit moms I know complain of that iddy biddy pooch down low on the abdomen that remains after pregnancy. (For me it's neither iddy nor biddy, but stilly poochy)But the mom at the beach was no rock star, and she was tugging and pushing and shoving that suit like she was trying to stuff a pillowcase. She was clearly self conscious and I have no idea why she was wearing it all. I have raved before about the benefits of the Miracle-type suit. The one that makes you ten pounds slimmer the moment you put it on. I have several, and have graduated to the "tankini" a brilliant invention, if a stupid name. Max coverage, easy pee accessibility. It works best for me when paired with a skort, shorts, trunks or some other disguise for my behind. Because if I'm not wearing a substantial pair of bottoms, I have this bizarre nightmare of bending over to build sand castles at the shore and having a whale out at sea glimpse my gigantic butt up in the air and come charging at me, thinking he's found his lifemate. This is my theory to explain those whales who mysteriously beach themselves. I think they saw some mom butt and wanted to mate.
The mom in the string bikini was committing another violation of mom ownership rules: she had that nasty Banana Boat tanning oil. Does she not realize that we will get old and wrinkly and raisin-ish without the "help" of our solar-alien friends, UVA and UVB? This is what that mom is going to look like in 20 years:
Does it not give you the heebie jeebies too? Gadzooks. By the way, if this photo does not get you to post a comment, you are not human.
I think in regards to string bikinis and summer clothes in general, a good rule of thumb is to avoid clothes that require manual tying to stay up. So, if you learned to tie more than 20 years ago, halters, bra tops and swimwear with ties are NOT for you. And they sure as hell are not for me--no sailor in the world knows a knot strong enough to hold this back fat, let me tell ya.
So, now that it is 320 degrees with 92% humidity here in Mobile, and I am pulling out that summer wardrobe (winter clothes are so much more forgiving), I am going to keep this image of silicone granny blazoned in my brain. Because just as these children are staring awestruck at granny and were surely haunted by nightmares after this beach run-in, I worry about wearing a halter top and traumatizing the check-out girl at the supermarket who is frantically scanning my merchandise so that she will get me out of there before that little knot at the back of my halter top fails.
Clothes shouldn't require a prayer to stay up.

Sleep Tight, Mom

Mwhahahahahah. (Evil genius laugh)
I have done it! I have finally done it! I have found a way to make my children sleep through the whole night. Here is the recipe: awake at 6 AM, 4 hours of run around like monkey summer camp, 1 hour of quiet time, 1 hour of run around like monkey home time, 1.5 hours of late night TBall game, stories and then bedtime. Those two slept all night long, just the way kids are supposed to.
I, on the other hand, was not so lucky. First, at 1 AM, M spoke in his sleep. Not a whole monologue or anything, just this completely clear, relatively loud "E." Strangely, it was in the same tone of voice he uses when he hears E walk into our bedroom at night. So, when I heard it, I assumed E WAS in my room, but he was not. Disoriented, and now awake, I went through my usual routine: get up, pee, rearrange the sheets, move the dog, go back to bed. I was still awake when the curtain in our bedroom, which is on a tension rod that has a mind of its own, suddenly fell on to the floor. Had I been asleep, this would have scared the holy hell out of me. Being as it was, I was treated to M and Clooney having the holy hell scared out of them. I think both of them jumped off the bed. Even in the middle of the night, I am able to laugh at others' mishaps. That's quality character on my part. Nothing like a midnight adrenaline rush to help you get back to sleep.
Finally, around 2, I fell back asleep. And at 6, S came into our room. S is the Rolex of internal clocks and is in our room at the same time (within ten minutes) every morning, regardless of his bedtime. He has this cute(?) routine of climbing over us to say good morning to Clooney. And then whispering inanely to his beloved doggie. Only, S's whisper is actually louder than his talking voice. More like the screaming whisper I use to yell at the kids in public places. I endured that for about 10 minutes until I woke up and came downstairs to start the day.
Hopefully tonight, I can recreate my evil experiment and the boys will sleep soundly. And hopefully, I will too.

An Open Letter Regarding Facebook

When I joined FB, it was really to keep in touch with people--not to find old flames, check up on old classmates, or really 'rediscover' anyone. I did it to communicate with the same people I email, by and large, only more often.
So, this weekend, I exchanged emails with a friend from Chicago. I tried to persuade her to join FB, and she declined, insisting on her "dinosaur" ways. This is the email I sent her, slightly edited, to convince her to join. I have converted it to an open letter to my friends and family to join FB to keep in touch:
Dear Friends,
The thing about FB is this. Yes, it is a gigantic time suck. Guilty guilty guilty. I mean the other day, I actually invested time to take the quiz to see which totally awesome animated film character I am (Edna from The Incredibles) and making lists (5 things which everyone seems to like that I don't: anorexic girls, Hollywood remakes, winter, televised high speed chases, and American Idol)
But, I NEVER spend time looking for old friends, because if they want me they can come and find me.(Good luck spelling my married name, losers from high school!) and I get short, brief updates every day from people, like a 5 minute conversation while dropping the kids off at school. It's more natural than having to remember everything I've done for the last 6 months, condense it into letter/email and sending it off. Like, for example, MC (who I NEVER see or talk to unless college friends are getting married) has a massive nesting instinct at the start of her third trimester. And that's cute. I feel involved. It's also voyeuristic--I know NOTHING about another friend, LSJ, except that 1. her wedding pictures were gorgeous and 2. she just joined a Professional Women's Group on FB. So. There ya go. I always have photos on my page, for one thing. You can also find critical information about me revealed through quizes: which zoo animals do I like? I know you're wondering. The answer is Okapis--find out why on my FB page...., my favorite smells: plumeria, beach smell, bleach...You can also find non-essential information like what my hippie name is, or what my birthdate reveals about me, what character from The Office I am like.
Also, don't you dare join Twitter. I will not read something, no matter how profound, if it is called a tweet.
Love,
J

No Thru Traffic

One of our friends, JJ, once told us this story about his family which has generated a catch phrase in our house. I'll retell it now, but I'm really not doing it justice. If you see JJ in Chicago, ask him to tell you this story--you'll be howling.
JJ's mother is a very proper, conservative woman. She was driving and JJ was in the car (he was already an adult, or nearly so). She merged on to a crowded, multi-lane highway from the far left. Upon merging, she realized that her exit was on the far right, but only a short distance away. As cars whizzed past, she of the trim gray hair and glasses, she of the tentative merging tactics, yells out, "we're dooooooomed!"
OK, it totally sucks in the retelling. JJ does it so much better with his pacing and imitation of his mother.
ANYhoodles. I looked at the calendar this morning to get an idea of the week ahead and realized that holy crap! it's the end of May! I am feeling a little like JJ's mom--in the fast lane, and speeding by exits.
Usually, I employ this forum to complain about how slow time is passing by. And true, on a day to day basis, the clock crawls. But this year is FLYING by. Just MetaphoricYesterday, I was looking forward to a trip to Toronto. And then complaining about our catastrophic trip to Montreal. And psyched for S's birthday. And dreading the end of school. And now, it's May. My birthday came and went. M's is coming up. Time is flying by. It's also possible that it's accelerating. That we're getting older faster. I will have a child in "real school" in the fall.
Looking ahead to this summer, it's only a few days until M's Dad comes for a visit, and then we're going to the beach for a few days, and then SoCal to visit my folks and then--poof!--that's it. Summer's gone.
But on a bigger scale, my baby S is growing up. I confess, I infantilize him more than I ever did E because I know he is my last baby. And buh-lee-heeve me, I would not want another for any amount of money. But he is so sweet at this age. The boys have two little ARR-TOO-DEE-TOO units from Star Wars. They're cute robots. Anyway, they have some sort of learning built into their computers and yesterday afternoon, they were both on and talking to each other. S thought it was cute, and last night, I walked into the den to find the units together, their little robot arms intertwined around a juice box. S thought they might be thirsty together. It was bittersweet, of course because he's old enough for the ARR-TOO, but young enough to make them a pretend picnic. And soon he will be in "real school" and then he and E will be grown and I will be old (ish) and then we will all die. (What? It's true.)
I try to soak up these moments of cuteness, to preserve them for times when I'm tempted to throttle the boys, and it's hard. I do cherish them, and there is not a night that goes by that I don't think I have the sweetest, cutest, most wonderful children on the planet (sorry, friends. It's true.) And part of me wants every day to creep by so I may savor every second. The other part, naturally, wonders why it isn't cocktail hour yet for God's sake.
But for whatever reasons, today, looking at that calendar, I felt I was going 70, turn signal flashin', nobody yielding. On a grand level, I hate to say it, but we're doomed.

Little People

Sometimes it's hard to think of your children as independent creatures. Creatures with preferences, self-tuning biological clocks, creatures who form meaningful bonds and relationships with other small creatures.
I don't know why it's so easy to minimize your children's existential "being." Perhaps it's because we so painfully bear the responsibilities for their actions at this age (yes, that is the avalanche of applesauce jars that we started,) or because we feel so "in charge" of them. And, realistically, we are in charge. We dictate where they go, how they get there, what activities they participate in, where they go to school, and even what they wear. (I have previously documented my boys' style preference for hobo chic. But despite their own flair, they are choosing outfits based on clothes I bought for them.) Occasionally, we see our children from a different perspective, and a particular gesture or expression, or something reminds us that they are themselves. Miniature people, developing their own personalities. Shockingly, they may develop personalities that despite our best love and parenting are not compatible with our own. Weird to think that my boys, completely immersed in the things that M and I enjoy most (except for freakin' Disney Crap Live); completely immersed in our lives may not ever feel connected to those things.
Today, S's best friends in the world, his three girlfriends from school, came over to swim. He asked me every ten minutes if his friends were here yet. He was so excited that they were coming over--they weren't his brother's friend's siblings or anything; his very own best friends were coming to HIS house. He asked if we could go to Target to get the girls toys they might enjoy more than his Hot Wheels. He asked if we had snacks they all liked. He even asked if we had gotten rid of the peanut butter cookies Grandma had baked because of one friend's severe peanut allergy. I mean, this kid was on it--he was ready to be the host.
This whole preparation surprised me a bit. For one thing, he was incredibly thoughtful and accommodating to other people's needs and wants. For another, it was very well thought out. He had clearly been mulling these things over. Who knew?
Then, when the girls got here, he was so pleased. He brought the girls juice. He wanted to put the dog away when Clooney scared one of his friends.
It's not like he was perfectly behaved or anything: he didn't morph into Alex P. Keaton, uptight kid extraordinaire. He just was keenly aware of other people.
I know it's not in kids' natures to be aware of their parents' needs. Or wants. Or desperate desire to sleep past 6 AM. But I didn't even know they had the capacity to tend to other people in that way. It was sweet, and thoughtful, and made me look at S in a whole new light. And I understood why he and his three girlfriends are such good friends--they all treat each other like that. And in their own little way, are in a very grown up relationship. One that doesn't involve me at all--his own little independent friends.

The Wee Lads

Today was the first "real" day of summer for us. My mom left yesterday, M went to work for regular hours today, and it was just me and the boys. What a daunting feeling at 7:30 in the morning: 12 hours of non-stop kids. Non-stop talking. Non-stop demands. Occasional-stop bickering. I should have made my coffee "Irish." But then again, Mommy's been making a lot of things "Irish" lately.
We hit a bit of a snag during breakfast. We are down to some bare bones in breakfast foods. Since I only buy packaged food once a month, the cupboard gets a bit bare at the end of week 3. But we muscled through the lack of cereal and compromised on oatmeal. Okay...
We did our "bridge" activity worksheets with no issues whatsoever. We had fun with them and worked steadily for 45 minutes. So far, so good.
Easy hour ahead--I picked up the house, unloaded laundry baskets, and walked on the treadmill for a lousy 15 minutes while S watched TV and E did computer. It's cheating a little, but still pretty good.
We packed up some supplies and headed to the park and (shockingly!) arrived on time. Friends came and played. I shared a nice visit with a mom friend. We had cold drinks in the car to stave off total meltdown. I'm feeling confident.
Lunch. See, I went and got cocky. I told the kids I'd take them to Moe's, and there was a line. Delayed gratification = time to bicker. GRRR. I wolfed down my food and started threatening.
Grocery store. Thus far, it is the only thing today that I didn't package and sell to my kids as fun fun fun. I have asked them to buy enough groceries for one meal. I have not asked them to cross the Sahara with only a wet washcloth to drink from. Bicker. Pushing. Bicker bicker bicker. We got home with more bickering. I set the timer for 15 minutes--this is the amount of time they will now have to wait before getting to go swimming. Just barely 1 PM--I am not staying as strong as I had hoped.
Finally, fifteen minute timer is up, we head out for the pool. Old Man E complains about the temperature of the water. S must chime in. Regardless, they manage to play in the sand box for about an hour happily. I get them to go in the water for about half an hour more. It's 2:45 and I'm feeling doomed. M won't be home for hours. I look desperately to the horizon. There are no reinforcements. I begin to panic, but check the fear. I can handle this.
We change clothes and surprisingly, kids agree to play cars together. I ask no questions. I do not look a gift horse in the mouth.
I grab a giant glass of water and take a quick shower to wash off the sunblock. It's 3:15. We're doing it. Cocktail hour is only an hour and a half from now. I can do that. No problem.
Only one problem left to solve today: What am I going to make Irish tonight?

Eyes Wide Open

For more than one hundred and fifty days of school, M or I went into E's room and gently roused him from a deep sleep. We waited until the latest possible time so that he could sleep those precious few moments longer. We gently stroked his face and gave him kisses to ease him into the trauma of yet another school morning. Every morning, he had to be awakened.
Weekends and today, the first day of summer vacation, however, he manages to wake himself at FIVE AM. This morning, he was in my bed "whispering" self congratulatory messages on finally making it to summer vacation at FIVE AM.
Which would have been even more irritating except that his brother, the non-sleeping freak, was already awake, chasing Clooney around my bed at FIVE AM. At one point, the dog was straddling M's sleeping face, and S grabbed two hind feet and pulled the rest of Clooney back over M's face. That could NOT have been pleasant (really, for anyone involved.)
Five AM? Nobody except for like barristas (so that I can go get coffee on such days) and the Krispy Kreme people need to be up at 5 AM. My sister gets up that early to exercise, but that's just unnatural. People can exercise at normal times. Why oh why are my children awake at 5 o'clock? That means they are awake for at 15 hours a day. That's just not right! That amount of time requires WAY too much interaction on my part. I mean aren't there labor laws protecting moms from working horrifically long shifts? Can't we unionize or something? Is this a sweat shop? If it were a sweatshop, I'd wind up with a cute pair of shoes by the end of the day. If I'm working that long, can't I at least be skinny? Can't my metabolism at least offer up a compromise, "look, this fat chick is workin' her butt off. Maybe I could help by taking some of her big butt off."
I remember when the boys were babies. And yes, they were up three fourths of the night, but then, they would nap during the day. They'd be up for two hours then sleep for an hour. Oh, merciful naps, where have you gone? Now, all I can look forward to is the distant teenage day when they want to sleep until noon. I will go into their rooms, and crawl into their beds and start "whispering" to them about what I'm going to do that day.
Especially since, by then, I will be old and like all old people, not require any sleep. Life is cruel.

Mini Vacay

There is nothing like two days away from your kids to realize that two days away from your kids is not NEARLY enough vacation.
M and I had so much fun in Biloxi. We ate well, he gambled, I sat by the pool, meditating on margaritas and pelicans. I read a book. I slept for 11 hours each night AND took a nap. Now that I am refreshed, though, I'd like to go back and party.
Such is life, I guess. I have been on very few vacations that lasted too long (strangely, those that come to mind involve my children. I don't think I've ever been on holiday with just M and wanted to come back to my "real" life.)
People in casinos amuse me. A little old lady gave me a lot of slot machine advice. A little old man was just bursting to tell some one (me) about the $80 he won. And this random couple told me the machine I just sat down on was never going to pay. People have a strange mix of camaraderie and competition at casinos. Somehow, they are sure it is a zero sum win--if I win, they can't and I better not mess with their system/chair/machine. But also, there is still the common nemesis of the House. Everybody has their strategy to beat it.
We, naturally, didn't beat it. But we certainly enjoyed staying at it! The weather was so beautiful. I sat gulf side in a lounge chair for 4 hours. I got up twice to cool off in the pool. When was the last time a mom didn't have to move for 4 hours AND didn't have SARS? Relaxing. Quiet. Nappish.
I want to go again today.
PLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE?

What year is this?

Sometimes weird things happen. People say things and you just wonder, "what should I say in response?" or "HUH?" or "WTF?"
Yesterday, I was at E's school for a parent conference with M and E's teacher. We wanted to cover general bases; make sure the E from school at least jibes with the E from home. I wanted to make sure that our few summer academic activities covered E's weakest skills and were appropriate for entry into 1st grade. We wanted to let his teacher know that we are interested in his education and want to be involved in it.
While I was at school, E also got to ring the big bell to start off the week. It is an honor reserved for all kindergartners and E was with a bunch of "leftover" kids who didn't get a chance to do it yet this year. I was chatting with a mom as dads put away video cameras, siblings got wrangled into arms, and moms put away their cameras. She asked me why I was there, I said conference, blahblah. She asked if everyone had a conference, and I said no, we scheduled ours independently. She asked why, and I explained. She said that yes, she was concerned about her son's academic performance, and wondered about it. "Although," she says, "I don't worry about his little sister's performance at all."
"Oh," say I, "is she all about preschool and loving it?" Smile, pointless small talk laughter.
"No," "she's never going to need a job, so it doesn't matter. She won't have to support a family."
"HUH?"
"What should I say in response?"
"WTF?"

Movies and Volcanoes

The other night, Sam announced out of nowhere that, "love is like lava." We could not get him to elaborate, and I do not know if he meant that love is metaphorically like lava or if love and lava are similar words. Regardless, I am thinking it is a profound statement for a four year old. He is either right on with his phonetic skills or he is a big thinker/Pele worshipper.
I believe his metaphor is apt. Love, especially the love for a child is like lava. Explosive and ferocious. Slow and mushy. White hot. The foundation on which he will build everything else for his entire life. Unpredictable. All over the place. The Hawaiians have like 20 words for lava--all the different textures, viscosities, temperaments are differently labeled. The more intimately you live with something, the more specifically you identify it.
But anyway, back to love. M picked movies for this weekend. Let me preface the rest of the story by saying I know NOTHING about movies. I do not like trailers, movie theaters, movie theater popcorn, previews, art films, horror, or drama. I do not read about movies, I do not want to know about them. I haven't seen the "100 Movies You Must See." I am the customer Netflix loves--I keep movies for weeks because M thinks we "should see" something and then it arrives and I put it off and put it off until finally he watches it alone or sends it back unviewed. I really hate movies that are about wrongful imprisonment, movies with dramatic irony, or movies in which bad things happen to children. I find them too emotionally draining to watch.
So, knowing that about me, let me say that M picked Slumdog Millionaire to watch. I knew nothing about it except that the red carpet fashions for the cast were exciting at the Oscars. (I watch the red carpet stuff--I love celebrity fashion failures.) He said it would be "light" and "fun." It was chock full of bad things happening to children, wrongful imprisonment and dramatic irony. I cried and cried. And then I went upstairs and crawled into my kids' beds and loved on them as they slept and cried some more.
THEN we went to see Disney's Earth. Humans suck. Global warming sucks. Climate change sucks. Dying polar bears SUCK. I cried and cried and hugged my kids and cried some more.
Needless to say, next week we are going to watch Harold and Kumar and maybe Roman Holiday. Enough with this gritty realism.
But back to lava. Those movies drew up in me that primitive love that I have for my kids. That ferocious protect-them-from-all-pain-and-suffering, that desire to make the world safe for them. It draws up the slow moments of tenderness that will not last much longer as they age. The evils of the world are dwarfed when I realize how fiercely I would fight them to protect my babies. All those words we have for the love of our children--tenderness, adoration, spoiling, affection, cherishing, devotion--I thought of them all as they slept in their giant beds enveloped in the childhood scent of sleep. The more intimately we live with some one, the more intensely we feel for them, the more specific our language is to describe them.
Love IS lava.

Functionally Illiterate

Since I am in full denial about another birthday, I asked M for something to make me youthful and cool again: an iphone. But then, I realized that the phone itself is not only blisteringly expensive, the required plan for it would break the bank. So, instead I got a "smartphone." Which, apparently, is an apt name because the thing is crazy intelligent. Not so shocking is that it's smarter than I am.
The manual, which I DID read, is the longest book I've read in years. Apparently, it's theoretically possible to go online, check my email, update my Facebook profile (ergo, very useful for small business?) all with the 30 minuscule buttons on the slide open full QWERTY keyboard.
BUT. I am a slow to learn all the functions of this little pocket computer. I have figured out how to text (although apparently, I need to re-sort my contacts, because I was insanely frustrated to find out I had mistakenly been texting my friend's home phone.) Also, I find in my chronic stodginess that I am resistant to using text as a verb. I can answer the ringing phone, which is actually something, since there's not actually a button for that. I figured out how to use the camera on the field trip yesterday (although I am not sure what happened to the picture.) I am helpless about the rest of the features.
M is giving me a hard time because he says my family will never see me again as I will be addicted to my new device. But, right now, I am only questing for answers. I press buttons, and things beep and ring, and glow. What DOES that mean?
It's so frustrating to me. I realize that computers surpassed my tech capacity some time ago. M now buys, installs, fixes, and handles all computer related issues. He even does phone tech support for his dad and mine. (He does charge $2 a minute, for those of you who are interested.) But the idea that the telephone is now too technologically advanced for me is rather depressing. How could something invented like a hundred and ten years ago be so freaking complicated now?
DAMN. Instead of making me feel young and hip, this phone makes me feel old and out of touch.
Kids these days.

Ice Crapades

There are things I do for my children that I would not do for anybody else in the world. I go to McDonald's, I wipe boogers, I get up in the middle of the night. I spend time and money on things that would otherwise be avoided like swine flu. Last night, M and I went to Disney on Ice's "Special" performance of "Worlds of Fantasy." I have questions:
1. Whose fantasy involves bad ice skaters wearing muppets? Muppets, maybe. But ice skates are dangerous.
2. Who were those people there WITHOUT children? M argues that these are the otherwise sane-looking adults who wear theme sweatshirts from Disney World. Awww..look. That woman with the bad perm is feeling Eeyorish this morning.
3. What is the Circle of Life? And why didn't it end before I walked into the Mobile Civic Center?
4. How can ice with sugar syrup cost $10? Why are parents willing to put such a steep price tag on their children's love?
5. Are there ever concessions at these shows NOT so sticky as to require commercial grade solvents to remove?
6. Why were there teenagers on a date behind us? Worst date ever! The poor guy is gonna look cheap if he doesn't buy his date the cotton candy with the Tinkerbell hat for $12, but he had to work 3 hours at Taco Bell stuffing gorditas for that money. Hardly seems fair.
7. Why did I see Honey Helper #2 from Winnie the Pooh: Live selling programs last night? Why did I see Winnie the Pooh: Live?
8. How is it possible that the Tinkerbell segment was totally incomprehensible to me? Did I miss a movie?
9. Why did they assure us that "theatrical smoke" used during the performance was completely safe? I mean, I assumed it was before you mentioned it. And what about the bubbles? Nobody told me the bubbles were safe.
10. Why do kids like spinning flashlights?
11. Why did the stampeding herd of gnus from the Lion King segment do such a halfhearted performance? Somebody backstage was not getting everything from his performers.
12. At what point to the performers think, "I've made it into showbiz. That's my 1974 Winnebago out front and I live there with 6 men who play garden fairies, and I have arrived."?
13. At what point do the performers' parents think, "really? I drove to ice skating lessons 5 days a week for 15 years for THIS? My kid (age 24) is seahorse choir member #3 in a florescent slinky outfit?

As the questions accumulated in my brain (clearly, brain was not occupied by show), I kept watching M. Who was missing the Bruins game. And didn't seem to find my assurances that Disney on ice is like three-quarters of hockey. Ice. Zamboni Machine. Animals in the rink. People carrying sticks (with butterflies on them). Mermaids...oh, wait. Not that part. M had this ten mile stare on his face. The face he gets when he starts trying to remember starting pitching rotations for the 1908 Detroit Tigers. The face he gets when he is mentally moving himself somewhere less tortuous. I wish I could do that. He tuned in to the show twice--once when Prince Eric almost dropped Ariel and once when Tinkerbell fell on her Tinkerbutt. I think those were his favorite parts.
My favorite part was knowing my kids won't ever take ice skating lessons.

Statistics Never Lie

Sometimes, it's important just to admit you were wrong and move on with life. E's class is taking a field trip today to Pensacola. That's far. And long. And there was NOOOO way I was going to either A) ride a school bus with 60 screaming kids for that long or B) drive behind said school bus for that long just to herd a bunch of wild midgets around a bunch of overfed semi-wild animals. And the kids are going all that way in a school bus without seat belts. Which, of course, being a negligent parent, never occurred to me until MK called. And reminded me that it was a long way from here. And it was far. And there were no seat belts. And who would be there if something happened?
After our phone call, I was feeling alarmed, and agreed to keep E home from school today and take him to see Disney Earth instead. After all, we were just at the zoo two weeks ago in New Orleans, he's been to the Pensacola Zoo before, and he really likes playing hooky. Then M and my dad started in with their "facts."
As it turns out, in the decade from 1991 to 2001 there were just over 400,000 traffic accidents involving school transportation. Of those, there were 26 fatalities. Of those, 19 were kids as pedestrians leaving the bus and getting hit by another vehicle. So, really saying that the 3 hour ride without seat belts is unsafe violates all statistical likelihood. In fact, saying that it is statistically unlikely for something to happen on that trip is a significant understatement. Shoulda listened to those rational men.
And now, MK calls me to say that her son, E's cohort in overprotectionhood, has pink eye and will be home alone today. And E is behaving like a butt-faced penguin this morning. I would love for him to be gone until 4 o'clock today.
Should have bet on the odds. Dammit.

Full Flight

You know how airlines always overbook seats and then give passengers incentive to not board the flight they'd planned on, and instead take $200 and a voucher for Chili's, TOO! to wait for another 6 hours in the airport?
Well, I'm offering incentives. I accidentally triple booked myself and M tomorrow. I'm offering $1 and your choice of either going to S's last music class or spending time with E who is staying home from school tomorrow to watch Disney Earth or admistering a make-up final to one of M's studentS. I goofed. Totally goofed. Why do I even bother to keep a calendar? Gripe, moan groan.
Crap.

Artificial Intelligence

Yesterday, being Sunday, I loitered for a long time on Facebook. I was taking very important quizzes (What alcohol are you? Tequila. What How I Met Your Mother character are you? Marshall. Who were you in your former life? Pablo Picasso) and while I was very satisfied with the results (we all know I am no classy cognac), something weird started to happen.
Down at the bottom of the screen of one of my results pages, was this phrase, "Julie, Michael thinks you are an idiot." Now, rationally I know this is one of those ad quizzes that just sucks you in to a cell phone company or something, but then I got to thinking.
How did Facebook know that? I've always suspected, but Facebook seemed so sure. And Facebook knows everything. I mean, of course, if I were a Golden Girl, I would be Dorothy. And clearly, if I were a car, I'd be a Corolla.
What if my computer really started speaking to me; telling me other truths? What if I ran spellcheck on a document, and it changed all the phrases to, "you need to stop swearing." or "your children need love, not criticism." Or, what if I Googled something, and all one million hits were, "Julie, you should call your mother. And be nice to her this time." or "Here are some recipes for dinner--get off the computer and cook tonight." What if my George Clooney desktop wallpaper started talking to me: "From here, it looks like you should shower and put on some make up." "You know the screen adds 10 pounds...wait! YOU'RE not on the screen, I am. Go diet, woman!" "It's not you, it's me. I just don't see this relationship going anywhere."
I would be heartbroken. I mean that last moment when I turn off my computer and George is there, all alone on my desktop with no icons around him, it's like he's winking and saying, "Goodnight, babe. See you tomorrow."
But, then again, I'm willing to stray into the realm of sci fi, because of quizzes like the one my friend WB took, "What animal would you ride into battle and what weapon would you carry? Riding a dinosaur, carrying a smaller dinosaur." Awesome. I mean that is just SO WB.
And who would know WB better than a Facebook quiz?

Surreality TV

I survived Friday. I survived the necessity of being two places as once, I survived screaming kids and sizzling sun, I survived being pepper sprayed, I survived a late TBall game.
I am a SURVIVOR.
Starting at 7 AM yesterday, I delivered Clooney to the groomer, took E to school, came back, delivered E to a friend's house (who took him to school and to a field trip, thanks CC), went BACK to E's school, walked in a parade, watched kids skip around a maypole to polka tunes, watched world's lamest relay, gathered up a treasure trove of Oriental Trading crap, worked two shifts of the big, inflatable slide, got inadvertently sprayed with pepper spray while police were arresting a perp just past the school's fence, came home, showered, got E off to TBall, came home and slept like a baby.
That is a reality TV endurance course if ever I saw one. I am so glad Friday is over. It was looming over me all week, because really I don't like "rah-rah" fundraisers for school. And I really don't like rah rah fundraisers that involve me actually hanging out with the school kids. I much prefer banquets, wine tasting, auctions, really anything that doesn't involve children as a fundraiser. Because inevitably, I find myself asking why I would do anything to help those screaming, stinky little suckers in any way. If they are more of an abstract concept, then I am far more willing to help them.
The week ahead proves to be challenging as well--more 'hands on' activities with the kids. But smaller herds of them, which is at least a little less grating. But then, I will be down to just two and a half weeks of school. At which point I will only have my own two suckers to care for.
THEN, we'll see who gets voted off the island.