On Friday, I wrote a post about dying my hair. The story is featured at The Red Dress Club today if you would like to read it. (And I'm honored to be there).
Several people asked me to post pics, but the fact of the matter is, the events described happened over a year ago. I haven't had my hair dyed or highlighted since Thanksgiving.
That is, until Saturday. Finding myself with a free morning, I drove myself to Food Lion to buy hair dye. I picked out a color that looked crazy, flaming red.
After the fact, it still looks kinda brown. I believe the universe wants me to have brown hair. But at least the cost was $8 instead of over $100.
(I tried to post pics. Blogger is being evil. Again.)
***
Knock Knock jokes have hit our house hard. Both boys love them. Here's one from Joel:
Joel: Knock Knock, Who's There?
Me: Who's there, Joely?
Joel: Flower!
Me: Flower who?
Joel: Flower going to step on your face!
Owen goes for a subtler approach:
Owen: Knock Knock
Me: Who's there?
Owen: Dragon
Me: Dragon who?
Owen: Dragon going to throw a squid at you!
***
Just now, as I was typing this, I felt something squishy on the chair. I picked it up, thinking to myself, "I hope this isn't a piece of shit."
Thankfully, it was just play-dough.
***
Over the weekend, I went to my friend's beach cabin on the Chesapeake with three other girlfriends. We drank sangria by a bonfire and walked up and down the shores of my beloved bay. It was all quite lovely.
That is, until the horseshoe crabs started humping. That's some prehistoric flailing right there.
***
I had a thought the other day. What if I didn't need or expect praise for the things I do? Wouldn't that be liberating? To do things just because I love them, or know that it's the right thing? To expect nothing in return? To live life without expecting others to comment?
I realize that most adults already think this way, but it still was a revelation for me.
***
Yesterday, The Red Dress Club memoir prompt asked us to share something we knew by heart. The first thing that came to mind for me was the Arizona Public Service Announcement about Hepatitis. This aired on TV in the early eighties. It came on during airings of a local kid's program, Wallace and Ladmo. My brother and I know every word to this day.
Here's a twangy version I found on youtube:
***
I'm not sure there's much that can follow up the Hepatitis Song. I bid you all a lovely Wednesday, free of hurt tummies or yellow eyes.
Showing posts with label Joel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joel. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Numbers of My Heart
36, 37, 2.5, and 5.
Our ages. A combined number of eighty and a half years on this earth. Two completed childhoods. Two master's degrees. Two careers. Two children.
Two lives just beginning, and yet moving with heartbreaking swiftness.
I close my eyes, and he's resting in my arms, sated and full after a feeding. His eyelids like rice paper, his mouth opened into a rosebud. For hours, we sat together in that glider, and I held him. I whispered my hopes and felt gratitude grow inside me, a new organ pumping humility and awe to each corner of my body.
And then came our second. I couldn't bask in him, as I did his brother. Preferring open spaces and sunlight, he wanted the freedom away from my arms. When he did allow me to smell his little head, it was like eating a truffle, each moment fleeting and delicious.
Now neither is a baby. The oldest is riding the big yellow bus next year, and my baby will start preschool two days a week. They need me less and less for basic functional needs, proving adept at making their own sandwiches and selecting clothes for the day.
It's just the start of their lives, and I feel like mine is shifting yet again. As it should. As magic as those moments were in that glider, my hands did grow numb, and my mind yearned to discuss ideas.
There were many days blurred with the heavy curtain of exhaustion. Many days of tears.
I'm leaving that behind, the sweetness and the drudgery. I am the mother of children, not babies.
As they begin their lives, which are separate from my own, I too, must separate. I must rediscover who else I am.
It began with the travel. It continues with the morning pages and the running. And yet, I long for more.
I return to those numbers, the four frames of my heart home.
37. I strive to read for at least thirty-seven minutes each night. To rediscover the books that challenged me, inspired me, helped me see the world.
36. I will do thirty six push ups or sit ups each day, so I can continue to keep up with the many men in my life, and live as long as I can.
5. I will reach out to five people outside of my family each day. I will pick up the phone, send a card, or meet in person. I will make human connections.
2.5 I will meditate. I will stop, listen, and simply wait for the still, quiet voice of the divine to guide me. For at almost three minutes a day, I will turn off the volume.
These numbers are as part of me as my skin, my hair, my daily breath. Even as circumstances and the numbers themselves change, they still inspire. I lean on them as they lean on me.
Our ages. A combined number of eighty and a half years on this earth. Two completed childhoods. Two master's degrees. Two careers. Two children.
Two lives just beginning, and yet moving with heartbreaking swiftness.
I close my eyes, and he's resting in my arms, sated and full after a feeding. His eyelids like rice paper, his mouth opened into a rosebud. For hours, we sat together in that glider, and I held him. I whispered my hopes and felt gratitude grow inside me, a new organ pumping humility and awe to each corner of my body.
And then came our second. I couldn't bask in him, as I did his brother. Preferring open spaces and sunlight, he wanted the freedom away from my arms. When he did allow me to smell his little head, it was like eating a truffle, each moment fleeting and delicious.
Now neither is a baby. The oldest is riding the big yellow bus next year, and my baby will start preschool two days a week. They need me less and less for basic functional needs, proving adept at making their own sandwiches and selecting clothes for the day.
It's just the start of their lives, and I feel like mine is shifting yet again. As it should. As magic as those moments were in that glider, my hands did grow numb, and my mind yearned to discuss ideas.
There were many days blurred with the heavy curtain of exhaustion. Many days of tears.
I'm leaving that behind, the sweetness and the drudgery. I am the mother of children, not babies.
As they begin their lives, which are separate from my own, I too, must separate. I must rediscover who else I am.
It began with the travel. It continues with the morning pages and the running. And yet, I long for more.
I return to those numbers, the four frames of my heart home.
37. I strive to read for at least thirty-seven minutes each night. To rediscover the books that challenged me, inspired me, helped me see the world.
36. I will do thirty six push ups or sit ups each day, so I can continue to keep up with the many men in my life, and live as long as I can.
5. I will reach out to five people outside of my family each day. I will pick up the phone, send a card, or meet in person. I will make human connections.
2.5 I will meditate. I will stop, listen, and simply wait for the still, quiet voice of the divine to guide me. For at almost three minutes a day, I will turn off the volume.
These numbers are as part of me as my skin, my hair, my daily breath. Even as circumstances and the numbers themselves change, they still inspire. I lean on them as they lean on me.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Light and Air
I bought my oldest an alarm clock, and told him that under no circumstances, "unless [he was] bleeding or on fire" was he to go downstairs until the clock read 7:00 AM.
Both boys woke up at 6:53. I heard their footsteps slam on the carpet as they ran in circles, squealing.
Seriously. Every morning they do this.
Owen said, "Wait, I need to check the alarm clock."
"Alarm clock, Owen?"
"Yes, Joel, alarm clock."
There was silence as he examined the numbers. "Six-Five-Seven. Too early."
"Too early, Owen?"
"Yes. GET BACK TO BED!"
I heard the thump of his body as Joel hit the floor, wailing in protest. He wasn't really crying as much as making crying sounds.
I generally ignore these tantrums, which sprout like mushrooms, and are smashed just as easily.
But my first-born does not share my resolve. He cooed, as one would to a small child (unless--ahem--one is heartless), "It's okay, Buddy. I love you. We can go down soon, I promise."
His brother hiccuped and sniffled, "Hug, Owen?"
"Okay." The wailing ceased. They paused for a moment, then my youngest yelped, "I happy now!"
"We can go downstairs," Owen said, "The clock says Seven-Zero-Zero."
I listened to their footsteps tumble down the stairs, and blinked back my tears.
Yes, they will fight. Joel antagonizes. Owen is insufferably bossy.
But, for a moment, grace floated, as effervescent as light and air.
Both boys woke up at 6:53. I heard their footsteps slam on the carpet as they ran in circles, squealing.
Seriously. Every morning they do this.
Owen said, "Wait, I need to check the alarm clock."
"Alarm clock, Owen?"
"Yes, Joel, alarm clock."
There was silence as he examined the numbers. "Six-Five-Seven. Too early."
"Too early, Owen?"
"Yes. GET BACK TO BED!"
I heard the thump of his body as Joel hit the floor, wailing in protest. He wasn't really crying as much as making crying sounds.
I generally ignore these tantrums, which sprout like mushrooms, and are smashed just as easily.
But my first-born does not share my resolve. He cooed, as one would to a small child (unless--ahem--one is heartless), "It's okay, Buddy. I love you. We can go down soon, I promise."
His brother hiccuped and sniffled, "Hug, Owen?"
"Okay." The wailing ceased. They paused for a moment, then my youngest yelped, "I happy now!"
"We can go downstairs," Owen said, "The clock says Seven-Zero-Zero."
I listened to their footsteps tumble down the stairs, and blinked back my tears.
Yes, they will fight. Joel antagonizes. Owen is insufferably bossy.
But, for a moment, grace floated, as effervescent as light and air.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
How do you solve a problem like blue glasses?
Almost three years ago, we brought Joel home from the pediatric ophthalmologist with a prescription for glasses. He was seven months old, and in the midst of his mouthing phase, not to mention just on the cusp of kamikaze style-acrobatics.
We wisely decided on the virtually indescribable Mira-Flex lenses. They do stand up to all of his nonsense, but I'm starting to wonder...is it time to retire his signature blue frames for something more "grown-up"?
Internets, I need your opinion. He's had the exact same frames throughout his entire life, and will be turning three this summer. Observe how the glasses have shrunk over time:
Also, you may note that the glasses are actually working. His eyes are less cross-tastic then when he was first diagnosed. He even has bifocals, proving once again that he is an overachiever.
Let me add that the only store that makes these frames within the tri-county area is an hour away. Would it be better to get glasses that break more often with a local store? Or should we keep the existing type of frame for at least one more year?
It's all you, Internet. Have at it.
We wisely decided on the virtually indescribable Mira-Flex lenses. They do stand up to all of his nonsense, but I'm starting to wonder...is it time to retire his signature blue frames for something more "grown-up"?
Internets, I need your opinion. He's had the exact same frames throughout his entire life, and will be turning three this summer. Observe how the glasses have shrunk over time:
Just purchased.
A few months in.
One year.
Two years
Yesterday. (He thinks it's hilarious to stick out his tongue.)
Let me add that the only store that makes these frames within the tri-county area is an hour away. Would it be better to get glasses that break more often with a local store? Or should we keep the existing type of frame for at least one more year?
It's all you, Internet. Have at it.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Afternoon Meditation
When I was a first-time mother, I listened to my friends with infants. They talked about this strange device known as "the crib" and how they would lay their child in "the crib."
I often clutched their arms, pleading, "Explain this to me. How do you get them to sleep in the crib?"
My friends, bless their hearts, would say, "Well, I pick her up, place her in the crib, and then walk away." They spoke slowly, with their eyebrows raised, and their mouths over-exaggerated "Os."
I nodded, as if this explanation made complete sense. Of course, for me, it did not. My oldest, bless his co-dependent little heart, slept on me for the first six months of his life.
I nursed Captain Boobies to sleep, always prepared with my arsenal of entertainment: the remote, a drink, a book, and my snugly brown blanket. As Owen snoozed after his meal, I watched The Barefoot Contessa, and dreamed of living in the Hamptons, knowing my fishmonger by name, and using the good vanilla.
A few times, I attempted to move Owen to a horizontal resting place. He bleated in protest, and I said to myself, "Well. What else have I got to do, anyway?"
(Clearly, I hadn't discovered blogging at this point in my life).
For months, he remained on my chest. Spoiled little first-born.
When Joel came along, Owen was a busy two and a half year old. I couldn't sit down for more than ten minutes at a stretch, let along two to three hours. So, as it is with second born children, Joel slept in the crib. He bleated. I said, in the kindest way I could, "Suck it up, kid."
Sometimes, I wonder if this is why Joel is less snuggly in general. He didn't care for breastfeeding, and to this day, he prefers to be moving instead of in my arms. Sometimes, I wonder if my detachment made him feel less attached.
Then, things like this happen: On Tuesday, as his brother was happily playing upstairs, Joel walked to me and said, "Want to play with Mommy." He climbed up into my lap, wrapped his arms around my neck, and rested his head against my shoulder.
I kissed his blond head, stroking his feathery locks. He felt like a warm stone, an earthy blanket of dirt and dump trucks and strawberry yogurt.
I sat in silence, listening to his breath become my own. He drifted off to sleep, and in the stillness of that moment, he was mine once more. His rose-shaped mouth, the ridges of his shell-like knuckles---holiness in a moment, as pure as a still, cold lake.
I rested there, holding my baby, as my other baby played upstairs. I closed my eyes, lifted up a brief whisper of gratitude, and held him closer.
After all--What else did I possibly have to do?
Nothing. Nothing in this whole, wide world.
I often clutched their arms, pleading, "Explain this to me. How do you get them to sleep in the crib?"
My friends, bless their hearts, would say, "Well, I pick her up, place her in the crib, and then walk away." They spoke slowly, with their eyebrows raised, and their mouths over-exaggerated "Os."
I nodded, as if this explanation made complete sense. Of course, for me, it did not. My oldest, bless his co-dependent little heart, slept on me for the first six months of his life.
I nursed Captain Boobies to sleep, always prepared with my arsenal of entertainment: the remote, a drink, a book, and my snugly brown blanket. As Owen snoozed after his meal, I watched The Barefoot Contessa, and dreamed of living in the Hamptons, knowing my fishmonger by name, and using the good vanilla.
A few times, I attempted to move Owen to a horizontal resting place. He bleated in protest, and I said to myself, "Well. What else have I got to do, anyway?"
(Clearly, I hadn't discovered blogging at this point in my life).
For months, he remained on my chest. Spoiled little first-born.
When Joel came along, Owen was a busy two and a half year old. I couldn't sit down for more than ten minutes at a stretch, let along two to three hours. So, as it is with second born children, Joel slept in the crib. He bleated. I said, in the kindest way I could, "Suck it up, kid."
Sometimes, I wonder if this is why Joel is less snuggly in general. He didn't care for breastfeeding, and to this day, he prefers to be moving instead of in my arms. Sometimes, I wonder if my detachment made him feel less attached.
Then, things like this happen: On Tuesday, as his brother was happily playing upstairs, Joel walked to me and said, "Want to play with Mommy." He climbed up into my lap, wrapped his arms around my neck, and rested his head against my shoulder.
I kissed his blond head, stroking his feathery locks. He felt like a warm stone, an earthy blanket of dirt and dump trucks and strawberry yogurt.
I sat in silence, listening to his breath become my own. He drifted off to sleep, and in the stillness of that moment, he was mine once more. His rose-shaped mouth, the ridges of his shell-like knuckles---holiness in a moment, as pure as a still, cold lake.
I rested there, holding my baby, as my other baby played upstairs. I closed my eyes, lifted up a brief whisper of gratitude, and held him closer.
After all--What else did I possibly have to do?
Nothing. Nothing in this whole, wide world.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Knuckleheads
I was at a playgroup this morning. My friend watched my two-year-old repeatably attempt to scale a couch, in efforts to climb upon a counter-top, and perhaps swing, Tarzan-style from the ceiling fan.
She shook her head, and observed, "You know, Nance---your husband is such a mellow guy. I'm really surprised that at least one of your boys isn't like him."
I rolled my eyes, pulled Joel away from the fireplace poker, and replied, "You and me both, sister."
My husband, whose legendary cool makes Barack Obama look like Macho Man Randy Savage, apparently kept all the Chillaxing Genes to himself. My two knuckleheads, as I now call them, believe that life is better as a Mountain Dew commercial minus pesky details like helmets or common sense.
I thought about her comment all day today. I thought about it during preschool pickup, as Joel rode a couch like the late Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider.
I thought about it on the drive home, when I noticed he was missing his glasses. I asked, "Where are your glasses, Joely?" prepared for another rousing game of Find The Eyewear.
"I don't know," he replied. Then, after a few moments, he found them. There were on his forehead, hidden by his mop of frat-boy-after-a-great-night hair.
Don't even get me started on his older brother. The shenanigans with the Little Tykes car alone causes me to reach for the whiskey.
After pickup, I had to take the knuckleheads to the special store to pick up the super-special pizza dough and olive oil. As we perused the wine aisle, I heard Smashmouth's "Rock Star," playing over the intercom.
"I LOVE this song!" I squeed, and started dancing in the aisle. Hands in the air, like I just don't care and all of that. Owen joined me, doing his patented bend-and-creep-with-devil horns dance move. Joel sat in the cart, shaking his head back and forth.
So where do these boys get it from? Oh....right....me.
***
Speaking of my younger knucklehead...there were four amazing entries in the Pontify My Son Contest:
Salt:
The Blogging Goddess:
dek:
My Life in Purple:
All were beyond amazing. Truly. The mind, it is boggled. However, I consulted my team of experts and it was determined to be a two-way tie between...The Blogging Goddess (those shoes!!!) and Salt (the throne!!!).
Salt gets the Eddie Murray bobblehead and The Blogging Goddess and I will negotiate something cool for her prize.
Thank you, everybody for your indulgence. (Get it? Indulgence? Reformation humor! The best!)
She shook her head, and observed, "You know, Nance---your husband is such a mellow guy. I'm really surprised that at least one of your boys isn't like him."
I rolled my eyes, pulled Joel away from the fireplace poker, and replied, "You and me both, sister."
My husband, whose legendary cool makes Barack Obama look like Macho Man Randy Savage, apparently kept all the Chillaxing Genes to himself. My two knuckleheads, as I now call them, believe that life is better as a Mountain Dew commercial minus pesky details like helmets or common sense.
I thought about her comment all day today. I thought about it during preschool pickup, as Joel rode a couch like the late Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider.
I thought about it on the drive home, when I noticed he was missing his glasses. I asked, "Where are your glasses, Joely?" prepared for another rousing game of Find The Eyewear.
"I don't know," he replied. Then, after a few moments, he found them. There were on his forehead, hidden by his mop of frat-boy-after-a-great-night hair.
Don't even get me started on his older brother. The shenanigans with the Little Tykes car alone causes me to reach for the whiskey.
After pickup, I had to take the knuckleheads to the special store to pick up the super-special pizza dough and olive oil. As we perused the wine aisle, I heard Smashmouth's "Rock Star," playing over the intercom.
"I LOVE this song!" I squeed, and started dancing in the aisle. Hands in the air, like I just don't care and all of that. Owen joined me, doing his patented bend-and-creep-with-devil horns dance move. Joel sat in the cart, shaking his head back and forth.
***
Speaking of my younger knucklehead...there were four amazing entries in the Pontify My Son Contest:
Salt:
The Blogging Goddess:
dek:
My Life in Purple:
All were beyond amazing. Truly. The mind, it is boggled. However, I consulted my team of experts and it was determined to be a two-way tie between...The Blogging Goddess (those shoes!!!) and Salt (the throne!!!).
Salt gets the Eddie Murray bobblehead and The Blogging Goddess and I will negotiate something cool for her prize.
Thank you, everybody for your indulgence. (Get it? Indulgence? Reformation humor! The best!)
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Never Underestimate the Power of Creativity
The Pontify-my-Son contest has blown my mind thus far.
(See yesterday's post for background. )
Amazing entry #1 by Salt:
Amazing Enrty #2 by The Blogging Goddess:
Amazing entry #3 by my cousin, dek:
Seriously...the world is FULL of awesome.
Contest closes tomorrow night, so you can still enter.
Winner gets either a can of Old Bay or an Eddie Murray bobblehead...or something else if you're not interested in a Maryland-themed prize.
I will have my husband and my non-blogging girlfriends determine the winner. It will be seriously challenging. For realz.
(See yesterday's post for background. )
Amazing entry #1 by Salt:
Amazing Enrty #2 by The Blogging Goddess:
Amazing entry #3 by my cousin, dek:
Seriously...the world is FULL of awesome.
Contest closes tomorrow night, so you can still enter.
Winner gets either a can of Old Bay or an Eddie Murray bobblehead...or something else if you're not interested in a Maryland-themed prize.
I will have my husband and my non-blogging girlfriends determine the winner. It will be seriously challenging. For realz.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Pope. Popeity Pope Pope.
In the lobby of Owen's preschool, there are several framed photographs of the Popes throughout the ages.
Without fail, each day, Joel will point to the pictures and say, "Who Dat?"
"That's the Pope, honey," I say.
He'll immediately point to another picture, "Who Dat?"
"Another Pope."
And on and on it goes.
Yesterday, during lunch, Joel was saying "Poop! Poop!"
I frowned and said, "Honey, no potty talk at the table."
Owen, who often translates for his brother, said, "No Mommy, Joel is talking about the Pope."
I turned to Joel and asked, "Is that true, honey?"
He nodded his head vigorously, delighted to be understood.
Owen added in, "Joely wants to be Pope!"
I said, "Is that true, Joely?"
Again, smiles and vigourous head nodding.
I said, "Well, I have honestly never considered that idea. Ever. At all."
Besides the pesky detail that we aren't Catholic, I just cannot imagine my child hanging out in the Vatican, or waving from a Popemobile. I certainly wouldn't kiss his ring.
I mean, I know where that hand as been.
Owen said, "If Joel is going to be Pope, he's gotta learn to play piano!"
Naturally. All the best Popes---Pope Elton John comes to mind---have tickled the ivories.
I suppose that's another roadblock towards Joel's Papacy.
Well, I suppose a mother can imagine. I mean, somebody rocked all those pontiffs to sleep.
For all those Photoshop experts out there, I throw down this challenge: Deck out my son in Papal Regalia. If you can include the pointy hat, that would be stellar.
The person who creates the most fantastic image of my son as pope will win an Eddie Murray Bobblehead. I won it at an Orioles game years ago, and it's probably worth some money. If you don't want that, I will send you a can of Old Bay.
The contest closes Wednesday night. Here's your subject. Have at it:
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Most Pointless Build Up to a Cookie Recipe Ever
After yesterday's insomnia post, I decided to drink a purely medicinal glass on Pinot Grigio (Mommy's Time Out, if you're curious) before bed.
I woke up nine hours later, fresh as a daisy, and channeling my inner Miley Cyrus. I was both shaking my hips and nodding my head like yeah. Good thing that Britney song wasn't on, or I could have injured myself.
(Thanks, MamaPop, incidentally, for bringing that song back from the dead for me.)
We had a busy day today.
I decorated for the Fall Holidays:
Also, me pretending to eat his carrot, much to his amusement and my dorkosity:
Joel felt compelled to share that he was enjoying his peanut butter:
He also ate my face.
As you can imagine, all this pouring candy corn into jars and taking blurry pictures with a cell phone can take the Miley right out of a girl.
So, I did not make delicious cookies, as I had planned. Trust me, they are really good. Have I let you down yet?
Don't answer that.
Awesome Cream Cheese Cookies
1/4 cup margarine or butter
1 package of cream cheese
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of yellow or chocolate cake mix.
Cream butter and cream cheese. Blend in egg yolk and vanilla. Add cake mix (just the dry cake mix) and cover and chill for approximately thirty minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Roll dough into balls and roll in sugar. Flatten on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8-20 minutes.
They are to die for. Check in with adrienzgirl if you want to see other delicious cookie recipes.
I woke up nine hours later, fresh as a daisy, and channeling my inner Miley Cyrus. I was both shaking my hips and nodding my head like yeah. Good thing that Britney song wasn't on, or I could have injured myself.
(Thanks, MamaPop, incidentally, for bringing that song back from the dead for me.)
We had a busy day today.
I decorated for the Fall Holidays:
Awesome
TERRIFYING.
Other highlights include Owen eating a carrot:
Joel felt compelled to share that he was enjoying his peanut butter:
As you can imagine, all this pouring candy corn into jars and taking blurry pictures with a cell phone can take the Miley right out of a girl.
So, I did not make delicious cookies, as I had planned. Trust me, they are really good. Have I let you down yet?
Don't answer that.
Awesome Cream Cheese Cookies
1/4 cup margarine or butter
1 package of cream cheese
1 egg yolk
1/4 teaspoon of vanilla
1 package of yellow or chocolate cake mix.
Cream butter and cream cheese. Blend in egg yolk and vanilla. Add cake mix (just the dry cake mix) and cover and chill for approximately thirty minutes. Heat oven to 375 degrees. Roll dough into balls and roll in sugar. Flatten on ungreased cookie sheet and bake for 8-20 minutes.
They are to die for. Check in with adrienzgirl if you want to see other delicious cookie recipes.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
MAH Boy
Joel has discovered the word "mine." This is right on target for a two year old, and especially unsurprising for a second born.
He has had items of great importance--bottles, pointy sharp tacks, pharmaceuticals---ripped out of his hands with no regard to his own desires to drink, electrocute himself, or trip the light fantastic.
I imagine him in bed, late and night, stroking his chin and mumbling, "There will be a reckoning for this. Oh, yes!"
Thus far, his nefarious revenge plot mostly involves the redneck battle cry of "MAH TRUCK!!" It doesn't matter if it is toy or real, it is MAH TRUCK and one best recognize, bi-otch.
Sometimes he mistakes the "T" in truck for "F." Hilarity ensues.
When he is not claiming the trucks in the world, he is getting fabulous. Owen was never one for dress-up. In fact, any attempts to do so were met with wailing and finger-pointing.
As you can imagine, Halloween is awesome.
Joel, on the other hand, changes his clothing two or more times a day. I watch him, feeling like a duck who hatched a flamingo: "I don't know what to do with you, but aren't you fun to watch?"
Here's typical Joel couture. Part of him "making it work" is to have Lightening McQueen be the classic staple of all outfits. I can't explain the pose, however.
Another treasured item is the apron, which he always dons when playing at his toy kitchen.
And then, there's this. My sweet boy, emerging from his baby cocoon with gusto, but with quiet moments of grace as well.
He sits at the table for sometimes a half hour at a time, drawing.
He talks to himself as he creates, saying, "Momma, Dadda, Ow-Woo!" He points to the scribble which represents each person, and smiles to himself. Even when in his own world, he is still firmly in ours.
He has had items of great importance--bottles, pointy sharp tacks, pharmaceuticals---ripped out of his hands with no regard to his own desires to drink, electrocute himself, or trip the light fantastic.
I imagine him in bed, late and night, stroking his chin and mumbling, "There will be a reckoning for this. Oh, yes!"
Thus far, his nefarious revenge plot mostly involves the redneck battle cry of "MAH TRUCK!!" It doesn't matter if it is toy or real, it is MAH TRUCK and one best recognize, bi-otch.
Sometimes he mistakes the "T" in truck for "F." Hilarity ensues.
When he is not claiming the trucks in the world, he is getting fabulous. Owen was never one for dress-up. In fact, any attempts to do so were met with wailing and finger-pointing.
As you can imagine, Halloween is awesome.
Joel, on the other hand, changes his clothing two or more times a day. I watch him, feeling like a duck who hatched a flamingo: "I don't know what to do with you, but aren't you fun to watch?"
Here's typical Joel couture. Part of him "making it work" is to have Lightening McQueen be the classic staple of all outfits. I can't explain the pose, however.
Another treasured item is the apron, which he always dons when playing at his toy kitchen.
And then, there's this. My sweet boy, emerging from his baby cocoon with gusto, but with quiet moments of grace as well.
He sits at the table for sometimes a half hour at a time, drawing.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Chrysanthemums
One of the occupational hazards of blogging is that I rarely polish my writing. I write, publish, obsess over comments, and move on.
I started this blog to develop my writing skills, but I'm neglecting the most important part of the process--revision. Thus, I will periodically revisit posts from the early days, and revise them.
Feel free to go along on the ride. I can almost promise these are new to most of you.
You can click the title to see the original work, if you are so moved.
Calvert Memorial Hospital (originally published November 12, 2008)
When Joanne visited me at the hospital, two months earlier, she brought sunflowers. She placed them on the table, told me I looked skinny, and cooed over my newborn son, Joel. This is what best friends do.
She gazed at Joel, sleeping in his isolate. His chest moved up and down, a frenzy of respiration. She paused, selecting each word, "Do you think he's breathing a little quickly?"
I replied, "I think it's newborn stuff. He's just different from his brother. He's so tired. He's not interested in eating, and he seems angry at life." I swallowed, added, "I'm not sure I like him yet. Is that a terrible thing to say?"
She laughed, patted her own pregnant belly, and said, "I'm sure he'll perk up." She gazed again and his sleeping figure, set her mouth into a smile, and kissed me goodbye.
That night, it was determined that Joel was in respiratory distress. He was airlifted to the NICU at Johns Hopkins, where he spent the next eight days of his life. Paul and I loaded up the bouquet of sunflowers, the knitted blankets, and the hospital onesie removed by the nurses.
I smelled that onesie, and knew what it meant to be torn in half.
A month later, Joanne and I met up at the playground. Owen and her son played, as Joel slept in my sling.
"I knew I should have said something," she said. "I was sure something was wrong." She blinked, once, twice, and sighed deeply. "I am so sorry."
I turned to her, "It is not your fault. There were doctors. Nurses. People saw him all day long. Nobody said anything. Sometimes these things just....happen." I sniffed his soft red hair. "Besides....he's fine now. No problems at all. I even like him a lot these days."
She smiled softly, resting her hand softly on her belly. We watched our big boys play.
And now, I clutch the chrysanthemums, as I walk down the hallway of Calvert Memorial Hospital. I walk past the nursery, where they placed the C-PAP on Joel's nose and mouth. I walk past the bench where I called my mother at three AM. I smell that soap, and stand in the hallway until I no longer feel the need to cry.
Then, I walk into Joanne's room, and place the flowers on the table. I tell my friend that she looks skinny and that her son is gorgeous. Because he is. Because she is.
His breathing is normal, and all is well. No ghosts here. Not in this room. Only love. Only beginnings.
I return home, and walk into Joel's nursery. I watch his slow, deep breaths and whisper, "Thank You. Thank You. Thank You."
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wordless Wednesday: Young Love
It's difficult to hold my tongue when I see things like this:
I must discuss my ideas for their rehearsal dinner. There will be pasta stations. And raspberry water-ice for all.
I must discuss my ideas for their rehearsal dinner. There will be pasta stations. And raspberry water-ice for all.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Like a Black-Eyed Susan
Because there are some amazing writers out there, such as Aging Mommy and The Mother Load contributing to The Red Dress Club's call for poetry, I thought I would give this a whirl.
The poem is meant to be narrative and about a family dynamic. I cheated and used the Pantoum poetic form, because I need structure in my life. Desperately.
Please be kind. I'm very insecure about my poetry.
The poem is meant to be narrative and about a family dynamic. I cheated and used the Pantoum poetic form, because I need structure in my life. Desperately.
Please be kind. I'm very insecure about my poetry.
Like a Black-Eyed Susan,
Our bright-eyed second born.
Neglected in the garden,
He defiantly seeks the light.
Our bright-eyed second born,
A young, tenacious sprout.
He defiantly seeks the light,
Digging deep, he fights.
A young, tenacious sprout
Amongst older, preening plants
Digging deep, he fights.
He's an eruption of gold life.
Amongst older, preening plants,
(Now they're neglected in our garden),
This eruption of gold life!
Is our Black-Eyed Susan.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Playing Greener
In a possibly-reoccurring series, I will attempt to share some of my green tips without coming across like a sanctimonious prig.
Knowing myself as I do, this could be a challenge. After all, I'm the kid that announced to her kindergarten class that Mr. Bubbles, the class puppet, was not magic.
"The teacher was just using food coloring," I spat contemptuously during recess.
As you can imagine, I was invited to all the parties.
Anyway, most of my green efforts stem from my general laziness and my natural tendency to nurture the cobwebs growing in my wallet. I'm sharing these because they have worked for me, and I hope that they might work for you as well.
I'll start today with green toys. I'm not talking about hand-crafted toys made by ancient Baviarian wood-sculptors, although those are very nice indeed. Rather, I'm talking about how to make toys out of common objects.
Before you liken me to Miss Hannigan from Annie or compare my sons to characters from Oliver Twist, let me assure you that the boys have toys. Lots of 'em. In fact, I'm not sure where my living room went, because it looks like Hoarders: Toddler Edition on most days.
But yet, their absolute favorite toys aren't really toys at all. These three objects are cheap, fun, and easy. As a bonus, they aren't packaged with twenty bazillion pounds of cardboard, nor are they (hopefully!) made in a third-world sweatshop.
Green Toy #1: PVC Pipes
For about six dollars, we bought some PVC pipe, stoppers, and connectors at our local hardware store. Owen's world has never been the same.
He makes sculptures out of them.
He runs sand through the pipes. He uses them as tunnels for his toy cars. On hot days, he runs water through them using a kiddie pool full of water. They have worked as makeshift baseball bats, swords, batons, and trumpets.
And yes, they work as showers as well.
We bought this two-gallon water-spicket so that Owen could serve water to guests at Joel's birthday party, thus forgetting he wasn't center of the universe for an hour or two.
We have since discovered that, in this age of water restriction, this bucket is a nice way to do water play with less guilt. I fill the thing up once, and tell the boys, "Once the water is gone, it's gone."
It becomes a game to see how long they can be water savers by reusing the water several times over the course of the day.
They play kitchen, car-wash, restaurant, and lemonade stand, while I sit back and try to stay out of the way.
Now, I recognize that all of these green toys involve water. That's my kids. They're obsessed. I'm hoping for future careers in hydro-engineering.
It works for us. It may, or may not work for you.
I would encourage you, though, to think creatively. Playing greener may be easier than you think.
What are your kids' favorite "non-toy toys"? What green toys have worked for you? Recommendations? Insights?
Knowing myself as I do, this could be a challenge. After all, I'm the kid that announced to her kindergarten class that Mr. Bubbles, the class puppet, was not magic.
"The teacher was just using food coloring," I spat contemptuously during recess.
As you can imagine, I was invited to all the parties.
Anyway, most of my green efforts stem from my general laziness and my natural tendency to nurture the cobwebs growing in my wallet. I'm sharing these because they have worked for me, and I hope that they might work for you as well.
I'll start today with green toys. I'm not talking about hand-crafted toys made by ancient Baviarian wood-sculptors, although those are very nice indeed. Rather, I'm talking about how to make toys out of common objects.
Before you liken me to Miss Hannigan from Annie or compare my sons to characters from Oliver Twist, let me assure you that the boys have toys. Lots of 'em. In fact, I'm not sure where my living room went, because it looks like Hoarders: Toddler Edition on most days.
But yet, their absolute favorite toys aren't really toys at all. These three objects are cheap, fun, and easy. As a bonus, they aren't packaged with twenty bazillion pounds of cardboard, nor are they (hopefully!) made in a third-world sweatshop.
Green Toy #1: PVC Pipes
For about six dollars, we bought some PVC pipe, stoppers, and connectors at our local hardware store. Owen's world has never been the same.
He makes sculptures out of them.
He runs sand through the pipes. He uses them as tunnels for his toy cars. On hot days, he runs water through them using a kiddie pool full of water. They have worked as makeshift baseball bats, swords, batons, and trumpets.
And yes, they work as showers as well.
(This wastes a lot of water, thus, isn't all that green. In my defense, this happened while I was inside making lunch. Since I wasn't watching them, I'm totally off the hook, right?)
Green Toy #2: Spray Bottles
I have bought many a cheap, one-dollar squirt gun at the grocery store. I am happy to bribe my children for a dollar's worth of peace. Unfortunately, most of them break before they are even buckled into their car seats for the ride home.
For the same dollar, I purchased a bunch of squirt bottles at the Dollar Store. I fill 'em up with water, and let the kids squirt away. They work in the tub, provide a nice mist to dry sandbox sand, and cool off the kids in the pinch. I've seen Joel pretend to wash my sliding glass door with his bottle, and Owen has used it as a "spray painter" on our deck.
This makes me very happy. Since I envision a long future of sitting on my ass, watching them work, they best start developing their skills now.
Green Toy #3: Water Spicket
We bought this two-gallon water-spicket so that Owen could serve water to guests at Joel's birthday party, thus forgetting he wasn't center of the universe for an hour or two.
We have since discovered that, in this age of water restriction, this bucket is a nice way to do water play with less guilt. I fill the thing up once, and tell the boys, "Once the water is gone, it's gone."
It becomes a game to see how long they can be water savers by reusing the water several times over the course of the day.
They play kitchen, car-wash, restaurant, and lemonade stand, while I sit back and try to stay out of the way.
Now, I recognize that all of these green toys involve water. That's my kids. They're obsessed. I'm hoping for future careers in hydro-engineering.
It works for us. It may, or may not work for you.
I would encourage you, though, to think creatively. Playing greener may be easier than you think.
What are your kids' favorite "non-toy toys"? What green toys have worked for you? Recommendations? Insights?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
My Deere Boy
Some Background
Living where we live, Joel sees tractors on a daily basis, and every time, without fail, he bellows, "TRAC-TOR! TRAC-TOR! TRAC-TOR" until somebody finally says, "Yes, Joely. Tractor."
Just for fun, I waited it out one time. He said "TRAC-TOR!" with increasing intensity and ardor, TWENTY-THREE TIMES. I stopped him because his face was turning tomato red.
In other words, the boy likes tractors.
Cake Wrecks
I have a long and unfortunate history of making frightening birthday cakes for my children.
Owen's 4th birthday brought us the Serial Killer Cupcake from Hell:
Joel's first birthday cake was a blue monstrosity with bad, bad lettering. I shamelessly lied, and told my guests Owen frosted it.
When I got it into my head that Joel needed a three-dimensional birthday cake shaped like a tractor, I did the reasonable thing, andbegged asked my mom to do it.
Construction
My mother declared that the cake would be made out of Rice Krispie treats. She started her construction.
I did what I do best. That is, supervise and make smart-ass remarks.
Using her magic and ancient incantations, my mother turned blocks of Rice Krispies into this:
My mom can do anything.
The Aftermath
Well, really, this says it all.
This is my happy TWO YEAR OLD celebrating his birthday today. We had friends over for pancakes. We played in the kiddie pool and ran the sprinkler and squirted water at each other with spray bottles.
It was glorious. Pure, unadulterated toddler bliss.
Mushy Stuff
Two years ago, Joel was born. Our climber, our thrill-seeker, our militantly happy miracle.
Joel, my boy, the world is a better, happier, place with you in it. You're my dear, Deere-loving, boy.
Living where we live, Joel sees tractors on a daily basis, and every time, without fail, he bellows, "TRAC-TOR! TRAC-TOR! TRAC-TOR" until somebody finally says, "Yes, Joely. Tractor."
Just for fun, I waited it out one time. He said "TRAC-TOR!" with increasing intensity and ardor, TWENTY-THREE TIMES. I stopped him because his face was turning tomato red.
In other words, the boy likes tractors.
Cake Wrecks
I have a long and unfortunate history of making frightening birthday cakes for my children.
Owen's 4th birthday brought us the Serial Killer Cupcake from Hell:
Joel's first birthday cake was a blue monstrosity with bad, bad lettering. I shamelessly lied, and told my guests Owen frosted it.
When I got it into my head that Joel needed a three-dimensional birthday cake shaped like a tractor, I did the reasonable thing, and
Construction
My mother declared that the cake would be made out of Rice Krispie treats. She started her construction.
I did what I do best. That is, supervise and make smart-ass remarks.
Using her magic and ancient incantations, my mother turned blocks of Rice Krispies into this:
The Aftermath
This is my happy TWO YEAR OLD celebrating his birthday today. We had friends over for pancakes. We played in the kiddie pool and ran the sprinkler and squirted water at each other with spray bottles.
It was glorious. Pure, unadulterated toddler bliss.
Mushy Stuff
Two years ago, Joel was born. Our climber, our thrill-seeker, our militantly happy miracle.
Joel, my boy, the world is a better, happier, place with you in it. You're my dear, Deere-loving, boy.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sundays in a Historical Tourist Trap City
I am sneaking onto the computer for a minute because my parents, who are visiting from Colorado, are both reading The Washington Post quite happily.
I expect that I will continue to be a spotty poster/commenter for the remainder of the week.
I notice that I have new followers and I love you. Let's get married.
I will visit you soon.
I will also be a better reader/commenter once I return to my hermit-like normal life. The life, that is, where it is not considered socially unacceptable to be on the computer numerous hours each day.
***
While I was away, the boys and I met up with my parents at Colonial Williamsburg. With the temperatures soaring around 103 degrees, we all got a true taste of what it would be like to live in the days of wool breeches and hand-powered air conditioning.
Miserable.
We did a forced march up and down Ye Olde Roadway, pushing or pulling the red-faced, whining children. We almost got Ye Olde Heatstroke, were it not for Ye Olde Starbucks.
We quickly returned to the pool, where we engaged in a turf battle with Ye Olde Teenagers and their ancient squirt-muskets of annoyance.
***
It wasn't all historic ass-tractions, though. We also went to Busch Gardens, where I learned that my children are stubborn as mules.
Thanks to my parents, who attended a root-canal of a time-share presentation, we got discounted tickets to the theme park.
We went straight to the Sesame Street Children's Lollapallooza of Awesome, where my children refused to play in the specially designed sprinkler park, preferring to frolic in the blazing sun.
Owen was quick to dismiss most of the rides as "too fast" or "too scary," although there were infants riding the rides unaccompanied.
Eventually, after some careful analysis and study, Owen determined that these rides were not designed to torture or injure, and he decided to take the plunge. Joel was quick to follow.
I think they enjoyed themselves.
***
After Busch Gardens and the historical death march, there was only one place left: Bass Pro Shop.
Owen is into fishing, you see, so I thought he would like the fly-fishing demonstration.
I didn't realize it was also a home-design mecca.
I invite you to give me the best idea for how to incorporate this unique and timeless piece of decor into your life. The best entry, as determined by my Dad, will win the title of MOST AWESOME COMMENTER.
Have at it, and I'll see you when my parents find another newspaper or a good episode of Walker, Texas Ranger.
(Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City).
I expect that I will continue to be a spotty poster/commenter for the remainder of the week.
I notice that I have new followers and I love you. Let's get married.
I will visit you soon.
I will also be a better reader/commenter once I return to my hermit-like normal life. The life, that is, where it is not considered socially unacceptable to be on the computer numerous hours each day.
***
While I was away, the boys and I met up with my parents at Colonial Williamsburg. With the temperatures soaring around 103 degrees, we all got a true taste of what it would be like to live in the days of wool breeches and hand-powered air conditioning.
Miserable.
We did a forced march up and down Ye Olde Roadway, pushing or pulling the red-faced, whining children. We almost got Ye Olde Heatstroke, were it not for Ye Olde Starbucks.
We quickly returned to the pool, where we engaged in a turf battle with Ye Olde Teenagers and their ancient squirt-muskets of annoyance.
***
It wasn't all historic ass-tractions, though. We also went to Busch Gardens, where I learned that my children are stubborn as mules.
Thanks to my parents, who attended a root-canal of a time-share presentation, we got discounted tickets to the theme park.
We went straight to the Sesame Street Children's Lollapallooza of Awesome, where my children refused to play in the specially designed sprinkler park, preferring to frolic in the blazing sun.
Owen was quick to dismiss most of the rides as "too fast" or "too scary," although there were infants riding the rides unaccompanied.
Eventually, after some careful analysis and study, Owen determined that these rides were not designed to torture or injure, and he decided to take the plunge. Joel was quick to follow.
I think they enjoyed themselves.
***
After Busch Gardens and the historical death march, there was only one place left: Bass Pro Shop.
Owen is into fishing, you see, so I thought he would like the fly-fishing demonstration.
I didn't realize it was also a home-design mecca.
I invite you to give me the best idea for how to incorporate this unique and timeless piece of decor into your life. The best entry, as determined by my Dad, will win the title of MOST AWESOME COMMENTER.
Have at it, and I'll see you when my parents find another newspaper or a good episode of Walker, Texas Ranger.
(Thanks to Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City).
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