I get the goose!

Merry Go Round Days.

Those days where you feel like you're not getting things done, not making progress, and just moving around in circles as if on a never-ending Merry Go Round. Up and down, round and round. The same tinny melody in the carnival of life.

On my carousel a poopy diaper is a poopy diaper (unless, of course it is a redwood tree or Hawaii), Curious George always reconnects with the Man In The Yellow Hat, and my screams of "Turn off the water NOW" constantly fall on deaf ears. Even as the water sprays me in the face.

It's the constant ride of teaching, caring, clothing, consoling, cleaning and loving. Up and down. Round and round.

And then, a new day. And it's the exact same challenges, cuddles, cracker crumbs, and pjs still smelling like urine as they come out of the dryer.

But like a Merry Go Round -- a truly pointless mode of transport -- it's all about the ride. The ups. The downs. The sentimental music. The slightly queasy feeling in your stomach. The adorable and oddly frightening animals and characters you select and watch along the ride. The way that you hold on tight at first and then progress into freestyle with no hands while leaning across to touch the ring. The memories of carousels past and the hands that held you on your early journeys around the ring.

And it always ends too soon.

But, ahhhh, what a ride!

June 2008, Age 4


June 2007, Age 3


June 2006, Age 2






June 2008, Age 2


June 2007, 1 year old


June 2006, 1 month old


You Begin
By Margaret Atwood

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.


This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.


Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.


This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.


Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.

The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.


This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

Table for Four, please

The only thing better than garbage day with two boys?

Recycling day with four.


Four. I did have four, right?



Oh, whew. Four. And a purple elephant.

4 Square

The cuteness factor is stratospheric at the MonkeyRanch. I'm watching my 3 and 5 year old nephews, along with my boys, for a sleep over. This means hotdogs served costco-style, mac n cheese from a box, and all the Bob the Builder my DVR can deliver.

The sunshine has made the day glorious and so have their cute little voices. My roses have never been serenaded by as much glee as this quartet offered during sprinkler time. I hope I will always remember the sound of their piggy-like squeals of delight. And the joy of "cold cuddles" - Max's term for naked, wet hugs fresh out of the kiddy pool.

Summer 2022: Scene I.

The cast:

Sam, Age 16

Max, Age 18

MonkeyMama, older than dirt

___________________________________________
SAM: Hey, Mom, can I borrow the keys to your convertible?

ME: No, you may not.

SAM: C'mon. Please. Remember when I didn't say please and I just banged my hand on my chest and looked like a spastic ape performing that modified sign language stuff that you tried to teach us? I'm asking nice now that I'm 16 and can grow facial hair. Please can I have the keys?

ME: No, you may not. But thanks for asking. That's nice manners. Remember when I used to acknowledge the times when you and your brother used manners? I don't need to do that anymore. But I do need to remind you to do your homework. Did you do your homework?

SAM: Look, Mom! A firetruck! Hahhahaahaaa. That one gets you every time. We learned that page right out of your playbook. Now it's coming back to bite you. Speaking of bites, I wanna go grab one. Can I borrow your car?

ME: No, you may not borrow my car. You may, however, have the keys to the rennievan if you promise to check in every 30 minutes and let me know that you're ok.

SAM: Awwwwww! Mom, that thing's like a zillion years old. Besides, it's kind of embarrassing to drive around in it after Dad tagged his phone number on the back so that people could call and complain about our driving. Pleeeeaaaaase can I drive your car?

ME: No. That's my final answer. Where is your brother? Maybe he can give you a ride.

SAM: Oh. My. God. Mom, you're joking right? It's bad enough that I'm known as the younger brother to the Maxcavator, the dude completely obsessed with tractors, but come on. I am not going to drive around looking like a cast member of Green Acres. Can't you make him get rid of that John Deere tractor? I think the girls get a little freaked out when he pulls into their driveways with it. Remember how that one dad drove him off the road and told him not to come back until he had a Kubota?

ME: Sam, you and your brother just need to work this out (Ding: 10 millionth time that phrase has been uttered!). Here he comes now.

MAX: Yo. Hey bro. What do you think of my soul patch and side burns? Kinda retro, huh? Hey, wanna go play drums with me in the garage? I just bought some EXTRA LOUD cymbals and snares. I think they sound great. Hey, are you humry? I just ate like 10 minutes ago, but I'm staaaarving now. Mom, can we borrow your keys?

ME: The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Fade to black and white.

Summer: It's the New Winter

Juneuary 2008

I am over the cold. Over. It. I am over being stuck in the house with kids who deserve to be coated in sunblock with juice streaking down their chins and forearms while they dig in the sand and wear sunhats to protect their bald spots. I am over having to come up with "indoor crafts" while the rest of the Northern Hemisphere is planning their cook outs and picking ticks from their pets and blowing bubbles in the swimming pool filled with kid urine.

Okay, so I'm a little bitter.

Find the happy place. Find the happy place. Find the..okay, it's just not here in this latitude.

My highly-strung nerves may have a wee bit to do with the fact that I've been stuck in the house with four young children by myself for two days. Highly outnumbered and in awe of the parents out there who do this everyday. Holy cow.

These were some of the things we did to pass the time:



Okay, so clearly I am not demonstrating good judgement here. Only a bottle of ibuprofen and ear plugs can make this situation any better. Sometimes even mommies make bad choices.

And speaking of bottles, I dyed some macaroni for necklaces. The Internet told me to use a tincture of rubbing alcohol and food coloring. When my neighbor came to pick her kids up, the house (and her children) smelled like booze. And she didn't even bat an eye. God, I love my neighbor.



I still have this bowl sitting on my counter in case the kids get some wild hair and decide that they must make jewelery RIGHT NOW. Of course, their wild hairs are more likely to involve tackles and water faucets, but a mom can always hope. And yes, I have reached my hand into that bowl no less than five times thinking that it might have some little munchy crunchy goody inside, only to sadly pull back and go sob in the pantry.



And just when you think it can't get more 1970's...



We painted Pet Rocks!





If it doesn't hurry up and get sunny around here soon, I'm going to turn up my "Free to Be, You and Me" CD, hang up some macrame plant holders with ferns inside of them, and paint the stainless steel appliances avocado and gold.

Just for something to do.

From the poop deck

I know. I know. I know.

Two days in a row of poop talk is two days too many. But it goes on A LOT around here. Poop talk. Normal four year old kid stuff that occupies a great deal of conversation and is never particularly enriching to me, although I recognize it has it's purpose.

One of the things that amuses, yet confounds me, is the desire, no compulsion, to title one's poops. And not just big and small. Oh no, we get very descriptive. Often Max will go into the bathroom and come out with a full report. These are a few of the descriptions Max has given his poop that I can recall. I'm sure I've suppressed many others and I'm totally okay with that. So are you, right?

"A Redwood tree" (ouch)
"A Rainbow. 'Cause you like rainbows, Mommy."
Elephant, giraffe, hippo and zebra poopy (and really, the entire African and Asian continents' fauna, too)
"A class full of big kids. And the school bus with little kids will come after breakfast."

And tonight...
"It looks like Hawaii!" and sure enough, there was a little chain of islands floating in the water.

Mahalo, my little man.

"Clean Up on Aisle 9"

While perusing cereal choices in the "Natural Foods" section of the grocery store, I suggested to Max that we try a box of this.

Very sincerely, he replied, "Oh no, NOT that. It blows right through me!"

I Could. Not. Stop Laughing.

Nor could the rest of the people in the aisle with us.

Shaking, actually, from trying not to laugh.

Spring Cleaning and Mother's Day - A Package Deal

I did a little site maintenance, cleaned things up, moved some stuff around and realized that I had never posted from my trip to visit my grandmother last month. Oops!

For Mother's Day, my family gave me the gift of time with someone very special, my 91 year old Grandma. I highly recommend the "Nursing Home As Spa" vacation if you ever the get opportunity. I had my own room, went to bed by 8 o'clock each night, ate food that was extremely easy to chew, and felt very grateful to have my health. Isn't that what Canyon Ranch offers on a much steeper price tag? Okay, so maybe I was just a wee bit desperate for a break.

All kidding aside, my grandmother offered me that spectacular gift during my childhood of unconditional, unencumbered, and unending love. The kind that only grandparents who aren't charged with discipline and nutrition and formal education can provide. The kind of love that feels limitless and also anticipated. The kind of love that is birthday cake frosting every time you are hugged.

The kind of love that says "Oh? You didn't want to brush your hair today? That just makes me want to hug you and squeeze your knee. Here, have a cookie. I baked these just for you kids."

Or, "Did you climb up on that counter all by yourself and get those potato chips down? Aren't you clever!"

Or, "Wow, show me how you can stand on your toes again! Why that's amazing! Where did you learn that? Ballet? Oh, show me some more and turn on some music and let me clap for you."

The kind of love that is so very reassuring to children navigating the treachery of growing up. Because childhood, while magical, is also full of learning new skills and trying to be good and figuring out how stuff works and how to write a paragraph and where do the arms go in third position in ballet? And where does the shortstop stand again?

As a young girl, I knew deep down that what I was doing wasn't really all that extraordinary or unique - I'm sure lots of kids could do cartwheels, memorize a poem, or wear a softball uniform - but Grandma always made me feel like what I did was impressive and brought her great joy.

And who didn't need that as a kid? And frankly, who doesn't need that as an adult? What a gift I have - a woman who thinks that I'm great just for being me! It's like my own private cheerleader, Ed McMahon, and personal snare drum all rolled into one lovely soft pink track suit.

And you know, we could all use a little more of that.

My grandma, like many women of her generation, has known hard work and sacrifice far different from anything I've experienced. Her mother died during childbirth, and she soon lost three sisters to childhood disease that she and one other sister managed to survive. She worked in a factory while raising a child during WWII, went back to school and became a teacher while raising my father and did all of this while finishing up a needlepoint or quilting project and maintaining a vegetable garden that was nothing short of victorious.

This Mother's Day I decided to spend some time cheering her on so I traveled to the Midwest to sit with her and visit.

Just me and Grandma. No worrying about little people pulling the rescue cord, or playing in the toilet, or eating the dried plums on the bedstand.

Just us.

Sitting in the solarium soaking up the sun and drinking coffee together. And home baked rhubarb crisp, because you just don't get to go to the Midwest without some divinely baked treat that originated in someone's garden and now is being served in a church dish.

Grandma and I enjoyed watching spring burst open together. She commented on the direction of the wind in that tone that comes with someone who has noticed such things for a long time. The wind really started to blow and bend the trees as if trying to force them to the ground.

And yet, they stood.

Grandma and I watched this together and marveled at their strength. Grandma talked of the tree's root system: imagine, underneath the ground were all those roots that you couldn't see holding it up in the wind. Why, they were probably just as big as those tree limbs spreading out over the courtyard.

And I had this image, almost childlike, of a tree upside down with its roots growing in mirror image under the ground. And it made me smile. And think of her.

That while all of us are out here blowing in the breeze and trying our hardest to stand upright on the windiest and blustery trials of life, we've got roots.

Strong roots that hold us upright even when it feels like the world is gonna tear us down.

And I'm so glad for the roots I've got.



I love you, Grandma!

Best Sound of the day?

Why, that would be the garage door closing as the rennievan rolls out of the driveway with two screaming children and a husband taking them to run errands. For hours.

There is nothing so precious as the silence of my own home.

Namaste.

Mud Tide

We had a near record-breaking minus tide today. It happens each June and turns what is normally deep water into a giant playground of muck and goo that smells like a summery squid margarita in a gigantic salt-rimmed glass.

This year's tide was lower than it's been since the summer I was taking driver's ed, and saw "Top Gun" in a movie theater, and knew all the lyrics to Janet Jackson's "Control" - which I listened to on a tape, of course. And it won't be this low again again until Sammy is old enough to drive himself to the beach. And I'll be eligible for AARP.

That's a loooong time away. And 1986 was just a few years ago.

Go figure.

The super low tide reveals the secrets of underwater life almost as if the we were playing "Peek-A-Boo" with tiny marine critters and lifting their blankie. Crabs, clams, moon shells, star fish, bullheads and all kinds of gooey things that looked like jelly fish nuggets were splayed out on the beach. And barnacles...lots and lots of barnacles. And while we normally get to see a few of each of these things at regular low tides, a minus tide is kind of like the difference between a small county fair and DisneyLand.

It's just that cool.

Except if you are a cat. And today I took my cat to the beach.


Okay, so I don't have a cat. But I do have a kid who acts an awful lot like one sometimes. And he did NOT dig the minus tide.



His feet kept getting caught in the sticky, deep, black sandy mud and if he tried to get them out he'd fall into a pile of rancid, slippery seaweed or a giant salt-water filled hole. And did I mention the barnacles? Lots of barnacles.




And my cat kept meowing "Tuck. Tuck" and pointing to his little green crocs that were vacuum-sealed into the sand.



I carried my cat around this slippery beach and showed him how to lift the rocks to find crabs, and splash water in the tidal pools to make the fish swim out of the seaweed. And the shovel and pail that we brought? Not nearly as interested in those as he was in the boats in the water. Mr. Junior Nascar was all about the boats.

There are moments in parenting that you just have to give in. Just give in and say "BOAT!" and be in that place with your kid, even though you know that they are missing out on a natural phenomenon that will not occur again until the AARP membership card is in your wallet.

Because it's not all about me and what I want. It's about this little Nascar-in-training fan who will not get out of his pajamas until he has been promised one Pixar-produced piece of crap item of clothing. And the fact that he loves boats but not water and tractors but not dirt. He is full of all the contradictions and complexities that come with being two years old.

And I just have to embrace it and love it and point excitedly to the boats right along with him.



While inwardly admiring the moon shells and the crabs and the seaweed and the moment of beach bliss with my kid who will probably be carrying me the next time we see a tide this low.

Letters from Home

Dear Max,

Hey Bro, whazzup? Whazzup? hahaha "Whazzup?" - get it? Isn't that funny - Whazzup?! Mommy and I do that to eachother ALL THE TIME and we laugh and laugh and laugh. Gosh, Mommy is so funny. And smart. And tall and pretty, too. I sure do love that Mommy.

Well, things are going pretty good here while you are at Grandma and Grandpa's farm with Daddy. Mom and I play together a lot, but not as much as she thought we would. First there was the cell phone disaster, and then she lost her watch, and then there's all the mess to clean up after dumping out all the places where her watch might be, but I think she's regaining her sanity. Where did we hide that thing anyway? She keeps asking and I keep laughing and saying "Park!" like I have no idea what she's talking about.

Are you having fun with the horses? Wasn't that soooo funny that Daddy didn't pack any clean clothes for you? Only he would think of dumping the dirty clothes hamper into his duffel bag and taking those instead of clean clothes. Makes sense, I guess, since you probably get pretty dirty on the farm. Bummer about no clean underwear, though.

I guess it's good that he called and asked Mommy what size underwear you would wear, you know, if anyone ever wanted to buy you some new ones. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

I wanted to tell you how nice I thought your drawing was that you made for your friend right before we went to his party.

But I really think you need to put more expression into your art. I'm a big fan of interpreting the media with my body, you know, really feeling what the art wants to tell the viewer. Kind of like what I was doing right before Mom came into the kitchen:

See, there was no hidden emotion there when she saw it. I knew just what she was feeling. All that angst and rage and it was all right there. I knew she was mad that I did that in the four minutes that she was in the bathroom while we were in a big rush to get out of the house.

And you, bro, you really have her eating right out of your hand. I gotta learn some of your lines. Like when you told her that she was the best, and she said that she wasn't feeling very good right now because she'd yelled at us, and you said, "No, you're the goodest Mommy in the whole world!" and gave her that big hug and kiss on the cheek. I think she really liked that.

Well, it's time for me to go eat more goldfish crackers and pop. You remember pop, don't you? It's the bread that goes in the toaster and "pops" up, and so I like to call it "pop." And I think I'll play with your excavators, too, since you're not around. And your orange garbage truck that you always take away from me and tell me that it's very special, just like the shovel that Grandpa Tom gave you. I was totally diggin' with that earlier today, bro. That's cool.

Okay, well have fun and say hi to Daddy for us. We love you guys and can't wait to see you!

Love,
Your brother, Whammy

It practically had a brief case and a CB handle

My cell phone that I've had since before the invention of Reality TV finally quit yesterday.

Sigh.

I'm pretty sure that the Sprint clerk wanted to tell me that he was in 6th grade when they last sold that phone, but he didn't. Maybe they have a chapter in the training manual about not laughing at the old people who bring in the antiques.

I'll spare you the gory details, but I've been to four different establishments to get my old data into my new phone. Chun at the 38th Street PCS store (shout out to you, my friend - you ROCK!) got my data transferred and I almost cried. Or kissed him. Or peed my pants. Or all three. But that would have been horribly embarrassing for him.

And me.

Nothing in this world makes me feel old and stuck in my ways and unable to adapt to change as cellular technology. Or the current playlist on MTV.

"Sew many nights, I sit by my Viking..."

I've been dusting off the ol' sewing machine and trying to put some domestic jo-jo into my life. It has resulted in the total destruction of the room in which the sewing machine resides, and a few cute projects, too. I'm delighted to be creating with the same Viking Husqvarna machine that my mom's mom used during the year of my birth and the decades that followed.

But as all parents of small children know, the time for personal projects is preciously rare. I tried including the kids with me, hoping to nurture creativity and teach some basic geometry concepts.

Until my bobbin thread ended up as a lasso and was then unraveled and transformed into a fishing weight, I still can't find a critical piece of fabric, and Max begs constantly to "operate the auger drill."

Martha Stewart never had to work in these conditions.

I snuck some quality work in during Sam's naps this week. I was almost done with a corner piece when the little guy woke up crying. I sent Max in to tell him it was okay and I'd be right in.

I heard a few tears, then whispers, then giggles and giggles.

Awwww.

or, if you know these boys,

"What the hell are they up to?"



The price I pay for solitude.



Maybe it is time for a pummel horse around here.

Top Five Signs that I am Raising Boys...

5. I asked my youngest son if he thought that throwing his shoes was a good idea or a bad idea, and his older brother started singing, somewhat to the tune of "Cops", "Bad choice, bad choice" and I was ready for him to add "what you gonna do?"

4. I spotted my son peeing on the playground again (while surrounded by lots of kids) and yelled his name in shock and horror. He looked up, stopped, and said guiltily, "Sorry", and then rotated about 90 degrees and peed on the grass. Because that's much better.

3. In his attempt to learn language at a surprisingly rapid rate and with great efficiency, my youngest son has abbreviated the cumbersome "popcorn." Now, he just prefers to yell "PORN! More porn, Mommy!". Oh, how the neighbors must love us.

2. They can now both read the words "John" and "Deere".

1. When asked to explain an image of the Eiffel Tower to Max, I told him that it was in Paris and that some day, when he was a grown up, he'd get to go to the very top of it and look out over the City of Lights and if he was very lucky, he'd have shared a very delicious meal with a really pretty girl that he could kiss while up on top the very top of that tall, tall tower.

And he responded.."You, Mommy!"

And he meant it.

For now at least.

Ahhh, we'll always have Paris...

I'll take a side of brynner, hold the yul

I had a pretty good idea of how the day was going to go when I found myself leaving both the pediatrician's office and the state run liquor store with two small children before the clock even hit 10:30 in the morning.

Good news on two fronts - no ear infections and Jose Cuervo was on sale!

And lest you think that I'm a total derelict, I did fix my kids dinner tonight. Sorta.

Pancakes and eggs in the dinner hour, which we affectionately refer to as "Brinner". Many families do it, I assume, but title credit goes to my sister-in-law who has safely and wisely guided her two boys into adolescence. I met her over ten years ago when her wee ones were the ages of my wee ones and I have been delighted to follow the obstacles and adorations in which she too, once stepped, with two humry boys.

Breakfast for Dinner. Brinner.

And no, we don't shave our heads and sing "Shall we Dance?" Or act out scenes from "The Magnificent Seven", but I could totally see the boys in cowboy hats and western duds way before I could see myself in a petticoat dancing with Mr. Wonderful in "Hammer Time" pants. With his head shaved and no shirt and a big belt buckle. Okay, I'm making myself laugh here. That's just an image that my brain cannot compute.

Although I do often sing "Whistle a Happy Tune" while my kids are crying and it bugs the crap out of them, which I'm sure is what it's supposed to do. I remember it bugging the crap out of me when Mrs. Marshall taught us to sing it in fourth grade and suggested it be a guiding principle in our lives.

But then she also taught us to sing "You Light Up My Life" (hello??? it was the 1970's) and I thought it was the most romantic, magical and special song ever written. Until my parents made so much fun of me that I only sang the lyrics in my head while walking home from school.

My mother even put it to me this way: "There are two kinds of people...those who were Pat Boone fans and those who were Elvis fans. Your father and I were Elvis fans."

Like I was supposed to know what that meant. Or be reassured by it.

But somewhere along the way I figured out what she meant by that.

And some days that might even make me whistle a very happy tune. And some days, Jose Cuervo might help, too.

Crazy kids

Forty two years ago today, these two wonderful people decided to take an enormous leap of faith...



And I'm so glad that they did. And still do.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.

I love you.

Pop Music

The sun comes out, the days are longer, and the next thing you know our house looks like a pilot episode for the DIY network. We've been taking on a few indoor and outdoor projects and actually finished one of them. Or, at least I think it's finished. Mr. Perfect, er Wonderful, thinks that there's some moulding issues that need to be resolved, but I am very happy with our new pantry cabinet. Biscuit joined, routered, nestled, and not a nail showing. Too bad it's stuck way back in the pantry, because it truly is a thing of beauty.

During the installation phase of the project we cleaned out the depths of our cabinets -- all the way back in the crevices where we rediscovered every paper bag, deflated helium balloon, and a treasure-trove of noise making, sanity-destroying, zen-depriving toys that were driving the mommy craaaaazy so they needed to "go take a nap". And we probably would have never had to hear from them again, had it not been for Mr. Wonderful's resourcefulness in designing and building our new cabinet with side-mounted drawers.

Among the treasures that were retrieved was an air popcorn popper that we received as a wedding gift in 1999. And we've never used it. We've moved it no less than four times, each time asking ourselves if it's worth packing up. And each time I've always answered with the premonition of an oracle (or a pack-rat), "Let's hold on to it. Maybe when we have kids they'll like popcorn."

Duh.

Max discovered the popcorn popper in it's unsealed box as it was retrieved from the depths of the pantry. And immediately he began a love affair with it. He talked to it in a hushed whisper. He dragged it around the house with him. He begged to get it out of the box. To make "popcorn!" He asked daily when we were going to the store to get popcorn "seeds". He even showed me the picture of said "seeds" and explained that we needed to get that exact jar (oh, how quick the mighty do fall for Orville Redenbacher's mad marketing machine).

We rolled into the grocery store yesterday on a visit which involved hauling that mother-feared, back-breaking "butterfly of death" grocery cart around with two wiggly boys who were insistent upon said cart and then refused to remain inside of it. Sam even decided that wearing his shoes wasn't all that necessary and so he tossed them aside at some point, a point not to be discovered by the mama until we were back at the car, groceries loaded and ready to roll. Back into the cart, back into the store, and shy of one green croc later, we were heading out the parking lot.

Thank God we got the popcorn seeds.



Because it truly was magical watching Max make popcorn. As our video demonstrates, we are novices here:



The popcorn popped all over the floor, the counter, the stools and into Max's mouth. And that's when the love affair really began.




And just after finishing our abundant treat, the courtesy clerk from Albertson's called and our missing green croc was located on the canned food aisle.

Thank goodness someone found it. And the popcorn popper.

Now if I could just hide those noisy toys, I'd be a really happy person.

Mathematical Truth

The amount of time that it takes for a preschooler to get dressed after a swimming lesson is inversely related to the amount of time that the child actually spends in the pool.

Explanation:
If a young child is in a group swim lesson (>2 children), then the child will spend more time out of the water sitting on the side of the pool shivering, splashing water on/being splashed by their classmates, or kicking aimlessly, then they will in the water.

This of course can be explained by the factor of safety which states that only one child should be in the water at a time with the instructor.

What is often forgotten in the equation of swimming lessons (which always sound good at the time of enrollment), is that the larger the class = the larger the congregation in the locker room.

And more kids in the locker room means greater distraction, which leads to longer shower/dressing time. It is a known truth that younger children require a greater degree of parental assistance with the showering/peeling of wet swimsuits. However, the older the child is (and consequently the more competent they should be at dressing themselves), the more self-conscious and/or curious they are about getting dressed in front of others, thereby increasing the time that it takes for them to get dressed by themselves or the greater the distraction at seeing other people getting un/dressed.

Example #1:

Preparation for swim lesson
5 minutes to undress and put clothes in locker and go potty
2 minutes to argue with parent about getting into the shower
1 minute to shower
2 minutes to argue with parent/bribe child at poolside about wearing earplugs
5 minutes to wait for all the kids to arrive before lessons begin
_____
15 minutes

30 minute swim lesson
Each child spends approximately 1-3 minutes in the pool for approximately 5 different intervals (2 min x 5 intervals = approx 10 minutes in the pool per child)

Post swim lesson locker room chaos
2 minutes in the shower
2 minutes to argue with parent about not wanting to get out of the shower
1 minute to peel bathing suit off of shivering body
1 minute to redirect child to stand on towel and not slip on floor
2 minutes to find child's underwear while they are shivering and waiting
4 minutes to get dressed
1 minute to argue about brushing hair
2 minutes to go potty after getting dressed
1 minute to shove all wet items back into gym bag
_____
16 minutes to dress following swim lessons

It must be noted that the above formula is exponential when subjected to >1 child/parent and therefore it will always take exponentially longer when trying to efficiently "instruct" multiple children at the same time.

And lest we forget, all of the above effort is being exerted to that parents will feel better when our children are around water.

Ahhhh, the price we pay for PEACE OF MIND.



The above post is dedicated to my brave and good-humored friend, Erin, who navigates three children through swim lessons, locker rooms, and life. What a good mom you are!

Pet stories

Lately, there have been a lot of requests for pet acquisition in our house. Max seems to think that what we really need is a dog ("That's a perfect idea, Bubbi!"), or a cat ("Because they run up into trees and I like to climb trees!").

And this weekend, he decided that since he wasn't getting anywhere with a purchased pet, he might try capturing one of his own.

So last night he tried bringing us the most gigantic, gruesome, slimy and disgusting slug. Like this:


And it left the most frightening slime on his hands that could not be removed by water, soap, scrubbing brush, or even denatured alcohol. It wasn't until after a frantic call to a friend and a google search that I found our solution was in the pantry = salt. So Max got a salt scrub and a lecture that slugs are not pets. And mom and dad had a glass of wine and tried to forget that we ever saw anything that gross touching our beautiful child.

But then today, Max found a roly poly bug, somewhat like this:

And he named it "Storm" and he carried it around and talked to it for a long time. And then Storm told him that he missed his Mommy and Daddy and so Max took him home.

And then Max erupted into tears. Mr. Wonderful, who anticipated a gaping flesh wound, came rushing to our child's aid, only to find him inconsolable and unintelligible through all the tears. Finally, he calmed him enough to learn that the tears were the result of missing his pet, Storm.

"Honey, this one's your department!", he yelled across the garden to me and sent a tearful Max my way.

And little Max rocked on my lap decorated in dirt, and told me that he missed his pet and that he wanted him to come back. And finally after he was calmed down and doing much better, he suggested that tomorrow we go to the pet store and get him a pet of his own.

He ruled out the cat and the dog, knowing that wasn't going to go anywhere. But then he suggested a goldfish.

Okay, we can talk about this one. A small fish. A small fish in a small bowl. A small fish in a small bowl that will probably die.

Because, as a mom, I have to think things through to their obvious conclusions.

And I must also back track here and share an incident from earlier this spring while visiting the in-law's farm, where upon Max discovered a wheeled excavator! An excavator at Grandpa's farm that held Max mesmerized and in awe that he could possibly be related to a human being that could see and touch an excavator on a daily basis!

Grandpa explained to all of us as we stood in the field admiring the gigantic gold machinery, in a voice as matter-of-fact as if he told us about going to the store to buy a loaf of bread, that the excavator belonged to so-and-so and was only there because he'd had to borrow it to bury a mule.

And then he continued on, as if he were well past re-telling the bread buying story and was now listing the ingredients or explaining how to actually bake one's own bread, while the rest of us were left contemplating the reason for the excavator.

"Why'd you bury the mule, Grandpa?"

Max asked innocently and full of preschool perplexity.

And no answer.

"GRANDPA! Why'd you bury the mule?"

Again, no answer.

Grandpa -- who was deep in conversation well beyond the ownership of the excavator -- ultimately got interrupted by Mr. Wonderful who nudged his dad with a wry grin,

"Your grandson's asking you a question, Dad."

And again, in the cutest little four-year-old voice ever,

"Why did you bury the mule, Grandpa?"

And Grandpa answered, not in a mean way, but in a very exaggerated matter-of-fact way, "Because he DIED."

Great.

Just leave it right out there.

And move on.

And so it was left to me in the truck ride back to the farm, in the car ride back to our house, in the many nights that followed as I tucked my little boys into bed,

"Why did Grandpa bury the mule?", or "We have to go back to Grandpa's and dig up the mule."

And so far I've managed to agree that the mule needs to be dug up, or that the mule is in heaven with the rest of his team, or "Oh look, a fire truck!" and we move on.

But now the fish.

Because we all know the inevitability of fish ownership, and today we witnessed the fragility.

And while I want to honor and celebrate my son's blooming love of animals and friendships and all that is so special about having a pet, I also must remember "Where the Red Fern Grows" and I have to ask myself if we're really ready for all that.

Because clearly, if we were that traumatized by a roly poly bug rolling away, are we really ready to see a floater?

So in the context of getting a pet, we talked about responsibility and care, and that pets may die. And he kind of tried to weasel around it and it became very clear that he didn't really understand death (hello, he's four!), and so I tried to paint him the picture that we could get a fish but that someday we'd have to bury it.

Bracing for tears, or perhaps denial, I was reminded again of just whom I am attempting to parent...

"Great idea, Mom! I can dig the hole with my shovel that Grandpa Tom got me!"

And he danced away, happy to know that he would not only be getting a fish, but also be digging a hole.

If there was only a way...

To put this feeling into a can...



I'd buy it EVERY day.

And so would you.

And I'd make a million.

Because this formula is as constant as the universe and defies any proof otherwise:

[summer + being a kid]= happiness










Summer.

Bring. It. On.

Fine Dining

Call it rushed, call it poor nutritional choices, call it gettin' food on the table quickly for two starving little digger men with humry little bellies.

Or, just call it "Costco Style".

I call it peace and quiet while mama and daddy enjoy a cocktail.

Ahhh, much better.

Catching up with an old friend

Dear Internet,

I'm sorry I've been so out of touch. I've been thinking about you and meaning to write, but I've been a bit distracted. My dear friend, Sunshine, recently returned from a long vacation. I've missed her so much while she was gone, and so we've been spending lots of time together getting reacquainted.

There's been so much to catch up on; what with the garden, the lawn, the sprinklers, the bar-b-que, the fire pit, the park, and the endless plucking of splinters out of Sammy's little feet. And riding bikes, blowing bubbles, playing chase and hide and seek, and of course, digging. Lots and lots of digging.

Not so much laundry getting done, or other forms of housework, but oh, we've been having a blast. Staying outside from early morn until late at night. It's intoxicating, really, but I do feel badly for neglecting you, dear Internet.

I truly hope you'll understand and I look forward to visiting again, soon.

Much love,
Monkey Mama

I dare you...

To not smile if you open this door...



Does it get any better than a ball, a good friend, a pretend door (with doorbell!) and peanut butter and jelly smeared all over your truck and tractor shirt?

I think not.

And does it get any better than a friend who will watch your child for three hours while you get your teeth cleaned (by the greatest dental hygienist in North America (a shout out to my peeps, Katy)) and take great pictures of your kid having fun while you were away?

I don't think so.

Thanks, D. You rock.

If I could only sit like that...

Toddler bodies are just about the strongest, bendable, and most flexible little collections of muscle I've ever seen. I would require a large amount of ibuprofen and some serious face time with a yoga mat in order to achieve the above worm-hunting pose.

Just look at the identical way Sam and his buddy are squatting here.

For hours.

Okay, probably for 10 minutes, which in toddler time is like the equivalent of an hour and half for an adult, but still impressive.

Sam went in for his 2 year check up and the growth chart predicts he'll end up around 5'11- 6 feet tall and about 160 lbs. Which means he'll surpass his mamacita's height somewhere in the 2nd grade.

Great.

Happy Birthday, two two you!

Little too too is two today.

And that means that the universe plugged in that switch that says "Hey, you have an opinion. Share it!"

and also turned on the ones that say:

"Don't know the words for what you want yet? Cry and shout!"

or,

"Want to wear that Lightning McQueen shirt AGAIN for the fourth day in a row...tell her about it."

"Be forceful. Be persistent. Be two."



But most of all, be adorable. Learn new words every day and use them appropriately, and when necessary, inappropriately works, too.

Let your parents know that they are still the most important people in your world and show them by falling asleep on their laps, saying their names over and over again in your precious little voice when you see them, running to them even when they've only been in another room.

Delight in the world by stopping to pick up every flower that has fallen (or still in bloom), sniff every petal, talk to every ant, and point to every aircraft. Stop for the rain and look up at the sky. Stop for the wind and puff up your cheeks and blow to share what you are feeling.

Feel, little Whammy. Go ahead and discover all the wonderful emotions that make us human. Love, jealousy, fear, kindness and wonder. They are all yours, and they are all what make it worth the ride.

I will try to be patient. You just keep on being cute. I think it's a winning combo.

Mama loves you, birthday boy.

Top Ten Things I learned while visiting the Mid-Atlantic

10. Removing a tick from my child's nether-region was as gross as one would think it would be. For revenge, I created a tick sarcophogous in a poopy diaper. Take that, you nasty invading arachnid.

9. George Stephanopolous is an itty bitty slight of a thing. And his wife is way taller/prettier than I thought she'd be. Washington DC fascinates me in so many ways, and obviously I'm way beneath talking about the Constitution, Supreme Court, or Capitol.

8. No e-mail, voice mail, telephone call or photo gallery can replace the sensation of hugging a far-away friend or holding their child. Again - or for the first time.

7. My nephews were 3 and 5 last week and now they have deep voices, text message girls, and wash their own clothing. How did that happen? Please tell me that time will not pass this quickly as I raise my own children.

6. If you listen to the Backyardigans in a rental car for nearly 700 miles without watching the screen, your husband may comment that they have really good voices. This will reassure you and scare you all at the same time.

5. If one is going to order the garlic and mussels for dinner, along with a side of garlic frites, it is very chivalrous of one's husband to do the same. It also proves that we were made for eachother.

4. Lacrosse is fun to watch but hard to understand. I'm glad they wear padding and have no idea what the rules are and why slapping an opponent in the front is okay but not the back. Confusing to moi. I like to use French when discussing Lacrosse, since my Onondaga dictionary has been misplaced.

3. Dogwoods and cherry trees in bloom are possibly the most beautiful example of Spring and delicacy that I have ever witnessed. Even I-95 and I-64 are pleasurable under their petals.

2. Minced pork and slaw sandwiches with a glass of cold, fresh limeade at Doumar's are the closest thing ever to culinary perfection wrapped in waxed paper and a tooth pick.

1. Nothing in this world is more precious than family and friends. And no matter how long it has been since you've last seen them, or how many fruits have sprung from your loins, you can just fall back into the easy laughter of yesterday or five years ago and be connected again.