Rox and Roll

Knitting a beanie

It sounds simple enough, doesn't it, "knitting a beanie" ... ?

I am sitting on my bed surrounded by knitting manuals... Knitting for Dummies, Stitch 'n Bitch, 101 Designer One-Skein Wonders, Hip Knit Hats.  I have circular needles, double-point needles, regular needles... all in different and seemingly incompatible sizes.  My circular needles have a cord too long for a hat; the cord has to be shorter than the hat is round, else the stitches can't slip around.  Or something like that.  The double point needles -- you use four at a time to "knit in the round" -- seem daunting.  I also have lavender yarn, and a nine year-old who is ecstatic that Mama learned to knit so that she can wear cool beanies -- including one to match her American Girl doll Julie's lavender beanie.  She begged me to go to the craft store today so that she can pick the lavender yarn.  And before going to bed tonight, she asked, "Mama, are you going to start my beanie?"

Petunia is a good kid.  An exceptional kid.  In fact, she might be the best kid ever.  She is angelic, empathetic, smart, funny, good-hearted... I want to knit her a beanie.

But alas, I don't know what the hell I am doing!

I learned to knit last winter.  I can cast on, knit, and purl.  I haven't yet binded off (which means that I haven't finished the very lovely scarf that I started -- though it is long enough, it's not "closed" or whatever).  I have made one thing: a scarf.  Almost.  What was I thinking telling the child that "sure, Mama can knit you a matching beanie!"

And I didn't stop there.  I am determined to knit my son a pillow to carry when he serves as Ring Protection Agent in my brother's wedding next summer.  By then -- a year from now -- I should be able to do it.  (I'm pretending he's getting married in January so I actually stand a chance at getting it done, though.  What can I say?   I keep it real.)

Tomorrow, maybe I'll try to at least pick up the right circular needles and a skein of yarn on which to practice.  Tomorrow, maybe I'll crack the book and figure it out.  I'm smart enough, I'm determined enough, and darn it, Petunia's counting on me.  And if I can't get it done... just a little over three weeks until I'm back in CA, where my friends will bail me out teach me.  So tonight... I'm just going to sleep, with a knitting book under my pillow.  Maybe it'll work like playing Mozart to a sleeping baby?

Petunia explains multiple personality disorder

Driving home from the Ben & Jerry's factory tour, Petunia starts on a rant.  Usually, if she goes on a rant, it's about the injustices that nine year-old girls heap on each other, or how much nine year-old boys suck, or, these days, how unfair it is that Michael Jackson died before she could see him in concert.  (That's thanks to her Grandma, a true MJ addict who has shared the love.)  On rare occasion, it's a rant directed at us: you don't let me horseback ride, why can't I go to sleepaway camp, I want to jump off of the same bridge my friends are, blah blah blah.

In any event, today's rant was on Hannah Montana, and it went something like this:

Petunia: "I can't STAND that Hannah Montana."

Mama, who will soon regret engaging on this topic: "Yeah, I forget, why exactly is that?  A lot of girls you like are really into Hannah Montana."

Petunia: "I KNOW, and I can't believe it!  I mean, first of all, why does one person have to be two people?  It's like, she's Miley Cyrus; why does she have to be Hannah Montana too?"

Mama: "She's acting... you know, like Vanessa Hudgins acts as Gabriella in High School Musical."

Petunia: "That's SO not the same.  It's CLEAR Vanessa Hudgins is acting in a movie that someone wrote.  There's nothing CLEAR about Hannah Montana.  It's like she's trying to be two people and doesn't know who she is!"

Mama: "You mean it's like Miley Cyrus not knowing who she is?"

Petunia: "What's the difference?  They're both the same people!  That's my problem!"

... fast forward HALF AN HOUR ... to Mama wishing she would've encouraged Petunia to nap like her sleeping brother ...

Petunia: "The thing is, Miley Cyrus isn't bad.  She's normal looking.  She looks like Kelly Clarkson or something.. you know, like a REAL person.  Hannah Montana?  She's fake."

Mama: "Because that's Miley Cyrus playing a role."

Petunia: "I can't believe you still don't get this, Mama.  When somebody acts in a role, she doesn't have to put a blonde wig over her brown hair.  She doesn't have to put on make-up and scanty clothes.  She doesn't have to be like that.  She could just be like herself and act."

(Mama confesses that she was a little bit happy with that last statement, while supressing the urge to bring up Vanessa Hudgins' nude pics)

Mama: "Okay, I get it.  You don't like Hannah Montana."

Petunia (far from finished with rant): "And do you know why you shouldn't like her either?  She wears more make-up than TEN Bratz dolls put together.  And you hate Bratz dolls.  So there."

Mama: "So there.  Want to listen to some Taylor Swift now?"

Petunia: "THANK GOD SHE'S ONLY ONE PERSON."

His mouth is now Ivory-soap clean

Sitting in Molly's in Hanover:

Dash: "That shithead Antonio took my horse."

Mama, to Guv: "Did he say what I think he just said?"

Guv: "He probably got it from you!"

Mama: "That's not a word I use."

Guv: "I'm pretty sure you called me shithead the other day."

Mama: "But he conjugated it!  He used it in a sentence!  It wasn't a passing 'shithead' -- it was in context!"

Dash: "That's right, Antonio's a shithead!"

Mama: "Dash, that is not a good word.  That is a bad word.  You cannot say that word."

Dash: "Shithead?"

Mama: "Yes, that word.  It's not okay to use that bad word.  Mama won't use it either, okay?  Let's think of another word to use..."

Dash: "Poopiehead!"

Mama, looks at Guv: "One step at a time..." To Dash, "Poopiehead is better, but wouldn't it be best to just call Antonio a buffoon?"

Dash: "I think he's a poopiehead."

Oh well.

A great day for the wheat-free!

No, your eyes aren't deceiving you -- Betty Crocker has gone Gluten Free!  You should have seen the dance of joy I did in Price Chopper!  Let's face it -- most of the gluten-free mixes out there taste like a sandy health product.  I've tried many of them, and have generally decided that it's better to never eat cake and cookies again than it is to eat that crap.  My wheat-allergic waistline has thanked me well for that.  But every so often, a girl just needs a cookie.  Betty to the rescue!  I have high hopes that this will taste as wonderful as the highly-processed, not-Michael-Pollan friendly, Betty Crocker total junk of my youth.  If I'm eating a cookie, it better be worth it.  Betty, I'm counting on you!

I will post again after baking this decadence.  If it works, up next are the three other mixes: Brownies, Yellow Cake and Chocolate Cake... one at a time, weeks apart, for the only up-side of pneumonia is my ten-pound weight loss.  And I just bought a killer new dress at my favorite shop ever, Revolution in White River Junction VT, to show off my svelteness.  So one cookie at a time, please...

On recovery, mom-style

I admit it: I have been somewhat of a crabby bee-yotch recovering from this evil pneumonia.  I have had pretty bad bouts of bronchitis before, but I don't think I've had pneumonia since I was a child -- and I woefully misjudged the recovery  involved.  I thought I would take my magic antibiotics and be back to my effervescent self.  Ha, ha.  Of all of the awfulness of pneumonia -- the ten days of fever, the nausea, the twelve pounds I lost (wait, that was the good part!), the headache, the horrific coughing -- the worst part has been the overwhelming fatigue.  I am so damned tired every minute of every day, and it's just. not. going. away.

Well, strike that.  I had this wonderful few days where my children slept well, and I felt rested, and then I spent a wonderful afternoon and evening with my former neighbor and her two kids (the Cleavers!  How I've missed them!) ... and I just felt great.  And then Petunia started getting up in the night, and then Dash started waking up at 5 am, which is 2 am PST, which I am still on... and, yeah.  I got through a wonderful few days back in NJ, and now all I want to do is sleep.  I get more tired in these Green Mountains anyway, as the air is so oxygen-rich that it takes my body some time to adjust under normal circumstances.  Add in pneumonia, and the simple act of breathing seems like a physical feat worthy of a medal.  Strike the exhaustion -- the worst part of this illness and recovery is the constant feeling of breathlessness.  It's a horrible sensation, and it totally sucks -- that, and the looks I get from people who are convinced that I'm coughing swine flu into the air!

The good news is that the Guv is now on vacation; so, over the next few days, I'll get some good rest, and I'll start perking up again.  We're even signed up for a tennis court tomorrow, though I confess that the thought of dressing in tennis clothes, driving down to the club, and wielding my sure-to-feel-like-a-thousand-pounds racket seems a bit daunting right now.  But I'll do it, and why?  Because I'm a mom.  I don't have the luxury of taking a week off to just sleep.  And even if I could, I've slept through enough of the past few weeks.  What I really need has been apparent for quite some time: I need to transition Dash to sleeping in his own bed, in his own room.  I need to make sure that both children know that waking me up in the night is unacceptable unless they're truly sick (and have proof of that) or the house is on fire -- and, even then, Daddy is less likely to cause them injury for a night awakening.  As well, next school year, I need to stop over-volunteering and under-sleeping.  And lastly, I need to get a good few bottles of wine, have a glass every night, and not worry so much about everything.  This too shall pass, but not without my fair amount of bitching about it coupled with beating myself up.  I am a mom after all, and it's all my fault.  Now, where's that wine?!

Greetings from our 54 hours in the Green Mountains

At long last, we arrived in Vermont at 3 am on Friday; but, by 9 am on Sunday, we'll be headed south to New Jersey via a visit with the Brooklyn in-laws.  We will have had 54 hours in verdant Vermont before heading back to a place to which I have mixed feelings returning.

On the one hand, I am excited to see our former NJ neighbors and friends, and I am extra-excited for Petunia to see her old schoolmates.  But on the other hand, I really don't want to see how the new owners of our fomer home have completely bastardized our house.  For the first year we lived in it, I called it the Stein's house, because we bought it from the Stein family -- but then I brought baby Dash home to it, and it became our house forever.  Yet, of course, it's not our house anymore, and some people who were a real hassle to deal with bought it and changed it immensely.  I think that Dash is probably going to have a world-class freak-out, but I probably won't notice because I'll be having my own while Petunia bitches in my ear about those awful people who ruined our house.

And then there's the matter of health -- which is a funny thing for me to chirp about while I'm recovering from pneumonia.  (Did I mention that I have pneumonia?  Yeah... probably should've posted about that diagnosis, but I've been too damned tired.)  Aside from my horrific illness at present, a lot of my memories of NJ are of Dash's 3+ years of ill health.  Coupled with the multiple bouts of bronchitis I had there and Petunia's and my asthma that totally disappeared in California, I'll confess: I'm scared of the air in our former home state.  I have a bag full of inhalers, and we'll be using them as a precaution.  In all fairness, I've heard from plenty of people that their health/allergies/asthma is worse in California; but for us, well, we're well.  (OK, we're all well except for me, right now, but that's my own running-myself-into-the-ground fault.)  Dash gained seven pounds within five months of living in California; a year before that, he'd been failure-to-thrive.  Hence, California is good for our health; New Jersey was not.  And we're going back, and I'm a little scared.

But I have so many happy memories there, too, that I'm going to have to focus on those.  Worry won't make me well any faster, but I'm thinking that a five-day stay in a super-nice Westin might help me along.  No cooking, no cleaning... a vacation from vacation!  I like it.  I can do it.  And I can also take my kids to their former favorite Vito's pizza, and to Sumo Sushi, and to climb on the tigers at Princeton... we can play on Petunia's former school playground, and, best of all, we can visit our old friends, some of whom we've missed terribly. 

So tomorrow, we're off, for a wonderful visit with grandparents and a very special aunt and cousin, and then with good old friends.  I wish I had more than 54 hours in Vermont to sort out all of these mixed feelings, but it is what it is.  It's been a long and wonderful year away, but it's time to see our old home again -- and to accept that places change, but friends remain.  See you soon, NJ.

I'm still out here...

... just half-dead.

I did the one thing that a mother just cannot do: I got sick.  Not just a little sick -- a lot sick.  I-can't-get-out-of-bed sick.  The kind of sick where my husband altered some of his own plans because he knew that the situation was that dire.  And it was horrible.  I have no idea what "it" was.  Perhaps a flu, perhaps a virus, perhaps a stomach bug... but four days into it, I'm still sweating through the sheets at night, waking up with terrible headaches, and have zero appetite.

To that end, perhaps I should call this my swimsuit-season diet?

I remain repulsed at the sight of food, which must be making my husband chuckle since he declared me a bottomless pit a couple of weeks ago during our wine country weekend getaway.  The thought of tasting wine right now makes me sick.  Actually, the thought of tasting air right now makes me sick. 

So enough about that.  I feel like the worst mother ever, as it was the last week of school and I pretty much missed it.  My Petunia is now a fourth-grader.  High praise to her dad for showing up for the year-end picnic while Dash (who miraculously got less sick than me for once) and I watched movies in bed.  I am moderately better mostly because of that fourth-grade angel, who has distracted her brother magnificently while I've been laying in bed moaning. 

That brother, on the other hand, will not tolerate me being sick for one more minute.  He has screamed "MOMS DON'T GET SICK!" in my face about 2000 times.  He has ordered me to put my shoes on and take him to the park RIGHT NOW about as often.  Thank God it's the weekend, and daddy has them at the park... which makes me wonder why I'm not in bed.

Oh, that's right, there's laundry to fold.  I forgot: Moms don't get sick. 

On comfort food

Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club: "comfort food" a novel by Kate Jacobs

It is very, very rare that I set down a book with misty eyes and a fervent wish that the protagonist were real, yet that is exactly how I felt at the end of "comfort food."  The star of the book (and her own TV shows), Gus Simpson, is one of the most likable literary characters I've ever encountered.  I envision her as Allison Taylor (played by Cherry Jones) on TV's 24; they are both women who know their position and hold themselves with a confidence that seems, at times, tenuous but is actually much more substantial.  I have long hoped to grow into a woman of such presence that comes from experience.

So why would I want to know celebrity chef Gus Simpson?  It all goes back to my newlywed days, those years in Boston when the Guv and I were both wasting our youths working eighty-plus hour weeks.  When I did roll home late-night, I'd be too tired to sleep right away, so I'd cobble together something that barely passed for dinner and flop down on the couch, usually in front of the Food Network.  Those were the late-90s, and Emeril Lagasse was always on late.  I could watch him make real food while I plowed through leftover fried rice and Twizzlers.  I loved to bake, and I excelled at it -- but I hated cooking, and, well, my husband can tell you those horror stories.  I was intrigued by those who not only cooked but cooked with excitement and passion.  Whenever I could, I caught the excitement in real life by eating at Todd English's Olives restaurant in Charlestown, long before there was more than one Olives... Those were the days when Todd himself would swing by your table to make sure your meal was exceptional.  He was young and nervous, and so was I. 

Fast forward a dozen years, and, like Gus Simpson, I'm a little more confident with myself and with my kitchen.  I've taken a few classes, most recently one with Silicon Valley chef extraordinaire Pamela Keith.  Finding myself far from my beloved free-form lasagna at Olives, I now enjoy dining at Calafia when I can.  Bluntly, it's no Olives (and my wallet is somewhat glad of that), but I enjoy watching former Google chef Charlie Ayers in his kitchen.  He delighted my daughter recently when he overheard our remembrances of dining at Wagamama in London and stopped at our table to tell us how he loved Wagamama too, and how his experience eating there inspired Calafia's communal table.  At the end of the day, whether it's Todd English, Charlie Ayers, or the (unfortunately) fictional Gus Simpson, I like meeting real chefs (celeb or not) because we share a common love (even if my skill set is eating rather than cooking): good food in good company.  They pay as much attention to their restaurant tables as I do to my family table.  My appreciation for that comfort -- in setting and in food -- runs deep. 

So what does this have to do with the book "comfort food"?  Nothing, yet everything all at once!  I feel like Gus Simpson would want to hear of my relationship with food and my appreciation of the artistry and entertainment value of it.   Watching as her life unfolds in this book, I can't help but think of how mine has unfolded in terms of food and jobs and children as well.  One particular quote in the book stands out in that regard.  Author Kate Jacobs writes, "His actions had ultimately reminded her that change is nothing to be afraid of, that taking risks sometimes leads to unexpected dividends, and that even her mistakes could result in welcome discoveries." (p. 326)  If that isn't applicable to all of our life experiences, I'm not sure what is!  Gus is a character who overcomes adversity with admirable aplomb, who chooses to find her happy place amidst the chaos of everyday life (hers even more so, as some of it is lived on TV).  

And that is where I leave "comfort food" on my shelf, with a warm and fuzzy feeling that when life veers in an unexpected direction -- like, for us, from East Coast to West -- sometimes it can be a very good thing.  (Is it ever!)  As for mistakes resulting in welcome discoveries... well, I still have to take some more cooking classes, else the Guv and the kids will end up in need of medical attention.  But just as Gus learns that she can do things differently, well, so can I.  For leaving me with such a happy feeling, I thank the author and Chef Gus.  What a fantastic story!

I couldn't recommend this novel more highly, so click here to pick it up from Amazon for an ultimate summer read; personally, I'll be picking up other books by Kate Jacobs as well.  I also enjoy culinary mysteries and can recommend a few authors and characters who I think are close to as fun as Gus Simpson.  They are: Laura Childs' Tea Shop mysteries featuring Theodosia Browning; Joanne Fluke's Hannah Swenson mysteries in which Hannah owns "The Cookie Jar"; Diane Mott Davidson's books featuring caterer Goldy Bear; and Susan Wittig Albert's China Bayles series in which China owns an herb shop and a tea room.

Exposing kids to disease should be a crime!

More parenting videos on JuiceBoxJungle

I confess: I have a strong stand on vaccinations, and that is that vaccinations should be given on a schedule approved by a medical doctor to all children with as few exceptions made as possible.  I believe that these exceptions should be based on proven medical harm, such as severe allergy to a component (like the egg protein in a flu shot).  If parents decide to give kids shots on a delayed schedule, one-at-a-time, in order to monitor reactions, fine -- because at least they're innoculating their children.  The threat to my kids if they don't is too great, and I don't think that anyone should have the right to expose my children to disease.  I have argued until I'm blue in the face with various religious whack-jobs who feel that their God and fate should control whether or not their child -- or mine by association -- contracts and suffers from a disease.  These are the same parents who would let their child die before receiving medical treatment for a disease like diabetes.  I know some very educated people who are Christian Scientists, and I do not question their right to follow their faith -- but they should have NO right to kill their children through failure to treat them for disease that has no faith-based cure (like, all of them).  I submit that failing to vaccinate, should your child die from a preventable disease, is as criminal.  I believe in God and Christ, and I pray.  I pray extra when my kids are sick.  But I also took enough science classes to know that faith alone does not heal.  Some will say I'm blaspheming.  I call it Real Life.

Harsh?  Maybe.  I have one child who is as sturdy as an ox and another who has a compromised immune system for a myriad of reasons.  I rely on "herd immunity" to protect my child's health -- hoping that the few unvaccinated among us will simply never be around my kid.  When I recently heard someone at his nursery school talk of refusing vaccinations, it was all I could do not to plug my ears and sing "La La La" at the top of my lungs.  There's someone -- and probably more -- on his playground every day who hasn't been vaccinated.  That scares the shit out of me, for, as effective as vaccines are, they're not 100%.  And the more I dig on this issue, the more it appears that there may be a clustering of exemptions here in NoCal.  This means herd immunity may be compromised, which is unquestionably a bad thing for us all.  Doctors expect a measles outbreak to occur in this country because of parents refusing the MMR.  Is there a chance that such an outbreak will cause more harm than *might* be caused by the vaccine?  I hope we never know.

As for these chicken pox parties, puh-leez... Why not expose your child to driving without a seatbelt, secondhand smoke and swimming without a lifevest all at the same time?   CHICKEN POX IS A DANGEROUS DISEASE.  It can cause encephalitis, brain damage, even DEATH.  Why on earth would any good parent ever take the chance of their child getting this vaccine-preventable illness?  A family friend of ours who is a pediatrician watched her own child die from a chicken pox vaccine in her own arms, and even she will tell you that the chances of the vaccine being harmful are much less than the chances of chicken pox causing lasting damage to your kid.  God rest her child's soul, and thank God that she still believes in vaccination.

Look, I don't use words like "should" and "crime" and "religious whack-jobs" often, but I'm angry.  I'm angry that parents can go rogue with regard to vaccinations that protect my child as much as their own.  If my child is exposed to chicken pox and contracts it from a kid who attended one of these parties (because the parent didn't keep the child inside for a week afterward -- no one does!), then I will go after that parent to the fullest extent that the law allows. 

At the end of the day, yes, there are a blessed few people in this world who really cannot be vaccinated.  I'll pray for them not to contract a vaccine-preventable illness, as some hope is better than none.  But for all of the parents out there who think that they know more than doctors, scientists, public health officials, etc. -- you just plain don't.  And you don't have a right to risk harming my child.  I don't think you should have a right to risk harming yours, either.  Vaccinations save lives.  For the sake of the children, I hope that herd immunity protects these victims from their parents' ill-informed decisions.  I also hope that the laws tighten before the cluster of exemptions grows large enough to do some real harm.

Nasty Girls

In Toys R Us:

Dash: "Ewww, I don't like this girly stuff."

Mom: "Why not?"

Dash, angrily: "BECAUSE IT'S NASTY!"

Home, an hour later:

Dash: "Mom, I need some paper."

Mom: "OK.  What are you making?"

Dash: "A No Girls Allowed sign."

Mom: "I'm a girl."

Dash: "You're a mom."

Mom: "Petunia is a girl."

Dash: "Petunia is a sister."

Mom: "Are Petunia and I allowed in your room even though we're girls?"

Dash, rolling his four year-old eyes: "Mom, you and Petunia aren't girls.  It's the other ones that have to stay out."

Mom: "What other ones?"

Dash: "THE NASTY ONES."

[Mom thinks this could be good, but only if our definitions of "nasty" match!]

Lofty ambitions

Rox: I was talking with Bert, and I told him I'd give him a million dollars if he could tell me how he gets his four sons to sleep.

Guv: And?

Rox: And he doesn't.  The boys "trampoline" all night -- bouncing back and forth to and from their parents' bed.  Their mom's bed, I mean.

Guv: That's funny.

Rox: No, what's funny is where Bert sleeps.  Their three year-old sleeps in the master bedroom with mommy; Bert sleeps in the three year-old's Thomas the Tank Engine bed.

Guv (seeing where this is going): Oh.

Rox: Yeah, when I told him that you spend your nights in a Lightning McQueen racecar bed, we had a good laugh!

Guv: But I want a loft bed.  All the cool kids have loft beds.

[Mom thinks: And here, I just want my own bed.  No squirmy kids.  No snoring husband.  Just one. good. night's. sleep.  yawn...]

On chagrin

  Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club: "Much to Your Chagrin" by Suzanne Guillette

Picking up this book, I found the subtitle "A Memoir of Embarrassment" intriguing.  After all, aren't we all a little bit nosy by nature, rubbernecking at car accidents, gawking at the screaming child in the grocery store?  Truth be told, I am not often one of those people standing by the sidelines; I find myself becoming too embarrassed for the person.  I remember once watching a Superbowl in which the outcome depended on a kicker's kick, and he missed.  I'm still not over it.  Were that my son, I'd probably have needed a lot of therapy.

So when given the opportunity to reflect on my own embarrassment, I dug deep, but I came up with little.  While Suzanne Guillette appears comfortable sharing tales of crapping her pants in her friend's car, I can't go there (not that I've ever done that, anyway).  And that "crap" theme in the book just keeps coming back.  I kept thinking, these are not children!  Doesn't anybody have an embarrassing story that doesn't involve bodily fluids?  Not so much, it appears. 

Ms. Guillette suggests that folks who don't have tales of embarrassment to tell are probably lying, and she may be right.  Since I believe that there is such a thing as TMI, I'm not going to spill my guts here.  But my favorite embarrassing moment that I ever witnessed was in junior high school, when my BFF went down a super-steep water slide at a crowded park and arrived at the bottom with her two-piece swimsuit in tatters -- the bottom half clear up her behind and the top half rolled up and exposing her hooters.  Can you imagine the pre-teen horror?!

Sadly, I'm sure I'll have many embarrassing moments to come, especially as my daughter is already pre-pubescent, and the very act of my waking up and existing seems to embarrass her on some "off" days.  And that is why I blog... to share those moments with the world.  If I have to suffer through puberty yet again, then, darn it, y'all are going to suffer with me.

In closing, I always add a note for these book clubs on whether or not I'd recommend this book.  The answer is: sure, especially for a light summer read.  The tone in which it's told (it's all in the second person "you") bugged me a bit, but you get over that after a few chapters.  And yes, as some critics suggests, it's a bit ego-centric -- but, after all, it is this writer's journey of discovering more and more embarrassing tales in her own life as she's writing the stories of others', so there is room for ego in this book.  At the end of the day, I appreciate any read that makes me reflect on the ways I've lived (and am living) my own life -- and this one hit a soft spot for me, as, like the author, I entered my 30s in the same neighborhood of New York City, also as a graduate student, though commuting with the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.  I dug especially deep in those years for an embarrassing story but instead came up with so many happy memories of my time in the Ivory Tower, especially as I'm deploying the skills I learned there daily in fighting some local math wars at present.  And now, back to that...

Dash, or Slash?

Tonight, the kids and I held Daddy down and forced him to catch up on a bit of American Idol with us.  We watched four performances: Allison Iraheta, Adam Lambert, Danny Gokey and Lil Rounds.  It was a load of fun, especially since Dash, who usually detests Idol time, actually loved it.  Was it because Quentin Tarantino was the guest, and they're somehow compatriots?  Who knows...

Regardless, Dash delivered the line of the night when Danny Gokey sang "Endless Love" accompanied beautifully by a harp.  His analysis?  "Daddy," Dash said, "That is one big, huge guitar."

Genesis 3:19

Today, we spent a cloudless, azure-blue sky, sunny Easter day frolicking on Stanford's campus.  Dash was up to his usual antics, running and jumping, climbing and swinging.  He decided to make a game out of jumping over small bike racks (I know, I know, I should just make the kid wear a helmet all of the time), until he hit a surprise: loose dirt.  He jumped over a little bike tire stop when his even littler feet went out from under him, landing him squarely on his rear end.

His response?  Not tears -- anger.  As he got up and brushed himself off, he looked up at his father and earnestly asked:

"WHO PUT THIS STUPID DIRT HERE?"

Stop reading this and go outside!

Why haven't I been blogging for a while?

It's too nice outside.  Every.  Single.  Day.

God smiled on me the day he made me a Californian, and he just keeps smiling.  If you're not in California, that means you're not Chosen.  JUST KIDDING!  But seriously, move here.  It's the closest to heaven you'll ever get.  Also the closest to obscenely high mortgages, taxation, earthquakes and Steve Jobs, but you won't have time to care because you'll be outside frolicking, and nothing else will matter.

But since I've been remiss, here's a quick Dash tidbit from today:

Dash: Mom, are we on Earth right now?

Mom: Yes, Dash, we live on the planet Earth.

Dash: No we don't, Mom, we live in California.

Mom: California is part of the United States, which is part of North America, which is on the planet Earth.  Mind-blowing, isn't it?!

Dash: I think you're wrong.  California is like in outer space or something.  Earth is actually someplace else.

[Mental note: Stop taking the kid to Santa Cruz and Berserkley!]

In the Sunshine State

The kids and I are far from our California home right now, enjoying a week with my parents, my sister and their two poodles in the Sunshine State.  Florida is a very different place from California.  I would compare and contrast the two, but that might get me into trouble.  In general, though, I am glad that my parents live in Florida, because I get to visit and take the kids to cool places like the Kennedy Space Center.  I am glad that we live year round in California, because my hair?  It can't take this humidity.  I look like an ad for Zotos perms, and I don't even have one.  It's a sad hair week for me.

The highlight of our trip was ringing in my Grandma Pearl's 80th birthday with extended family.  Present for the party were: my 83 year-old Grandpa Dick, the Birthday Pearl, my mom (almost 62) and dad, mom's sister (my aunt, who's 57), mom's two brothers (my uncles, ages 47 and 59) and their wives, three cousins plus one's boyfriend, my 28 year-old sister, the kids and me.  We spent time looking through family photo albums, and it's hard to imagine how the little ones have grown so big already.  I was the first grandchild for my Grandma Pearl, and I've given her and Grandpa Dick their only great-grandchildren to date.  It was a really cool thing to have four generations in one room.  I wonder if my daughter will remember that moment when I'm turning 80.

The second highlight of our trip was visiting Kennedy Space Center.  The kids got to meet an astronaut, Sam Gemar, who flew three missions.  Petunia marched right up to him and asked, "Why aren't the shuttle wings dihedral?" having just finished a science fair project about how a dihedral affects flight.  He answered her -- something about a shuttle needing delta wings because it doesn't need the stability offered through a dihedral.  She says we have to look into that.  I'm thinking I'm going to need to take some more physics courses just to keep up with her!  Dash ate up the "rocket garden" and wanted to know if we could have one too... I don't think our Silicon Valley backyard could accommodate even one, but I agree that would be cool!

They've been to many more places: the Alligator Farm, the Castillo de San Marcos, and yes, Dunkin Donuts and Rita's Water Ice.  They've even ridden on Grandpa's motor scooter, trapped an anole and kept it as a pet for three days, walked the poodles on the beach, dug a hole almost all the way to China on the same beach, and much more... Something tells me they might be glad of the plane ride tomorrow, just so they can relax!  But I know they'll miss all of the attention, their grandparents, their aunt and most especially the dogs very much.  Thanks to all of them and to lovely Florida for a great spring break!

Finally, she's getting it

From my packing down the hall, I heard a rare altercation between Petunia and Dash tonight.

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" Petunia yelled.

"NO!" a very angry Dash fought back.  "I WANT TO BUILD A PILLOW FORT UNDER YOUR DESK!"  (This is a frequent activity for them.)

"Dash, I said GET OUT!  I can't build a pillow fort now!  I have to clean up!" Petunia almost cried.

I appeared in the doorway with raised eyebrows.

"Mom, Dash won't get out of my room!" Petunia whined.

"Mama, Petunia won't build a pillow fort with me!" Dash whined too.

"Why can't you build a pillow fort together?" I asked.  Seeing Petunia's complaint coming, I added, "You know, it is easier for me to pack for Florida if you are playing nicely together."  Seeing the whining about to recommence anyway, I made it clearer.  "If I can't pack for Florida, well, then we can't go to Florida.  You feelin' me?"

Petunia looked at me with a mix of "duh" and fiery anger at the same time.  It was weird.  It was freaky.  It was so... so... pre-teen.  God, I am not ready for that.

"Mom," she explained.  "Look at my room."

I looked.  I saw... Petunia's room.

"And?" I asked.

"It's a mess," she sighed as she rolled her eyes.  (GAH!)  "And you and daddy go all batty on me when my room is a mess.  And I just can't have that.  So you need to get him out of here so that I can clean up.  Okay?"

49% of me wanted to absolutely wallop my child, for the first time ever, for the attitude she was flipping me.  But the other 51% understood that she was right; daddy would go all batty if her room were such a mess.  (Would I?  Maybe.  But not the night before a trip... but she doesn't need to know that.)

So I silently picked up Dash and exited the room.  Dash complained.  Dash threatened to "bust everything" if he couldn't build a pillow fort in Petunia's room.  Dash settled for brushing his teeth for half an hour. 

Oh, man, tomorrow is going to be one looonnnnggg travel day!

Forget the Magic Kingdom; Florida has...

The kids and I leave this Friday for a week-long Floridian adventure with grandparents, great-grandparents, and lots of aunts, uncles and cousins involved.  This is the kind of vacation where I won't see my kids much because so many others will be there to play with them -- otherwise known as a dream vacation that money can't buy!  We are gathering to celebrate Great-Grandma Pearl's 80th birthday, and I'm most especially looking forward to seeing my kids enjoy their great-grandparents and vice versa.  I have my Flip at the ready!

Petunia is excited about this trip because she wakes up earlier than she's allowed to at home and heads to the beach with her grandpa ("Peepaw").  I love that they have that special time together and that she remembers that's what she "always" does when she goes there.

Dash was around 2.25 years old when we last ventured to Florida, so he doesn't remember much.  He has created some great mythology around what he thinks it's like, though (aided by sister's recollections).  He expects to see armadillos (in my parents' neighborhood, sometimes), alligators (we'll head to the Alligator Farm perhaps), rocketships (Cape Canaveral is on the itinerary) and a big, huge white sand beach that is not at all cold (at the end of the street).  

Then today, he started doing something I had never seen him do before.  He started thinking about food!  He wanted to make sure that his favorite stuff would be in Florida.  I assured him that I had already placed his soy milk order with Grandma and that she knew how much he loved goldfish.  I had to call her to make sure she had his "chocolate sandwich stuff" (Nutella) -- check.  

And then we drove in a car to McDonald's in search of Shamrock Shakes (they were already out for the season).  Exiting the parking lot, Dash told me, "They do have McDonald's in Florida, Mom."  I agreed.  Then his eyes got as wide as saucers as he said, "MOM!  I KNOW WHAT THEY HAVE IN FLORIDA!  I KNOW WHAT THEY HAVE THAT THEY DON'T HAVE HERE IN CALIFORNIA!"

"What's that, Dash?" I asked.

Nearly hyperventilating with excitement, Dash answered, "DUNKIN DONUTS!  THERE IS A DUNKIN DONUTS IN FLORIDA!!!"

Though I can't eat them, I share his excitement, for I craved Dunkin Decaf when I was pregnant with him.  Though it can't hold a candle to Blue Bottle coffee, I have to admit that I'm looking forward to my old-skool Boston coffee break, albeit in Florida.

Which got me to thinking... what else is in Florida that we don't have?  I do love the Columbia restaurant, I thought, as I made a note to take my sister there for lunch.  And then it hit me:

RITA'S WATER ICE!  I hope it is open for the season already, because there's a mango gelati with my name written on it.

Now I'm hungry, and I'm packing.  Flor-I-Da, here we come!

Boyz, they lovez their explosionz

Dash: "Mom, I have money in my pocket!  No -- MONIES!" (he pulls out a few coins)

Mom: "Wow, Dash, what are you going to do with all of your monies?"

Dash, sweetly: "Mom, I could buy YOU something with it!"

Mom: "That's so sweet!  What would you like to buy me?"

Dash: "I could buy you a fire extinguisher."

Mom, stumped: "Well, that would be... nice."

Dash: "Yeah!  And when we blow something up in the backyard, we could use the fire extinguisher to put out the explosion!"

Mom: "Dash..." (interrupted)

Dash: "NO!  We could BLOW UP THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER!"

And he skipped off to pick up his sister from her classroom, no doubt eager to share his latest and greatest exploding idea.  I trailed along behind, unusually silent, for I really didn't know what to say...

Woop Woop - That's the sound of da police*

As I sit in my den writing this blog post, Dash runs across the room, triggering the siren again: Woo woo woo woo, louder then softer, fading back into the oblivion from which it loudly emerged just seconds ago.  This police car siren, it has been emitting sounds randomly for about a week now, and I have yet to locate its source.

First I searched the pile in the corner of the den -- the pile that should be small and contained in a nice gingham-lined Pottery Barn basket but, instead, flows out of a copy box that has seen better days.  The siren sounds like it's coming from that corner, but I just. can't. find. it. 

I checked the office nook just outside my bedroom, the nook that I just cleaned and organized into coordinated bamboo Ikea containers.  Nope, there are no sirens there...

It has to be somewhere here.  Perhaps the noise is coming from a toy I don't recognize -- entirely possible, as Dash just had a birthday and received all sorts of exciting noisemakers -- ?  Or perhaps it's in the basement bedroom beneath?

Or perhaps the sirens are real; we are a mile from EPA, after all...?  (I jest.  I heart EPA, especially the best Starbucks in America near the Ikea, where they once locked my purse in the safe after I left it on back of my chair.)

Today is the day on which I will dig through the toys and find the police car and remove its batteries.  Today is the day that this noise that has nagged and eluded me -- only when someone rattles it the right way, though -- will be silenced.  But I wonder, is that the right thing to do?

I've thought about leaving the mystery police car siren hidden and active.  When it goes off, I can tell visitors one of the following:
- We're trying to get the kids used to living in an unsafe area; the economy is bad, after all.
- We want the kids to behave and have found the siren a useful reminder of that expectation.
- It's left over from the Bush administration.
- Don't you just feel safer with a police presence?
- The stimulus plan provides gun-ready police protection to those making over $250g here in Silicon Valley since there is no room to shovel anything anymore.  Thank God for Democrats!

Okay, I'll find the toy.  It can't be that hard, what with only a hundred thousand or so in the house...

*Lyric from "Sound of Da Police" by KRS One