Rox and Roll

In which Dash and Mama talk about being 5 and 36

Dash: "Mama, I love being five.  Do you?"

Mama: "Dash, I love that you're five, and I love that you love being five.  I loved being five too.  But I also love being thirty-six!"

Dash (looking wistful): "Yeah... Being 36 is really great."

Mama (chuckling): "How so?"

Dash: "Because when you're 36, you can jump out of airplanes whenever you want."

Mama: "That's true!"

Dash: "So?"

Mama: "So what?"

Dash: "So do you want to jump out of an airplane?"

Mama (humoring him): "Maybe someday!"

Dash: "Why not right now?  You're 36!"

Mama: "Dash, you know, you're on to something.  Why not now?  I'm 36!"

Dash: "Mama... it's bedtime.  And it's dark.  You can't jump out of a plane right now!"

Mama: "True, true."

Dash: "But tomorrow, my friend Liam and I, we're going to fly you in a plane up to the sky, and you can jump out!"

Mama: "So let me get this straight: you can't jump out of a plane at age 5, but you can FLY one?"

Dash: "Sure, why not?!  Tomorrow!"

Mama: "I guess we'll see..." 

(He was just so happy at the possibility that I didn't have the heart to tell him no!  And he went to sleep with the world's biggest smile on his five year-old sweet little face.)

No more 5th birthdays around here!!!

That's it: I can never have another five year-old birthday in my house.

On Petunia's 5th birthday in 2005, we rushed her to the most God-awful ER in the world in Trenton, NJ because she was blue -- BLUE -- because of a severe asthma attack.  (That asthma disappeared totally with our move to California, by the way.)  We had given her a doctor's kit for her birthday; she took it to the hospital with her.  It would've been cute if it weren't so darned sad.

Fast forward to today, Dash's 5th birthday.  In the middle of the night on Sunday/Monday, Dash threw up a few times.  We figured it was just excitement over his My Gym party on Sunday morning; he never spiked a fever, and by noon on Monday was eating like a horse.  I dutifully kept him home from school on Monday and Tuesday (can't go within 24 hours of vomiting!); and there was no school today, on his birthday... so he had to start throwing up AGAIN.  (No school tomorrow -- no break for me!)

This time, it was clearly a stomach bug.  The kid vomited until there was nothing left except for his pancreas, as I think his spleen came up moments before.  It was that bad... bad enough that I called the nurse because the vomit was day-glo yellow, and I thought for sure that it was the contents of his soul.  (His soul would be sunny yellow.  I just know.)  She had me give him teaspoons of liquid every ten minutes starting half an hour after each booting session, clearly a recipe for disaster from a nurse with a sick sense of humor.  He parked himself on my chair -- my sacred chair in my bedroom, the chair on which no child will ever ever ever vomit because it's my chair -- and threw up all day in a bucket, only because I told him what'd happen to him if one drop of vomit touched my chair.  (No more birthdays!)

But the saddest thing, the thing that broke my heart, is when he looked into my eyes around 8 am and said, "Mama, I don't want my birthday to be today.  I'm too sick.  I want to feel good for my birthday.  Maybe we can have it tomorrow?" 

"We can, but don't you want to open your presents?"

"No, Mama, I can't.  I already told you, today is not my birthday."

It did seem like the least I could to was let him vomit a bucket on my chair.

When life gives you suppositories

In this post, I am participating in the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Book Club.  We read "See Mom Run" subtitled "Side-Splitting Essays from the World's Most Harried Moms" by Beth Feldman.  In response, we are coming up with our own side-splitting stories.  This story was originally posted on my now-retired Vox blog in July of 2008.  Try as I might to come up with a new side-splitting story, this one is the funniest in my toolbox -- even funnier now, as I have a pre-pubescent daughter who would be extra-embarrassed if this happened in front of her today!  Here's the tale:

At the pool this afternoon, Dash saw a lifeguard wearing blue latex gloves to pick up trash. 

He exclaimed, at the top of his lungs, "MAMA, WHO NEEDS BUTT MEDI?" 

I tried to play it off, but the naive 16 year-old lifeguard sensed that he was being addressed, and he approached.  "What did he say?" the lifeguard asked.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," was my quiet response.

Apparently, Dash didn't want his mother to speak for him.  He pointed at the lifeguard's hands and rephrased, "Why do you have to give somebody butt medi at the pool?"

Again, the lifeguard asked, "What did he say?"

So I explained, "When Dash gets a fever, we give him suppositories to control the fever. He associates those gloves with the administration of the suppository."

Oh, my, but the lifeguard didn't get it.  "What's a suppository?" the sweet, naive, soon to be red-faced boy asked.

"Medicine inserted in the..." I began.

"BUTT MEDI!" Dash interrupted.

"Ohhhhhh," the guard muttered as he turned red and resumed his trash duty.  I was going to make some joke about being raised in West-by-God-Virginia and/or the movie Deliverance, but all I could manage through my giggles was the banjo riff... duh duh dah dah dah dah dah dah...

*****

Though the Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club does not do book reviews, I always add a note regarding whether or not this is a book I'd recommend.  In this case, I think "See Mom Run" is a fun mom-to-mom gift, or even a good gift for a new mom; I'll be passing it along to a friend who's pregnant with baby #1.  The essays aren't as side-splitting as I'd hoped, but they're amusing anecdotes worth a quick read -- as are many of the blogs from which the contributors came. Look 'em up!

Disclosure: I received a copy of the book for free for the purposes of this book club discussion.

Washing off the love

Dash has been a one-man laugh-riot these days.  I'm glad we're heading to the mountains to ski a bit to burn off some of that energy!  My new favorite Dashism:

"Mama, I can't take a bath.  It'll wash off all of the love." 

So we scrubbed him clean and re-covered him with kisses.  He didn't like that we invited the dog to help.

This is my last blog post of 2009, so I have to leave you with a wish: that no matter how much you bathe, you're always awash in love.  Happy New Year to all!

That's my boy

Driving around with Dash yesterday, I rolled down the windows and tried to engage him in singing at the top of our lungs.  

I started with one of his old favorites, "The Sweet Escape" (Gwen Stefani): "If I could escape/And recreate a place in my own world/And I could be your favorite gir-rl..."

"NOOOOOOO!" yelled Dash.

Next up, Pink: "Get this party started on a Saturday night/Everybody's waiting for me to arrive/Sending out a message to all of my friends/I'll be looking flashy in my Mercedes Benz..."

"NOOOOOO!" yelled Dash.

Finally, I tried "My Own Worst Enemy" (by Lit), which is his current favorite: "Please tell me why-y-y-y/My car is in the front yard/And I'm/Sleeping with my clothes on..."

"MAMA STOP IT!" yelled Dash.  "YOU'RE MAKING ME WANT TO PLAY ROCK BAND SO BADLY!"

Another day, another milestone

After yesterday's nursery school carnival antics, I figured that today would be pretty rough at school.  Oversugared, overtired kids plus overworked, overexhausted parents and teachers couldn't make for a good day.  I could tell when I showed up that it hadn't been a great one, though Dash seemed his usual self.  We hung around for a little while after school, but, when we arrived home, Dash went to his room instead of to his usual bathtub routine.

"Dash?" I asked.  "Do you want a bath?"

"No thanks, Mom," he replied, "I'm not that dirty."  Oddly, he was right; he's pretty clean for a day in the wet sand at his school.

"Do you want a snack?" I asked.

"No thanks, Mom," he said again. "Actually, I just want to be by myself for a while."

I cleaned out my ears.

"You want some lonely time?" I asked (using his usual term for it).

"Yes, please," he asked.  "Would you please close my door?"

I left.  I listened at the door, because this surely couldn't be anything good.  I heard sounds of play and went about my business for about five minutes, then I checked on him.

"Do you need anything, love?" I asked him.

"No thanks, Mom," he said for a third time.  "It was a long day at school, and I just want to play alone."

I left.  He played alone for about 45 minutes.  When he emerged, he declared he wanted to make something with me.  We studied the cupboard.  We tied on his new apron from the carnival store.  We mixed up some homemade play-doh (recipe to follow), and he's been playing with it, a chapati roller, and my Halloween cookie cutters ever since.

This day will live on in my memory for quite some time because:

1) After a rough day, he wanted to spend quiet time alone.  Maybe he IS my child, after all.

2) He didn't just have a few minutes alone, and disaster didn't happen: he played alone and had fun (I listened in on some great matchbox, train, and building fun) for a long time.

3) When he felt better, he didn't ask for TV.  He asked for me -- and, not only that, he asked to make something with me.

4) He meaningfully engaged in the play-doh making... and still is.

This is one of those days that you live for as a mom: the light at the end of the tunnel, the signs that they're figuring out how the world works.  It's the reward for all of the poop and barf and crying, I think -- the fact that they actually become little people who don't just rely on Mom or the TV but can rely on themselves.  What a great day -- and who knew that play-doh was so easy to make?!

Here's the recipe:

1 cup flour
½ cup salt
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup water
food coloring

Mix ingredients together in a saucepan and cook for two minutes until the mixture pulls away from the pan.  Knead the dough until smooth.  Store in a covered container.

P.S. My hands are bright red from kneading the play-doh... it's not wheat-allergy friendly.  Next time, I'll wear gloves.

He knew I needed a laugh

Today, I dreaded working at our co-op preschool.  I could get over the paint (I can't stand paint) and the sand (also not a fan) and the chaos (it's only three hours) ... but today, it was raining.  And rainy days are my least favorite at co-op preschool, because, unlike all of those sensible drop-off schools we attended back in New Jersey, kids at this preschool are allowed to spend the entire day playing in the rain.  And I knew that Dash would.  Of course, the person for whom I was subbing was assigned to "outside play" -- so that meant that I was destined to spend a ridiculous amount of time in the rain, too. 

I prepared.  Last night, I laid out snowpants, boots, changes of clothes for both of us, and flask of bourbon.  (Kidding, though it was tempting!)  I convinced myself that it wouldn't be that bad.  I also thought that I could maybe convince Dash that playing inside was fun!  and to do a craft!  and that his mom wasn't nuts!  And for the five seconds that he did engage in a craft indoors, it involved playing with tape.  When his friend K taped his own mouth shut, Dash announced to the room, "Hey!  My mom does that to me all the time!"  I told him to go back outside.

So there we were, Dash and I, and the 30-odd other kids who have taught me more than I ever thought I'd want to know about children's behavior.  And we were outside.  And it was raining.  And I was not very happy.  But then, I started to push these smiling little faces on the tire swing.  I realized that their choice of play might be making me miserable, but these were the some of same kids (from last year's class) who taught me a lot about how to love other people's children.  And that's a big thing for me, because I had to teach one of my graduate seminars once (as in one session) and realized that I was not cut out for teaching anyone younger than the-age-when-you-know-what-you're-doing-with-yourself (for some, that's 'round about never).  And these little faces, squealing with delight, made me forget that I was wet, miserable, and wearing snowpants in California. 

Then I saw my son.  My soaked-to-the-bone, covered in sand and dirt and God-knows-what, sweet, smiling son.  He had decided to help another mom clean up spilled glitter.  He was sparkling like a fairy from head to toe, and all I could think to myself was: darn it, I'm miserable again.  That won't even come out in the wash.  Argh!  So he came up and hugged me, of course, because having to do his laundry on a daily basis isn't enough ... and now I have Sparkly Snowpants to wear next time I work in the rain, which might be never.  I'll be calling in Californian.  The tranformation is complete!

The Kids and the Hair Bands

Last weekend, the Guv and I went to an 80s-themed 40th birthday party.  Gearing up for the day, we were listening to some 80s while driving around with the kids.  They found the music "funny."

Fast forward to today, when it was unnaturally quiet in the house.  I heard the two of them in the office.  Just as I was about to get up and spy on them, they both came out, giggling. 

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"Listening to hair bands on YouTube," Petunia replied.

"Yeah, hair bands!" Dash echoed, LHAO.

"Hear anything you like?" I queried.

"Mom... they were hair bands," Petunia answered.

"And?" I waited...

"And they're really, really funny," Petunia continued, "and bad, really, really bad."

Sigh.  Kids these days...

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.

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...]

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!]

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...

In this crazy world, one thing is true...

My children are growing up even more magnificently than I ever could have imagined. 

By the time anyone reads this, it will be Tuesday, March 3, and my little Dash will be a big 4 years old. 

On the one hand, I look at him and think: where did the time go?  But on the other hand, I think: why is it still so hard?  Petunia was never this challenging, especially not at 4.  When will it get easier?

And then my brother started planning his wedding, and I realized something.  They grow, but it doesn't get easier.  They just live greater distances from us and have different needs -- happy and exciting needs right now, perhaps, then deeper and more complex needs in the longer term when they have their own children (all the while trying to fake knowing what they're doing).  It's the circle of life, and, as much as we grown children come into our independence, we also always come back to mom and dad.  Of course, I've circled back to mom to request babysitting for a weekend in Vegas, but hey -- fulfilling some needs can be fun for all involved!

Tonight, I ask Dash if he'd like to hear about his birth, and he thought the story was a riot, especially the part when I told him that Petunia told her preschool that she was going to have "either a sister, or a brother, or a dragon!"  Dash had fits of the sweetest giggles, and he kept asking me to repeat that line.  I almost had him convinced he was actually a dragon.

Finally I said, "Alright Dash, goodnight.  I love you all the way up to the moon and sun and stars."

Dash: "That makes no sense, Mom."  (Where did Mama, or Mommy go?  When did I become just "Mom"?)

Mom: "What doesn't make sense?"

Dash: "You can't love me up to the sun.  The sun is just a mass of burning gas and lava and fire."

Mom: "Okay, I love you up to Pluto then."

Dash: "Mom, can you just love me up burnt the light?" (We have no idea what this means, but it appears to be his greatest form of love, as he loves his dad merely "stuck on the wall."  *snicker*)

Mom: "I'll love you as much as you'll let me love you, always, Dash."

Dash: "Okay, Mom, I'll love you forever too."

It's hard, this parenting thing, harder than I ever dreamed... but it's also much, much more wonderful than I ever imagined.  We've still got a long row to hoe, this four year-old boy and I, and, at times, it's going to seem like too much hard work.  But as I sit here listening to him snore, I can't help but think that no one could pay me enough to have more kids I'll never do this again -- yet it's been so very worthwhile to have not just one, but two very different, extraordinary children, siblings who love each other so protectively and surely that I know I birthed not only children, but friends.  I am so tired, but I am luckier than I am tired -- and that makes all of the difference.

A couple of Dashisms

When I arrived at school to pick up Dash yesterday, he was absolutely covered in paint and appeared very consternated.  And I was shocked; while this co-op preschool is plenty messy, and while Dash is usually dirty and muddy, this full-body paint job was a first.  I waved at him, and he sauntered over, saying: "Mama, there's a problem (which sounds like prob-wem).  My paper painted on me."

Further discussion revealed that he was painting in the school's backyard when a gust of wind blew his paper up against his little body.  From the looks of it, the wind kept blowing, and blowing, and blowing.  Score: Paper, 1; Dash, 0. 

*****

Dash has been talking non-stop about the Monterey Bay Aquarium since our visit there last weekend.  Playing around with him, I told him that we could go to the Moonterey (as in the Moon) aquarium next time.  He said, "No, Mama, it's the MONterey aquarium, not the MOONterey aquarium."

I said, "Well, I can see the moon from the aquarium, right?"

He got a little testy.  "Mama, you know you can't.  The aquarium is open during the daytime, and the earth (pronounced erf, of course) is rotated away from the moon in the daytime.  The sun is not shining on the moon in the daytime either.  So you can't see it, OKAY?"

And with that, I handed him the Nobel Prize for Three Year-Old Astrophysicists and went about my business.  2009 Scoreboard: Dash, 1; Mama, 0. 

Braces and spinach and stitches, oh my!

Petunia and Dash visited our new dentist today.  Petunia was shocked that she has a cavity in between two tightly-packed baby teeth; it is going to be filled on Friday, because it is in one of those teeth that you don't lose until you're 12.  It's a huge bummer; she is a great brusher and flosser according to the dentist, but this cavity is so wedged in there that it was virtually inevitable.

That aside, the even bigger shocker was that the dentist recommended consulting an orthodontist about the crowding in Petunia's mouth.  Apparently, the "new" thinking (new since my day, anyway) is that kids with crowding or other orthodontic issues should have braces for about 18 months at this age, and that dental work might preclude the need for braces later on -- or might at least shorten the duration in those teen years.  Here's how our conversation, post-dentist, went:

Petunia: Mama, what was that dentist girl saying about needing to see about orthodontia?

Mama: Well, she thinks that it might be advisable for you to have braces sooner rather than later because of the crowding in your lower teeth.

Petunia (sighing): The crowding that gave me this cavity that I now have to have filled?

Mama: Yes, I think so,

Petunia (super-serious): I do not want braces.  (dramatic pause)  Braces will look cheap on me.

Mama: What huh?

Petunia: Seriously, mama, they're not good.  They don't "go" [and she even inserted air quotes!] with me.

Mama (stiffling a laugh): Well, would you rather have them as a teenager?

Petunia: MAMA!  [hands on hips, walking stopped]  Do you know how serious I am?  I WOULD RATHER EAT SPINACH THAN HAVE BRACES.

Mama: Wow.  I mean, WOW.  We'll have to talk to Daddy about this problem, and, in the meanwhile,  we are scheduling a consultation.  (cutting off protest from Petunia)  Just to get information!

Petunia: Alright, but I'm just saying, it's not cool.

[Mama: OH MY G-D, SHE'S ONLY 8, I'M GOING TO NEED SOME SERIOUS MEDICATION TO GET THROUGH THE NEXT TEN YEARS....!!!!!]

*****

Meanwhile, Dash was mortified by the hygenist touching his sister's teeth with "some buzzing thing" in the dentist's office.  He didn't act up or anything; he just whispered to me that he wanted "that lady" to stop it.  I wasn't sure what to expect when it was his turn in the chair.

Imagine my surprise when he climbed into the chair by himself, looked me square in the eye, and said: "I'm a big man.  I can do this."  I confess that I almost cried.  He is almost 4 I guess... but something tells me that this steely resolve is quite atypical for his age.  I hope he keeps it, because I envy it; I am pretty strong, but not half as much as him!

*****

Flashback to a week ago, when Dash was sitting in the dermatology office with me as I had a mole, and some surrounding tissue, excised.  (My brother is a melanoma survivor; I don't screw around with funky moles.)  I looked over at him as the doctor was numbing my arm, and I wondered if perhaps it was a bad idea to get this done with him sitting right there.  His sweet little deep brown eyes met mine, with a gaze that was neither sad nor scared -- just steady.  It was like he was telling me, "It's alright, and I'm right here if you need me."  I have never had stitches before, and I'm sporting four right now.  I almost cried as I was getting stitched, as the sensation is rather unpleasant -- but instead, I looked at my boy, sitting there with his hands folded in his lap, and I drew strength from him.

You know, sometimes I think that I've spent almost nine years holding children; and other times, I realize that as much as I've held them, they've held me, too.

When I got up from the chair, stitches and all, I thanked my Dash for sitting so nicely while the doctor was working on my arm.  He said, "It's okay, Mama, you're all better now," and he took my hand, and we walked out of the door together.  He is a big man, indeed.

Just dropping in to say "hi"

A friend emailed me yesterday to ask if I was no longer blogging.  I emailed back and asked, "Guess again?"  She correctly surmised that the kids have been sick again.  This time, they've been taking turns, and the latest is a real doozie.  Dash is all alone across the room from me right now, stretched out across our leather sofa.  He has decided that the cool comfort of the leather far exceeds the comfort of my warm arms, and he has demanded to be left alone there all day.  When his fever hit its highest, he didn't even want me to look at him.  Luckily, that high number's been dropping all day, and I am off of my perch: prone on the rather hard floor beneath the couch, squished up against it so that he can't see an iota of my body, since the very existence of the mother who brought him into this world so that he can be feverish and vomiting apparently offends him today.  I was not allowed out of the room, but I had to be out of sight -- and after the kid had vomited a couple of dozen times, what was I to do?  I complied, passing him a "boot bucket" whenever that first wretch happened.  He didn't even want me to hold THAT for him!  When he demanded Gatorade, missing from our pantry, he agreed to a ride in the car, but complained the whole way: "Mama, you're carrying me too hard... Mama, I don't have shoes... Mama, I don't want shoes... Mama, the seatbelts are uncomfortable... Mama, the sun is too bright... Mama, this is the wrong store for Gatorade... Mama, I hate."  To which I replied, "You don't like what?"  And he answered, "I hate today."  Yeah, kid, I became a member of that club around 3 a.m.  You made it twelve whole hours longer than me.  Here's your medal.

So on the one hand, there's nothing worse than having a sick kid; but on the other hand, there's having a sick kid and last night's dinner dishes sitting in the sink because you're not allowed to move.  The Premier gave his blessing to my laptop, and, finally, to my sitting in the chair across from him, as long as I don't look at him, watch TV with him, touch him, type loudly or move without permission.  My knitting practice is disallowed, as the clicking bothers him. 

This is one of those "each day is better than the next" kind of weeks, isn't it?

No matter; I'm stocked up and ready.  I now have Gatorade aplenty and some emergency chocolate rations for myself for tomorrow, when I have to watch another sunny day pass by through the window.  Someone told me the rain's coming again, so I'm itching to take a walk.  Maybe Thursday?  I also stocked up on kids' videos from the library, because I believe that kids should have unlimited TV/movie access when sick and unmoving from the couch... and if I had to watch the same Bill Nye "The Moon" video one more time, I would've booked a flight to Seattle, tracked him down, and... yeah.  Did I mention that today sucks?

Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, a few thoughts are swirling.  What if Dash's ear tube fell out, and this is the first of another string of ear infections?  What if it's strep; his stomach hurts, isn't that a sign?  What if he's like this tomorrow, with a lower fever but still so irritable and lethargic?  Why the hell didn't I go to medical school???

And then there's that little devil on my right shoulder... actually, it's now taunting me from where I left it beneath the couch... saying "hey, since he doesn't want to be touched, maybe Dash will even want to SLEEP here, and you might get your first good night of sleep in four years!"   It's an evil thought, but I can't help wondering... what if?  There's room for the couch in his bedroom, even.  For of all of the sadness that lurks in our house today, there is one great thing happening: self-sufficiency.  If he can lie on his own, throw up on his own, comfort himself while sick...?  Maybe he is growing up, after all, and that is a rather happy thing.

The weekend that'll make my week

Starting out the weekend, there was a chance it was going to be the weekend from hell.  I braced myself appropriately, apparently, since it turned out to be an absolutely fabulous few days.

Of course (WARNING: EAST COAST FRIENDS, AVERT YOUR EYES!) the weather being around 70 degrees and sunny might have had something to do with it.

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful as I gathered the kids for a neighbor's Laser Quest birthday party.  Truly, the place was insane.  There were four birthday parties going on at once, and the arcade was in the reception hall.  It would've been easy to lose Dash, who was attached to me while Petunia played laser tag, because of the sheer overcrowding, let alone the poor layout.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't my favorite party ever -- but the kids loved it, and that's what mattered.

The laser tag and arcade party was followed by pizza, etc., though, and imagine the surprise I enjoyed when the party hosts whipped out a gluten-free, soy-cheese pizza!  To some people, this would be far from thrilling, but put yourself in my shoes: I don't remember the last time I ate a slice of pizza.  It has been over a year, maybe two, ever since my wheat allergy became severe enough that I can't even cheat and sneak a bite.  To compound things, Dash's recent diagnosis with a mild dairy allergy has complicated things.  This family eats (ate) a lot of pizza.  So when my neighbor introduced me to Amici's (the one they ordered from is in Mountain View), she greatly improved the quality of my life.  We ordered from there tonight: a soy cheese pizza for Dash, a gluten-free Margherita pizza for me, and a half-cheese, half-pepperoni "normal" large pie for Petunia and the Guv.  The downside was the $53 bill (the GF pizza was $24 of that) -- but my first taste of pizza in over a year made that priceless!  (And it was really, really GOOD too!)

After Laser Tag on Saturday, we returned home to prepare for a visit from my college friend Seamus, his lovely wife, and their two year-old daughter.  Sometimes, these type of visits are more trouble than they're worth -- the work of cooking and cleaning up compounded by constant childcare ("refereeing") can be a real drag.  But not this time!  Our Petunia stepped up to the plate without even being asked, taking over the care of her brother and our young visitor.  Plus, the Guv and I made a very low-maintenace menu of chili, quesadillas, veggie and cheese trays -- that, some wine and beer, and it was a very easy, enjoyable evening.  I don't remember the last time I had meaningful adult conversation with kids in the house.  What a special night!

And then this morning, I slept in... which was actually a problem, since I woke up at 8:35 am and was supposed to be at Dash's preschool from 9-3 for a "maintenance day."  For the uninformed, "maintenance day" is code for "wiping boogers off of toys, tables, etc." and it was totally gross.  My son loves this preschool, but it is just not my bag... too much work, too much cleaning that I don't even want to do in my own house, too much dirt... All that said, the Guv recently figured out that to take my son to the drop-off preschool, I'd have to earn about $12g to pay for it... So we stay at the right school for Dash, the wrong school for me (though I have made some great friends there, so someday I'll stop saying that). 

While I attended Booger Day, the Guv took Petunia, her two friends N and Z, and Dash on a super-long bike ride to Stanford's campus, where they launched stomp rockets, dunked in a fountain (did I mention it was 72 today?) and slurped Jamba Juice.  The Guv is exhausted, and I am hugely impressed that he took that on himself.  When I commented to him that this weekend was like one long playdate for our friend Petunia, he chuckled, "yeah -- just like our life was growing up.  This is how it's supposed to be.  Like the good old days!" 

I'm not sure that I'm up for weekends jam-packed with mutiple others' kids yet -- though breaking it up with some friends and wine sure did help!  And the Guv is right about one thing: these are the good old days, made new again through our young 'uns.  What a fun weekend.  I hope that it's just the start of a magnificent new year in our new California home.