Rox and Roll

NaBloPoMo, R.I.P.

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo, a.k.a. National Blog Posting month.  I tried my best, but I think I missed a couple of days.  Posting every day is a hard thing to do.  To tell you the truth, I'll be glad to have a break! 

The Guv hates surprises

Truly, I love the holiday season.  I love the feeling of joy in the air, the smell of real Christmas trees, and the expectation of the New Year at hand.  And I love to shop for that Perfect Gift for my loved ones and closest friends. 

Except for the Guv.  Shopping for him is most unpleasant.  Why?  Read on.

First, he asked for a Garmin Nuvi, which he bought for himself on Black Friday because it was on sale.  Then, he said he'd like this golf game.  When it arrived in the mail today -- I hadn't ordered it -- I expected him to walk in and say "hey, my Christmas present arrived!" at which point I'd whisk it away and wrap it up for Christmas morning.  Surprise!  And then I went to put Dash to bed, and, when I came downstairs, there was the game, all set up on my den floor.  Now, he says he wants a 100 Grand bar from me and a Snickers from the kids, and that's all. 

I'm torn on this one.  Perhaps that's all I should give him, as he's pretty much seen to his own "needs."  Yet, I know that "Jesus is the reason for the season" and all, but, darnit, I want to buy the Guv some presents that he knows nothing about -- and, more than that, I want them to be things that truly surprise him and that he loves getting.  I want him to get into the spirit of the thing.  He could even make a long wish list on Amazon from which I could select items... but going out and buying himself all of the good stuff he wants?  That's just not cool.

So now, I'm thinking of doing the holidays the Guv's way.  I'm going shopping tomorrow to buy my own gifts.  When he reads this, he may require medical attention, because this year he's buying me this and this.  SURPRISE!

This freaked me out

The Guv's office party is coming up, and the woman organizing the party is collecting baby photos so that they can all play "guess who"... and this is the photo that the Guv submitted:

Baby guv

No, that's not Dash; it's the Guv at the same age Dash is right now. 

Just yesterday, a friend and I were wondering who Dash resembled, because he doesn't look much like Petunia except for the eyes -- and she looks exactly like the Guv.   But now, I know.  I will never have a child whom resembles me save my cleft chin -- but alas, that's okay, because I like the way the Guv looks.  Though I must say that his "bahookie" is much bigger than Dash's will ever be.

I can't wait to see his face!

Our 'burbs border the countryside, so we are fortunate to have a local John Deere store.  The store is as full of toys as tractors. When the Guv and I walked in on Black Friday, tears sprang to my eyes -- seriously -- when I spotted Dash's gift from Santa.  I love surprises, but this one's killing me -- I've never been so excited to give a gift in all of my life, as I'm pretty sure that this one is going to make our little man very, very, very happy.

John Deere pedal-powered loader with trailer

That's right: it's a TRACTOR with a LOADER and a DUMPER attachment.  BOY HEAVEN.  Yippee!

FiFi Medi

I took Dash to the doc when she opened this morning.  The #1 reason to live in a small town and go to a small medical practice is that you can call in the morning and say, "I'd like to bring my son in before he vomits one more time," and, since they know I'm not crazy, they say "come right in."  Every time.  Dash has not had a fever, and the vomiting more or less subsided in the middle of the night -- but since Petunia recently battled strep throat, I wanted to make sure that wasn't the reason for Dash's vomiting. 

He does not have strep throat.  Rather, the kid has two seriously bad ear infections.  In one ear, every part of the ear is inflamed.  In the other ear, it's only the part that would probably make him dizzy and nauseous.  Parents reading this will know that when kids have ear infections, they usually are super-crabby and tugging at their ears, even as little babies.  Dash has not touched his ears at all, perhaps because he's too busy picking his nose and eating it.  But anyway, the other thing that almost always accompanies ear infections is a fever, which Dash has not had.  So how the heck was I supposed to know that he had ear infections, which he's probably had for a loooonng time since he first became stuffy around November 8?  The doc's response: "Sometimes, really, only a doctor can tell you." 

So Dash gets to take his very favorite medicine, Omnicef -- the only one he voluntarily takes and keeps down -- for ten days.  He calls it his FiFi medi, and he'd like to drink the whole bottle at once; thank God for childproof medicine caps!  At least he'll feel much, much better even later today, and I stand a good chance of him sleeping well, thus sleeping well myself, at long last.

This is a post about Dash's vomit

My mom e-mailed me this morning, sure that something was wrong because I didn't post to my blog yesterday.  Oh, but she was right.  Petunia is fine -- all traces of sickness gone -- but now Dash is sick, and he doesn't just get a little sick, he gets up-all-night-coughing-and-vomiting-and-screaming sick.  He's been sick since around November 8, kicking a cold, but now he must have something new.  He can't stop coughing, and even the super-strong medicine that the doc has prescribed him in the past isn't working (and isn't staying down for long).  We're trying the nebulizer, but it's not that kind of cough (and boy, do I know them all).  The odd thing is that he doesn't really have a fever -- he's just coughing a lot, and that's making him boot.  And boot some more. 

This is nothing new.  While we learned definitively in January that he no longer has reflux, this kid vomits more easily than the frat brothers in college who made a habit of doing so in order to make room for more drink.  We're used to sleeping on top of beach towels so that instead of swapping all of our sheets in the middle of the night, we can just change the towel -- onto which he's been trained to focus his puking.  He does it so often that he knows the drill: as soon as he's done on the towel, he stands by the door with the trashcan while I switch the towel, quickly switch his clothes, and wipe his face.  I can do this in the dark with my eyes closed, which, when I've been woken up for the fifth time, is pretty much how it's done.

I'll take him to the doc tomorrow, by which point he'll certainly have an ear infection, since when a kid pukes so much there's no way for it not to back up into the ear canals.  But I'll spend another two nights at least seeing EVERY hour on the clock.  And I'm pretty upset about that.  No matter how much help I can hire, no matter how many doctors I consult, the fact is that this boy is going to be in my bed for a long time yet.  I'm tired of sleeping next to him.  I'm tired of getting no sleep.  Perhaps more than anything, I'm really tired of being judged by everyone -- even the Guv, at times -- for giving Dash the care he demands.  I didn't ask for a High Maintenance Child, but I got one.  And there are times he makes me downright miserable, which is not a great thing for a mom to say.  Of course, he brings us all infinitely more joy than misery, but knowing that doesn't help on days like today, when he's at his worst because he doesn't feel well.

And I'm at my worst, because the Guv and I were having a fantastic time at a party last night when we came home to put the kids to bed, and it was clear that Dash was getting worse.  I stayed at home (not because the Guv trumped me somehow, but, rather, because Dash needed and wanted mom, which I accepted) -- and the Guv went back and had a blast, capping off the night with some rowdy 1 am soccer playing.  So I'm complaining, because if I'm going to be up at 1 am, it should be for some drunken soccer playing or other such fun -- not for cleaning up round 2 of Dash's vomit, right?

(P.S. While writing this post, I had convinced Dash to nibble on some crackers.  I didn't even have to stop typing as I held the cracker bowl under his face while the threw it back up.  The Patriots, they should hire me: I can catch anything, blind.)

Black Friday, or not

The Guv and I shopped a bit today.  Most people thought we were nuts to even think about it, but the truth is, it was no different than shopping on a typical weekend day, except the deals were slightly better.  We parked easily at Best Buy, Target, the mall... Until today, I wasn't sure that the economy was slumping as bad as the pundits say, but now, I'm sold.  We're in for a tough holiday season.  My suspicion is that Black Friday may be grey, or even red, this year.  But hey, it's a great time to trade up in the housing market... 

The sweet end

Our Thanksgiving is over, successfully.  We hadn't spent time with the Guv's extended family (his mom, aunt and cousin) for a while, and it's always nice to host them.  While Babcia (the Guv's mom, or grandma in Polish) travels quite a bit, Ciocia (aunt) almost never leaves her block in Brooklyn, and her daughter doesn't venture much further.  I know that coming out here is quite a treat for them, and they wouldn't care if I served them frozen pizza.  We did a traditional turkey meal anyway, of course, especially as it was au pair Maria's first American Thanksgiving.  (She was quite happy at the end of the day, her Yahtzee win over Petunia and me perhaps being the highlight.)

Unfortunately, Dash did not have a great Thanksgiving.  He did NOT want to sit in his high chair as we enjoyed our meal at 2:00.  This may be because his great-aunt had walked in the door at noon and handed him a Prince Polo bar, which he wolfed down, rendering him full for the day.  The boy almost never refuses mashed potatoes, but he didn't even want to look at them.  He cried "GET ME OUT! UNBUCKLE MEEEE!!!!!" ... and he wanted more "Ciocia Cereal Bars."  His entire diet today consisted of about a tablespoon of oatmeal, two tablespoons of Cheerios, two Prince Polo bars, and some soy milk.  Not exactly a banner day, eh?

But then, at 7:15, the boy comes up to me and says, "Mama, I want to go to bed.  I'm really tired."  WTF?  And the kid meant it: he was out cold in about ten minutes.  I'm thinking I might withhold his nap and feed him two chocolate bars only every day...

Talking turkey

Until yesterday, I was freaking out that I was going to have to cook a turkey with bones in it.  A few times in my life, I have been a vegetarian for a stint, and I find that I really can't stand food that looks like an animal: e.g., a turkey.  Cutting into bloody steak is also a huge problem for me, and my husband usually browns ground meat for me for much the same bloody reason.  But alas, I was saved: Whole Foods had a big enough (4+ pounds) boneless breast of turkey, all tied up in a net bag so that it'll require minimal handling/preparation.  Truth be told, no one in my family even likes turkey much, so we're doing this mostly for my mother-in-law, aunt-in-law, and cousin-in-law, as well as for our Austrian au pair's first American Thanksgiving.  I feel compelled to nod to tradition, regardless, but I'd so much rather be at my mom's house right now, not even having to think about this!  (We were welcome there but chose -- wisely, based on the weather delays happening already -- not to travel.)

If I do this again next year, I'm going to either buy the meal -- or at least the bird -- fully cooked, or perhaps I'll even start a new tradition.  Turkey chili, anyone?  Turkey meatloaf?   Tofurky?  Gluten-free pancakes with turkey sausage? 

Since I'm doing NaBloPoMo, I'll post tomorrow, but let me leave you with this little Thanksgiving song I found in cyberspace:

Turkey, Turkey

(Sung to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star)

Turkey, Turkey look at you

Please be careful what you do.

Thanksgiving day is almost here.

We eat turkey every year.

Go and hide out in the woods.

We’ll eat pizza like we should.

Feeling festive

Do you know who put me in the Christmas spirit this year?  A 12 year old boy named Yusef.  I took his name off of the "angel tree" at church so that I could purchase his desired Christmas gifts.  Unlike most of the kids his age who request Game Stop gift cards or NBA hats, Yusef asked for puzzles, both boxed and book form.  I have had a blast shopping for him, and he's the only person for whom I've shopped so far.

I'll probably never meet Yusef, but I'll remember him for many Christmases to come.  I imagine him as a bright and quiet seventh grader who is working hard in school to make a better life for himself.  The kids whose names are on this tree, some of them don't have families, and those that do are often in really sketchy situations.  My Christmas wish this year, and I'm happy to only get one, is that Yusef makes it in this crazy life to a better place than where he is now. 

Flashback to Saturday

The Guv and I had a day alone on Saturday, in part to tour the private school I mentioned in my last post, and in part just to enjoy each other after the Guv's week-long absence.  Here's a snippet of our conversation after an encounter with an interesting individual:

Rox: There was something that bothered me about that woman... she was so, I don't know, overdone.  Fake, like.

The Guv chuckles.

Rox: What?

The Guv: You know, women like you, they marry academic types, with little round glasses and always working on a book.  Guys like me, they marry women who frost their hair and get work done.  We're an unlikely pair, you and me.

(My response deleted so that the content of this site remains family-friendly.)

+++

I can't stop giggling to myself over this conversation on a number of levels.  For starters, I'm all for self-improvement -- of my BRAIN, not my boobs.  Second of all, the Guv would have no patience at all for a ditz who cared more about shopping than about the fate of the dollar -- and he also would lack the stomach for the fate of HIS dollar faced with her credit card bills.  I have the self-confidence to know that he wasn't dogging me; he'd never trade down, because he has it too good.  He married someone who doesn't love to shop for herself but, instead, will spend days agonizing over the right gift for his mother.   But the funniest thing is that when I fell in love with the Guv, many moons ago, HE was going to be an academic, not Private Equity Guy.  While he is a jock and quite handsome, I married him because he's the smartest man I've ever met, and he married me because he felt we'd always have things to talk about. 

He is right, though: the guy that I dated before him is a professional poet.  And some of his friends, they are married to bimbos.  And they'll remarry bimbos.  We broke the mold, perhaps, and I think we're both happier for it.  As to whether or not we fit into main line Philly life, if we chose to make that move, well, I do highlight my hair.  I guess that's a start.  ; )

On being our best selves

We are wrestling with some difficult decisions in our household, and chief among them is best way to educate our children.  We have not been unhappy with Petunia's local public grammar school.  In fact, I have loved the teachers.  Their morale is dropping, though, as they haven't had a contract for over two years; and, since it's against the law in Jersey for teachers to strike, they have no recourse except to find another job.  As well, budget constraints are cutting programs, such as the "primary strings" program (weekly mandatory violin lessons in grades 1-3), which were among the reasons we chose our current town.  Petunia's school is "good enough" -- but there's a marked difference between "good enough" and "excellent."  She is an exceptionally talented child, especially verbally, so it is even more challenging for a teacher/school to challenge her.  And, we learned from the psychologist who performed a battery of giftedness tests on her, Petunia very much needs the challenge, for, when it is absent, she checks out.

In response to this quest for excellence, the Guv and I toured a private school in Pennsylvania yesterday.  It far exceeded my expectations, as the school truly practices what it preaches with regard to caring for the whole child.  The school is much more than academics, which, by the way, are top-notch.  For example, the school employs a Director of Character Education.  Among her tasks is teaching a weekly friendship class.  The kids talk of "being their best selves."  Oh, I'm sure that there are occasional issues between friends (or non-friends) as there are in any school -- but at that school, they have a specific forum for dealing with it.  I went into the school asking if it could meet Petunia's academic needs.  I left knowing that it could.  For example, when she's far ahead in language arts, she'll be pulled out by a teacher who will offer her additional challenges.  Imagine that: "special education" for both advanced kids and kids who require additional help.  (Yes, I know that pubic schools have gifted programs -- the Guv and I were both in them -- but they aren't always/often academic.)  Beyond academics, though, I walked out of the school feeling that Petunia would come out a better person than she went in -- which is saying a lot, as she is already an especially socially aware, kind child.  Heck, I left wanting to be a better person myself.

Sometimes, to be our best selves as parents, we end up doing things we never thought we'd do.  I really believe in public education.  I believe that removing bright children like Petunia from public schools is detrimental to the learning of others.  I also believe that leaving Petunia in the public system will not meet her needs.  The Guv, who was against private school mostly because of the cost, indicated that his only concern leaving the private school yesterday was whether or not they'd have space for our daughter.  And that, that's really saying something.

In the end, we want Petunia to reach, not bend.  She'll spend a day there soon, and hopefully she'll come away with the same great vibe... and an offer of admission.

Big Ups to my Little Bro

Hats off to Wonder Boy, PhD, JD, and newly-minted member of the California Bar.  (He found out he passed yesterday.)  You get a big WHOOOOOO HOOOOOOO!  We're very proud of you!

And, while we're at it, happy birthday on Monday.  My baby brother is 26 -- and I can remember the day he was born (I was eight and in third grade).  Some days I wake up and wonder how I got this old, but, on Monday, I'll wake up and wonder how HE got so old.  But by all accounts, he's growing up quite nicely -- but isn't quite grown up yet.  ; )

It's a boy!

Moments before Dash entered the world, the delivering doctor asked, "You said you don't know what you're having, right, a girl or a boy?"  I indicated that we didn't know, and he said, "One more push, and you can tell us all!"  Then he held up Dash, and I squealed, "IT'S A BOY!"  and we all laughed and cried.  I was so relieved to have a healthy baby after an arduous day, and, even though I had hoped for another girl in some ways, I was especially happy to have a boy so that the pressure to ever have another baby would be off.  But just minutes after he was born, I remember thinking: what am I to do with a BOY???"

For his lifetime, I have referred to Dash as a baby or as a toddler, but those days have passed, for now he is truly a little boy.  Case in point, tonight, as I began the usual "strip, change diaper, put on PJ's" routine," he broke free from my grasp and commenced to grab what Petunia has dubbed his "bizknuckle" and race around the room, fake (thank God) peeing everywhere.  When he was done cracking up from that, as I was frozen to the floor wondering if I should laugh or cry, he then began to squat, spread his buttcheeks, and fake fart and poop everywhere.  His sister was writhing on his bed squealing and screaming and laughing all at once, so before she busted her gut, I wrestled him to the floor and diapered him.  Not that that stopped him.  He repeated the whole routine with his diaper on.

Good Lord.  What AM I to do with a boy?

Stuck between a Petunia and a Dash

Petunia is now sick.  Here's an excerpt of our pre-bed conversation:

Petunia: "Mama, I'm freezing!"

Mama: "I know, Petunia, it's because you have a fever and the medicine isn't working yet."

Petunia: "Mama, I have chicken pox!"

Mama: "I'm quite certain that you don't have chicken pox, Petunia."

Petunia: "Duck bites!  I have duck bites!"

Mama, intrigued: "What are duck bites?"

Petunia: "THESE! (pointing)"

Mama, giggling: "Goose bumps, Petunia, you have goose bumps."

Petunia: "Goose bumps, duck bites, WHATEVER, I just want someone to warm me up!"

And with that, we ALL climbed in my big bed -- a feverish Petunia on one side, a still-fighting-a-cold Dash on the other side, and Mama in the middle.  We've never attempted this before, and I must say that it was very sweet while it lasted.  I never woke up to post last night because with Petunia asleep on my left shoulder and Dash asleep on my right, I was quite stuck.  Petunia sang Dash to sleep, and they were reaching to hold each other over me.  Since Dash doesn't ever want Petunia near me or near his sleeping quarters, this was a very special time -- like he knew she was sick and needed me too. 

But, as I said, it didn't last the night -- as Petunia's fever broke, she started tossing and turning and talking A LOT in her sleep, waking Dash who demanded FiFi and cried for Daddy-hold-you.  So, at 2:30, I asked Petunia if she could go back to her bed -- especially because I hadn't yet gotten a wink of sleep.  I expected a fight, but instead?  She said, "Thank goodness, that baby's been keeping me up all night."

Hooked

My brother introduced me to a word game with a charitable purpose:

Free Rice

Check it out! 

On wheat-free living

My recent diagnosis with a pretty severe wheat allergy has made mealtime a bigger challenge than usual.  Gone are pizza nights, drive-thru suppers and one-pot pasta meals.  Whereas I used to be able to "cheat," any risk of wheat exposure means careful planning and Claritin or lots of very itchy hives.

Living wheat-free has translated into healthier living for us all.  For me, I join my family for pizza by eating salad.  Pounds are dropping off of my midsection.  I miss them slightly less than I miss pizza (and jelly donuts, and cake, and...).  Since 1 in 133 people in this country have celiac disease, which is gluten intolerance (so they can't eat wheat, either), places like P.F. Chang's actually have a gluten-free menu, and even my local little grocery store sells rice pasta and gluten-free frozen meals.  I buy more fresh fruits and veggies, since they're a ready snack when my carb-starved stomach is growling, and my kids -- even Dash! -- are reaching for more healthful things.  Dash ate a blueberry fruit leather today, after eating meatloaf (made with oatmeal instead of breadcrumbs) yesterday... making me think that we'll all soon be eating yet more healthfully.

Thanksgiving is going to pose some issues for us all, as is Christmas.  Since I want to be fair and offer the foods that everyone expects on Turkey Day, I'll make both bread stuffing and wild rice stuffing.  I ordered some apple pies from the local orchard and will make pumpkin custard (basically crustless pumpkin pie).  I bought some gluten-free sugar cookie mix and will make some Christmas cut-out cookies out of that in addition to making my usual, unbelievably delicious butter cookies.  I'll pass on the cookie exchange, at which I won a prize for best-tasting cookie (triple-nut diamonds) last time around.  And instead of baking, and baking, and more baking, I'll spend the time enjoying the magic of the season with my kids.  

This is a post about poop

Ever since Dash began attending preschool, he's maintained his regular bowel schedule, going twice in the morning.  Often, he does one of these at home, but he almost always does the other at school.  His school does not require potty training, so this should be no big deal.  I say "should be" because I think it is becoming a big deal to his teacher.  Today, she called me at 10:00 a.m. to tell me that he's "had diarrhea" twice already, so the director says that I need to come and pick him up.

To back up, Dash never has "normal" bowel movements.  His are always loose, because he lives on soy milk more than food.  Imagine: if your calories came more than half from a liquid source, don't you think you'd be a little messed up in that way?

So I picked him up and asked him what he wanted to do.  He said he wanted chai, so we went to Starbucks and shared one over some conversation about -- you guessed it -- poop.  Dash's thoughts?   "Mrs. Teacher doesn't like to change my diaper."

No poop -- I mean, no kidding.

I'm wringing my hands a bit about this one, because I'm sympathetic -- hey, I don't love to change diapers either -- but it is part of the job, and most kids in his class aren't potty trained.  I even confirmed with the class's prior teacher that there are always kids who poop every day.  Maybe their diets are different so their movements are less loose.  But really, I'm wondering if my kid get kicked out of preschool for pooping too much too loose.  At this point, I have to laugh, because I'm too pooped (in the other sense!) to care.    

A message from heaven, or perhaps from elsewhere

After several days at home with Dash and I fighting our cold, today we felt well enough to take a short jaunt out to purchase my brother's birthday gift.  As we strolled around the store, I saw the most cherubic baby girl, about three months old, and thought to myself: I could do that again.  It's not that I want to have another baby, it's just that I know that I can... and sometimes it's tempting.  I look at my two beautiful, smart, fun, loving children and think: why not?  They are so perfect, and I have no reason to believe that more wouldn't add to our joy.  I shared that sentiment with the Guv, who shrugged in a noncommittal fashion and said "whatever" -- because he knows I didn't mean it.

And then, I'm not sure if God or the Devil intervened, because not much later, Dash started cranking.  He started crying around 2:30 and hasn't much stopped.  He fell asleep crying, he woke up crying, and he's still at it five hours later.  He didn't want to join Petunia and the Cleaver boys for some leaf-pile jumping.  He didn't want to pillow fight with the same crowd.  He didn't want to eat Pasquale's pizza, didn't want to watch TV, didn't want to do anything except sit on MY lap and scream at ME.  He doesn't want to tell me why, because I'm supposed to know: he was forced to exit the womb seventeen days early, and, for God's sake, he wasn't ready to go!

As his mother, I can assure you that this behavior is not due to sickness, tiredness or anything other than being the Most Contrary Child in the World.  He does not have an ear infection, he is not hungry.  He's just not the Boss of Everything, and he is going to sound his barbaric yawp until the world falls to its knees.

More siblings?  No thank you, very much, I value what little sanity I have left.

Be gone, stuff!

Dash's godmother, who lives in Virginia, visited today.  She is my best friend from boarding school, and I miss her very much now that we live so far apart -- and a little extra after having a nice afternoon together.  She (a research scientist) and her husband (a rocket scientist, literally) don't have kids yet, so it gave me great joy to give them a little push in that direction by filling their trunk with my kids' crib bedding, a bouncer seat, a Boppy and various other items.

Speaking of getting rid of stuff, hats off to The Guv for spending most of my "sick day" cleaning up the house.  A lot of my piles are gone, or consolidated at least.  Sometimes, his kineticism works to my great advantage.

Now, off to bed.  Dash's cold is hitting me harder, and I can't stay awake.  I promise a more exciting post soon. 'night.

Local organizations in need of help

Following up on yesterday's theme, here are some specific organizations in NJ that need stuff.  Please click on the name of the organization for the full list of what is needed and how to donate.

T.A.S.K. (Trenton Area Soup Kitchen) needs winter clothing, toiletry items, and sweatshirts.

Womanspace (for victims and survivors of domestic violence) needs holiday gifts items for women and children.

HomeFront (helping families in Trenton break the cycle of poverty) needs Thanksgiving food baskets; also, if you scroll down to the bottom left of the screen, there is a list of items needed.  Homefront also accepts used furniture and clothing.

One of our favorite organizations is Habitat for Humanity.  Click on the link to buy your Christmas presents at Habitat's on-line store.

We are also proud to support the Salvation Army to which you can donate airline miles as well as used goods.

I'll step off of my soapbox for a while now, but please do know that our family practices what it preaches.  We'll be supporting each of these organizations in various capacities this holiday season.  And Petunia, who saves at least a dollar of her allowance each week (and the proceeds of a yard sale water stand) for charitable giving, will be choosing how and what to donate very soon.

Something to ponder as the giving season approaches

Back in September, a New York Times business section article titled "Big Gifts, Tax Breaks and a Debate on Charity" piqued my interest, and I have thought about it daily ever since, especially because of this quote: "Research shows that less than 10 percent of the money Americans give to charity addresses basic human needs, like sheltering the homeless, feeding the hungry and caring for the indigent sick, and that the wealthiest typically devote an even smaller portion of their giving to such causes than everyone else."

Please click here to read the full text of this important article.

Having grown up in rural Appalachia, I have seen first-hand that there are starving people in this country.  I remember delivering boxes of food to some of these families in great need.  A box of food here and there, though, helps but does not solve the problem.  I think it is easier for us to fight starvation in Africa and harder to realize that it is happening in our own backyards.  How could it, in a country this great and rich and free?

It would be easy to delve into a lengthy political discussion of which Presidential candidate's social programs might best address these needs.  But I'm not going to go there.  Instead, I'm going to encourage you to read this article and to think about what you're thankful for -- and then to consider giving a charity in your backyard your time or money to help our neighbors in need.

Mind clutter

Today, I have major mind clutter, largely because I am stricken with anxiety over the piles of mess everywhere in my house.  My ONE goal today was to clean off my kitchen island. It didn't happen, and now it won't happen for days.  I'm spending tomorrow an hour away with Grace and our friends (June Cleaver and her two boys) dining at the Rainforest Cafe and watching The Bee Movie.  I'm also supposed to be figuring out what to do in Philly with Dash's godmother, who's visiting from Virginia, on Saturday.  And I'm also supposed to be finishing up paperwork for Petunia for Something That Cannot Yet Be Discussed Here.  I'm drowning in the work that I'm not doing, and the lyrics to Justin Timberlake's SexyBack keep playing in the background of my mind (yes, Humberto, I know I listen to crappy music, but it makes me happy).   My house is a freakin' mess, but hey, I can dance.

None of these projects were attended to because Dash woke up snorgelly (in our house, this means full of snot).  It was Picture Day at his school, so I spent some time on the phone coordinating when to bring him in for the individual and group shots.  Much to my surprise, he cooperated -- must be the stuffy head -- and found it riotously funny that the photographer asked him to say "cheeseburger!"  We've been saying "cheeseburger!" and smiling at each other for much of the day -- the part of the day that didn't involve Dash screaming for either Daddy or Grammy because he's sick, and clearly they should be here to suffer with him. 

So, I didn't sort through piles of paper, clean countertops, make plans, do paperwork...  I made pancakes that didn't get eaten, held a sleeping boy for over two hours (and couldn't sleep myself because of mind clutter), watched the Cars movie twice and read a Tonka anthology at least three times.  What puts my mind clutter back on the shelf is knowing that I don't have to cancel my plans with Petunia tomorrow because Dash is sick.  Au pair Maria can and will take excellent care of him, and Petunia doesn't get screwed out of a good time.  I canceled a whole lot of plans with her over the last couple of years because of Dash's sickness-after-sickness, so it's nice that at least our plans will proceed tomorrow.  She is such a good girl that she deserves it, and it'll be a nice break for me, too, to not have to look at my piles of mess for a few hours.  Sigh.

The Guv and his crazy ways

The weather here this morning was pretty grim -- raining hard, totally overcast and gray.  The Guv was supposed to fly from Trenton to Boston at 7 for a day trip.  I didn't have a chance to call him first thing as I was rushing to get Petunia out the door for her half-assed half-day of school and to hand Dash off to Maria so that I could go and get a haircut.  When I finally rang the Guv around 10, he was sitting on the Cross Bronx. 

Huh?

I have tried hard, for seventeen years, five months, three weeks and three days to figure out how this man thinks.  And yet, I never fail to fail on that front.  Because I do not understand, and I never will, what would possess someone to drive over five hours each way in one day to make some meetings that, in my humble opinion, no one would expect you to have been able to arrive at considering the weather. 

I can hear the Guv's many possible responses.  "Because that's how I earn my fat paycheck."  "Because that's why I'm among the best in my field -- I get there, first."  Or perhaps: "Because if I don't do it today, that'll give me twice as much to do tomorrow."

What worries me is where his breaking point might be.  He ran himself so hard earlier this year that he became so sick he couldn't stand up.  His schedule over this week and next is at breakneck speed.  Most days, I believe that this is what keeps him going: he loves his job, the fast pace, the challenges, the rewards.  But some days, I just want my family all under one roof, taking in the storm and sharing some hot chocolate around the table... instead of tucking the kids in alone, knowing he's somewhere on I-84 in Connecticut driving way too fast to make it home to get some sleep before another manic day begins.

Why China is eating our lunch

The New Jersey school calendar sucks.  This week, the kids have half-days Monday through Wednesday, ostensibly for parent-teacher conferences, then have Thursday and Friday off, ostensibly so that teachers can attend the state education association conference.  In reality, many families pack up and go to Florida -- so if you're in Disney World right now and bump into someone, chances are they're from NJ.  As well, few teachers actually attend the state conference, so it ends up being a school vacation TWO WEEKS BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

I am one of these crazy parents that believes that my children should attend school on a regular basis.  Having a school calendar that dates from the nineteenth century is ridiculous enough, though I do value my summers in Vermont.  But is it too much to ask for our kids to attend school for more full, longer days per year?  Some states, like New York, have suggested lengthening the school day in failing schools.  Their definition of failing and mine differ vastly.  China (and a handful of other pan-Asian nations) are producing more scientists and engineers than the U.S.A.   I'm not worried about failing urban schools: I'm worried about the future of a nation that lags in scientific discovery. 

This is a subject of much debate, but it's on my mind especially after getting great news at Petunia's parent-teacher conference today: she's excelling in everything.  She's ahead of where she should be in every subject.  We're doing everything right, and there is no weakness for us to prop up at home.  Clearly this is great news, and I'm not trying to make something out of nothing.  BUT... shouldn't she be challenged more?  Shouldn't something be hard for her?  Wouldn't we rather she reach than bend?  Therein lies the dilemma of sending one's child to public school in America.

Seriously, though, we're pretty darned proud of her tonight (as every night).  She's behaving, benevolent, brainy, and beautiful.  With her as the future of our country, we have nothing to fear.

Time for turtlenecks, sweatpants and fuzzy footie jammies

Finally, autumn has arrived in NJ.  It has been in the fifties all weekend, and I've finally brought out my favorite clothing items: my turtlenecks.  One of the other joys a new season brings for me is the process of changing over the kids' drawers.  I sort through what to keep for the next year and what to give away, marveling at how quickly my kids grow.  Usually, I'm also amazed at how many clothes they have.  Today, however, I realized that Petunia's wardrobe actually fits in her drawers properly for the first time ever -- and, surprisingly, she can use a few new things.  Unfortunately, she only needs unexciting things like sweatpants -- but the good news is that my consumption curve and her demand curve are, for once, aligned. 

As for Dash, finding sweatpants (important for ease of use during potty training) has been a huge challenge.  Our little dude is so very skinny that most sweats make him look like he's sporting clown clothes -- an itty bitty waist with huge, billowy legs.  Come to think of it, didn't I call those "parachute pants" back in the 80s?  Sadly, they're no longer in vogue, so I've had to hunt far and wide for acceptable pants.  He, too, is well- (but not over-) stocked for the season.  I was so excited to bring out my very favorite of all time item of baby clothing -- fuzzy footie jammies -- for him to wear.  Of course, he's Dash, though, so nothing can be normal.  We didn't think to put a t-shirt on him underneath the jammies, and he declared the zipper touching his skin to be the most awful thing he's ever experienced.  In other words, after nearly falling asleep, he assumed a downward-dog pose and shrieked "Mama take these off!  I don't like it!  It's touching me!   I don't like it touching me!"

To which I calmly responded, "What's touching you Dash?  What?"

He grabbed the zipper and made it go up and down several times.  "THIS!" he declared.

"I can put a t-shirt on you, then the zipper won't be touching you."

"NO!  I said get my dinosaur shirt, and my dinosaur pants, and put them on me.  TAKE IT OFF OF ME RIGHT NOW!!! (crying)"

I whipped those sweet warm fuzzy footie jammies off as though they were on fire then had him redressed in the dinosaur jammies and fast asleep within minutes.

And I lay there, realizing that Dash is a very smart kid.  It is likely that he realized that the fuzzy snuggly awesome footie jammies might keep him warm enough that he wouldn't need to holler for me to come in his room to be assaulted with his "love" all night (he calls lying on top of me, suffocating me, "love") -- and he was not about to let that happen.

I believe that this makes the score Dash 2, Mama 0.

Baby Cat wakes up

I may have mentioned before that Dash has this interesting way of turning himself into a Baby Cat for the Guv and me.  He curls up on our laps just like a little cat and meows.  It's odd, but endearing.

Today, as he started to roust from his nap, I offered up a "meow-ow-ow?" 

Dude sat straight up, pointed at the wall in front of him, and said "Do you see the sign that says don't wake up the cats?"

The reason that this is particularly funny is that Petunia once did a similar thing while shopping at Ross for Less (of all places!) with her Babcia and me.  When a lady noticed the adorable two year old Petunia riding along in a shopping cart, she chuckled and smiled.  Petunia pointed at the "Dresses" sign and said to the woman: "Do you see that sign?  It says NO YAFFING!"  (That was supposed laughing, but it's "yaffing" from a two-year-old mouth, prompting more laughter of course).

Kids, they can be funny, funny little people.

P.S. Yard sale was mediocre -- way too cold, but people carted off a fair amount of our junk.  Trash to treasure!

NaBloPoMo

It's National Blog Posting Month!  I've accepted the challenge to attempt to post each day in the month of November.  For my NaBloPoMo page, click here.  (It doesn't really say anything yet.)

Today's post is a quote from my sweet little Dash.  We're alone in the house -- rare these days -- and he's spent much of the day in my arms.  The more I leave him, the more he clings when I'm here.  Sometimes I'm not sure if that's his way of making me suffer for leaving him sometimes or his way of making sure I know that he loves me.  Anyway, a few moments ago, I was holding him up to the kitchen window to watch a family of deer frolic in our back yard.  He was enjoying it so much, being still and silent (this is so rare) and just smiling taking it all in.  I gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, something he doesn't often let me do.  He turned to me and gave me the biggest hug he's ever given me, his little arms wrapped tightly around my neck, and said "Mama, you love me too big."

Oh yes, Dash, I do love you too big, and I always will.

Yard Sale

In theory, I should write a post on Halloween, but I'm just too sick of it.  Those of you who have multiple young children will understand.  The kids had a blast, but I'm freakin' exhausted...

...in part because we're preparing for a yard sale on Saturday.

Presently, I'm infatuated with the very notion of snowboarding, in which context yard sale means something totally different (for those too lazy to click the link, which takes you to a fun snowboarding dictionary, "yard sale" basically means falling down in a magnificent fashion, often taking others out with you).  Since my brain is already 51 days ahead taking my first boarding lesson in Vermont, I'm having trouble focusing on the here and now.

Which brings me back to my yard sale: We have too much stuff.  We need to get rid of this stuff.  We took bags and bags of stuff to donate to our church's rummage sale last month, but we still have mountains.  A toddler bed and mattress, a high chair, four outgrown/no longer in service bicycles.  And much more.  Big stuff.  Stuff that others will want, and cart away and -- ta da! -- will buy.  This is my Black Friday shopping money, people!  I used to say it's not about the Benjamins, but I've been busting my "bahookie" (my favorite Petunia-coined term) preparing for this thing, and it's time for Mama to get hers, you know?! 

And after the yard sale, it'll be only 49 days until we leave for Vermont, where I'll be rippin' flake as Airdog Betty.