Helicopter

The last few weeks of summer seem like cruel and unusual punishment. The libraries in my city have gone on furlough. The lifeguards have gone back to college. When I search the internet for "things to do with kids," I get back the answer, "A whole lotta nothing."

Speaking of the library, I have this tendency to request things and then forget about them. Suddenly, a stack of 15 books comes in, and I have no idea why I wanted these particular ones. Last week, as I was gathering my books in anticipation of the aforementioned furlough, I noticed this one:


The premise of this book seems to be that the downfall of our society rests on the fact that we are hyper-scheduling children. The author suggests that I SHOULDN'T be trolling the internet for activities at all. Instead, I should kick back with a cocktail while the kids run wild with their imaginations. Furthermore, we should be banishing all electronics and plastics and let children devise their own playthings out of trash and earthen matter.

Great idea! I especially like the part about the cocktail. But my annoyance with this author began on page one, when he said, "Ambitious mothers force hours of homework on bewildered ten-year-olds, hanging the abstract fear of 'future employers' over their heads."

OK. I start to get irritated when the BAD MOTHER gets brought up so early in a text. And I snickered at the thought that it was ME and not the SYSTEM that was making my darlings do their math homework every evening. Of course, if I'm honest I have to admit to feeling a bit twitchy about the fact that YOU are having your kid practice those division facts over the summer. And I am feeling twitchy that my kid knows that 8 times 6 is 48, but when I ask him what 48 divided by 8 is, he looks at me like I'm speaking a different language. Is your kid going to be better prepared for third grade? Will your kid go to a better college? Will your kid win the Pulitzer Prize, while mine lives in my basement and plays video games all day? Crap.

One day last week, we started our day with this conversation:



The abrupt ending of this video clip was followed by me losing my mind. My tirade sounded something like this: "You are young, healthy boys! I just read a book that said that I am not supposed to be planning your summer. You are in charge of yourselves. Go run around! Go hunt something! Go build a structure out of sticks and trash! Go! Go! Go!"

Green sized me up and said, "Can we play the Wii instead?"

Seconds later, the grumpy bunch of us were piled in the car to go partake in the great outdoors. The boys were sullen and vocal about it. Imagine the whining. Close your eyes and visualize Green treating me to a speech about INJUSTICE. Imagine this speech lasting the entire 45 minute drive through traffic as we searched for some nature.

We ended up at the Arboretum. When we got out of the car, Green said, "What are we going to do here?" I sighed heavily. "Green," I responded. "Look at this wild-ness. There are adventures to be had! Be free!"

Green slumped his shoulders and said, "All I see are trees."

As it turns out, trees can be pretty fun. They are fun as long as you have the best seat in the biggest tree. If, however, your seat is inadequate or your tree is petite, you might start to whine a bit. You might call your mother over and say, "It's not fair that his tree is better than my tree." And if your mother is anything like I am, she might say something like, "I am not in charge of the trees." And you might respond, "HE ALWAYS GETS WHAT HE WANTS AND I NEVER GET ANYTHING MY LIFE IS TERRIBLE." And, if your mother is anything like I am, she will suddenly realize that she left the cocktail ingredients at home.

At one point, we found a tree that suited everyone. It was one of those huge, droopy trees with an underworld all its own. It had multiple good seats. It could be *gasp* shared! Blue and Green climbed up on a branch and started scootching down the length of it. And I started to worry, just a little bit. Very quietly, I wondered, "What if they get splinters in their butts?"


Now, if I looked up "butt splinters" in the index of that book, it would point me to a section called, "Butt Splinters Are Part of Adventure!" Or maybe it would point me to a section called, "Mothers Who Worry About Butt Splinters Are Raising Uncreative, Dependent Monsters!" But the truth is that this author probably never had to extract splinters from the butts of his screaming children. I'm pretty sure he left that task to his wife.

So I hovered a bit under that tree. Hover, hover, hover. Their hair was ruffling from the rotors of my metaphorical helicopter. I tried to distract them from my closeness with some chit-chat. "Boys," I said, "I think it looks like a castle under here. What do you think it looks like?"

Green looked up and around. "I think it looks like a boiler room," he said.

I exclaimed with delight! A boiler room! Now, THAT was creative. "Green," I asked, "when have you ever seen a boiler room?"

"I saw it on Club Penguin," he answered.

Dammit. Club Penguin is a video game! The book is right! Technology has seized my kids' imaginations, and now they're ruined.

We began to walk back to the car in defeat. Back to the Wii and the computer and playing "I Gotta Feeling" over and over and over again on the Ipod. As we walked, we noticed that all of the trees in the Arboretum were labeled with both their regular names and their species names. We passed a pine tree with this sign underneath that said, "Pine Tree: Pinus"

Say that out loud to yourself once. Pinus.

Pretend that you are an 8 year old boy, and say it three times quickly. Pinus, pinus, pinus.

Tears started running from my kids' eyes as they hooted, "PINUS!" at the top of their lungs. "PINUS!"

They ran and screeched. Whooped and jumped. Played.

And isn't that what summer is all about? Wide-open spaces, sunshine, and a dirty word?

No See, Long Time

Yikes! Did you hear that scream? So sorry. That harrowing noise came from Green. And no, he didn't lose a limb. He and his brother made a "solar cooker" out of a cardboard box and tin foil. They decided this afternoon that they were going to saute some crab apples, uncut, soaked in half a bottle of vegetable oil. To make apple pie.



Needless to say, the project didn't work.

AND HE'S NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO COOK ANYTHING AGAIN! EVER! HIS WHOLE LIFE IS RUINED! AND HIS HANDS ARE OILY! VERY OILY! HOW CAN HE USE HIS HANDS NOW! THIS IS A DISASTER!

The irony of this episode of outdoor screaming is that I had just finished a long overdue blog post in which I discussed how much my kids have matured. I think I will tuck that one away for later.

I don't have a solid explanation for why I stopped writing. I suppose it was a combination of things. First, there's Facebook. You guys expect juicy essays from me, but Facebook? It just wants a sentence or two. Or a funny picture, like this:


I can be quick and thoughtless there, but this blog usually requires a day's labor. Michael says that I like "microblogging." I think I might just gravitate toward "easy."

The other problem I've encountered in my writing involves Blue and Green. Those cute kindergarten cherubs who liked penguins and Curious George are now official "big kids." And with that, it seems like there are some privacy issues or some lines that shouldn't be crossed. Plus, the things that used to be kind of funny, like a story about an epic hissy fit at the beach over ice cream, might not seem as charming if it's about an eight year old (or two). I feel like we're renegotiating our relationships, and it's awkward to do that in public. Or maybe I just haven't found the right words.

But here we are at the end of summer, and I do want to come back to this place. To YOU. Back-to-school time. Turning-over-a-new-leaf time. Special thanks go out to Sarah, who has reminded me that blog writing can be fun.

So here's what's in store for the next few weeks. You will journey with me as I try to find things for the boys to do during these final days of summer. We already have a line-up of doomed projects (cue the screaming). I know that some of you are cherishing these dwindling moments of summertime togetherness with your children. I, on the other hand, think that this much togetherness is overrated.
(Note the fancy hats. These were part of project #4556 this summer. They are already falling apart. Blue warned me that the only thing that will repair his work and SAVE HIS LIFE FROM BEING A TRAGEDY is the purchase of a hot glue gun. I suspect that he also plans to use the gun on his brother.)

Santa Claus Addendum

Several of you have asked whatever happened with Green and Santa Claus. Well, imagine my delight when, just days after I made a fool of myself in front of Green’s teacher, Green decided to abandon reading Superfudge altogether. I don’t know if this was because he didn’t like the story, or if he got to the offending chapter and simply didn’t want to know. Either way, when he told me that he put the book back on the shelf, I was thrilled.

Of course, I have trouble containing myself when I am thrilled. Without missing a beat, I hurled myself right back into the classroom and screeched, “Green stopped reading Superfudge! It’s all going to be OK! I am so happeeeeeeeeee!”

The teacher looked startled and backed up a step. Then she said something like, “I’m certainly glad that’s over!”

The good news is that Santa was alive and well for our holiday celebration this year. But, still, a heavy coating of skepticism blanketed all of our activities. The boys were questioning, and it made me nervous.

The week before Winter Break, Green came home with some important news. “Mommy,” he said, “Santa Claus is not real.”

I gulped. “What do you mean?” I asked.

Green said, “I read a book in the library that said that the real Santa Claus lived in the 1700s.”

“The library!” I barked. “It sounds like the books there are inappropriate for children. Maybe we should boycott! Start a petition…”

He continued, “If Santa lived in the 1700s, then he’s dead.”

“OK,” I countered. “If Santa Claus is dead, then who’s the guy who flies around in the sleigh?”

“That,” Green said with assurance, “is an imposter.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Santa is dead, and there’s a faker riding around with flying reindeer delivering presents?”

“Exactly,” Green said.

So that’s the ticket! Someone was PRETENDING to be Santa, some burly guy dressed in a Santa suit knockoff, some guy who for the rest of the year was just a regular dude -- an accountant or a dentist or an airport screener-- with a crazy impulse to break into all the world’s houses over the course of a single night.

A few days later, Blue got on Santa’s lap and asked for a soft, green, stuffed dragon with a yellow stomach. It had to have all of those qualities. And, of course, there are many stuffed dragons in the world, but they are either green OR soft OR they have yellow stomachs. When I asked Blue if he was willing to be flexible, he said, “Santa can make it the way I want it, right? Didn’t you say he was MAGIC.”

Damn it.

Then, at about noon on Christmas Eve, Blue said, out of the blue (ha!), “I wonder if Santa will bring me an SD card for my camera.”

I snapped to attention and said, “Blue, I thought you wanted a dragon with a yellow stomach.”

“A SOFT, GREEN dragon with a yellow stomach,” he clarified. “But I also want an SD card.”

“But Blue,” I stammered, “You didn’t mention the SD card to Santa when you sat on his lap!”

He rolled his eyes. “Mommy, remember? Santa knows EVERYTHING. You did say that he knows EVERYTHING, right???”

I looked over at Michael, alarmed. He started to hum, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” I, on the other hand, was determined to get this right. “Uh, Michael, I whispered. What the hell is an SD card and where can I find one?”

Santa did his best. He brought a dragon that is soft and has a yellow stomach. He happens to be on the black side of green. Blackish green. Kinda like the deepest green in the forest in the middle of the night. But he also managed, on some pretty short notice, to bring an SD card for Blue’s camera, proving his ability to know everything, all the time.

I, of course, was reminded of a lesson my parents taught me many years ago. Lying is very hard. Lies beget more lies and considerable stress and panic. The truth will set us free. I think I’ll send an email to Santa, that fraud, and tell him that next year he should keep his day job.

New Year, New Things

2010. It’s so hard to believe. Michael and I have been musing about the last decade and how much has changed since Y2K. There have been a few new degrees. New jobs. A house. A couple of kids. A blog.

Sigh. This blog.

You may have noticed the yawping silence over the past few months. I don’t know how to explain it except by saying that I have been feeling massively uninspired. And when I’m uninspired, I rarely say to myself, “Self! I know what will get rid of this ennui: Writing a long, clever essay!” No, it’s more likely that I’ll zone out in front of Facebook with a diet coke and some BISON ON A STICK.



OH YES THIS IS REAL. Minnesota State Fair meets the Wild West?

Sadly, any future clever essay writing will require everyone in my family to stay healthy. The last couple of months have been filled with the Swine Flu, the Hog Flu, the Pork Rind Flu, and the Guinea Pig Flu. Just today, I was taking a shower, thinking to myself about how I was going to sit down and finally write a new blog entry, and the phone rang. I had a bad feeling, so I jumped out of the shower and answered it. Unsurprisingly, it was the school nurse, who told me that Green had just thrown up into a trash can.

Of course he did.

And, you know, my kids are not the kinds of kids that suffer quietly. They scream and wail and make sure that everyone in the house knows the extent of their pain. And when they are not screaming or wailing, they are tormenting each other.

Last month, under the influence of piggy virus #2, I decided that we needed to get a bit more festive, even if no one felt well. So I pulled out a CD that has Christmas music from all the traditional children’s TV programs (“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch…”), and it turns out that Blue has an intense dislike of the song, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” As if the swine flu wasn’t enough, I had the kid sitting in the middle of the room with his hands over his ears screeching, “Turn it off! I can’t take it! Please! This is killing me!”

That was all it took for feverish Green to seize the day. Every time Blue got busy doing something else, Green turned on “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” And then Blue screamed bloody murder. If Blue went into the bathroom, he would hear the song. If he went into his room to read, he would hear the song. After days and days of the music and the screaming, followed by more music and more screaming, I lost my mind. At one point, when the first notes of “Hark!“ came on, I marched out to the living room and shrieked, “Green! There will be no more Christmas music in this house! None! From now on we will only listen to Mommy’s mix tapes from the 80s!”

Oh yeah, baby. Next time you have a problem, threaten your kid with a little bit of Yaz. It totally works.

When we’re all healed, I think I need to reinvent this site a bit. I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to do that, or what shape those changes will take. You will have to stay tuned. Please stay tuned.

Censorship

If you have been reading this blog for a while, you know how much I enjoy a good holiday celebration. You know --- Harvestoween and Earth Day and Veterans’ Day. So it should come as no surprise that, in our family, we are busy getting ready for Banned Books Week (September 26-October 3).

I am completely serious – except there’s a twist. I am trying to ban a book. Or mutilate part of it. I have thought very hard about whether or not it would be possible to break into Green’s classroom and STEAL this book off the shelf. Or maybe get the School Board to end that crazy policy of having kids read during class. NO READING! NO READING!

You can wipe that shocked look off your face now. Let me explain. It all started this summer, when the boys and I snuggled up on the couch to read “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” together. The author, Judy Blume, was my favorite as a child. She single-handedly educated me about topics as diverse as menstruation, divorce, and scoliosis. You could always count on Judy to tell you the truth.

"Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" is not one that I remember very well, probably because I didn’t spend a lot of time with the books that featured boy characters. But, of course, in a strange twist of fate, all the people who now live in my house are boys. So I thought, “How about if we read this together and fill a few of these endless late-summer hours?”

And the kids loved it. They loved Pee-tah and his little brother, Fudge. I had to do a little explaining (70s gender roles, mugging (!), what a “doorman” is), but somehow, my kids really resonated with the main theme that a brother can be annoying and might eat your turtle.

Apparently, Judy Blume has turned this set of characters into a series, following the brothers as they age. I wanted to learn more about the second in the series, “Superfudge.” So I got online and was taken aback at all the WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! postings in the reader reviews.

So it kinda turns out that Judy Blume tells the truth about Santa Claus in this book.

Dammit with the truth-telling! I want my kids to be shielded from the truth! I want a cover-up! Come on, Judy! What were you thinking?!!!!

Anyway, I decided that we wouldn’t be reading that book. Instead, I bought the next one, thinking maybe the boys wouldn’t notice that we skipped over a whole segment of the characters’ lives.

I know that this will probably be the last year for Santa in our house anyway, just because the boys are getting to that age where logic starts to work (How likely is it that the same mother who somewhat obsessively checks to make sure the doors are locked would let a strange man come into the house in the middle of the night?). We already dodged a bullet last year when the kid who sat next to Blue revealed Santa’s identity. But this was the great part – Blue didn’t believe him! It turns out that this kid had cried wolf one too many times. There was the time that he told the teacher that his father died (not true), and the time that he told the class that he was getting his legs amputated (not true), and the time that he said that his mother liked to cook ponies for dinner (not true). So when he said to Blue, “There’s no such thing as Santa,” Blue just shrugged and said “Everyone knows you’re a big liar.”

Lucky for us, that kid is now attending another school. Second grade has started, and the students are back to their homework and their math assessments and their germ sharing. Yesterday, Green ran out of his classroom at the end of the day with a big smile on his face. “Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Guess what I’m reading at silent reading time?” “What?” I asked, delighted that he is so interested in literature.

He said, “I’m reading Superfudge!!!!!”

I felt my pulse begin to race. NO!!!! NOT SUPERFUDGE!!!!

And then I did what I should not have done. I marched into his classroom and accosted his teacher. I will add that it was really hot yesterday, and I was not at my best. The second grade is overrun with pungent little boys, so there was an odor to the school that made me queasy – like some of the kids had accidentally peed on the tops of their dirty sneakers. And I was sweaty, and red-faced, and trembly. The teacher took a step back when I shrieked, “You can’t let Green read Superfudge!!!! He’ll find out about Santa!!!!!”

In that moment, my name was scratched off the list of potential candidates for Room Mother.

She paused and said, “Umm… do you want me to hide it?”

And I honestly went home and wrestled with whether or not I should take her up on that offer.

Then I had this very profound flashback. I was 10 years old (and a very young 10. A Barbie-doll-loving kind of 10. A Snoopy-and-the-Gang kind of 10. Not the kind of 10 that dresses up like a hooker on Halloween). My mom took me to the B. Dalton Booksellers in the mall to find something to read, and I found a Judy Blume book that I had never read. It was "Forever," which most of you know concerns a teenager’s first sexual experience with a guy who names his penis “Ralph.” When we got home, my mom looked more closely at the book and decided that perhaps it wasn’t appropriate for me quite yet. So she took it. And hid it.

In response, I spent the next year looking for it, hunting and searching, searching and hunting, until I found a copy in my friend Lisa’s house and read it in her basement, all in one sitting. This made me wonder what would happen if the teacher really did hide Superfudge. Would Green spend the entire school year wandering around his classroom looking for that book? Up-ending book bins? Tearing through the math manipulatives? Opening all the science kits?

This morning I apologized to Green’s teacher. I said that perhaps I had overreacted. I told her that Green can read whatever he wants to read. Ideas should be free, even if they destroy our holiday traditions. No problem.

She continued to gaze at me warily. I can’t imagine why.

I guess I will watch and wait to see what happens when Green gets to that revelatory chapter in the book. I wonder if he will tell Blue at recess. I wonder if he will tell other kids. Of course, if any of you can think of a reasonable way for me to get rid of the book before that point, please let me know.

Just kidding. Sort of.

Bad Mother

The kids are in the other room playing Wii, which allows me some time to write this neglected blog. I know that there are some of you out there, probably right this minute, who are updating your Facebook page with the words, “I am loving these last summer weeks with my sweet, well-behaved, beautiful children!” And you make me feel just a little bit guilty when I pay the 8th grader across the street to come play Sorry! with my boys for an hour while I sit in the driveway and reclaim my sanity.

I remember those images I had of what it would be like to have a child. It usually had to do with cute clothes and pretty nurseries and Christmas morning and warm cookies just out of the oven. The thing is – when I was paging through that imaginary scrapbook all those years ago, I forgot to turn to Chapter 7. If I had, I would have seen the title, “At the End of the Summer, There Will Be 14 Hours to Fill Each Day and Nothing To Do Except Let Your Kids Play on the Wii, and If You Do That You Will Prove To the World That You Are a BAD MOTHER.”

Sensing my unease, Blue just wandered into the kitchen and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. Playing the Wii isn’t Screen Time, it’s exercise!!”

I totally believe those experts that warn us on a monthly basis that screen time will rot the brains of the next generation. And I’ve been lucky that my boys haven’t been the kinds of little kids that sit in front of the TV all day long. But I have also, on occasion (ahem), been willing to trade a few of their IQ points for a break from the endless crafts or just a bit of peace and quiet. And I have a sneaking suspicion that those screen time experts have never had the problem of needing their children to sit, in one place, without fighting or climbing or escaping, in order to grab a quick shower.

But these are just excuses, aren’t they? Yes, my kids have spent too much time playing video games this past week. And I will also confess to our habit of going to the library to play video games on the computers. Hey, don’t roll your eyes. I made them check out a book each time, too. And there was the walking back and forth to the car. That was good for them!

Here’s the real bummer of the situation. The excessive screen time in our family comes AFTER a full work day of wholesome and educational childhood entertainment. Take, for example, our schedule from one day this week:

6:33 a.m.: Wake up! Breakfast! Time to make a robot out of recyclables!

7:15 a.m.: Fight with brother because his robot is bigger than your robot. Screaming. Lose allowance.

7:30 a.m.: Make stuffed animals out of felt. Add inappropriate anatomical parts.

8:30 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.

8:45 a.m.: Build Lego vehicle with strange weapons.

8:46 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos, even though mother doesn’t really understand Legos and gets frustrated with the diagrams.

8:47 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.

8:48 a.m.: Can’t find a piece! Oh no! Screaming.

8:49 a.m.: Ask mother to help find piece ("Can you ask me nicely? I don’t respond to whining! Yes, you really are whining.").

8:50 a.m.-10:00 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.

10:01 a.m.: Lego vehicle falls apart. Screaming.

10:02 a.m.: Time for more crafts! NO FAIR! He has better materials than I do!

10:03 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.

10:04 a.m. -10:59 a.m.: Build life-sized tent out of paper. Your tent doesn’t stand up, but your brother’s does. More screaming.

11:00 a.m.: Eat lunch. Complain about selection. Beg for junk food.

11:45 a.m.: Go to pool. This is the far away pool, because the close-by pool is too boring.

12:15 – 1:30 p.m.: Swim happily. Mother rests, except to smile and nod every 30 seconds when you say, “Look at me! Did you see that?”

2:30 p.m.: Arrive home. Ask, “What are we going to do now?”

At this point, we have been busy with crafts and building and screaming and fighting and swimming for eight full hours. So we all engage in some review of first grade math:

Blue and Green are awake for 14 hours every day. They have been on the go for 8 hours already. How many more hours does the mother have to fill? If there are 3 more days in the week, how long before the mother goes crazy?

So I did what any BAD MOTHER would do, and I let the boys play their Wii. For just a little while. A few minutes, er….maybe an hour. Hours. Hell, I don’t know. Let’s just mention that we still had time for a science experiment before bedtime. And a game of cards (NO FAIR! He got better cards that I did! Screaming. Lose more allowance.).

8:31 p.m.: Kids asleep. Mother drinks.

Why Things Don't Get Done

First of all, I’d like to extend a hearty welcome to all the new readers from Facebook! It’s a first step to making this thing a bit more public, taking the pressure of the dedicated core of readers that I’ve been forcing to come here over the past few years.

My intention was to bring the blog out of the closet and then fill your week with a bunch of new entries. But I was stymied by two problems. The first problem was that Blue and Green did not have camp this week. So my days began like this:

6:33 a.m.

Green: Mommy, I’m bored

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: There’s nothing to do at our house.

Me: i…need…coffee…before...i…can…talk…to…you

Green: Can we go snorkeling now?

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: Where’s my bathing suit?

Me (growling): Honey, the sun isn’t up yet.

Blue: We could go build a giant helium-powered light apparatus that shoots bad guys and let’s us see underwater in the dark! Mommy, do we have a chainsaw?

Green: IT’S NOT FAIR. HE’S GETS TO BUILD THE GIANT HELIUM-POWERED LIGHT APPARATUS BEFORE I DO!!!!

Blue: (punches Green in stomach)

Green: My arm is broken! He hit me, and my arm is broken!

Me: I think he punched you in the stomach.

Green: You always take his side!


Needless to say, my lovely children didn’t help me get a lot of writing done this week. My other big challenge involved preparing for our upcoming family reunion vacation. It’s not the actual packing that’s the issue. I haven’t even begun that process. I don’t know if this happens to you (or if it’s my own particular brand of crazy), but in the days before any trip, I become obsessed with attending to obscure household details.

This time, it was the bathroom grout. Was it always that color? Shouldn’t it be white? I can’t explain why dirty grout would be a problem in an empty house, while it never bothers me when we’re actually in town. And so there I was, on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and bleach, and a myriad other bizarre cleaning tasks were already forming an unsteady pyramid in my mind. That shower curtain is looking a little funky – should I replace it? The rug in the boys’ bedroom is beginning to smell a little bit too much like boys – should I get carpet cleaner? Old Cliff Huxtable-esque sweaters are thrown in a haphazard heap on the closet floor – take to Goodwill? Stuff from my dissertation is still shoved in a cardboard box under my desk – is it time to organize.? Has the food in the emergency kit expired? Do we even have an emergency kit? Ack!!!

The Unnecessary Things to Do list was growing ever larger, and I was growing ever more anxious. And, still on my hands and knees, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked to referee a fight in a while. I hadn’t been asked to read a book or do a craft project or feed anyone junk food. I peered out of the bathroom and saw nothing. I strained to listen. There was quiet followed by the words “fuel” and “exploding” and “hee hee hee.” It suddenly became clear to me that my grout might be clean, but my unattended children were busy in the kitchen building a bomb.

I am in awe of creative people, especially when they say how they get their work done. You know, the author who writes her novel on the bus while commuting to work, or the painter who paints at 4 a.m. before the day starts. But after this week, I’m pretty sure that these people don’t have children or grout. I may not have entertained you very well this week, bloggers, but I did manage to save the neighborhood from 7-year-old terrorists. And I deserve something for that.

(Next time you come over to my house, check out the baseboards! Shiny!)

Unstuck

I have mentioned before how hard Blue and Green’s first years were. You know – the ENDLESS NONSTOP SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING.


But perhaps I haven't told you as much about the tiny problem of the NO SLEEPING. And I have to say – all this time later, my body has still not quite recovered from all those YEARS of deprivation.

You are probably thinking to yourself, “Everybody has a tough time early on.” But let me tell you, this was different. I managed to get the two screaming babies that didn’t nap, that didn’t sleep at night. I was the mom at the playground swinging her kids at dawn. Michael was the dad going to the all night Starbucks drive-through. And our days were spent begging, pleading, bouncing, rocking, praying for 30 minutes of rest.

I remember going to the pediatrician's office, with a screaming butterball in each arm, and imploring the nurse to help us. I don’t know what I was thinking – this is the earthiest, no-antibiotic-prescribing doctor's office you could imagine -- but somehow I thought she’d pat me on the arm and give me a bottle of tranquilizers for the kids (or for me?). Instead, she smiled at me and said, “Have you tried the Baby Whisperer?”

I almost exploded. Of course we tried the whispering. We tried the crying-it-out and the crying-it-in. We tried having them sleep with us, in the car seat, on the couch. We tried songs and books and routines and the aforementioned begging. Nothing. No sleep.

And then, one evening, after TWO AND A HALF YEARS OF THIS, they fell asleep on the living room floor. And slept most of the night. And then the next day they took at nap at 9 and then another at 2. On the living room floor. So Michael and I lay down next to them and thanked our lucky stars for this gift.


Every night thereafter, those kids slept on the living room floor. And we didn’t mess with it, because HALLELUJAH they were sleeping. It didn’t matter that we no longer had access to the central space in the house. It didn’t matter that these were rather unorthodox arrangements. All that mattered was sleep.

Never fear, the kids now sleep in their own beds, usually all night long. But the consequences of that sleepless era are many. The most important consequence was the restriction that the lack-of-sleep placed on our sense of what was possible. And once they began to sleep like normal kids, we didn’t want to tinker with success. Naptime was sacred. Bedtime was inflexible. Frankly, we became inflexible.

I mention this now, because this has been the summer of big changes in our family. Maybe it’s the distance from those early years. Maybe it’s the boys’ increasing independence. But suddenly I have this drive to do all of the things we’ve been putting off in favor of rest.

First on my list was to take the boys camping. With such abundant natural beauty in our region, it’s a shame that we hadn’t taken them camping earlier. But, please – if there is ever the opportunity for a crappy night’s sleep, it’s while parked on the ground in a stuffy tent after a meal of burned marshmallows. This year, however, we had a new attitude: if they don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, they will make it up the next. Or perhaps more importantly, if WE don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, WE will make it up the next.

This is not to say that Michael and I did not go through our usual decision-making process before heading out to the wilderness. The conversation went something like this:

Michael: Do you think this is a good idea?

Me: It could be. But it could also ruin our lives.

Michael: What do you think is the worst thing that could happen?

Me: Well, it could rain, and the four of us would be jammed into the tent with nothing to do. And the boys would begin picking on each other, and we would start to scream at them and take away all of their allowance. And we WOULDN’T SLEEP AT ALL. Then we would go for weeks where everyone is crabby because they didn’t sleep on that one weekend. And then we would get swine flu, or bird flu, or bug flu, or whatever flu you get from not getting any sleep in the great outdoors.

Michael: Hmm. Anything besides that?

Since I couldn’t come up with any other dire predictions, we packed the car and headed out to experience our first camping adventure with the boys. We arrived, found our spot, unpacked our stuff, and held our breath. We fully anticipated Green to growl about not having access to his Wii. We fully anticipated Blue to turn to us with a bored expression and say, “What now?”

But you know what?

They loved it.

They loved the zippers on the tent. They loved the little paths that crisscrossed near our campsite. They loved the sticks and the stumps and the bugs and the bumps in the night. There was a small child somewhere in the campground that kept screaming, “I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME!” all night long. And the good news is….that child did not belong to us.

Tent:


Stump:


Spigot:


Gin:


The morning we were set to leave, we took a stroll along the beach at very low tide. It was the perfect family day – sun was shining, sand dollars and sea stars were littered everywhere, and we were all fairly rested. I was thinking to myself, “I think this trip has been a success. I can’t believe we accomplished this so easily.”


And then I fell into quicksand.

Yep. Quicksand.

I had never actually contemplated quicksand as a real phenomenon before. Isn’t it an Indiana Jones-ish idea? Something from cartoons? But no, there I was, sinking. It couldn’t be that I survived camping with my children just to die a slow, muddy death in Puget Sound. Could it?

Unfortunately, we were all a bit too alarmed by this event to think to snap a photo. But I looked something like this:

(photo from half-fast.org)

No, just kidding. Only my legs were submerged. But here’s the rub: if you are stuck in quicksand, and you manage to get one leg free, the only option you have is to put it back down in that very same quicksand as you attempt to free your other leg. And that sort of starts the process all over again.

Here’s the other bad thing that I discovered: if you get stuck in quicksand, no one can come over and help you, because they, too, will get stuck. So if, while you are sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, your child comes running at you to show you the pieces of dead crab that he found (yuck), you have to scream bloody murder, “Don’t you dare come anywhere near me or you will be sucked into the center of the earth!” And you have to sound calm while you are screaming, so as not to worry him that YOU are being sucked into the center of the earth (even though you are).

It occurred to me that one of my biggest problems with the quicksand was that the muck had suctioned in my shoes. Perhaps, I figured, if I could free my feet from my shoes, I could extract myself from this dilemma. But then it dawned on me that I only had that one pair of shoes with me on the trip. As I wrestled with the problem of spending the rest of the day shoeless, Michael hollered at me to reach my arm down into the mud and free my feet. “Do it!” he shouted. “Stop thinking about it.”

“First of all, “ I said to him, “I never stop thinking. Some people even pay me to think. I am a thinker. Second, if I reach my arm into the mud, I’ll get all disgusting.”

He said, “You are already disgusting. You’ve been camping.”

That was a good point. It was also good that I am somewhat limber, because reaching arm-deep into quicksand while staying upright is quite a feat. But I did it, and I even managed to get the shoe out and toss it up the bank. Then I jogged on one leg a bit, trying to prevent further sinkage, while I freed the other foot.

Phew.

So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t get so blinded by your own success that you fail to notice the steaming pile of quicksand at your feet? Always pack an extra set of shoes, because you never know when yours will be swallowed up by nature? Do your yoga so that you can be prepared to balance on one muddy hand?

All of those things are true. But I got to thinking that maybe it’s simpler than that: whatever problem we have, we probably will not sink all the way down. We will get out eventually.

(Note to pediatrician: Even though we no longer have sleep problems, I’d still like a tranquilizer or two for those rough days. Like when Green calls Blue a buttburger, and Blue hits him in the face with a Wii remote. That kind of thing.)

Chocolate Syrup Will Add a Realistic Brown Tone to the Blood

OK, I will admit this: I never really liked Michael Jackson. Sure, I was “there” for the 1982 premiere of the Thriller video on MTV, and I was of the first generation of suburban kids to try and fail at moonwalking. But, when my parents presented me with my very own cassette tape of the Thriller album, I asked them to take it back to the store.

I have confessed this ambivalence to assorted friends over the past few weeks, and most have reacted with a touch of horror. “But what about the dancing?!?!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you think he was a genius?” Hmmm. Well, the dancing was good, and he was very creative. But I was just never…thrilled.

When he died, I was not surprised that there was a collective national gasp of shock. But I certainly didn’t imagine that there would be an elephant parade in his honor! Or a Maya Angelou poem ("Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind")! Or a butter sculpture! So I got to thinking -- perhaps I have underestimated the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon. Is there a way connect with this larger movement, to feel it for just a moment?

To that end, I decided to take to the streets and gauge the impact of Michael Jackson’s life and death in my own community. I was going to ask people about why they were so attached to him, how his music changed them, and how they were coping with his death.

So Last Friday evening, my friend ECM and I headed out to the 2009 World Record Thriller Dance. Here was the premise: You were supposed to dress up like a zombie (we didn’t – I regret that), wait in line for hours, and then join with thousands of similarly bloody individuals in a dance that filled several blocks of city streets.

When ECM and I embarked on our attempt at investigative reporting, we found that most zombies were more than willing to let us pick their brains. Take, for instance, “Chubby Farmer Zombie," who joined us on the sidewalk to chat about the larger significance of the event. “Why did you dress up like a zombie tonight?” I asked him. “Because my wife made me,” he answered. “It didn’t have anything to do with Michael Jackson?” I continued. “Ah, yes!” he corrected. “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson changed music, man! He was the KING OF POP. He just died, you know.” At that point, he was joined by his nagging wife (sporting an “I Love Brains” shirt, below) and their charming son, G.I. Joe.



My attention was diverted by “Vitamin Water Zombie,” who came up to us to ask us what we were doing. “I’m taking pictures of people like you!” I said. “Why?” he asked. “Because I want to write about why all these people came out tonight in costumes to do a dance from the 1980s.” He said, “I came because my ex-girlfriend wanted me to come.” I looked at him quizzically. “It’s complicated," he added.




There were others.


Zombie with a Brain on a Stick:



Corporate Logo Zombies:



Elvis Zombie:



Going to the Chapel Zombie:



Zombies Up Past Their Bedtime:



A Banana:



A Penguin:



Random Bloody Guy:



ECM and I planted ourselves with a good view of the main stage. The music started for the warm-up, and we could hear the perky dance instructor zombies begin their work.

Right, Left, Right, Left, Shoulder Step, Shoulder Step, Shuffle Back, Hop, Hop, Forward, Slide, Slide, Right Hip, Right Hip, Left Hip, Left Hip, Claws Up, Claws Up, Stare, Stare.

But it turned out that all we could really see was a confused and sweaty crowd of zombies milling around without a place to be. ECM and I were debating about what to do when we heard a zombie say, “Hello, Seattle! We are 300 zombies short of a record. Please go sign up so that we can be WORLD LEADERS!!!”

World leaders! Yes! The Senate election in Minnesota was won by a similar margin. Our participation mattered! We mattered! I grabbed ECM by the arm and dragged her down the street and over to the sign-up station. We weren’t mere journalists. We weren’t bystanders. We were going to DO the Thriller dance, join in this ghoulish display, be a part of HISTORY.

We signed up, gave our phone numbers for verification, and joined the throngs on our way to dance. Except…Wait….There was no dance. We found ourselves out on the street watching a costume contest. About 20 zombies were up on a platform, vying to win an XBOX.

I stood, practicing the dance in my head (Slide, Slide, Roar, Turn), while the competing zombies introduced themselves. Oddly, the fellow who won was not dressed as Michael Jackson; rather, he was dressed like Billy Mays.

Soon, the crowd dispersed. ECM and I looked at each other. Slide? Slide? Roar? Turn? Where was the dancing? We signed up! We were ready!

We made our way up to the front, where ECM found what seemed to be a zombie-in-charge. “When is the dance?” she asked. “The Thriller dance already happened,” he said. “You missed it.”

Missed it!!?

Missed it!!?

Missed it!!?

Days later, we are still at a loss. We were part of this huge event, this RECORD BREAKING event, and yet we weren’t. I have started a letter:

Dear Guinness Book of World’s Records,

On Friday, July 3, Seattle broke the Thriller dancing record with 3,848 zombies. You will need to subtract 2 from that total, because ECM and I somehow entered the twilight zone and didn’t actually do the dance.

Sincerely,

Zombie, Ph.D

I am also at a loss about the larger meaning of this evening. It didn't seem to have much to do with Michael Jackson. Does this suggest that his music transcends his untimely death? That the Thriller Dance will live on, even though he has joined the Land of the Dead? Perhaps there was a sense that drenching oneself in ketchup and carrying around a fake amputated leg could create unity. After all, aren’t we always hungry for something common to rally around, to cry over, to feel together? But more likely, most people were simply happy to have an excuse to celebrate Halloween in July (and maybe win an Xbox along the way).


(Somebody out there was able to see the actual dance. Thanks, YouTube. The dancing starts 22 seconds in.)

The Talk

I should have known it was coming when Green brought home this book from the school library:

The boys have been tiptoe-ing around the question of babies. Recently, I overheard a conversation between them and a friend. It went something like this:

Blue: Jax, do you know how babies are born?

Jax: (slyly) I do.

Green: How?

Jax: The mommy squats down, and the baby squirts out her butt.

Together: Hee Hee Hee

Blue: I’m pretty sure that it squirts out her belly button. Remember, the baby is in the mommy’s stomach?

Jax: Yes, but a stomach is connected to the butt. That is how you poop.

Blue and Green: Ahhhhhh! Now we get it!

At that moment, I was a coward. I did not want to have that discussion, not then. I needed a cocktail first. I needed Michael to be home. I needed to hire a professional to take care of it. I cleared my throat and said, “Boys! Why don’t you all go outside and pretend to shoot things!”

“Yay!” they hooted and ran to the yard with their make-believe guns. I rested my head on the table, feeling like I had dodged a bullet.

A few days later, I was not as lucky. It was a sunny spring day, and we were all headed to the beach. In typical fashion, it was a heroic endeavor to get us all fed, dressed, and sunscreened. About 2/3 of the way through the process, I came into the living room to find the boys hunched over a large children’s encyclopedia.

I leaned over their shoulders and peered at the page. At the top, in neon letters, were the words “Human Reproduction.”

I almost dropped the large load I was carrying. The theme music to Friday the 13th filled my ears:



“Look!” Blue shrieked. “It’s a picture of a baby hatching!”

Hatching?!

I glanced up at Michael, who was half-way through smearing sunscreen on his own face. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I knew what he was saying: Now. We need to tell them now.

These days, the dominant philosophy about sex education is to demystify the topic early and often. The idea is that early parental intervention can protect against misinformation (see above) and crazy, inaccurate hypotheses (see above), and also open lines of communication. Of course, this kind of forward-thinking openness doesn't always produce the desired result. One afternoon, my friend, ECM, and her kindergartner were cooking together. She asked him, “Do you know how babies are made?” His head snapped back in surprise. ECM began to share the details. He suddenly put his hands over his ears and screamed, “I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t wanna hear it!”

I don’t blame him. Anyway, Michael and I decided that we would let our boys’ own curiosity guide the timing of the discussion, and here we were.

I cleared my throat. “Uh…boys? Babies don’t hatch from eggs.”

Green looked up suspiciously. He pointed to a picture of a fetus in the book. “Here’s a picture of a baby with a huge penis. It’s in an egg.”

I paused, then said, “That baby is in an amniotic sac. And that’s not a penis. That’s the cord that brings food to the baby while he’s in his mommy’s belly.”

Green said, “It sure looks like a penis. A giant monster penis!”

There were a couple of silent moments as we all reflected on the idea of a giant monster penis. Then Blue asked, “So how does the baby get in there?”

The Friday the 13th music played again:




Michael and I gazed at each other, waiting to see which one of us was going to take the bait. Usually, our problems fall into jurisdictions. If a birthday party is coming up, I’m the one who is responsible for the journey to Toys R Us. If there is a flying millipede with fangs whizzing through the living room, Michael has to deal with it. But this? This? We stared at each other for 10 seconds, then 20.

Blue repeated the question. “How do babies get in the mommy’s belly?”

Michael shifted, stammered, then dove in. “Well," he said, with a scientific tone. “See…there’s a sperm and an egg, and when they meet, a baby begins to grow.”

Blue was not satisfied. “Where does the sperm come from?” he asked.

Michael looked at me, eyes wide, pleading with me to take over. “From the daddy," I mumbled.

“What? I can’t hear you.” Green said.

“FROM THE DADDY. SPERM COMES FROM THE DADDY,” I wheezed.

“I don’t get it!” Green whined, growing exasperated.

Michael coughed. And coughed again. And then he clarified.

Green’s mouth hung open, his eyes like saucers. “You’re joking,” he challenged.

Michael shook his head and said, “I’m not joking.”

Then Green’s eyes got squinty. He said, “I don’t believe you.”

Blue jumped in. “ I know!” he exclaimed. “Green, you need to ask your teacher. She’ll know the truth.”

It just so happens that Green’s teacher is 7 months pregnant. I would not put it past my child to run into the classroom and say, “Mrs. Worksheet, my daddy says that he knows how that baby got in your belly!”

“ACK!” I shrieked. “No! No! Let’s keep this discussion in our family!” I paused, trying to compose myself. “Uh…do you have any questions?”

Blue said, “I do. I have a question.”

I braced myself. “What is it?”

“Can we go to the beach now?”

Seven

Blue and Green turned 7 a few weeks ago. I always get a little misty-eyed when I think about them getting bigger, and 7 seems so…old. But, truthfully, the event itself made me weary. When I woke up that day, I came into the kitchen and said, “Look at the birthday boys!!” Green looked at me and said in a snotty voice, “So where’s my birthday breakfast?”

Birthday breakfast?!

“What do you mean, Green?” I asked. He furrowed his brow. “Every year I’m supposed to get a special breakfast on my special day.” I growled, “Really? I didn’t get that memo.” I tossed a can of frosting onto the table in front of him. “Spread this on your Cheerios,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “Knock yourself out.”

I don’t know about you, but I remember my birthday being A DAY. With maybe a piece of cake and a song. Blue and Green expect their birthday to be an endless PARADE OF LOVE AND SUGAR. They had a party at a crazy bouncy place with 24 of their sweaty friends (Madagascar 2 cake, with two airplanes on it!!). Then there was their class party (brownies + frosting + marshmallows and candy on top!). Later, there was the celebration with their little league team (rice crispie treats!). And apparently we were supposed to take them out to dinner as well (at the Spaghetti House, where you can by Ragu covered noodles for $10 a plate. The boys say it’s SO MUCH BETTER than the kind we have at home.).

To me, Blue and Green’s 7th birthday turned out to be more of a soul-sucking drain of resources than a rite of passage. But I have to admit that something has changed in the last year. There has been a quiet shift from cute little cherubs to… boys. As they were heading out the door to school that morning, I said, “Wow. You guys are really growing up.” Blue looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, DUH.”

Duh, indeed, but I am still shocked at all the differences. Lately, I have witnessed an increasing nonchalance about their old favorites, trucks and buses. Curious George has joined preschool favorites Dora and Diego in the Land of Forgotten Characters. They ask me to stop when I sing the song about Port-a-potties that they made up last summer. “Mommy,” Green said, “That song is hurting my ears.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “You WROTE that song!” “I know,” Green answered, “but that is a kindergarten song. And we’re first graders.”

Ah, yes. Of course. First grade. The year is almost over, and I haven’t really said a thing about it, have I? I will preface my comments with the important detail that my kids like first grade. They claim that it’s way better than kindergarten. But I can’t believe that this is true. Kindergarten was newness and finger paint and potato-decorating. Kindergarten had songs and Choice Time and taxidermy.

First grade has work.

Lots of work.

To the credit of the teachers and this curriculum, my kids are certainly excelling. Last year, they were counting to 100. This year, they’re doing multiplication. Last year, it was the A-B-Cs. This year, they are in “book clubs.” But, as thrilled as I am that they are plunging ahead into the world of knowledge, I have to admit to some ambivalence. Can’t you have multiplication AND finger paint? Chapter books AND Choice Time?

I am still a weekly classroom volunteer, but I am definitely less enthusiastic. Remember volunteering last year? My job was to help kids make peacocks out of paint and to construct Irish Derby Hats out of newspaper. This year, my job has been to work with the kid who can’t focus on his math, the one who is slipping behind as his peers hurtle forward to algebra. This is what my typical volunteering experience has been like this year:

Me: Hello, Jasper! Mrs. Taskmaster wants me to help you with your double-digit addition. Then we can get to work on those fractions!

Jasper: What?

Me: Math, Jasper. Let’s do 42 + 37 + 63 + 50 + 17. Quick! In your head! Then tell me what 1/3 of the sum is.

Jasper: Who are you?

Me: I’m Blue’s mom.

Jasper: Do you even know how to do that problem?

Me: I can’t do it in my head unless I have another cup of coffee. I could, however, solve the problem with a paper and pencil. But you are not allowed to do math the way I learned it. You are supposed to intuit it.

Jasper: So you are saying that you can’t do it, aren’t you? Don’t you have a PhD?

Me: Umm….yes, but my PhD is not in math.

Jasper: I think you are a big fraud.

Jasper is right. The way that I learned how to add and subtract and multiply and divide got recycled long ago. And the way that I learned how to spell? By memorizing? Forget it. My kids are “feeling the sounds” or something like that. I wasn’t very good at the kindergarten crafts, but I find that I am even less competent at first grade academics.

To better illustrate how much things have changed, I want to compare Blue’s Mothers’ Day gift to me last year with the one that he created this year. Last year, Blue spent an afternoon at school decorating a flower pot for me. It had hearts all over it and the painted words, “I love you.” The teacher gave each child a droopy flower to plant, and Voila! I had a lovely hand-made memento of my child’s affection (Actually, the teacher did not consider what would happen to this gift when it was toted home in a backpack. What I really received was a sack full of dirt and an empty pot).

This year, Blue gave me a bubble diagram for Mother’s Day. Awww, honey, how romantic! The kids have been working on these kinds of diagrams all year. I am not sure why. I have a feeling that bubble diagrams are going to be covered on the Big State Standardized Test, and Mothers' Day is just another opportunity to practice, practice, practice.

As you can see, Blue laid out several of my most pleasing attributes:

1) I have a great sense of humor (That’s true, though I hate to break it to him that my laughter at his knock-knock jokes is not genuine.).

2) I am a nice person (unless you ask me to make you a special birthday breakfast before I have my morning coffee).

3) I give him things that he wants (though it seems to me that just last week he was screaming, “You never give me anything I want!!!”).

4) I am a good cook (No one has ever said this to me before. I guess I have perfected my Noodles With Butter dish. ).

5) I am playful (This is true, unless I am doing Facebook. Then I tend to say things like, “Go off and find something to do!! Why do we have a house full of toys if you’re not going to use them?!”).

6. I use my computer a lot (Oh no! I guess I am spending too much time on Facebook. Sorry, kids.)

Sigh. As I write this, I am tucking the bubble diagram into my scrapbook ( Just kidding. I don’t have a scrapbook – I have a “memory pile” next to my desk.). I am also doing long division problems in my head, so that I can be ready for second grade volunteering. After all those years where the days went by so slowly, I suddenly feel the increasing speed of the boys’ childhoods. I think that if I could have picked out my perfect Mothers' Day present, it would have been to hold life still for just a moment -- just one moment, before it wriggled out of my hands and dashed on.

The Gutter

Warning: The contents of this entry may be objectionable to some readers. If you are opposed to references to bodily functions, smells, or noises, you should turn back now. If you are squeamish about underpants, especially random dirty underpants, be advised that there is DANGER AHEAD.

I have learned many things about parenthood. I have learned how to deal with a child's ear pain (Motrin, not Tylenol. Scotch for me). I have learned that, to a six year old, a sprinkle of basil on pizza counts as a vegetable (and will not be tolerated). I have learned that identical objects are not identical -- your brother's will always be better than yours, and IT'S NOT FAIR. But I have to say that the one thing that has surprised me over the past year or two is the total smearing of our lives with POTTY TALK.

About six months ago, my boys became enamored with the Captain Underpants series of books. You know these books, the ones with titles like “The Madcap Adventures of Professor Poopypants.” I realized then that all it takes to make a buck in this world is to tap into the timeless joy that can be found in the idea of poop. Dav Pilkey, the author of the series, simply types a few potty words on each page, draws some rough sketches of a school principal in his BVDS, and zillions of little boys across the country are happy to lay down $4.99 a pop for the pleasure of this kind of “literature.” Better yet, there’s a CD of Captain Underpants potty talk songs (sung by a Japanese synth band) that your child can purchase and play on continuous repeat (Who can resist a song called, “Oops I farted, Oops I burped”).

I do know that there are certain families that forbid potty talk, or forbid it at certain times of the day, or in certain places. One family we know has a rule that you can only use potty talk in the bathroom. Of course, all this means is that their kids each go stand in a separate bathroom and holler their potty words across the house.

Personally, I am rather beleaguered by all the forbidding I have to do. Daily, I have to forbid hitting, punching, kicking, saying mean things, biting, and hiding your brother’s toothbrush in or around the toilet. And just today I learned that I apparently need to forbid digging large holes in the middle of the lawn. I am tired of screaming, “No! No! No!” all day. And that means, at our house, the potty talk will continue to flow in a steady stream.

Occasionally, we can use the potty fixation to our advantage. A few weeks ago, Michael and I took Blue and Green on a little winter hike. Michael was trying to explain the complex ecosystem to the boys, pointing out the presence of an enormous nurse log that was hosting the growth of a new tree. “See that dead tree on its side," Michael began. “You can see its root structure.” Green asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?” Michael persisted, “Isn’t this cool, guys? This tree died and a whole new tree is growing on top of its trunk.” Blue said, “I’m tired. Is it time for ice cream yet?”

Finally, I piped in. “Boys,” I said, “Go check out that tree’s butt!” And off they ran to play in the forest.

We do try to help the boys decide which situations are not ripe for this kind of material. They already know that school is not the ideal place to discuss potty-related topics (though let me tell you, I have learned some things about elementary school boys’ bathrooms that a prim mother doesn’t need to know). We have also asked the boys to refrain from excessive potty talk when we have guests in the house. This rule is generally effective, but occasionally some special circumstances arise. Take, for instance, my in-laws’ visit last December. We were all happily sitting around the kitchen table, talking about mild and wholesome things, when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, calling with hysteria about some “suspicious characters” in the neighborhood.

I should probably back up and mention where we live. It’s a little 1950s neighborhood that is filled with the “original owners.” That means, in polite terms, that the social scene around here is pretty sedate. Nothing really happens, but still, this one neighbor is on the lookout. Don’t even think about stumbling drunk along our street! By all means, clean up after your dog! And if dandelions take over your lawn, watch out! This lady will call 911.

So, anyway, we were all sitting around in the kitchen when our neighbor sounded her alarm: A car! Parked outside our house! Strange people! Doing strange things! I peeked outside, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar grey beater. Parked. Empty. No strange people. “Thanks,” we told the vigilant neighbor. “We will stand guard.” But, of course, we went back to whatever we were doing, and when we looked outside again, the car was gone.

The next day, when the kids and I were heading out of the house to go to school, Blue stopped abruptly and squealed with delight.

“What is it????” I asked, startled.

“UNDERPANTS!!!!!” He shrieked at top volume. “Mommy! Look! There’s a pair of stinky, smelly underpants in the road!”

And he was right. In the precise spot where the strange vehicle was parked the day before lay a striped pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. For me, this presented a set of perplexing problems: What was I going to do with a pair of someone else’s panties just steps from my front door? Was there a way to dispose of them without actually touching them? And, most importantly, how was I going to tell my mother-in-law not to trip on the USED bloomers decorating our property? For Green, this was a delightful twist to an otherwise ordinary morning. “Mommy,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a really good day!”

By now you are probably wondering why I am sharing this piece of news with you. Well, let me tell you, dear readers, YOU are going to participate in the Saga of the Traveling Underpants. Each month, we will go together out into the street. Will the panties still be there? Will someone move them? Or will they decompose? Maybe this is a question for environmental science: What happens to synthetic fabric made by children in Bangladesh if you expose it to the elements over time?

We have already learned that a Weather Event will not carry the underpants down the street in a flow of ice and water. We have also learned that the passage of various garbage and recycling trucks does not propel the panties away from our house and toward someone else’s. And, finally, we have noticed that few people actually mention the presence of the underpants when they come to visit us. Does this mean they don’t notice that they just plopped their kicky leather boots on top of someone’s unmentionables? Or does it mean that they think that the underpants are MINE?

Here it is - the first installment (covered in a little snow):

Lunar New Year

Each year at school the boys have a Chinese New Year assembly. They get very excited about this event, because they get to watch some fancy dancing and acquire fortune cookies and little red bags of chocolate coins (most likely made in New Jersey). At our house we also celebrate the Lunar New Year, but with a slightly different purpose (and less dancing. No Billy Idol in this case.). We use the New Year as an opportunity to modify annoying behavior.

For instance, we declared 2006 as the Year of the Pot. (Not the Michael Phelps kind of pot -- come on!). At that point, our enormous almost-four-year-olds were refusing to go to the toilet, and I was in that "Will my kids be in diapers in college?" stage of worry. And, if I'm truthful, I was getting kind of embarrassed about taking them out in public. What was I supposed to do -- heave my four foot, 55 pound preschoolers up on a changing table? So the Year of the Pot involved a lot of rather hefty bribes and a little bit of lying to make the kids think they came up with the idea. The result: everyone in this family will be wearing underpants at college.

But, of course, those of you who are parents know that many endeavors are more complicated than they first seem. For our kids, the 2006 project required an extra step. As a result, 2007 became the Year of the Wipe. I will not elaborate on this process here but will offer the confession that the results of the 2007 activities continue to be less impressive than they should be.

2008 was the Year of the Pronoun. I'm pretty sure I've talked about our pronoun issues before, but I will offer a recap. Blue and Green look alike. They have the same interests, and they stick to each other like glue. This has always been confusing to people. And then, when they were little, they had the added quirk of ignoring the basic rules of grammar. When talking about themselves, they would use the second person. If Blue was hungry, he would say, "You are hungry!" If Green was upset, he would say, "You are not happy!" Needless to say, this was a problem for anyone who did not know the code.

Before the Year of the Pronoun, we tried a number of pronoun incentive plans, most notably the Pronoun Sticker Chart. For every correct pronoun, a kid could get a sticker. This worked for something like two minutes. I remember standing in the kitchen with a big book of stickers from Target, armed with patience and a chirpy attitude. "Who can give me an 'I' sentence?" I asked. "I can!" Blue shouted, and was rewarded with a sticker. "Me, too!" said Green. "I want another one," Blue said, laughing. "Me, too!" said Green. Stickers were flying onto the chart. Woo! What fun! Then Green turned to me with a frown and said, "You're done."

One day, for reasons unclear, the boys switched from using the second person to the third person. So if Green said, "Green hates vegetables," he was talking about himself. It seemed like a step in the right direction, but yet -- still a confusing mess. The Year of the Pronoun promised to be a busy one. Oh yes -- I was going to send those kids to college with clean underwear AND the ability to communicate with others.

And you know what -- it worked! The boys started using "I" and "me" correctly and with ease. Though if I'm honest, I'll admit that I probably had nothing to do with it.

That brings me to 2009. Green does indeed hate vegetables, and Blue will happily hate anything that Green hates. And what began as a toddlery distaste for variety is now just poor nutrition. And, you know, I'm unemployed and have lots of time to worry about ending up on a TLC reality show called BAD MOTHERS AND THE KIDS THAT THEY MESSED UP.

Last weekend, my parents took us to a nearby Chinese restaurant. The boys ordered their usual dish of (beige) noodles with (beige) tofu and (white) rice with NO VEGETABLES. Each time we go to this restaurant we have to somehow translate, "Please do not put onions or basil or any sort of green fleck that might be confused with a vegetable on the noodles, or an epic hissy fit will ensue." And it occurred to me at that moment, 2009 is going to be the Year of the Vegetable.

Yesterday I began the hard work of selling vegetables as tasty treats. I pulled out the cookbook my Great Aunt Martha gave me as a wedding gift, the kind of cookbook that has a whole section on cooking vegetables with marshmallows. And I found this carrot recipe that managed to take the vegetable OUT of the carrot (Boil the crap out of it, coat it in brown sugar and butter). I presented this dish to the boys with the following preface: "Boys! Try this yummy piece of orange candy covered in fat!"

As it turns out, you can put lipstick on a carrot, but it's still a carrot.

Don't worry -- I'm not afraid. 2009 has just begun. It's the year of HOPE! and CHANGE! Right? With any luck, we can transform these kids' beige palates, one marshmallowy bite at a time. YES WE CAN!!!

New Year's Excuses

Some of you are getting a little bit naggy about my lack of updating. Good news for you -- naggy works! I do have an excuse, though. Oh yes I do. It's called a 21 day winter break, stuck in the house with two very grumpy short people.

See, out here in this lovely city, we had what was called a "weather event." That's fancy speak for 5 inches of snow in a place that is not prepared. And apparently, a weather event involves a surprising amount of inaction and denial. There was no plowing, no salting, just waiting for the snow to melt (which it did not).

The weather event also involved the closure of the public schools, which meant that the boys' two week vacation turned into three. And let me tell you, a vacation for them is not a vacation for me. Lucky for us, the school system developed a new alert plan to inform parents about weather related issues. The first day of the snowy week, when it was not even snowing yet, the phone started to ring at 5:45 a.m. When we didn't answer, a computerized voice left a message on our answering machine saying something like, "Due to the possibility that it might snow some time in the future, we are going to cancel all classes. This gives us the added benefit of being able to save our cash-strapped district a little bit of money on our heating bills." The system then proceeded to call our cell phones, so the whole house was alive with ringing and buzzing. At 5:46, the kids whooped with joy. "No school! Hooray!" they sang. At 5:47, Green said, "I'm bored."

I'm afraid that being house-bound for so long drove me to drink. I didn't actually mean to drink as much as I did. But on New Year's Eve, as we were lamenting with friends about the weather, Michael accidentally doubled the amount of tequila in his famous margaritas. And sadly, bloggers, that led to some rather unfortunate middle-aged dancing around the living room to Billy Idol.

Oh, it wasn't pretty. There's even a video out there of the drunken flailing (and singing! "Dancing With Myself, woh-oh-oh"), but don't go asking to see it. You never will.

So anyway, that's a long, windy way of saying sorry. I know it's been a bit of a rough patch in our relationship, but returning to blogging is my new year's resolution. I'll leave you with a few photos from the holidays.

Holiday Penguin

Snow Day

Snow Day

Would have been a snow day if it weren't already winter break

Tongue

Freaks and Geeks