Screwups with the Nativity Set- Part Deux

I have not been the best Catholic in the last few years.  I pray, but I have not been to church in a long while, mainly because the thought of keeping two kids still and quite for an hour makes me break out in hives.  Still, I try to take those "teachable moments" when I can and explain elements of the faith that a little one can grasp.  Unfortunately, last year my explanation of the Nativity set fell on deaf ears.  I had given birth a little over seven months ago.  I guess the addition of Angela was so fresh in her mind that Alice, then three, was convinced the Holy Family was a representation of our family.  She even connected family member names to the shepherd and the Magi   Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Louise got the short shrift.  Alice ran out of figurines so they became, collectively, the ass.  Never one to admit defeat, I decided to try again this year.  Alice was a year older and I purchased the Fisher Price Nativity set complete with the inn at Bethlehem, the stable, and the Magi.  There are so many people, habitations and animals that upon seeing it set up John asked if I purchased "the whole town of Bethlehem."

As I unpacked the set and told Alice the story of Christ's birth, I was happy to notice that she seemed to comprehend it better than last year.  I was also happy with the durability of the set which has survived the explorations of her and her sister.  And then yesterday morning any hope I held for Alice's religious education died out.  I found her holding Tinkerbell over the stable so Tinkerbell could sprinkle some pixie dust over it.  Hmmm....frankincense, gold, myrrh and pixie dust...I guess it could work.  Later in the afternoon, I found Woody from Toy Story at the inn of Bethlehem.  Oh well, maybe next year.

Hard Core

"Hmmmm....what's in here?"

I meant to post this a while ago, but nothing could immediately top the "stuck in the mud" post.  Now that I am not so traumatized....


Although last year's Halloween was technically Angela's first Halloween, I don't really count it. At six months old, she had no clue what was going on. She probably thought her bag of money costume was some odd sleep sack. This year mobility coupled with a pretty good cause and effect understanding made it Angela's first "I get it" Halloween. I wish I had a camera when she received candy at the first house we went to for trick or treating. My chocoholic looked like she had discovered nirvana and she planned on fully experiencing it at her earliest opportunity. I stupidly did not consider this when I fastened her in the car seat. I let Angela continue to hold onto her treat bag. John and I chatted while we drove to our next stop. We paused when we heard ripping paper. We looked back at the same time to find that Angela had fished out a Kit Kat from her bag and was eating it- wrapper and all.


If that is not hard core, I don't know what is.

Mothers Know Best

As a kid, I hated how my mom was always right. "Be careful or you will fall". Splat! Down I went. "Don't forget your coat. It's going to get cold." Defiant and fashion conscious, I would blithely leave the coat at home and later shiver while cursing her knowledge. And now I am a mother, who like my mother and her mother, issues these orders gentle reminders to her offspring with similar results.

 

The park outing started off lovely. The air was brisk but bearable. Oddly, neither of the girls wanted to play on the equipment, but instead wanted to walk around the large duck pond in the middle of the park. We collected leaves and acorns. We threw rocks in the water. It seemed idyllic- like one of those moments that you just wish you could capture on film. If someone did capture what happened next on film, it will probably be featured on America's Funniest Home Videos. If you do happen to see what I am about to describe, please let me know, especially if prize money is involved. I deserve a large cut.

 

Anyway, I digress.

 

While we walked along the water's edge, I kept reminding Alice not to get too close. I explained how even though parts of the shoreline looked solid, the ground was soft and mushy. I turned away from Alice to watch Angela climb down from a rock wall. A cry of horror and fear pulled my attention back to my eldest who was mired up to her knees in mud. Arms outstretched she called out to me, "Quicksand. Mommy, help!!!" My body jolted into action while my mind thought, "Shit. I would have to be wearing my favorite shoes." Still, love of my daughter outweighed that thought and I gingerly walked into the quagmire. I could feel the cold dampness of the mud ooze into my shoes and through my socks. I squelched the "God, this is gross" thoughts and proceeded to pull my terror stricken and stuck daughter out while praying the little one decided not to join us. I have to say I could understand the panic Alice felt because my feet got really stuck in the ooze. I pulled her out and got us both on pavement. I looked down and saw we each only had one shoe on. Fuck. I decided to ditch her $15 Payless pair, but I went back to pull out my beloved Ugg shoe. By the time I got out of the mud again my hands were covered, but I had my two shoes. I stuck my foot into the muddy bed and picked up Angela who quickly became muddy from me. What a sight we must have been. A crazy lady with mud squishing out of her shoes carrying a toddler while berating the one shoed, mud covered preschooler following her.

 

I have to say I was not overly angry at Alice. There are some things that you just have to experience for yourself. In doing so, you learn the ever important lesson- Your mother is always right.

Slut

That got your attention, didn't it? Thankfully, I am not referring to anyone I know of the human variety. It is the pug of which I speak. Yes, Puggie Smalls, the Notoriuos P.U.G is also a notorious whore, for belly rubs in particular, but she will take any pats anywhere from anyone. This was reinforced several times yesterday. My sister came over to see the girls (and me, but I am realistic enough to realize she wanted to play with her nieces more). The poor girl could not go anywhere without the pug falling at her feet exposing her belly. You would think that with four people in the house the dog would get enough. Heck, even Angela at 18 months knows how to rub the dog's stomach (pretty gently too I might add). But that silly dog is never satisfied. There she always wants more. I wonder if they have doggie support groups for this affliction.


Even after my sister left, the dog was striving to capture our attention and center it on her belly. After dinner on Friday nights, the girls and I (poor John has been travelling nonstop for work) cuddle together in the playroom and watch some kind of animated movie. Last night, as we were enjoying Toy Story, I noticed that the pug had somehow figured out a way to lie down and have contact with all three of us. After I put Angela to bed, the pug was able to really hone in on the two of us. I have to admit that my heart kind of melted when she rested her head on Alice and used her as a pillow. Alice looked at me and said, "Mommy, Puggie is tired." I agreed and Alice proceeded to get the dog a blanket and a stuffed animal companion. The pug's snores filled the room. Maybe the life of a slut is not too bad after all.

Quirks

As I watch my offspring go about their day, I often feel like Jane Goodall studying gorillas. Their behavior is heartwarming, frustrating, and baffling. For instance, I always know when Alice is tired because she starts stroking her hair. She has done this since infancy (only then it was my hair as she did not have enough of her own). Yes, my hair was her "transitional object" as the experts have dubbed it. Sometimes it was annoying; but, I have to admit, there were perks to her love of my hair. I always had it with me was the major one. How many times have I seen a distressed parent in search of a missing (fill in the blank)? Another Alice quirk is her tendency to walk on her toes when she is happy. It reminds me of a dog wagging her tail. If she is not on her toes, I know to be on mine and step warily.

 

Perhaps, because Alice is older, her foibles make much more sense to me. I have had longer to study them. Right now, Angela has me completely baffled with her love of onions, more particularly, her need to place them throughout the house. I find them everywhere- the playroom, the bathroom, on my favorite chair. Once I found one with teeth marks in it. Boy, would I have loved to have seen her face after that taste. I know I could move my root vegetable drawer, but that is not the issue. Yes, I have a drawer solely for root veggies. My husband chalks it up to my Irish heritage. I need to figure out her purpose here. If it were garlic, I would figure she was protecting us from vampires, but I am unsure if onions offer any protection against the undead. Any thoughts?

 

Why I Need Caffeine…

I am not one of those people who don't "do" mornings. Morning is fine, especially now that Alice has evolved out of her need to wake up at 5 a.m. I do, however, require a jump start with some caffeine. My physical and cognitive abilities are simply not at their peak without a little stimulus. Even when I was pregnant, I could not give up my cup of "real" tea in the morning. I could easily drink decaffeinated the rest of the day, but I needed that initial caffeine burst. I figured that any injury I sustained due to impaired functioning would be worse for my unborn child than the little buzz she would get in utero.


This need was especially apparent this morning. Angela is teething and was up around one needing some pain relief. By the time I got her settled down, I was wide awake with busy head. I finally settled down after two, so I was a little more sluggish than usual this morning. I got the kids their breakfast and had them settled at the table while I organized mine. My anally on time self was getting irritated by Alice who instead of diving into her breakfast was teasing her sister. Why couldn't she just eat her waffle and leave her sister alone? Needless to say, I reprimanded her; however, it did not come out right. I meant to say, "Alice, eat your breakfast and stop annoying your sister." Unfortunately, because I had not even sipped my tea, my admonishment came out as, "Alice, eat your sister!"


Alice stopped what she was doing and looked up at me quizzically. She replied, "But, Mommy, then I would not have baby Angela anymore, and that would make me cranky."


And now we see why I need caffeine. Apparently, I become so addled without it that I promote cannibalism in place of Eggo's.

A Harsh Winter???

Little pieces of folk wisdom hit me at odd moments. In particular the change of season seems to be loaded with these pearls of wisdom (?). I often hear people commenting on the large amount of acorns on the ground and how the squirrels' coats seem especially thick. These are apparently indicative of very cold weather ahead. All this came to mind yesterday at the park. My sister and her husband were playing with Alice leaving me to concentrate solely on Angela, who quickly became a little bit bored on the playground. She had a go on all the park equipment I would allow her on, so I broke out the soccer ball. I thought she might enjoy a game on the field adjoining the playground. She liked it, but all the curious things around her soon became much more appealing. Our soccer game turned into a little nature walk.

I followed my bow-legged wonder as she chased leaves and just enjoyed the large expanse of lawn. Soon she discovered a walking path that was littered with acorns. For some reason, she was totally fascinated with them. Of course, this is also the child who is obsessed with vacuum cleaners. It is nice not having to expend too much time, energy or money to keep her happy. Anyhow, she quickly started to amass quite a collection of them. She darted back and forth from her gathering site to the picnic tables nearby where she carefully placed them on the table. As I followed her back and forth, I began to wonder: Is a toddler hording acorns a sign of a bitter winter? If so get your woolies organized. We are in for some rough weather.

Armed and Dangerous

It's funny how snippets of your children's language creep into your own. It makes sense. Lord knows they pick up plenty of profanity words from us. John and I still call cookies "coomies" thanks to Alice's initial pronunciation of the word. Sometimes we will just point to each other and say, "SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS" because of Angela's early propensity to do so. Well, this evening Alice provided us with a verbal "thrown gauntlet" for when we are ready to battle.

I was relaxing and semi dozing on the couch while John and Alice played with her train set. Apparently, they were having a race. In the heat of the competition, Alice informed her father, "I'm going to kick your butt and I have a shoe." I am not sure if I should be horrified or amused. I am going with amused and forewarned. Beware, world. My four year old is equipped with footware and ready to rumble.

Between Two Worlds

I am nursing some motherhood war wounds as I sit here typing. The pre-bedtime ritual started off nicely enough. The girls were happily dancing to a Backyardigan's song while I (gasp!) sat on the couch. I had just cautioned Alice about the dangers of spinning until the point of extreme dizziness. Naturally, at that point, she collapsed onto the instep of my right foot with all her weight. Her hard noggin also connected with my right knee. While I leaned over to grasp my leg in pain, Angela came by with a ladle in her hand and conked me on the head. She laughed and then tripped and fell on my injured instep. This is what I get for sitting down on the job, I guess. In all fairness, I needed the sit down. After all, I spend the majority of my day navigating between two polar worlds: the non-stop verbal world and the baby cavewoman world of non-stop movement. And thus we see why I have not blogged in a while. So without further ado, here are the latest moments of hilarity occurring in my household:

 

Yesterday Alice decided to arrange pillows on the floor for a picnic/party. Ever the considerate hostess, she kindly handed me a pillow and told me to "spread your butt on this one." Thanks, love.

 

While we had a tea party a few weeks ago, Alice, again the considerate hostess, handed me a pretend cake for my enjoyment. I told her it was delicious and asked what her secret ingredients were. She informed me that they were "sugar, leaves, and pus." I am still unsure where she learned the word pus. I did learn never to ask for seconds.

 

Angela has begun to make sounds like the dog whenever she sees a dog or someone asks her, "What sound does a dog make?" Unfortunately, my pug sounds like a 90 year old, asthmatic smoker experiencing lung failure. Needless to say, she (and I) get many quizzical looks and I dread when Old MacDonald is the song of choice at Gymboree.

 

 

 

For Pat

All too often we hear about the negatives regarding the Internet. The Craigslist killer comes to mind as does instances of students utilizing things like My Space to bully other students. We are warned by the experts about identity theft and computer viruses which can wreak havoc not just on our computer but on those of all the people who might email us. In the midst of all these national, and sometimes global headlines, the good stories are often overlooked. This is one such story.

About eight years ago, I joined Weight Watchers online. John and I, like most dating couples, spent our courting days wining and dining. Consequently, along with finding love, I found additional pounds creeping on my frame. Being the "take charge" gal that I am, I decided to nip this weight gain in the bud. I found a great deal of success following the Weight Watchers plan online. Although I did not attend meetings, I found the community section of the Weight Watchers online site was very supportive. It was a place where I could ask questions, vent about my frustrations, and boast about my successes (those weeks of a half pound loss). It was within the community section that I noticed a weekly thread with the same group of women posting to it. I introduced myself and was welcomed to this thread with open arms. Soon I began posting daily with a group of women from all areas of the country. We could not have been more different. We had different ideologies, geographical locations, ages, family formations, careers, and so forth. Yet, despite all the disparities, our weight loss struggles initially served as our link. It is funny to look back and think of those early days. Weight loss was our standard topic, but soon we began to open up about other things (probably since weight gain/loss does not occur in a bubble). We dubbed our thread "the porch" and, somehow in this typically anonymous cyber world, we created the homey feel of a front porch littered with rockers. Given that most of us hug our respective coastlines, I often imagined it as the front porch of a beachfront home. I could picture us rocking on its weathered boards while wrapped in shawls or afghans. Our conversation would pause momentarily as we took sips of steaming cups of tea. Sometimes conversation would bubble excitedly with words tripping over the other while at other times we would rock in companionable silence just enjoying each other's company.

As our friendship grew, we changed venues and began posting on a private message board. I see these women as my grandmothers, my aunts, my sisters and my friends. I have met only one person in the flesh. Regardless, when I learned today that one of our older porch dwellers passed away, I have mourned just as I would for a friend who lived nearby. Pat was one of those people who made you believe that growing old did not have to be a bad thing. She amazed me daily with her zest for life, even when health issues reduced her capacities. Instead of becoming bitter or giving up, Pat found ways to adapt to her new situation and keep on keeping on. She was an excellent example of graceful acceptance and resourcefulness. I loved reading posts from Pat because she had such eloquence and an eye for detail. I often felt I was in her kitchen baking bread alongside of her. I could easily imagine myself in the field of poppies she discovered while walking with her photographer husband. I could hear her cat Bit purring and demanding her treat. I loved how Pat could hone in on these bits of everyday minutia. It highlighted for me how life is truly made up of wonderful, albeit simple, pleasures if you allow yourself to be open to them. I was also impressed by Pat's community mindedness. One of the last things I recall her posting about was helping to organize a book sale for her local library. This volunteer effort is one of the many things I remember Pat talking about. It seemed like she was always experimenting with something be it memoir writing or baking brown bread. I am so thankful for knowing Pat. I often told her that she was an excellent role model. I hope that as I age I am as feisty and wise as her. In many ways, I feel like she is the embodiment of the Serenity Prayer for wisdom, courage, and knowledge were the cornerstones of who she was.

May you rest in peace dear friend.

Paging Doctor Barile

One of the cool (and terrifying) bits of being a parent is imagining your child as a grown up. For instance, sometimes as I watch Alice construct amazing train track formations, I wonder if the future engineer in her is emerging. Once in Gymboree I witnessed her during bubble popping time take a grid approach to popping the bubbles on the gymnastics mats. It made me think of archeologists searching for artifacts. Unfortunately, my imaginings are not all good. After watching the movie Madagascar Alice enjoyed dancing and singing to the song "Move It". That in itself is not too bad. The fact that she preferred to dance and sing naked caused concern (and cold sweats for me). I could only envision a pole in her future or a role in her generation's version of Jersey Shore.


And, oftentimes, my dreams for Alice's future are interrupted by laughter (usually mine). This hit home during dinner today. While I finished eating, Alice examined the butterfly garden map we received at the Bronx Zoo with a magnifying glass. She was so intent on her study she was actually silent for small periods of time (stunning, I know). While I cleaned up, I thought to myself, "Wow…maybe that trip to the Bronx Zoo might lead to a career in lepidopterology. How cool would that be?" I had just completed this mental self dialogue when I noticed Alice was now on the floor and using the magnifying glass to study the pug's ass. Alice saw me looking at her and said, "Look, Mommy. Big butt (move magnifying glass away from pug's rear). Little butt" (move magnifying glass close to pug's rear). Oh well, maybe a career in proctology is on the horizon.

Pavlov in Action

I am sad to say that throughout my life I have identified more with Pavlov's dog than with Pavlov. Each September, after I received my teaching schedule for the year, I would begin to train my body to respond to the bells of the day. For instance, after the fourth bell I could pee and have my snack. At around the eleventh bell, I could have my lunch…so on and so forth. I knew my response was bell driven as opposed to time driven because on condensed schedule days, I would not only be eating my lunch at 10 in the morning but I would also be hungry for it. Since leaving the classroom, I have relished in the lack of bells in my life. It is rather liberating to take care of bodily needs according to my body's prompting and not due to some external stimuli. Still, I have my moments wondering if Pavlov remains in control.


This has been on the forefront of my mind lately due to Angela's emergent language and obsession with cookies. One day she noticed a box of cookies on the kitchen counter. She pointed to them and said, "Good girl." I had to laugh and provide her with the desired cookie for such cuteness. Now, whenever she wants a cookie, she points to the box and says, "Cookie. Good Girl." I am ashamed to admit that it gets me every time. There is part of me that wonders if I am setting her up for a lifetime of food/behavioral issues. Additionally, there is a part of me which wonders if she has trained me exceptionally well already. Regardless, I am just going to enjoy the cuteness and let the chips fall where they may. Now if I could just overcome the need for a belly rub and to pee outside….

Channeling Beavis and Butthead

Yesterday John and I decided to take the girls to the Bronx Zoo. We had not been there since our initial dating days close to (gasp!) 10 years ago. It was a great excursion and we had a ball. The girls were entranced by all the different animals that they saw. I was surprised by how much Alice loved the butterfly garden. Upon entering the exhibit, the attendant provided us with a map picturing the different types of butterflies in the enclosure. Alice became a pro at identifying the butterflies that perched near us. Despite the lure of the 4-D Dora and Diego movie, Alice kept getting sidetracked every time a new butterfly fluttered by. Even Angela surprised me by her joy in the Congo exhibit. Who knew how enamored she would be by the gorillas? She kept pointing at them and squealing at their antics in their habitat enclosure. However, my "Beavis and Butthead" moment of the day came while we were in the Children's Zoo exhibit.


It was not until we were in the Children's Zoo that I remembered all the wandering peacocks that speckle the zoo landscape. I think in the food court they actually outnumber the pigeons, which, when you consider we are in the Bronx, is saying something. Anyhow, I had just placed Angela down from her perch in my arms when she noticed a peacock right in front of her. She was so excited to see the exotic bird so close to her. In answer to her finger point and quizzical look, I informed her that it was a peacock. Unfortunately, she zeroed in on the second syllable of the word and kept saying the word "cock" over and over. It did not help that her pointing finger was not only in line with the large bird but also in line with most folks' genitals. Needless to say, those in earshot must have been a mite confused as to why a 15 month old girl was running around, finger outstretched, saying a rather vulgar word for penis. However, if you keep up with this blog, you can understand why I was unfazed by this. I guess Alice has broken me in. I had no choice but to follow John's example and break into my best Beavis and Butthead laugh, do my best Butthead impression, and say, "She said cock."

It’s All about Perspective

It is funny how kids can make you see things in a totally different way. This hit home while I was driving to a local park with Alice and Angela. As we passed a local farm, I noticed that there were several horses grazing in the pasture. Knowing Alice's love of animals, I called her attention to this. She peered into the field from the vantage point of her Britax car seat and informed me that "the horses look funny." I did a double take but I did not notice anything odd about them. Albeit, they looked to be miniature horses, but they seemed to have all the typical characteristics of an equine. I asked her why they looked funny to her. She informed me, "Because they don't have any heads." At that moment, the phrase, "What the hell?" came to mind and then in dawned on me. The horses were grazing. The car was going 40 miles per hour. Yes, at that speed, it probably did look like the pasture was filled with headless horses.

 

And there you have it…my Alice-ism of the day.

Charge!!!!!

Angela took her first independent steps about three weeks ago. Now she rarely crawls. I figure by next week she will have evolved from her Baby Frankenstein lurching into a pretty typical gait, until college overindulgences anyway. In about two more weeks, she will probably be happily running about while chasing particles of dust (funny how kids and animals share that trait). I love this stage because it really highlights each child's idiosyncrasies and there is nothing I like better than observing someone else's quirks.


For instance, I love how Angela has used scuttling to her advantage. Somehow she has figured out that if she wants speed, she needs to sidestep. This was particularly amusing while at the shore. Unfortunately, it did have one negative effect. Her crab like saunter resulted in an overwhelming urge to chase her while wearing a lobster bid and smother her with drawn butter. I also like Angela's propensity of pointing to her ultimate destination when walking. I am not sure if it helps her maintain focus or balance, but it is easy to figure out where she is heading by a glance at her outstretched finger. Essentially, I have given birth to the Babe Ruth of walking.


It is funny how the dog has also picked up on this peculiarity. Just when I think Puggie lacks two synapses to fire up, she shows remarkable intelligence. It is nice to see that she has a sense of self preservation. This kicked in rapidly when Angela started toward the dog with a hairbrush in her hand (substitute for the pointing finger). She looked like Don Quixote charging the windmills. Puggie woke up from her perpetual snooze and moved faster than I had seen her in a while. She managed to elude a grooming from Angela mainly due to Angela's lack of coordination. Enjoy the respite now dog. Coordination and speed are just around the corner.

A New Offering from Your Local Library

Thanks to Dora the Explorer, I am able to accomplish three errands per day before Alice gets antsy. For those of you unfamiliar with the "Dora formula", Dora and her monkey friend Boots must complete a task in each episode. To do so, they consult Map to figure out the best way to get from Point A to Point B. Map always gives Dora and Boots three locations that they must pass through in order to get to their ultimate destination. For some reason, this just clicks for Alice; so, whenever I have to do something with her (and Peanut), we break it down into three steps. Today we had grocery store, hair cut, and library.
                   
It was on the way to the library that Alice provided me with my daily "scratch my head" moment. While I drove, I talked up the fun things that we would do once we got there.


"Alice, we are going to get some new books and new movies. Isn't that…"


"And pickles," Alice interjected.


"Huh?" I asked.


"We are going to get some pickles too," Alice clarified.


I decided to overlook the fact that I have never seen this child eat a pickle in her almost four years on this planet; and, instead, correct her mistaken belief regarding what constitutes proper library materials. Alice would have none of it. She was adamant that one could get pickles from the library. Apparently, she was privy to some new program, which despite loss of funding for libraries in general, was going to be instituted. So let me know what you think of the "Pickles for Patrons" program the next time you check something out.

Let’s Get Ready to Rumble!

I blame the book Playful Parenting. I read it when I was a new inductee into Mommyhood. Actually, I read a slew of parenting books in those early months. I think was I looking for that non-existent user manual for children. Now that I am a grizzled veteran, I know to take all parenting books and their contradictory theories on how to raise your children and use them as bonfire fodder. S'mores, anyone? Aside from its title, I don't recall much about Playful Parenting beyond the author's advocating of nontraditional play with children (e.g. wrestling with girls). His argument for doing so seemed sound. He believed it would help make them more confident and comfortable in their bodies. Given my issues with body distortion, I wanted to spare my daughter that particular angst, so I began to playfully wrestle with Alice who loved it.


The point to this back story- a few Sundays ago John was heading to the airport, so it was just me and the girls. They were playing in the living room while I puttered around the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. I smiled as I heard gales of little girl laughter erupt regularly; at least until the laughter was interspersed with odd thumping noises. I generally try to leave well enough alone when they are contentedly playing. I did not hear limbs being severed or screeches of terror. Still, my curiosity was piqued, so I decided to investigate.


I stood in the doorway of the living room and watched aghast as my two girls (ages 3 and 1) wrestled together. The World Wrestling Federation had nothing on these two. I decided to reprimand Alice, the oldest who should know better. As Alice lay prone on the floor, I lit into her for treating her smaller and more fragile sister so roughly. I should have known better. While I listed the reasons why wrestling with Angela was the wrong thing to do, Angela, who was kneeling next to her sister, decided stand up and then body slam Alice. While they laughed uproariously, I muttered, "Never mind" to Alice and walked out of the room. Angela can fend for herself, which now leaves me time to decide what their professional wrestling names should be. Any suggestions?

In Favor of Adulthood

The other day while I was on Facebook, I noticed a new group. I don't recall the exact title of the group, but it went something along the lines of wishing to be a child when the most difficult choice was deciding what color crayon to use. I smiled and thought of those idyllic childhood days until my attention was diverted by a crying Angela who stood in front of the two steps transitioning from the kitchen to the living room. Normally, she is such a happy go lucky soul; however, of late I have noticed an uptick in crying. Frustration has reached an apex for her. She is caught between desire (to get up the stairs) and her limitations (not being able to coordinate all the body parts necessary for this feat). As I watched her struggle with the step, I realized that group on Facebook had it all wrong. Adulthood is the better stage. No, I am not being sarcastic, droll, or any derivation of those words. I am being 100% honest. I prefer bring an adult.


Yes, as an adult, one faces major stresses and responsibilities (think mortgages, bosses, parenthood), but it's not like childhood is devoid of stresses and responsibilities. While it is true that kids play all day, remember that play is their work and that work is exhausting physically and mentally. I can personally attest to the physical exhaustion of play. On the days Alice is home from school, we are on the go, go, go. I work out simply so I can build the endurance to keep up with her. For Angela the physical aspect of play is all consuming as she works on refining walking skills. Can you imagine the constant stress and frustration felt by the bourgeoning walker? The fact that she keeps trying despite constant failure awes me. Then there is the mental aspect of play. All that "common knowledge" that we have stored in our craws came from somewhere. Imagine constantly being bombarded by new things, experiences, and stimuli. Kids deal with this on a constant basis. Add to this limited language/communication skills and is it any wonder that they have tantrums? As adults, we have the words to express how we feel for when we are frustrated, sad, tired and so forth. We have also learned coping mechanisms for when we experience these feelings (that is the hope anyway); but, kids have not developed that side of themselves yet. There is also the extreme of this- no words at all. Angela can say and understand the words: Mama, Dada, and Pup (for Pug). She can point to things that she wants. She can laugh to express approval and scream/cry to show displeasure. Imagine dealing with those limitations on a regular basis. That does not sound idyllic to me.


There is also the issue of personal autonomy. Yes, due to adult responsibilities, it is limited, but it is worse for children. I realized this the other day when Alice told me she wanted to stay home and play with her trains. I needed to get to the grocery store to pick up dinner. Guess who won? Kids are dragged everywhere regardless of whether they want to come along for the ride or not. When presented with choices, the choices are limited to the ones that I provide. Ideas like ice cream for dinner are rebuffed along with extended bedtimes (little do my children know that John and I frequently indulge in an ice cream dinner). This highlights the next stinky thing about childhood- learning the lesson that life is unfair and people are mean. As adults, we know this already. Again, we have built coping mechanisms for this. When I encounter a stuck up mom on the playground, I cease trying to be friendly and walk away (probably thinking the word "bitch" as I do so). I don't take things like that personally. Kids can't help but take it personally. I periodically deal with this when Alice tries playing with the ubiquitous "mean girls." How does one explain this phenomenon to a 3 year old? They don't get that some people are just mean, and no matter how friendly you are, they will still be mean.


So give me adulthood with its ice cream dinners and knowledge. Heck, I will take any stage that does not involve going through puberty again. That will be a post at a later date I am sure.

Flashback

"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."


I remember hearing this phrase as a teenager and thinking how profound it was. Examples of it seem to permeate society; however, I never really thought of it applying to me and toilet paper until yesterday afternoon.


Our story begins about six years ago around this time. John and I had been married for close to a year. I was lonely for a pet, especially as John was travelling so much for work. A cat was out of the question due to John's allergies. If I wanted a four legged furry friend, I had to get a dog. Enter Puggie. During those early, not house trained days, I would put Puggie in our main floor bathroom before I went off to work. A baby gate kept her confined but she had more space than she did in her crate at night (and my carpets were safe). One day I came home from work to find the bathroom totally wrapped in toilet paper. It seriously looked like a roll exploded in the bathroom. Apparently, Puggie discovered the roll of paper just hanging on the wall and figured it was a good plaything. I will never forget how happy she looked surrounded by Charmin (once I finally located her under the pile). She looked at me as if to say, "Mommy! I had so much fun today." Needless to say, I learned my lesson and kept the toilet paper away from the pup. Unfortunately doing so required explanation when visitors used the facilities.


Well, puppies eventually mellow into dogs (read couch potatoes) and outgrow such mischievousness. I rejoiced when I could finally put the paper back on the roll. No more explanations to bathroom users. A page in my history was written and completed.


Until yesterday.


I was busy getting ready to go to the grocery store. John was working at home so I assumed Angela was playing underfoot in the office. She has an odd fascination for the bright silver zippers on his briefcase. Apparently, this fascination also extends to toilet paper. I was ready to leave and went to collect the little one. As I walked over to the office, I noticed some movement in the bathroom. There was Angela surrounded by toilet paper with a big smile on her face. As I looked at her, my mind flashed back to that pug puppy from six years ago. I had to laugh. It looks like I have re-entered the keeping the toilet paper away from puppies/babies stage.


Consider this your warning when you use the main floor bathroom. Look on the shelf behind you if you need a square.

The River Palm Terrace- A Steak house That Cannot Cook Steak

I am a Foodie. I love seeking out new experiences for my taste buds. I have eaten in some of the world's finest dining establishments from Thomas Keller's Per Se to Disney's Victoria and Albert's. In my entire dining out history, there has been only one time when I sent something back to the kitchen. At least, that was my history until last night. Last night, while dining at the River Palm Terrace in Mahwah, I had to send my dinner back to the kitchen not once but twice. Yes, you did, in fact, read that last sentence correctly. I had to send a filet mignon back twice. I simply gave up after the second screw up. I feared what would appear before me if I chanced a third time. I am still dumbfounded that "New Jersey's premier steak house" (their description as it appears on their website) apparently does not know how to cook a piece of meat. Actually, they did not know how to cook two pieces of meat. They incorrectly prepared John's veal chop as well.
   
The night started out well. My family and I were in a celebratory mood. We were gathered together for my father's seventieth birthday dinner. The ambiance was lovely. The menu got my mouth watering. I was in a particularly carnivorous mood, so I ordered the filet mignon. John and I decided to split our appetizers and sides in order to get a broader experience of the menu. The coconut shrimp were delicious. The shrimp were plump and tender. The coconut coating was dense and crispy. Although fried, it was not greasy at all. The fruit chutney accompaniment complimented the dish well, but the shrimp were so well prepared and tasty, it was not necessary. The crab cake was wonderful as well. It had just the right amount of binding ingredients to keep the crab in its cake form without cutting into the taste of the crab itself. The horseradish/mustard dressing provided a surprisingly spicy kick which was welcome to the palate. The chopped salad which appeared after the appetizers was fine. The vegetables were fresh and dressed well. The oil and vinegar combination was well balanced with neither ingredient dominant. The only reason I did not finish the salad was I did not want to spoil my appetite for my main dish.


The main courses appeared with the sides. Everything looked wonderful. I cut into my filet and happily noted its gradations of pink (the meat was ordered medium rare). I placed the first piece in my mouth and was assaulted by a plethora of salt. I was taken aback. I cut into another part of the steak. I figured I just hit a slightly over salted patch. To my dismay, the next piece was just as horribly over salted as the first. Unless something is described as "salt encrusted", I should not encounter a salty crunch. The salt was so overpowering it killed the taste of the meat. I commented to my family that my dish was horrible. My husband looked relieved that it was not just him who had an over salted piece of meat. We called the manager over and sent both our meals back. Unfortunately, both our dishes had half of the sides we ordered on them so we lost that part of our dinner as well. I was upset, but I figured the situation would be remedied quickly. Apparently, the staff at The River Palm and I have differing definitions of the word quickly. Twenty five minutes later John and I were presented with our main meals (minus the sides we had previously plated). By this point, my family had finished their dinners and the servers had cleared the table. They actually tried to clear away my utensils as well until I informed them that I had not even had my dinner yet. Needless to say, I was disappointed. The point of the family going out to eat was (gasp) to actually eat together. I swallowed my displeasure and cut into my filet once again. I looked at my steak and I could not believe my eyes. Instead of medium rare, I had a cool pink raw slab of cow in front of me. I looked over at John who, likewise, was staring in disbelief at his overly pink chop. We called the manager over again and showed him our meals. His response was a mumbled, "Sorry. We rushed it." Rushed it? Twenty five minutes to be presented with a raw steak is rushing a meal?!


Both John and I had the mud pie for dessert dinner. I honestly cannot give a good description of its taste. All the aggravation and upset of the last hour soured everything. In addition to careless food preparation, I had to deal with a staff that did care that my dinner was messed up not once, but twice. Our server never apologized for what happened either time. I also had to contend with the manager who had the audacity to waylay me as I left the restroom. Instead of apologizing for all the issues surrounding the meal, he informed me that there was nothing wrong with the food and I should inform the cooking staff of any salt sensitivity. I could not believe my ears. He was actually trying to pin a preparation mistake on me! I explained that I have never experienced such sensitivity before. Why would I think that one would develop suddenly? Additionally, regardless of his opinion of the steak, it is the diner's opinion which matters. I then expressed my disappointment with their inability to cook meat properly and my shock that it took so long to have something raw come to the table. The manager told me that the meat went on the grill right away. I explained that if that was true then I would not have gotten a raw piece of meat but a charred one considering the length of time that passed and the high temperatures they use when cooking. I guess it was a fitting end to a horrible dining experience. It is sad that the staff at my local diner would show more concern over my disappointment with a meal.

Poor John

When I was pregnant with both girls, John and I decided against finding out the sex of the baby beforehand. Since the number of pleasant surprises significantly decreases with age, and either outcome would have made us happy, we decided to relish in our nine month mystery. Although I have an uncanny sense for determining what other women are carrying, I had no gut feeling about my own children. People would ask if I had "the dream." The only dream that I recall of that ilk was during my pregnancy with Alice. In my dream, I had just delivered the baby. The doctor presented me with a swaddled child and announced, "Congratulations. It's a …" However, I never knew what the doctor said because in my dream I was exhausted from labor and fell asleep. John, however, did not draw the blank that I did in reality or dreamland. Every time John was asked, he replied, "a girl." If someone pressed him for his rationale, he would explain it was God's way of paying him back for the sins of his youth. I logically pointed out that if that was indeed true the world's population would be composed entirely of women with a few isolated males here and there. Still, John persisted in his way of thinking.


This came back to me while I was at the park with the girls last week. Angela was on the swing and Alice was off playing with a newly made friend. Angela loves the swing. Her whole body was shaking with delight as she went back and forth giggling the entire time. Her happiness attracted two young boys who I pegged to be in sixth or seventh grade. As I pushed, they started asking me about my daughter- her age and things of that nature. They then started doing silly things to make her laugh. They loved her deep whole body laughs and she loved making silly faces and batting her eyes at them. The thing that really amazed me about the whole interaction was when a few of the boys' friends called to them from the basketball court and asked them to come and play. These young boys actually declined the invitation in order to spend more time with Angela. Holy crap! The kid is not even one and older boys are besotted. John must have really been a bad boy.

Tail of Woe

Alice is a great kid. More often than not, she amazes me with her thoughtfulness, intelligence and humor. And then she pulls a "typical toddler" move. Lately, she has been taking the toy(s) Angela is playing with right from her hands. Now, I totally understand that sharing is a really hard concept to learn. I think we all know adults who have not mastered the skill. Regardless, my home looks like a toy factory threw up in it. There is no end to playthings littering the floor, tables, bins, and dark shadowy corners protected by killer dust bunnies. I simply don't fully understand why she HAS to play with that particular toy at that exact moment. Typically, Alice and Angela play really well (actually surprisingly well) together. Alice enjoys being with her sister and making her laugh so I am totally at a loss as to why she continually does something to make Angela cry.


I have done the whole "gentle explanation in terms she can understand" deal. I might as well have tried teaching her algebra. She now loses her television privileges for a period of time. That has helped curtail it a great deal but still the behavior persists. The whole thing has been driving me nuts. I told Angela that when she is big enough to defend her turf Mommy will deliberately turn a blind eye a time or two so she can have some payback. I have warned Alice of this but right now she does not fear her little sister.


This last Sunday, the whole situation took a humorous turn. I was cleaning up from dinner and enjoying a moment of peaceful serenity. John was with the two little ones in the living room playing. I was basking in some solo time and actually starting and finishing a task (gasp). A cry from Angela, a scolding from John and a full blown tantrum from Alice threw all that serenity out the window. Alice ran to the kitchen to tell me her tale of woe. Needless to say, she got no compassion from me and instead got an additional reprimand. I returned to my cleaning fuming all the while. As I finished the last pot, I realized Alice was under the table but still carrying on a conversation. Curiously, I peered under the table to find Alice pouring out all her sorrow to a very patient pug who just sat there and listened. Alice hysterically related to the dog, "I'm so angry. I'm so tired. I'm so cranky and I'm so hungry again." I silently left the room to laugh and tell John what was going on in the kitchen. A few minutes later I called to Alice and once she quieted down we talked about why she was scolded. Puggie hopped between the two of us and proceeded to lick Alice's tears. Once all was settled, Alice returned to play in the living room and I called the pug into the kitchen. I went to the treat closet and took out two. After listening to Alice's tale of woe, she surely deserved a double.

Abs of Peanut

One of the many "joys" of pregnancy is learning just how much your body can stretch and expand. On one hand, I have to admit, it is kind of cool. John's chief disappointment during this "I looked like I swallowed a beach ball stage" was that my belly button never popped out. Personally, I was very happy that I missed that experience. Whenever I see a popped out belly button, I think of a Purdue oven stuffer. You know, the one that has the timer which pops out when the bird is ready. I didn't want that running through my mind throughout my pregnancy. Anyway, the reality of body expansion kicks in upon the baby's exit. Think of what a balloon looks like when air is let out and you have an excellent visual. Peanut's arrival via cesarean section killed what little core strength I had left. Needles to say, my core/abs have been a focus during this post partum "I need to look less like a deflated balloon" stage.

I distinctly recall doing my first Pilates routine post partum mainly because I think the only workout my core got was through my laughter. Actually, I did fine until I came to the Pilates roll up exercise. For those of you unfamiliar with this move it involves one being in a prone position on the floor with arms straight overhead. You are then supposed to roll up from the floor one vertebra at a time until you reach a seated position. The key is that you generate all the energy for this move from your core and you don't use any momentum from the swing of your arms. Angela was next to me on the floor at the time and the two of us struggled to get into that seated position. Our lack of abdominal strength became an unexpected bonding moment and at that moment it dawned on me that instead of abs of steel I have abs of Peanut.

Thankfully things have improved for both of us. Neither of us can do the Pilates roll up but we have become very good at Cobra and Plank position in yoga. I have even managed a side plank. Still, there is room for improvement. On days I cannot make it to the gym, I have been working out to exercise DVDs at home. It was while I was exercising at home the other day that Alice decided to join me. As expected, she was naked. I looked down at her mirroring my movements to the DVD program and realized how ripped she is. Yes, my three year old has a six pack. Damn. Oh, well. It is something to aspire to. Maybe one day instead of abs of Peanut I will have abs of Alice.

Oh, #@&$!

I was dreading this day. I knew it was going to happen. Alice dropped the F bomb.


After years of teaching high school, I am extremely conscious about the words that fall from my lips. Let's face it, people would most likely look down upon a teacher (an English teacher no less) who used profanity regularly in class. I often thanked the gods that people are not like cartoons because if my students knew the mental dialogue that ran through my mind 99.9% of the time they would have been shocked. Since, as the proverbial phrase goes, "old habits die hard", I regularly say "shoot" and "fudge" when I want to say something different. Since John mainly works with adults, who don't melt when a profanity slips, he has not had to ever worry about checking his language. And thus we see why I had the following conversation with my daughter:


I am driving home after picking up Alice from preschool. Both kiddies are strapped into their respective car seats and the Cars soundtrack in on the radio. A moronic (writer is being kind here) driver decides to just reverse out of her driveway without actually checking to see if (gasp) cars are driving along the main road. I blare on the horn and slightly swerve the car to avoid getting hit.


Me: Idiot!


Alice: Fuck!


Me: What did you say, Alice?


Alice: Fuck.


Me: Honey, that is a naughty word. We don't use words like that.


Alice: Daddy does.


Me: (internally) Oh, shit.

Good for the Soul

It is funny how certain things that people stay stick with you. Lately I have been thinking often about an old college professor that I had when I went to Villanova. Dr. Ernest Ramirez was a 300 pound good old boy with a Texas drawl. I distinctly remember our first day in class and his admonishment to call him "Ernie". He was the antithesis of pretentious which in academia is pretty rare. Needless to say, I so enjoyed his down to earth manner and humor that I don't think I ever missed one of his education classes that semester.


It was during one of these education classes that Ernie mentioned how sad it was that the use of art and aesthetics in the classroom declined as the student got older. The truth of this statement clicked with me, and when I finally had a classroom to call my own, I made sure to create several assignments each marking period that required some type of art work. All the students, regardless of age or level, enjoyed these assignments and I was always taken away by the results. Now that I have children of my own, I find Ernie's comment coming to mind more and more often; perhaps it is because I often find myself coloring or painting or involved in some type of artistic endeavor with my three year old. These experiences have made me realize Ernie's observation left out a whole other group of people- adults. We don't have enough art and aesthetics in our adult lives. Now, I realize that many people have objects d' art in their homes and offices. As adults, we have the means and ways to go to galleries and museums. What I mean by "art" here is the stuff that we create with our own two hands (regardless of how skillful those hands are). When you consider all the stresses that percolate in the typical adult life( bills, work and family situations…the list is endless) the lack of art is particularly sad as we need the release that it provides the most. Personally, I did not realize how "art-less" my adult life was until I became enmeshed in a Crayola centric world. I forgot how much fun coloring in a coloring book can be; and, as dorky as it sounds, I still get a little charge of excitement when I open up a box of perfectly sharpened new crayons. I love finger painting the shapes that Alice and I fashioned with cookie cutters and our homemade Bake Doh. I have a blast creating decorations and mobiles using some of my yarn stash. Despite being forced by my three year old to use safety scissors (hard when you are left handed and an adult) and having some hefty clean up after most projects, I find myself smiling and less tense as I look at the results of our artistic activities. I even have noticed a difference in John after he manipulates some Play-Doh with Alice. The work pressures and annoyances seem to wash off of him as he creates airplanes and cars and the odd assortment of objects Alice requests.


Now I am not a Pollyanna. Coloring will not make bills, a bad relationship or clinical depression go away. But, it might make you forget about some of these things, at least for a few minutes. So, go to the store and buy yourself a new book of crayons and a coloring book. Now that you are an adult, you can even give yourself some freedom to play outside of the lines (and perhaps have some ice cream for dinner).

Never Thought to Put that on My “To Do” List

I hate Blue's Clues, Blue's Room or any derivation of the Blue franchise. Actually, let me clarify this a bit. Hate is a strong word after all. I like the concept behind the show- taking things step by step as a way to introduce the concept of critical thinking/reasoning. Unfortunately, the execution is rather nerve grating. Naturally, Alice enjoys the show tremendously and has days when all she wants to watch is Blue. Those are the days when John comes home and instead of saying, "Hi Honey. How was your day?" I greet him with, "We are having wine with dinner."


I particularly despise the "Old MacDonald" farm episode. Blue and her brother Sprinkles fill in for Old MacDonald on the farm. I am not sure why he leaves in the first place. Perhaps he is off to visit a brothel? Anyhow, Blue and Sprinkles have to take care of the farm and they use a "handy dandy" checklist to help them remember the four things that need to be done. I can't believe that they need a list to remember four things but I digress. The first thing they need to do is collect a dozen eggs. This is when I really appreciate Disney and their care for the motherhood induced ADHD parent. Disney would have a conveyer belt under the chickens catching the eggs. The eggs would come out of the chickens with the same speed as machine gun fire. I swear, with Blue and Sprinkles, it seriously takes over five minutes to count twelve freaking eggs. The next item on the checklist is to milk the cows. The first time this episode was on I was in another room. Panic shot through me as I thought a porn came on. All I kept hearing was the command, "Squeeze, squeeze!" I ran into the room to see Blue and Sprinkles milking imaginary cows. It looked like they were giving imaginary hand jobs. Again, once the task is complete it got checked off the list. This happens two more times, which when you multiply that by the number of times Alice has watched the show, is enough for her to have internalized the concept of a "to do" list and checking off the items that are completed.


It was also enough to provide me with a good laugh yesterday. I was finishing up changing Angela's poopy diaper. Alice came by with a piece of fabric (her list) and a game piece from Don't Break the Ice (her pencil). She asked me what I was doing. "Changing Angela's poopy diaper, honey." Alice gave a big smile and said, "Check" as she made an imaginary check on her pretend list. I looked at her and quizzed, "Angela taking a poop was on your 'to do' list?" Alice nodded and left the room all the while checking off random things.


Well, at least I can now accomplish something from my "to do" list every day. Who knew I could put regularity and laundry on the same list?

Home Sweet Home

I was really dreading this week and not because Alice is home on vacation. I enjoy spending time with her, except when she is recovering from an illness. To say she is not a good patient is a very politically correct way of stating she is a major pain in the rear. For whatever reason, Alice becomes this clingy, whiny adhesive shadow as she transitions from sickness to health. So, you can imagine how I was feeling as I cancelled all our outside activities and prepared to hunker down with a post pneumonia toddler.

I am still shocked that my pith helmet was not needed. Alice has been downright pleasant and fun. The week has generally unfolded with her and Angela playing together in the morning and afternoon with some cartoon or other in the background. Alice has been creating picnics, tea parties, and birthday parties around her sister. Every morning Alice takes a blanket from our pile in the living room and spreads it out on the floor next to her sister. She then proceeds to set up all her plates, cups, and other paraphernalia on top. Angela knocks it all down and smiles a great deal. In many respects, Angela reminds me of my former students who did not speak English. She looks amused and she smiles a great deal; but, you know that in her mind she is wondering, "What the heck is going on?" I like to stay out of the room as they play because I hear the cutest things (especially of late because Alice has taken to supplying her sister's dialogue during their "conversations"). I am still chucking about one of these said "conversations" from two days ago.

A little background- I have been trying to teach Alice that she cannot take a toy from her sister if Angela is actively playing with it. I don't know why Alice always wants that one particular toy, especially when you consider my home is teeming with playthings. I guess the toy someone else is playing with always looks like the most fun toy in the universe at that moment. Anyhow, I was checking email in the kitchen and the latest tea party was unfolding in the dining room nearby. I was listening and half watching them as I replied to the day's communications. Here is the written account of the scene:

Angela is happily playing with a toy as Alice enters stage right. Alice sits down next to her sister and watches what she is doing for a few seconds.

ALICE: Hi Angela. Can I play with that?

ANGELA (dialogue supplied by Alice in a slightly different tone to indicate a different person) Sure Alice. Enjoy.

ALICE: Thank you, Angela.

Alice takes the toy leaving a slightly bemused Angela in her wake until a shadow on the wall distracts her.

By now I had stopped typing and sat there wondering what I should do. Do I reprimand her for taking the toy? In Alice's mind, Angela gave her the toy willingly. It's times like these when I realize how much Alice has grown up. Perhaps that is why she was so good this week. She is growing up (and has Angela as a captive constant playmate). Whatever the reason, I will take it.

Go Away, Germs!

Alice has pneumonia. Thankfully, the two antibiotics that the doctor prescribed are working their magic. She is almost back to her old self. Although Alice has not reached her "hurricane" status yet, she is definitely a "tropical depression". While I generally long for peace and quiet several times a day, I have to admit I am happy to have the crashing, yelling, laughing and general chaos back. It is funny how unnatural silence is these days.

The dissipation of the hurricane started a week ago on Tuesday. Alice came down with a fever. Because she also had a persistent cough for the last few weeks, I figured it was high time for us to check in with the doctor. Alice was diagnosed with a sinus infection and bronchitis. The doctor prescribed antibiotics, and I left the office with a sense of ease. What she had could be named, and more importantly, I had something to give to her for her illness. I hate the viral stuff. No drugs speed up the healing process.

And then nighttime came.

I don't care how many children someone has or how great a parent they are. Nothing makes a mom/dad feel more like a bumbling and helpless idiot than those nighttime cries. Alice crawled into the king sized bed with John and me. The heat that rolled off her body was staggering. The thermometer read 103.7 degrees. At this point, I learned something new about my daughter. She hallucinates when her fever reaches this level. It was so freaky seeing her sitting up between John and me in bed with her eyes open and "awake" but lost in a world of her own, reliving incidents that happened at her preschool. It killed me that there was nothing I could do to calm her except wait for the Motrin to take effect and wrap my arms around her.

The rest of the week was a constant cycle of fever spikes and waning energy. The pug must have even realized how sick Alice was. She allowed Alice to use her as a pillow without any type of protest. By Friday, all Alice wanted to do was curl up in fetal position on the floor. I brought her back to the doctor, and after a strep test and white blood cell count, pneumonia was diagnosed. The second drug prescribed was a godsend. The night of Alice's first dose she had no fever spikes and she slept through the night in her own bed. The recovery had begun.

Just yesterday Alice resumed her nudist lifestyle. When I saw the pile of clothing in the living room, I realized something new about my daughter. One can determine Alice's energy level and health based on the state of her dress (or undress as the case may be). Never was I so happy to see a flash of naked butt streaking through my kitchen. Still, I hope she outgrows this as she ages.

Hopefully God Has a Sense of Humor

I have been really amused by Alice's play of late. She likes to impose herself into various constructs. For instance, while looking at the Where's Santa book my mother-in-law gave her, Alice told me, "I'm the baby rabbit (the book featured baby Loony Tunes characters). When I asked her why she was the rabbit, she replied, "Because I like carrots." When she watches Word World, she tells me, "I'm the duck, you're the sheep, Peanut's the ant, and Daddy's the pig." I find this new practice amusing, but it really cracked me up around Christmas time when Alice discovered the Nativity set.

I waited until right before Christmas to set up the Nativity. I had a feeling I would find the figurines all over the house and I did not want anything broken. While I unwrapped each piece from its protective paper, Alice, of course, came over to investigate. The former teacher in me thought this might be a good "teaching moment" to introduce the concept of religion and the chief players in Christianity. I started with Jesus.

"Alice, this is Jesus," I said, showing her the infant.

"No Mommy. It's Peanut."

No matter how many times I tried to correct her, she kept correcting me. Finally, I decided to see who was who according to the Gospel of Alice. The cast went as follows:

Jesus- Peanut

Mary- me

Joseph- John

Three Wise Men- Alice, Grandma, PopPop

Lamb- Puggie

Cow- Aunt Louise and Uncle Joe (Initially, my sister in law was a little saddened that Alice saw her as part of the cow. I told her it could be worse. She could be part of an ass.)

Shepherd- Aunt Megan

 

Yep, all those years of Catholic school are having such a great effect on my kid.

 

God, I Am an Idiot!

I say the above AT LEAST once a day. I would like to blame things like hormones, sleep deprivation, parenthood, star alignment, and so forth. However, I won't. I will proudly admit that there are just times when I am, in fact, an idiot. Take one minute ago. I decided some hot chocolate would be a nice accompaniment to checking out Facebook and potentially writing on my blog. Poured the milk into the mug and set the microwave for two minutes and thirty seconds. Somehow I pressed twenty-three minutes on the keypad and have for the last five minutes been wondering, "Why are two minutes feeling like five?" Well, the reason for that would be it was five minutes and I am an idiot.

 

My big "God, I am an Idiot" moment of the week occurred yesterday. I decided to clean out the junk drawers in my kitchen. While cleaning, I found the Use and Care Guide to the good cookware I got when John and I got married. After cooking with one of the pans from the set the other day, I realized why I stopped using them. Food stuck to the surface and it was a total bitch to clean. Upon unearthing my guide, I thought, "Cool, maybe I just need to re-season or something." I opened the guide and realized that for the last six years I have been using the pan completely WRONG! Apparently, the pan needs to be heated before even the oil is placed in it. Once the oil is poured in that too needs to be heated before the "real" cooking begins. Talk about wanting to take said pan and just pound it on my head a few times! I followed the guide's directions when making dinner that night and guess what? Nothing stuck. The pan even cleaned up with minimal effort.

 

Yes, I am an idiot!

Namaste My Ass

Ever since Angela's birth, I have been experiencing pretty frequent back and hip pain. At times, the pains are so sharp they cause me to catch my breath. During a routine physical with my doctor, I spoke with her about these newfound aches and pains. Apparently, what I am experiencing is common for post partum women. We are more prone to injury in these areas for a variety of reasons. Additionally, the c-section I had this time around further compromised my core strength. The doctor recommended cardio and exercises to strengthen my core and back. As she spoke, the word "yoga" popped into my mind.

I was not surprised by my mind's solution for curing my aches and pains. I enjoy yoga. I find it profoundly relaxes me and makes me feel great about my body. I like its noncompetitive philosophy and its stress on body acceptance. When I was in my early twenties, I belonged to a yoga studio and learned how to properly do the postures. Eventually work responsibilities made me leave the studio, but I continued to enjoy yoga classes at my gym. Unfortunately, after Alice's birth, yoga fell out of my life. I still went to the gym, but my gym times were dictated by Alice's nap schedule which did not correspond with the yoga classes offered.

This week I started on my back/hip pain solution plan. As per my plan, I would go to the gym and do cardio three days a week and on my off days I would do yoga at home. I picked up some new yoga DVDs from my local library and proceeded to rejoin the world of yoga. My initiation has been pretty hilarious. I don't think the founders of yoga anticipated practicing with a three year old, an eight month old, and a pug underfoot. Here is the breakdown of the degeneration of my quest for inner peace and flexibility:

• The DVD started with breathing exercises to center self. To do these exercises I needed to be prone on my yoga mat. First, I had to fight for position on my yoga mat as Alice decided to "play yoga" with me.
  
• Once Alice and I established our territory, I tried to focus on the instructor's directions. This was difficult due to persistent snoring in my left ear. The pug, curious as to why I was laying down on the floor, came to investigate. Since ears are a fetish for her, I then had to spend a few minutes pushing off a pug who decided to lavish my ear with amorous attentions. Angela thought this was hysterical and proceeded to bounce in her bouncer with such intensity that I thought she would shoot out of the thing.
  

• During a forward bend on my left side, I forgot about Angela's grabby arms. She, however, was on the alert and seized my hair as my head sunk downward. I missed a few poses as I gently extricated myself from baby death grip.
  

• A brief glance downward while in tree pose revealed a pug planted at my feet begging for a belly rub.
  

• Downward dog for me meant upward dog for pug as she gave me kisses.
  

• The funniest moment, however, came as I moved out of a forward bend. I looked up to check the screen for the next posture only to find myself face to face with Alice's naked butt. Apparently, the light that salutes me comes from a full moon.
  

Namaste