Fairy, Fairy Quite Contrary

A friend of mine's son lost a tooth the second day of school, and Charlie did too. What’s with the start of school and teeth falling out? Charlie lost one the second day of school this year, and lost his first two last year the second week of school.

Anyway, we couldn't remember what the Tooth Fairy gave him for the other two teeth, being that it was a year a ago. I am pretty sure we got him a toy as well as money. So at dinner I wondered aloud “What did the Tooth Fairy leave for you last time?”

“A video game,” he replied. “But you only get a toy the first time, after that just money.”

"Huh, I said, how much money I wonder?”

Five dollars,” he quickly replied.

After the boys went to bed, I got the cleanest five-spot out of my purse and pressed it flat and crisp with the iron. I set it up high on the bookshelf to wait until he was in a deep sleep. Well, of course we forgot about it.

The next morning Mark was yelling at Charlie to hurry up. I started to make his bed (yes, I make their beds, it's a long story). When I realized we had forgotten the money, I gestured frantically to Mark, pointing at the pillow. He caught on, and ushered Charlie into the bathroom to brush his teeth, all the while Charlie saying "I don't even have my shirt on yet."

Mark dug in his money clip and pulled out a five dollar bill, not the one I had so diligently prepared, but a wrinkled old thing that I am sure is one transaction away from being shredded at the Department of Treasury.

Charlie did actually remember, and a few minutes later was delighted by his windfall, which he placed in his treasure box. As for five dollars, he should have aimed a little higher, I think.

My World is a Different World

I think there are some weird children's books out there. I apologize to the huge fan base, but I think many of them are by Dr. Suess. There is also *Curious George by H.A. Rey. I could go on about the cruelty of snagging a monky from Africa ("The man picked him up quickly and popped him into a bag.") Then there is "After a good meal and a good pipe George felt very tired." Nice. In addition, I am sorry to say, many of the Little Golden Books I grew up on are kind of weird too. Mark and I have tried for five years to understand the theme of The Poky Little Puppy by Janette Sebring Lowrey.

Again I apologize to any big fans, but in my opinion, the popularity of anything by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd is just baffling. I know Goodnight Moon has been adored by generations. Mark and I know it by heart. The kids know it by heart. But, seriously, a five-year-old could have penned this strange tale, and a three year old could have drawn the pictures. Also out there is a "companion book" to Goodnight Moon called My World. Here are some of the more ridiculous lines:

"My spoon.

Daddy's spoon.

'The moon belongs

To the man in the moon.'"

I think I actually wrote something similar in third grade.

"Daddy's boy.
Mother's boy.
My boy is just a toy
Bear."

Perhaps Brown was on a deadline and couldn't somehow fine tune the poetry. I think more likely she smoked something whacky when she wrote.

Speaking of smoking something whacky, I don't know if you've seen the bios of Margaret Wise Brown and Clement Hurd. Besides the assessment of each of their work being completely misguided ("Margaret Wise Brown was a writer of extraordinary talent,") the photos are outright strange. The one of Margaret Wise Brown shows her with her dog. Fair enough. Then there is the photo of Clement Hurd. He looks absolutely creepy. He looks like a child molester or a serial killer. It's disturbing. And he's holding a cigarette. Nice. However, according to his Wiki: "A doctored/altered photo of Hurd was included in the 60th anniversary republication of Goodnight Moon with a cigarette removed from his hand, causing controversy over publication standards."

As the publishing controversy shows, it's really, more than anything, how our standards have changed, from writing quality, to the messages we send to our children. It really was a different world in 1949. Regardless, in 2008 Clement Hurd still looks creepy.

*The Curious George movie, made in 2006, is really great, and ignores or satarizes most of the inappropriate themes in the original book. The TV show on PBS is very cute but I still have issue with a monkey living in a rent controlled flat in New York City.

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

I was driving on the way home from the grocery store, and came upon a woman walking her dog down the middle of the street. Not a cul-de-sac, or even a suburban road, but a street where a car passes every thirty seconds or so. So she's walking her dog down the middle of the street, over a bridge, mind you, and stops when I come by such that I have to go into the oncoming lane to go around her. As I pass, she gives me a friendly wave.

"What a crazy person..." I say out loud. "...but we live in the city for the diversity, and diversity includes crazy people."

Then I respond, "What are you talking about? You are the one talking out loud to yourself in the car."

Contemporary Feminism

I just read an article by David Von Drehle from the May 24 issue of Time Magazine. Yes, I know, I know, I am a little behind, my reading material has consisted lately of Dr. Seuss, Margaret Wise Brown and books illustrated beautifully by Eric Carle. Anyway, I had bought the magazine because of the article regarding the future of the Democratic Party, but by the time I read the article two more primaries had occured, so it was pointless.

The aforementioned article that caught my eye was "The Texas Polygamist Sect: Uncoupled and Unchartered." The article basically covers a story regarding a fundamentalist Mormon sect. It seems one of this type of renegade religious sect floats to the top every decade or so, and all on the inside as well as some on the outside believe they are better left alone. Of course in this case the issue is the physical and psychological well-being of the 437 children. 437 children! 437! They have been put into foster care. Why not allow them to stay with their mothers? I suppose they have to sort out if the mothers are unfit or if their tyrannical culture led by men has made women victims as well.

I don't have the answers. I don't even have an opinion because I don't have enough information. But there is one aspect of this issue, mentioned in the article, that sickens me. The article states: "Caught in the middle is Texas judge Barbara Walther, who was asked to weigh requests from the parents to... reunite nursing mothers with the 77 kids who are under age 2." By no means do I consider this unreasonable. However, the judge's ruling puts a pit in my stomach: "For the nursing mothers, the judge offered a lesson in contemporary feminism: 'Every day in this country there are thousands of mothers who, after six weeks' maternity leave, must go back to work--and they deal with this issue.'" Offered a lesson? That is as if it is standard practice for women to quit nursing at 6 weeks and return to work. Offered a lesson? What if a "modern" stay-at-home mom were to have her baby taken from her because she had a tyranncial husband and told to "deal with the issue?" No, the father would be removed from the home. Not to mention, whether you think it's right or wrong, or downright weird, these women are not modern. They have no clue what modern even means. I feel that they have been thrust into a time machine against their will.

Maybe the scope is so huge it's too difficult to address any one individual, so there are sweeping rulings until they sort things out. But come on, nursing mothers? Why not put them on house arrest at Motel 6 and let them nurse their babies? There Texas, that's my solution.

Pretty in Pink

Watch out, Atelier Versace, you have met your new competition. The newcomer to the red carpet... Charlie Colucy.

Mother's Day: A Grumpy Morning and a Tornado Warning

For Mother's Day all I wanted, like most of my friends, was a cup of coffee and a newspaper without kids bugging me about whether they were going to watch Curious George or Oswald or who had the Optimus Prime toy first.

I got downstairs first because the four stooges were still in the office wrapping my gift and screaming at each other. Four soon became three when Max came downstairs, laid down on the floor and went back to sleep.

Like I said, all I asked for was an hour with coffee and the paper. No coffee. Usually it brews on a timer, if Mark sets it. No paper on the porch. Seriously. I yelled up the stairs for Mark to call circulation to get one delivered. "How?!?" he screamed down the stairs. "Go to the website, I yelled back." So relaxing.

Finally they came down the stairs, Atticus blubbering that he wanted to carry the gift and Charlie calling him a stupid idiot. As Mark addressed this, I can tell in his tone the morning will not go well.

When Mark asked me weeks before what I wanted for Mother's Day by way of a gift, I said a Garden Weasel. Not too difficult, I thought. I was wrong, just like I was about the coffee mug I asked for for my birthday. He said a Garden Weasel wasn't a very good gift. I don't get it with men. They'd rather get you what they perceive, or what advertising projects, as an appropriate Mother's Day gift. Never mind what you want, or ask for. My father gets my stepmother the same perfume every year for her birthday. It is the perfume she wears, but after 25 years, how is that even a gift? That's practially like giving her toothpaste.

Back to the morning... they had gotten me some really delicious Origins body scrub and cream (grapefruit scented, it smells so good I want to eat it), and a beautiful windchime. After that things pretty much went downhill. The kids were particularly torqued up from a cookout and two birthday parties on Saturday. Mark let the inmates get to him. Atticus asked for a banana. Mark refused (why?). Atticus spent the next 20 minutes blubbering about a banana and then Max woke up and wanted a banana too. Charlie, in the meantime, was being the most adorable waiter, with the "Would you like a grapefruit, ma'm?" and "Coming right up." He even took at little rose and stuck it in my grapefruit. I was doing what I like to do when I read the paper, which is to share the particularly interesting things I read out loud to no one in particular. Evidently Mark couldn't stand the additional auditory stimuli because he snapped "Just be quiet" to me. Then there was screaming and fighting about getting dressed. Mark thinks "Atticus is five, he should get himself dressed," so there was a lot of screaming and escalating tempers. What I know is that Atticus is going through the "I don't want to grow up, I want to stay a baby" phase and to not fight it and just get him dressed.

Later in the day, Mark suggested we go to Home Depot. Ok, it may sound like a weird place to go on Mother's Day, but I love Home Depot. I could spend days in Home Depot and never come out. I started out by getting the supplies for a lawn project I've been wanting to do while Mark got a cover for the new grill. Then the kids sat on the lawn tractors, Mark and I looked at gardening implements, from which we selected a narrow-pronged pitchfork ("This is what you want, not a Garden Weasel.") We then spent thirty minutes flipping through outdoor furniture magazines while lounging in the floor samples, as the kids played in the "hiding places."

Finally we needed to head out for our Linner (like brunch, but between lunch and dinner) reservation. As we approached the check-out, with Atticus and Charlie brawling like Irish immigrants, I heard a familiar whining sound, and so did Mark. "Tornado siren?" I mouthed to Mark. He flipped his head toward the door indicating I should go look. I walked outside and there was indeed a tornado warning and the sky looked truly evil. I looked around. Some people were looking with mild curiosity to the sky, but most people went about their business as the sky got darker and the siren wailed.

Back in the store I nodded to Mark and he said "Come on boys" as he held Atticus and Charlie's hands and I picked up Max. "Where are we going?" Charlie asked. "To the bathroom" Mark replied. In the back of the store, at the restrooms, there was some confusion as to whether I would come in the men's with them or go in the women's alone. We decided Mark would take the boys in and I would try to get some information on my Blackberry. Well, there was indeed a tornado warning for our area. Standing in the rear of the store I observed the people around me. You couldn't hear the siren inside the store, so I wanted to scream "Don't you people know there is a tornado warning!?!" I looked around at fifty-foot high shelves of lumber and glass and bathtubs and ceramic tile. This is the same rotating storm system that killed at least 22 people in Missouri, Oklahoma and Georgia.

I don't know about in the Midwest, but in Central Ohio it amazes me how lackadaisical people are about a tornado warning. I've been in two tornados and witnessed one tornado in the distance, and I don't mess around. The latest experience was a horrible day last year. We had all gone to the pool on a Saturday in late summer. It was a beautiful sunny day, but it was getting late and we decided at the next rest period we would go home. I was packing up with Maxie and Mark was still in the pool with the other two when the siren went off. The siren was about 100 yards from where we were standing. The black clouds emerged from behind the trees in seconds. Kids were running everywhere, grabbing towels, getting on their bikes, running home. The teens manning the desk were clueless in their little wooden hut. The wind started to blow. It was horrifying. Note: It is impossible to buckle a child into a carseat with water wings on.

"What are we going to do?" I asked Mark.

"Go home," he replied.

In hindsight we realize that wasn't the best plan. Every year since first grade during Tornado Awareness Week, we have been reminded that you never ever stay in your car during a tornado. Never mind actually getting in your car. Since childhood I had this "what if" plan that if I were ever out and about in a tornado, I would knock on the nearest door and ask for shelter. Well, I forgot all about that. First we headed parallel to the storm. I felt ok because we were moving. If I didn't look toward the storm, and to the sunny sky to the east, I could keep it together, but not for long. I had a full-fledged panic attack and started bawling. Charlie, who up until now had said nothing (for the first time in his life) stated simply "I hope this isn't the end of our lives."

We made it home just ahead of the storm. In the basement, the kids sat on the pool table, a little shaken up, while I folded laundry to stay calm, relieved we were safe. In our brick house with 24-inch solid concrete basement walls, the only indication that there was a storm outside was a thin stream of water that trickled from the only spot in our basement that leaks and only does so in heavy rain. Mark watched the local weather and we learned a small tornado had touched down near at the intersection we were stopped at when I freaked out. For months Charlie brought home pictures of tornados he had drawn during quiet time at school. I think that must be how he worked through it.

Back at Home Depot, having continually refreshing my Blackberry, finally the note came up that the warning had ended. The kids knew what was going on and no one freaked out. Charlie had explained to his brothers what the bathroom was safe. He didn't even talk about it all day, or play "tornado" with his toys like I thought he would.

All's well that ends well. We checked out (ironically, the manager made an announcement about a tornado warning, now that it was over) and barely made our Linner reservation. After a double mudslide at Linner all was right with the world.

As we were getting ready for bed that night Mark said "I'm sorry for Mother's Day I didn't make you feel as appreciated as you are. It's just you set the expectation so high..."

"Wait a minute," I replied. "I asked for an hour reading the paper and a Garden Weasel. Who is it really who sets the expectation so high? I'm pretty easy to please."

"Easy to please?" he laughed. "You had a good point, don't push it."

Copyright Infringement

Recently one of my posts was copied into another blog, without permission, and with the most malicious intent. If you are interested at all, Blogger has a very strict policy in support of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. Be sure to tip your waiter and waitresses. Thank you and good night.

There's No Crying In Auto Racing

As I am sure a lot of you know, Danica Patrick won the Japan 300 on Sunday. This is huge. More than huge. She is the first woman ever to beat men in a man's sport. Surely some women can beat some men at tennis, golf or volleyball. But she beat men in a sport, in which before her, only men participated.

In 2005, when she appeared on the racing scene, as a celebrity figure she was immediately popular. She's beautiful, and the media took advantage of that, and so did she. I don't know if that was clever or degrading. She claimed in yet another interview “I’ve always understood the way it is... there’s so many opportunities I get as a female. Then again, I’m held to a different standard. There’s a flip side to everything. It’s just the price I have to pay.”

I can honestly say I have never more than glanced at a auto race. It's like basketball for me, the only part that is remotely interesting is the last two minutes. When my husband told me she won, I swelled with pride, not necessarily because a woman won, but because the times are truly changing. It will be history to my sons that there was a day when women didn't win Indy car races all the time and there had never been be women or brown people as president.

As amazing as this, in the media, I cannot find one article that does focus on, or merely mention the fact that she cried. Even worse for me is that she is abashed at her behavior after the race. Said to the associated press: "When it actually happened, maybe it was a little anticlimactic," she said. "Then the emotions came out and that was a little girly of me." On an ESPN video interview with a female commentator (Danica Patrick Wins Historic Race) Danica made excuses for herself again. Half of the interview is spent discussing her tears. She appears to be ashamed when she states "I didn't want to cry but I did, those photos will live forever." On the contrary, a male commentator claims (Danica Patrick Wins First Career Victory) "... emotion is what makes sports beautiful ..."

Mark and I discussed this. He claims men cry when the lose (like the big burly man's men who lose the superbowl), and wondered why women cry when they win. I, personally, cry when I am angry. Not very effective, I admit, in a corporate environment. And it's not like tears crying, it's like can't talk crying, my throat closes up. It's really annoying. Anyway, I told him it's really an issue of release of pressure. Danica Patrick had a lot of pressure for six years from the media and from herself to win a race. She knew it would be historic when she did. I would be surprised if she didn't cry.

I suppose for Danica, now that the pressure is off, and the deed is done, and it will only get easier from here. And I suppose the next time she wins, she won't cry.

I'm Backing Up

"I'm backing uuuupp." That was Atticus's first full sentance.

Backing up my PC has become an obsession of mine to the extent that my external hard drive gets full every month or so. I am just paranoid about losing anything. That's because last summer my hard drive crashed. Like Thelma and Louise into the Grand Canyon. I lost everything: email, files and every photo ever taken of my children with a digital camera.

Now Writerscafe.org has tanked and I am paranoid again. I procrastinated about the hard drive. Even when it was grinding like a '73 Chevelle trying to start up, I thought a crash couldn't happen to me. I will not procrastinate backing up this blog.

I found a great website with 10 ways to back up your Blogger blog. I personally went with #4 - free and very very easy. Just in case, I also executed #6. Although I followed the steps, I have no idea what I would do with the data were Blogger to go down.

Sure hope this helps you, too. Cheers.

A Dapper Dan Man

We were sitting in church Sunday before Mass and Mark leaned over. "I am really lucky to have hair. Look..." I looked around, he was right. Most men were bald or balding. To abate this you have implants, toupees, the comb-over, and the latest trend: shaving the whole thing to leave the true status to the imagination. "You are lucky," I replied. He has a full head of dark hair.

"Thank you Lord for the health of my family, my ability to work with my mind and my hands," he said, "and thank you for my hair." I rolled my eyes but laughed internally. He can be so irreverent.

My father has had male pattern baldness from the age of 16, fully bald over the top of his scalp by age 18. I've never known him to be anything but bald. He tried shaving it with a HeadBlade a few years back but that lasted about a month. He said it was just too much work to shave every day. Since allegedly boys get the hair gene from their maternal grandfather, that does not bode well for my boys. According to the Propecia people, 50% of men experience some male pattern baldness by age 50. This statistic is probably skewed a bit, considering the source, but it seems pretty close.

The female equivalent to this conundrum is hair color. Only one woman I know my age does not color her hair, and she has the most beautiful silver hair I have ever seen. To be honest, though, it does make her look older than she is. Is that just a matter of perception? Do those who color their hair look younger than they are? It's an assumption that women in their 30s do not have gray hair. That is not true. Most women in their 30s do have some gray, the definition of "premature gray" being inconsistent. Coloring has become the norm to the extent that those who don't color stand out.

Just as a side note I have no gray hair. My hairdresser has confirmed this, and she has done my hair for 10 years, so she is not lying to protect my vanity. Having said that, I do color my hair. I am a natural blonde. I could prove it, but I will spare you. I have my hair colored a reddish-brown, close to that of my mother's and my younger brother's. Why? Because of the stigma of blond hair. "Dumb blondes," "blondes have more fun," "gentlemen prefer blonds," blonde jokes. I've spent my whole life trying to prove that blondes really can be smart, but I really had to work hard, as pitiful as that is. Again, it's perception. What's really the point of remaining blonde? Only about 5% of women who appear blonde are genetically so. I would just fall into line with the rest of the herd.

It's been said before that a man's gray hair only makes him look more sophisticated. I should add that I think maybe some would say that baldness would detract from that look of sophistication. At my 20-year high school reunion last summer I found that the women looked great, and the men... not so much. Maybe it's the fat bald guy thing. The not-fat, not-bald guys were the ones who stood out. Mostly my hubby, thick hair arranged sloppily with hair glue.

The Needs of the Few

You know when you get into a television show, find a new perfect eyeshadow color, or even a pair of jeans that fits just right? What happens? It gets discontinued. Well, that has happened to me, but with an airline. My favorite airline, Skybus, is dead. In researching for this story I am totally impressed with Wikipedia for having already updated their definition. Skybus was a small, low-cost carrier based in Columbus, OH (very convenient for me). My sister-in-law actually flew to Seattle, Boston and Florida for $10.

I am very egocentric to say Skybus was great. It was great for me. I am 30 minutes to the airport in Columbus (door to door) and 15 minutes from my Dad's near St. Augustine (door to door). My dad had his stroke on a Thursday. I was at the hospital by 8am Friday. I was planning on going to see him again on the 18th of April. Those plans are dashed as I was going for the weekend and by the time I pay $350 to get there (maybe) with one stop, and one hour back and forth for my stepmom to pick me up in Jacksonville, I'd get to spend maybe an hour with my dad.

It is said that you can call your credit card company and get your money back. That's just money. Isn't there a time in your life when your time becomes more important than money? So here we are, back to flying into Orlando, which from Columbus, OH is the least expensive and closest city to my dad with a direct flight.

I took Asian History in college, and the professor did actually say one thing that has stuck with me all this time. "Technology has made the world monumentally smaller." The space between me and my dad just got monumentally bigger.

Wimpy, Dainty, It's All the Same

My husband called me from the car yesterday and said he had something to tell me. I was running out the door, so I told him to call back between meetings. When we finally hooked up he said, "Do you concede that Obama is the frontrunner?"

"Yes," I replied sadly, "yes."

"Well, I you should think hard before you vote for him."

"Why?" I replied in monotone, thinking he was going to mock me about some Democrat vs Republican issue that divides the country and our household.

"He was recently in Altoona, Pennsylvania..." Oh, boy, here we go "... and he bowled a 37.

"What?" I asked, taken completely off-guard.

"Bowling, like at a bowling alley."

"Where did you hear that?" I said, feeling somewhat defensive. I average about 90 myself.

"They were talking about it on Morning Joe . Joe [Scarborough] and Willie [Geist] said that Obama's bowling was "dainty" and they would expect at least a 150 out of their president. I agree."

What does bowling have to do with being president? Oh, never mind. "Yeah, that's funny."

I would only like to point out, Dear Reader, that in my controversial post Non-Political Controversy , I referred to Obama as "a little wimpy for me." I wonder if Hillary can bowl a 150, not to mention John McCain.

Diary of a Wednesday

Disclaimer:

I am committed to not be what I call a "journal blogger." A lot of people post for the purposes of keeping a daily record of the events in their life. That's fine. I appreciate that, but I personally don't have the time to sift through all of their "Took my dog to the vet..." to find a particularly funny or poingnant tale. Having said that I think the run-down of my day yesterday might be interesting and telling. If not to you, to me.

Prologue:
This is what my calendar looks like, color-coded for each family member:




7:00-7:30 Shower (you may know how rare a shower for me is at my home home. Usually, if I get one it's at the gym)

8:00 Take Charlie to school

8:30-8:45 Parking lot duty

8:45 Atticus to school (to be fair, it's the same school at which I did parking lot duty)

9:00-11:30 Volunteer at Max's PDO (don't get me wrong, I don't mind changing diapers, just not diapers of other people's kids)

11:30-11:45 Chat with Atticus's teacher outside of the restroom ("I wouldn't say Atticus has bad days, he's just Atticus")

12:00 Lunch from Wendy's in the car for Max and me

12:30 Pick up Atticus from lunch bunch

12:45-1:30 Atticus's first gymnastics class (Check it out: in the morning I actually had the foresight to put shorts on underneath his pants)

2:00 Attempt to get Max to nap (no luck); fold one load of clothes

2:50 Pick up Charlie

2:50-3:15 Kids play on the playground (Come on, it's the first day since the blizzard that it's been clear enough and warm enough); friend informs me enrollment for SUMMER SWIM PASSES started two weeks ago

4:00-4:30 Desparately rush to register online for swim passes (whew, they were still available)

4:30 Determine that Charlie has no homework, so I have time to go to the bathroom

5:00 Start dinner while yelling at Charlie and Atticus to get their shin guards and soccer shoes on

5:15 Serve a disgusting dinner of tasteless grilled chicken breasts, microwave mashed potatoes and frozen mixed vegetables

6:00-6:30 Dishes from all day, straighten strewn book bags, coats, shoes, toys, and laundry (yes, it was my bright idea to bring the unfolded laundry up to the living room to avoid Out-of-Sight-Out-of-Mind Syndrome)

6:30-7:15 Stepmom calls to give me the weekly update on my dad's progress (he had a stroke six weeks ago, and even the doctors say his progress is phenomenal)

7:15 Max's bath

7:30 Mark, Charlie and Atticus come home ("Cyn, can you give them their bath tonight, I am really behind on the bills?")

8:30 All kids in bed ("Cyn, can you help me reconcile these bills?")

8:31 I inform Mark that I will stop helping him at precisely 8:59 to catch American Idol

9:30-10:30 American Idol (thank goodness for DVR)

I don't remember anything after than until the alarm went off this morning.

Fwd:

Forwards. Everyone hates them. The new statement is "I don't usually forward, but this is particularly [insert adjective]." The thing that I hate most is when people I haven't talked to or seen in years suddenly send me a forward. The bright side, I guess, that I am still in their address book. On the other hand, one friend sends about four a day. I have this image of her checking her email and sending all the forwards to everyone in her address book without even reading them herself. She recently got a Blackberry. I guess she wanted to send her forwards from the road. Actually, she's not annoying to me, I have everything from her starting in "Fwd" or "Forward" filtered directly to my junk mail. The problem is, occasionally a pertinent email gets into my junk by accident.

"Didn't you get my email about the birthday party?"

Um... "Oh, yeah, sorry it took me so long to respond, I've been so busy." Almost everything you send me goes to my junk mail to save my time to read the important stuff.

If I have time, I can be a very annoying receiver of forwards about missing children, asbestos in tampons, or golfers eaten by crocodiles. I check Snopes to prove them wrong and "Respond to All". Hee hee.

Anyway, for a blogger, herein lies the rub: I discovered a fellow mom-blogger through a forwarded email. Granted, it wasn't random, my friend Melanie said "You should see this thing going around the internet, it's hilarious." It was hilarious, this blogger is extremely talented, I read her blog every day, and I am proud to say she actually reads mine occasionally.

So, with the ingenerate dilemma of Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, I ask that if you particularly enjoy one of my stories, forward it along, but please ask permission. And please give it the respect that Melanie gave to my fellow blogger. What's the point if it goes directly into someone's junk mail?

And Your Seats Are in the Upright and Locked Position

Last summer I got to know the wife of Charlie’s t-ball coach, as we sat together twice a week for six weeks. I discovered Lauren to be a very patient, attentive mom. Not that I let my kids run wild, but I believe that unless they are a danger to themselves or others, my kids should be able to experience life in any way they want. During one evening game Atticus enjoyed playing in the soft, dusty dirt that can be found on and around a baseball field. I didn't really care because he was going to get a bath as soon as we got home. He had it on his hands, in his hair, on his clothes, and all over his face, the snot having mixed with the dirt to become mud. When he came over to visit me, Lauren asked if I wanted a wipe. "No thanks" I said, thinking it was a lost cause. She proceeded to try to wipe him herself, actually getting out of her chair to chase him when he ran away.

A few weeks after the t-ball season had ended, I ran into Lauren at Target, and we chatted a bit. You know how it goes:

“What are you here for?”

“A sweatshirt for Charlie.” but I’ll never get out of here without spending $200 on crap I don’t need.

That Sunday I was walking into church and our Priest caught my arm. "Lauren Thompson passed away yesterday... a brain tumor."

"Lauren Thompson," I replied, "Lauren Thompson my age?"

"Yes."

Only old people who sip on lye as children die of brain tumors. "Lauren Thompson, my age?!?" I begged, hoping he was mistaken.

"Yes, with two young boys."

I plopped down in the pew next to Mark. "Lauren Thompson died," I said, staring straight ahead.

"Paul’s wife? How?"

"Father said a brain tumor. He must have meant an aneurysm. Who dies that suddenly of a brain tumor?"

After mass I got the story from a close friend of Lauren’s, whose eyes were swollen and she looked terribly pale. Lauren had had dizzy spells for months and flu-like symptoms all summer. She finally had a headache and vomiting so bad she told Paul she needed to go to the ER. There they did an MRI and discovered half her brain was engulfed by a tumor. The pressure on her brain was what was giving her the headaches and vomiting. They removed a part of her skull to relieve some of the pressure, but that didn't work. They asked Paul if he thought they should remove more. He then made the most courageous and impossible decisions anyone would ever have to make. He called the family and children to come say goodbye and took her off life support.

She had kissed her kids goodnight and twelve hours later she was dead.

I am betting Lauren had never seen a doctor for her ailments. You can only imagine how many times she took the kids in for annual checkups, ear infections, and stomach bugs. She probably even reminded Paul to go to the dentist. But I am sure she never found the time to go to the doctor herself. I am sure she thought she would get to it late. Moms since the beginning of time took care of others and put themselves last. I know I do it. I am 39 and never had a mammogram. I have hypothyroidism and I don’t get blood drawn until my hair starts falling out, although I am supposed to go every six weeks. I have been meaning for about six months to get a full body scan at a dermatologist to look for skin cancer because I am very fair.

There is a Christian radio show called Revive Our Hearts with Nancy Leigh DeMoss. About a year ago DeMoss discussed Proverbs 31 of the bible. This sums it up her view: "Today, women are so programmed to want their own position and to want recognition for what they do. They do not want to be known as Mrs. So-and-so, but to be known in their own right, for their own gifts and their own contribution. But the excellent woman... recognizes that it is really a compliment to be known as the wife of a man who has risen to a position of spiritual leadership." I don't want to offend anyone who may take stock in these beliefs, but in my opinion, this a very degrading and dangerous attitude. The importance cannot be stressed enough of the equal partnership in a marriage, and that means although the “career” of a stay-at-home mom is to take care of her family, she has to take care of herself too.

When you are on an airplane during the pre-flight safety instructions the flight attendants advise that in the case of "loss of cabin pressure" the oxygen masks will drop. They specifically say to put your mask on first before helping others. This is the way it should be in life, too. You can't effectively nurture others if you don't take care of yourself.

Get a massage, go shopping, get to the gynecologist, get your mammogram, go to the dentist and eye doctor, exercise, drink enough water and have a hobby. My hobby is writing this questionably entertaining blog, but I barely have enough time to do that between schlepping this one here and that one there, wiping butts, doing laundry and cooking dinner.

But when the oxygen masks drop, put yours on first. Then you'll all have a better chance of survival.

The Truth About Handbags

This one has been going around the Internet, but I thought I'd post it here since it has really gotten me to change the way I do things...

HANDBAGS...

I never gave it a thought. Who would have thought? Have you ever noticed women who sit their handbags on public toilet floors - then go directly to their dining tables and set it on the table? Happens a lot. It's not always the 'restaurant food' that causes stomach distress. Sometimes 'what you don't know will hurt you'.

Read on... Mum got so upset when guests came in the door and plopped their handbags down on the counter where she was cooking or setting up food. She always said that handbags are really dirty, because of where they have been. Smart Mum!!! It's something just about every woman carries with them. While we may know what's inside our handbags, do you have any idea what's on the outside? Shauna Lake put handbags to the test - for bacteria – with surprising results. You may think twice about where you put your handbag.

Women carry handbags everywhere; from the office to public toilets to the floor of the car. Most women won't be caught without their handbags, but did you ever stop to think about where your handbag goes during the day?...

We decided to find out if handbags harbor a lot of bacteria. We learned how to test them at Nelson Laboratories in Salt Lake , and then we set out to test the average woman's handbag... Microbiologist Amy Karen of Nelson Labs says nearly all of the handbags tested were not only high in bacteria, but high in harmful kinds of bacteria. Pseudomonas can cause eye infections, staphylococcus aurous can cause serious skin infections, and salmonella and e-coli found on the handbags could make people very sick. In one sampling, four of five handbags tested positive for salmonella, and that's not the worst of it. 'There is fecal contamination on the handbags,' says Amy. Leather or vinyl handbags tended to be cleaner than cloth handbags, and lifestyle seemed to play a role. People with kids tended to have dirtier handbags than those without, with one exception. The handbag of one single woman who frequented nightclubs had one of the worst contaminations of all. 'Some type of feces, or possibly vomit' says Amy.

So, the moral of this story - your handbag won't kill you, but it does have the potential to make you very sick if you keep it on places where you eat.

Use hooks to hang your handbag at home and in toilets, and don't put it on your desk, a restaurant table, or on your kitchen countertop. Experts say you should think of your handbag the same way you would a pair of shoes. ' If you think about putting a pair of shoes onto your countertops, that's the same thing you're doing when you put your handbag on the countertops' - your handbag has gone where individuals before you have sneezed, coughed, spat, urinated, emptied bowels, etc! Do you really want to bring that home with you? The microbiologists at Nelson also said cleaning a handbag will help. Wash cloth handbags and use leather cleaner to clean the bottom of leather handbags.

Thanks to my friend Ellie for passing this along. By the way, I checked Snopes and they confirmed this is true.

Crappy Birthday To Me

I hate my birthday. It has nothing to do with getting older. I turned 39 this year, and I do not fear 40. I am smarter and healthier than I was at age 30. No, it has to do with the day itself.

The birthday celebration has a really interesting history. The celebration itself is steeped in superstition, as things often are in most beliefs of ancient man. According to the placemat at many Chinese restaurants, the Chinese base their horoscope system on year of birth. I always thought that was kind of silly since that would assume that everyone with the same year of birth would have the same personality characteristics. Just looking at my brother and my husband throws that theory out the window. However, I am an Earth Rooster, which is surprisingly pretty accurate. The modern horoscope, as presented in Cosmopolitan Magazine is based on the Zodiac. The Zodiac horoscope method divides the year into birthday date ranges and creates a daily prediction of the occurrences in the life of each person. Again, that's silly because it would assume that everyone in my date range would have the same characteristics. However, I am Pisces, which again is surprisingly pretty accurate.

Theoretically, in my mind, someone's birthday should be the celebration of the life of one human being. I do try to treat the birthday of the people in my life that way. I always give good wishes, send a card or an email, or give a gift. Another talent of my mother's was celebrating our birthdays. She always made a huge deal, with wonderful gifts. She made us feel really special. My friend Melanie and I have somehow started the tradition of giving each other little gifts. It's fun. I think most of all, it is most important just to acknowledge the date is remembered.

Here are three reasons I hate my birthday:

1. The weather: in the best case it's cold, damp and sunny. Usually it's cold, damp and grey

2. Lent: Lent is the most grim time of the Catholic calendar, a time of introspection, leading to Easter. Who wants to introspect, really? Also, usually I give up sweets for Lent, so no cake on the actual day, I have to wait for the closest Sunday

3. My dad never remembers, but he has deep psychological reasons to "forget," so I kind of let him off the hook

My birthday is extremely forgettable, I know this. It's at the beginning of the month. It doesn't give anyone any time to think "Oh my gosh, it's March, Cyn's birthday is coming up." Additionally, there is not good karma around it either. All I asked for from my husband was a new Starbucks travel coffee mug. He was unable to fulfill this small request. We had the largest snowstorm in central Ohio since 1910 (see #1 above). There were 24 inches of snow and a level three snow emergency. I think he is off the hook. Even flower deliveries were delayed three days.

I don't blame anyone for forgetting my birthday. This year my mother-in-law called and wished me a happy birthday. I am pretty sure she actually called me for something else. After she wished me a Happy Birthday I said "Guess who forgot my birthday." Oh, no," she replied, "not Mark?" "No, not Mark, I said... Me."

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Today I grabbed a tissue from the box and to my surprise it had a big green bugger on it. I guess some one has been taking Jack Johnson too seriously:

"If you're going to the market to buy some juice

You've got to bring your own bags and you learn to reduce your waste

And if your brother or your sister's got some cool clothes

You could try them on before you buy some more of those

Reuse, we've got to learn to reuse

And if the first two R's don't work out

And if you've got to make some trash

Don't throw it out

Recycle, we've got to learn to recycle..."

From "The 3 Rs" by Jack Johnson

Big Boo-boo

One time my husband's brother's family was visiting. They are not Catholic, nor practice any religion as far as I know. I caught my nephew in an unguarded moment staring at a crucifix on the wall that was at about eye level. After a moment I heard him whisper to himself "Ouch."

Everyone's a Critic

Charlie, my oldest (age 6) has pneumonia. The coughing is so bad at night he has been barfing. Poor baby, we have been letting him sleep with us. We gave him cough medicine and he climbed into our bed between us.

I said "Don't worry, honey, your cough will go away soon" to which he replied "I hope your breath goes away soon."

The next night he wanted to sleep on the other side of Daddy. Coincidence? I think not.

Shrinking Boobs

My guilty pleasure is courtroom shows. I watch Judge Judy, Judge Cristina, Judge Joe Brown, and my favorite, Judge Mathis in the basement while I fold laundry. I will never forget watching one of these shows when I first started staying home and one of the defendants was Aquanetti Jones. I swear.

Anyway, the commercials during these shows are focused toward the demographic the advertisers assume to be watching tv at that time. There are ads for truck driving schools, how to become a dental assistant in three short months, or air conditioning repair.

One day I was stopped short of balling up a fitted sheet by the following ad, which I think is not only very applicable to most moms I know, but also the funniest I have ever seen. Enjoy.

V-Day

Churches refer to it as The Feast of St. Valentine. There was the St. Valentine's Day massacre in 1929. Many associate V-Day with Victory Day that was celebrated when Germany was defeated by the allies in World War II . Many others, more recently, associate V-Day as a global movement to promote the awareness and prevention sexual violence toward women and girls, as inspired by the award-winning play by Eve Ensler, The Vagina Monologues. Others refer to Valentines Day as V-Day, but even those people do not consider V-Day the single most important day of the year. A day for which a year's worth of preparation is done; a day that makes or breaks the business. That is, unless you work for The Largest Lingerie Brand in the world (which will hitherto be referred to as LLB).

The success of the product at LLB impacts the enjoyment of those celebrating Valentine's Day all over the world. Seriously, the world. We're talking billions of dollars here. The process starts the day after the previous year's V-Day. People go to Europe and east Asia (among other places) in search of fabrics to imitate or to bring inspiration. I know of one man who drove a jeep to a desert town to go to the market to check out fabrics. Often a new lingerie line is introduced at V-Day, frequently at a Very Famous Fashion Show. Sometimes a new miracle fabric is introduced that effects the future of lingerie as we know it. This is the company that made the thong a household name. There is always a "launch" of a new fabrics, silhouette or color palette, all for V-Day. Then, once all the design is complete, the orders go to the factories in places like Egypt and Pakistan. Women are paid a dollar a day make panties and bras. Those units are shipped to LBB, on a very precarious time table in order to minimize shipping costs.

My job at LLB was at the end of the line. I supervised the people who decided how many units of each style, each color, and each size went to over 800 stores. I developed a system that assisted in that process being a precise as possible, in how many we ordered at well as to which stores they were shipped. The bottom line is this: you wanted to sell as many as you can, without running out. This is called sell-thru. Our goal was 98% sell-thru. If it was 100% then we knew we could have sold more. Any less and we'd have too many left over we'd have to sell at a reduced price. All of this, every single decision, business goals, even jobs hinged upon this one day, which we referred to as V-Day. At this point I am boring you, so I will get to the crux of my anecdote.

One day, in late winter, I was newly pregnant and walking across the enormous parking lot, probably talking on my cell phone about something that just couldn't wait three minutes until I got into the building. At that point I was on the fence about whether or not to stay home once the baby was born or go back to work. I remember glancing over, and saw a bumper sticker on a pick-up truck. The truck probably belonged to someone poor bloke who worked in the distribution center and had been working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 14 days to get the product out in time for V-Day. I assume he was an EMT in his spare time or something (sorry I am making the assumption here that the truck belonged to a man). The bumper sticker said "I save lives, what do you do?"

I thought, Oh my God, I sell underwear.

I sell underwear. Images of playdates, minivans, soccer games, healthy meals at home all rushed through my head. The scales were tipped at that point.

The final decision was not made until one autumn day when Charlie was six weeks old. As I nursed my son I watched two airplanes crash into two skyscrapers in New York City. My husband had gone to a meeting in one of the towers not too long before. My mind was made up.

I make no judgments about the decisions others make. I wish there was a way I could work without a nanny or daycare raising my children, but I cannot be two people. You never know what direction your life will go so assume nothing. However unexpected it was, I think I made the best decision for my family… and for me.

Now That's Commitment

WARNING - TOO MUCH INFORMATION AHEAD

I had dinner Saturday night with my good friend Melanie. Before we had kids she and I worked for different brands of the same retail mogul. What I didn't know is that she didn't resign until her second son was born. That means working in a very demanding business, with travel, for two years.

I breastfed each of my boys for a year. I enjoyed the intimacy with my babies and the satisfaction of providing them sustenance. I left them for no longer than 3 hours at a time (at least when they were infants) because that was how frequently they needed to nurse. However, at least with my first baby, the first six months of breastfeeding were filled with excruciating pain for me. He latched on properly from the get-go, but I was plagued by yeast. I basically had thrush on my nipples and in my glands for about six months. When we first began a nursing session, I would actually have to do Lamaze breathing or cry for the first few seconds because the pain was so bad. I had one particular embarrassing moment when I had to ask the young male pharmacy assistant where the Lotrimin was located. He asked "For what?"

Then one day I found an article buried deep within the internet that said one Diflucan a day would solve the problem. Diflucan is the pill that is used for vaginal yeast infections. My insurance company only covered one pill per month. I needed one per day. I actually went to battle with my insurance company, using the article as evidence. I won.

Back to Melanie. First of all, I give her credit for trying to work and take care of her baby. It's a huge balancing act. Well, Melanie also breastfed her baby. A lot of woman who nurse at work have horror stories about trying to pump in the restroom (yuck), or hiding in their office. Many women have to give up breastfeeding altogether because there is no option to pump in their particular job. Mel obviously worked in an office, and used a double pump. In our company it was protocol to allow women to pump in the first aid room. As she describes it, she would have to schlep her Medela bag to the front desk, get the entry code, and walk back. She said quite frequently the code didn't work and so she'd have to do the whole thing all over again. Then they decided it would be more efficient for the security guy to escort her. She tells of one time when she was double pumping when the security guy, who had forgotten she was there, came in and tore back the curtain. I would have resigned on the spot.

This is not even the extent of Melanie's commitment. Before she had her baby, she had traveled as far as Asia for work. The first request for travel after her baby was born was to New York. Not far, but far enough when you are breastfeeding a baby. The solution ...drum roll please... was that she would pump and FedEx her breastmilk home overnight. At least the company paid for it.

Turn the Radio Off

On the weekends my kids often get up at 6:30 in the morning. They play quietly (and sometims not so quietly). School days, however, they have to get up at (poor babies) 7am.

We have tried everything to help my kindergartener get out of the bed for school in the morning. We tried a dawn simulator, but it didn't even come close to waking him up. We tried rousing him ridiculously early so he plenty of time to gradually wake up. That meant I had to wake up ridiculously early. We tried startling him awake, just short of throwing cold water on him. One morning I was shaking him awake and he yelled "I'm sleeping!" He often groggily mumbles "I don't want to get up," to which I reply "I don't either."

Finally we thought it might be a good idea to set his alarm clock to "wake to music." I thought NPR might be a good station, then second guessed myself because of all the talk of war. My husband, who is a huge classical music fan (second only to hip hop), suggested the local classical music station. Evidently we didn't think about the fact that even the classical music station breaks for local news and weather.

"Mom!" Charlie screamed from his room one morning.

"What?" I babbled through my toothpaste.

"There's been an accident!"

Well, we live close to the intersection of two fairly busy streets, and occasionally there is an accident there.

I spit in the sink and ran downstairs to find Charlie sitting on the bed with one pantleg on. "I don't see anything," I said, peering out the window.

"No, Mom, on the radio! They said there's been an accident!"

I sat down next to him, and put my arm around his shoulders.

"Honey, there is an accident every day."

Top 10 Talents of My Mother

My mother was a very, very, very difficult person to get along with. No, I am serious. I know everyone says that their mother was/is difficult to get along with, and if you say yours isn't, just you wait until you get married or have children. However, I have documentation. She was a clinical psychologist and everyone, except x-patients, thinks she was hard to get along with. Friends, neighbors, her parents, both x-husbands, her kids, teachers, waiters and waitresses, her hairdressers (she never saw the same one twice), even my therapist. The spouses of her children got the brunt of it. However, my mother had many talents outside the realm of social interation, so I thought it would be nice to mention them here.

10. Cleaning the basement - albeit every 6 months and making me and my brother help

9. Balancing her checkbook - to the penny, every month, no calculator, in the days when they had that form on the back of your statement to help

8. Frugality - she could decorate her house, pretty cutely, with things from K-Mart

7. Gardening - I'm not talking landscaping here, I mean this woman could grow tomatoes in rock

6. Aging - all her life, to the day her chemotherapy began, she looked 10 years younger than she was

5. Cooking - she could make a meal out of a tomato, an onion, and some chicken broth

4. Education - she had a PhD of course, but also kept up on the latest medical, psychological and political issues. She learned how to use a computer when she was 68

3. Creativity - she could paint; her masterpeice being a distant nude of my sister in a woods sitting on a rock. I think it still hangs in my sister's house to this day. I also remember her entertaining us with little clothes pins (the old-timey kind without the spring) that she painted to look like us. She could dance; she taught me and my soon-to-be husband a rough two-step for our wedding. She could sculpt; I also remember clay sculptures of me and my brother playing baseball

2. Being a psychologist - it wasn't until the visiting hours after she died that I really understood this. Tens of people said to me "your mother saved my life"

And the top talent of my mother...

Folding a fitted sheets. Hers turned out in perfect squares, folded neatly, every time. I don't know anyone who can do this. I try, but end up rolling mine up in a ball

My mother died in 2002 of lung cancer one week after her 71st birthday. God rest her soul.

The Rug

By request, here is the rug mentioned in my post Save the World With Oxyclean.

The whole thing:
One of the four seasons:

Not sure what this is:

I find it interesting that my house looks nicer than it is in pictures, but I look worse.

Non-Political Controversy

I am going to digress from my usual theme of familial comedy to talk about politics for a moment. Well, I want to talk about NON-politics for a moment. I don't follow politics anymore. Too stressful. I am registered Democrat. I don't believe 100% with the Democratic platform, but if someone who is corrupt and lacks integrity is going to become the leader of the free world, it may as well be a Democrat. However, a female fellow-blogger posted about Ron Paul. Ok, well, his politics sound pretty good. John Edwards, he is a Democrat and he looks like a president anyway. Barack Obama, a little wimpy for me. That leaves us with (for all intents and purposes) Hillary Clinton.

I will vote for Hillary Clinton. Not because I agree with all of her politics, but I don't agree with the politics of any one candidate. I will vote for Hillary Clinton because she is a woman. And in my humble opinion women have an obligation to vote for Hillary Clinton. By 2008 women will only have had the right to vote for 38% of this nation's history. Now we have the opportunity to put a woman in office when we have only been allowed to vote for 90 years. Effie Hobby recently remembered the days of the fight for women's suffrage, she could remember when women could not vote. Note: Effie Hobby would be 110 today, and I cannot find any record of her death.

So I believe women now have an obligation to vote for Hillary Clinton. Because Hillary Clinton will not be remembered for her politics. Hillary Clinton will be remembered for being the first woman President of the United States.

The Cadillac of Minivans

I know some of you must be wondering why I have not mentioned anything about moving. That's because we aren't. At least not right now. Here's why not:

1. I have come to terms in my mind with sending my kids to Catholic school. So what if they don't have science until 4th grade? We have "Science Saturdays" at our house anyway. Yes, Charlie is a quirky kid. That's in addition to having migraines, and possibly epilepsy (it is not as bad as it sounds). He's going to be quirky in public school, too. And besides, they won't have to spend half of Sunday in Parish School of Religion.

2. Charlie's teacher is awesome. Really, really awesome. She's about 24, cute as a button, loves being a teacher and genuinely loves kids. It gives me hope that the principal has a open mind and can move in the right direction as far as staff.

3. Not to be shallow, but we love our house. We have renovated the whole house, hands on, ourselves. We had a beautiful new garage built, and worked on the yard and garden for 9 years.

We made an offer on the house I mention in my post Legos and All, though we had not yet sold ours. It was a very fair offer in this abysmal housing market. The man who owned the home flips homes for a living and needed to sell this one in order to start a new project. Although the thought of owning two homes was scary, Mark did the math (he always does) and we could pull it off for six months. Well, the owner counter-offered with something ridiculous, actually he wanted over asking price. We let the contract lapse.

A few weeks later we were at a benefit gala for a school in memory of a woman we knew who had died recently. We had friends there from church, school, soccer, t-ball. As we spoke to people I kept saying things to Mark like "We can still play t-ball here, right?" and "Of course we'll still go to church here, right?" The husband of the woman who died, who had been bugging us for months not to move, begged us one more time that night. Is was like God Himself shined a light down upon us, and angels sang. Mark and I both had the same thought.

A few days later I called our realtor, who is our friend, goes to our church, has kids in the school etc. and told her the news. We wanted to take the house off the market. It had absolutely nothing to do with her, but that we decided everything else fell into place, and if we needed more living space, heck, we could finish the basement. There was silence on the line. I waited for the disappointment, irritation, veiled anger. It didn't come.

"You don't need a bigger house, Cindy. With three boys what you need is a better car."

Save the World With Oxyclean

I am pretty confident there is nothing I can't clean. I think of it as a battle. Woman versus mess. My Friend Ellie's weapon is Biz Bleach, my mother swore by laundry detergent, but only the suds, myself, I prefer Oxyclean.

My 4 1/2 -year-old tends to barf when he coughs too much when he is lying down. This has resulted in many a soiled bedcover, and if we are lucky he only hits the sheets and not the blanket and comforter. When he was younger, if he had a cough, we would put him to bed with a "barf bucket, " which, I swear, is an old Oxyclean container. Anyway, as of late we feel like he is old enough to make it to the restroom. Difficult, yes, because he doesn't always feel it coming on. The most recent occurrence, he almost made it to the potty.

Allow me to digress a moment. Many years ago my father traveled extensively for work, all over Europe and Asia. He frequently brought back artifacts he found along his journeys. One time, while in China, he saw a beautiful china blue wool oval rug, decorated with images of the four seasons as the artist perceived them. I don't know if you know this, but the quality of a rug is determined by how many fibers are in the surface. You cannot even penetrate this rug with your finger. It's about eight feet by 5 feet, and when we moved to this house, my father graciously gifted the rug to us because it fit perfectly in our center hall on the second floor. You, Dear Reader, are not stupid; you know where this is going.

So, back to the main crux of this tale. One evening I was sitting in the office writing when I hear Atticus' door open and see him run across the hallway. I knew he was attempting to get to the potty, and I was such a proud parent. He barfed a little in the potty, and I repeated "I am so proud of you, I am so proud of you," as he sobbed. Mark came and cleaned him up as I changed the sheets. We finally got him tucked back in, and as I was heading to take the sheets to the basement, I looked down. You guessed it. [WARNING YUCK YUCK AHEAD] In a path from Attie's room to the bathroom was a swath of barf. Chunky barf. I stood there for a moment, wheels turning in my head. I could only think of sending the rug out for cleaning. Then I took the sheets to the basement. The Oxyclean container mocked me from the shelf as if to say "I dare you." I grabbed a bucket, a scrub brush, and a few towels and whipped up a batch of Oxyclean.

[WARNING YUCK YUCK AHEAD] Step 1. With the brush, I brushed the chunks onto the hardwood floor where I could mop them up. Step 2. Using the scrub brush and some Oxyclean (mostly just suds, thank you Mom) I brushed the surface until it no longer smelled putrid (yes, I had to put my nose down there which excessively grossed out my husband). Step 3. We then took towels, laid them out and continued to dance around on them, rotating to new ones until they came up dry. I do not discount the density of the rug, but that does not take away from the genius of the process. Done. Mark looked at me with awe and amazement. By morning there was no evidence of a disaster at all.

Believe it or not, that is not even my proudest achievement. My coup was when Charlie was about 14 months old. We had just gotten the first furniture we've ever had that wasn't either passed down or purchased at "Value City" furniture. Somehow my angel got ahold of a Sharpie ( for which I take full responsibility) and in a matter of minutes took it to the new couch, entertainment center, floor and dining room wall which had wallpaper. I freaked. Then I vaguely remembered from my retail days that rubbing alcohol got ball point pen out of fabric. Might as well give it a shot, right? I had also learned by experience you have to dab these things, not wipe or you just spread it around. The entertainment center and wood floor were a breeze. The dining room wallpaper would not come clean. I did not expect it to. Sharpies are supposed to be permanent on paper, right? So I chalked that up to stupidity on may part, but it didn't really matter because we would eventually replace that wallpaper.

I stared at the couch. If I messed this up, the warranty would be void. The pressure was on. I looked at the stain. "You versus me," I thought. I dabbed. I looked at the cotton ball. There was some ink on it. I was encouraged. I dabbed some more. Same deal. I decided to get a cloth. More ink came off. I dabbed faster, the stain started to fade. Thirty minutes later I was victorious. I looked at the clean couch, and collapsed on the floor, spent. Then, just for good measure, I cleaned the area with Oxyclean to remove any rubbing alcohol residue.

The moral of the story is this: No talent is insignificant. No battle too small. Whatever it is that you can do to improve this planet is very important, even if it's your little corner of it.

The Tears of the Phoenix

In the fall I realized I was behind the times in that I had not read the Harry Potter series of books by J.K. Rowling. They are extremely well-written, and the plot-lines are brilliant. Being a huge Star Wars geek, I was immediately immersed in the whole fantasy thing. The stories could be considered a little scary for the target audience, but for adults just good fun. I am presently reading the fifth in the series: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Last night when reading I was caught off-guard and driven to tears.

In the fourth book, I believe, is the introduction of a type of ghoul called a Boggart, which is a little bit different than the "real" Boggart of English mythology. In the Harry Potter books, the Boggart is a ghoul which has the ability to manifest itself as the thing that the witness fears the most.

Forgive me if you already know this, and correct me if I'm wrong, but Harry's best friend is Ron Weasley, who has four older brothers and a younger sister. Ron's mother, Molly Weasley, considers Harry another son since Harry is an orphan. In the passage I refer to, Harry is passing the study where Mrs. Weasley was supposed to be "cleaning" which in the wizarding world means clearing the room of messy magical creatures. Harry enters the room only to see Mrs. Weasley sobbing over the dead body of Ron. Harry feels his heart jump out of his body, and as he approaches Mrs. Weasley, the dead body changes from Ron to the dead body of another of Mrs. Weasley's sons, then the dead body of her twin sons, then another brother, then finally to Harry himself. Each time Mrs. Weasley attempts, through her sobs, to cast the spell to destroy the ghoul, she is overcome by grief and is therefore unsuccessful. As Harry stares at his own dead body two other wizards come and extinguish the Boggart, then console Mrs. Weasley.

"I see them d-d-dead all the time!" Mrs. Weasley moaned... "I d-d-dream about it."

You don't have to tell me that my boys are not wizards in the midst of a battle between good and evil where wizards are killed all the time. And although we don't think about it all the time, don't we occasionally visit our own fears in our heads? Mrs. Weasley had only to witness a false image of the dead bodies of her children, her sons, to be taken to that level of horror. Isn't there a level of grief that is only imaginable? We can only hope that grief will always remain a ghoul locked in a writing desk.