To Conquer Paris with an Apple!

My Favorite

The Honey's Favorite


So on Saturday we went to the DeYoung in San Francisco to see the 1st of 2 shows on impressionism.

I'll never get my kids to Paris. They are going to have to do that on their own, unfortunately. When I went to London with my folks, my dad insisted that we go to the National Gallery. Um, okay, sure. It was interesting, but what blew me away was seeing Monet's Water Lillies. It was a huge canvas and looked like nothing up close. I was across the room when it slammed into focus. AFTER we got home I took an art history class and was aghast at how many of those pictures I had seen but not appreciated.

So the Honey valiantly went to the library for me and checked out everything he could find on impressionist art for kids. Little O soaked it up like a sponge, and was primed for the trip. Big O leafed through a book on the drive to the bay. What Miss Priss really wants is to see starry night, but THE starry night is not a Musee D'Orsay property, so is not included in this show. They WILL however, have A starry night from that series, and she's very excited about that.

So I didn't get the audio tour for all of us, because Big O insisted he did not want one, and I really thought it would be overwhelming for Miss Priss, and I didn't want to HAVE the audio tour and then not be able to LISTEN to the audio tour. I got one for her, and one for the Honey, and off we went.

Claustrophobia, thy name is Jennifer. Jeez, maybe it's whatever a fear of crowds is that I'm too lazy to google. I HATED not being able to turn around--and that was WITH metered entry into the exhibit. I can't imagine the madness of regular admission. LIttle O and the Honey didn't even notice, they were thoroughly immersed in teh audio tour. The Honey said he didn't even notice other people until someone bumped into him or stepped in front as he was trying to look at a picture.

Big O was bored like only a fifteen year old boy on a family outing can be. sigh. He's a big boy and I'm fine with him wandering off, but I was really starting to get antsy because he hadn't resurfaced in a while, and then, lo and behold, there he is marching towards me.

With a three foot high angry japanese lady in a museum uniform. OH sweet Jeebus, no. Did he Touch a painting? WAS IT DAMAGED? My life and future earnings flashed before my eyes as they made it through the crowds. Apparently the gift shop was straight ahead, and while we were told that there would be no re-entry to the exhibit, there is no rope or anything signifying the end of the exhibit. There's a no re-entry notice painted on the side wall in the doorway, above eye level.

So all she wanted was proof that he had a ticket as he had wandered into the gift shop and then went back to find me. Whew!

So we had brought an elegant picnic of PBJ and oranges, and sat on a bench in Golden Gate park while we chowed. Little O starts to laugh, and we all look, and there is a squirrel clutching her leg from under the bench. My girl is DRAMA, and I would expect her to be traumatized--maybe if it had been her bare leg she would have been, but she had her jeans on and was enchanted with the squirrel. I would have screamed and kicked my leg out, but she just wanted him to do it again. There was an artist selling paintings in the park, and he told Little O that if she had any nuts, the squirrel would be her friend all day. She took her daddy's cell phone and went off to take pictures of her new furry friend. I still need to pull those from the camera...

Big O has NO interest in seeing part 2, which opens mid-September, but Little O and, surprisingly, the Honey, are very excited to go back. I'm all in, but this time WITH the audio tour--and maybe a tazer--and maybe on a week day.

My Children love to Dance.

I'm afraid that they may have been switched at birth.

Add this to the fact that Little O does not believe in eating macaroni & cheese or (sob!) mashed potatoes, and I think I have a pretty good case for alien abduction. Fairies switching them? Robot children a la Spy kids?

Take your pick, but it's getting reaalllly hard to believe they are the fruit of MY loins!

Big O was in his 3rd quinceanera last weekend, and again, you could not get either of them off of the dance floor. Luckily every once in a while Little O would throw in a move like a cross between a Carlton and an Elaine, with a little sideways kick...



So I know she really IS my kid.

Little O had her dress rehearsal for her first ballet recital tonight. The cute in that room was overpowering. We all stumbled out slightly woozy from the chubby legs and dimply smiles--and the tutus, oh my stars the cute of those tutus!

Brian Crook, Where are you now?

Brian Crook is no longer Brian Crook. He changed his name, and we lost contact.

Brian wasn't even my friend, he was my brother's best friend when we lived in Sacramento. He and his younger brother, Brent, lived across the street from us, around the corner from Birdcage Walk as it was under construction. I would get sent over to call my brother home for dinner and
Brian's mom would always tell me to get a piece of candy from the dish--I was four or five, people, that was HUGE. Brian's family had also come from Redding, but they lived in Enterprise. Being four or five, I had no concept of subdivisions or parts of town. I thought Brian and his family had lived on the Starship Enterprise. I always wanted to ask if I could see their uniform shirts.

The Crooks moved back to Redding about the same time we did. The boys made their own skateboards, for YEARS. They became fans of Devo, of Blondie, of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They double dated. Then Brian and his family moved to Portland. My brother went to live with them the next summer. It broke my heart. I hope Big O always makes time for Little O the way my brother made time for me. I'm sure a sister six years younger worshiping you was a drag sometimes. My brother sent me tapes for my birthday, Synchronicity, by the Police, and Bonnie something, she sang total eclipse of the heart. (Sweet lord, why am I telling you that? I apparently have NO kind of filters or dignity) I about wore out that Police tape.

I'm thinking of Brian Crook because after my brother went up, Brian came down and stayed with us. He brought his guitar, and on lazy afternoons, he would sit in the family room and play Beatles songs on his guitar and sing them with me. It was heaven. I sing. It's just my nature, I sing constantly, to the point of annoyance and monotony, at times.

I bought Little O the Disney sing it because my girl loves to sing, too. Imagine my glee at discovering that the microphone is compatible with Rock Band. The Honey bought me the Beatles Rock Band disc for my birthday. I told him we could get the guitars and drum set later, I just wanted to sing.


I didn't know I knew the words to Dear Prudence, but listening to it, I don't hear the Beatles singing, I hear Brian Crook. It makes me smile.

I hope someday he googles his old name and finds this. I hope his kids (I hope he has kids) buy him Beatles Rock Band and sing it with him.

In which we traumatize the girl child.

We went sailing with my parents a few weeks ago. It was the first time ever for the Honey and the Kids--I was raised on the sailboat, it's just 6 months younger than me. I suspect it was the consolation prize for my father for trading in the Porsche when I was born.

The Honey and the kids loved it, but Little O wanted to go swimming. With me. RIGHT.NOW.

It WAS hot, so we found a quiet cove and Big O and I jumped into the water. Then it was Little O's turn. Do you see that photo? The one where she's wearing the bulky blue life jacket?

We explained that she HAD to have a life jacket on and KEEP it on in order to be on the boat. It would keep her from sinking and keep her safe, which is always our biggest priority. She accepted it without a peep.

So I jumped into the lake, and in spite of the 100 plus degree temperature, that water was a bit chilly. I thought to myself,
"oh, this isn't going to last long at this temperature..."

So the Honey passed Miss Priss into the water, onto the floaty cushion thrown out for general principle.

My poor baby.

As soon as she slid off that cushion, she completely flipped out. Shrieking and climbing on top of my head.

Apparently we had sold the life jacket so completely that she had absolute faith in it, and we never bothered to explain that she WOULD sink into the water, but that it would stop her from sinking sinking. She thought in her six year old brain, that she would float on the water where the life jacket touched the water. It makes sense. It also nearly drowned me before her father could pluck her back out of the water and calm her down. Thank God for the stupid floaty cushion.

She's fine and now that she understands that her life jacket was not failing, she's totally game to go sailing again.

What a trooper!

weighing close to a thousand pounds...

Ah, Sayre, where is Operation Lose That Ass when I need it?

I'm trying to cook at home again. We've been baaaaad about going out. But right now with Miss Priss and her Tee Ball and The senior O and his wrestling, I'm not HOME to cook, and the Honey's new job necessitates early bedtimes. So If it's not almost done by six, we just need to go grab something. It's ugly, folks.

Senior O makes it sound like he's almost through with high school instead of about to start it. Elder O?

Little O has finally, at long last, embraced bedtime. I have resisted bedtime stories, holding them out as a carrot to lure her into her own room. Baby, tonight was the last chapter of Little House in the Big Woods. YAY! As a bookseller, can I tell you how long I have waited for these nights?

Big O had no kind of attention span for long stories. He is a rapid reader himself, sadly following in my voracious reading habits--I didn't mean to imply that he's not a reader. But at six? Not so much.

We have discovered a new bookstore. It's only open on Saturdays, and everything is a dollar. They run it out of an industrial park on the east side. Can I tell you, I would never have gone within six blocks of this place if I hadn't been staring at their sign, barely visible from the Starbuck's parking lot. Hmmm....you're a shifty serial killer, but you're lazy, and you want to lure me into the space where your 70's van is waiting? Okay, I'm in!

Actually, the Honey's sister had been telling me about it for weeks, but kept bailing on me when I called her to go. So I dragged the Honey with me a few weeks ago. It was sweet. Not fuzzy animals in Easter baskets sweet. Dude, where's my car? sweet. My eye only twitches a little that they stop at sorting by category---sort of. After that it's good luck, suckah!

But last weekend after we MISSED Big O wrestling in Modesto by minutes, and only because they wrestled out of weight class order--Little O and I went to see if we could find the next little house book. We came out with fifteen books. Three little house books and eleven American Girl books. By my calculations, that's about what we would have spent on two American Girl books at B&N.

With the Honey's new improved early bed times, Miss Priss reads to her daddy until he falls asleep. She reads him American Girl stories. Daddy, meet Felicity. :)

in love with love

A few weeks ago Little O was studying a baby shower invitation, cooing over all of the fuzzy baby details, when she stopped and asked what R.S.V.P meant.

I explained that you put that when you want someone to write back to you.

Her latest obsession is making homemade valentines by the THOUSANDS. At the bottom of each one, she writes R.S.V.P. Then she sends them all to her father and I. I have tiny paper hearts and full sheets of paper all over my house. We no longer speak, we write love notes.

The Honey says I'll have to explain RSVP soon, and I know he's right.

Her stick figures are getting more lifelike every day, though. We can't spell BACKWARDS in front of her anymore. She's getting that same wierd fakey laugh her brother has. She remembers her knock knock jokes.

So for just a little while longer, I am going to savor each little RSVP she writes and I'll Respondez Si Vous Plait to each tiny scrap of love she sends me in her fanciest curli-q writing.

I am a dork, but it's genetic.

I may have mentioned once or twice that I am a Daddy's girl. I adore my mother, too, but in my manic-spastic-creative frenzies, I am my father. I channel my mama-san when we get down to the nitty gritty, and I want it done right. My dad is the supreme idea guy. They both have big gnarly brains, a fact that I am eternally grateful for, but they channel their energies differently.

My love of all things cheesy and over the top?

My dad.

I am working on a project that may or may not pan out for Christmas. Trying to respect the poverty and still give gifts I think are neat--meh, so far it's a maybe. But it involves a lot of felt. Little O positively swooned when she saw all of the scraps I was setting aside.

After promising not to cut off her sable locks with her safety scissors, she was given the bag to rifle through and cut up to her heart's content.

These are the very first thing she came up with, and while I loved her family of eternally resilient paper goldfish, these are my new favorite thing in the world:





She made little felt fingers. The colors kinda make them look like zombie fingers, don't they, Gretty?

I am soooo putting these at the top of ribbons and giving my parents bookmarks for Christmas. Maybe we'll write "You are here" on the ribbon.

The Honey thinks I've gone insane. He doesn't get how beautiful and sooo very genetic these fingers are. I think I am raising my kid right. Ten kinds of awesome in a six year old's brain.

Love my O's.

Family night--Yay! Boo.

Last night we went to see this movie at the Fox theatre downtown--yay!

It cost almost as much as a regular movie--boo.

We went inside to discover complimentary tiny cups of soda, and free cookies--yay!

Took our treasures up the stairs to the balcony and were told no food or drinks--boo.

Plenty of seating in spite of our close to the last minute arrival--yay!

Organ music concert at the beginning not doing much for my six year old--boo.

Big O laughing out loud at the Abbot & Costello impersonators--yay!

Little O laughing at the same impersonators--oooh!

Cartoon AND a fifties dance movie before the main event--yay!

Little O whining about when Franklin Stein will be on--boo.

Gah, I can't keep up this format, my attention span just isn't there for this kind of thing. The movie was a lot of fun, and Little O thought the theatre was beautiful and delicious. Both of my O's enjoyed the movie, although Little O had a few scary moments with Drac, Franklin, and the Wolfman. I thought she was a little more ready, but she got over it pretty quick, and maybe that's part of the fun when you're little? No place you'd rather be when seeing those fellows for the first time than snuggled up to your daddy, or sitting on your momma's lap. She was even worried for Franklin at one point, and we covered her eyes when they torched him at the end.

(Cracks me up that there is a Transylvanian castle on an island off the Florida coast.)

A couple of years ago in one of my birthday madness fits, when Big O was still in Karate and wanted to invite EVERYONE, I looked into renting the theatre across the street, picturing a three stooges night in my head. They wanted a hell of a lot more than I had envisioned, so that went down in flames, but I think there is a lot of charm and fun in those old classics (but definitely not PC!!), and they would be a fun theme for a kids party.

In Redding, the Shakey's Pizza (Or was it Straw Hat?) in Cypress square would have those old B&W movies running all the time. *cough cough* That was, ahem, before the days of VCR's when anything could be watched at will. It was always a treat.

Good times then, and good times now. Worth every penny to go out as a family and have everyone laugh at the same bad jokes.

Seis--Happy Birthday, Little O

How can she be six?

A stunningly fabulous weekend.

I had the best weekend and it was brought to me by the most unlikely source.

One of the Honey's brothers.

Specifically his oldest brother, who has had a tendency to bring up every misdeed the Honey ever committed, and endlessly contends that the Honey broke his father's heart. The Honey feels that he did everything possible for his dad, including being the one to find him collapsed of a heart attack, and so those conversations tend to go downhill rapidly. I try to steer clear of it all--my family doesn't DO drama.

This Brother in law, however, sank into the bubbling, oozing tar pits of my esteem when he marched my year old daughter to me in the middle of a family party as if she smelled, and told me that his mother was OFF work and I could watch my own kid. As if I could pry my daughter away from his mom with a crowbar. As if it was my idea to use his mom as daycare in the first place. prick.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got the call from the Honey on Saturday that we had spaced the party for this BIL's only child, and I'd better hustle to be there by 2--without him. Really? A root canal, no anesthesia, but a camera so I can see what they're doing? That'd be swell!

Packed up my O's and stopped at the store for a funny card, and stuffed some cash in it--who are we kidding, like I'd know what a bona-fide you tube star (don't ask) would want, or as if I would open myself up to BIL's scorn for choosing the wrong gift. Not gonna go there.

But lo, we walked into bizarre-o world. The niece tolerated Big O (those quince practices really helped) and so did her hip/thuggy friends. They were dancing in the garage with a black light all night. When it came time to go, at about ten, Big O actually begged to stay. I was beat and loaded him into the car, but..but he's NEVER asked to stay at ANY family party. He's never asked me to go to a party. When favorite SIL offered to drop him off later, I caved so fast it was embarrassing.

After we left, the cops showed up about twelve to talk about the noise. One of the kids opened up the garage door and they all stared at the cops for a minute and then bolted into the back yard. The cops thought it was hilarious, because true Stockton thugs:
A) would not have had sixteen grandmas and forty-two Mexican aunties wandering thru the garage to keep everyone suitably spaced and decently covered--school dances are not as well chaperoned.
b) would still freeze momentarily, then would have stared down the cops, if not making outright statements about sizzling pork.

But Big O gets to go to school on Monday and talk about the black light, the computerized music he got to help with, the live older girls, and oh, yeah, then the cops broke it up. No, man, my mom wasn't there.
It's a thirteen year old's dream come true.

So I had a little more love for the BIL this morning when the Honey said we were headed over there for brunch. I don't have to cook? hells, yes. We're there.

I warned Little O that all of the little kids she had played with the night before would be gone, so we packed some toys for a bored kindergartner. BIL was way ahead of me, and totally had me beat.

I don't think he expected it to get the kind of reception it did, but he had found something in the Niece's things that he thought Little O would use in years to come:




Oh.My.Dawg. Little O pored over it all day. We talked about alphabetical order, and looked up everything she could think of, We went thru the maps in the back, she started working on her ASL, REALLY wanted the pictures of the Braille alphabet to be raised. All day, she soaked it up. I think he was equally amazed, but BIL found the perfect thing for my girl.

He's out of the tar pits. Both of my O's had a fabulous weekend, and I owe it all to him.

My poor child has created her own.

This is Little O's new fish.
She made it herself.
It sits and lays down, and it won't die until she throws it in the garbage can.

She's making siblings now.

I loooooove Brown eyes. These are my favorites...

Big O at about 2.




Little O at about 3.

The Honey at about 3.

I don't actually have anything significant to say, I'm just so so happy to have internet access again. Which is the only reason for the sherbert colors--just because I can!

Frantically cramming in reading trying to catch up with y'all!

******

Okay, I DO have two Little O stories.

The other night politics were on the news as Miss Priss colored on the living room rug. They flashed to Condaleeza Rice speaking at a news conference. Little O looks up and shouts,

"Wait a minute...Barak Obama is a LADY?!?!?!"

Hey, ten points for political awareness, if not correctness!


And now we move on to the politically correct part of our tale...

Little O wanders into the bedroom as I'm putting laundry away, and says,

"Mama, what are retardeds?"

Ack.

So I launch into a very careful explanation about people who are different and mean names, blah blah blah. Her eyes did NOT get big as saucers, they got narrower, and by the end of my explanation her head was tilted and her eyes were scrunched, and she says,

"Okay, but how do they help the fires?"

Er, that would be retardent, not retardeds. Let me start again--nobody is dropping Corky out of an airplane. I am so screwing up my kids.

Bullets a la CRSE

• Little O has been counting down to the 23rd for weeks, having decided it was Floaty's Pink and Purple Rainbow's birthday. I convinced her that the large Dora cake she thought Floaty (c'mon, who am I kidding?) would like might scare him/her (it's a fish--who can tell?), and maybe we could buy the brightly colored mini cupcakes, instead? She agreed and set a tiny mound of pink whipped crisco next to the fish all night, slowly taking licks on Floaty's behalf until it was gone. (It was Norm's B-day over at the CRSEUM, too---happy day, buddy!)
• She came charging down the hall the other night demanding the "bug slapper" to get the mosquito in her bedroom. I don't know why that cracks me up so much, but it totally does.
• Big O, in a fit of madness, decided that his bangs were driving him nuts, grabbed them and hacked them off while over at his dad's house. After letting him wander town like Frakenstein for a few days, I took him to see what they could do, but there was no salvaging the shaggy skater look he'd been working so long for. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.
• Anyone out there have rabbit ears on the TV? Wondering about the whole Digital thing? I have no answers for you. But the Honey bought a new TV from a desperate salesman at the dealership (yes, sales ARE that slow) and wow. Just wow. Did you know they are hiding extra channels?
• On that note, isn't it expensive to hire a 24 hour meteorologist type? Because each of the local major network affilliates also runs it's own HD weather channel. ALL THREE of you? Nobody thought maybe NEWS or LOCAL INTEREST or SOMETHING? I didn't really need one Weather Channel. Now I have three.
• But wow. I've been able to put the Honey off about cable for another two years at least based upon the picture we get now.

That's all I've got, kids.

When DON'T you speak out of your Ass, Jennifer?

Okay, watching PBS later at night is never good for my brain.

Or it's very good.

Or I am confused.

or not.

Childhood bipolar diagnosises? IS that even how you'd spell that? On Frontline they were talking about the four thousand percent increase in bipolar diagnoses of children since someone noticed the similarities in symptoms between bipolar and ADHD cases. NO, that was not a jenism, they said four THOUSAND percent. Well, if it hadn't existed before, I could see it being a big number, but MAN.

I admit, I am talking out of my ass, the second most uneducated individual not currently an elected official. When I went to school, I studied fun things like writing, and early childhood education. I am not a fan of more meds in general. But I'm also not Tom Cruise. There really can be better living thru chemistry (That was a real book title, by the way). But anti psychotic drugs for four year olds? Two year olds?

I am not speaking, however, from that rare state of bliss, parent of the perfect child, straight A student, everything was NOT super peachy keen throughout my baby's life.
Big O was an intense child.
He still can be.

But when he was two, three, four, it was ROUGH, people. We had a battery of tests to see if he was autistic, if there was something we could pinpoint to make his life easier. He did not warm up to everyone, he threw magnificent, horrific tantrums, and let me tell you, it wasn't for lack of spanking. That was tried, too. They just pissed him off more.

I read a book when he was about four, I think it was called the Highly Explosive Child (?), and while the kids in the book were older, it really described him so well. It was so on point compared to other books I had read. The book offered solutions and strategies to help cope with these behaviors, but there was one problem- The book said, basically, that we should always offer Big O choices, to give him some sense of control, and avoid any situations where he might explode. By giving him whatever it was that he wanted. Anyone seeing the flaw?

Life doesn't work that way. Several of the strategies were useful and saved my ever-loving sanity. But a lot of it was, um, crap. My role as a parent/mentor/guide-- whatever you'd like to call it-- is to help my beautiful boy get ready for the rest of his life, dealing with the rest of the world, which doesn't always offer choices. Sometimes it just hands you a big bowl of shit and tells you to eat up.

His school was okay about his issues at the beginning, but as he got a little older and became more resistant to authoritarian commands they got fed up quick. The fact that he's big for his age just exacerbated the issue. My third grader got asked to leave his school and all of his friends.

I wonder, if I had been offered those magic pills would I have given them to him? Because his grades? Rotten, but I blame myself and his father for not instilling the study skills he needs. He struggles. But I sure love the kid he's become. I wouldn't change him. I do not judge the mom of that four year old I saw on TV, because I was the mom of a four year old a whooole lot like hers. But I'm sad for her. What if she misses out on a kid like mine?

We'll talk about horrifying effects of untested drug regimens on tiny bodies on another post. You may have guessed my opinion.

The other day I got an email from someone that I adore, but have lost touch with. She asked me why I hadn't ever told her how much FUN she'd have being a mom. Gawd, that killed me. Because to me, I gushed about my kid. I had to consciously refrain from talking about him nonstop. He was(is) magic. Even throughout the exhausting drama of tantrums, night terrors, and pure chaos, Big O was my everything--easily the best thing that ever came of my meeting his father (Big O's aunties are also a glorious gift, though).

I sometimes wish the Honey could understand how far my boy has come. He sees those flare ups of temper and sullen moods as huge disrespectful slaps in the face. Having lived through true drama, I write a lot more of it off to the hormonal tidal wave that is hitting Big O. I worry more about his small circle of friends and the bitter cold loneliness of being different in junior high. I feel the need to give him a lot of leeway emotionally because I was a lonely kid, too. But I always had a best girlfriend and I just don't know how boys function. Does he NEED a best friend like I did? His dad's life is such a yo-yo course of ups and downs, and it seems like he's been walking the dog on a low patch for quite a while now (whew--that was a yo-yo reference that just fell totally flat, wasn't it?). My boy needs me to be up for him. I'm not saying I'm blind to his faults, or that I have no expectations of him, but there has to be a place of balance. Somewhere between military school and walking him into junior high every day and reciting his affirmations together.

Sunday the Honey figured out why I don't blog as much anymore. It's because he's home at night now, and I'm not alone. He's right. But I'll make time for this, eke it out of my day somewhere, because it was really nice to have this chat with you. I've missed it.

m'kay, now I'm creeping MYSELF out. Must.get.life. or sleep. something like that.

I need your help, friends!

So my twelve year old boy, light o' my life and the one that I lectured about classic rock while he was still in the womb, can totally kick my ass on guitar hero.

I bought him guitar hero in hopes of breaking the Pokemon fascination, and giving him something to connect to kids his own age. Well, Pokemon is not entirely gone, but GH is definitely IN. My happiness is only compounded by the fact that most of the GH songs are, in fact, kick ass, and far far away from the dreck I was afraid of my children getting into. (Little O may yet be my corporate-generated-band-of-the-week girl, but I will fight it for as long as I can...)

SO here's my dilemma. Big O has loaded his MP3 with the songs from the game. He has come to me, mortified, at the lyrics to one of the Rage Against the Machine songs, and confessed that he thinks I would not like it if I knew he was listening to it. (tee hee--Love my O) I want to build him a library of CLASSIC, EPIC albums that he should be familiar with.

Please, if you are normally a lurker, leave me something in the comments.

I started a debate in the office as to whether I should give him The Wall, or Dark Side of the Moon, or if Pink Floyd is just Smokin' music and I should keep it as far away from him as possible.

Which Rush album (can I pick 2, pleeease?)

In terms of a twelve year old, don't you think WAR would be more appealing than Joshua Tree?

Bob Marley, the Doors, even the Beatles can be greatest hits albums. But what MODERN albums belong (Other than Nevermind by Nirvana)? I would think Green Day would have to be in there--Are the Beastie Boys just an 80's sentimental favorite or a noteworthy reference?

Is it evil of me to make him write a report on each of these bands over the summer, one a week, as punishment for crappy grades? Mom's Version of summer school, since I WENT to summer school when I was a kid, and I know that he would meet all the WRONG kids and bond with them and become the central valley pre-teen I've been raising him NOT to be? Did that even make sense to you?

Help me, people-- give me your recommendations for a well rounded rock education.

SATAN in a fishbowl the size of a grapefruit.

Freaking blogger lost my post!

So no poetic ode the chocolate lab, most noble of dogs, boon companions and killers of overpriced toys. (My brohter's mammoth sized lab got to sleep inside when it was freezing, and snuck into the pantry and ate....wait for it... a box of crackers and my brother's Silpat. HA! This is in the fine family tradition, since our dog when we were kids snuck into the garage and ate my father's wet suit.) I find it astonishing that both dogs survived--not so much for the eating of the Silpat as the PASSING of the Silpat, but definitely for the EATING of the wetsuit.

I am not a person who yearns for eighteen pets. I would love a dog for the kids if I didn't know that I would be the one scooping up after it. I scoop up enough non-smelly oozy things in my role as mom. Literally adding shit to the list is not high on my priorities. But I figure pets in all forms teach kids, and so I caved last weekend and bought a fish.

Big O has been down the aquatic path, and he learned about the sometimes brief lifecycle of a carp. I thought we should get something hardy for Little O, and so we bought a Betta. People keep those in their offices in tea cups for pete's sake. We could manage this...

Until I got home and googled how to set up your tiny new fishbowl. That's when I found out that I am Beelzebub for confining the noble Betta to such hideous living conditions. I think one website may have suggested that I might also live in a baby seal coat, with a steady diet of veal, and list michael vick as a friend on MySpace.

Our Betta seems okay in the wee bowl that I bought for Big O's cell model for seventh grade science. But I have yet to see it eat the pellets the pet store sold us. sigh.

Back to the pet store on Friday for a bigger bowl (One gallon of water per inch? I have to buy a TWO gallon tank for the stupid desktop fish? AND freeze dried blood worms?)

Would I get called in for a parent teacher conference next year if my kindergartner tells her class she has a fish named Beelzebub? Can I convince her that was Belle's full name in Beauty and the Beast?

I heart my boy.

Santa is coming to little O's preschool today, and she has been STRESSIN' over what she can wear to look her prettiest for Santa.

 

She talked me into letting her wear her new skirt we'd been saving for Christmas eve.

 

Big O looked at his sister this morning and told her,

 

"You know Little O, Santa would think you're beautiful no matter what you wear."

 

I called him on that one right away, and told him he'd just earned an extra present from Santa for saying such a sweet and wonderful thing.  Then I shot him down that no, Santa would not be bringing him an Xbox or a Wii based upon a lovely compliment to his sister, but he should remember lines like that when he gets older. 

 

 

Descent into Madness...

You think I'm talking about moving?



Hell, no.


Hi, my name is Jen, and I am a birthday-holic.

 

Hi Jen.

 

Yes, friends, that time is almost upon us. We alternate years here. An even year means Big gets a party, odds are reserved for Little O. (If I ever have a third, I am screwed on several levels.)

Little O was enchanted with the Alien masks we made for Big O's party last year. Being a soon to be five year old girl, however, as well as being MY daughter, Little O had to bring it up a notch (Okay, that might have been me). But the theme is totally on her. It started out very simply. Then Cade at daycare told her he did not want a GIRLY mask. So I found a boy thing. But for the mask to work, the ears were going to have to be attached separately, and would spin.

It's HER birthday, for Pete's sake. The boys can't have something COOLER than the girls.


Which is how I ended up making thirty-two tissue paper flowers (and counting).

 

My name is Jen. I'm a birthday-holic.

Little O

...Mama, do you like King Crab?

Um, sure, I guess, Baby.

When I am Seventeen, I will buy you King Crab for Christmas and I will wrap it up and you will love it.

Okay, Baby. I'm sure I will.



Daddy? WhenIamseventeenmamawill sitwhereyousitandyouwillsitwhere
BigOsitsandIwilldrivebecause
seventeenisabiggirlandIwilldrive.

mmm...okay, Baby.

*****************

Mama pretend that I am the pretend baby and you are the pretend mama and this is the pretend blanket, and the pretend baby wants the pretend mama to wrap her up in the pretend blanket. Pretend babies cry like this.....

There are days when my daughter has trouble rememebering to breathe because she talks so much. My mother laughs her muwahhahaha laugh and says that it is such sweet payback , and that I have several more years , right up until she turns into a sullen teenager and slams the door. I love listening to her and dread the day that the door slams.

But she is exhausting.

You forget so many of the little things...

I adore the way small children think.

I told Little O that I love her bunches.

She one-upped me and told me that she loves me bunches of much.

You think you won't ever forget the funny things that they say.

But they fade, and just tickle your conscious brain as you watch them play vidoe games or patiently fly kites with their little sister. It kills me that I did not document more of Big O's amazing thought processes when he was her age. He was such a funny kid. I feel almost guilty documenting Little O without a corresponding Big O memory.