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.

I wish you could see her...

I HAVE to figure out how to post cell phone video.

Because there are few things better than Little O with her newest obsession...

She does the sprinkler. All Damn day.

hi-larious.

She's also reading Ramona Quimby, Age 8 to herself. In Kindergarten.(!)

Seis--Happy Birthday, Little O

How can she be six?

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.

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?

Mini Me

Last night I asked Little O to bring me my crack Starbuck's cup from the other room.

She ran to get it, and when she hit the living room, she paused, held it up and sang "Ahhh-AHHHHH!"

Oh, my bloggy friends, what have I done? This is sooooo my move. Down to the holding it up as if a light was shining down from the clouds.

I was dying.

I asked Little O what that was about, and she says,

"It's the Magic of Coffee, Mama."

If she ever stopped talking to take a breath, and did not demand active participation in her conversations these days, I would keep her home instead of sending her to Preschool, today.

Love my O's.

...And we're back.

I read the blogs of the parents whose children strive for A's. Who cry when the dreaded B appears. Then there is my eldest, who sadly takes after his mother and finds ANYTHING else to do when homework is due. It hasn't been a WEEK, people. Huge blue stamp in the handy planner required by school....ASSIGNMENT NOT TURNED IN.


It hasn't been a WEEK. Foolish me for not checking this thing Friday night when I got him back from his lame-O/touchy feely/let's do affirmations father. Um, how about doing affirmations while you CHECK HIS WORK?

I am going to be on my poor kid like white on rice. We WILL develop some kind of discipline before high school. He HAS to go to college. Or become a plumber. Who will buy me pudding when I'm old?

Not.Even.One.Week.


sigh.

While you are contemplating my life under the bridge at seventy, go peek at this site to see why I am going to Hell. It makes me laugh. Maybe I should write a letter.

Happy Birthday, Big O!

I don't know which of these pictures he'll hate more, but I'm saving them both for prom...


Happy 12th birthday, Bubby!

It's good for the Soul...

I have a confession.

In this journey of self discovery we call life, there are times when you have to face certain truths about yourself.

Sometimes they are not pretty.

I am a handbag whore.

I'm not saying that I'll spend thousands on a Coach bag. No, no. That would make me a high class call girl kind of handbag whore.

I am like a crow with shiny objects. I am simple. I am called by a shape, or a design element, and if it's more than forty bucks, I'll touch it one more time and regretfully move on... I do not need one more bag, certainly not another one that is more than I spend on my son's shoes.

But oh, I have discovered a crack in my willpower armor.

My daughter has five purses. She is four years old. That's averaging more than a purse a year.

To be fair, one is a vinyl Hello Kitty that her daddy got for her when I sent him out to get her a lunch box (I could have kissed him, and it really is the right size for a preschooler's lunch!). One was given to her by her favorite auntie, for her birthday, with a matching hat. One came from the demon Target dollar bin.

Here's the shame...

One is a cute little brown and pink corduroy barrel bag from the gap. I loved it. Little O? meh.

Friday we went to the dollar store. After lecturing my sweet girl that she only got ONE dollar, and she would have to choose her treat carefully, I saw it.

Little O could have cared less.

I was forced to admit that there was no way we were leaving the store without that bag, and told my girl she could pick one more thing.

That's her Strawberry Shortcake doll sticking out of the top. She likes this one more than the last one, and is already using it. But she could have lived without it. It would have caused me physical pain to leave it behind.

Oh, the shame...

It's about the Spirit of the law, not the letter. Right??

Here's my Supa-star, holding her glove, rather than wearing it. But she IS implementing the step-and-throw combo we've worked on all season. She just likes it to be in slow motion, so she's sure everyone is watching her.

Here she's making her stately progression towards first. A Princess doesn't really RUN, you see...

I have decided that since you cannot see her face, it doesn't count as posting an actual photo of her. In fact, this is not my child AT ALL.

My girl is so freaking cute that it KILLS me not to post photos. It causes me actual physical pain. She is THAT cute.

Did I mention that I signed up to be team parent, and that I have no idea what that means? I took down names for snack, and I am faking cheesy gifts for the coach and his assistant. Was there supposed to be more to it? Oh, well....one more game to go.

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

More amazing Meme Madness Later this week, kids!

On the book front?
Nora, Nora, Nora.
You don't have to put recipies at the end. It makes you seem very needy, and you are the bestselling women's fiction/smut/romance author EVER. You have to have outsold Danielle Steel years ago. Quite frankly, you're better than that. If you have a crazy gun toting granny who sets funeral homes on fire in your next book, I may have to break up with you. It was a great book except for that bit at the end.

xoxo,

Jen

MMMMMust RRResist.....Don' t DO it, Jennifer!

Okay, nope, gotta be a harsh judgemental bitch about people in crisis.

So I just saw this blurb about the British couple vacationing in Portugal, who have lost their four year old daughter. Because they left her in the hotel room with her two year old siblings.

WTF?

I feel like I have a certain license to speak, as I am currently PARENTING a four year old daughter. So I say again, WTF?

They went to dinner at the hotel restaurant, and left the kids alone in the room? I still get a twinge letting Big O watch her when I run to the market around the corner and he is eleven. What do you do if the hotel catches fire? What food is so important that you leave your kids alone ANYWHERE when the eldest is four? FOUR.

Now everyone is offering money to them to offer as rewards, and if it gets her back, bravo. But then you bring the almighty smackdown on them for leaving their children alone in a strange place, and make sure that they do not keep the leftover money, so they can breed more kids to lose.

I debate taking down my header about Darwin every once in a while, because I am not always about the ranting so much as the rambling, but you know what? These people are exactly what I was talking about.

Fucking unbelievable.

How many years ago?

When Spiderman came out, we took Big O to see it on the big screen, and in the middle of the movie, I looked over to see how he liked it, and he was flashing his wrist up at the ceiling. It took me a minute to recognize that he was trying to get webs to come out.

Now he's almost a teenager, laughing at jokes that I think he probably shouldn't understand, and growing up. He has a new buddy, and this guy is into Pokemon, so Big O is totally back into it. I enjoy the dorkier side of my kid.
( I appreciate his wit, but he is still learning when he can BE flip. Know your audience, grasshopper--And don't push your luck.)

The other day, driving his buddy home, we passed some girls walking. Buddy rattled on about Pokemon, oblivious. Big O's head was firmly trained on the girls. On a swivel.

sigh.

I am so not ready for this.

I am proud of the young man he is becoming, but I miss the little guy who panicked when he read "monster tacos" at Jack in the Box, and tried casting his own webs.

Girls? I am not ready for his heartaches and unrequited crushes. Who is going to explain sex to him?
Because it definitely should NOT be his father.

I'm just sayin'.

Preschool Whorez

Bratz of the brat
Originally uploaded by nickurt.

I hate Bratz. They have been banned from Little O's life, and let me tell ya, If I thought I could get away with banning Barbie, I probably would have. But every little girl loves barbies, and at least they pretend that she has occasional lapses of cognition. There are still a lot more dream date/beach babe/princess barbies than Dr./Lawyer/Veterenarian.

Bratz sink it to a whole new level. They have Baby Bratz! Diapers and Half shirts with Angelina Jolie lips painted blood red!

There are two posts that I really loved, that I am linking to.

Scholastic, the people who send out the book order forms into schools, have picked up Bratz as a brand, and are making little Bratz novellas.

Izzy Mom says it much better than I could.

The other link I am giving you is to a lovely movement called Moms for Modesty, because the fashion world insists on dressing our children like tiny adults. Or maybe like tiny video whores. There is no cause, ever, for a leather miniskirt in a size four. My only problem with this organization is that part of their mission statement is that it's unfair to boys for girls to dress provocatively, and that statement creeps me out. To me it condones the whole "she was dressed like a slut so she was asking for it" thing. They state very clearly that if you disagree with any part of their mission statement, they would prefer you not to display their stuff. So be it. But Moms for Modesty still has some very good things to say.

HELP!

Do you read Sci-fi?

Help! Was there sex in Hitchhikers Guide? I want something new for my eleven year old, and I don't remember any, but it has been oh holy mother of dog twenty years since I read them. If he picks up Captain Underpants one more time, I may burn them all. He has also taken to reading My Side of the Mountain over and over again--this, I totally get. He can read Harry Potter with no real problems, and I think he would love Adams.
But is there sex? My dad handed me 1984 when I was in the fourth grade, and man, just because I COULD read it doesn't mean I was ready for it. I'd like to avoid doing that to Big O.

My Honest Child...

Little O had a fabulous birthday, got a Little Mermaid scooter to go with her new helmet and elbow/knee pads. She was dying to to try it all out after school today. We got her into all of her safety gear, and began our circuit of the block.

Halfway through she looks at me and says,

"Mama, this is not a lot of fun, but it is a little fun."

Love my O's.

Mom Moment

hair
Originally uploaded by dandegez.

Little O just complained as I was brushing her hair.
She heaves a big sigh, and says "Mama, you are messing up my DOWN hair!"

I was brushing her bangs back.

Don't mess with the DOWN hair.

Love my O's...

Mom Moment 2

My kids are so different. Big O (my boy) was into EVERYTHING. He analyzed everything mechanical and took everything apart.
When he was two he locked himself in the bathroom with the with the water running in the sink so he could stop it up and play. I didn't want to panic him when I couldn't get the door open, so I just kept talking cheerily to him as I unscrewed the doorknob. Naturally, the doorknob fell off the other side, and the stupid door stayed locked. I eventually had to chip away at the solid core door (and doorjam) with a hammer and screwdriver until I could get the damned thing open. We had just moved in, and my brother always shakes his head and wonders why I didn't call the fire department. They are for EMERGENCIES, life and death, not stupidity and lack of foresight. (Aren't they?) My hallway was flooded in about two inches of water. We had to have the bathroom floor ripped out. It was a lovely way to begin our tenure as homeowners.
When he was four he went out into our childproofed (HA!) back yard and flipped the breaker for the house. I was thirty before I touched one!
But that's Big O.
Little O is going to talk me to death. At three and a half, her bigest joy is roleplaying like a chipmunk on speed. okayyoubeBeauty,andI'llbeBeastOkaynowI'MBeautyandyoubetheBeast. YoubethemamaandI'llbethebabynowyoubethebabyandI'LLbethemama.
Little O, It is now 11:30. Please go to sleep. Please, please go to sleep. She has not taken anything apart, unless you count my sanity. I relay this to my mama-san and she laughs. One of my strongest memeories of childhood is sitting behind her in the car, and she always said the same thing.
"Jennifer, I want five minutes... Five minutes of Complete silence. Not a word, not a peep. No. Shhhh..." I averaged about two minutes before I felt compelled to argue the fairness of this sentence or spotted a license plate that everyone needed to see, or wondered why we had TEN toes, not twelve.
Aaah, payback.

Mom Moment

I listen to new parents tell me that they cannot wait until their child is able to talk. To communicate.
I don't laugh at them. I don't lecture them about enjoying the silence while they can. I don't even roll my eyes.

Bwahahahahhahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I am the mother of a three and a half year old.

Have you ever seen the Saturday Night Live skit with Noony? nuuni? gneuni? It's not hysterically funny to me, and I always heave a sigh when one comes on, because they tend to drag them out too long. But in the midst of another long circuitous conversation with my daughter it occurred to me that I am living that skit. I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is she wants me to repeat, but she is going to be like a dog with a bone until I get it right.
GNEUNI?
no, say noony.
NOONY.
no no no say newknee
NOONY
no NO NO

It's like she's reading me the IKEA catalog. She is the only one who knows the word I'm supposed to be repeating, or looking at. God help me when we're driving and she says look. Because the answer to the question look at what? is invariably the word "that." But she's old enough now that she knows the um-hmm, and the yes, that's nice. She now wants interactive feedback on "that." Specific, interactive feedback.

I can't wait for your child to communicate either, guys. I just can't wait.