VivaCity

2009-03-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one for the books.

I dropped my son off at daycare without incident. At this point, I should have returned home, crawled under the covers, and pretended not to realize it wasn’t a three-day weekend. Memorial Day is in May? Shit! I knew it was an M-month.

I drove approximately two feet towards work before noticing an angry red light on my console strongly suggesting I check my gage. I did so, only to discover my engine temperature was rocketing up towards a little picture of a volcano erupting. Crap. I’m no mechanic, but I believe that’s hot.

I pulled over to the side of the road, cursing my procrastinating ways and that for-emergency-use-only cell phone I’d been mulling over. The one I hadn’t gotten around to purchasing yet. You know the one.

I turned around and headed back home, pulling over every thirty seconds or so to let the molten lava indicator cool down. Several hours later, I arrived home. Nathaniel, beautiful fantastic hunk of a man that he is, flew to my rescue and replaced the engine thermostat, ecstatic that in my woman-driver ignorance I had not gunned a smoking hot engine, blowing it to smithereens. I had somehow overcome the conundrum of being both a woman and a driver and made him proud. I try.

Since the day was only half-wasted, I got back on the road (I just don’t learn, do I?!) and headed to work.

Shortly after arriving at the office, and only just after having explained for the trillionth time what had waylaid me, my phone rings. And…get this…I answer it! No! No I won’t ever learn! EVAAHHH! Mu-ahahahaha!

It was, of course, daycare. My son had…the runs (thanks, Grandma, your pc terms are still useful in polite society) and was…this part kills me…CRYING, they said. He just keeps crying, they said. Have you MET my son, I wanted to scream?! My cry-baby whiner of a pitiful mess? He cries! This is what he does! If he were NOT crying, I would be alarmed. For the squirts, however, and only for the squirts, shall I retrieve him.

Ever so grateful to have gotten an entire HOUR out of the day’s parking cost, I said good-bye to downtown and began my forty-five minute commute. Again.

My younger son seemed to be fine, other than his painful trips to the restroom. Poor thing. Once done, though, he would return to his usual not-listening, defiant self, so it couldn’t have been too serious. The daycare fare, perhaps? SLOPPY JOES for lunch, you say?? Hmmm.

After having picked up my older son from kindergarten, where he was told he couldn’t hand out the birthday party invitations we had painstakingly prepared for his two best friends if he didn’t have one for everyone (NINETEEN KIDS! I think not), we wrapped up the day with nary another blog-worthy incident.

Cut to the crack of dawn this morning, and Spence, my older son, throwing open our bedroom door to announce HE FEELS LIKE THROWING UP and crying his eyes out. Spence does not cry, as Jude does, so I was ready to pronounce it serious as hell, until my dear ailing boys began to fight tooth and nail over what movie to watch while they rested.

Spence, hands braced against the toilet tank, bent at the waist and staring at the water…”You know what REALLY makes me want to throw up?”

Stupid Me: “What, honey, what?”

Spence, with all the venom he could muster: “Blue’s Clues.”

2009-02-27T12:20:00.000-08:00

Well I was all set to come on here and joyously announce that my younger son, Julian, having reached the mature age of three, had finally broken his annoying habit of using the restroom. You may think me an awful parent for saying as much, but I’d almost prefer to go back to diapers at this point. Allow me to illustrate.

Nighttime rolls around, and with it that odd human ritual of retiring to bed. I am no dummy; I have read many books. Routine is key, they say! Routine is essential. You’ve been spot-on so far, Dr. Spock, let’s go. And so the rounds of “good-nights” and the brushing of the teeth and the using of the restroom commence. In that order. Very important. Using the restroom (I dislike the word “potty” almost as much as the word “fart,” just not very phonetically pleasing in my opinion) is last, must be last, in this strictly-adhered-to bedtime routine. There must not be a drop existing in my dear boy’s bladder. Stay with me now…

March up to bed, hugs, tuck my baby in, kiss on forehead, exit stage left. These are my directives, and I follow them. I am no parenting fool. There will be no one to sue if I haven’t followed the instructions in the books to the letter and my kid is still screwed up.

Close the door, head downstairs, begin to spend quality time with my older son, who has spent the evening completely ignored while I tend to his little brother’s constant crying. This kid has cried a river, literally. Poor neglected Spence could be building a nuclear missile with his Elmer’s and Popsicle sticks for all I know. He is a very bright boy. You should probably watch how you speak to him.

Fast forward five minutes…at this point Spence is just getting to the good part of the Story of His Day, which is of course what his best friend had for lunch, when inevitably…cccrrreeeaaakkk…a door opens upstairs. This is also part of the bedtime routine, the part my youngest has so thoughtfully tacked on, this last struggle, because we haven’t had enough struggles throughout the day. Here we go.

Step, pause. Step, pause. Step, pause. The entire point of Getting Back Up is to avoid at all costs the falling asleep part, which must be terrifying surrounded by favorite stuffed animals and love. Really.

So he drags it out as much as possible, until I can’t take it anymore and yell JOOOO-LEEEE-AN! GET DOWN HERE! My teeth are already on edge at this point from the sheer anticipation of the frustration I know is in store. Damn it. Let’s get this over with.

He hurries down the stairs, avoiding eye contact because HE KNOWS I KNOW HE KNOWS I KNOW. There is no way his little body could possibly have manufactured more than two drops of urine in the past five minutes. This is physically impossible. However, I would have to call the Department of Human and Child Whatever-the-Hell-it’s-Called and turn myself in for piss-poor parenting (no pun intended) were I to deny him the right to use the restroom. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in most states.

So into the restroom he goes. He pantomimes using it and returns, all doe-eyed and innocent, looking for what I am no longer offering at the three-year-old stage of the game…being tucked back into bed. No way, buddy. I am OVER this transparent attempt for attention. I have given you nothing but attention since you popped out of bed before the sun rose this morning. I have given and given and given of myself, and have nothing left in the parental coffers to negotiate with. And if I do, I’m giving it to Spence.

I direct him back upstairs with a point of my finger and a hard line of my mouth. No words are needed. We’ve played this game every night since he crossed that line into Big Boy Land. He is three freaking years old, no longer a baby, and I’m done.

He knows. His face has begun to screw itself up into that pitiful pout before my pointing arm is fully extended. I’ve rolled the dice on The Waterworks, and lost. It will take him a while to get up the stairs and back into bed himself, but the wait is worth it. The wait while he offers up pathetic fake crying from his bedroom (a long, long time) is also worth it. Because if Dr. Spock is worth his salt, this too shall pass. I simply must be an emotionless rock for the duration and not give in to the desire to make it momentarily easier on everyone and tuck him in again. That would solve nothing. He’d be coming home from high school, hanging up his car keys, and waiting for me to tuck him in. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Last night, dear Reader(s), we had reached a glorious summit. I was beginning to see the sunlight on the other side, just barely peeking around this gigantic freaking mountain we had finally scaled. I felt like a marathon runner, completely out of breath and patience, ready to drop from exhaustion, arms raised in a giant ‘V’ for victory. The boy went down, and…drumroll, please…stayed down. It was absolutely surreal. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. IT DIDN’T. Tears of joy barely kept in check, I hugged my older son and got back to that crazy little thing called My Life.

Two hours later, Julian crapped his pants in his sleep.

2009-02-19T08:41:00.000-08:00

Although I'm sure all of you are more than capable of following a link, I feel absolutely driven to re-post Michael Ian Black's parenting advice in its glorious entirety, below. Such sage advice. I am blessed to have stumbled upon it.

Some Advice On Child Rearing

Although I usually don’t talk much about my personal life on this blog, I thought I would make an exception today because so many people write to me with questions about how to raise their children. As regular readers know, I have two children, Suri and Maddox, and they are, as one prominent child psychiatrist put it, “perfect.”

Raising perfect children is a combination of science and art. Some would argue that genetics also play a role, but that would give partial credit to the children themselves, which is nonsense. No, when raising perfect children, the credit belongs to the parent or parents who are actually doing the hard work of molding perfection from witless lumps of flesh; just as you wouldn’t credit the stone for Michelangelo’s “David,” nor should you credit the child for their own fortunate happenstance of being raised by me (and to a much lesser extent, my wife).

Question: how do I do it? How do I manage to maintain a busy professional and social life while simultaneously imparting all of my knowledge, grace, and humility to my offspring? Answer: with a big heart and a firm hand.

First, the tough stuff – punishment, because that’s what everybody wants to know. “How do I discipline my child in a safe and loving way?” Read on.

Now, I am not an advocate of corporal punishment because, frankly, it doesn’t work. When a child misbehaves, I never spank or hit that child. Instead, I follow our president’s lead – I use waterboarding. Now, obviously you don’t waterboard every time a child acts up because that would cause the punishment to lose its efficacy. Instead, you reserve “going swimming,” as I call it, for those occasions when the child has acted so egregiously (peeing on the toilet seat, leaving hand prints on the glass door) that you simply have no choice.

When most people hear the term “waterboarding,” they immediately think about what a small number of our interrogators did (or do) to a small number of high-value detainees at some of our nation’s detention facilities. And if you believe the liberal news media, you would think that this kind of treatment is beyond the pale. Well, I don’t know how they waterboard at Gitmo, but the way we do it at our house is to hold the child upside down, put a wet wash cloth over his or her mouth, pinch the child’s nose shut, and then pour a thin stream of water into the mouth. Believe me, this is not torture. If it was, it would be illegal, and as our president has made clear, this is within the bounds of the law. It’s just simulated drowning. The child is never in any actual danger, but it sure scares the pants off them!

That’s the key to punishing your children: make the punishment severe enough that it has the desired effect – namely, to get them to stop the behavior that got them punished in the first place! Trust me, time-outs only get you so far. Now, just the threat of being waterboarded is enough to get their attention. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I had to take out the washcloth.

(By the way, this particular form of punishment has in no way deterred the kids from actually going swimming. Suri and Maddox are both excellent swimmers and love going in the pool.)

But punishment is only one half of the equation when it comes to raising perfect children. The other, more important part is love. Love your children like the precious gifts they are. You know that old saying: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry?” This is especially true in the parent/child relationship. My children know I love them because I never apologize to them. This may sound odd, but it’s important to remember that, to a child, you are like the Mighty Zeus: all-powerful. When you apologize to your child, the façade of infallibility crumbles and you look like just another schnook instead of a godhead. Be a godhead for your child.

Love also means doing stuff with your children. Stuff that both of you enjoy. Say your child loves horses. Take her to the horse track. That’s a good place to find horses. Or if your child loves baseball, take him to the horse track. That’s a sport, too. Maybe your kids love to cook. Great. Take them to the horse track. They have food there. You see? Of course if they don’t have a horse track where you live, that’s okay. You could go to the dog track.

Another piece of advice for anybody interested in raising perfect children: get an au pair. Au pairs are young girls from all over the world who come to the United States to study and learn about our culture. In exchange for a small stipend plus room and board, they agree to look after your children for up to forty five hours a week. That’s a lot of time that you don’t have to watch your kids! Maybe that sounds counterintuitive; after all, shouldn’t you spend as much time with your kids as possible? No, no, and no! The last thing you want is for your kids to take you for granted. The less they see of you the better. Plus, having an au pair means you get to have a young European girl living with you. Far out! There’s nothing like a little “cultural exchange” to keep parenting exciting. The kids learn a lot, and so do you.

Finally, make sure to tell your kids you love them every single day. This may sound obvious, but you’d be surprised how many parents neglect to tell their children these simple three words. I don’t know. Maybe they don’t love their kids as much as I love mine. That’s probably it. But even if your children aren’t as perfect as mine and you don’t love them that much, fake it. That way, they won’t be able to pull that “my parents never told me they loved me” crap so popular on therapist’s couches all over the country. I tell my kids I love them even when I’m giving them a simulated drowning. Why? Because it reinforces the idea that what they’re experiencing is their fault.

I could probably write a whole book about parenting perfect children, and one day I probably will. But if you follow the advice I’ve just given you for free, chances are your children will wind up just as perfect as mine. (I’m obviously exaggerating to make a point – your children will never be as perfect as mine. Not that it’s a competition. But if it was, your kids would lose.)

Posted by michael black on July 6, 2008 Permalink

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For more witty insight whilst you wait for my procrastinating ass to post something, anything, head over to http://www.michaelianblack.net/blog/ .

2009-01-21T13:41:00.000-08:00

I attended the inauguration yesterday with my father (thanks Dad!) at a local theater projecting a live broadcast on the big screen. It was definitely a memorable experience. A sample of the crowd gathered on the Mall, we were of all ages, races, sex and creed. To leap to one's feet in the company of others moved as you are by an inspiring moment...priceless. To look around and realize you're not the only pathetic sap dabbing your eyes...invaluable. To witness a return to power of my beloved English language...a moment to cherish. I can hardly wait to tell my sons the story of when wonderfully intelligent words in the proper context made Mommy's heart sing.

My favorite part had to be when Yo-Yo Ma & Co. were playing and Obama looked out over the sea of faces upturned to his. The sheer magnitude of the responsibility was profound. All of these people are expecting you to lead them to the Promised Land. It's funny, though, he doesn't get up behind that podium and say, Tomorrow I will fix all your problems. He is masterful in his ability to take stock of our situation and say, This isn't working. This is going to be hard, we will have to change, this will be hard, so much work to be done, this will be hard. And we listen and say, Ok. Yes. And amen.

Something my aunt once told me has stayed with me...Things are going to be what they are. You can be happy, or you can be sad, but things are what they are. She was brilliant in her simplicity. What is today, simply is. What we may control is our reaction, our emotion. We are in the same position we were when we rolled out of bed yesterday, but the difference today is...hope. Sometimes that's all you need.

2009-01-12T13:05:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!! Now bugger off, '08, who needs ya. You bent us over and left us crying in the corner. The good news is that there's nowhere to go but UP from here, loveys!

I'm happy to report we've survived the holidays, a little worse for the wear but intact. If only the gosh-darned weather would let up, we could recover fully from the deluge of illnesses sunny Ohio has to offer. Tell her what she's won, Bob! It's a brand-new case of strep!! Twice so far this season, but who's counting? And to top it off, another foot of snow greeted us Saturday morning. The kids said, SNOW! Oh my gosh, can you believe it, look at all the wonderful, packable, sled-able, sparkling fresh SNOW! Yaaaayyyy...and I felt like screaming.

A bright spot on the horizon, however, is that blessed holiday after the holidays...Tax time! 2009 ushers us in with a little money slipped in the back pocket and a whispered promise of spring just around the corner. I'm wondering what this year has in store for us? I'm feeling very hopeful, with My Main Man moonwalking into the White House. 2009, if nothing else, heralds the return of intelligence and a firm command of the English language to power. You go boy.

In other news, dear Spence's vacation from school has ended, and mine ends on the 20th. He returns with barely-concealed jubilation at the prospect of learning again! I return with a slightly more subdued, if realistic, outlook. I did receive straight A's on my first semester. You'd think if I was so smart, though, I'd know better than to set the bar so damned high. What the hell, Cera.

Julian is growing like a weed. He still, however, insists on whining and crying his way through every obstacle. He's almost three, for crying out loud (literally), when will it end? We're doing everything right, or according to the experts, I should say, encouraging the hell out of his vocabulary and discouraging these endless tantrums. I have this recurring nightmare where I'm attending his high school graduation and he throws down his diploma in mid-step and begins flailing his arms and crying about his untied shoelace...Lord help me.

Sumbitch! Look-a like-a time to go! Wishing you the best in '09, dear Reader(s),
I remain faithfully,
Cera

2008-10-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

I apologize to those who've already seen this and/or were completely pissed off that my main man comandeered the major networks like he did. I post this for those like myself, who have had to cut cable in order to keep the heat on this winter. Rabbit-ears reception don't do the man justice. For those who are struggling, like us, watch. For those who see only the color of his skin...close your eyes and listen.

2008-10-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

Exciting news...Spence has lost his first tooth! While on a field trip to an orchard with his class yesterday, he bit into an apple and lo and behold...that wiggly son of a gun just popped right out. I was under the impression these things didn't start happening 'til later, a couple of years maybe, but what the hell do I know. The adult tooth has already emerged, formidable white ridges rising above the gumline, so clearly it is time and I'm an uninformed idiot. I'm losing my grip on my defense mechanism of denial. He's growing up before my eyes, against my fervent wishes for him to remain small and needy and cuddly. Of course we still cuddle. I reserve the right to cuddle my son to my dying day, gangly and independent as he may grow. ADULT teeth, ladies and gentlemen, we are entering a strange new world here, despite my firmly planted heels and eyes squeezed shut against reality.

In other news in The Land of Brazen Independence, Julian is completely potty-trained. STOP THE INSANITY. Of course I don't mourn the loss of diaper money each week, but I do wistfully remember his needing me more. Now he trots off to answer the call of duty all on his own while I sit like a bump on a log. I'm probably the only parent on the freaking planet who is complaining about this, and don't get me wrong, I certainly don't miss lugging supplies all over creation or the smell of opening a freshly created present, I'm just saying...They don't NEED me. Luckily they still like me, and will keep me around for the moment.

School is going well, both for Spence and myself. I'm a straight-A student! I can say this because I've completed exactly one class and have earned an A in this, the easiest hey-dummy-this-isn't-high-school orientation class. The other two classes I'm taking this semester may reveal more about my scholastic aptitude when my true report card comes out in December. One semester down, 10 billion to go. This is going to take me foooreeeeveeeerrrr...

And Spence landed himself a ticket into a gifted reading class with his phenomenal assessment scores. Clearly things have changed since my elementary school days...He's already had his first offer of boyfriend-hood from a chicky-poo. A brainiac nerd outcast he is definitely not. Alas, the girl in question has been labeled a "potty-word" girl by my young Price Charming and let down easily. We simply don't associate with people who use potty words. We shan't, lovey, we simply shan't.

If I'm boring you to tears, hold on, it's almost over.

To those like myself, cringing at the thought of the long harsh winter spent pent up indoors, I would like to recommend...drumroll please...karaoke. Get out, have a couple of drinks with friends, and SING YOUR HEART OUT. I can't tell you what an effective stress-reliever it is to stand up and belt out those feelings. Try it!

2008-06-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

The Supreme Court ruled today that the death penalty cannot be sought when convicting someone of the rape of a child. In a 5-4 vote this morning, they more or less threw out the death sentence already handed down to a Louisiana man convicted of raping his 8-year-old stepdaughter. Apparently the conviction stands, but the monster must be re-sentenced. The five states that have heretofore allowed the death penalty for child rape must now, of course, abide by this tragedy of a decision.

Thanks so much, Justice Kennedy. Thank you for broadcasting the message that if you commit a crime of this particular nature, come on down, we'll house you, clothe you, and give you three square meals a day.

Yes, I understand when Justice Kennedy says execution is not a "proportional punishment" for child rape. You are absolutely right, sir, it is far too quick, painless and humane as opposed to what their victims will suffer with every day for the rest of their lives. It's not proportional at all. But to my thinking, this particular breed of criminal falls into another category entirely, one which we certainly can and will utilize the death penalty and/or torture the shit out of under guise of interrogation, and that is "terrorist." Merriam-Webster defines terrorism as "the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion," and further defines coercing as "to restrain or dominate by force."

In today's world, where we bend the rules and interpret the law to satisfy our own ends, to justify domestic espionage and strip us of our civil liberties and whatever the hell else Dubya feels like doing when he wakes up on any given day...Why not bend those rules a bit in our favor? I've heard the Patriot Act applied to just about every nonsensical scenario in which they simply couldn't come up with something better, and you know it. I've lost a lot of faith in my country since Dubya stumbled up to the podium and started rambling about God-knows-what because he isn't speaking English...I think I could find a little patriotism left in me to give to a country where Homeland Security means the security of our children in their own homes.

I sincerely hope "Patriot Act," "Homeland Security" and "terrorism" blip across some secret agent's radar screen and they read this. How about it, guys?

2008-06-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

A visit to dooce.com is always good for a chuckle and a reality check. Why did I stop writing, again? I'm just as good as any of the other 2.5 billion pointless bloggers out there, am I right? Can I get an Amen?! No? That's fine, too. Your surf-weary, slack-jawed, undivided attention is all I really require. Aaand...veg.

We are entering a brave new world. My oldest son starts honest-to-God school in the fall, real elementary school, and I am pissing my pants with fear. He's elated, of course, he's FIVE, what does he know of bullies and teasing and cliques? Kindergarten, dear Reader, is the gateway to hell and you know it. This is how it begins, milk carton planters made with safety scissors and love and the musty yet wonderful smell of real chapter books in the library...but before too long, it will be Where did you get that shirt, the Goodwill? and Oh my gosh, he's getting straight A's, like, ewww.

I'm desperately trying to reign in my own notions of school-age society and allow him his own experience. I don't want to overshadow his brightly innocent entry into school with my own painful memories of staring at that caged-in clock (why the little cage? anyone??) and fervently wishing the hands forward. Because yes, I did get this shirt at the Goodwill, thanks for asking.

I do recall the change that happened when my parents moved for the last time. I was in the eighth grade, and somehow slipped getting off of the bus and fell into the reasonably-cool crowd. I never looked back. It was WONDERFUL. But worth the eons spent trudging through those elementary and middle school hallways wishing I could melt into the floor? Doubtful. I am not exaggerating, by the way, to those that may enjoy my occasional sarcastic melodrama. I still deal with the residual effects of horrific posture after slouching my way through those growing years. What's a nerd to do.

So it's not quite so simple, for me anyways, as just waving them off on their first real bus ride. There are more crucial decisions to be made, monumental questions to ask myself, like do I risk a cartoon character on his backpack or play it safe and go with a solid color? Do I enroll him in martial arts classes immediately or wait until he's slightly more coordinated before teaching him eight different ways to break a man's neck? Like age six or seven, maybe?

Of course we want the best for our kids. Everyone says, I want my kids to have more than I had. I say, I want them to have 25 times as much as I had. And I'm not just speaking financially, I mean in the richness of their school experiences and beyond. LAWD am I ever digressing into sappiness. Throw me a lifeline here, I'm drowining in this sickly sweet shit.

Let me wrap this up before the flies start circling. When my son starts school in the fall, I hope to find a happy balance for my neurotic ass, somewhere between PTA president and vegan home-schooler. Although I'd happily settle for PTA president.

2008-05-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

Look for the...bare necessities, the simple bare necessities...forget about your worry and your strife...You know, I used to be hip. I used to be cool, I used to be bad-ass, I swear it. These days I am a bona fide MOM, Mindless Operating Machine, complete with drool stains on my shoulders and a haunting Disney melody continuously looping in my brain. They're coming to take me away, ha ha, ho ho, hee hee...

I just had to get on here, my tiny voice in the world, and say GIVE IT UP CLINTON! Obama is, I sincerely hope, the obvious Democratic nominee and Ms. C. is making all nagging, stubborn hags look bad. Or worse, rather. We don't appreciate it. So please, please just stop. Stop borrowing money, stop threatening to run third-party, just stop. My respect for Ms. C. dwindles a little each day she stays in this race. Again, she's giving all of us with soccer-mom haircuts and wide smiles a bad name. Knock it off.

With that said, and with the clock running out on this workday (thank God), I bid thee farewell, dear Reader(s), and promise to return shortly with even more stunningly insightful fodder for your Internet-weary eyes. Stay tuned!

2008-02-05T10:15:00.000-08:00

BIG NEWS!! You'll forget all about how horribly I've neglected you, dear Reader(s), when you hear that...We are moving!

Moving on ou-uuut...to the west side...We're packing up the whole show and hitting the road, bound for a western suburb where dear Spence will attend kindergarten in a DECENT public school system in the fall, and Mommy won't have to make good on her vow to Daddy, Over my dead body. Over my dead body will my children attend Cleveland Public Schools. These schools have got THE WORST reputation in the state, if not the country. Horrific.

So I shall valiantly take one for the team and make the commute into the city to continue my quest to become the World's Best Legal Assistant. Look for me in Guiness.

I'm rather excited, actually. The old man is in contractor heaven right now, fixing up our little fixer-upper, whilst I pack up 10,000 parts to 100,000 toys and prepare for the Big Move. We're a well-oiled machine, the old man and I.

Spencer, on the other hand, doesn't quite seem to believe the Big Move to be real. Tell us another one, Mom, tell us the one about the three pigs now. We've been discussing moving for so long (have I mentioned how much I dislike Cleveland Public Schools?) that it has ceased to hold its charm for him. I don't think he'll believe us until we arrive and he lays eyes on the ending to the Big Move fairy tale...The Yard. And they lived happily ever after.

2007-11-27T09:29:00.000-08:00

Hah! A-member me? (Think Eddie Murphy doing Buckwheat.)

There are no words in the English language to convey the pace of nonstop insanity 'round these hee-yuh pahts. A lovely, lovely girl here at work has taken three weeks off to get married and go on her honeymoon, which of course makes me so jealous I could puke...Not to mention I have to cover for her, and her three attorneys, and my three attorneys...All I'm saying is, I fully expect a Porsche parked outside with my name on it when everyone else gets their little bonus checks. It's only fair.

Then of course I've got my duties to both the Parent Committee and Policy Committee at the boys' daycare. We've also enjoyed a couple of playdates (did you know bowling is all the rage in the 4-year-old set?) and been preparing to move (I'm SO OVER this damned city) and I HAVEN'T EVEN TOUCHED ON THE HOLIDAYS YET!! It really is a mad, mad world, no doubt, and I have this crazy feeling that I alone act as the axis, holding it all together by sheer will and determination. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...I think, therefore I...can. All righty, moving right along...

Thanksgiving was lovely, thanks for asking, with Grandma's own homemade gravy and my cute little butterball (the turkey was good, too) on his best behaviour and no blood spilt amongst cousins. A Thanksgiving Day miracle, really. No stovetop fires, no ruined dishes, not even any snow (a few drops struggling to be flaky, nothing more) to block the roads. Marvelous. I still feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, honestly. It just doesn't feel like a holiday without some small catastrophe.

But we've got Christmas to look forward to now, folks, the holiday that used to be magical and full of anticipation and wonder and awe...Now it feels more like going to the gas station and getting bent over. I wish it worked that way, instead of this long torturous drawn-out event where I am nickle-and-dimed to death. I wish I could just pull up to a dispenser, empty my wallet and half my bank account into one side and out of the other side would pour some crap that won't last, because that's what I'm doing, folks! I am surely making down payments on my own demise, since any Lego or block I buy will only end up underfoot in some seemingly haphazard way that I KNOW has a larger design and purpose. I'm hip to your game, my dear boys. And when I come back from the hospital, I'll be fitted with a bionic leg, the better to kick your butts with. I hope whatever scheme I can see brewing behind those innocent baby blues is worth it.

If I sound a tad cynical, I suppose I'm just feeling that I'm shouldering a little more than my fair share these days, with no one to really gripe to except you, dear Reader(s). I appreciate you having returned to read at all, given that I'm a sporadic blogger at best (do I smell a New Year's resolution?) and if you've made it thus far, bravo, and the happiest of holidays to you and yours. :)

2007-10-11T09:08:00.001-07:00

In downtown Cleveland yesterday, there was a shooting in a high school. Apparently a multiple-weapon-slinging 14-year-old felt he had run out of options and ran amuck, shooting two students and two teachers before turning a gun on himself. Fortunately, no one sustained fatal injuries, excepting of course, the gunman (gunboy? gunchild?).

As incidents like these rise at an alarming rate, and I myself prepare to enroll my child in public schools (kindergarten next fall), I find myself feeling as helpless and upset as any parent across the country.

What if I do everything right? What if my boys grow to be angels, respectful and peaceable and loving...and just happen to be sitting in the wrong seat in the wrong classroom at the wrong time? THIS is why these incidents are OUR problem. Lay the blame for each individual incident where you will (parents? security?) but in the long run, they are society's problems (are they not society's products?) and will not be ignored.

Here is my suggestion. I propose, no, I CHALLENGE the media never to release the name(s) of the shooter(s). For this, I believe, is what the majority of them are seeking. A posthumous sort of infamy, a martyrdom, a final call for attention to what they perceive to be their insurmountable struggle. While I'm sure it does seem insurmountable to them (hell, I vividly remember the slow, cruel torture of puberty), anyone considering going out in a blaze of glory might reconsider if they knew there would be no "glory." Let us give no recognition whatsoever to those turning to guns and violence. Tell me about the victims, tell me about the families, tell me about the policy changes being enacted to prevent future tragedies...But do NOT tell me the name of the shooter. I could happily live out the rest of my days not knowing.

What do you think? This is my idea. This is just my two cents on an issue that affects us all, so please, if you have anything to add or even care to tear apart my theory, now's the time! We can write petitions, we can lobby our representatives for change...I refuse to believe we are helpless bystanders. We are the righteous majority...Let us not be cowards in the dictatorship of a brazenly immoral few.

2007-10-04T10:03:00.001-07:00

Hark! What doth approach on stealthy feet? What foe dare draw so near with hungry mouth under brazen smile? The better to steal your youth with, my dear.

My birthday, that's what. That facade of a celebration designed for people to draw 'round and analyze the shit out of you while making witty little banter, like, Oh, but you don't look a day past (insert random number here)! And all the while, their thoughts clear as ticker-tape across their foreheads...Botox...Botox...Botox...Has no one told this poor girl about Botox...

I may be a tad bitter. Just recently, while attempting to apply eyeliner, I ran into a new obstacle...This prominent WRINKLE at the corner of my eye. Son of a bitch. I fully expect a turkey-gobble-neck and some guacamole arms to match any day now.

In an effort to stave off this alien tranformation at quite this rapid pace, I've enlisted the help of one Carmen Electra. She promises to tone and tighten while teaching me, get this, how to perform a striptease. Because nothing's sexier than rapidly aging guacamole arms wrapped around a pole.

Thank you, dear reader(s), for allowing me this, the most silly, basest of vents. I fully realize that crow's feet indicate a life filled with laughter, and am grateful. For the whole package, still intact, thank God for small favors.

As for aging, I think Forrest Gump had it right when he said with such remarkable insight...Shit happens. Indeed.

2007-09-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Cera, and I'm a reality television addict.

What is it about these reality shows that captivates our attention? I have an idea. Methinks it may be the raw emotion captured on imperfect faces without pancake makeup (my God, look at her PORES!). These people seem blissfully ignorant of the camera (it's got to be RIGHT THERE, not sure how they're missing it) and completely engrossed in whatever competition/stunt/debacle they're involved in. These people seem, as far as I can tell, very...real. They look like people I could pass by on the street. And since they are not trained actors, whatever emotion dances across their faces is absolutely enthralling. That could be me, man.

If you're like me in this regard, you'll appreciate a little tip I have for you. The BEST displays of tearful passion may be found not on Rock of Love (although that show is WONDERFUL and Bret Michaels can still work it), or Survivor (where are they this season, Siberia?), or the Biggest Loser ('nuff said), or the Bachelor, but...drumroll please...the Pickup Artist.

The Pickup Artist follows the lessons being taught some seriously socially-challenged young men. The best part isn't that they're being instructed by a scarecrow in eyeliner (somehow I'm still attracted though...he's GOOD) or that their lessons have to do with lingerie and strip clubs. The best part of this hilarity hour, bar none, is elimination time, in which each young man inevitably tears up and they all hold hands and hug and profess their love for one another. Stellar performances, boys!

Congratulations to Cosmo, by the way, for being the cutest to begin with and then winning the whole shebang. Do I sense a Pickup Artist II on the way? It is VH1, after all. Love you, VH1!

2007-09-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

Ya know...You try your best. You think, as a mother, what can I do to protect my children.

It's about more than just teaching Stranger Danger and putting harmful chemicals up out of reach. It's about a million tiny decisions you make during the course of an average day.

For instance, I am always shocked and appalled to hear a parent BLASTING their music with their children in the car. Unreal. Those poor little eardrums...Not to mention the choice of song. Hmm, gee, I wonder where Junior picked up that foul language. It's a mystery.

So in my crusade to make smart choices to protect my children from the world at large, I've compiled some easy listening for car trips. A little Gavin DeGraw, a little Whitney Houston, a ton of Kenny Loggins. Kenny, I love you, marry me. We could sing the kids to sleep every night, think about it. Call me.

So imagine me, riding high on my horse of parental righteousness, in the grocery store with the boys yesterday evening. They were semi-behaving, and I thought we might escape the store unscathed (silly, silly Mommy), when out of nowhere, at the top of his lungs, Spencer belts out..."I wanna feel the HEAT with somebodyyy..."

Oh my. Just when you think you've got ONE area locked down, you're on top of it, you can rest easy on ONE subject...thanks a lot, Whitney. Ya floozy.

2007-09-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

GUESS WHAT?! Julian has...drumroll please...Gone #1 on the potty!!!!

This was a fluke, don't get me wrong, I'm not signing him up for Harvard or anything (just yet), but he did indeed use the throne for its intended use this morning!

We pulled out the little Fisher-Price(TM) kiddie potty this past weekend at the pediatrician's recommendation and set it up in its old place of honor. The idea was to get Julian familiar with the concept, and gradually ease into actually using it.

But I've never been a patient woman.

So this morning, I removed his diaper and sat him on it in the hopes that the running water of Spence and I brushing our teeth would encourage a little action on his part. And what do you know, it did!

Let's sum this up. Changes in status: Julian, High Chancellor of All He Surveys, now official proud user of An Actual Throne. Mommy, Genius Toothbrush-Water-Running Extraordinaire. Spencer, Unsuspecting Bystander, Happy Clapper.

2007-09-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

Why do the end of short weeks seem to drag on so long? Are they chronologically obligated to feel longer?? Sweet, blessed Friday, here at last. All hail Friday!

The boys are doing well, I'm happy to report. The other day at daycare pick-up, the security guard strolled over as I was buckling my brood into their car seats and asked with raised eyebrows, "Two boys?" To which I replied, "Yup!" over the din..."God bless you, ma'am," he said, shaking his head a bit, and walked away.

What upset me most about this whole transaction was that he called me "ma'am." Apparently when children are present and obviously yours, you go from "miss" to insta-ma'am. Nice. What am I, 40?

Julian, valiant contributor to above-mentioned din, seems to be toning down the royal fits we are accustomed to, and God bless him for it. It seems as he adds to his tiny vocabulary (important words like 'poo-poo,' 'uh-uh (as in, no)' and 'mine'), his frustration at the world in general lessens. You go boy!

His classmates in his new Toddler Room at daycare aren't quite so encouraging. My poor JuJuBee has come home every day looking like the world's smallest prizefighter (what's below featherweight?). It seems as the new boy in class, he's getting a lot of attention, not all of it positive. I'd be a lot more upset if I didn't remember having gone through this exact phase with Spence. The Terrible Twos are quickly approaching, dear reader(s), and we've just barely gotten past the Ornery Ones. Fantastic.

Nathaniel's expert solution was for me to inspect each and every classmate's fingernails every morning. Once I picked myself up off the floor laughing, I suggested he could do so in his own spare time, since mine is currently all booked up.

On a parting note, I'd like to say, the Air Show ROCKS. We took the kids to see it, and while Julian was less than impressed, Spence and I had a BLAST. Those Thunderbirds are kick-ass (don't tell the Blue Angels I said that) and we sincerely appreciated each and every swoop and dive and roll and maneuver they had to throw out. Friggin' awesome. I tried my best not to embarrass the kiddos, but Spence must have noticed my 12-yr-old screaming schoolgirl act, because he asked me afterwards, "You really really REALLY like dose airplanes, don't you?" Yes, yes I do.

2007-08-24T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well I'll be gull-durned, I've been given my first blogging award!

I'd like to thank Barb over at mom2momlounge.com for her thoughtful gesture. You're a peach, Barb!

Next on the agenda is my nomination for sainthood for the trials and tribulations endured by way of 'high-maintenance' child. Cera, patron saint of nutty moms everywhere.

Barb also tagged me for some sort of blog-tag-thingy (I do believe that's the technical term) in which I post '8 Random Facts About Me.' I'm a little behind in reading dear Barbie's blog, so please forgive me while I catch up with this fun bliggity-blog stuff.

8 Random Facts About Me
* I don't know how to create bullets on Blogger. Asterisks will have to do.
* I'm a stickler for proper spelling and grammar. My friends would say 'fanatic,' to whom I would say, 'i' before 'e' or bust, bitches! Except after 'c.' Let's not get carried away.
* I may have a touch of OCD. I feel it's important to do many things in even numbers. For instance, if I had been asked to list 9 Random Facts About Me, I would have politely declined.
* I think beauty-mark-type, tiny piercings just above the lip rock.
* I will probably never get said piercing.
* Because I am a needle-phobic. I don't mind blood, I don't mind pain (not that I'm INTO pain, you freak), but there is just something about the idea of a hollow...gag...steel...retch...Ok, moving on...
* I get a huge kick out of dressing my boys alike. It's my one solace in not having had a girl.
* I'd love to write a book. A big, fat novel that demands to be read straight through and leaves you thinking for weeks afterwards, not to mention running to the bookstore to beg to be put on the waiting list for my next book. This is my dream. Until then, a-blogging I shall be.

2007-08-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

It's high time I wrote something substantive, don't you think?

Julian is growing in leaps and bounds. He's fairly tall and thin for his age (18 months), but has this ever-expanding Buddha belly that is hilarious to behold. Especially funny when he's running around nekky, as he does most scorchingly hot summer evenings, playing in the pool and whatnot.

Every day he improves upon his limited vocabulary and social skills (alas, still lacking the word 'share' in said vocabulary). He is better able to play with Spencer and therefore spends less time residing all up in my ass (HAAALELUJAH! HAAALELUJAH!). My ass is grateful.

JuJuBee is also better able to play by himself these days, I've noticed. For instance, he played perfectly quietly while I read a story to Spence the other night. A little too quietly, which should have been a trigger to me...The End, I say to Spence, and look up to see the Bee happily feeding our mail back out the mail slot and into the rainy evening. Lovely.

Spence, for his part, has been quite understanding as we tread these new waters of big brotherhood. As the Bee is better able to play with him, he strives to include him in his activities...and tries really hard not to be upset when Julian tires of the game and simply snatches all toys involved and takes off at a dead run. And here comes the worst part...Even though I SWORE I wouldn't be one of those parents, I find myself saying witty little things like, "Just GIVE it to him, PUH-LEEZE! Please, Spence, please, just give it to him...I'll buy you another one! You can watch cartoons on Mommy's TV, you can have a cookie, just please, for the love of God and eardrums, just GIVE it to him, NOW!"

I suck. I considered myself a fairly exceptional mother of one. As a mother of two, it turns out, I completely suck. Didn't see that one coming.

So we're moving right along, folks, can't say we're the Cleavers, but then again June never had to deal with a nekky toddler trying her patience, did she? Not to mention the Mother's Little Helpers that aren't around these days either. Aaahh, June, you should see us now. This world is a crazy one to be raising children in, that's for sure, so I suppose if your kids are a little nutty to begin with, that actually probably helps. As for myself, I shall be enjoying a glass or 6 of wine tonight, and hopefully getting into some very un-June-like naughtiness with the old man.

P.S. A big WHASSUP GIRRRL goes out to the lovely Tiff, who has passed her GRE with such high scores that schools are now afraid to accept her, for fear she will put their other students to shame. You go girl.

2007-08-16T09:46:00.000-07:00

Well it's begun. The beginning of the end. Julian, my honey Bee, has started his transfer from the 'mobile infants' room at daycare to the...drumroll please...'toddler' room. For the first time, he's complacent and I feel like crying. Funny little role reversal there.

I fully realize I'm dragging my feet here, but I simply refuse to do otherwise. And you can't make me! Waahhh!!

Julian, you see, is the baby of the family, and as such will forever be My Baby. I'm sure that when his 45-year-old ass stops by to introduce his new wife, or whatever, I will still address him as My Baby. And probably glare at his old lady. Aren't I awful?

I wish I had more time to delve into the subject, dear Reader(s), but I fear the work is piling up around me, literally, so I must return to the trenches or suffer the consequences.

Wishing everyone a wonderful day! Enjoy the summer!!

2007-08-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

Controversial Points of Common Courtesy:

You want to do the right thing. At least I hope you do. So what, pray tell, is the right thing under these circumstances...

Where to look when riding with others in an elevator. At your shoes? At the floor ticker display? At the other people in a futile effort to make friends? Or perhaps all of these, in rapid succession, because you're trying to establish a reputation as an eccentric madwoman. Success!

What ringtone to set your cell phone to, and how high to set the volume of said ringtone. If you're still attempting to confirm that don't-eff-with-me-because-I'm-effing-crazy reputation, or for the fun of annoying every other living being you encounter, feel free to select Rapper of the Moment/Britney Spears/reggae/salsa and crank that shit.

What to say to a parent who seems hell-bent on setting up a playdate with you. Sure, I'll call you? Maybe next millenium? Your kid seems Ok, but the jury's still out on your greasy ass?

Perhaps for Christmas, and for my own sanity, everyone will receive a little Miss Manners quick-reference guide in his or her stocking. Unless, of course, you're earnestly shooting for that devil-may-care attitude, in which case, rock on.

2007-07-24T09:08:00.000-07:00

Walla walla walla, step right up and have a look-see at the amazing...Vivacity! New and improved, guaranteed results! But wait...there's more! No actually, that's about it. New format, whaddya think? A big THANK YOU to my html-savvy friends, check them out on the shiny new links found on the right-hand column.

I find myself on a mission, folks. Operation Mommy's Remote Is Not A Toy. It seems my one comfort in life, my one escape from the insanity that occasionally threatens to institutionalize me, that treasured connection to my revered reality shows and dramas, has been discovered, investigated, and shot down. No longer can I relax after a long day of work, coming home to more work, putting the kids to bed and then working some more...I am now forced to work to change the damn channels on the television in my bedroom.

I believe Spencer when he says, "I guess I don't know where your 'mote is, Mommy. I guess I sure don't." He is my angel-boy, and he won't soon forget the time I cried my heart out when he misplaced my ring.

Julian, on the other hand, is surely the spawn of Satan, sent straight from hell to deliver my pennance by way of long, slow, unmerciful torture. Ok, I may be exaggerating here a tad. He occasionally shows mercy.

But there is no mercy in sight in OMRINAT. He continues to appear completely innocent when asked, even cocking his head and batting his eyelashes. Oh, the facade, how complete it is. And the Oscar goes to...

I suppose this is merely an update, that there is no change in status in our household. Julian continues to reign with cruel whimsy, and if he deems it law that mommies must heretofor change their channels manually, so be it. So it is babbled, so shall it be done.

2007-07-17T06:04:00.000-07:00

There are few moments of spoken words from mouths of babes that really grab your attention. Their first word, their first sentence, a cry for help, an exclamation of pride. There are just a few words that can really stop you dead in your tracks and make you take notice of what everyday static you had just been tuning out.

For instance, just the other day, young master Spence comes bounding down the stairs from the second floor, clearly excited, yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, I found Daddy's hooker!"

Just one of those moments when your heart takes a thoughtful pause before resuming its regular rhythm. Daddy's what now? I can't have heard that right.

"I saw it, I saw it, Daddy's hooker, just lying there on the floor!"

Hmmm. Aaalllll right, now we not only have a prostitute in my house, we apparently have an injured/unconscious/dead one as well. And here I thought it was just going to be another quiet evening at home. Silly, silly mommy.

Spencer continues his descent into the living room, around the landing, down the last two stairs and proudly runs over to show me a prize he's clutching in his little hand. Nathaniel's bungee cord.

"See? Daddy's hooker. I found it!"

Aaahh yes. Daddy's hooker. I've obviously wandered onto the set of Leave it to Beaver in the Twilight Zone. June, be a doll and fix me a drink, will you? I've got a pounding headache all of a sudden. {canned laughter}

So when you think you've heard some astonishing, gut-wrenching news, ladies and gentlemen, let's remember to take a moment and consider the source, shall we?

2007-07-11T09:29:00.000-07:00

Oh my LAWD am I ever slacking on the bliggitty-blog-blog. Please forgive!

I have a piece of advice for those with husbands/significant others/baby daddies/whatnot. NEVER, under any circumstances, tell them any ingredient of any recipe you make, EVER.

Now I knew this rule, I did, it must have just slipped my mind during a recent kitchen escapade. Having misplaced (that sucker is GONE) my yellow cake recipe, I thought I'd go hunting through my cooking/baking magazines for something new, when lo & behold, there on the page was a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake! I was THRILLED. My mother didn't whip up too many things that tantalized my taste buds over the years, but her mayonnaise cake was always a hit. Absolutely superb.

So as my moist delicacy is baking itself into a chocolate decadence in the oven, I happen to relate to Nathaniel as he wanders by my elation over having found a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake. The man (& I use that term loosely) began clutching at his throat in a pantomime of an astronaut who just lost air pressure in his helmet.

"Mayonnaise? Mayonnaise CAKE? MAYONNAISE CAKE?!!"

I knew the jig was up. I knew this bakery snob would never let a morsel of my hard work past his lips. Eff him then, more for me (& my hips, & my thighs...this back-fired in SO many ways).

So as our little family sat down to a slice of heaven later that evening, he ever-so-politely cut himself a piece...and proceeded to eat every bit...of the icing. He continues to grumble under his breath about "trying to kill me" and therefore, dear reader(s), I must forewarn you...Never, ever, tell your old man what is in anything he hasn't eaten yet. Wait 'til afterwards.

2007-06-15T11:50:00.000-07:00

A dear friend commenting on my last post has led me to realize...I've been spitting out the ol' blog for a year now! Good God, where has the time gone. This blog began as a way for me to begin my dream of writing, and from this platform I'm happy to say I've gone on to write a monthly column for the afore-mentioned dear friend (check out mom2momlounge.com), a weekly journal for Babycenter.com, and various articles which have actually earned me money (helium.com)! I am beyond proud to call myself a bona fide earning writer. I thank the kind people at Blogger.com who have created such an easy, affordable (read, free) website for hokey authors of nonsense such as myself to come express ourselves. And of course, for those loyal reader(s) still struggling through my rambling posts, THANK YOU.

From my last post, you will clearly see how I jinxed myself by commenting on the peaceful existence we were enjoying...I picked up Young Master Spence at daycare early yesterday after a phone call from his teacher reported a low-grade fever and persistent headache. How could I ignore the pitiful pleadings of "My bwain hurts!"? Awww, widdow boy, let's get you some ibupwofen and see if you don't feel bettew, you wascally wabbit.

So of course I pick the baby up also, who, not to be outdone, saw fit to LOSE HIS DAMN MIND. The child cried the entire drive home, through dinner, right up until bedtime. I knew I was in for it when his teacher reported only a 1/2-hour nap.

Tonight shall be spent recovering from yesterday, for all of us. And damning the Cavs for giving us such HOPE, man, it was close. So close we could all taste it, the whole city dreaming of our team making it somewhere, anywhere...It's been far too long. Happy Father's Day, LeBron, you son of a gun. You tease.

Friday, I've missed thee so. Bring on the pizza, the wings, the usual Friday fare, all things delicious and drenched in calories. Yummy, yummy calories. Let the laundry rot, let the dishes mold, it is FRIDAY and I am currently unavailable for anything resembling a chore. If you care to voice a complaint, leave your message after the beep. BEEEEP.

2007-06-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

After much back-and-forth and a million revisions to plans, Tiff & I have in fact scheduled a meeting with my dear sister. The plan is to get to the root of her boyfriend issues, and see if she might not be happier moving back to our area, from her current residence out in North Carolina. I selfishly think it'd be nice if she lived closer (for babysitting reasons, mu-hahahaha) but I want to help her decide the right course of action for herself, period. It's hard to watch someone make mistakes or be unhappy, but all you can do is reason with them and in the end they will make their own decisions. I wish her happiness and peace.

Luckily we're going out for coffee, because I'm feeling rather droopy this afternoon. I could just lay my head down on my desk right here and make up for the sleep debt Julian so cruelly inflicted upon me this morning. Cock-a-doodle waaahhh!

In other news, Raphael, Spence's kitty, shall retain his left eye. For now. We were very concerned recently when it appeared to be dilated and protruding a bit...2 vet visits & billions of dollars later, we think it safe to assume this is either an injury or an abscess from a recent infection. All good news. My wallet thanks you, kind vet.

So the fam is doing well, I'm happy to report...We are enjoying the hell out of this sunshine with nary a runny nose in sight. Everyone's happy, everyone's healthy...And now of course I've jinxed myself by saying that & I'm sure to return home to a mess of grumpy sickies. I just haaad to be thankful for small favors, didn't I. That'll learn me.

Well dear reader(s), I must vacate this hellish deep freeze (oxymoron?) for the tropical sauna of my car & the drive home. I love that feeling of sliding behind the wheel after a posicle of a day like this one & feeling all the pores on my face open, my goosebumps finally relaxing...I'll never understand the mentality of the higher-ups with their hands on the thermostat. With all the $$$ you could save by dropping the a/c down to a comfortable level, I could collect the fat raise I desperately need! A girl can dream. Someone point me towards the suggestion box.

2007-06-04T13:44:00.000-07:00

Oh you silly reader(s), did you think I forgot about you? Well I did. KIDDING! I've been trapped in a whirlwind, unable to do anything but cook meals & clean house & chase after little boys bent on self-destruction. The wind is dying down now...

Today is Al's birthday, & the 3rd-to-last day of school. Next year, high school, and then...the world! I cannot believe he's 15 today. I so clearly remember putting golf balls with him in his grandmother's backyard when he was a darling towhead of six. What happened??

Nathaniel's birthday is just around the corner. He's requested a little homemade cake. Wonder if he'd mind if I jumped out of it? Whatever we do, it certainly won't be a repeat of years past...I always attempt to throw a party that noone can attend (asses) or plan something, anything...The single exception to this rule was the year Tom Petty just happened to be in town exactly ON his birthday and I surprised him with his very first live concert. Freeee...free faaallin'...

I daresay I'll post tomorrow, since work has calmed down and eight legal assistants aren't calling in sick each day. Good night!

2007-05-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

I think once you reach a certain age, your core temperature plummets out of control. Menopause, Ok, but what is a man's excuse? How is it that the powers that be have the thermostat set to "Freeze Your Tits Off" and can work perfectly comfortably in that realm all day?? Excuse the hell out of ME, but I am trying to wear summer clothes here, seeing as how it's approximately 80 degrees out today. Why a higher temperature outside equates lower and lower temperatures in the office is absolutely beyond me. At my previous employment, which was a much smaller firm and therefore subject to my unabashed silliness, I once wore a parka fastened Kenny-style and mittens to deliver their precious mail and faxes. They took the hint. They might not appreciate my subtlety here. Not that it matters; I'm pretty sure I'm frozen to my chair. Send for help.

So Sunday is Mother's Day...Wow. I've already received my first Mother's Day card, from a dear gentleman who happens to be my should-be-stepson's godfather. Very touching card, filled with his sentiments on exactly what sort of wonderful mother I am. Maybe not the best time to tell him I hit the bottle on occasion & have been known to scream, "BECAUSE I SAID SO!!"

In other news, dear JuJuBee has FINALLY begun cutting his molars on the other side of his mouth. Thank God, I see light at the end of this long dark tunnel filled with whines and cries. I'm so friggin thrilled, I want to go stand on the corner with a sandwich board proclaiming, The End Is Near!

Well dearest reader(s), wish me a fairly painless weekend. At the very least, I'll be able to control the thermostat. :)

2007-05-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that last night's trim was a rousing success! I'm head over heels in love with my stylist, she's wonderful. She takes my incoherent babbling and turns it into exactly what I want. Beauty school must teach a course on mind reading.

I took Spencer with me because I'm an eternal optimist. I keep thinking, he won't misbehave this time. He's my angel boy. And I was mostly right, this particular outing anyways. He only scared one poor dear gentleman nearly to death by popping out from under a shampoo sink, and only said, "Watch me!" about two dozen times, physically impossible while having one's hair cut, and only spun himself off a spare swivel chair once. And I actually accomplished what I had set out to do, so...Success! Thank you, my dear boy, for the experience. Vivacity, indeed.

Just wanted to update you, in case you're wondering who that outrageously foxy lady with the new 'do is. KIDDING! I'm actually behind her and to the left, the fairly decent-looking chick in the background with the trim job. You may thank my sorceress of a stylist, that telephathic master of the mousse, the lovely Michelle.

2007-05-02T13:01:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that the incomparable Mr. John Denver streamed from my kitchen speakers last night. Thank you Ebay seller of trivial crap! I think that's actually his screenname.

The baby & I danced a little jig all through 'Grandma's Feather Bed,' and you know what? His fever miraculously broke & he's been cool as a cucumber ever since. So I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the Spirit of John Denver can, in fact, sooth the savage beast and/or bug.

Those of you who are tired of seeing me peer out from beneath this mop will be happy to learn I've got a haircut scheduled this evening. The Muppet look is so last year. I'm thisclose to pulling a Britney & shaving the whole damn thing off. It's so irritating! While I do enjoy my short 'do, I am not used to having to keep up with the constant trims that a cut like this requires. I'll never be accused of being a high-maintenance bizznitch. Nathaniel may beg to differ, but he lives in an alternate plane of reality in which I am a "nag" and he is "obsessed with cleaning." LMAO!!!! Slays me every time I hear him say that. You're right, darling, my body language does count as nagging and the tantrums in which you throw everything in your path down the basement stairs count as cleaning. Right on.

How did this turn into me ranting about my old man? Hmm. Curious.

So wish me luck tonight, as I venture off to my fairly-new stylist (she's wonderful) and leave the children with Mr. Clean. Wish us all luck.

2007-04-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

I'm hopping on to report that we did, in fact, thoroughly enjoy our weather last weekend. It was everything the weatherman promised it would be & more. Beyond beautiful.

And as I write this, the dark clouds are rushing to gather overtop our little building here, threatening their inevitable downpour & depressing the hell out of me. I feel like that X-Men character Storm, so affected am I by the slightest change in weather. If I lived in California I'd be so damn bubbly I couldn't stand myself! Like, Oh my gosh!

I'll simply continue to curl up to my steaming cup of coffee, content to at least be inside & out of the trenches of our damnable Cleveland "spring." If I keep my coffee warm & focus on work, I won't even notice the depressing weather, right? At the very least, I won't notice the time dragging by until I can go get my boysies. Even with the baby at his moodiest, snuggling on the couch is infinitely preferred to plodding along here, without even the faintest hint of sunshine in my window. Spring, you tease, where have you gone?

2007-04-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

I am THRILLED to report that the weather forecast is looking SUBLIME for this weekend. My patience has been truly tested with the recent unseasonal snow, and the five of us (did I mention my brothers moved out?) under each other's feet the whole damnable winter long. I think when Friday afternoon rolls around, we will spill out of the house like one of those practical joke cannisters of worms popping open. POW!

I'm convinced my girlfriend Tiff & I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, provided such a disorder does in fact exist. If so, we are definitely under its oppresive thumb. There is just such a marked change in the air when it gets above 60, something almost tangible. The scent of new blossoms in the air, warm sun on your face, animals humping each other senseless...What's not to love about spring? Bliss.

So slather on your sunscreen, break out your tank tops, & let's do the darn thing!

2007-04-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

I just want to document something that I'm thinking I might forget in the future. I'm sure I'll look back on this time in our lives and clearly remember Julian's distinct knack for driving us all crazy, his ability to whine ceaselessly, his irritation made evident over every little obstacle, but I may not remember the sweet things. Okay, thing.

At the end of the day, when the fussing has dissipated and bedtime draws near, I perch said Crankmaster on my hip & begin our little nighttime ritual. We head to the kitchen, where I make his bottle & we discuss what sort of day we had. I use the term "discuss" loosely, seeing as how Julian has one vocabulary word, "uh-oh," which usually serves to describe his day anyway.

When the microwave dings, & the baba is ready, I hold it steady while Julian places the nipple on top. This child may be a Sir Fussalot, but he is clearly headed for some career in engineering. He loves nothing more than to screw lids on bottles, or jugs, or whatever fascinating container begs to be capped.

So he places the nipple, with ring, on the baba, and I say, "Yay! You did it! You put the lid on!" (This is my script, I dare not deviate from it.) At which point (here it is, my favorite part of the day), he grins, ear to ear, pride spelled across his little face, & then squeezes my arm sooo tightly, then releases. Just a squeeze, just a smile, but they mean the world to me. My heart melts, & whatever havoc yon bebe has wreaked during the course of the day falls to the wayside, forgotten, forgiven, as we share this moment.

I felt the need to jump on here, my little time capsule of a blog, and record the fact that Julian does have his endearing points, even if the majority of the time he's gunning for the World's Highest Maintenance Baby record. Love you, JuJuBee.

2007-04-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

I do believe Spencer turned 14 instead of 4 last week. He's throwing attitude around like nobody's business, defying his father & me at every turn. I don't WANT to go to bed. Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! I don't WANT to go grocery shopping (although I may have said I did five minutes ago). I don't WANT pork roast for dinner. Don't wanna, don't wanna, don't wanna. Stomp, slam, you get the picture. Lord help him if he wakes up the baby, is all I've got to say.

I think it has a lot to do with vying for attention with Lord Of All He Surveys, King Julian. It's tough, folks! I'm trying my darndest here, but my #1 objective has got to be to stop JuJuBee's crying. I simply can't carry on another conversation while he throws himself at my feet, wailing and despondent. So I usually attend to him first, for peace & quiet's sake, then tackle whatever Spence has been dancing around talking about for the past fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, by the way, equates to about 2.5 years in Toddler Time. Oh the agony of having to wait until Mommy can watch me make a silly face. Or new dance step. Or whatever. ARGH!!

So, dear boys, please know that Mommy loves you, even if I may yell in frustration occasionally or make promises to sterilize your father the hard way. I'm only venting a little steam. I'm sure you understand.

2007-04-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

Today is THE DAY. Spencer, my love, turns 4 today. FOUR YEARS OLD. This, of course, means that I myself am ancient. It wasn't so long ago that I felt quite the free spirit, flitting about, not a care or responsibility in the world. And look at us now! We're the best little family we can be. I'm extremely proud of my boys, and our family, and even if it means giving up my careless ways, so be it. They are worth any and every sacrifice. Be-bopping around wasn't so great anyways, as I remember it.

So we're venturing off to THE place for birthday boys' lunches, that most fantastic gem of an eatery, McDonald's. Although I allow Spence full reign today, on his special day, I do however draw the line at having Mickey D's for both lunch & dinner. Another plan, please, dear boy. Mommy's arteries can't take it.

And the grand finale, excluding his party on Saturday of course, is the kitten we're surprising him with when we get home! A brand-new best friend, I can think of no better present. Not to mention it'll help my sweet wussy boy to slowly overcome his fear of larger animals. We hope. Perhaps we'll get a dog by his 30th. Fingers crossed.

So, my love, my life, my Spencer, Happy Birthday, dear boy, and may this and each birthday hereafter find you in good health, great spirits, and exploring all the fabulous potential we see in you. We love you!

2007-03-28T09:58:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you why I'm a cheeseball. A complete, hopeless, buttered-nut cheeseball.

Last night, when I told Spence he had one minute 'til bedtime, he patted my arm & said softly, "That's gonna be a looong time, Mommy." And I melted.

This morning, Nathaniel told me I looked nice today. Made my day. :)

And just now, I pulled out all the stops & did a little happy dance at having been named...Ready?...The highest bidder for some John Denver music on Ebay. Cassette tapes.

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is a rough outline of just exactly how big of a pushover, pantywaist, loser of a cheeseball I truly am. There is a word to describe me, & that word is...Nerd. Or, in the neo-slang alternative, nizzerd. Please address me appropriately.

2007-03-23T12:40:00.000-07:00

Ah, Friday, we meet again. Tonight marks the third Family Movie Night at the boys' daycare, so we expect another peaceful evening in a quiet setting. HA!! We fully expect to once again see, key word "see," another old cartoon flick, since hearing anything but a full-out screaming contest is out of the question. You see, when children gather in large numbers, it is their civic duty to contribute to the din as much as physically possible. A tea-time soiree this isn't.

Monsters, Inc., I believe, is the feature for this evening, and I'm having a helluva time explaining to Spence the oxymoron of "friendly monsters." It's a bit over my head, too, darling. You see, these horrific creatures' job is to scare the living daylights out of small children...But it's Ok, really it is, because...Disney says so.

And so, for the sake of tradition and making nice with fellow parents, we'll pack it all up and head out to the auditorium, hoping to leave with just the slightest scrap of sanity still intact. Wish us luck.

2007-03-19T11:43:00.000-07:00

So the old man & I went out for a little of the green swill this past weekend. I honestly can't remember when the last time was that St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, and apparently neither could anyone else, because the bars were packed. Holy geez. Care to dance, anyone? Too bad. There's a reason sardines can't dance.

But before you get the wrong impression, let me just say that it went splendidly. My best girlfriend put together an absolutely wonderful evening, including the extremely Irish hibachi steakhouse dinner, followed by drinks at the pub where she met her new man friend (lovely man, by the way, hang on to him, Tiff, even if he doesn't sing karaoke), and the kicker was how cheap the cab ride home was! Definitely do-able. Watch out, girl, we may be crashing every get-together in the future. Who knew it was less than $20 to get schlepped from the sticks to the city?

So, although I neglected to catch The Flying Shrimp Spectaculaire when the hopped-up Asian chef dude winged it at me, and I physically could not dance (besides a rousing rendition of the Irish jig), I did manage to thoroughly enjoy myself. The old man agrees, continuing to "date" while raising children is a must in any relationship. The fundamental base of the family rests squarely on the health of our relationship, no? So, you see, it is absolutely essential to raise a glass to ol' St. Patty, that patron saint of green beer, every now & again. Cheers.

2007-03-09T10:25:00.000-08:00

Happy Friday, dear reader(s)! It's been a very long week indeed.

Julian, I'm proud to report, has been doing splendiferously in his new room at daycare. This morning, for the first time, he even leaned towards the teacher's outstretched arms while still perched on my hip. That's fine, baby, just take your mother's heart out & stomp on it. I'm kidding, partially, I mean I do want him to be happy & comfortable with his new teachers, in his new surroundings...Could you just wait 'til I'm out of the room to profess your affection for them?? I mean really. Just call me Chop Liver.

And the Spencinator is doing fine. My current gripe with him is this nose-wiping thing. His shirt, by the end of the day, looks like a road map to Crazytown, snot and that day's lunch from wrist to elbow. Gross, honey! He is easily within a half-dozen steps from a tissue at any given point throughout the day. Why, baby, WHY?? I suppose I should be counting my lucky stars that we've steered him away from nose-picking, infinitely worse in a public scenario, but still. The nose-wiping thing has got to go.

On my own front, the office has hired an additional 2 attorneys, with no mention of their support, so I suppose I'll be juggling their secretarial needs for a while. Which is fine, I actually prefer to be busy, makes the time fly by. One attorney, two attorney, three attorneys, four. Five attorneys, six attorneys, seven attorneys more. See, it clearly hasn't affected my mental state. Not at all.

So c'mooon, weekend! This particular weekend, I'll be shoe-shopping and meeting my best girlfriend's new "man friend." My only qualifiers are that he drink socially, play board games, and sing karaoke. Should be a shoo-in.

Well, dear reader(s), I'm off. May your weekend(s) be fruitful, safe, and full of relaxation. And karaoke.

2007-03-01T07:53:00.000-08:00

In addition to carrying out the roles of nurse, chauffer, etc., I’m considering branching out into the fashion industry. Motherhood is screaming for a new trend. Allow me to introduce…Pantaloons!

Pantaloons, which is of course baby talk for “pants,” will become all the newest rage on the motherhood circuit, you watch. These slacks come in a wide variety of colors and fabrics, and sport what every mother of a toddler desperately needs…A design into which snot and drool can blend. Now these reminders of exactly how tall your toddler is and how many times he or she hugged you around the knees that morning won’t have to be scrubbed away! Because let’s face it, they really can’t ever be wiped entirely away. Trail of Tears, indeed.

So step right up, sign here and be pre-approved for your very first pair of Pantaloons! Coming soon.

2007-02-27T12:10:00.000-08:00

I want to go home. I want to go home and crawl under the covers and never, never come out, world be damned.

I am a conundrum...A sick mommy. Mommies, who tend all wounds and nurse all sickly babies back to health, are really not allowed to get sick. Who doctors the doctor? No-effing-body. So here I sit in my cubie, head swimming in Advil and coffee and trying not to look like I'm slumping over, which I totally am. Were it not for this workspace securely fastened to the wall, I would surely be in a heap on the floor. Not the best spot to seek a raise/promotion from. Hell, it's hard to stay employed if you get in the habit of taking naps on the job. Not a good idea. Where's the maitre'd? More coffee!

I'd be sharing all the hilarities my boys have been up to if they weren't sick themselves. It's hard to practice your Laurel & Hardy routine when The Virus Of '07 has got you down for the count. Although there are exceptions...

The baby is learning to wave. So far, that's about all he's got down, the wave. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, just in time for the Mardi Gras parades. Next, we'll tackle timing, because his is seriously off. If we are, say, entering a room, I'll do my Mommy thing and put on a mini-Broadway show...HEL-LO! HI! OH, HELLO! HI THERE! Waving like a madwoman all the while. Baby appears uninterested. But in the middle of a stroll across a room where no one has entered or exited for the past 12 hours, he will spontaneously start waving. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, entirely for his own benefit. Or perhaps for a little exercise. I've been meaning to talk to him about those rolls. Sheesh.

Methinks it may be time to pop another cold med. The world is coming into focus again. Ick.

2007-02-22T09:39:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow marks dear Julian's first day in a new classroom. Big Boys 'R Us. His soon-to-be-ex teachers and I had a good cry this morning over our failure to keep him a baby forever. We tried! Lord we tried. He still takes a bottle, he still enjoys a good cuddle, but somehow he managed to grow up when we weren't looking. He walks, he talks, he slices, he dices, he can do it all. So very bittersweet, this growing up thing.

In other news, Spencer tried to murder his teacher. Ok, I may be slightly exaggerating (you're shocked, I know), but she did pull me aside yesterday at pick-up and mention her concern that he had wrapped his hands around her throat during playtime. Hmmm. I have two possible suspects as to where he's seen this behavior (I always wait to strangle his father until after the boys are asleep) - television, and/or his cousins. His cousins have heretofore offered up such gems as "dork," "idiot," and how to knock a little brother over quicker than a parent can blink. And television, well...whether it's a question of life imitating art or the reverse, it seems there is entirely too much garbage on Ye Olde Boob Tube for this momma's liking. Oh. My. God. I have become my mother. I never in a million years thought I would protest my beloved TV. But even the supposedly "safe" children's shows promote questionable content, as evidenced by dear Spence during a recent innocent cardboard box/clubhouse adventure, shouting, "You'll be trapped in there...for-evaaahhh! A-hahahahaha!"

And you wonder why I'm in no rush for my youngest to grow up.

So we'll more closely monitor Spencer's interactions. Keep your fingers crossed for both my children to remain the sweetly innocent children you've come to know and laugh at with me. I'll consider my parenting endeavor a rousing success if I can keep them out of the penal system just a little while longer.

2007-02-16T09:41:00.000-08:00

Well ladies & gentlemen, it's that wonderful, gorgeous, happy time of year again...Second only to springtime, it's...drumroll please...TAX RETURN TIME! Yesterday, I was a poor beggar scraping up parking money. Today, I am one rich momma.

Oh, if the bill hounds could hear me now. Calm down! I fully intend to pay down (some of) that damnable debt that haunts me. But on my way there, would you really mind if I stopped off to pick up some new work digs and Spiderman socks for my little superhero? What's that, you wouldn't mind? Have a ball, you say? Go to town?? I deserve it??! L I B. You sons of bitches do have hearts. I take it all back.

It's funny how somehow the heavier your pockets are, the lighter your step is. I am un-depressable, world, so take that! You want to stand in line to pile work on my desk and fight about priority? Go ahead, you silly attorneys. If you need me, I'll be right over here glowing and counting my newfound treasure.

I can't wait to go home this evening (T to the G to the Izzy Izzy F) and...relax. I plan on reading and watching movies and hiring a cabana boy to carry me up to the bathroom every so often.

So this post is dedicated to my H&R Block guy, damned if can remember his name, a dead ringer for the "stapler" guy from Office Space. A little creepy but nice, nevertheless, and capable enough to add a couple zeroes to my return. Here's to you, buddy.

2007-02-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

This post is dedicated to the legal assistant who walked out on the job earlier this week. I can't blame her, and yet somehow I still do. She worked for the biggest rhymes-with-sick of the office, and now guess who does. Yours truly. So...thanks.

I've discovered, however, that with a little BYOB and a lot of CYA, a generous amount of work can be crapped out over the span of 9 to 5. Ok, I'm kidding about the BYOB part, more like drink coffee 'til your head spins and you can blame any and all mistakes on dehydration and caffeine saturation.

I do want to apologize to my reader(s) for having been away so long. Please see above vent.

The latest is that we are quickly approaching dear Julian's 1st birthday. This has got my emotions running amuck. Some days, I think, we'll never be to the point where both my little geniuses can arise, grab a snack, and turn on the TV while I catch up on all the sleep I've been missing these past 4 years. Other times, I think, dear God, where did my baby go? Who can I rock in the rocking chair and nibble their cheeks clean off?? And of course, if my babies are older, that must mean I'm older, which I simply refuse to admit. I hope they don't mind if I wear a halter top and daisy dukes to their high school graduations.

So he's come a long way, this baby 'o' mine, and I'm quite proud of him, although I have noticed that he's developing quite differently than young master Spence did. It seems his gross motor skills are off the charts, but I've yet to hear him articulate much more than the random "uh oh." While Spence walked later, around 11 months as opposed to the baby's impressive 8, he had quite the vocabulary by his 1st birthday. I can only hope that they will play off of each other's strengths and weaknesses in the future, and a little friendly academic competition never hurt anyone. I'll see your 'A' and raise you an 'A+.' A mama can dream.

I also wanted to mention quickly that I've purchased an extremely cheap digital camera off of your favorite virtual garage sale and mine, Ebay, so I hope to post pictures here shortly. Expect several glamorous shots of dear JuJuBee shoving cake in his face and a few of an irritated Spencer demanding to know when it will be his birthday. Stay tuned.

2007-01-25T09:15:00.000-08:00

My dearest sweet baby Julian has some big news to share...Uh oh! That is the news, ladies & gentleman, this is what yon bebe has waited 11 months to share with us. His very first non-word, carved forever in the annals of history, is "uh oh." He's even got the context down pat...The finger pointing at dropped object, the disappointed tone...We are thrilled. Finally, we can hit Stop and Play on his internal transcriber, which has been seemingly stuck in reverse since birth. Shortly hereafter I shall be teaching him the proper use of subjects and predicates. You can't get into Harvard with "uh oh," buddy. Let's get cracking.

Spencer, not to be outdone, piped up with, "I can say uh oh spaghetti-o's." Yes, honey. Yes you can. Sometimes I wish I had more time to devote solely to the baby, as I did when Spence was his age. On the other hand, I often wish I had more time to pay attention just to Spence, as he's had to deal with getting less than he was used to since the beeb's arrival. I try to divide my time evenly between them, and patiently await the day they will play more together, thus simplifying my job immensely. When we can all get down on a game of Chutes & Ladders or put a puzzle together, well...I may even end up having (gasp) time to myself at the end of the day. IMAGINE THAT.

So the Bee has said his first word. Let it be forever cemented in history that he did NOT in fact say, "Dada," a popular choice among the toddler set. I'm still suffering from the arrow Spence shot through my heart when he gazed lovingly at his father, addressed him as Dada, and threw all of my hard work and devotion out the window. I was even changing his diaper at the time, if I recall, and his father was in his custom-fit ass indentation on the couch. The nerve of that baby. Some day I'll forgive him. Some day when my heart heals.

Good-bye, gibberish, good-bye, formula, good-bye, jarred food, good-bye my baby. Hello my son.

2007-01-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

2007-01-17T13:16:00.000-08:00

We're in the single digits with the wind chill here in good ol' C-Town today, folks. You know what that means. Oblivious snot-noses and nipples that could cut glass. Every year about this time I threaten to pack up and move to Arizona, somewhere with a nice dry heat. They always say that, a nice dry heat, when describing an ideal location to you. Is tropical so bad??

Right about now I'd give anything to be anywhere, tropical, dry, whatever. Is it wrong to consider signing up for the Army because you hear it gets up to the triple digits in Iraq? A rough & tumble sauna, but a sauna nonetheless. I'm IN.

We're coming to that point, ladies and gentleman (I know there's maybe ONE out there reading this), that I spoke of earlier...The height of Mad Indoor Person Disease. We are trapped in the home of our own making, the toys underfoot and each other's clutter liable to set someone off. Then that person takes out their frustration on another, a chain reaction til the baby gets pushed down and we're all in a crying mess on the floor. Ok. It's not that bad, all the time, but SHEESH. Some days are bad. Some days I just sigh as I'm crossing the deck to get to the door and remembering when all of that was living space. I'm dying til I can say, Go play outside! And not have to worry about bundling octopi into underwear, outerwear, gloves, hat, mittens and scarves, only to hear that someone has to use the restroom. Badly. Holy abominable snowmen, Batman, please shoot me with your stun gun. Thanks.

My tired vent on the wintry weather and all it entails shall end, mercifully, with just this...In my next life, I hope to be a bear. I wouldn't mind hibernating this dreadful season away ONE BIT. Lay down, curl up, snooze, awake to the twittering of gay birdies and, what's that? I've slept the whole winter away? FAN-EFFING-TASTIC.

2007-01-12T13:39:00.000-08:00

I've been in the most musical of moods today. Friday, thank GOD it's Friday, started off with a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger sung at the top of my lungs along with the radio on the drive in to work. What a tiger's eye has to do with anything, I couldn't say, but the beat, man, the beat will get even the most exhausted slug worked up to fever pitch. A great start to the day.

Then, throughout the course of my ho-hum workday, an umanned jukebox slipped discs into my head at random...Spence's #1 all-time fave, "I Like to Move It Move It," was in the mix with Beyonce's "Irreplaceable," Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely," and of course the theme song to Sanford & Son. Don't ask because I don't know.

And approximately 2.5 minutes ago, I was in the restroom on the upstairs floor, doin' ma thang, yuh know, when a law clerk wandered into my private concert and busted up laughing. I'm not sure that's a good sign of my future as a vocalist. I mumbled something about the acoustics being first-rate and shuffled out. Damn uppity law students, like you never sing to yourself? If you don't, well...I feel sorry for you. The background track to my life is ever-evolving, as am I, and I think John Denver would be proud, so suck it.

Although I usually listen to Opey & Anthony on the drive home, I'm considering channel surfing on the radio instead. I'm just so pumped, so jazzed. The baby slept through the night last night, bills have been paid, another paycheck is in my pocket and I've got a weekend stretching out before me with nary a plan in sight. I LOVE it.

Now if only there were some way to program the baby to acknowledge a weekend morning like I do the thermostat, I'd be absolutely set.

2007-01-10T09:25:00.000-08:00

Oh my, a week since I've posted? Please forgive. I hope all of you (whom are interested) have been able to access the link to my brand-spanking-new journal, updated weekly, at babycenter.com. It's been wonderful to actually write for a reputable site! (Nothing against Blogger, you understand, but really any schmoe can create a blog, no offense fellow bloggers.)

I find myself here needing to vent, as this morning was a rather rough one.

Dear Julian,

There are no parties going on in the middle of the night that you are missing. 2:30, while technically "morning," is entirely too early for any civilized child to be rising. For a smiley momma, try 6 or so.

Love,
Momma

~~~

Dear Spencer,

I know life is a little more difficult for you than it used to be a mere 10 months ago, when you were an only child. But we can't go back, only forward with this new, quite loud bundle of joy whose internal clock frequently goes on the fritz. I do apologize for that.

However, an interrupted night of sleep does not an excuse for bad behavior make. If I want to zip your coat, LET ME. If you should feel like continuing to scream and carry on once we're in your classroom, well...Stifle it til I'm gone, then let 'er rip. Teachers are much better equipped to handle your punk arse than my sleep-deprived behind, Ok? All right? You got a lot more sleep than I did, so PUH-LEEZE. Work with me.

Love,
Mom

~~~

So dear Reader, as you can see, you're not missing much in The Chronicles of Chaos, a.k.a. Sleepless in Cleveland.

I have a dream, a dream I hold high on a golden shining pedestal. It goes like this...The entire family goes out to a restaurant. I order something for Spencer, something for Julian, place each plate in front of each little capable set of hands, and...this is going to sound plumb crazy...enjoy my own meal. Well, a girl can dream.

Someday, dear Reader, some day when I sprout wings and fly over the fence in the backyard, second star on the right and straight on til morning, some day I will have my peace and quiet and take up some hobby long lost by the wayside...Something really ambitious, something wild and crazy...Maybe I'll read a BOOK. A whole one. Right to the end. All at once. I'll have a lot of time on my hands in the funny farm, anyway.

2007-01-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

You knew I had issues, but what you may not realize is that I have ANGER issues. Yes, I fully realize all caps constitutes yelling.

It's this thing that lives inside me called The Morning Monster. By the time I get to work, work my little 9-to-5, pick up the kids, have dinner, give baths, la la dee da, I'm fine, the comfortable old Cera/Mommy you know & tolerate. But between the hours of, say, 6:00 a.m. & whenever we rush out the door, this thing inside bubbles to the surface & TAKES OVER MY BODY. It's all very Cybil.

I awaken not to my body saying I've slept enough, not even to the alarm clock, but to WAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH...Which must have been broadcasting for some time, since my head is already pounding from it. It's like the baby knows which nerve to touch in my head to make me absolutely crazy, then plays it like a freaking banjo. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee duuum...Doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee dooooo...

Then I cater strictly to the baby for approximately three-fourths of the morning. Baba, check. Dipey, check. Silly baby non-words, check. But then, should I be so bold and outrageous as to expect a shower for my darn self, fugghedaboudit. WoooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! I take him w/me, close the shower door...woooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! He slides it open & stands there in the mist, bawling like just I ripped the head off his favorite teddy bear...Which is when I start fantasizing about doing just that. I think I may be pure evil.

Sleep deprivation does not look pretty on me. I am not one to bounce out of bed & whip up effing pancakes on four or five hours of sleep. Screw you, June Cleaver.

I read an article once about "sleep debt," in which it lays out a study showing how a body accumulates sleep debt. Anything less than seven or eight hours a night is recorded as a debt, which will need to be replaced at some point in time. So I'm thinking when the boys grow the hell up & move the hell out, I will stand on the front step, waving good-bye, where I will then collapse the moment the car is out of sight & sleep, right there on the porch, for approximately the next decade or so. I can't wait.

2006-12-29T14:01:00.000-08:00

http://boards.babycenter.com/n/pfx/forum.aspx?webtag=bcus1506772

2006-12-26T13:22:00.000-08:00

Well, folks, it's over. The flurry of activity that is Christmas has finally come to an end, thank God. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, especially with the kids, but it is definitely a time-and-energy intensive project to coordinate, one that I am grateful to have finished. Done. Complete. Finito. Feliz frigging Navidad and call it a day, por favor.

In reflecting on the past year, I must say, the most positive thing has got to be (besides my sweet baby) my decision to quit taking it up the arse & get a new job. I am simply un-depressable (is that a word?) these days. These fine folks are head over heels in love with me, and I with them. What I'm doing isn't rocket science, I realize this, but I seem to be doing quite the fine job, according to the feedback I'm getting, and that is perhaps what I was missing most at the old place. In the place where you spend the majority of your waking hours, you like to think that what you're doing means something to somebody, somewhere, and that you're doing a halfway-decent job of it. If I should ever get the money/motivation/time/energy to pursue further schooling, I may very well consider studying patent law. The things I've seen, man, they're so damn cool. Really far out. Ba du ba ba baaa...

The other thing that sticks out in my head about the past year is a lesson learned. And that lesson is...Shut the hell up. It's hilariously ironic to me that I went to a shrink to learn to communicate, and my New Year's resolution will undoubtedly be to keep my mouth shut. I'm so irritated with having had an innocent chat with a family member, only to wake up the next morning and read my personal business splashed across the front page. Why? Does no one have hobbies anymore? Is my life really that exciting? Did confidentiality die with chivalry? I'm at a loss as to how to explain these happenings. The only course of action I see fit to take is to, you guessed it, shut the hell up. My shrink would probably be pissed, but I actually foresee this as being beneficial to my relationship with Nathaniel...He will now be privy to every vent and comment I might ordinarily have gotten out of my system elsewhere. I love you, honey. Get ready.

Christmas, check. New Year's resolution, check.

So what bright sparkling future awaits us in 2007? Stay tuned.

2006-12-18T11:51:00.000-08:00

I’m beyond curious as to what Julian’s first word will be. I distinctly remember the biting disappointment when Spencer looked adoringly at his father and softly said, “Dada.” In order to nip another situation like that in the bud, I find myself inundating the poor child with “Momma”s. I am bound and determined that he recognize who wears the pants in this family.

“Momma makes a bottle! Look at Momma making a bottle for Momma’s baby. Oh Momma, you are so clever Momma, look how Momma mixes a bottle for Momma’s boy. Momma Momma Momma Momma.”

And now, halfway through my headlong plunge into this task, I realize just what I have become. It’s official, folks. I have in fact become…a Pokemon.

Remember Pokemon? All the cartoon-y characters, running around saying nothing but their own names in conversation-like cadence? This is what I have been reduced to. A PokeMomma.

But you know what? It will all be worth it. My silly conversations to myself, with myself, about myself…the sacrifice of any real adult conversation before 7 p.m….will all be worth it, when my JuJuBee sits up one day, points a little Vienna sausage finger at me and claims me for his very own, “Momma.”

You better recognize.

2006-12-13T08:16:00.000-08:00

One of life's deepest mysteries is the male reaction to a virus. I need some scientific proof, a study, an experiment, a fricking poll, anything, that gives me some clue as to why the male body reacts the way it does when invaded by a little ol' germ.

You know the reaction I'm talking about. At the first nasal tickle, the first (gasp!) drip, he keels over. Crawls, mewling like an orphaned kitten, to the couch, where he will slump in vocal agony as THE BUG ravishes his otherwise strong-like-bull body.

THE BUG in question will be debated upon for weeks to come, long after the symptoms have hit the road, jack. He will ponder upon just who could possibly have been so angry with him as to target his particular immune system with THE BUG. Who so brutally attacked him, and why? This, folks, this must be biological warfare. I say we drop a bomb of influenza on whoever the hell it is we're fighting now and watch the menfolk drop like flies, crying like babies to their momma.

It's funny, isn't it (hiLARious), how women, especially the working mothers among us, really get no downtime. Cold? Doesn't even slow us down. Flu? Take your OTC drug cocktail of choice and keep on trucking. Polio? Meningitis? There is work to be done, woman, what is this talk of a nap?? Heresy!

As we speak, You Know Who is laying on his deathbed, quite possibly the first person in the last 85 years to die of the common cold. Pay your respects while you still can, he's down to his last moments, I'm sure.

2006-12-08T08:54:00.000-08:00

Well smack my arse and call me Busy, it seems this week has rushed by again with nary a chance to blog! Oh my dear, sweetly patient blogging audience, all 2.5 of you, thank you for waiting. You must have been very, very good, look what Santa brought you! More blithering nonsense. Ready?

If I should not answer the phone, or douse the lights and pretend not to be home, please don’t be offended. It’s nothing personal. It’s not you, it’s me. I am finding quiet, personal time to be more valuable than gold these days. Even Nathaniel has found himself talking to the hand on occasion, because, dear reader, at the end of the day, when the rapid-fire barrage of ceaseless questions are over and The Crying Game has ended, I am one tired, tired momma who wants nothing more out of life than to crawl under a rock where it’s QUIET.

I propose that instead of burning pokers under the fingernails or Chinese water torture, we send prisoners of war or terrorists to be subjected to the incessant, burning questions of very young children.

“Pick up your toys, please.”

“Why?”

“Because someone could trip over them and fall down.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to walk there, honey, it’s the middle of the doorway.”

“Where?”

“Right there, in the kitchen doorway, where your toys are!”

“Here?”

“Yes!”

“Here, where my toys are?”

“Yes!”

“Someone could trip over them? Who?”

“Yes, honey, like Daddy or Mommy or just anyone.”

“You would trip? And fall down? And go CRASH! BOOM! BANG! Like that?”

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Hey, Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“I should pick my toys up.”

Oh. My. God. Stand back. Someone, quick, get me the waiting list for Stanford.

I love my son. Don’t get me wrong. I just sometimes wish I were on a white sand beach on the opposite side of the world, listening to the sound of the waves and THAT’S IT.

Lord help the attorney who asks me “why” on Monday.

2006-12-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, the weekend. We meet again, dear friend.

In with the weekend, out with the Indian summer. It has been a glorious sixty-plus degrees here the past couple of weeks, and today, a return to freezing temperatures and, your favorite and mine, winter precipitation. Walla walla walla, step right up and place your bets! Will it hail? Sleet? Snow? Will it take ten minutes to get to work or forty-five? It's anybody's guess, and you won't know 'til you roll out of bed in the morning.

Ohio weathermen have got to have the toughest jobs in America. I can just picture them, poring over blips on screens and highs and lows and God knows what...Here comes the anchorman, straighten his tie, powder his nose, quick, somebody, tell him what to say! And we're live in three, two, one...Well folks, six oh two is the time and the weather tonight will be...(I SWEAR one time he actually said this)...Changing skies! WHAT? What does that mean?? Absolutely nothing. It's comparable to THE ORANGE ALERT (I always picture it in all caps) the country has been on for what, five years now? I just want to know how that helps, at all. I want to hear one eyewitness get on the news and stand there, shaking and upset but visibly relieved...You know, that ORANGE ALERT really saved my bum! I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for THE ORANGE ALERT!

A definite plus to working on the nineteenth floor is the frigging view, man. I am all up in those changing skies, and I can see foul weather rolling in a mile away. A dark line on the horizon, three layers of clouds moving at different speeds, and then...nothing. The clouds envelop us and for all I know, the nineteenth floor could have floated clean away and my elevator shaft nightmares could come true. We could be airborne, untethered, spirited off to that patent law office in the sky, some adventure to be had. It's all so Gulliver's Travels.

And here I am, daydreams burst, slamming back home to reality in my chair, my desk, my office, my floor, my building. My hunger to pour my thoughts out of my jumbled, eccentric mind, write them down, organize and share them has been sated, and that can mean only one thing. Lunch time is over.

2006-11-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

Thursday? Thursday already?? How can that be? The time is flying, dear reader, and I am counting down the paychecks 'til The Big Day. Spencer, on the other hand, prefers to count down the hours 'til Christmas, and can hardly bear the thought of wasting any of them sleeping. The dilemma comes in knowing that Santa will be highly displeased to hear of him not listening to Momma and going to bed in a timely fashion. To slip peacefully off to sleep after a hard day of play, or to torture Momma with whiny excuses? Such are the moral struggles of a 3-yr-old. At the end of the day, of course, the Santa card trumps all, but you knew this.

Julian, on the other hand, hasn't a clue what is looming on the horizon and knows only his immediate pain. Frustration, thy name is SHOES! We had allowed our sweet baby to run with the wind between his toes thus far, but decided with falling temperatures and increased walking ability, shoes were in order. I had forgotten how putting the damn things on can throw all previous walking feats out the window and set us back, oh, to about 2-wk-old status. Poor Julian crawls around army-style these days, dragging the offending sneakers as if he were a war hero crawling home, useless legs behind him. What a drama queen. He gets that from his father.

Julian has also discovered his tongue, which adds boundless emphasis to his encrypted vocabulary. It's all so Sylvester, phbltt-uffering phbltt-uccotash.

Consider yourself updated, dear reader, a virtual peeping Tom in the bushes of my life, and fret not! I swear on a stack of patents, more postcards from the edge (isn't that a movie? Is that phrase trademarked? I should know, huh?) tomorrow!

2006-11-22T09:10:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving. Perhaps the easiest of holidays to explain thematically to the young'uns. More difficult, however, is explaining the meaning of the word, "thankful." Things or ideas you have, that you like, that you are just so so so happy to have. Or like. Things or ideas. You know. Stuff.

Seeing as how my insightful interpretation was laid out so cleanly before him, I don't understand how Spencer could not immediately grasp the concept.

"What are you thankful for, Spence?"

"Ummm...I'm helpful for..."

"No, thankful, look at my mouth, thu-ank-ful."

"Oh. Kay. I'm thankful for...Ummm...My friends at school..."

"Yes! That's great! Oh good job, what a nice thing to be thankful for. Go ahead, baby..."

"And I'm thinkful for..."

"No, thankful, Spence, thankful, what are you so happy to have?"

"I'm thankful for...Ummm...my friends, and...my school, and..." (Eyes start wandering) "...My mittens, and...our car, and...stop signs, and...stores, ay-uuund...car wash, ay-uuund...sidewalk, ay-uuund...lady walking her doggie, ay-uuund...Cwismas lights! And I'm thankful for Cwismas! And Santa Claus! And I will sit on Santa Claus lap! And I will say, (falsetto) 'Santa, please may I have a 'mote control car?' And he will say 'YES!!'"

Ah, Thanksgiving, you poor overlooked holiday. You are merely a stumbling block on the road to Christmas.

I am thankful for my boys, for my entire family, may they forever be deliriously happy and healthy, and for my sense of humor, without which sanity would not be possible. Amen.

2006-11-20T13:03:00.000-08:00

Just recently we touched upon how similar dear Spence’s personality is to that of his father. In today’s Happy Hour, we will discuss a way in which Spence reflects a love of my own heart, The Great American Word Game.

Word play, it seems, provides endless fascination for this 3-yr-old, and he will happily engage in it with any willing participant/innocent bystander for hours on end.

“Hey Spence, look, it’s Uncle Jonah!”

“Uncle Jonah?”

“Yup. Say hello!”

“Hello, Uncle…Cheek!”

My dear brother, being the kind-hearted goof he is, plays along.

“Hi Spencer! How are you?”

“Fine, Uncle…Blanket!” (hysterical laughter)

“Oh yeah? Well that’s good, Spence-cheek!” (more hysterical laughter) “How was your day at school today?”

“Fine! I played on the swings pickle! I said pickle! Ahahahaha!!”

“Well the swings are fun…But what about the slide CHEEK?!”

(Spencer, of course, now believes my brother to be The Funniest Man On The Planet.)

“Well my favowite is the monkey PICKLE bars!! Ahahahahahaha!”

“All right, Spence, you’re a silly boy...Oh look, it's dinner time…Are you hungry? How about a WOODEN BLANKET SANDWICH?”

(Spence falls down on the floor, arms wrapped around his own stomach to keep from busting a gut.)

My brother has now cemented his place as favorite uncle. This only leaves the question of how to explain to the extended family at the upcoming holidays why Spencer now refers to him as Uncle PickleCheek BlanketPants. I’m sure they’ll understand.

2006-11-17T07:35:00.000-08:00

Happy Friday! Friday, Friday, you know what that means...Donuts for breakfast, takeout for lunch, and pizza for dinner, meaning by the end of the day you will probably be unable to sit down comfortably in those jeans you were so excited to wear to work today.

Yes, Casual Friday, dear reader, Denim Paradise as far as the eye can see. I have a theory, yet to be disproven, that there may be a direct correlation between one's age and exactly how high-waisted one's jeans are. A teenager, bopping around the mall or whatever it is teenagers do these days (feels like ages since I've been one), will unflinchingly sport pants with approximately half an inch of material between crotch and button. These are called "low-rise," or "belly before baby" jeans. Display it now, chickies, display it while you still can.

Add on an inch or so for each decade lived and you've got the formula! Remind me to stop wearing jeans in about thirty years, Ok? Thanks.

When this theory leaves you questioning your results, an additional way to determine how old one truly is is to engage said person in light conversation. Note the enthusiastic use of the word "sucks" and the sideways glances to be sure you think they're using it properly. Very telling.

Again, these are just theories.

I'd like to lobby management to instate Pajama Thursday. Then we could really have some fun.

2006-11-16T13:41:00.000-08:00

Oh, LAWD, here we go again. On a very reputable bulletin board that I visit, the inevitable debate of whether to return to work after children or stay home has reared its ugly head.

I thought I'd come here to vent a bit. Smart girl, aren't I? These things can get pretty heated on the boards and I'd rather not wake up with a severed stuffed animal head in bed beside me.

So humor me, won't you? I believe I've stumbled upon the perfect illustration of how it feels to be a working mother in the company of those who so fiercely believe anything less than staying home full-time to be equivalent to leaving your children in the woods to be raised by wild squirrels (I'm in Cleveland, Ok?).

Say you are one of the afore-mentioned mothers. Now say you throw a dinner party, of mixed company. If an acquaintance of yours, attending said dinner party, had a mastectomy, and you were aware of it, would you gather your bosomy friends 'round and go on and on about how you couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a breast(s)? You couldn't possibly ever go through that, what it must be like to wear a swimsuit, how could you please your husband, etc. etc. etc.

See what I mean? Now, I'm not a (complete) idiot, I realize that these two things are not comparable in real life, not even close, but I wanted to paint a picture for you of what it feels like to be degraded in such a manner, even unintentionally. One of my best friends does this to me.

That said, I understand that each of us makes choices we hope will be best for our family, with the research we've done on our own personal situations and a desperate attempt to project the future of each decision. I say, if you can feasibly stay home, if you have both the financial stability and patience of a...very patient thing, then do. Enjoy the hell out of it! But please don't assume that I'm an asshole who could stay home and doesn't, or rub it in that you have that luxury. While I read your posts, I am at work missing my boys like crazy, hoping like hell they'll still love me best at the end of the day.

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG??

P.S. Silly, light-heartedness tomorrow.

2006-11-09T09:32:00.000-08:00

Today is an absolutely beautiful day in my neck of the woods. The sun is shining, it's warm(ish), & the leaves are lazily floating down all around. I'm thinking we'll take little Spence out to the park, as this may prove to be our last genuinely nice day of the year. Then...bum ba BUM...Snow, and ice, and all manner of things hazardous to this commuting chick. Ick. I keep threatening to move to Arizona. I actually know nothing about Arizona, but I hear it's a nice dry heat. I'm IN.

Irregardless...(I'm KIDDING, if you ever actually say this non-word to me, I'll take it as a personal affront & bitch-slap you)...We are looking at an inevitable stretch of cabin fever ahead of us. There are only so many times you can read The Boy's favorite book, or watch Toy F Me Sideways Story (oh no, it seems I'm tired of this one already, & winter isn't even fully upon us), or glue popsicle sticks together or whatever fun projects I can pull off my bookmarked kiddie websites. I can never come up with something truly original. I'm crafty like a fox, and only that way.

Where was I? Oh, cabin fever, indeed. These two words, along with "financial preparedness" are possibly the only obstacle on the path to having three children. I simply don't think I can stand to be sardine-d in with one more single person over the course of an impossibly long, dreary Ohio winter. For a scary sight, swing by my place around, oh, February-ish, peek inside, and watch the zombies duke it out over the remote. Fun times.

My last thought on this as I prepare to hibernate is this...If you take the term "cabin fever" lightly, consider this...There was a gentleman you may remember who suffered through a child-induced case of cabin fever. His name was Jack Torrance. 'Nuff said.

2006-11-08T09:25:00.000-08:00

Just in case there was ever any doubt as to my coolness, it's been confirmed...Starting sometime soon (???), I will be writing a "journal" (blog, really) for babycenter.com, the site for the hippest mommas. How cool is that?!

True, it will be a lot of hard work, a thankless, non-paying job, but that's motherhood, really. I'm already signed up for that, may as well sing about it from the mountaintops for the sheer rush of it...The hiiills are aliiive...With the sound of tyyyping...

So I'm here today to write about writing, to blog about blogging...I do so apologize for the redundancy, but being offered that journal spot absolutely MADE MY FREAKING DAY. Tell your friends about me! No seriously, tell them. I could use the exposure.

I'm kidding, of course...if you actually tell anyone you're reading my lame-o crapola, they will certainly snub you. Or at least snicker a bit. If anyone asks, you Googled "vivacity" for a work project and stumbled across this really weird site, check it out, you might like it. It's this certifiable mom chick writing about her clearly disturbed children and the train wreck called her life. It's a scream!

Well darling dears, the journey to becoming the next {insert favorite author here} starts with one step, so...I'm off! Wish me luck! And thank you, audience, I sincerely appreciate your patience with these humble attempts to catalogue My So-Called Life...It is your support that gives me the inspiration to continue pursuing this, my dream.

2006-11-06T10:41:00.000-08:00

Well, folks, it's happened. The inevitable is upon us, and I find myself less than prepared to deal with this new onslaught of milestones and the emotions that ensue. The Baby, if I can even call him that anymore, is walking. I am the proud emotional wreck of a mother to one young boy and one, GULP, toddler. I'm not ready. Hold me.

Tears aside, it is HILARIOUS to watch. He'll get halfway across the room, crawling like an express locomotive, before remembering that he knows how to walk. Pause, mid-knee-raise, head cocks to the side, wait for it, wait...A-ha! Gathers his legs beneath him, a push off the ground with little sausage-fingered hands, and VOILA...He's a stand-up kinda guy. Then, and this requires much effort...lift of the foot and quickly thump it down...steady now, steeeaaadyyy...and...other foot. This is exponentially more amusing than watching paint dry, although it takes about twice as long.

Spence is both intrigued and frightened to death of this new development. Our enthusiasm is contagious, and he'll fight to be the one to stretch out both arms and invite Julian to take a stroll his way...But at the same time, when said baby does actually reach him, he gets a little freaked out at someone pitching towards him, tearing at his clothes and leaning in, doe-eyed and dewy-lipped, for a kiss. Some day he'll actually search this out, from the appropriate girl of course. Oh, excuse me, the appropriate girl or boy. Momma's an open-minded kind of gal, you lucky sons of guns.

Even with Spence running hot and cold on him, The Baby seems interested enough to pursue this walking endeavor. And we are one hundred percent behind him, literally, arms ever-ready to catch a stumble.

On the bright side, I suppose this puts us one step closer to Adulthood and Get The Hell Out. Some shining day of the glorious future, when Nathaniel and I have the time, energy, and money, we'll travel and travel and travel. Or maybe just stay in bed and recoup from years of nerve-wracking stress. Either or.

2006-11-01T08:11:00.001-08:00

Working on the 19th floor these past 3 weeks, I've come to realize some valid concerns I have regarding Gravity-Defying Death Traps, or what my completely oblivious coworkers call "elevators." Perhaps I can squeeze some free therapy out of this blog.

Concern #1: What if, or should I say when, because it seems like an inevitability over the course of time and daily wear and tear...What if the whole damn hulking thing should come loose, that is, the brake and corresponding emergency brake should give out, while an innocent person was, say, stepping out onto a floor? Would that person lose the leg they were so unsuspectingly stepping out with? And if so, whose insurance responsibility would that be?? How much blood are we talking? And just how many Halloween horror movies does it take to turn one's mind to an all-day gore-athon?

Concern #2: What if this same innocent Death Trap rider were "safely" in said Death Trap when Concern #1 occurred? Hurtling to the earth, free-falling and rapidly gaining speed...18, 17, 16...What would be the best course of action? 15, 14, 13... Randomly push buttons while screaming "Fire!" because any chick with an email address knows that would bring the most help the quickest?? Or...Maybe, just maybe, brace yourself as best you're able, thereby avoiding the direct impact of Death Trap vs. ground? Hmmm. Food for thought. And Lord knows I have plenty of time to review my options while rocketing up and down all day in these crazy, crazy machines we've come to rely on. I should have asked for more money.

Next week: Fire In The Stairwell...Now What?

2006-10-31T06:30:00.000-08:00

We touched earlier upon the subject of children inheriting their parents’ traits, and this past weekend has revealed that Spencer has most definitely inherited his father’s outgoing personality.

As a child, I was completely unable to approach anyone I wasn’t familiar with, and express myself in any fashion whatsoever. I felt a longing to crawl under the nearest rock, or perhaps disappear entirely, whenever a social situation presented itself. When playing that fun game, Which Super-Power Would YOU Want? Mine was invisibility, hands down. Still is, when I’m late for work or caught typing a blog entry on company time. POOF! Want to scold me? Got to find me first, bitches!

Nathaniel, on the other hand, is and has always been the most extroverted person I know. This, I believe, is why our balancing act works so well. He’ll order the dinner when dining out, for example, and scream if it’s wrong, and I’ll stare at the floor. We each have our parts to play.

So back to this past weekend…We took the kiddos to an indoor trick-or-treating event and they had a BLAST. Batman, a.k.a. cousin Jason, took the lead and off they went, trick-or-treating to their hearts’ content, punctuated with the occasional delighted scream as some masked creature peeked out from around a corner. Said with no sarcasm whatsoever, fun times.

At the end of this winding road of Halloween joy, we came to a gathering place where they had everything from a coloring contest set up, to refreshments and a large area with a d.j. for the kiddies to break it down to the tune of the Monster Mash. I said, “Spence, go show ‘em your moves!” Half-expecting him to turn bashfully into me & hide his face against my (ample) thigh. Son of a gun if he didn’t take off full speed into the heart of the melee, shaking his booty like a pro.

I was astounded…I myself couldn’t have gone onto the dance floor for a million dollars, regardless that my judging peers would have been an eighth my age. Nathaniel was pleasantly surprised, a little smile on his face which I knew meant he was reminiscing on his heyday, complete with impressing the grade-school girlies with his fancy, fancy moves. ‘The sprinkler’ has not died, ladies and gentlemen, it lives on, if only in Nathaniel’s memories.

So I’m here to say, lock up your daughters, because darling Spencer is truly his father’s son.

2006-10-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

In this time of wondrous change and growth, I've sat back and watched my boys get older with the subconscious idea that I was somehow perfectly preserved in my 16-yr-old body. That window of internal viewpoint slammed shut just last night while perusing some old photos. I came across one of myself in a sweatshirt in which long blond hair was flowing in the breeze, and I had this smile on my face like, Responsibility? What's that? Who needs it?? Not me, I'm just hanging out, wearing perfectly applied makeup & have you seen this HAIR? Yup, woke up & styled it with all the time in the world laid out before me.

I'm thinking, yup, that's me, wrinkle-free face & all.

Then my eye caught the sweatshirt I had been wearing, & the condition of this sweatshirt, which I actually still own. The shirt is absolutely threadbare, really just two sleeves held together by an Aeropostale logo (yes, I was quite the fashion snob, before I knew what "bills" were).

A bucket of cold water to the face. While I realize that skin doesn't age at quite the rate cotton does, I...prepare yourself...have aged as well! Son of a gun. Who'd have thunk, even I could be affected by the passage of time?? I have laugh lines now, & carry some hefty luggage under my eyes...& around the hip-thigh area...

Oy. I'm not ready for this! Who the hell wants to get older? Not I, said the fly, as he keeled over 24 hours after his birth.

I'm thinking a cute haircut & an extra workout or two may stave off the depression I feel breathing down my neck, edging in on my happiness here at the new job. Well, I suppose I've got to take the good with the bad...Do you know any 16-yr-old legal assistants be-bopping around downtown, going home to the arms of a gorgeous loving family?? All right then. I've got two healthy dollops of sugar at home to help the medicine go down.

2006-10-24T13:48:00.000-07:00

Today's Pondering:

What would a stifled sneeze, followed by a sigh of relief, sound like to a cubicle-mate?

For side-splitting fun at home, try holding a book or other impromptu divider between you and a friend, deep breath, lips pursed tightly together, forcefully expel the air, big sigh finale, aaand...Voila! Instant fun! Note: Please don't attempt this if you are actually right now sitting in a cubicle.

Also great at parties!

2006-10-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

The government is approving a much-needed piece of legislation I think all of you Internet-savvy should be made aware of.

TAADA (The Acronym Awareness & Dispute Act) allows any person or agency to bring forth an acronym for discussion. If said acronym is already in common use, it cannot be granted to said party. If it’s an unusual & fun one, such as DUBYA, which of course stands for Dumb Useless Bullshit-Yakking Arsehole, you will automatically be placed in the running for the Nobel Prize (NP).

TFB (This Fun Blog) would like to take this opportunity to say that there are entirely TMA (Too Many Acronymns) on This Crazy Planet (TCP), and although there actually is no PL (Pending Legislation) before TBIC (Those Bastards In Congress), I feel there should be. So STIYPASI (Stick That In Your Pipe And Smoke It).

If I come across as Frustrated And Cranky (FAC), it can only be due to my present learning environment (LE), which appears to run solely on WTMATL (Way Too Many Acronyms To Learn). PL (Patent Law) and the ADBMW’s (Attorneys Driving BMW’s (Bavarian Motor Works)) a.k.a. BOSS’s (Bitches Out Sidewalk Shopping) should really consider patenting a learning environment (LE) in which one is submerged in PLL (Patent Law Language) for a short period and be done with it (FINITO), rather than this slow, current madness-inducing CWT (Chinese Water Torture) method.

Please, DUBYA, can’t we come up with some legislation ASAP, or I fear I may TALWOASP (Take A Long Walk Off A Short Pier).

SOL,
Cera

P.S.
P.P.S.
R.S.V.P.
Cc:
Fw:
Encl.
CKV/ckv

2006-10-20T09:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Little Boy in the Oven Door,

I just want to extend my heartfelt thanks. You never disappoint; you are always there for my Julian when he needs you to be. You never complain, you never make a sound, you are not another mouth to feed…you’re simply there for him. And he leans on you more and more these days (literally), especially when seeking some quiet solace from his larger, older, much louder siblings. So thank you.

You remind me of “Katie,” Anne of Green Gables’ mirrored friend. Do you know her? How is she these days? Haven’t heard about her since Anne traipsed off to The Isle.

I also wish to apologize…You seem capable of handling not only Julian’s weight, but endure his lengthy make-out sessions, which can get quite messy. My most sincere of apologies for those. When I laugh hysterically and take pictures, don’t fret, dear Oven Door Boy, my mirth is not at your expense. Per se.

So keep up the good work! I know what you’re thinking. I’ll put my money where my mouth is. I’ll break out the Windex this weekend, and all will be right with the world.

Yours in Kitchen Endeavors,
Cera

2006-10-17T13:48:00.000-07:00

I see my mistake. Now I see my mistake.

We discussed getting a pet, way back when, LBB (Life Before Baby), and Spencer was positively enthralled with the prospect. Although the pair of goldfish didn’t last too long, may they rest in peace, we had actually been toying with the idea of getting some sort of pet, perhaps a hamster in one of those handy indestructible plastic balls, the better to scurry out of reach of the clutches of afore-mentioned loving boy. Who was that cartoon girl, Elmira? Elvira maybe? Who would squeeze her animals til their eyes bulged out of their desperate little heads, squeaking sweet nothings like, “I will LOVE you and HUG you and SQUEEZE you and HOLD you forever and ever and ever!” Mental image in place? Good. Now insert the face of my sweet 3-yr-old. There ya go.

Enter Baby Julian, stage left. I do believe dear Spence thought his wish had been granted. A pet, at long last! For his very own. To LOVE him and HUG him and…you get the idea.

I had thought, when I realized I would be the proud mother of two, two, two boys for the price (I wish) of one! that the sort of obstacles I might face would include separating fights, dividing rooms with pieces of masking tape, deciding whose breathing space was whose, etc. And that may very well be in my future, but for now…

I find my biggest obstacle is separating them, all right. Separating Spence from HUGGING (yes, I mean to use all caps) defenseless Julian, yelling vows of undying love in his face (it’s the ol’ deaf/tourist trick…if they don’t respond, just YELL til you think you’re getting through), lovingly petting random features (ears, toes, eyeballs), slipping food to him from the kitchen table like a little…you guessed it…pet.

So a word to the wise…If you are even considering trying to conceive another baby, whatever you do, limit your child’s exposure to animals. Although cute, warm and cuddly, current studies are indicating that babies are not, in fact, pets. In my house, however, the jury is still out.

2006-10-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

This is me, prostrate before you, begging forgiveness and whipping my own back with one of those handy flogger thingies. All right? Ok?

My humblest of apologies for having been absent so very long…In Blogger years, a week equals about two months, I know. Haven’t you been just dying to know what antics my boys are up to, and what the new job entails? Well, honestly, I’m still training for the new job, so when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. In a timely manner, Scout’s honor. I’m an honorary Girl Scout by way of Thin Mint Obsession.

Quick update, since I used a nail file to saw through the ankle chain to my desk and once they discover me missing, it’s all over! They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho…Honestly, it’s not too bad here on the ol’ patent law frontier, just difficult to learn all the terminology. They speak another language ‘round these he-yur parts, and I’m a-fixin’ to learn me some.

The boys, well…Boys will be boys will be boys, no matter how much I dress them in girls’ clothes and makeup and force them to practice their curtsies…KIDDING! My boys are boys, through and through. Spence has just recently joined the ranks of The Rough’N’Tumble Gang, which positively horrifies Julian. It’s difficult to convince the baby that Spence is screaming in fun, especially when the baby and I speak different languages. But we’re learning, the both of us.

In other news, Julian has decided to cruise the furniture as his primary means of transportation, so when his daycare calls Child Protective Services on me for all the bumps and bruises, you are all witness to this testimony, this sixteenth day of October, year of our Lord two-thousand-six…I do solemnly swear that although said baby does piss me off occasionally, I have never raised my hand to him. There are simply too many people in line in front of him for their well-deserved bitch slap. Speaking of which, I do so hope my darling ex-employers have mailed me my last check.

Well, dear audience (are there any left? I feel I’ve been away for eons), do please continue to check in…I promise never to neglect you again for so long. Please don’t pine away for me, I’m here, just struggling to juggle the world and everyone in it. It’s a rough job, but somebody’s got to do it. This is The Circus, signing off.

2006-10-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

The latest trend in raising a generation of baby geniuses is to teach the fine art of sign language. While this may be a noble endeavor, I don't find it to be very practical. In my short time on this planet, in fact, I have never met a blind person. Although I appreciate sign language, don't get me wrong. Helen Keller, you da woman.

What may be more beneficial, to me, is reading lips. I'm going to start teaching my darling 7-mo-old...tomorrow. This involves much over-exaggerated lip contortion, facial expression, and possibly a hand gesture or two, all with the volume set to 'mute.' Should be hilarious.

Selfishly, I'll guide Julian to read lips for my own ulterior motive. This will help to answer a line item on my List of Burning Questions...WHAT ARE THE EXTRAS SAYING?? I must know. I could die happy tomorrow if I only knew what exactly those background conversations are about. You know what I'm talking about. You're watching a TV show, and Susie is breaking up with Bobby or whatever the hell, front and center, but behind them, a couple walks past, or "co-workers" are mingling over by the water cooler...Extras. People, instructed to act as though they are having some sort of fascinatingly intellectual conversation...The director yells, "Action!"...And these people who probably met each other the day before at a casting call turn to each other and say...What?? They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves, do they not? I find myself more fascinated with this than with whatever is happening center stage that I'm supposed to be paying attention to. Hence my problem. This is where Julian comes into play.

So those pseudo-actors had better step lively. In just about...10 years, I'm going to be totally hip to their scene. And...Action!

2006-10-03T07:04:00.000-07:00

I've touched in the past upon the subject of Ye Olde Boob Tube and its undermining influence in my household. I'd like to revisit that subject...

Sunday evening, I was temporarily possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver and decided to whip up a batch of wholesome goodness for my doting family in the form of cookies. I actually find baking to be very therapeutic, and I need all the therapy I can get these days.

My darling 3-yr-old comes wandering into the kitchen in the midst of said whirling dervish. Curiousity piqued, he begins the usual volley of questions...What's this, what's that, flour? I love flour, let me taste, the oven is hot? What's that thing, what's it for, can I use it, can I mix it, can I touch it, can I hold it? What's that, baking soda? I LOVE baking soda, please may I have some baking soda? I asked nicely.

Since I didn't have a free hand at the time to throw him out the nearest available window, I withstood this one-man firing squad rather well, and was under the impression it was winding down when it clicked.

Down came the peanut butter out of the cupboard. The inevitable..."Peanut butter? For...PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES??"

A gleam came into my darling sweet boy's eye, the like of which I had seen only on cartoon villains...The picture was made complete by much licking of chops and wringing of hands.

"Peanut butter cookies! What a great idea!" I wish I could convey the tone to you. As if I had just suggested some fantastic new method of world domination.

"Peanut butter cookies! Mu-hahahahahaha!!" I know you think I'm making this up, but I swear on Nip/Tuck I'm not exaggerating when I say dear Spencer threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

So the new rule is this...Alden watches his cartoons on his TV, and Spencer can watch as much light-hearted, upbeat kiddie fluff on the Disney channel as he wants. And I can once again sleep at night.

2006-09-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

Actual excerpt of a father who shall remain nameless reading to his son last night...

"...And this is a fire engine...."

"...And the person who drives the fire truck is called an engineer..."

"...And the people who sit in the back of the truck are called losers..."

2006-09-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

Wanted: Full-time Watcher. This position involves filling all requests to "see," "look," and "watch" during all waking hours of one spirited 3-yr-old. Seeking extremely patient individual's undivided attention. This position's pay is the reward of one little boy's adoration and one tired mother's undying gratitude. Yeah I didn't think so.

2006-09-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

I have a new job. This may interfere with my commitment to growing The World’s Largest Secretary Ass, but so be it. This double-wide is moving on to bigger and better things, dear reader, and hopefully, fingers crossed, even more fodder for such sarcastic fun as you’ve enjoyed thus far.

My decision to move the hell on occurred about 2.5 seconds after being informed, a couple of weeks (good Lord, has it only been that long?) ago that I was being passed over for a promotion. Not just any promotion, THE only promotion that a lowly secretary such as myself might ever hope for in this teeny, tiny closet of an office. Which used to feel cozy, but now feels like the walls are closing in like that scene in Star Wars where they’re being smushed to death by an intergalactic garbage compactor. Horrible way to go.

Utter bullshit. I was forced out of the office manager position because one of the owners thought his wife would make a lovely front office fixture (wrong-o, she wears aquamarine mascara circa 1985, ‘nuff said). But in a desperate scramble to explain themselves to an understandably upset me, they attempted to mislead my gullible ass into believing that I was not a “go-getter.” Oh, really? How about I “go get” myself a new effing job, how’s that for go-getting? I hope you like green eyeshadow. Enjoy the view.

So, this blog will be coming to you live and direct from a lovely patent law office downtown, beginning Monday, October 9. Until then, I shall be smuggling juicy little tidbits of the circus that is my life from the trenches, faithful reader. Viva VivaCity!

2006-09-21T09:25:00.000-07:00

My 3-yr-old son seems to be in the midst of some sort of identity crisis. His lovable little self needs confirmation at every step in every process, and then seems to find it easier to remove himself from the situation entirely and transform into something fantastic.

"Spence, come eat your dinner." (You're thinking, Oh, what a simple request. You poor fool.)
"Come eat?"
"Yes."
"Come eat my dinner?"
"Yes."
"At the table?"
"Yes!"
"Sit down at the table and eat my dinner?"
(Sigh, smack forehead) "Yes. Please. Some time today."
"Today?"
"YES, baby, today, right now, puh-LEEZE."

Pause.

"Call me 'dragon.' Say, 'Come eat your dinner, dragon.'"

At which point I usually take the fork from his place setting and begin stabbing myself in the eye socket, which is much less painful.

So he's got this split personality thing going on, which can be frustrating. Dragons tend not to eat their vegetables, to breathe fire into their baby brother's face, and abhor any bedtime which might cut into their townspeople-scaring time.

I'll wait this one patiently out...I am loathe to stifle any creativity...But if it continues much longer than the average phase, I think I'll request that he address me as Queen Mommy, Ruler of the Known Universe, and see just how dedicated he is to keeping up this charade, because let's face it, a Queen Mommy trumps an ordinary dragon any day of the week. I've had years to perfect my imagination, dear boy, don't tempt me.

2006-09-19T11:52:00.000-07:00

Life can be summed up in two categories: Life Before Bills and Life After Bills. Think about it. As a child, you roamed freely, did whatever occurred to you and your numbskull buddies without second thought of consequence, and used the hell out of that most wondrous of foundations, The Bank of Mom and Dad. Withdrawal, withdrawal, withdrawal, baby needs a new pair of shoes.

And even as a young adult, perhaps when you were baby-sitting or mowing lawns or even landing your first real j-o-b, money was no object. Once your car payment was made, it was ON. Life was lived one shopping spree to the next. Good times, and I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. Good friggin times.

The ironic thing is, all this time, you’re daydreaming about being an adult, with all the freedoms that entails. Boy, are you a dumbass.

Once you’ve crossed that threshold into Adulthood, hooo boy, it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. It may even be thrilling, to start getting mail and phone calls addressed to that all-important ADULT, you. How fun. How exciting. You’re a bona fide member of society. But mark my words, a horde of fear-mongers will haunt you, and they are…Bills. Bills will knock on your door and ring your phone til you’re lying on the floor, writhing in pain from Empty Wallet Syndrome, fending off these beasts who try to wring money from your very tortured soul. The only weapon these hounds of hell respect is a golden sword called Credit, and woe is he who doesn’t brandish it. You may as well lay down and give up. Start selling organs, you poor bastard, because it is over.

So today’s lesson is this, dear readers: Teach your children, and teach them well. Lay the armor of Knowledge over their breastplates, and instruct them how to wield that irreplaceable shining golden sword, Credit. Please.

If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know those bastards have finally found me and taken their ton of flesh. Let my epitaph say, Here lies Cera, Blissfully ignorant child, Woefully credit-less adult. May she romp carefree in eternal bill-less innocence.

2006-09-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

Dooce (dooce.com) poses a question to those of us plodding along in her footsteps, struggling to eke out a blog and fill it with brightly intellectual fodder for the mind. Or just, you know, go on and on about our babies' bowel movements. Which can be quite fascinating, actually. Ever see the business end of a jar of pureed carrots? Care to go there? Dare me. Double dog dare me.

She asks, what are your deal breakers? Following is a short list of my own personal "deal breakers..."

Stringing me along for 4.5 years with a carrot of a job dangling on a stick that was never going to be mine. Bitches.
The consistent use of double negatives. It's over, Johnny. Or rather, it ain't not over.
Poor hygiene. I had to kick Matthew McConaughey to the curb when I heard that nasty rumor that he doesn't wear deodorant. He was heartbroken.
Gross misrepresentation, which I feel Nathaniel may be guilty of. I could have sworn he boasted of being a "neat freak" at some point early in our relationship. Baby, what happened?? Where's my stenographer? Read that part back.
Petty, close-minded, egotistical self-involved attitudes. See first item.

In closing, I would like to point out that I feel I am an excellent candidate for The World's Most Laid-Back Person, but eff me once, shame on me. Eff me over a period of 4.5 years, shame on you, bitches, I'm out. Peace.

2006-09-14T09:53:00.000-07:00

I have some deeply unsettling and disturbing entertainment news to share today. I know what you're thinking, but no, it's not Britney's second baby. Although that is disturbing in its own right.

Whitney Houston, best-known female warbler on the pop scene, has filed for divorce from her long-time husband, Bobby Brown.

Let me tell you why I am upset by this. I used to watch Being Bobby Brown, their reality show, and I would think, Damn, these two have got to be the craziest fuckers on the planet. But it truly showed that there is someone out there for everyone, even if you are the craziest fucker on the planet. You have a cosmic mate.

Their ability to be completely at ease with each other, goofiness, drugs, kids, careers, LIFE...Amazed me. I could definitely stand to be a little goofier with Nathaniel, although if I told him to kiss my black ass, I doubt he'd be as amused as Bobby was. He already shoots a dirty look if I say, Oh HELL to the no. Whitney, you're my idol, and Iiiii....Will always...Love youuuu. May your quirky sayings be inscribed forever in our pop culture history.

So in today's somber post, I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects to the goofiest, most passionate relationship I have seen in my short time. I still can't believe it. Oh hell to the no.

2006-09-11T09:43:00.000-07:00

I don’t claim to be “crunchy,” referring to the granola-oriented method of parenting, but I’m no health slob, either. We fall somewhere in the middle…Somewhere between organic tofu and hot fudge sundaes.

My own parents approached rearing my siblings and me in the same manner…Excepting, of course, the use of wheat germ and oats, which I found a bit excessive. We knew, Mom. You weren't pulling one over on anyone. You may as well have called dinner Whole Wheat Surprise. Mom and Dad's original plan was to go sugar-free the whole way, which was a nice idea…But here on Planet Earth, the reality is that children love and will get to sugar by any means necessary. As a kid, I would and did gladly trade my soul for a Ho-Ho on many occasions. And now that I am free to go buy the local grocery store’s entire stock of Ho-Ho’s, they are my thighs’ sworn enemies. Oh, the agonizing irony of it all.

So Nathaniel and I continue plugging away, singing our little song and dance to get the “bedge-tabuls” into our dear boys…Tossing them an ice cream every now and again, more for its twisted entertainment value than anything else.

2006-09-07T10:07:00.000-07:00

Hey, Jude…Don’t let them win…Move your damn hands…And frigging crawl now-oo-ow…We’re tired…Of watching you rock and cry…Some time before next July-yyy…Friggi-ing crawl now. Naaa…naaa naaa na na na naaa…

Crawl, man. Go ahead. We’re all behind you. Yes, you might fall. Yes, rugburn on your teeny nose is a risk…A risk you must take. Crawling is hip, man, all the babies are doing it. Far out.

I promise if you crawl within the next…hmmm…two weeks, I’ll doctor your baby book and say six months. By the time you and I get around to sitting down and reminiscing over such milestones, Mommy dearest will have forgotten anyway, sweetheart, and no one will be the wiser. The terms of this deal expire after two weeks, though. Act quickly.

Although Mommy loves you and is SO PROUD of your hands-and-knees rocking ability, it’s getting old, babe. Mommy doesn’t have the greatest attention span. I love the movie Dirty Dancing, but would I watch it 24/7? Let’s get this show on the road.

I know that all too soon, you will be jet-setting circles around me, and I will crave a moment in which you are immobile and speechless, but I must admit I’m getting a bit worried about development. Word on the street is, rocking on your hands and knees is not the best way to attract women. Or the right type of woman, rather. And it has no place on a college application. Unless of course you plan on testing knee pads for a living. Which doesn’t provide for a cushy mother-in-law suite, so that’s out.

All I’m saying is this, dear JuJuBee…CRAWL. Please. I have the greatest aspirations for you, but time’s a-wasting, and you’re going nowhere fast. You can be anything you want to be…except stationary.

2006-09-06T10:52:00.000-07:00

My son, the enigma. His all-important 3-yr-old self never ceases to amaze me. Or himself, it seems. At a festival last weekend, we saw the pony-ride-induced mini-stroke coming a mile away, and being the cruel ogres we are, forced him to ride anyways. Buck up, cowboy, life does not get any easier than being led around in a teeny circle on the back of an oversize dog. I mean really.

But then a few minutes and many tears later, he tugs our sleeves over to a huge inflated slide approximately fifteen hundred feet high and begs to go down. We hide our shock and disbelief (we’re fighting over who holds the baby; the other, by default, will have to climb up after him when the inevitable acrophobia strikes) behind encouraging smiles and a couple of “you go boy!”s and he is off. Amazingly, not only does my Boy Wonder make it to the summit, he completely bypasses the helper lady stationed at the top and hurtles down all by himself! BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! When he returns to us, all flushed cheeks and Einstein hair, he requests another turn on the slide! After we pick ourselves up off the ground, dust the baby off, and collect our thoughts, we gladly hand over another ticket.

So you think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? Animals terrify and heights excite? Oh, were that it was that simple. There seems to be no rhyme and reason to sweet Spence’s laundry list of fears. For instance, he was able to calmly feed the goats that day, wicked horned beasts with cold blips for pupils, but is absolutely unable to touch Nathaniel’s mother’s dog, paralyzed with fear. He runs shrieking from this adorable foot-tall miniature poodle like the hounds of hell were after him. My mental jukebox kicks in and plays Benny Hill music in the background. We are quite the sophisticated family, I tey-ull you whut.

Well, faithful reader, I’m off to scour Ebay for a gently used plastic bubble in which to protect my Certified Wussy Boy. Keep your fingers crossed he outgrows it by age 30 or so. I’d like grandchildren some day.

2006-09-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

The first step is to admit you have a problem. Hello, my name is Cera, and I’m a stickler for grammar. I correct people incessantly. Some of my finer moments have been spent screaming, “We were, we were playing outside, say it, we were!”

Most of my finely honed tutoring skills are currently directed at poor dear Alden, who I’m sure wants nothing more than to crawl into some cool dark place I’ll never find him and say whatever the hell he wants. Eff that bizznitch, she’s be all up in my bidness, for REAL. In my presence, however, precious little passes my attention uncorrected. I try to only remedy 99.5% of grammatical transgressions…I PITY DA FOOL accuses me of nagging. And yet…There’s something so damned satisfying about the slamming one home in the lost art of nagging…

I must share…I was recently completely confounded by my reluctant student Alden. In all my years of grammatical outreach, I have never been so completely thrown for a loop as I was when Alden, making reference to a video game he was playing, said, “I didn’t seen none of them nowhere.” A triple negative? Are you kidding me?? He may have even known what he was doing, pulling a fast one and sidestepping the rule of double negatives by adding another, therefore MAKING THE SENTENCE TRUE. I was at such a loss, I actually let it slide. Where to begin???

So just a heads-up…If you should ever feel like tormenting me mercilessly, forget the rack, forget Chinese water torture…Just tie me down and start throwing double, or if you want to be especially cruel, triple negatives around and my eardrums will no doubt implode. Horrible way to go.

2006-09-01T12:08:00.000-07:00

I know you’ll think I’m posting blatant lies on the Internet, but this evening I will actually be leaving the house for a short period of time during which I will consume as many alcoholic drinks as I can while desperately attempting to portray a sane adult who does this all the time and throwing furtive glances at the clock when my girlfriend is not looking. Wish me luck.

My friend Tiffany has been asking, begging rather, for me to go out and socialize with her. I keep claiming that the outside world no longer exists, therefore I see no need to build a façade of normalcy and parade it around in front of them. I am much more comfortable being a goofball in the comfort of my own home, where the booze is cheap and the conversation is to-the-point. How big did you say the baby’s bowel movement was today?? Jesus. Pour the scotch.

But the outside world has intruded on my little bubble life, dear readers, in a big way, which I will go into at a later point when I feel safe doing so. Heed ye always the wise words of dooce (dooce.com), who bids us to be ye not so stupid as to discuss work issues while, oh I don’t know, still employed there. Wait til ye have socked it to the man before discussing his many, many irritating habits and the downright shockingly two-faced way you have been treated and misled. Ye olde fuckers will bear the brunt of my wrath, I assure you, and in due time I shall share my story. Put the kiddies to bed early that day and pour yourselves a drink or eight, it’s going to be a looong entry.

So dear sweet Tiff, who has been thus far so patient with my stubborn refusals to leave my poor babies even temporarily motherless, will be treated to nothing less than my best effort at cheery relaxedness, which will of course actually be drunkenness. Which is fine too. Cross your fingers for me tonight, faithful reader…I will be gingerly walking that fine line between just enough alcohol to be able to laugh casually and carelessly toss my hair over my shoulder, and way, way too much alcohol, in which said hair must be held back from my face so as not to impede the flow of vomit. The way things have been going at work here lately, I’m really leaning towards the latter.

2006-08-30T07:53:00.000-07:00

Life is a nightmare. Life is a really, really bad dream and then you wake up screaming in an icy sweat and you’re late for the bus and the dog ate your homework and the shower’s cold and someone hacked off your feet with a nail file while you slept. C’est la fricking vie.

I seem to be a tad down these days. I find it hard to be chipper and upbeat when all I really want to do is ram my stapler up my co-worker’s ass and staple his small intestine to his urethra. Take it away, Mormon Tabernacle Choir…Digestive tract’s connected to the…peehole.

Fucker.

So please forgive my short-post-ed-ness while I nurse this hangover. Occupational hazard.

2006-08-25T07:09:00.000-07:00

The holidays are quickly approaching, ladies and gentlemen, and you know what that means. Hot cocoa and mini marshmallows? Get real. I’m talking, of course, about playing the Santa card. It’s pure magic, dear readers, and I don’t give a flying eff if it WAS invented by Hallmark. If I saw Mr. Hallmark on the street tomorrow I’d kiss his fat face because he has saved my dear boy’s bum from a spanking on more than one occasion. As soon as the birthday streamers hit the wastebasket, it is ON. Santa is WATCHING, Spence, so if I were you I’d reconsider shoving that straw up your nose. As positively thrilling as that experience would be, it will most definitely land you on Santa’s Horribly Naughty Very Bad Boy List, and would it really have been worth it? I think not.

We are perfecting our Reindeer Games so well, that I usually only have to throw him the crazy eye and Spence KNOWS I’m thinking about ratting him out…Only once have I been forced to ask Nathaniel to please look up Santa’s phone number for me. The boy made a mad dash to right his wrong (damned if I can remember what it was now), screaming all the while, “I’m being good! I’m being good!”

My own parents never exploited this to its full potential. In fact, they told me at quite a young age what the deal was. In all honesty, I’m not sure they ever let me believe there was a Santa. I’m afraid I dashed quite a few friends’ imaginations to pieces. Santa? Santa Claus? Oh you poor misguided child. I’ve got news for you, buddy.

I’m a bit torn now, as to the prospect of having to break it to my own kid some day. I think 3 is a bit young, and I’m certainly not ready to give up the priceless value of the Santa card in my hand yet, but what is the right age? 4? 5? 6? When he out and out asks me, maybe? Is there a Santa, Momma? No dear. SWEET. I’m never cleaning my room again.

This one may have to be handed over to Daddy Dearest. Honey, when you get a chance…Could you cover sex, drugs, and the nonexistence of Santa? I’ve got to run do that…errand…thing…you know. I’ll be back later. Point me in the direction of the nearest bar, I’ve got to go mourn my son’s innocence and come up with an equally intimidating incentive…The Apocalypse, perhaps.

2006-08-24T06:06:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that when asked to spell out my last name, I always say “‘V’ as in ‘victory’… blah blah blah blah blah.” HA! You really thought I was going to give out my last name on the Internet? Conspiracy theorist I’m not, but that seems a tad dangerous even to ignorant li’l ol’ me.

I hardly realize I do this, sort of a knee-jerk reaction I suppose…I’ve been doing it for years and had heard my father do it for years before that. Yup, we’se some spelling fools. This is where my issue comes into play (surely you knew I have many, many issues). Why do I want to be one of many in a long line of monotonous spellers handing out boring little phonetic tips to boring little FedEx guys in our boring little daily routines?

So…Please no one forewarn him…The next time that poor dear unsuspecting FedEx man asks me how to spell my last name, I’m going to say, “You know, ‘V’ as in ‘vasectomy,’ blah blah blah blah blah.” Cock my head pertly, make a little snippety-snip hand motion, smile sweetly and return to my desk. I’ve got $5 that says he remembers how to spell my damn name from now on. Don’t feel bad for him…It could be worse…I could go with my first instinct, which is of course vulva.

Rage against the tedium!

2006-08-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

I believe I’ve touched on the subject of depression, and possibly even the current slump I am in, but I also think there is a hidden danger in need of being exposed…The abuse of anti-depressants. I have reason to believe certain workout divas who shall remain nameless must choke down bottle upon bottle of these happy pills before jumping deliriously in front of the camera and going to TOWN. Either anti-depressants or crack. No sober person is that THRILLED to be sweating buckets after performing her ten thousandth grapevine. Grapevines are just not that exciting. Yet their eyes are rolling back in their heads with orgasmic ecstasy, impossibly huge grins splitting their Barbie heads in half while their backup dancers slowly shrivel up from dehydration, matching smiles melting into puddles on the floor. Except of course the chick in the back who’s doing the “modified” workout, moving very slowly and carefully so as not to kill any elderly women or asthmatics who might be trying to can-can at warp speed like the rest of us poor suckers. Easy there, Grandma, let’s not get crazy and oh, I don’t know, burn calories.

I know I really need to step it up in the workout department, I know this, but I simply can’t find it within me to face that cheerful bitch every single morning. I’d happily, however, show her a perfect left, right, left in a dark alley behind her workout studio.

My novel marketing idea is to show it how it REALLY is…I’d get in front of that camera in my holy sweats, take extremely long water breaks, and flop down at the end, exhausted and irritated and in desperate need of a shower. Stretching be damned. Of course, the background track to Sweatin’ To The Real Shit would not be high-powered jamming techno, but the high-pitched whiney I need juuuiiice…Mooommaaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…And one and two and one and two and one and two…In my world, both trips to the kitchen for young’uns and/or swift kicks to their rears count as working out. If you’re balancing a baby on your hip simultaneously, add 200 calories burned. Hi-yaa.

I think I’m stuck in this hamster wheel for now, though, ladies and gentlemen…Until of course I can launch the Suck My Thighs Fund, coming to a drugstore coffee can near you. Exercise: the poor man’s liposuction.

2006-08-17T08:14:00.000-07:00

It’s absolutely mind-blowing to watch your children grow and develop and see your own traits emerging in them before your eyes. I hope, along the lines of genetic therapy, the ob/gyn’s of the future can prepare some sort of checklist that allows parents to choose the qualities (I use this term loosely) that their children possess and toss out the ones that might be bothersome.

For instance, my poor dear Julian may never sit himself up completely. He tries his damndest, a Herculean effort each time, but he only ever gets as far as the point where his thighs come into view, then flops back, disgusted. This is my fault, of course, since he’s inherited both my thighs and my loathing of them. He’s going to be really pissed when he discovers he also has my cankles, which are of course the absence of any sort of shapely ankle whatsoever, just a sort of running of the calf directly into the foot. Poor kid. It’s probably a positive thing we never had girls…Cankles are the sort of torture only Mother Nature could invent for the female psyche.

Spencer is the beneficiary of his father’s gift (I also use this term loosely) of gab. Some day, when the two of them, you know, speak the same language, I can only imagine the marathon conversations that will ensue. I may finally get some reading done.

And that Warrior of Teenage Wasteland, Alden, has CLEARLY inherited his father’s love of practical jokes. I am absolutely awash with sympathy for our pitiful mailman, who, due to the tedium of summer, has been subject to everything from a gorilla-costumed hand thrust out of the mail slot to a “Just Married” sign taped to the back of his little truck. He even found the latter to be quite cute and funny, that is until he got halfway down the street and realized the joke wasn’t complete without the customary aluminum cans on a string.

And so our bloodline continues, proud bearer of the Receding Hairline, the Goofy Gene, and of course that damned mutated Cankle Chromosome. If we start breeding with supermodels immediately, we could have shapely ankles somewhere around the year 2095.

2006-08-15T07:52:00.000-07:00

I fear I’m going to have to have Spencer’s head examined. He seems to have quite the issue with memory (“membry”). All is well and good when we are playing the card game of the same name, or when I ask him simple questions about something that happened within the past hour or so…But lately Memory Lane has taken a Stephen-King-ish twist down some dark avenue to Crazy Town.

For instance…

“Hey Spence, here’s that toy truck Dada got you from the store, remember?”

“Yup! I ‘member! And when we go to da STOW-ur (extra syllables for emphasis), Dada will buy me a TRU-uck, and he will buy me IY-uce cream, and da monster will TAY-uk my ice cream, aaayuuund…I will get a bloody NOSE!”

This child has had one bloody nose his whole life, but perish the thought anyone should ever be so heartless as to forget The Day Blood Ran From Spencer’s Nose. To hear him tell it, you’d think we take turns punching him in the face for the fun of it, just to watch the blood fly. Good times.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to encourage his burgeoning imagination, but I think he may have “remember” confused with “what if.” What if a monster came and ate our house all up? I don’t know, head for zee hills maybe? But I certainly don’t remember it happening yesterday. The house, after all, is still right here. Just try telling Spence that. Go ahead, reason with the 3-yr-old. Ha!

So I guess I’ll just keep whispering common sense into his ear and trying to make sense of the tangled mess he spews forth....And trying like HELL not to laugh my ass off at inappropriate junctions that would reinforce his idea of “membry,” like this honest-to-God gem, “Hey Dada, ‘member when you poked me in the eye with a stick?”

I knew his teacher at preschool was giving me dirty looks.

I hope it’s not a phase, honestly. I hope he fine-tunes the master storyteller within and becomes the next Edgar Allen Poe and supports my ass. Early retirement, here I come.

2006-08-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

Nathaniel and I are on the hunt. Be vewy, vewy quiet….We’we hunting baby-sittews.

I remember being an up-and-coming teenager back in the day, when I used to have to stave off the competition for baby-sitting gigs with pointed sticks and CPR certification. These days, it seems even friends and family start looking longingly at the door & blatantly checking their watches if you should mention in polite conversation how long it’s been since you left the house without one child on the hip and one up the butt. And the third a half-step behind, mouth running at what I think of as JPM, jokes per minute. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ima. Ima who? Ima stick my foot up yer ass you tell me another joke in the next five minutes, that’s who. Let’s take the JPM down to idle, shall we?? Jesus. I need to get out of the house.

So we’re in the market for a baby-sitter, and let me clarify…A respectable baby-sitter. Nathaniel has the idea that just about anybody, up to and including the bum on the corner and/or a rock with a stern face painted on it, would suffice. I’m going to have to go ahead and, um, exercise my veto…Yeeeah. My argument is this…What would the point be of going out to relax if I am unable to completely relax? That, and of course, the boys’ safety. Just the minor stuff we might want to consider.

I’ve looked in the local newspaper and found a wealth of TWO whole ads that MAY apply to what we need. My next step will be to run an ad of my own…3 children, slightly spanked, free to good home. 2 house-trained, 1 high maintenance, all current on shots, all must go!

And yet, I’m hesitant, due to my penny-pinch-iness…I can just imagine the cost of dinner, a movie, a couple of drinks, and the baby-sitter tallying like the meter on the damn gas pumps…Not to mention the cost of gas! Do you think those nice ladies in the ads would be upset if I asked them to drive out and watch the kids for fifteen minutes while we took a stroll around the block? Hold hands and presto-chango, we’ve got ourselves a bona fide DATE, hyuck hyuck! Ain’t nothin’ in this hey-ur werld sweeter ‘en walkin’ with mah man. If I’m-a lucky, he’ll bah me some ahce cream and kiss mah hand!

Have I mentioned I’m going stir crazy here??

So if you have a reference, someone reliable who doesn’t, say, beat the kids too harshly or make them cut their own switches, or care to loan out your sweet grandmother, please let me know. I can be reached in Padded Cell #155 at the Home for ApeShit Mommies. Whatever you do, DON’T send a file. It's lovely in here, nary a crayon mark or diaper odor around.

2006-08-11T11:13:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever been driven to the brink of insanity by the sound of her own flip-flops?? Damn you, Casual Friday.

2006-08-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

My dearest JuJuBee is no longer completely defenseless in this cold cruel world...He is the proud owner of two ridged mean-looking teeth on the bottom of his formerly sweet gummy smile. He can now fend off such offensive intruders as strained grean beans or carrots, and believe me, he parries them valiantly. I have an idea that I'd be more successful if I dipped his toes in the stuff. His own teeny tootsies are never deflected. I imagine they taste like Vienna sausages.

It’s a bittersweet milestone, as this means we’ve shed Infancy and are moving full speed ahead towards that treacherous territory, Babyhood. Armed only with scant memories of what Spencer did at this age, we pat ourselves on the back for having kept him alive thus far, close our eyes, wish for the best, and plunge ahead.

I know Julian himself is THRILLED about quickly approaching mobility. He’s a willing spectator at all of Spence’s impromptu shows (unlike some of us…Hey, these things can be lo-o-ong and exhausting to even watch…Watch me do dis! Now watch me do dis! Did you see? Did you SEE dat? No? Well watch dis time!). Julian watches with wonderment shining in his eyes at Spence running and jumping and singing and making siren noises…Oh GOD, the ever-present SIREN NOISES…And cycles his legs furiously in empathy. I have an idea that if I were to set him upright at just the right moment, he would take off in a sprint on sheer momentum and we’d find him somewhere around Columbus.

So my sweet baby, very likely my last baby, which will of course concrete his place in history as THE baby, is dropping infantile habits left and right. Instead of the repetitive vowel sounds we’ve gotten used to (aaaaaa….eeeeee….oooooohhh), he’s now mixing it up with consonants, which is both encouraging and frustrating to Spence. He can carry on a conversation, but occasionally seems quite dismissive of Spence’s accomplishments (Ohhhh, yeah? YEAH yeah yeah yeah yeah…).

I watch all of this unfold with mixed feelings…How bittersweet that my little one should be so quickly vaulting over milestones with the prize in sight while I cling to his sweet-smelling present and buck the thought of tomorrow. I know, I know, it will be nice when he’s more independent, but we will never again be in this particular pleasant time-bubble where he needs me, truly needs me, and falls asleep each night in my arms with those damned big boy teeth hidden behind his sweet smile.

So if on the day my JuJuBee goes to take his first wobbling, proud step, and you should happen to see my arm snaking out to push him down, just look away and pretend not to see. Don’t judge me.

2006-08-10T07:35:00.000-07:00

"You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."
-Source: United Press International, "Bush Proposes Increase in Education Funds," Mark Kukis

Can I get an amen? Can I get a what the EFF are you SAYING??!! It absolutely tears me up that this man, with his poor grasp of business administration and even poorer grasp of the English language, totters around representing this country. Unbelievable.

I stop myself from running away screaming from each televised press conference in the following ways…By reminding myself his terms are almost UP, he is very nearly out the damn door; by hoping he’s vacationed just enough to not have made any real decisions (besides that li’l ol’ Iraq whim); and by finding the humor in the situation. The man makes up words, dear audience. Just the sight of him at a podium, eyes blinking rapidly, goofy grin from ear to ear, desperately looking around for a teleprompter or a meteorite to come crashing out of the sky or just ANYTHING to save him…I cringe. So let’s delve into the humor of the situation at hand, shall we? Because if we weren’t laughing, we’d be crying. And if abuse of the English language sounds as much to your ears like nails screeching down a chalkboard as it does to mine…Enjoy.

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family."
—Greater Nashua, N.H., Jan. 27, 2000

"Rarely is the questioned asked: Is our children learning?"
—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000

"I glance at the headlines just to kind of get a flavor for what's moving. I rarely read the stories, and get briefed by people who are probably read the news themselves." NO SHIT.
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 21, 2003

"The most important thing is for us to find Osama bin Laden. It is our number one priority and we will not rest until we find him."
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 13, 2001

"I don't know where bin Laden is. I have no idea and really don't care. It's not that important. It's not our priority."
—Washington, D.C., March 13, 2002

"I think—tide turning—see, as I remember—I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of—it's easy to see a tide turn—did I say those words?" Holy bumbling idiot, Batman.
—Washington, D.C., June 14, 2006

"I was going to say he's a piece of work, but that might not translate too well. Is that all right, if I call you a 'piece of work'?"
—To Jean-Claude Juncker, prime minister of Luxembourg, Washington, D.C., June 20, 2005

"It's a time of sorrow and sadness when we lose a loss of life."
—Washington, D.C., Dec. 21, 2004

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
—Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002

I genuinely hope I haven’t offended anyone…My desire is not to turn this site into a political debate minefield or anything of the sort. I simply find myself offended by the slaughter of innocent grammar at the hands of our fearless leader. Did you know even Google is hip to this scene? When I typed “bush-isms,” it politely asked me, “Did you mean bushisms?” We, the American public, have been forced to make up words in order to properly document him making up words!! Stop the insanity.

Strap yourselves in, ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be a bumpy 2 more years. Lord save us from Dubya.

2006-08-09T06:34:00.000-07:00

Nathaniel and I have been drawn towards the latest craze in extreme sporting...Frisbee. We of course plan to take our doubles team all the way to the top (is there Frisbee in the Olympics?) and thought we'd squeeze some practice in yesterday evening at the local park. Julian, so accustomed to the stale recycled air of the indoors, took 2.5 deep breaths of fresh air and promptly fell asleep. Like in the SciFi movies when the astronaut takes a step on an unchartered planet, removes his helmet, inhales cautiously and then cries "It's Ok, it's breathable!" and suddenly keels over. Kind of like that. Poor kid.

So we started out as many young couples would, zipping back and forth across the field, laughing at each other's antics and just full of pep in general. I'm not ashamed to admit I even turned a cartwheel or two. Or eight. As the evening progressed, however (and by "progressed," I mean half an hour later), we found ourselves slowing exponentially, and realized this astounding but true fact...We are not "in shape." Sure, I do my Turbo Jam dvd every so often (you have to do it at least twice a month to be able to technically say, "I work out") and God knows running after these kids keeps us busy, but when it comes right down to it, folks...We are pretty pathetic. Nathaniel is SHOCKED that marathon fishing has not given him a six-pack and buns of steel. By the end of our outing, we are standing within arms-length of each other, half-heartedly chucking that damnable disc and missing half the time anyway. Mr. Morrison is turning in his grave, I'm sure (http://inventors.about.com/library/weekly/aa980218.htm).

So I'm thinking with some free time I have this morning, I'll cruise the Internet for the nicest local nursing homes. Time to face facts and realize dear bald Nathaniel and I are seventy-five and aging quickly. I've got to find a place that caters to our needs...gin rummy, Frisbee, and all the channels Nathaniel could ever dream to flip through. It's never too early to start shopping for a room with a view.

2006-08-08T09:24:00.000-07:00

This morning on the radio show I usually tune in to (http://www.roverradio.com/), they were discussing the most recent rash of blame laid on television programs, movies, and music for the way the current generation is flushing themselves down the toilet. The bimbo chick (by the way, can we just go ahead and get all radio stations to ban female dj's? I've yet to hear one I can tolerate. The stupidity practically OOZES out of my speakers) was actually defending the bureaucrats whose own children are no doubt ditching their Catholic school uniforms for doo-rags and boxer-baring pants as we speak. St. Mary’s, repreSENT, G Funk All-Stars style. I completely agreed with the rationale of the male host, who said something along the lines of a) children are their parent’s responsibility to some point and their own people with their own ideas and motivation after another point; and b) shut the hell up, Female DJ.

I’m always reminded of the movie Footloose when this left-wing conservative crap comes to the table…Remember John Lithgow and whats-her-face, his wife, when they realized Holy Gee, I guess rock’n’roll doesn’t equal sex? You could have knocked them over with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.

So my crazy new-fangled idear is this…To raise my children to think for themselves, along the way encouraging as much music appreciation as possible. If you appreciate music for music’s sake, you’re not dwelling on lyrics like they’re damned street signs on the already difficult-to-navigate roadmap of life. Love of music is something my parents instilled in me (thanks Mom and Dad, may Stevie Ray Vaughn rest in peace) and something I hope my boys express a genuine interest in.

Honestly, I don’t understand why music can’t be a part of everyday life. It certainly is in my household. You can find me singing as I drag my ass through mundane tasks like doing dishes (Tiny Bubbles), scrubbing the toilet (Dirty Deeds), or laundry (Suds in the Bucket). There are approximately half a dozen songs in whatever genre strikes your fancy that apply to any given situation. And if there isn’t, well, make one up! Is saying “clean your room” any fun at all? Try singing that shit in your best Mary J. Blige voice, while your partner hot-boxes for you in the background and throw some “Right now! A-Right now! I sic-a-sic-a-sic-a-said right now!” circa Run DMC at the end. Mix it up. This may get your child beat up on the playground if his friends hear, but I promise you he will remember his childhood as being FUN. And damned if he doesn’t learn to appreciate some old-school. Word.

I knew my approach was working when I went to hand my 3-yr-old his juice recently and he sang out in heartfelt falsetto, “Thaaa-AAA-aaank youUUUuuuuuu dear Maaamaaaaaa…” I could have cried. Life CAN be a musical, and it damn well SHOULD be, in my humble opinion. I’m not adding to my family so much as building a chorus line. Once Julian learns to sing harmony, it’s ON. VivaCity Traveling Roadshow, coming to a so-far-off-Broadway-it’s-almost-back-again theater near you.

2006-08-07T06:37:00.000-07:00

In order for me to properly set up this next juicy morsel of good wholesome fun for your viewing enjoyment, I must first tell you a little about Nathaniel. He is a fun-loving, adventuresome man whose life's pursuit is to find the line of my irritation, nudge it, then take a flying leap gleefully past it with both eyes closed.

In this manner we set out Saturday morning for the Metroparks Zoo, where my office was having its annual summer family outing. On the way there, we were discussing the many animals we will see there, what Spencer's favorite is (lion), what Nathaniel's favorite is (monkeys), etc. etc. etc. No sooner had we covered the topic of monkeys than we happen across what appeared to be the two finest ladies our city has to offer taking a leisurely stroll in their Saturday best...halter tops and shorts cut off up to their eyebrows. Lovely. I mumbled something along the lines of, Holy Jeez, put some clothes on, and Nathaniel, not about to let a golden opportunity like this one pass him by, actually TOOTS THE HORN AT THEM. Ha ha. Ha fucking ha ha ha.

Having made their days, I'm sure, we continue on past these diamonds in the rough to the zoo. Since I'm still laughing uproariously over Nathaniel's little prank, when Spence asks if we are there yet for the 2 millionth time, I say No dear, your father's still looking for booty. In hindsight, of course, I've now filed this under Things I Wish I'd Never Said To My Kid. Spence says...Dada is? I say Yes, Dada. He says, He likes booty? I say Yes, yes indeed, very much. Silence from the backseat for approximately one full minute, which in 3-yr-old time computes to about 25 years. Then our tiny genius starts making connections, all on his own, which ALMOST made up for the stupid honking in the first place. It's quite elementary, dear Watson.

Dada likes monkeys? Yes, love.
Dada likes booty? Mmm-hmmm.
Dada likes monkey booty?

I'm reminded of some class I took, probably in grade school, where we learned that if Statement A is true and Statement B is true, you can only deduct that the third related statement is true. Therefore, Nathaniel does in fact enjoy a good piece of monkey booty.

Which would all be well and good and hilarious in its own right, if we hadn't been on our way to the friggin zoo. You might see where I'm going with this.

A lovely luncheon with my co-workers and their respective families begins our outing. I load the baby in the front carrier (I call this my strap-on), slather sunscreen on everyone, and off we go for a relaxing tour of the zoo on a lovely summer day. You'd think we were June friggin Cleaver and Company if you didn't know better.

Pink flamingos, elephants, kangaroos, parrots...We really do have a stellar zoo in our city. Spence is excited and having the time of his life, roaring right back at the lion, finding an exotic STICK on the ground, just absolutely in little boy heaven. At this point Nathaniel and I have completely forgotten about anything but just trying to struggle along, exhausted from schlepping gear and juggling responsibilities...Winding down our trip and thinking about home.

We come across quite the crowd, approximately two-thirds of Cleveland's respectable children and their respectable parents are gathered here at one exhibit, quite excited to be pressing up against a square of glass, on the other side of which is a beautiful hulking black gorilla. Spence worms his way to the front of this crowd, and when he sees what the fuss is about, he understands why.

"Whooo-EEE! Dada! Dada, look! Look at dat MONKEY!"

Something triggers our Parental Alarms, and we start edging towards the exit.

"Dada! You see dat monkey? Just look at dat MONKEY BOOTY! Whooo-EEE! You like dat, Dada? YOU LIKE DAT MONKEY BOOTY? YOU WANT SOME??"

You see, all of this could have been avoided had Nathaniel simply not honked the horn at some young thangs with twice my figure and none of my good taste, all in the name of humor. I hope he's learned his lesson.

So dim the lights and don the gorilla suit, honey, tonight I'm making all your dreams come true.