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.”

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.

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

~~~

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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?

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.

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!

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.

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. :)

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.