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.

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!!

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.

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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.