The name game

Big Dog is on a Blue's Clues kick. I can't say I understand it. Between the soft-spoken presenters who appear to be on quaaludes trying to track down clues from their smarty pants dog and the talking salt shakers I sometimes fear I'm having a bad acid flashback. But that's a whole different conversation.

So in his Blue's Clues craze, he has been tracking down clues and making pretend drawings in his "handy dandy notebook" which is actually a cloth baby book with a plastic spiral binding. He goes around the house identifying clues. "Mommy, what is Blue trying to make with a bathtub, a slipper and a car?" or "Look, a clue! let me write it in my handy dandy notebook. See, a toothbrush!"

At some point in the evening, Mr Dog was helping Big Dog brush his teeth and Big Dog as not being fully compliant. "Hold still or you're going to get in trouble" said Mr. Dog.
"Steve NEVER gets in trouble" Big Dog replied smugly.
"Steve? Well, Big Dog does"
"But I'm Steve"
"Oh, are you Bob?"
"No, I'm Steve"
"I think you're Bob" Mr. Dog persisted, not quite getting the Blue's Clues angle.

When it came time to be tucked in, Mr. Dog, having been schooled in the basics of clue seeking barbiturate users, sweetly says "Goodnight Steve."
and Big Dog replies "Good Night Bob!"

Ok, maybe you had to be there.

10 Reasons I don't buy McCain

In no particular order:
1. After much Straight Talk Express self-hype, and being thoroughly trashed by GWB's Rove machine, he then spends the next two terms sucking up to our Idiot in Chief. Bye bye credibility.

2. He proposed an idiotic lifting of the Federal Gasoline Tax that would extend until Labor Day. Seriously? Why not look for ways to reduce our long-term dependence on fossil fuels or look for stricter regulation of the major petroleum companies who seem to be making a killing despite record prices for crude oil? Lift the gas tax? Boy is that ever short-sighted.

3. He missed the vote on the Libby Ledbetter bill for equal pay, then said that women should get more education and training to close the pay gap. just how out of touch are you, McCain. Don't you get that the pay gap exists despite comparable education and training? Instead you place the responsibility for the inequity in pay on the VICTIMS, not the perpetrators. Typical.

4. McCain has said about the war in Iraq "I Don’t Think Americans Are Concerned If We’re There For 100 Years or 1,000 Years or 10,000 Years." in an interview on Face the Nation. Wrong-o buddy, I care, I care A LOT.

5. McCain has blamed home buyers for the current mortgage crisis, “Some Americans bought homes they couldn't afford, betting that rising prices would make it easier to refinance later at more affordable rates.” The bigger issue is why were they allowed to quality for such risky mortgages? Isn't there some culpability in the companies that offered these mortgages to people?

6. McCain has repeatedly voted against raising minimum wage. Working full time at minimum wage brings in a whopping $12,168. This includes an increase from the 2006 minimum wage of $5.15. Can you imagine living on that?

7. After previously denouncing them as an unaffordable giveaway to the rich in 2001, McCain is now fully behind the Bush tax cuts. He changed his mind in 2007, just in time for his campaign. Interesting.

8. Having been a victim of torture while a POW, you'd think he'd oppose any legislation allowing the US to torture prisoners. Wrong, he voted against legislation to ban waterboarding and publicly supported Bush's veto of this legislation.

9. McCain's record on Roe vs Wade is terrible. He supports repealing Roe v Wade, barring HHS grants to organizations that perform abortions (think Planned Parenthood) and supported legislation to inform parents of minors who get out of state abortions. He also voted AGAINST $100M in funding to reduce teen pregnancy through education and contraception.

10. According to the US Census, more than 47 million Americans do not have health insurance, and the percentage of children without health insurance rose from 8.7% in 2006 to 11.7% in 2007. Despite the staggering and growing number of uninsured Americans, McCain voted against recent State Child Health Insurance Plan reauthorization and expansion legislation. McCain also said that President Bush's veto of the program's expansion was "the right call." Sorry Mr. McCain, can you explain how screwing over poor children is the "right call," 'cause access to preventative medical care seems like a fundamentally WRONG call to me.

As a woman, a mother, an American worker and a citizen of this fine country, I have to say he generally gives me the willies.

A Pox upon our house!

Well it is confirmed, stay the hell away from the Dog house if you don't want to get the chicken pox, cause we're soaking in them. Mild exaggeration. Big Dog has a light smattering of them, Little Dog has just a couple. But still, I live for the drama.
I took Big Dog to the pediatrician (a short aside, it took me years to not say I was taking him to the vet, comes with owning high need dogs I guess) to have it confirmed. I almost apologetically showed the few and very small spots on his torso. Once I was actually in the office I was certain I was being overprotective and rushing him to the pediatrician (oops, almost typed "vet", I'm regressing) for what was going to end up being a reaction to his shampoo or something equally preventable and benign. She looked him over, asked a few questions, did a second pass to carefully look him over and nope, I was right. The doctor backs me up on this matter. I am a diagnostic genius!
Both boys got their varicella vaccinations right on schedule, even then I knew it wasn't 100% effective. (According to pediatrician du jour, it is about 85% effective) The plus side is that if they do go ahead and get chicken pox after being vaccinated, like some kind of viral over achievers, they will have a much milder version. And that is where we are today. Mildly infested with chicken pox. Calamine lotion anyone?

Dyson under seige.

There are some things about my boys I will never understand. One of them is their out and out hatred of the vacuum cleaner. At one time, both boys loved it, Little Dog would fall fast asleep to the white noise of the vacuum at daycare and Big Dog used to love to crash out in the sling while I Hoovered the floors of our flat in San Francisco way back when he was tiny and pretty damn fresh from the womb. Where this all ended, I'll never know. All I know is that now the boys both run like wild things as far and fast as possible in the opposite direction as soon as I bring out the Dyson.
Maybe it is the new powerful pull of the purple beast, or maybe they have just thought up new and more creative things to worry about. Big Dog fears that I will suck him into the vacuum. He also fears that I will suck his toys, the dogs and his little brother right on up with him. I know the Dyson guy claims it never loses suction, but I am damn sure a great dane would block that thing right up. I've tried demonstrating the limitations of the vacuum. I can't suck up puzzle pieces, marbles block the opening and I can always just pull the sock on out of the brushes when I run one over. Big Dog agrees he is much larger than any of those things, but still he flees. I think Little Dog has just picked up on his bigger brother's fear and now claims it as his own.

Today, with both boys in the living room I felt overwhelmed by the desire to vacuum. Well, to be more honest, I felt overwhelmed by the need to walk barefoot in my own house without my feet picking up a 1/2 inch crust of God knows what. (I'm not much of a housekeeper, remember?) So I had the boys help out with collecting up the toys and then brought out the dreaded agent of sucking doom. Their faces froze in terror, eyes as round as saucers. Then the yelling started.
"Little Dog, on the couch! Get! On! The! Couch!"
"Nooooo! Go WAY! Go WAY!"
I did a preliminary pass on the rug in the living room then headed over to the playroom to sweep up the crap on the floor in there. I was about half finished when my vacuum lost power. I turned to go to the living room to check the plug and saw little dog making victory laps on the living room rug, cord clutched in his little hand held proudly over his head. Big Dog started to cheer him on!
"Way to go Little Dog! Hurray Little Dog"
They had vanquished their oppressor.
I finally managed to free the cord and finish the floors, but man it sure was hard to rain on their tiny victory parade.

No future gardeners here.

This year we have decided to transform the snarled patch of weeds and flowers we call a front yard into a vegetable garden. I'm doing research, ok, I'm just reading "The Squarefoot Gardener" and blindly following his advice. We'll construct raised beds, plant our newly sprouted seeds and then reap the harvest as the summer goes on.

To be completely honest, I am not that interested in gardening or yard work. I don't like the dirt, or the feel of the soil on my hand. I could care less about seeing the fruit of my labors in the yard and I don't feel more connected to my food if I grow it myself. My sole interest in the garden is the prospect of being able smugly say things like "Oh, I'm so glad you like the panzanella, the tomatoes and basil came right out of our little garden and I baked the bread myself." Is that wrong, maybe, but I'm just being upfront about my interest level here.

At this point I have read about 10 pages of SFG, Mr. Dog went on a seed buying binge on some organic NW seed site (they arrived in a package from Peter's Seed which made me giggle, my mind is perpetually in the gutter) and today we potted some seeds to get them sprouting in time to be planted.

This afternoon we hauled the kids to the local hardware store to buy seed starting soil, then while Little Dog napped, Mr. Dog, Big Dog and I got down to work. We filled the pots with soil, added the seeds and let Big Dog live out his watering fetish. As I was prepping the last set of pots, Big Dog sprung up and ran into the house. I thought he was off to use the potty like a big boy. I thought that right until he came running back out of the house pantless and crying.

What the happened? Did you have an accident?
"No," he squeaked between sobs.
So what's going on?
"A bee! There's a bee!"
"Oh, is that why you ran inside?"
"No. Something got all over my crocks and my pants!" more sobbing
"You mean the dirt from outside?" I say, trying not to laugh.
"Yes! It is all over my crocks and pants. I need new pants and socks!"
"Ok, so where was the bee?"
"Inside! Upstairs!"

After getting him calmed down and giving him the earth-loving lecture on the bees and the flowers and the garden all working together, we got him dressed and went inside.
Turns out the "bee" was a fly. Now maybe it is the sign of some failing of mine as a mother. Maybe this city girl isn't great at exposing her kids to nature, but I think we can pretty soundly bet this kid is not likely to be a farmer in his later life.

Knights in shining armor in training? Uh, maybe not.

Last night Big Dog was standing in the living room with his hand shoved down the back of his pants. When I asked him to please take his hand out of his pants, he replies with a big fart, then says in his wise old man voice, "But mommy, I wanted to cover the fart."
In classic mom style, I gave him a stern look before cracking up and completely losing my composure.
This kind of charming exchange is becoming more and more common. I try to be the good mom and try to train them in proper social skills, but honestly, I'm amused. My not-so-covert chuckles are probably ensuring they will be socially inappropriate and ready for a frat by they time they are 7.

My Super Powers

Becoming a mother has changed a lot of things for me. New goals, new interests, even a new set of tools. In addition to the new padding on my ass and middle section, my blossoming appreciation of singing rodents and clue seeking dogs and a newfound compulsion to be the "coolest" mom in the preschool (yes, burgeoning Alpha-mom tendencies I struggle to keep in check), my hearing has become a finely honed tool. I can be sound asleep yet if I hear the kind of gagging and coughing that usually precedes vomit, I will wake up and move at lightening speed right to the side of the ailing child, ready, willing and able to take on the contents of the little stomach vying to make an appearance while simultaneously comforting the nauseated child. There was a time in my life that these same sounds were considered warning signs, a signal to jump back and avoid splatter on your "going out" shoes. Granted, that type of regurgitation was usually the result of over-indulgence of one kind or another. That kind of retch usually came at the end of a long night out with the girls, frequently involving tequila. What an interesting transformation. Not only do I hear and respond like some kind of puke seeking SWAT team, my previously hair-trigger gag response has been modified to tolerate the stench of my own children's output. Handy, especially when one of my responses to vomit is to reach out and catch this spew in my own two hands. I'm still trying to figure out why that is part of this new "gift", what is to be gained if I do manage to catch it? Nothing, just a big handful of puke. And precisely what am I supposed to do with that?

At any rate, it is good that I have been selected for these new powers since Big Dog has a ridiculously sensitive gag response. In our house a coughing fit at bedtime is almost always followed by dinner revisited, a change of pjs, a change of bedsheets and a mom with puke in her hair. Little Dog is less susceptible, but not completely immune. Since he is currently battling the same cold/flu that kept me housebound for two days, I decided to saline spray his nose last night. Much gagging ensued, followed by a lot of screaming, crying and yes, finally a gooey splash of vomit. Mr. Dog finally managed to calm him down and get him to bed. When the adult faction of the family finally settled under the blankets and snuggled down to sleep, my thoughts drifting to dreams my radar got a little blip. A cough. Two coughs, a gag and I was bolt upright. Shooting out of bed in perfect coordination with my trusty sidekick "Puke Dad", this "Vomit Mama" was back in action. Puke Dad hoisted Big Dog out of his bed and carried him into the bathroom, Vomit Mama retrieved towels, clean jammies and gathered up sheets and remade the bed. In less than 30 minutes from first gag to post-spew tuck in, we were back in bed. The term "well oiled machine" springs to mind.

Sure I'd have much preferred the power to use mind control to will my children into an early bedtime, or the ability to seek out the source of those odd and lingering smells in my car, but I'll take what I'm given. Even if it involves hands that inexplicably rush to function as emesis basins. With every blessing comes a curse, right?

Movers and shakers

Over the weekend my parents, my heroes, came up and let me have some time to myself to wrap up some of my pending household tasks. I conquered Mt. Washed, made huge progress on Mt. Unwashed and was able to move furniture in my bedroom, the boy's bedroom and the, um, no-idea-what-use-it-had room, aka the den.
When I finally brought the family downstairs to look at the transformation, Big Dog was impressed.
"Wow mama, you're really good at moving things!"
What a flatterer, stop now, I'm blushing.

My furniture moving didn't stop there. On Monday, while home sick, I decided it was a good idea to move even more furniture. This is an annoying habit of mine. I'll get sick, sick enough to justify staying home wrapped up in my blankets snuggled in my bed, and yet instead of relaxing, sleeping and getting better, I decide I need to work through my list of "To Dos" So with my fever blazing, I went ahead and set up a table in the former den, moved in the chairs and voila I had a dining room!
Again, Big Dog was again impressed!
"Mommy, you sure are good at moving beds and tables!"

Well after my antics on Monday, I don't think it was that much of a surprise that I was even sicker on Tuesday. I mean, when did lifting heavy objects and generally overdoing it ever claim to be a miracle cure? Claiming to have learned my lesson, this time I did stay in bed. I snuggled in, watched movies and sulked, griped about how crappy I felt. Quite the pity party. Well, when Big Dog came home, he walked from room to room.
Finally he came back to me and asked "You didn't move anything? What did you do today?"
Guess I've set a dangerous precedent with all of this positive housekeeping stuff. I'd better start slacking again, STAT.

America's Next Top Mommy, Part 2

So Wednesday as always was Cocktails dinner and the bitches. Auntie S, from here forth known as Auntie Chihuahua, came over and we vegged out with the boob tube (that becomes even more appropriate if you watch American's Next Top Model).
In one scene, one of the air-headed bimbos, um I mean, models chopped a hunk out of her thumb while trying to cook. Earlier this week I suffered a similar, if less dramatic and less televised kitchen incident when I tried to shorten the middle finger on my left hand by about half an inch. It hurt, I yelled, I cleaned the wound and wrapped it in a Backyardigans bandage and went on about my business. (This really is relevant to my story, believe me.)
So, when the lovely but Frankenstein-walking Lauren, chopped a chunk out of her finger, Big Dog turns to me and says, "Is that you mommy?"
"What? Is what me?" I asked momentarily confused.
"On TV, did you just cut your finger?" he asks, deeply concerned.
"Oh now sweetie, I did cut my finger, but that is not me." I say, internally grinning at my 4 year old mistaking a near anorexic model wannabe for his, well, not near anorexic mama. Aw, such sweet mama-goggles that kid has. Or maybe, probably more realistically he is trying to figure out why I watch this dreck if I am not personally involved on some level, which is kind of a valid question.
In ANTM news, the near brain dead wanna be erotic dancer was eliminated. I nearly jumped up and screamed my delight! Up until that moment I didn't realize I even cared that much.

Heavy Bondage on Aisle 3

Remember getting toys as a kid? Well, a kid in the 70s and early 80s? (you young whippersnappers who make me feel like a relic can read this as a history lesson of sorts)
If it came in a box, it was usually a cardboard box with snazzy rendering of the contents outside. If you could see the contents at all, it was usually through a smallish window in the box, and the poor plastic girl or horse or whatever was in some state of light bondage, tied to a piece of cardboard inside the box, held firmly, yet not permanently in place by some kind of extra long twist tie (the packaging equivalent of silk scarves). When it came time to take the toy out, open the box, untwist the tie and the new object was free. Granted, it was probably slathered in lead based paint, or filled with small parts that could pop free and choke you, or made from some kind of material that could shatter and put your eye out, but hell, you could get right to the death and destruction instead of nearly severing your finger on the heat sealed plastic pack only to reveal an inner plastic coffin encasing the harmful lead paint slathered toy.

Fast forward 20 years. The first and only time I bought Big Dog a "Little People" toy I was shocked at the level of heavy bondage these poor folks endured. Have packaging facilities been taken over by S&M types? Large box, inner plastic coffins, tiny farmer and his livestock smiling despite being strapped inside said coffins with dozens of unsnipable twist-ties (around their tiny necks no less!) covered in tape, with hardened plastic spacers making them nearly impossible to remove. I mean, I lived in SF for years and I was still pretty shocked by the extent of this toy "dungeon", and it isn't much different from brand to brand. Buy a new toy and you'd be hard pressed to open it without some pretty heavy-duty shears, and after shucking your toy free, you'll need a wheel barrow to take the packaging out to the curb.

I assume most of this new packaging is to make the display more appealing to consumers and prevent damage in shipping, but this has gone way overboard. Don't they realize these toys are going to be stomped on, thrown, dunked in water, carried off by large dogs (wait, that may just be my home) and otherwise abused as soon as they are freed? If they can't survive a trip from manufacturing to sales floor without a complex system of restraints, they won't survive long in my household.

Even more disturbing is the over-packaging of food items. Why must all gum now come in individually sealed airlocks? Is there some kind of "gum flu" being transferred from chicklet to chicklet that I should be aware of? Have cherry tomatoes become such rogues that they must be firmly sealed in a plastic prison for fear of them taking launching a bloody (or katsup-y) attack on the full sized tomatoes? Even the organic mixed baby greens have been sequestered to a plastic lidded "nursery" of sorts. Large mama jars of applesauce now sit next to their single serving off-spring on the grocery shelf. Cookies that used to float loose in a cardboard box are now neatly seated in their plastic cookie pews awaiting their departure to "a better life" in your tummy. Even the sachets of herbal tea, who seem so earthy and ready to mingle in a big tea bag orgy are now neatly sealed into individual packages inside their cardboard box commune all wrapped up in a layer of cellophane. Ok, I'll stop with this now, I think I'm getting a bit too into the personification of food object. It might get in the way of me enjoying my lunch, but I think you get the picture.

The sad thing is that for most people this trend toward over-packaging doesn't even enter their purchasing decisions. When so many families are working to stretch the budget or fit 26 hours of work into a 24 hour day, price and convenience is king and the landfill is an afterthought.

Bed Update

Any bed space gained by Big Dog's departure has since been claimed by Nikita, our comfort-hound pit bull. While she is less likely to thrash about at night, which is good, waking up to a dog butt in your face is, well, not so good.

Thank you readers!

The Other Mother suggested today be designated as "Reader Appreciation Day" and I heartily concur. As much as I started this blog for me, I have to admit, I am now selfishly addicted to your comments. I must also admit, when I write now, I give it a little more thought and I've made a real effort to post as frequently as I have something to smart off about.

When my kids look back at this blog in years to come, and shudder with embarrassment about the things I have posted on the web for the amusement of absolute strangers, I know I will feel a little warm and fuzzy inside, knowing that I have surpassed the traditional confines of a mother who can only embarrass locally. And I thank you for that.

An Olympic Proposal

Dear Members of the International Olympic Committee,

I am interested in nominating a new sport for inclusion in the 2008 Olympic Games.
This new event, The Parental Triathlon, would challenge a parent to run three successive stages, with two small children in tow. The event would break down as outlined below:

Stage 1- Shoe shopping: During this stage of the event, the parent would enter an upscale department store, have one child's foot measured, find a suitable pair of shoes, have the child try on at least two pairs of shoes, make the purchase, wait patiently for balloons with the children and leave the store. The challenge is to make the purchase while keeping both children reasonably well behaved, avoid attracting attention from shoppers nearby and preventing either child from running off barefooted to another department. Extra points are awarded if all displays in reach remain intact for the duration of your visit. Extra points are awarded for bargaining a two year old into placing their foot into the foot measuring slider without crunching up their toes, or slipping their foot around as the clerk tries to get an accurate measurement. A participant may instruct the children to "look at the pretty fish" as a distraction, but doing so in a shreeky mother-in-a-panic voice would cost the team points.

Stage 2- Big Box Store w/Large Toy Department: During this stage of the event, the parent would enter a big box store with a large toy department with the goal of purchasing resealable sandwich baggies, deodorant, toddler underpants, batteries and a small toy (not manufactured in China) for each child. The challenges in this stage are to make it through the store to purchase items from various departments without losing the children or adding extraneous items from the "One Spot," and actually finding a small toy for each child that is not manufactured in China while trying to explain to your children why their selected toy must be rejected. Parents may strap one child into the cart to facilitate this stage, but using duct tape is forbidden. Points will also be deducted for selecting a toy manufactured in China with weary resignation and the half-assed reassurance from your 2 year old that "Well, you won't put this in your mouth, will you?"

Stage 3- Grocery Shopping: During this stage, the parent must complete a week's worth of grocery shopping in a narrow aisled grocery store that offers food samples. By this stage, both children should have missed their designated nap time. The challenge is to select healthy, organic or natural products and complete a mental grocery list for the week's meals. No written lists are permitted, all items must be recalled from a harried memory of meal planning the previous day. Children must not be allowed to run off to the "sample hut", must not attempt to take more than one sample, must not spit out the sample or say "Yuck!" in a loud and exaggerated voice. Parents must also prevent children from sneaking cookies or other unwanted objects into the cart. Children biting items placed in the cart, especially through the wrapping also results in a points deduction. Children may be promised a snack once they get back to the car, but points will be deducted for breaking open a 1 lb bar of chocolate in the store while begging the children to "just please let mommy finish the shopping without scaring any other shoppers". Extra points will be awarded if the parent actually remembers to bring the stash of reusable shopping carts into the store instead of forgetting them in the car, again.

The winner will be the parent who successfully completes all three tasks with:

1. the shoes that were purchased as well as the outgrown shoes and both balloons
2. the fewest extra items from "Big Box Store"
3. the fewest forgotten grocery list items
4. all clothing in tact, extra points for clothing remaining clean
5. the least bargaining and fewest bribes
6. no public meltdowns or shouting matches
7. and their sanity (or at least comparable sanity to their mental state at the beginning of the event).

While this is not technically a sport, and has no governing federation or organized competitions at the time of this request, I think it has a certain universal appeal that will bring a wide range of athletes to the field. Since many people have been participating in this type of event on a weekly basis, the quality of competition is sure to be brisk!

I humbly submit this for your consideration.
Sincerely,
followthatdog

Lessons learned this evening

1. If a 100 lb great dane puppy does not want to take a bath, there is a good chance he will not be bathed.
2. I am more stubborn than a great dane puppy
3. The method you used to wash your puppy when he was 15.5 lbs may work when he is 50 lbs, may even work when he is 75 lbs, but needs a serious rethinking when he reaches 100 lbs.
4. Great dane puppies do not respond to the 1-2-3 Magic method.
5. Trying to use the 1-2-3 Magic method on your great dane leaves you open to ridicule from your 2 and 4 year old children. ("Mommy, Dashiell can't count!")
6. You can get that same "burn" your personal trainer aims for in half the time, but you end up smelling like wet dog, and then get to add "Clean the guest bathroom" to your to do list.

I have to find a better way to do this. I'm thinking carwash.

Of beds and webs.

Everyone knows about the big co-sleeping trend, right? The idea of having your darling infant snuggle into bed with you at night has been widely endorsed by attachment parent types. And while I am not hard core attachment parenting oriented (honestly I am not hard core in any parenting philosophy) this was something that we did when Big Dog was a newborn. It wasn't something we had really planned on, him being in our bed. I'd planned on having him in a co-sleeper then transitioning him to a crib at some point. Unfortunately, Big Dog was one of those babies, you know they type, the babies who will not sleep unless they are being held. Top that off with my battle with milk supply and it seemed to become a natural solution. And it worked out well for a while.

Now here's the dirty little secret the attachment parents don't usually let on. Once they are in your bed, it is damn near impossible to get them out. Your darling child becomes a barnacle on your bed sheets, immovable. Not only did Big Dog deem our bed, the "big big bed", his property, I became so used to him being there, that when he was not I worried obsessively about him. Was he going to fall out of his bed? Would he stop breathing? Would he be scared? Would someone break into the house and snatch him? So we kept on sleeping in a shared bed. One interesting note, Little Dog has never slept in our bed. He refused to sleep anywhere he was required to share space. He had his moses basket, his Ambybed, his crib and now is toddler bed, all to himself. And I have never worried about him. Go figure.

So at 4 years old, Big Dog was still spenging his nights in our bed, despite the brand new big boy bed in his big boy room. He'd brag about them to anyone who woulld listen, but sleep in there? Hell no. Maybe one night as a novelty, but the next night he'd decline. It has been like this for months.

Then something happened. Big Dog developed an irrational fear of cobwebs. And our room, with the vaulted ceiling is a cobweb magnet. A few weeks ago, a big cobweb became visible over the head of our bed. And that did it. Big Dog started to ask to sleep in his bed. He'd climb in, pull up the covers and sleep. All night. Every night. Amazing.

Mr. Dog and I have our bed back. We sprawl in the king-sized bed without fear of thrashing feet and arms. My blankets are no longer kicked off by the child who seems to have some kind of raging internal heater. When I get up in the middle of the night, my space in the bed is still empty, well, apart from the odd pit bull who has reclaimed her space in the bed. Frankly we are a bit stunned by the sudden bed related freedom.

I'm still conflicted about the reason for this move. I'd rather he not have an irrational fear of cobwebs, but hey, you'll also notice I am in no rush to get rid of that specific cobweb, right?

While one boy is a punk in training...

Big Dog has fully embraced his inner punk. With the mohawk, the Docs and his love of rockin' out, he's well on the road to becoming a punk rocker in his own right.
So while one child is a punk in training, it seems the other is gearing up to be the next Mary Kate Olsen. Not the billionaire child-star aspect of her life, that I could totally get behind, well, at least the billionaire part. He seems to be taking on her bag lady/hobo/fashionista fashion sense. Who knows, maybe he'll stumble onto the next big fashion trend. And if he does, there is a good chance he'll do that stumbling in a pair of his mama's shoes, wearing a soap dish "hat".


Special thanks to NE for these outstanding photos! We adore you.

Observations of a mother of boys

As the mother of two boy, I have at times struggled to understand what makes them go. After years of observation, there seem to be a few guiding principles of young boys. I have listed them below. As near as I can tell, these few ideas rule my sons' lives.

Principles for young boys:
1. If there is something big, climb it.
2. If you have climbed something big, jump off of it
3. Have something heavy? Throw it.
4. Something on the ground? stomp on it.
5. It is generally fun to spit.
6. If is generally funny to burp.
7. All farts must be commented on.
8. Something on the ground too big to be stomped on? Kick it.
9. Any object that resembles a ball must be thrown.
10. Any object resembling a bat must be used to whack at things.
11. Any slightly elevated surface must be scaled.
12. Any wobbly surface is there to test your balance.
13. If mom says "don't touch that" you should sneak in one quick touch while you think she isn't looking.
14. If mom says "don't do that" you should try to get as close to doing that forbidden thing as possible while watching mom to know exactly where the line is.
15. Anything that writes on paper needs to be tested on skin, preferably your face.
16. If something looks wet, or full of water, put your hand in it.
17. If you are going someplace it is best to run as fast as you can.
18. Any whiplike object must be slung around dangerously.
19. Anything that makes your parents laugh must be done several more times for good measure.
20. Any toy your brother is enjoying must be confiscated immediately.
21. If it is worth saying, it is worth saying LOUDLY.
22. Putting the toys into the toy box is only a required step to immediately taking them all out again.
23. If you get in trouble, a sweet smile and big hug can usually get you out of it.

Mr. Dog made me do it!

Change his photo, that is. I had no idea he was so vain. I liked the other one better, it had a certain je ne sais quoi. But in order to keep peace in my marriage, I swapped his photo in my newly added "Cast of Characters" to one where he is not making a face at the camera. So, everyone, please enjoy the smiling face of the man who puts up with my antics and eccentricities on a day to day basis. If you feel like really pandering to his ego, go ahead and call him Alpha Dog. He craves that, but I think it goes a bit too far.

Someone help me understand

I have to admit, I don't get Max and Ruby. At all. And yet, the boys are addicted. Is this their first attempt at parental alienation? I thought I had a few more years before that started.

Of all of the TV shows they've become temporarily obsessed with, this one is the most baffling. Ruby, in her naggy whining voice, is a domineering taskmaster. She bosses her poor, sadly delayed brother in one way and another, the whole while missing his one word brilliance. Max, on the other hand, is a bit, well, simple. He can speak clearly, but only utters one word at a time. He is socially inappropriate, probably due to being raised by his pre-adolescent sister.

So my questions are:
1. Where are their parents? Clearly they are too young to be on their own, and yet we see Ruby being responsible for bathing, feeding and dressing Max, as well as managing her own social commitments as dictated by the Bunny Scouts.

2. If their parents are missing, why does their Grandmother not take a more active role in their lives? We see her toddle in and out from time to time, but she does not offer any real help in raising these two parentless bunnies. Maybe that is due to her own mental instability. She seems to be genuinely interested in mud worm and acorn cakes, she is thrilled at the prospect of uninvited guests, she even wears glow in the dark vampire teeth. Is she just a warm and loving grandmother, or are her eccentricities a sign of mental defect?

3. Why has there been no intervention by social services? The children are well known in the neighborhood and every one seems to know that Ruby is solely responsible for Max's wellbeing, so it is unlikely that they are masking their situation.

4. Why does Mr. Huffington allow Ruby to babysit for her infant? Isn't it clear that she is incapable of caring for her own brother, why complicate matters by adding an infant into the mix? If she is trying to provide an income for the children since they have lost their parents, wouldn't it be more responsible to notify Child Protective Services of their situation?

5. What the hell are the Bunny Scouts? It appears to be some sort of cult that engages in brain washing from what I can tell. And this Bunny Scout Leader, what is wrong with her? She is bossy and seems to revel in correcting the behavior of the girl bunnies while out and out ignoring the needs of Max. Is there a deeper meaning to the "Bunny Scouts" that I am missing? Is it some sort of Female Supremest organization?

6. What is Raspberry Fluff icing and why is Ruby happy to let her younger brother subsist on a diet of candy and cakes? He clearly is craving nutrients missing from his diet as demonstrated by his obsession with creating mud, dirt and worm pies.

7. Is it possible that Ruby is actually Max's mother? Is it possible that they murdered their parents to live off their wealth ala the Menendez brothers?

8. What is the candy store owner, Candi, smoking, and may I please have some? She is on something, and from the looks of it, something good. I think the least she could do is share with me since I am being forced to watch this show.

9. Why do I spend so much time thinking about this show? Really, why?

If you can answer any or all of these questions, please, please, let me know.

Things I need to teach Big Dog about women

"I have a square bottom! I have a square bottom!" Big Dog announces after using the pound-a-peg block as a bench.
"No you don't, you have a cute bottom." I say
"And you have a cute bottom," Big Dog replies automatically.
"No, sadly I do not have a cute bottom." says the mom who has been hitting the gym in an attempt to reclaim her cute bottom.
"Yeah, you have a humongous bottom," he agrees earnestly.
Sure, it may be true, but I don't need him to tell me. Guess we'll have to have some talks about what not to say to women before he starts to date.

How to make an old punk cry. Part 2

Ask for, no, demand a mohawk. My little boy certainly is growing up !

America's Next Top Mommy

Last night was our standing date for cocktails, dinner and the bitches. Usually the boys, including Mr. Dog, find other ways to occupy their time after the food has been consumed and the estrogen contingent reigns supreme over the remote control.
Last night, Big Dog decided that he had been missing out. He was going to join the ladies in the TV viewing, well, at least for America's Next Top Model (yes, I know, I know). During the challenge, the contestants were photographed as they splashed around in a shallow pool of water suspended above the photographers. It was like a giant see-through Slip n' Slide, full of model soup.
Big Dog looked at the challenge then turned to me and asked, "Are you going to do that?"
"Uh, go in the water on TV? No."
Seriously, no one wants to see my pasty white, gym shy body wallowing in a pit of water. And certainly not televised. There are probably specific FCC regulations forbidding it.
"Oh." and he went back to watching. And listening.
A few minutes pass and he asks "Are you going to pop a boob?"
"What?!?"
I mean I know they are a bit big, but pop a boob? I must have heard him wrong.
"Are you going to pop a boob, mommy?"
So I didn't hear him wrong, what the hell does this mean?
"What are you talking about? Pop a boob?"
Pointing toward the TV, "they said it on there."
"Oh, I see. No, mommy isn't going to pop a boob or get in the water."
"Ok," he says, sounding mildly disappointed. Guess he has bigger aspirations for me than I realized.

In ANTM news, the crazy breastmilk swilling mommy was ousted last night. I'm oddly OK with that.

Magnetism

Magnetism, draw, pull. Yeah, I've got it. Not the kind you want. No siree, I'm a freak magnet. Especially freaks masquerading as kindly old ladies and retired gentlemen. In SF it was the chihuahua-owning dirt-covered woman who collected jewelery she found at the park. When Mr. Dog and I were out walking the dogs, she'd tag along, regaling me with tales of her dogs and cats and landlord drama. Mr. Dog would just quicken his pace and leave me trailing with my filthy companion trying desperately to break out of my too polite training. It was exhausting. She was nice enough, but she frequently didn't make sense, she had a blood feud with our neighbor and they'd shout obscenities at each other.

Luckily I was in good with our neighbor as well, another neighborhood character, from whom I rented a garage space he just offered me completely out of the blue one day. "Want to rent a parking spot?" In San Francisco, in the Mission district, hell yes! And we were in business. For a while he'd tell me tales of his years as a taxi driver, his skills as a martial arts master and how he'd killed a man with a single blow to the chest that stopped his heart. He loved our dogs and was convinced that Mao was part German Shepard, no matter what I said to the contrary. Mostly he was lonely, and he'd corner me to chat at the slightest opportunity.

In San Francisco, crossing paths with people who have but a passing relationship with socially acceptable behavior is pretty routine. They were a normal part of my life and seeing them was as much a part of my daily grind as going to the dog part two times a day, every day.

To be honest, I'd mostly forgotten these acquaintances. I've been so busy in my job and home life there isn't much time for the aimless meandering that seems to make me a target for my unusual friends. Until this weekend, that is. The sun as shining and we decided to take the whole family out for a walk.

As I was wrestling with my two large dog and Mr. Dog was walking ahead with the boys, a sweet little lady says "What a nice family you have!"
"Thank you," I say, swelling with motherly pride.
"Keep them out of public schools! That's the advice I give you."
Well, I'm a firm believer in public education and I told her of my belief that if every involved parent pulled their child from public schools they would be a lot worse off.
She then launched into a tale of how the "Black and Mexicans" are running the schools down. And could I believe our Governer wants to give them all free lunch and send them all to college if they have even a C average. Again, I expressed my support of these programs.
She was stunned. How could I believe such a thing. She launched into a story of being diagnosed at an early age with a low IQ and how she turned her life over to God and asked for something or other. Frankly I don't know what because at this point I'd quit listening and was desperately trying to catch my husband's eye to plead silently for help. Unfortunately, he is quite skilled at quickening his pace and leaving me trailing with the crazy lady chewing my ear off.

Finally, Mr Dog took action, "We're going this way" he said as we made a sudden turn.
Disoriented for a moment, but recovering quickly, my new best buddy says "So am I!" and continues to follow us. I resigned myself to her company and quit responding. After a block or so, she tired of my silence and turned away. Mr. Dog slowed his pace and let me catch up. Yeah, my magnetism had attracted another neighborhood looney disguised as a sweet old lady.

Ah, Seattle is starting to feel like home.