tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154606852024-03-18T23:52:04.448-04:00Tracy McArdle / "Getting Some"“Getting Some” is a chronicle of a new life stage for first time moms over 30, who have come to realize it’s an existential joke to “have it all” and who have settled for just getting, well, some.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-63840748385297602912011-06-02T16:42:00.003-04:002011-06-02T16:46:28.919-04:00The latest question, v. 24 Year-Old: "Mommy, what bad things did you do when you were a kid?"<br /><br />Me: "Define kid."<br /><br />4 Year-Old: "Mommy."<br /><br />Me: "Well... sometimes I was naughty..."<br /><br />4 Year-Old (intrigued beyond standing it): "Like how?"<br /><br />Me: "Let's have ice cream for desert tonight!"<br /><br />4 Year-Old (too smart for that): "Mommy, how were you naughty?"<br /><br />Me: "I don't know."<br /><br />4 Year Old: "Yes, you do."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-59642174554902017912011-05-26T14:41:00.002-04:002011-05-26T14:43:51.932-04:00The latest questions"Where does my yawn come from?"<br /><br />- Henry, age 3, after yawning.<br /><br />"If you were in the sky, could you see the world?"<br /><br /> - Ryder, age 4<br /><br />"Has anyone held their pee longer than I have today?"<br /><br /> - Tracy, age 42Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-36429376889499269782011-03-14T11:44:00.005-04:002011-03-14T15:44:39.468-04:00Toddler HaikusSorry for the prolonged absence... <br /><br />I'm back at work (outside the home). That means I'm wearing clothes again, outside of sweat pants, I mean. A good thing.<br /><br />Meantime, here are some thoughts in haiku form, which is all I have time for these days:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />First day back to work<br />I wake to toddler vomit<br />Violation! My own bed.<br /><br />Your small noses run<br />Colors defy nature<br />I am surely next<br /><br />You hit your brother<br />The rescue comes too late<br />Teeth marks on your cheek</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />The rug smells of pee<br />It’s no fault of my body<br />You, without diaper.</span><br /><br />Please submit your own Toddler Haikus!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-91295808119853222192010-09-09T15:24:00.001-04:002010-09-09T15:25:44.576-04:00What I Did on My Summer VacationAs the school busses round our corners in the mornings, and the pleasant nip of September drifts into our evening dinner hours, we breathe a collective sigh to welcome the new season. And welcome it is. It’s been a long summer, and a bountiful one weather-wise; we enjoyed August temperatures in June and wrapped up the season with a near miss of Hurricane Earl, which brought the not unwelcome combination of rain, a drop in temperature and a nice breeze to Labor Day Weekend, summer’s melancholy bookend.<br /><br />One thing about having small children is how it makes you recall your own childhood summers. The carefree endless days, hours upon hours spent outside, watching fireworks and waiting for lightning bugs, gorging on ice cream, building sandcastles and other small civic engineering projects from sand, rocks and seaweed, riding bikes, and waiting with delight for the big attraction to round the corner at that 4th of July parade. And yes, poison ivy, bee stings, long hot car rides, black and blues, skinned knees and water up the nose.<br /><br />I did things the summer I never would have done without small children (and couldn’t do when they were babies). Pony rides. Train rides. Boogie boards. Floaties. Campgrounds. Root beer floats. Hot dogs. Pool parties. Hikes in the woods (short ones). Canoe rides (also short). Buying worms. Baiting hooks. Catching sunfish. Swings. Slides. Popsicles. Races. Lakes, ponds, oceans and swimming holes. Naps. Long ones. Short ones. Painfully interrupted ones. Bike rides. Lollipops. Sprinklers. Wading pools. Skinny dipping (the kids, not me.) Sunscreen. Bug spray. Lemonade. Ferries. Fried seafood. Collecting eggs. Catching spiders (though living in Carlisle, we do that in wintertime too.) <br /><br />S’mores. Crocs. Crabs, minnows, turtles, frogs and rabbits. Even bears, mountain lions and bobcats, thanks to the Science Center at Squam Lake, New Hampshire. Old friends. New friends. Graduations. Birthdays, the very young and the almost done. Weddings (I’d be fine to never attend another, save my children’s.) Anniversaries – the joyful ones, and the tragic. Beer. Rose. Sangria. Margaritas. Dancing in the street. Not all at once, except for that one July party…<br /><br />But adulthood always comes calling. Things I also did a lot of this summer: Laundry. Dishes. Trips to the swap shed (to return things my husband picked up the week before.) Weeding. Running. Shopping. Cooking (not that much, I confess). Email, phone calls, writing, reading, texting (but no tweeting. I just can’t). Work – perhaps not enough. Worrying – perhaps too much?<br /><br />And through it all the sun is shining. The days are long - I should know, bedtime is clocking in around nine pm these days – Egad. And life is short. My kids, so young and so little at 2 and 3, are getting older, and bigger. And so am I (older, not bigger that is, I hope). The unbearable sweetness of summer is made all the more by the arrival of September. That big fat S on the calendar…..School starts. Sweaters. Socks again – yuck. New schedules. Fresh work assignments. The shorts are put away…the beach towels packed up. The sand toys buried in the basement for ten months. Where are those mittens…have the moths eaten my pashmina again? Will my jeans still fit? Putting on those closed toe shoes for the first time…And soon, the triple threat of Halloween, Thanksgiving and the hurricane of the “holidays.” The first snow, and the last eggnog. Skiing. Sledding. Skating…the flu. And so it goes.<br />This is life. I’m no fool; it’s a good one. Sometimes it’s great. And I’m grateful. Usually. Even though I’m not a kid anymore…most of the time that is.<br /><br />Happy fall, everyone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-83484894570875675372010-08-12T10:48:00.003-04:002010-08-12T10:54:29.721-04:00But what do you DO all day?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjw58xEqTu0tb4yMANA_dE89OdLLrXW-QeWxER41uSG_77280M__JthRi2PWLD5lPj-S2lFVag3wo00GhFiJl1vypH6TbGYhckeRrY0v2_qLxUIwc7zjGo0V1gpQ0elXdsSAZwGw/s1600/Pie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 93px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjw58xEqTu0tb4yMANA_dE89OdLLrXW-QeWxER41uSG_77280M__JthRi2PWLD5lPj-S2lFVag3wo00GhFiJl1vypH6TbGYhckeRrY0v2_qLxUIwc7zjGo0V1gpQ0elXdsSAZwGw/s400/Pie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504536556170691490" /></a><br />Through a layoff, I accidentally became a SAHM (that's Stay At Home Mom or Sometimes Aggravated and Horrible Mommy). The transition hasn't been easy, but it is not one I regret. I once saw a T-shirt advertised in a parenting magazine that said simply "I AM at work." <br /><br />I didn't really appreciate it until I became a SAHM with two small children. We've all heard (or heard others thinking) the question "but...what <strong>do</strong> you <strong>do</strong> all day?" when we tell them we're stay at home moms. In an attempt to explain I have provided a cheat sheet for the next time someone asks this question.<br /><br />Detractors may point out that the percentages add up to more than 100%. This is no accident. And in addition to no pay, there is no vacation or weekend from the job either. But the benefits....ah, they last forever. Just ask any accidental SAHM who's a former corporate achiever. And who has teenagers now.<br /><br />25% - Picking things up<br />20% - Putting things away<br />10% - Pleading with others to pick things up and put them away<br />10% - Playgrounds, playdates, music class or other activity to prevent children from destroying house<br />2% - Paperwork (school, doctor, daycare, etc.)<br />4% - Wipe bottoms, wash hands or otherwise assist in bathroom activities (for other people)<br />6% - Dressing and undressing other people<br />4% - Teaching other people to dress and undress<br />10% - Preparing food<br />10% - Helping people eat food<br />10% - Cleaning up after food preparation and consumption<br />90% - Laundry<br />15% - Worrying about money<br />22% - Picking up and dropping off people<br />2% - Getting gas (for car)<br />1% - Getting gas (from eating hot dogs and mac & cheese)<br />6% - Paying bills, clipping coupons, talking to various "service" people on the phone<br />13% - RSVPing, shopping for, and going to birthday parties<br />15% - Reading stories<br />12% - Making up stories<br />50% - Grocery shopping<br />45% - Making lists for grocery shopping<br />4% - Doing things for self (showering, eating, going to the bathroom)<br />2% - Threatening<br />3% - Bribing<br />24% - Answering questions (i.e. Do dinosaurs have birthdays? What color is bear poop? Do fairy tales wear helmets? When a skunk bites you does he say sorry?)<br />2% - Repairing household things that husband can't or won't<br />3% - Indulgent online ordering of needless child gear and toys<br />7% - Justifying to others the fact that you don't work "outside the home"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-9683942432700859362010-06-18T15:01:00.003-04:002010-06-18T15:21:28.410-04:00The Joys of Spin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWYm2oN5TdRzL1VuyY229PWd1SJdR8IFhyICmnjjxeCKh0OR5fO-mm1XOG3XWi2OYWdngjh0JuLCurdKmcICrreuy4MsyKus5-E7tPfRI0HdMTl-IrIjJhlaBFPCMW257MhZApw/s1600/spion.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWYm2oN5TdRzL1VuyY229PWd1SJdR8IFhyICmnjjxeCKh0OR5fO-mm1XOG3XWi2OYWdngjh0JuLCurdKmcICrreuy4MsyKus5-E7tPfRI0HdMTl-IrIjJhlaBFPCMW257MhZApw/s400/spion.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484195769494738450" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNybM-ZqLootDp14Fd5Cctm2bwQKvzayzX0-oifD_fXzKEjcftL3g6WIKXRwUNUQhWU_poPDrmHLkKKCTAVszDvkHxc7tWGxAd5HU5QXxdeawYULSXjQRSAX0LrGthzhUwPUI4w/s1600/spion.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNybM-ZqLootDp14Fd5Cctm2bwQKvzayzX0-oifD_fXzKEjcftL3g6WIKXRwUNUQhWU_poPDrmHLkKKCTAVszDvkHxc7tWGxAd5HU5QXxdeawYULSXjQRSAX0LrGthzhUwPUI4w/s400/spion.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484195525254129282" /></a><br />The first thing I did when I got laid off was join a gym. One thing I've come to understand is that in life, sometimes you have time, sometimes you have money, but rarely do you have both. And usually you could be thinner.<br /><br />I now had time for the gym. And they have childcare. For two dollars an hour! Off I went. Then I found out you have to stay at the gym and work out while your child is at the gym childcare facility. Oh. So I tried spinning, because it had a time limit, and a stationary bike, so how much could you really move, and an instructor, which meant someone to make sure you finished what you started, or left in humiliation trying, which of course wasn't an option so...Anyway. Spinning.<br /><br />The thing I discovered about spinning is that, much to my surprise, I really enjoy someone yelling at me and telling me what to do as I hurtle toward nausea and tears. As a mother of a two and three year old, I must admit that it feels kind of nice to cede decisions, control and authority to someone else for a full hour. It's a change of pace. Sometimes the pace makes me dizzy and fearful about my lung capacity and not very serious but still there heart murmur, but isn't that what positive change is all about?<br /><br />The kids do great in the childcare room. They play with other kids and behave perfectly for other adults who aren't me. <br /><br />"Did you know he says 'God damn it?'" the careteaker asks me when I pick them up after class, my face a spectacular shade of purple. <br /> <br />"No! You're kidding!"<br /><br />"Quite a lot, actually."<br /><br />I feign shock. My two year old smiles at me. I lean over for the diaper bag, my stomach eating itself, my legs feeling as though recently filled with liquid cement. Did I eat this morning? Oh yes, the milk soaked orange fruit loop at the bottom of the sink. I smile and drop my keys.<br /><br />"God damn it!" my two year old says.<br /><br />"Mommy, do fairy tales wear helmets?" my three year old asks, he, forever the angel, resucing me, distracting everyone from my flaws and my bad mother habits, bringing smiles forth with his genius non-sequitors as we head toward the sweaty elevator.<br /><br />"The smart ones do," I tell him.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-25737844710718751602010-05-25T09:23:00.002-04:002010-05-25T09:25:56.966-04:00Another morning...The secret to perfect pancakes is medium-low heat. Who knew? This after years and hundreds of raw or burnt (or some combination thereof) Bisquick concoctions. Sometimes it takes losing a job to perfect the impossible, do the undoable, and master flour and eggs.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-83162694307767737732010-05-10T10:05:00.005-04:002010-05-10T10:43:19.438-04:00Paging Henry Hill<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_FhPeX8AfmpxkWZ51euK2LmQXV6_0BeYV29wQ74mgeoBGuvm8GzYh049pCvYIylfKSBzzQKa2B4JRZbLlmHazt8b7sgGju8-GqyWRPU89hvh1OfX6q2Mof_fMyxEOpTUISAHhg/s1600/goodfellas.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 121px; height: 127px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_FhPeX8AfmpxkWZ51euK2LmQXV6_0BeYV29wQ74mgeoBGuvm8GzYh049pCvYIylfKSBzzQKa2B4JRZbLlmHazt8b7sgGju8-GqyWRPU89hvh1OfX6q2Mof_fMyxEOpTUISAHhg/s400/goodfellas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469648666339318674" /></a><br />I was laid off a month ago and was unexpectedly thrust into the role of Almost Full Time Stay At Home Mom.<br /><br />I was not used to it. I am still not used to it.<br /><br />Am I happy to have this time with my kids? Yes. Do I miss my paycheck? Hell, yes. Do I miss not having to be the house/life/marriage manager in addition to the kid manager because I work, too? Yes, I think I miss that most of all, Scarecrow.<br /><br />Seriously, I was lucky enough to work part time at a job I liked in my field. I had one foot in the playground and one on the <em>on ramp </em>career coaches love to talk about. And yes, sometimes on the days I was at work I wanted to be home with my kids. And sometimes on the days I was home with my kids waiting out the afternoon eternity between nap and dinner, I wanted to be in the Caribbean, by myself.<br /><br />I can't lie. When you've spent a lifetime working, being a full time mom in suburbia feels like being in the witness protection program, only without the wistful memories of a past life of glamorous danger. Remember that last scene in Goodfellas, when Ray Liotta as snitch gangster Henry Hill opens the door to his cookie cutter subdivision witness protection program house to get his newspaper? Remember the look of panicked boredom on his face?<br /><br />Sometimes I know how he felt. But then I read The Butterfly Book for the billionth time or replace the wheel on the hapless firetruck whose sound mechanism has been mutilated by someone or something, making it sound like a malfunctioning droid, and a strange, zen like calm overtakes me and for a moment, I am a good mom.<br /><br />Sometimes I feel like I fell off the planet and entered a time warp of daily survival. Before my eyes open every day my body is moving to fulfill needs - all kinds of banal needs - that have nothing to do with my own. Time is divided by meals, sleep, bodily functions and their respective cleanup, Play Doh, the playground, the Fight of the Day (today's was "He Took My Fishy"), the broken fire truck and its creepy noises, and 30 minutes of Big Bird.<br /><br />So here, for all those considering quitting your job to spend more time with your kids, or quitting your kids to spend more time with your job, are the pros and cons of each. Here are all the answers you need, in one blog (seriously someone should pay a lot of money for this list) about work and motherhood:<br /><br /><strong>PRO </strong>- I know my 3 year old's digestive schedule now, and as a result can handily intercept him on the way to his secret corner to do what we both know he should be doing in the bathroom.<br /><br />CON - Because I eat kids' food all day long now, I have no digestive schedule of my own.<br /><br />PRO - The laundry and dishes are done and dinner is made by 5:30.<br /><br />CON - I spend my days doing laundry and dishes and dinner. And it's never Beef Bourguignon.<br /><br />PRO - No more rush hour traffic.<br /><br />CON - No more listening to what I want to listen to, when I want to listen to it, in my own car, as I eat breakfast and read the Times.<br /><br />PRO - No work schedule means we're free to vacation with no time restrictions!<br /><br />CON - No 2nd paycheck means no vacation!<br /><br />PRO - Because I'm lucky enough to have a part time babysitter, I can get away to interviews, write or work on my resume.<br /><br />CON - I end up Facebooking and cruising Overstock.com with the time.<br /><br />PRO - Every morning I get up with my kids and make them breakfast and get them dressed, and every night I am there for dinner, bath and bedtime.<br /><br />CON - Every morning I get up with my kids and make them breakfast and get them dressed, and every night I am there for dinner, bath and bedtime.<br /><br />I hope this has been helpful to all those struggling with balancing work, motherhood, and sanity. <br /><br />When you figure it out, let me know, will you?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-83387763823366897422010-04-22T19:56:00.006-04:002010-04-22T20:39:03.268-04:00Full Hands<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7QUm19VCEyBT94o6CCOEPifGf9UVCSUkksMj-bPT81EBdl__1o0SOI3toRZHjbHQeLufj3wzgCkyN6mnuW6mNmzrQAkP_ECDbLaEeMmiA5TAFftzFLV9rvHaEcK6espdUy4cMw/s1600/clock.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 97px; height: 107px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7QUm19VCEyBT94o6CCOEPifGf9UVCSUkksMj-bPT81EBdl__1o0SOI3toRZHjbHQeLufj3wzgCkyN6mnuW6mNmzrQAkP_ECDbLaEeMmiA5TAFftzFLV9rvHaEcK6espdUy4cMw/s400/clock.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463125828966930946" /></a><br /><br /><strong>The scene:</strong> Parking lot outside my suburban gym.<br /><strong>The players:</strong> My three year old son, really into peeing outside (thanks to my husband's ideas about potty training); me, fresh from a workout (free childcare and unlimited shower time, yay!); and my two year old son, really into running across parking lots, particularly when screamed at not to. <br />Oh, and the "older" gym goer, exiting her car and not in the least inclined to be helpful.<br /><strong>The time:</strong> half way through a very long day<br /><br /><strong>Three Year Old:</strong> Mommy, I have to pee.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Right now?<br /><strong>Three Year Old:</strong> Yes. On this tree. (<em>Begins disrobing</em>).<br /><strong>Me:</strong> <em>(Pleading)</em> Why don't we go inside where the potty is?<br /><strong>Three Year Old:</strong> (<em>Pants and Thomas the Tank Engine underwear around ankles</em>) No, here. On this tree. Like Daddy.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> But honey. We pee inside.<br /><br /><em>Sensing weakness, the Two Year Old makes a break for it, heading for the seemingly unlimited frontier of the parking lot. Thankfully, he is fully clothed.</em><br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> (<em>Screams at Two Year Old while balancing peeing, half naked Three Year Old)</em>.<br /><strong>Two Year Old:</strong> (<em>Smiles and laughs maniacally).</em><br /><strong>Three Year Old:</strong> Look Mommy. Pee. Some is on my shoe.<br /><br /><em>Just then a Lexus SUV rounds the corner, narrowly missing the Two Year Old. An older woman (well past the toddler years) parks and exits the vehicle, all benevolent smiles and grandmotherly nostalgia.</em><br /><br /><strong>Three Year Old:</strong> Mommy! Where are you going?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> <em>(Sprinting after Two Year Old, completely abandoning Three Year Old who is naked from the waist down</em>) Be right back, honey! (<em>Screams again at Two Year Old).</em><br /><br /><em>The Three Year Old begins chase, pants and underwear still ankle high. He trips. Falls. Cries. The Two Year Old, now across the street, is in stitches.</em><br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: (<em>Obscenity</em>).<br /><br /><strong>Lexus Woman:</strong> (<em>Striding leisurely and yet full of purpose toward gym)</em> You've got your hands full!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Yes. Thank you. Enjoy your Zumba Class.<br /><br />This message brought to you by the "It goes by so fast" cliche.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-34247196605162432072010-03-15T14:04:00.003-04:002010-03-15T14:32:28.235-04:00Driving to Heaven<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6I7e9xNUA0jedqRJ-7FnpUvU0TziMftQWCwnobnhmzRQui1_G_SqX1y0C18B2rgjotomoW26Z-MJWEEc1An0AAsQMgwfV79Y_xvgz5LRQkcKFDjqrXeJCmLPjW4To4sU82Z6uQ/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6I7e9xNUA0jedqRJ-7FnpUvU0TziMftQWCwnobnhmzRQui1_G_SqX1y0C18B2rgjotomoW26Z-MJWEEc1An0AAsQMgwfV79Y_xvgz5LRQkcKFDjqrXeJCmLPjW4To4sU82Z6uQ/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448930268763888754" /></a><br />"Mommy, where's Kayla?"<br /><br />Kayla was our beloved dog who passed away last summer after a long life of seventeen years, the last couple spent in our laundry room as a tired, elderly relative seeking asylum from two kids under two. <br /><br />And so it began, the debate between truth and white lies in explaining death to my toddler. I explained that Kayla was in dog heaven, that she was happy.<br /><br />"Who drives her there?"<br /><br />I was flummoxed. "She, um, she runs there. No one drives her. She's ah...always there."<br /><br />"What does she eat there?"<br /><br />Ah, this one was easier. "Lots of yummy things like dog biscuits and ice cream and pancakes...."<br /><br />"And lollipops?"<br /><br />Yes, lollipops. How do you do this? For the millionth time in motherhood I was grateful that this problem wasn't bigger. How would I explain the departure of a person, someone close to him? We had lost my father-in-law when he was 14 months old and while I try to make sure he knows who Pa is, I think his grandfather is an abstract idea for him. One of my aunts also died tragically last summer, but he was only briefly familiar with her. He saw Kayla every day and understood she was part of our family.<br /><br />He lists us all by name when referring to our family: me, my husband, him and his little brother, then finally the cat and ending with Kayla. Even though he hasn't seen her in more than six months.<br /><br />I know there are books and websites to help you deal with the swarm of awkward and difficult and painful conversations with toddlers. I know people have had to do this kind of thing for as long as humans have been around. But nothing can prepare you for when you child, brimming with innocence and determined curiosity, looks into your eyes and asks,<br /><br />"When can we see her?"<br /><br />And although I'd dealt with and, I'd thought, gotten over Kayla's death months ago, my eyes filled with tears.<br /><br />"We can't see her, honey. Not for a long long time...But we can remember her, and talk about her, and look at pictures of her...."<br /><br />This seemed to help. His next question was something else, about whether sharks are nice and what his babysitter had for breakfast, the kind of rollicking early morning non sequitor I live for.<br /><br />And I think, <span style="font-style:italic;">let it last, please let it last</span>, this world of his innocence, his curiosity, his ready acceptance for my trite explanations, his faith in me. For that world is understandable. In that world if something is unfair or confusing, someone he loves will provide the answers. In that world he is safe, from the moment his breakfast is placed in front of him to the stories read and the covers pulled up to his chin at night. In that world we will see Kayla, and Pa, and my aunt again. Of course we will. He has no doubts. This is his world, which I left long ago, but now thanks to him I have a special visa to visit.<br /><br />We can't stay there for long, I know, but I'm going to enjoy every minute.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-12335646651616853752010-02-23T11:47:00.003-05:002010-02-23T12:18:31.937-05:00Shiner<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAw97l4ssfO5TaMcLmkeOt_XAX7E7pWfk2F_dhueV5htUZHZ6vQdX7N2HNBems6JzHG00DvVNBuodbj5rLg9oKaHLFKQCKFrEpzhpDKfbo5VeiZBu2P_Yxuyq2YDW7hjTSiIdL4Q/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAw97l4ssfO5TaMcLmkeOt_XAX7E7pWfk2F_dhueV5htUZHZ6vQdX7N2HNBems6JzHG00DvVNBuodbj5rLg9oKaHLFKQCKFrEpzhpDKfbo5VeiZBu2P_Yxuyq2YDW7hjTSiIdL4Q/s400/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441488557159530402" /></a><br /><br /><br />My son gave me a black eye the other day. He didn’t mean it. I know, I know, that’s what all victims of domestic violence say. <br /><br />And he didn’t mean to give me the fat lip either, a few days later. But I mean it when I say he didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t because…he’s not even two years old. <br /><br />Both of these facial injuries resulted from sudden and unintentional contact with his head, a totally unpredictable and constantly moving weapon. The fat lip came at the end of music class, when he was dancing to “The Goodbye Song” and I just got too close. I should have known better. <br /><br />It was made worse by the fact that I have braces. I get to things, eventually. I’ve wanted braces since I was twelve. And now I am over forty and have braces and two toddlers, a surreal combination, a kind of visual testament to my fondness for procrastination.<br /><br />The black eye was subtle at first. Immediately after the blow, it was merely a painful lump. The next day, however, a day I go into the office, it was a purple welt just under my eyelid. No one asked me what happened, but finally I offered an explanation, even to people I don’t know very well (Amy from Accounting, the Mass Pike Toll collector, the guy at the lunch place where I get a salad) just to subconsciously defend my husband against their silent judgments.<br /><br />The fat lip wasn’t as noticeable, especially since the gash was on the inside, where my braces had shredded my kisser like a cheese grater doing a number on some unsuspecting lump of Parmesan. But it did look as if I’d had them done. My lips I mean. Which I wouldn’t, of course, because now, having gotten the braces, it would just be way too vain, even for me. <br /> <br />My son knew none of this of course, being twenty months old. But I started to wonder about the pain our children cause us – intentional or not, throughout the course of our lives. And I remember hurting my own mother. Toddlers are always getting hurt – falling, tripping, bumping into things, scrapping with each other – and sometimes their clumsiness spills into our orbit. <br /><br />But what about the injuries of the heart and mind? When will they begin in earnest? I know, and I wince at the memory, that I told my mother I hated her. I told her to leave me alone. I probably made her wait in the car when summoned to fetch me from practice or a party. I told her the cigarettes weren’t mine, that someone’s parents would be home, that I was sleeping at a friend’s. I’m sorry, Mom. Wow, it took me twenty-five years to say that! I might as well have just dropped an anvil on her head. It probably would have hurt less. <br /><br />I remember how my brother and sister and I would hide in the front hall closet when my Dad got home from work. One day as he went to hang up his coat we burst from the darkness to surprise him with joyful screams – slamming the door directly into his bald forehead. That was painful. But not as painful as years later, pulling me off the back of a motorcycle he’d pleaded with me not to ride an hour earlier.<br /><br />There are worse things, I know, but what I do not know is how to prepare myself for the onslaught of challenges my children will present to me in this age. Intentionally or not.<br /><br />Will they mock me on Facebook? Will they Twitter in exasperation about my unending lameness? Will they lie to me, disrespect me, resent me – online or via text??? Or, worse of all – will they forget me completely and disappear into those worlds of screen and sound, only meeting my eyes when forced, skulking around like my worst nightmare, like…well, like myself at 13?<br /><br />Luckily I have some time to figure it out. Or so I think.<br /><br />Or we could move to – where? Nope.<br /><br />I just returned from a four day trip and while I was awarded the obligatory hug and kiss upon arrival, my son has eyes now only for Daddy. “Want Daddy!” he screamed this morning when I tried to cuddle him. Let me just scrape my heart up off the floor before I go to work. <br /><br />And I can’t wait for the next time his little head crashes into me.<br /><br />Because I prefer the black eye.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-23960374617091418802010-01-14T10:50:00.003-05:002010-01-14T11:17:12.811-05:00Things I have learned......as a parent.<br /><br />1. Bath toys get moldy. Especially the ones with secret squirt holes. One moment you're playing with your 2 year-old in the tub and the next you inadvertently send a stream of black gook his way.<br /><br />2. Time is longer and shorter than you think. <br /><br />3. All boring cliches are true. Especially when it comes to parenting. Ex: "It goes by so fast." And, "You can survive on very little sleep."<br /><br />4. TV is not the worst thing you can do to your child. Especially if it gives you ten minutes to actually get dressed or use the bathroom.<br /><br />5. Any marriage that survives the parenting of small children deserves a gold star.<br /><br />6. When you feel like you're a bad mother, you can always just turn on the news/read the newspaper / go to TMZ.com and find someone way worse than you.<br /><br />7. There is no resource more valuable than older parents who have been there. Unless they're your parents.<br /><br />8. Little kids, hit, bite and push. Hopefully it will pass. Or, not. Sometimes they grow up to be bankers.<br /><br />9. You can over-parent.<br /><br />10. Kids don't know the difference between new and second hand clothes. Toys, maybe. But not clothes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-14538321090448122642009-12-08T12:14:00.004-05:002010-01-14T10:49:56.631-05:00Money and Bananas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCobJFkGRLNICDq4xCeAudnmIq4B4l8QGAVkk4oy-UoWfuqGGpAtB2Ck9lXXsp4kPeXssxdWRtkpGD-XglYslLwlvTSCwHW1bn1ZMgKknyWhA004zUHsZp0gXKIm64qVUwIBROQ/s1600-h/bananas"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCobJFkGRLNICDq4xCeAudnmIq4B4l8QGAVkk4oy-UoWfuqGGpAtB2Ck9lXXsp4kPeXssxdWRtkpGD-XglYslLwlvTSCwHW1bn1ZMgKknyWhA004zUHsZp0gXKIm64qVUwIBROQ/s400/bananas" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412915410732500114" /></a><br /><br /><br />This piece appeared in my local newspaper, the <span style="font-weight:bold;">Carlisle Mosquito<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>. That's right, I said <span style="font-weight:bold;">Mosquito.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> Check them out <a href="http://www.carlislemosquito.org/">here.</a><br /><br />My son is learning to talk. <br /><br />He wakes up every morning and says, lately, m’NEE! At first we (okay, I) thought it must be some mangled version of “Mommy,” the most important word he will ever know, but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t me he was after.<br /><br />“M’NEEEE!!!” He pointed. We looked. He wanted the change jar, full to the brim with nickels, dimes, pennies and quarters, resting on my husband’s dresser. He wanted money. He’s eighteen months old.<br /><br />I’m not sure who taught him this word (ok, maybe it was me, by accident) but he wakes up every day, storms into our room and points to the change jar. At first he wanted to eat the m’nee, but then he just wanted to play with it. He wanted to hold it, drop the coins atop one another, hear the delicious clink, poink, and fwap of copper hitting silver hitting glass. Then there was the dumping and refilling. Empty the jar, fill the jar, smile. Repeat. Occasionally a coin would be hurled across the bed or rolled with glee across the hardwood floor. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />“M’NEEEEEEE!”<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />“You swashbuckling capitalist,” we said, not sure whether to be proud or alarmed. How pure and innocent this first encounter with legal tender, I thought. How long before he knows what money really is and what it’s for and what it can do? That it’s not something to play with, that it’s not merely a toy for our amusement.<br /><br />Or is it? It depends, I guess, on a lot of variables.<br /><br />“What were his first words?” people will ask. “Ummm, money?” I will answer, slightly embarrassed. Unless you count “Ow!” which I don’t because it was really more of a complaint that a word.<br /><br />The other thing he wants first thing in the morning, right after his money, is a “bobo.” Many parents reading along will instantly recognize this as code for “banana.” And God Almighty help you if you don’t have the bobo ready and waiting by the time he waddles down to the kitchen. There has been Defcon 4 level panic in our household when, sometime before breakfast but after Fern’s has closed, someone discovers (ok, my husband) that YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS. <br /><br />Let me just say that bananas have been “rescued” from cars and neighbors’ homes and possibly even the freezer before the risk of a morning shortage is allowed to become reality.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">“Bobo!”<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />It occurs to me again how wondrous and truly amazing the development of a human being is. And what a gift it is to witness it every day (even though, let’s face it, some days it’s like one of those gifts that keep on giving, for better or worse). <br /><br />So right now his life is about money and bananas. And Mommy and Dada, of course. And that is all he needs, isn’t it? Money and food - things that give him pleasure and sustenance. And the people who help him get those things. It all boils down to that. How much money and how much food you really need is honestly debatable – especially in these times, in this country. We tend to think we need more than we really do, instead of being grateful for the m’nee and bobos we’re fortunate enough to have. <br /><br />And I guess this is the tough part now, teaching him that, when I sometimes have trouble remembering it myself. <br /><br />That’s why you have kids though, isn’t it? <br /><br />To keep reminding yourself of who you want to be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-27870465351638799232009-10-20T16:02:00.002-04:002009-10-20T16:05:56.017-04:00Do I Really Have to Buy a Minivan?No post. No big long tirade. I just want to know the answer is no.<br /><br />Even though I totaled the family car. By myself. In a driveway. Going about 5 mph.<br /><br />Totaled.<br /><br />Don't you just love American Built Products?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-63445666857001080992009-10-16T14:14:00.003-04:002009-10-16T14:19:40.704-04:00Me vs. Cars<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGhJUR0le1OSf2oYgej6AkoanCEIw4owem-0QOiFrNimnDoYDklKhh8t_l8DtMLBcMj5ybneh_Dn_zQ-uSkVcjpqyibdv_Swb3WMC0BcmX-1q49KyIFv0vx6QlIgKEY-yApRkoQ/s1600-h/car.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 79px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrGhJUR0le1OSf2oYgej6AkoanCEIw4owem-0QOiFrNimnDoYDklKhh8t_l8DtMLBcMj5ybneh_Dn_zQ-uSkVcjpqyibdv_Swb3WMC0BcmX-1q49KyIFv0vx6QlIgKEY-yApRkoQ/s400/car.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393263948806482018" /></a><br />And now for something completely different. A LONG one. So sit down and get ready to laugh and ponder. Here's an essay I recently read at <a href="http://fourstories.org/index.html">Four Stories </a>.<br /><br />ME VS. CARS<br /><br />I hung my head in shame, literally. Defeat was making itself at home on my shoulders. Finally, I said it. “I’m willing to negotiate.” I’d held out for so long, it almost felt good to cave. Almost.<br /><br />My adversary stared at me from his position on the kitchen table, his exaggerated roofline and custom rims no less intimidating for being 1/450th scale. The Matchbox 1968 Toyota Land Cruiser in Canary Yellow from the Adventure Collection. His mirrors glittered with sunlight and power. He held all the cards, which was odd, since he was a toy truck, but let’s face it, this isn’t my first awkward surprise of parenthood. <br /> <br />The war had waged for over two years. The causalities – too numerous to count. I’d made the tactical error of assuming my shock and awe campaign, completed last spring with a giant woven basket from Pier One Imports, would secure victory. The wounded and wheel-less, I’d simply disposed of. I had scooped up the others, every last one of them, under cover of daylight, into the basket and then to the detention holding area of the front hall closet. Fellow detainees the vaccum cleaner, Deluxe Scrabble, a Medela breast pump, and an old rabbit fur jacket circa 1984, had had to make room for the new arrivals. <br /><br />“This is just a holding area,” I reassured them. “It’s only temporary.” I received looks of contempt. “We are citizens of this household!’ one shouted. “We have a right to be here!” another argued. Then, something about having been welcomed here earlier with open arms, now suddenly they were being treated as criminals, blah, blah, blah. Halfway to the bathroom, I couldn’t hear them anymore. It seemed a finished business.<br /><br />And yet they had prevailed! Little by little as mud and rain gave way to heat and crickets, then chilled mornings and shorter days, I saw evidence of their escape, but like a hallucinating freak in denial, was convinced they couldn’t possibly have gotten out of the basket, much less the closet, on their own. <br /><br />A souped-up Mazda in the bedroom, a Honda Accord in the kitchen, a Buick under the refrigerator. A tow truck poised for duty at the front door. And now here we were. In a meeting arranged by former President Bill Clinton, I was finally face to face with their leader – the ’68 Land Cruiser, my son’s favorite, and therefore, enjoying diplomatic immunity. I was sweating, and there was no doubt he was seeing it. Me sweat, I mean. Even though he was a toy. Don’t laugh. This is fucking serious…<br /><br />They were in my bookshelf. My last haven of adulthood, the lone reminder that once, I’d been a thinking person, with literary and analytical ability. I could discuss things! I could stay up late drinking wine! My poor bookshelf. I glanced there now, a deep and lonely longing for grown-up words and sentences welling up in me.<br /><br />There’s my copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It’s the story of the glamorous playboy editor of French Elle, and what happened to his life, and his idea of his life, after he suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. One moment he was driving his convertible and the next he was in the hospital, completely paralyzed and mute, someone sewing up his right eye. “You have ‘locked in syndrome,’” a doctor told him, meaning he had full mental capacities, but no physical ones. He learned to communicate by blinking his left eye, and with the help of his therapists, wrote a book about his experience. He went from putting out a monthly fashion magazine to writing a deeply personal book with his one good eye. The book was a massive hit – critically and commercially. What you took away from the story was how he had spent a lot of his life taking for granted his connection to all the things that mattered – his career, his wife, his kids, his mistress, his intelligence. But with this unimaginable loss came a new discovery: a different beauty, one he learned to share. <br /><br />Anyway. I stared at the Land Cruiser in earnest. “This time I mean it. I am willing to –“<br /><br />“Negotiate?” He laughed, a deep carburetor sound, though not unfriendly. “You have no leverage. We’ve already infiltrated the last neutral zone.”<br /><br />“Not the bathroom cabinet!” I was aghast. The last sanctity of my private womanhood. My tampons, makeup, exfoliater and thirty-five dollar conditioner - violated! In the bathroom cabinet is an old Ziploc baggie. My secret baggie, seven years old. When I left L.A. I put in it all my pretty and sexy hair accessories. Rhinestone butterfly clips, crystal encrusted bobby pins, tiny velvet bows. These things seem ridiculous now, but ten years ago fashionable young women wore them to clubs, restaurants, movie premieres. I know, because I was one of them. Now they are dented and dusty, broken and dull. But they are mine. Mine!<br /><br />“Foolish woman. The bathroom was ours last winter. Your son –“ <br /><br />“I know, I know. Lightning McQueen.” Good old Disney and their Manifest Destiny approach to childhood. My son was no match for their marketers, and neither was I. He slept with Lightning McQueen, wore him on his chest, festooned the tiny holes of his Crocs with him, lovingly spoon fed him milk and cereal at breakfast.<br /><br />“They’re thick as thieves. He’s a very effective agent.” Land Cruiser wasn’t being smug. In fact, I could see, he pitied me.<br /><br />It was true I had no bargaining power. They were everywhere, unstoppable and menacing in their smallness and sharpness. Every time I opened a door there were more. Tractor trailers, pickup trucks, Cadillacs, corvettes, Dune Buggy Volkswagens - even a Prius! And for my son I had to pretend all was groovy. Force a smile, emit the notion that of course, we could all get along. This was the Land of the Free. But it was still My house. My mind. My life. This is my life now. I had to shed many layers and grow new ones to get here. I don’t mind it, it’s part of evolution. But sometimes I shake with the loss of control. Sometimes I silently scream my lungs out and pray someone will hear me. Then I fix lunch and read Llama Llama Red Pajama.<br /><br />When the singer Michael Jackson died, the world hungered for someone to blame. What killed him was not the evil enablers, not a drug overdose, exhaustion or suicidal ambition. It was the slow unpeeling of the layers he’d accumulated over the years, decades, to hide who he was – a shy, terrified, lonely and deeply unhappy little boy. This pain had fueled the creation of a gifted artist, a pop music genius and a worldwide celebrity. The fame drove him to a bizarre and troubled existence. He never forgot who he was, which was not the tragedy. The tragedy was that he lost who he wanted to be. He paid the ultimate price – or no, perhaps his children will. I think it’s too early to say.<br /><br />Later, I discovered the settlements on the front porch, a breach of both the original cease fire and the Second Birthday Agreement. They had dared to establish communities outside the boundaries! Clinton wasn’t available then – or at least that’s what his people told me. Something about his Foundation or getting someone elected, blah, blah, blah. This violation had perturbed not only me but the Tricycle Contingent and the Dumptruck Coalition as well, who had agreed to inhabit a small zone beyond the picnic table, at least during the summer months of heavy travel, and on holidays. After that there were checkpoints for them between the various zones of the property and so far, they’d been cooperative. I prided myself on my diplomatic abilities. I could talk to anyone and I could usually direct a situation toward a positive outcome. Even before playgrounds, snack sharings and toy Land Cruisers -- I had experience with this.<br /><br />Ten years ago I was at a photo shoot in Los Angeles for a young, unknown actress. She was what people used to call an ingénue, but she wore leather pants and motorcycle boots with flames. She was trying on the expensive clothes the stylist had brought. We were in a fashionable studio in Culver City, and the photographer’s assistant had put on some music to set the mood. “Who is this?” she asked me. “Are you fucking kidding?” I said. “You don’t know Jimi Hendrix?” I felt so old saying that to her. A few hours into the shoot she began to relax, and put on her own CD. “Who is this?” I asked her. “Are you fucking kidding?” she shot back with a wicked grin. “You don’t know Lenny Kravitz?” I felt really old then. And that was ten years ago. I watched as the drama of having your own photo shoot peeled away the versions of her. What the camera wanted was her raw innocence, the gloss of youth, her truth and pain. Of course, with every click of the shutter that was more difficult to capture. The camera was taking it from her, and replacing it with an odd combination of confidence and entitlement.<br /><br />And so, as the seasons wore on, the business of fighting escalated and the insurgency grew. Our household was divided on the matter; I favored an accelerated defense strategy; my husband seemed satisfied with the current economic sanctions (no new purchases). This wasn’t a terrible idea – at least there wouldn’t be more of them. <br /><br />Some weeks later I discovered their secret cloning program, hidden for months in the bottom of the toy chest – where, in my pathetic maternal naïveté, I had assumed there lived only innocent stuffed animals. Now, some of them were hostages. For all I knew, it was possible the clones were behind the vicious beheading of Pirate Elmo, but I had no solid evidence. Land Cruiser and his followers were churning out an army whose sole purpose was domination. Yet it went farther than that. He knew it, and now so did I. With every inch of sacrificed real estate went a piece of me. Or what used to be me. Where did that part of me go?<br /><br />They say that 31% of the country is on antidepressants or anti-anxiety medication, but I personally think it’s more. If you count caffeine, alcohol, nicotine, cold medicine, certain herbs and the random painkillers people hoard after surgeries big and small, who’s not using? And why not? Isn’t it ok to leave yourself behind sometimes? After you’ve smoothed the edges or blurred the boundaries with a little help, how dangerous is it to not go back? But how much of you are you willing to lose to be happy? If happiness is what you’re after. And whose idea of happiness are you chasing, anyway?<br /><br />How ill-prepared I’d been for this conflict! Now the cars and trucks were influencing the innocent toys. What would happen when the larger ones turned on me? The rocking horse, the Dream Kitchenette? <br /><br />I wasn’t going to win. I would have to cede more territory simply to maintain my position – or any position. Would I eventually be completely removed from the homeland? I mean, if this kept up, soon I’d be living in the tool shed. And I don’t just mean psychologically. How could I make him understand my fundamental right to exist?! He’d still never recognized this. He’d only recently agreed to acknowledge “two separate states.” I remember thinking this was a victory for me. Ha. I would still have a state. Although where this state would exist was still murky at best. What was my state? If I could have whatever I wanted in this negotiation, what would it be? Did I want my old self back? No, I had come too far. I just wanted to know she was still available to me, if I needed her. I wanted to know she hadn’t been erased. I wanted to know all she had learned, all she had done, all she had written, all she had uttered, thought, all she had loved – before – was not for nothing.<br /><br />“Think of your son’s happiness,” he’d said. “What price on that?” Was that what it boiled down to? My son’s happiness or my identity? The stuff of Lifetime movies and Danielle Steele? Fuck.<br /><br />There have got to be babies that went to the wrong parents. Somewhere in history, fifty years ago or five, in some hospital, you just know some hapless newborn got the old switcheroo. Probably it was an innocent mistake, possibly it was deliberate mischief or even malice. The parents, years or maybe decades later, through DNA or some crusading administrative records agent of justice, stumble upon the news. It would be harder to swallow than the accidental truth of discovering you were adopted. Child, you’re not who you thought you were. You’re not even who THEY thought you were. So if you’re not who you were, who are you? Who are your parents? What is your life, now that you’ve discovered it was lived by someone else? <br /><br />“Do you even know why you’re here?”<br /><br />At first I thought it was another voice altogether, my concerned neighbor (she’d heard me arguing with the toys before) or the UPS guy. But then I realized it was still the Land Cruiser, with a softer approach, his tone more idling than revving now.<br /><br />“Why am I here? I’m here because you’ve driven me to the brink of madness. I’m here because I’ve lost my sense of myself and how things should be and it scares the bejesus out of me. I’m –”<br /><br />“I mean, do you KNOW why you’re HERE?” He was calm, which was infuriating. I mean, had anyone ever taken anything from him?<br /><br />“What is this, some kind of cruel acid trip?” I sobbed helplessly. It was tiring, this game of mental badminton. “I don’t even take drugs anymore, I don’t have time!” <br /><br />He ignored my sniveling. “You are here because of us. We are here because of you. We are an inescapable part of each other. There’s no going back. Surely you understand this, by now?” This time I was childishly grateful for his sympathy. <br /><br />Once, in college at a party, I smoked a lot of pot, super inhaling the entire joint, just to get a cool guy to think I was cool. I drove home carefully, excruciatingly slowly, fearful of a latent incapacitation to drive or really, to do anything involving the simultaneous application of movement and vision. Once home, I lay awake in bed, horribly worried that I wasn’t actually in my bed, but rather, still driving aimlessly, trying to get home. I couldn’t be sure that I wasn’t just imagining I was home in bed. It was a horrible feeling, not knowing where I was – physically, mentally, never mind existentially. I never got stoned again.<br /><br />But now, if I were really receiving unsolicited but meaningful spiritual guidance from a toy Land Cruiser, then well, things could be worse, I guessed. I might as well hear him out. I had to give him credit after all. Removing my sanity had been no small feat, and it had taken him less than two years.<br /><br />“You will never be rid of us.” <br /><br />“Duh,” I hissed immaturely. This felt good.<br /><br />“I’m surprised you haven’t had this conversation with the Legos.”<br /><br />“I have,” I admitted, weary of him, of the whole business of losing myself to hundreds of small, colorful objects.<br /><br />“The harder you fight, the angrier you become. The more you struggle, the farther peace and happiness recede from you.” So the Land Cruiser was a Buddhist. I felt shame creep up on me like a disgraced dog who’s violated the carpet again but still craves undeserved attention.<br /><br />“We are you. You are us,” he said, sounding like he was selling some sort of religion. “Why must there be resistance at all?”<br /><br />Resistance. Such a big part of human life. Oh, the tired and predictable ugliness of it. I looked at the Land Cruiser and his family, strewn across my life like tossed confetti, like the blown petals of spent roses. Like, well, randomly scattered toys. They were pieces of me, all of them, the bitter bits and the tender ends.<br /><br />A small cry, the untamed voice of need. “Mommy, come.” <br /><br />My son is up from his nap. I take the Land Cruiser and deliver it to him, tousle-haired in his crib, his wondrous eyes and determined mouth projecting a buoyant, boundless gratitude. <br /><br />I pick him up; the whorl of his cowlick is damp with baby sweat, his round cheeks flushed. One day he will be a man, taking risks and making decisions, trying to do or create something greater than what he sees himself to be. <br /><br />For now, his wordless smile opens wide, and I feel something come alive, rise in me and settle: this uncanny strength, this crazy peace.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-67180406676265139432009-09-24T12:32:00.003-04:002009-09-24T12:39:03.243-04:00Blue BootsToday my 2 year old son opened the bag of hand-me-downs from his cousins. Instantly he zeroed in on the aqua blue rainboots with red trim and pull up handles.<br /><br />It's 70 degrees today, a splendid fall morning. The kind where anything is possible and you feel your potential coming back.<br /><br />He puts on the boots. Walks around. They are two sizes too big.<br /><br />Me: "Honey, you can't wear those today. Put on your crocs."<br />Him: "But I want to."<br />Me: "It's too hot."<br />Him: (Eying the boots lovingly). "But I want to."<br /><br />When does it end, this logic-defying, unedited desire for what is beautiful and new, happy and free? I envied him in that moment. Me, anxiously living in the forward, not in the moment, late for work, rushing us all into the car. Him, fixated on what was in front of him, what pleased him, what made him happy.<br /><br />He wore the boots.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-52004006804419343352009-09-14T15:44:00.006-04:002009-09-14T17:11:41.082-04:00Got Angry?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrxH7OWIQkDkre5OmNPz-Thb09KL0f9I0tgOcVWQ_3_yn1hrUnmn935He1WIe6S_8TMe301G051Qal1l_bkOIDx77SJ9wbD4l3YrymuoKdKWz_8-Suv42_vhom8IRcDiLABvBWw/s1600-h/AngryTendercrisp.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrxH7OWIQkDkre5OmNPz-Thb09KL0f9I0tgOcVWQ_3_yn1hrUnmn935He1WIe6S_8TMe301G051Qal1l_bkOIDx77SJ9wbD4l3YrymuoKdKWz_8-Suv42_vhom8IRcDiLABvBWw/s400/AngryTendercrisp.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381433690708174114" /></a><br />Did Burger King know what they were doing when they invented the Angry Sandwich collection? Could they have foreseen my collision with their creation, when, after a ten day vacation (that's a funny word there) with my kids aged 1.5 and 2.8, I exploded into their parking lot off of Rte. 24 coming off the Cape at the end of summer and the end of Sunday and saw the sign - <span style="font-style:italic;">Get Angry!</span><br /><br />After a two hour drive filled with screaming, hitting, whining (the kids), singing (mine) and crying (also mine), I was already well beyond angry and deep into Enraged, heading straight for Incensed, Blind with Fury and beyond that, Just Plain Loopy.<br /><br />Like moms, fast food apparently has a whole bunch of ways to be angry. Angry Tendercrisp! Angry Chicken! Angry Whopper! Angry Double Whooper! There was even an Angry Triple Whopper - I guess for people with not one or two but three unruly, exhausted, famished toddlers at the tail end of a vacation. No matter. The fries (not angry but not serene either) and angry Tendercrisp soon populated the floor, as did our new Pokemon play figure. "Mommy, what's this?" <br />"A Pokemon." <br />"Mommy, what does it do?" <br />"It eats your money. And your pride."<br />"Mommy, can we get another one?"<br /><br />How many hours til I go back to work? <br />Monday morning never looked so good.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-14425925033469277022009-08-04T11:05:00.002-04:002009-08-04T11:14:02.653-04:00Sing to the tune of "Where oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhA4T4HAcwsf4IuCIPiUFJZAMPMPNy3l-Sfn5psLb7fcYA3NkIGC9lYbeH5jVf1JKP8LxqayjoXo6nXFBzbiRhWSkrrJ1EGSH9KY92KLJlMFo_djgAh4-c6sQ5i32MFUIA9bymQ/s1600-h/cup.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 111px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhA4T4HAcwsf4IuCIPiUFJZAMPMPNy3l-Sfn5psLb7fcYA3NkIGC9lYbeH5jVf1JKP8LxqayjoXo6nXFBzbiRhWSkrrJ1EGSH9KY92KLJlMFo_djgAh4-c6sQ5i32MFUIA9bymQ/s400/cup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366126864172909554" /></a><br />Oh where oh where have my sippy cups gone<br />Oh where the hell can they be??!<br />Last night I know I had seventy-one<br />Now, it seems I’m down to three.<br /><br />There’s one on the floor of my Toyota Prius<br />And one wedged under the bed<br />And I think the dog just chewed one up<br />Perhaps I’ll use a wine glass instead.<br /><br />I know the Thomas cup’s at daycare,<br />And Dora must be at my Mom’s<br />The Nuby one now is full of green mold<br />And that’s just one of its charms.<br /><br />My infant hurled the green one out<br />Of my car going eighty-two<br />A cop pulled me over and chewed me out<br />Just as my toddler had to poo<br /><br />I think they must have gone to the place<br />Where binkies and favorite toys hide<br />When children melt down and you need them like drugs<br />And you’re going to explode inside!<br /><br />Oh where oh where have my sippy cups gone <br />Oh where (godammit!) can they be?<br />If I can’t find one in this whole damn house<br />Guess my kid will just go thirsty!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-26351217893168720722009-07-20T15:49:00.004-04:002009-07-20T15:53:50.376-04:00Stripers Gone Wild (not Strippers, Stripers)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnf7r4AIANBTZZ9WGkADQAPwoa3j_662-sxsGFBeXWBfeY_rj_QkLcQef3d7fVgyNXfcm53IicLAscHzi7RYI0iYVTI_rwd92PPCRbW5If53IdyPwWH0PC1-cxEgcut_ohoZa33g/s1600-h/fish"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 149px; height: 58px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnf7r4AIANBTZZ9WGkADQAPwoa3j_662-sxsGFBeXWBfeY_rj_QkLcQef3d7fVgyNXfcm53IicLAscHzi7RYI0iYVTI_rwd92PPCRbW5If53IdyPwWH0PC1-cxEgcut_ohoZa33g/s400/fish" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360632924181368354" /></a><br />If you are married to a fishing enthusiast, or if you sometimes feel your husband likes fish more than he likes you, <a href="http://www.mvtimes.com/marthas-vineyard/news/2009/07/09/essay.php">CLICK HERE</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-75931988315099869602009-07-15T15:52:00.002-04:002009-07-15T15:59:42.369-04:00Practicing with Pets<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFVdO2wF_Ss5RshwTMo7S3-uPgLSo786c0pI8BlbuD638kQg50aQKSDXLZHekPHkeRopmxjCWHR1J7upiFuUQ54mP3voSCMqMeJs-57eJo3AJ62TPSPgnyVietTecL2WOfeHcOA/s1600-h/dogs"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 117px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFVdO2wF_Ss5RshwTMo7S3-uPgLSo786c0pI8BlbuD638kQg50aQKSDXLZHekPHkeRopmxjCWHR1J7upiFuUQ54mP3voSCMqMeJs-57eJo3AJ62TPSPgnyVietTecL2WOfeHcOA/s400/dogs" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358778958672288338" /></a><br />More from my guest blogging at Momlogic! Enjoy!<br /><br />Many couples declare they are "practicing for children" when they take the leap and get a puppy or kitten. Aside from the totally naive assumption that a little Lab mix could remotely prepare you for the onslaught of a newborn human, there's also the possibility that things won't go well with the arrangement. Family politics. Personality clashes. Battles of will over toilet practices. The complete uselessness of the word "no." And the "accidents" ... On second thought, maybe it is good practice -- for toddlers.<br /><br />But when your husband resorts to biting your cat, what do you do?<br /><br />My husband is not a cat person. I love all animals, especially those with certain neuroses stemming from strange and unfortunate upbringings. A dog I adopted had been found huddled and starving on Hollywood Blvd. After destroying my home and a couple of relationships, I gave him up. My cat had been abandoned a few weeks after birth -- before any normal socialization or animal pecking order skills could develop. And when I moved into my future husband's (and his dog's) two-bedroom apartment with my cat, I figured we'd all take some time to adjust, but that we'd be one big happy family.<br /><br />Instead, it was like a step-foster-adopted family, or a bunch of creatures thrown together for the sake of entertainment, like "The Real World" or "Big Brother." The cat knew no boundaries or authority (other than its own, of course) and randomly bit or growled. My husband bit her back, and on occasion, after a particularly insulting scratch as she passed by him in the hallway, chased her down and hurled her across the room. His dog, thirteen and with three legs, had little tolerance for her, either. After the first week of following her around the apartment, the dog completely lost interest, except when the cat tried to steal her food, which was often. After all, she was thirteen and had three legs -- and the cat was clearly an opportunist.<br /><br />I'm happy to report, however, that with two human boys aged one and two, said husband has not bitten or hurled either of them yet. In fact, he's a complete softie. I, on the other hand, just the other day, found myself screaming, "Stop screaming! Both of you, WE DO NOT SCREAM IN THIS HOUSE -- STOP SCREAMING NOW!!!!"<br /><br />Which just goes to show ... nothing. Don't judge a person's potential parenting skills based on the way they treat animals. We still have the dog and the cat, and they have both mellowed considerably since we had children.<br /><br />I just can't remember the last time they were fed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-37096120515317550032009-06-30T12:07:00.003-04:002009-06-30T12:15:33.696-04:00Ten Simple Rules to a Flat Stomach: obey!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWFbgjDOfXlultJgR-0drP4tliGsoBvgZOSGMnQJXNrStKarB_t3GMSv-inDijqslzk1dWwKLZKu3DQaolTTftXxgeYHbnOGipfDYH9N50l7kZUObbgB5C8I7dKMCGmPMFTALbQ/s1600-h/stomach"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 110px; height: 107px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWFbgjDOfXlultJgR-0drP4tliGsoBvgZOSGMnQJXNrStKarB_t3GMSv-inDijqslzk1dWwKLZKu3DQaolTTftXxgeYHbnOGipfDYH9N50l7kZUObbgB5C8I7dKMCGmPMFTALbQ/s400/stomach" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353154760310768450" /></a><br />Herewith, in response to the absurd number of times I receive this message daily, is my own answer to this ubiquitous question. <br /><br />Seems there are ten rules to a flat stomach. Thanks to friends and family for their thoughtful contributions. And they are:<br /><br />10.lie down<br />9. hang from a tree with weights on your ankles<br />8. don't eat<br />7. tapeworm<br />6. photoshop<br />5. surgery<br />4. bulimia<br />3. a good imagination<br />2. drugs<br /> and the number one rule to a flat stomach, courtesy of Marcella Pixley, author of FREAK, is <br />1. no babiesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-7924559645762321052009-06-18T15:45:00.002-04:002009-06-18T15:47:44.492-04:00Boys ClubThis post was published by <a href="http://origin.momlogic.com/bloggers/tracy_mcardle/stories/">Momlogic. </a> But I'm so proud of it I am running it here too. Plus no one has yet commented that they hated it. A plus. Enjoy.<br /><br /><br /><em><strong>"Mommy, these are my boobies."</strong></em><br /><br /><br />Tracy McArdle: So proclaimed my 2-year-old son, proudly tweaking his nipples mid-bath one night. His eleven-month-old brother smiled approvingly from the shallow end. I always thought I wanted a daughter, but now that I am the mother of two boys, I wouldn't have it any other way.<br /><br />When I first became pregnant, I envisioned myself and my daughter riding on the local horse trails together, even going to competitions. Horses have always been a part of my life, and I'd always hoped my kids would ride. The idea of attending football games or worse, hockey practice at 4 AM, didn't appeal. And there are just not many male horse enthusiasts, for whatever reasons. So I prayed for a girl. And I prayed she wouldn't want to be a cheerleader.<br /><br />Gradually during my pregnancy, I became convinced I was carrying a boy -- and after Ryder was born, I had to make that uncomfortable decision about circumcision, my first taste of gender helplessness. I had to imagine the potential consequences of something I had no idea about -- well, not directly, anyway. Would my son resent my decision ten, twenty years from now?<br /><br />When I became pregnant a second time, I thought, I'm throwing up -- it must be a girl. I am gargantuan -- it must be a girl. I really feel and look like shit -- according to everyone, it's gotta be a girl! The ultrasound proved me wrong, and I'm ashamed now to admit the disappointment I felt. "Couldn't that be an ... arm?" I protested weakly when the technician pointed out the telltale appendage on the monitor. <br /><br />"If that's a girl, you come back here and show me!" she laughed.<br /><br />But then Henry was born and he was so different from my first son -- fussy, spirited, curious, and engaging, particular, physical, and goofy. And watching them together when Henry came home and his big brother adapted to his presence, calling him "Baby Henry" and pointing to my breasts, declaring, "Those are Baby Henry's" -- that's just something I still can't put into words. <br /><br />I have older friends with daughters approaching the danger years -- ages 13-40. I was lucky that the local barn kept me out of a lot of backseats when I was growing up. I don't envy their present and future spats about curfews, clothes, jewelry, cell phones, money, boys -- you name it. I'm not saying mothers don't argue with their sons -- I just feel grateful not to have to have the conversation about looking like a cheap slut when my daughter thinks she looks good. I know because I tortured my own mother with feather earrings and feathered hair, tight pants, and low-cut tops.<br /><br />I also admit it's kind of cool being the only chick in my house. I feel special. I know that with boys, I will probably go to the emergency room more. I will probably yell more. I will be heartbroken when some cheap-looking slut steals my son from me. Relax, I'm kidding. <br /><br />But I guess the moral is, your child's birth is the moment when you let go of expectations, and learn to embrace what you've been given. Because it's almost always richer and more incredible than you could have possibly imagined.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-47419862772108621092009-05-12T11:44:00.002-04:002009-05-12T12:11:09.158-04:00Things I do while driving.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PomHfSNIw67zt4OWJgo5SSxzRov06ZjX4wfxP5ttXXjaG4YjHnF0SsmCCc81F_QYbQShfVIVEMJFtm7IUjy7m66iuI0Qz6s8XrpKvkTz_xPozCfmgaJxcWNRDusCr7V1-ph6vQ/s1600-h/tl"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PomHfSNIw67zt4OWJgo5SSxzRov06ZjX4wfxP5ttXXjaG4YjHnF0SsmCCc81F_QYbQShfVIVEMJFtm7IUjy7m66iuI0Qz6s8XrpKvkTz_xPozCfmgaJxcWNRDusCr7V1-ph6vQ/s400/tl" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334970708283134226" /></a><br />That MBTA driver texting his girlfriend while driving a subway trolley – and causing an accident injuring 50 people! What a horrendous story! The kind of thing that happens and you think – <span style="font-style:italic;">what an idiot</span>! <span style="font-style:italic;">Texting while driving a subway car full of people!</span><br /><br />Then a moment passes and you think: <span style="font-style:italic;">That could have been me. If I drove a subway, I mean.</span><br /><br />We all do it. Driving distractions. My favorite driving distraction is getting angry at other drivers doing distracting things that I was just doing. Like talking on the cell phone. Drinking coffee. Reading. Making egg salad. You know. You all do it too.<br /><br />In fairness to the publicly scorned MBTA driver (he had two previous speeding tickets! Criminal!) herewith a list of things I confess to have done while driving.<br /><br />I have made and received phone calls <br />Made doctors appointments<br />Canceled doctors appointments<br />Canceled my paper for a vacation<br />Called my pet sitter<br />Called my pet<br />Eaten breakfast<br />Eaten lunch<br />Ordered dinner<br />Drank coffee<br />Vomited <br />Filed my nails<br />Tweezed my eyebrows<br />Texted <br />Twittered<br />Shuddered<br />Screamed<br />Cried<br />Laughed<br />Argued<br />Negotiated<br />Backed down<br />Had contractions<br />Taken drugs <br />Planned a wedding<br />Sang<br />Sped<br />Veered<br />Peed (yes, it’s true)<br />Farted (kidding – I’ve never farted)<br />Laughed again<br />Changed shoes<br />Changed clothes<br />Changed realtors<br /><br /><br />Things I have not yet done while driving:<br /><br />Slept<br />Gotten divorced<br />Clipped my toenails<br />Flossed<br />Brushed<br />Rinsed<br />Danced<br />Switched seats<br />Done a paint by number <br />Ordered a cute bathing suit from a catalog<br />Changed the asset allocation in my 401(k) <br />Changed a diaper<br />Given birth<br />Given bloodUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-22720991139934184692009-05-07T13:19:00.000-04:002009-05-07T13:20:39.471-04:00Happy F#$% Mother's DayThere seems to be a deeply sentimental Mother’s Day email poem going around.<br /><br />Nothing against "those people” but I thought y'all might enjoy another version.<br /><br />Here’s a sampling of the original:<br /><br />Before I was a Mom,<br />I never looked into teary eyes and cried.<br />I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.<br />I never sat up late hours at night<br />watching a baby sleep.<br /><br />Before I was a Mom,<br />I never held a sleeping baby just because<br />I didn't want to put her down.<br />I never felt my heart break into a million pieces<br />when I couldn't stop the hurt.!<br />I never knew that something so small<br />could affect my life so much.<br /><br />Yada yada yada.<br /><br />Ok, just in case you’re not TOTALLY moved by that, here’s another version. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. And if you laugh just once you are not allowed to report me to DYS.<br /><br />Before I was a Mom<br />I didn’t know the <br />Power of vodka<br />Or Percocet<br /><br />Before I was a mom<br />I had a waist<br />And an I.Q.<br />I went shopping (for me, I mean)<br /><br />Before I was a Mom<br />I “slept in”<br />Til noon<br />Not 7.<br /><br />Before I was a Mom<br />I had sex<br />And enjoyed it.<br /><br />I never ate<br />Cheerios off the floor<br />Because it was my only shot<br />At breakfast<br /><br />Before I was a mom<br />I did not accidentally squirt people<br />(a nurse, my mother-in-law) <br />with my breast<br /><br />Before I was a Mom<br />I was a vain, selfish,<br />But thin<br />Creature.<br /><br />And it <br />Was fun.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15460685.post-38541419847371515172009-04-30T11:07:00.000-04:002009-04-30T11:08:53.453-04:00AVOID SWINE FLU!DON'T DO THIS!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwrXHqMYCkDgvLuLw-3f1fy00YNw7Ig7irsuQQqMYC0KsrFLHJsqSUGF6zB_wONZ_jzvrEttRrkyIHFOm-BiQfvoRlRYj9FcGcMD46xLmRX2wZ7fiyj4J9mG666GaqsUp_fWGpQ/s1600-h/SFimage001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 330px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwrXHqMYCkDgvLuLw-3f1fy00YNw7Ig7irsuQQqMYC0KsrFLHJsqSUGF6zB_wONZ_jzvrEttRrkyIHFOm-BiQfvoRlRYj9FcGcMD46xLmRX2wZ7fiyj4J9mG666GaqsUp_fWGpQ/s400/SFimage001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330501475658484674" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0