Page-a-Day

I never do my Christmas shopping a day before the 22nd of December. I am a teacher and teachers, including the despicable Arthur Mitchell on Dexter, design their personal lives around their time off. So my Christmas planning and shopping happens when I am off for the winter break.

Making lists and shopping for people that you only see once a year is tough. Suffice it to say that there must be ways to let all of your random little aunts, uncles, and cousins know that you love them without buying them something that they really don't need or want. I'm nervous about giving an example, because what if that one girl in Idaho who loves my blog is lost to me forever because I said no one wants koosh balls when they are over thirty, and that is what she gave everyone in her book club? Better stay clear of judgments. This year, I gave calendars.

I love calendars. Our society loves calendars. We need to write it down. When I taught in brick and mortar schools I made sure my students wrote their work down in the agenda books they were given for free with our tax dollars. I loved my leather day planner my future father in law gave me for student teaching. I also had a dry erase calendar that I kept on the fridge to keep track of everything for home, but that has been replaced, I must confess, with the Google calendar. I am really getting the hang of the Google calendar. I had the planner, but I also had a HUGE desk calendar I kept duh, on my desk. Now it is all on my Google one, and it can pop up on my main page, and repeat itself, and be copied to my husband's calendar. The joy of that is that if the kids have dentist appointments, Kevin will see it and know that everyone might be a wee bit crankier than usual when he gets home, myself included.

Even before the engagement calendars you could buy at Hallmark or the planners you could get at Staples, The Aztecs and other societies had their own calendars. The Aztec calendar is way too confusing to me. I have seen it at the museum in Mexico City and I don't get it. I don't think Aztec kids were in danger of being late to piano practice. Which calendar did God tell us was the official one? I missed his memo....

Special education moms need those calendars. One of my favorite movies growing up was Better Off Dead. There was one scene when John Cusak's character didn't do his homework, but instead of writing it down in a calendar to keep track of his life with, he pulled out a sheet of notebook paper that had gum on it that said, "Do homework." I know people like that, but it wouldn't have worked for me. At the height of our early intervention, I had to keep track of speech, PT, OT, early intervention preschool, play dates, and gymnastics. Let's not forget doctors appointments. This was when I just had one child. Now I also have to keep track of her schedule at school because she will only wear pants on P.E. day, oh yeah, and my boys have a life too. Grrrr.

Since I live for my calendar, I wanted to share my love of it this Christmas. Now that Google and other online calendars are taking off, I decided to focus on the Page-a-Day calendar. Those of us who like those calendars live to wake up in the morning, brew the coffee, and pull that paper to see what chuckle or tid-bit of information we will receive for that day. I have had some great Page-a-Day calendars over the years: I had one of Vincent Van Gogh paintings, and I swear I didn't know he was a red head like myself before then. I had a movie of the day calendar, and that gave me tons of ideas for everything from Rear Window to Citizen Ruth. I kept the Spanish word of the day in my classroom and the kids and I would flip together.

The king of all Page-a-Day calendars: The Far Side. I don't think you can top some of the things that man came up with. Everyone has a favorite. I guess mine would have to be the dolphins speaking Spanish and the marine biologists couldn't crack the code. Either that or the gifted kid pushing on the pull door. How I miss Gary Larson.

Winner of the best Page-a-Day day, is September 12, 2001. (This story is not a lie.) My cousin Matty gave me a Page-a-Day Simpsons Calendar. I LOVED that calendar. When I opened it on Christmas Eve of 2000 I jumped up and down and did the happy dance around the room. It was like he had given me diamonds. Then on September 12, 2001, I gratefully took September 11th off and there was Bart Simpson saying "I never thought it was humanly possible, but this both sucks and blows." That was the day I decided that there was power in a Page-a-Day calendar and that The Simpsons were pure genius. Well said Bart, well said.

So, when you don't know what to give-give a calendar. You can make them if you want to get creative-I am wondering how I could create "Page a Page-a-Day." I'm afraid that would be too much. I can't wait for January first, because that is when I get my first "The Office" quote. Dunder Mifflin once a day? 2010 keeps looking better and better.

A Few Tips from the Quack

The Sugar Plum Fairy, The Mouse King, and the Nutcracker. Can you tell which is which?


Why would I give advice? I shouldn't-but here it is. A few things and then I will be back after Christmas. I have family to visit and Sookie books to read. But don't worry, I have three great posts ready to go when I am done celebrating and reconnecting with friends and family.

Here is my Christmas present to mothers crazy enough to do what I say:

1) When driving a long drive with kids, made extra long by the weather, go to the library for DVD and CD rentals. At three am, my kids were watching Bill Nye The Science Guy, Let's Learn French, and listening to The Magic Tree House books on CD. It was preschool in the car! Of course I also had Shrek and Barney. And fill up the car with gas every time you stop, just in case you sit in Richmond for three hours and your BFF cusses you out for trying.

2) Art paper can cost up to ten dollars a pack. 500 sheets of copy paper is 2.50. Guess what my kids color and water color on?

3) Don't forget your stockings if they mean something to you, but the good that came out of it is we are going to make special ones with friends and put out shoes for St. Nicholas.

4) If your son has issues with picking his nose, you can buy him a pack of kleenex and tell him they are from Spiderman.

5) You can make "Nutcracker" cupcakes with fiber cereal, chocolate chips, and mixed nuts. (assuming no allergies). Basically, whatever you happen to have in the pantry.



Happy Holidays! See you next week.

The Grocery Store Diaries 7

You have your hands full: Two!
Bless your heart: One! I know it! In the north!
Damage Control: Lowell threw his passy once and Kenneth tried to climb out without help, but fortunately, he didn't hurt himself, the groceries, or his baby brother.
Dirty looks: One woman who must not have any tolerance for children, especially ones who decide to dance in the aisle.

My actual trip was all right, all things considered. Therefore, I am hijacking my own post:

I love cable television shows. I really, really, love cable shows. My husband and I started this during the graduate school years, when we could stay up all night on weekends watching Sopranos episodes from Blockbuster while other twenty somethings were out getting trashed. The only non-cable show I enjoy right now is the Office. I have heard great things about many programs, but there is just something a little better about the quality of writing in a cable show. Who knows exactly why?

Sunday night, Showtime aired their season finale of Dexter. I am not going into details on that show, because people love or hate it. I will say that John Lithgow had a one season role and he will be missed and never forgotten. As a tribute to him and a way to say "Thank you" for a wonderful season of Dexter, I am linking the grocery store scene from Terms of Endearment for everyone's viewing pleasure. Take a moment to watch and then keep reading, but the bad language was not edited from the clip.

I am not a big Terms of Endearment fan. Deborah Winger and Shirley Maclaine drive me crazy with their obnoxious fighting. The husband makes professors look like scum. Jack Nicholson will be Jack Nicholson. I am dumbfounded as to how Deborah's character could stay at home with three kids while her husband was still working on the PHD, but maybe that was just Reaganomics. Someone should explain it to me later.

As much as I can not stand that movie, I love that scene. It's a grocery store diary! I have never run out of money at a grocery store, but I always have this fear I'll open my purse and my wallet will be sitting on the kitchen counter. I have snapped at my children in public. Usually it involves keeping one of them from doing something dangerous or finally deciding I am not buying three boxes of cheerios just so that they can each have their own. I have given in and bought junk food that I shouldn't have. I'm sure that people have changed check out aisles or rolled their eyes when they have seen us coming. There is only so much crying, begging, and dragging of boxes that childless people should have to take. Deborah Winger's Emma is taking criticism not only from the annoyed cashier, but her older son is old enough to know what is going on. How much worse could it get? Don't answer that.

Then in the middle of her humiliation, John Lithgow comes out of nowhere to save the day (and help her get even with her idiot husband later, but that isn't the point). The right people fairy came in the form of John Lithgow-and he let the cashier have it with a little more control. Nice.

This grocery store diary is dedicated to John Lithgow as Sam from Terms of Endearment, because to give him a Dexter post would be way too morbid for my readership. I hope that all moms out there who have a bad grocery store day have a "Sam" to help them out.

Keep up the good work Mr. Lithgow. Be it saving the day in the grocery store, preaching the gospel to teenagers that just want to have a prom, or killing somebody's wife in a bath tub, you do it well!!!

My Advent

It’s that time of year, when your mailbox is filled with things other than bills and catalogues. You get Christmas cards of Santa, Nativity scenes, and pictures of people you know are happy or maybe not, but they are living day to day like all of us. I haven’t been able to get a picture of the three of mine together for the life of me, so I quit trying. But no worries, I’ll always have something to write.

We Episcopalians are big into Advent. We have Advent calendars and Advent wreaths. When I was growing up, my priest did the same Advent service every year where a child had to ask him why the candles were lit. I can tell you (hope, peace, joy, love)-I am an excellent Episcopalian. What is important here is that Advent means to wait. Before I go any further with this, let me just say that you don’t have to be a Christian to wait for anything, and I always try to go out of my way to include anyone in this blog. For example, if you are a Democrat you waited a long time for Obama and if you are a Republican you are waiting for him to be gone. I don’t care if you breast feed or give your baby formula, just don’t starve your kid. So give me a minute with Advent and then I’ll go back to South Park’s non-offensive Christmas special. (But I don’t think I’ll be so lucky that Philip Glass will do the music). Advent is the four Sundays before Christmas. During this time, we wait for the 25th and the birth of a baby in Bethlehem.

Part of me feels like my life has been one very long Advent. Some waiting is good, like when you are pregnant for that first time, or the second or God help you crazy people like me, the third time. Waiting for a Harry Potter book was always exciting. I remember thinking my husband would never finish graduate school, but that waiting ended nine years ago. Now I’m waiting to feel like a Yankee. Nope, not going to happen.

Sometimes waiting can be painful. Nothing is worse than being in a playgroup or mommy and me class and all the babies sit up, and yours doesn’t. Then the babies crawl, and yours doesn’t. Then they walk, and still she doesn’t. Then all the babies six months younger start to walk, and you are about to screw Advent. Then one day, you put your child down on the floor, and she walks across the room. Yes, she wobbled. Yes, she was twenty months old. Yes, her gait was off and she was no where near normal, but Advent was over.

There will always be Advent. And it’s what you do during Advent that makes it different from generic waiting. No, she wasn’t walking, but I was helping. We were pushing toys around the house and backyard. We were going to doctors for x-rays. We went to Stride Rite for any kind of shoe I thought might work magic. Who knows why-but Christmas came when it did.

This year has had an Advent season or two. Kenneth decided that just because he could use the potty didn’t mean he was going to use it. Lowell doesn’t always understand the third child doesn’t have the luxuries of the first, and he isn’t laid back in the least. Frances started Kindergarten-Kindergarten! My biggest Advent of all was getting her ready for that. SHE LOVES IT. I have seen little miracles during this time of waiting.


The beautiful thing about Advent is that Christmas is coming. And it does. So I hope you have a wonderful holiday season, however you are waiting.

And most importantly….

Now that I have made everyone vomit, I’ll go back to laughter next week.

The Grocery Store Diaries 6

Dirty Looks: three, all in the parking lot on the way home.
"You've got your hands full": none that I heard
Damage Control: Well, the baby discovered that tic tacs shake better than maracas....

The Grocery store is the ultimate fast food restaurant for little people. I know that you aren't supposed to grocery shop hungry. I know that furthermore, you should not take hungry children to a grocery store. And I don't, at least I don't think I do. I have also learned something from Bill Nye and Sid the Science Kid. Sharks are always hungry, and so are my children.

The baby starts screaming the minute bananas hit the cart. He points and cries and wants to eat one of his favorite snacks. I have dealt with this before with a yogurt cup. He got that open and I didn't fight him, but I didn't want to open a banana in the middle of the store. So I let him cry. Sort of.

The next thing I know, a box of cookies has mysteriously been opened and the boys are munching happily and quietly. My daughter is skipping beside me eating grapes out of the bag. I have to stop her because those are going to be weighed, it isn't like a package of cookies with a ISBN bar to scan.

THEN they start asking what they can eat on the car ride home.
"Let's open the chips in the car."
"No, I want a pop sicle on the way home."
"How about a banana then, mom?"
"Is there a way we can make the macaroni and cheese in the car?"

OK, enough. If I give in to the three of them, by the time we get home we will have to turn around and go back to the store. There won't be anything left in the bags to unload. So I tell them no.

My three angels smiled at me and said, "OK mom, you are right. It isn't nutritious, it will spoil our dinner, and then if we wait until we are home to eat, Daddy won't have to vacuum all the crumbs out of the backseat on Saturday morning when he could be relaxing."

Who just believed that?

They scream and cry all the way to the car because the Pilot is not an a la carte cafeteria. People think I'm hurting my children.

If anyone ever wondered why I drink coffee all morning and diet coke all afternoon, now you know!

The Right Things at the Right Time Fairy

My children are into fairy tales and fantasy stories now. Maybe I have been hanging out with them too much, but I have decided that there is a fairy out there that provides the right things at the right time. So in addition to my "Grocery Store Diaries" whenever the "Right Things at the Right Time" Fairy shows up, I'll share those too. Here is what happened that I really needed the most this past month.

My daughter is in a gymnastics class once a week. I picked this extra-curricular activity for her for a couple of reasons.

1) It is a small group of five little girls.
2) The gym knows me and my situation very well and is willing to work with her, I don't know if other gyms would be willing to enroll her (I don't have permission to tag the gym).
3) She has exited physical therapy because she is safe in her environment, but she needs more and this seemed like a good idea.
4) She asked me for the class and loves the different leotards.

My daughter being my daughter, had difficulty concentrating and keeping up. She would wander off and the other six year olds, being six year olds, would want to wander too. She tries really hard and does very well for her, but she wasn't getting all she could get out of it, and I was always afraid the instructor would get frustrated as well. The teacher in me understands this. I felt torn. Do I take her out of the class? Do I find a one on one assistant for an hour a week? That is when the "right people fairy" intervened.

One of the middle school classes meets after my class, and a mother and daughter arrived early. Of course my boys were running circles around me while I was trying to grade papers. The mom asked me what I did, and I explained I was a Spanish teacher. She asked me about tutoring, and I said yes when I had time. Then she asked me if I could trade tutoring for a reduced fee and her daughter being a "mother's helper" to me a couple of hours a week. That is when my child's class ended and the teacher told me she wandered more than she participated that day. I know this and I expect it, but there are days when I really feel defeat. I don't want anyone to sugarcoat what happens, but maybe once someone will say, "She rocked it out!" It hasn't happened in gym yet.

That is when this other mother said, "My daughter could help her with the gym skills." Then the light went on in my head. I told her if she was willing to bring her daughter to Frannie's gym class, the hour before her class, and she was her helper in gymnastics, then I would give her an hour of free tutoring a week.

I waited to blog about this until now to make sure that it all worked out, and it has. I help her once a week with Spanish, and she helps Frances stay focused during the class.

It was a nice visit from the "Right People at the Right Time" Fairy. Let's see what she brings next.

New Moon reflection

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I only read these books because my nieces told me too. Of course I loved them and couldn’t put them down. The best part about it was that I didn’t have a Harry Potter book to get me through a pregnancy the third time around, and I was really worried about what I would do without the boy wizard and the stages of getting fatter, but enter the Cullens and a Breaking Dawn release and I had what I would call a pregnancy book.

The gift of blogging is, you don’t have to read it if you don’t want. So Meyer haters, goodbye right now…..

OK, everyone who is left reading, I have watched Oprah twice since I started having children six years ago. The first one was her 50th birthday celebration when Frances was eight weeks old; the second was when she shamed James Frey on television for making up his memoir. Friday the week before New Moon, I made all three of my children sit still so I could watch Stephenie on Oprah. I told them it was like when Daddy watches the news, Mommy has to watch the Oprah news. They took it as a very big deal and didn’t make a sound, and lo and behold the baby didn’t bother to try to climb on the coffee table either.

Two things about the Oprah interview. The first was I felt like Oprah was making sure the “Meyer” understood that she was the “Oprah.” Don’t try to get your head higher than the queen. You may be Stephenie Meyer, but I am “THE OPRAH.” Let’s not forget who is who, all right sweetie? I am the one with the school in Africa. I am the one who tells people to read something and they read it. (My husband can go into our bedroom bookshelf pre-babies and attest to that).

The second thing is this. Stephenie is Oprah’s audience; the stay at home mom, the woman wanting to improve. It is in some ways a fairy tale that she had a dream and wrote it down and about six months later had a book deal. I have only had two dreams lately that were worth anything. One helped me figure out my preschool/work schedule and the other involved me wandering around a foreign country totally alone. Mothers have no privacy and I want some…

I can also see how people who have been trying for years and years to get published and have MFAs, and teach, and go to conferences, etc. etc., can get pissy that it happened for her the way it did. All I can say without sounding stupid is that everyone has their own journey and life is full of twists and turns and one unexpected thing, like a really cool dream you write down, can change it forever.


Now, on to my New Moon reflection-and my name is not Leonard Maltin, so if you don’t want my opinion, then go over to Rotten Tomatoes.

Well, we certainly had more money this time, didn’t we? The special effects, the scenery, and the on location filming in Italy showed us that. Famous people want a part in this, don’t they? I was so caught up in it that I forgot Jane was Dakota Fanning until she started walking down the hallway. She did a wonderful evil adolescent girl stuck in hateful vicious middle school years. How many thirteen year old ladies do you know who would love to burn someone with their thoughts?

Now, on the acting, Taylor Lautner can act. There is no way around it. Bella’s scenes seemed much more natural with Jacob than they did with Edward. Taylor is always such a jovial guy in his interviews I had my doubts about the anger scenes he would need to morph into a wolf, but when he snapped at Mike in the movie theater, I felt it.

All of the "humans" can act. I laughed out loud during the Romeo and Juliet scene, the kid that played Erik Yorkie was hilarious. Anna Kendrick has Oscar buzz around her from the movie with George Clooney. Enough said. I am also to this day boycotting CBS for their cancellation of Joan of Arcadia, and Mike Welch was part of that team. Those kids are going places other than vampire land.

Edi Gathegi can act. I loved his Laurent. He was able to be dramatic without being over the top and campy. He looked at Bella and told her she was mouth watering and he would make it painless, before a pack of wolves descended on him. He didn’t crack up, that was enough right there.

The Volturi-Aro was exactly they way I pictured him, in looks and actions. Marcus was not sad enough, and Caius was not angry enough. Other than that, Italy gave us very visually pleasing scenes, although I could have done without children walking in for dinner….

My only criticisms are just my personal tastes: Taylor won the shirt off contest and Edward showed too much, of course I was the one looking down. And the vision Alice showed Aro of the future was very silly. I don’t want to give too much away, but it reminded of a scene from the Sound of Music or Heidi. And the action movie Bella went to see with Mike and Jacob, um, no thug is going to say “freaking.” It reminded me of watching Boyz in the Hood edited for television.

That’s all from me; go with a girlfriend, niece, daughter, or cousin. Your man can skip it and he will appreciate you not making him go.

Can’t wait for Eclipse-and Oprah will still be Oprah next summer.

A Day in Manhattan

Today my best friend and I took my daughter to Manhattan. We had been planning this trip for months. Frannie has a friend from New York, and we have been meaning to go whenever that little girl is there visiting her grandparents, but that hasn't happened yet. Today, I made it from Connecticut to Grand Central with my daughter in toe. Before I continue, let me ease everyone's anxiety. We were fine.

As everyone knows, I am from the south. Therefore all of my girlfriends are from the south. One of them has never been to New York before, and is also my daughter's godmother. She said, "Let's do the American Girl Place." I had already been told by Manhattan native friend in Pittsburgh that the American Girl Place was bad. I kept hearing Dana Carvey from SNL say "It's bad! It's bad!" She said it was a cult out to make money and that we should go to the Guggenheim instead. This is where I am torn as a mother. This line of thinking should end in middle school, but do I do what I want to do with my daughter, or do I appear cool to my friends? hmmmm. In a nice wonderful world my friends are going to be my friends no matter what, so I made a reservation for the American Girl Cafe with my daughter and my best friend, her godmother. Guess what? I wasn't struck by lightening. In making that reservation, I sealed the deal to go to Manhattan with my BFF and my six year old PDD-NOS daughter. Woah nelly....

With my child's disorder, preparation is always a must. There are no surprises in this house. We have been talking about going for two months. I have showed her pictures of what we were going to do online. We set up a schedule. She understood that we would take a train, walk, go to a crowded store, pick out an outfit, and eat lunch. She could also pick one new doll with her birthday money. She repeated the schedule over and over again. "Train, American Girl Cafe, Eat lunch with my doll, pick out toys."

The night before we left, I actually kicked it up into good mommy mode and packed a bag full of snacks and little things (crayons, notepads,and storybooks) to do on the train. As luck would have it, we boarded the express train, so it was a straight shot to Central Station and a walk down fifth avenue to the American Girl Place. Score for the mommy that doesn't know what she is doing.

The morning of departure, she was determined to wear her ruby red slippers and a dress. Instead of escalating a situation,I told her that I would back her sneakers and if her feet started to hurt, she could put them on. Sure enough, at least twice she asked if she could change shoes, so she was able to walk the streets and then wear her nice shoes when we arrived at our destination. I didn't have the heart to tell her that all those little girls weren't there to look at her feet.

The train station was not too terribly crowded, just remember to help them get off the train or they might catch a foot in the space between the platform and the tracks. I made her go to the bathroom before we left and she also went every time we had access to a clean one. I hate to point this out if I have childless friends reading this, but you would rather make them go when the opportunity is there than be walking down fifth with a child doing the potty dance. And take Purell, lots and lots of Purell, and try to get seats on the train near the lavatory, in case you must (remember Purell and Wet Ones again). Everything we wanted to go to was along 5th Avenue. We didn't really have the ability to get lost. She walked and we didn't need to get a taxi. She was using those gross motor skill to a maximum, she even skipped a little.


The lunch was my worst nightmare of all things cute and girly and I pity the brothers that had to go eat there. The napkin rings were hair bows you could take home. The table had a question box of things to talk about, I opened it up and modified the questions as a joke, but my daughter got into it. We were using our speech therapy skills and I didn't even think about it until now. Questions aren't an easy thing for her. Most people who have a daughter know this, but you eat with your doll. She gets a chair and a cup and a plate. Frances actually put food on her little plate and pretended to feed her. Then she told us that "pretend Frances" didn't like her lunch. To witness my daughter engaging in pretend play was worth the daisy decorations and the doll holder in the bathroom stall.

As far as the actual commercial purchases, let me start with the place was packed and the economy sucks. I can only imagine the place in a bull market. I talked my daughter into matching nightgowns for her and "Pretend Frances." Because I draw the line at my child walking out of this house matched with a doll. I won't do it. She loved the nighties and then asked for "Emily." I had no idea who Emily was, but another really nice mom told me Emily was Molly's best friend. Huh, Frances actually knew some of the story lines. That is how I ended up digging through the stacks of little dolls until we found an "Emily."

The check out was long despite twelve of them. One of the clerks showed me how to put the dolls in the doll carrier without them banging their heads on the mean streets of New York. She also said we had one of the more well behaved little girls she had seen come through.

As far as the cult of it, I can see that. Hundreds of little girls were marching around with a doll in their hands. Some of them had two. I also remember going to see the original Child's Play movie in the 8th grade. Could all these little dolls be giving our girls secret messages? I can hear them whisper, "Don't eat.... be perfect." or "I heard what she said about you behind your back." My favorite would be, "You know you can have it all, you know you can be super perfect mommy and an investment banker and make more than a man...." Those dolls have power. I also think it would make a great Sex and the City scene, Charlotte takes Lilly and Rose while Samantha, Miranda, and Carrie gag and freak.

Having just said I can see the cult, you know that I have waited to have a little girl that wanted to do what other girls do, and if she wants to listen to her inner dolly, I will allow it until she is ready for Mommie's Indigo Girls CDs. And if I catch her in the bathroom with her finger down her throat in ten years, I can always blame it on the doll.

Next up was Little Miss Matched. That store is a lot of fun for little girls and a great place to pop in if you are crazy like me and doing New York with children. They have huge dry erase furniture and markers for the kids to draw with. Frances practice her spelling and drew a couple of different princesses while we picked out tights for her. They also have colored pencils and blank sock worksheets so you can design your own. She was able to practice her OT homework and fine motor skills and she didn't even know it!

Last but not least, being a teacher and a librarian, we had to end the day at The New York Public Library. She posed with the lions and then wandered into the Children's Center. We said hello to Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin's other original stuffed animals, and then we chilled on the bean bags and read some different versions of the Cinderella story. As we were leaving, Frances high fived the security guard. Made his day....

We did miss the train we wanted, so gosh darn it, she had to have ice cream in grand central before sleeping all the way home.

The only snag was having to hold her every time a police car, ambulance, or fire truck came by. That was the one thing I didn't think to warn her about, but she was very proud of herself after the noise had passed. It was a wonderful day trip. I am proud of my girly girl, and we can hit the Guggenheim next time, skinny little dolls and all.

The Grocery Store Diaries 5

Dirty looks: At least five today
You’ve got your hands full: Only one
Damage: Kenneth threw a loaf of bread at a man I’m pretty sure was stoned, so no biggie


This time, I had a list. I had taken the time and energy to find not only a pen to write with but a piece of paper to write on. I hadn’t gone so far as to categorize it, but the fact that I had thought it out was a step in the right direction.

My children have become much more aware of their surroundings lately. It isn’t enough just to ride in the cart while mom throws what we need for the week in. They have to look around and add their opinions.
“I don’t want the red yogurt cup, the blue one is better.”
“Don’t get those chicken nuggets, put them back!”
“You know Daddy’s not going to eat that.”

Yes guys, thanks for the ongoing commentary-why did I pay for speech therapy again?

We were doing great with everyone sitting nicely in the cart until I had no choice but to go down the aisle with the toys and birthday cards. That really is a genius idea, if you are in a hurry or forgot you needed to buy a gift, all you have to do is run in the grocery store. This is only a problem when my kids look up and see toys. And it isn’t just made in Bangladesh crap toys. The grocery store is now carrying Disney Princesses. Oh bloody hell….

“Mommy…”
“No! Santa is bringing you the princesses.”
“Mommy…”
“I said no!”
“Well, can I at least go say hi to Snow White?”

And before I can say anything, she is gone and running all the way back to the dolls. Why did I pay for physical therapy again? I have the boys in the stupid race car cart and it isn’t like I can just quickly turn around and grab her without taking out some stacked cans or an old lady or two. When I get to her she sitting on the floor telling Snow White she can’t wait for her to come live with her on December 25th. Ha.

As I am dragging them away from the toys, they see the birthday cards. The problem with that is that the princesses and superheroes are plastered all over those cards, and now my kids have something new to whine about not getting. Does it matter that neither of them are having a birthday at the moment? NO! They just want the cards. Don’t anyone worry, I do not buy birthday cards to get my children to be quiet for said cards to end up on my car floor boards later.

Check out is fine until we are leaving. The cashier notices the baby is sitting on a can of soup and yanks it out from under him. She looks at me like I tried to rob a bank. Now, if I was going to steal, would it be beef broth, or Hershey’s chocolate? Maybe I should have gone with a birthday card for no one in particular.

You tell me…

When did I become "The Advocate"?

Today was the first time I participated in an IEP meeting that I requested. I can’t believe that after thirteen years of teaching I actually called one to sit in on by choice. I suck as a special needs mom. Over the summer she was in a program where the mom had to watch through a two way mirror, and I was irritated I couldn’t just drop her off and go to the mall. I enjoy my time off, all right? All the other moms were glued to the window like they were watching a soap opera. Ugh.

Another personal problem in this new role is that the word “Advocate” irritates me. I know perfectly well that in the dictionary it means, “To speak, plead, or argue in favor of.” Of course we want to do these things. However, adolescence and young adulthood in the 90s left me with images of an advocate that aren’t pretty. The first thing that comes to my mind is Hermione Granger and her little collection can for S.P.E.W. in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I can see her walking around the common room threatening people to pay up for proper treatment of house elves. Once in high school someone who will remain nameless because I just found out he reads this was making me watch Rush Limbaugh. Rush was wearing about ten different ribbons to show support for all these different causes. That was pretty funny, I’ll admit that. I also went to high school with someone who would throw your pizza slice away if you tried to eat it because the company gave money to pro-life organizations. I couldn’t eat tuna without someone screaming at me that I had killed Flipper. It did not seem to matter that I made sure the can said “dolphin safe.” According to my advocating friends, the companies were lying to sell tuna. The worst was the environmental club taking turns standing by the recycling bins making sure you put your tray there instead of the trash. I was happy to do it, but I didn’t like the feeling of being forced. I’m all for recycling, eating healthy, and saving the world. But again, if my children are happy throwing cereal and ripping up paper while I dare to watch twenty minutes of Oprah, then let us do it.

I have great respect for some people I know that advocate for what they believe in. They rock. What am I really capable of advocating? Gryffindor is better than Slytherin? Michael Gambon is the better Dumbledore? Dinosaur chicken nuggets are better than the regular ones? The Steelers are the best football team of all time? Please don’t start passing me any awards for advocate of the year.

I am not strident in my beliefs and only write about my shortcomings usually, but my daughter needs more help in the classroom. The psychological evaluations say it, the teachers say it, and I can tell that this isn’t working like it does for little Freddy the typically developing kindergartner. Therefore, I exercised my right as it is stated in the yellow parent handbook and called a meeting. In my head I went through all my years at un-named schools and thought about all the moms and the things they used to ask for. I had a student whose mom got it written into an IEP he would never have to do a drama activity. I am amazed at what a parent can do.

IEPs were a pain in my neck when I taught. I translated them and I sat in on them. One mom about three years ago had the nerve to tell me I needed to look up autism. Yes, I “walked away” from her. I had no choice if I wanted to keep my job.

I have learned that advocate does not have to mean jackass. It means doing what is best for your child. Go with your paperwork, go with your documents, and go with examples. But don’t start throwing things. They will listen without you threatening to call the governor. We added support time to her day, and that was the goal. If it isn’t working, then we can call another meeting and try again. We will see how it goes.

And if that doesn’t work, I’ll turn into a raving lunatic advocate….

More Cinderella lessons

What I have learned about princess pretend play from watching my children with the dress up box:

1)A prince wears a firefighter coat and helmet.
2)There is no rock and roll at a ball; you must hold hands and dance very slow, like music at church.
3)The prince runs after the princess screaming “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Look at my firefighting badge! You must listen to me.”
4)Spiderman is not a prince.
5)You have to hit at least one of your two brothers in the head with your shoe when you lose it.
6)Baby brothers can fit in a princess costume, especially the 2T Barbie Island Princess.
7)It is a lot of fun to play Drizella and Anastasia ripping up a dress.
8)If I say it is time for bed, they will tell me “It isn’t midnight after all, let’s go dance some more.”
9)Mice are not good to have around the house in our world, are they mommy?
10)The fairy godmother should have had a prettier dress like she did in Shrek 2.

What princess will we tackle next? Hmmmmmm

Handling a Death

I always wondered how I would approach death with my children. I was kind of thankful all of our parents are pretty young comparatively and we wouldn’t have to worry about it for awhile. I am not going too far into it, but I know a thing or two about having to explain it to a child before you should have to. Anyway that would make you think I was prepared. Then God went and gave me a special needs child. So talking about death is a bit of a double whammy, and I thought I had time. Ha!

I got a call from a friend in Pittsburgh that one of my daughter’s TSS (therapeutic service support) professionals had passed away. Frances hadn’t seen him in a year, but she does have a Pittsburgh photo album and she talks about everyone in it like it was yesterday. He was a great assistant to her. Because of the Pennsylvania wrap-around program, my daughter was able to participate in activities I never would have enrolled her in if she had been on her own. I felt the loss of this person who had played a roll in our life as we accepted the fact that our child had an autism spectrum disorder.

We decided not to mention it to her until it came up, and she hadn’t brought up the pictures in a while. What was I supposed to do when it finally did come up? Was I supposed to pull out Maria Shriver’s book? Sing Eric Clapton to her? Find something from her Children’s Bible? I didn’t know.

Sure enough, tonight she reminded me that I told her she could go to Pittsburgh with me in May. Then she started to rattle off her plan, “I’m going to see Rose, Katie, and Minjune, and Jordana, and Virginia. And who else Mommy? Who else?”

I tried to deflect it. I tried to distract her with Princess Tiana, and how we were going to a movie theater to see The Princess and the Frog in December, but she wasn’t having it.

“I’ll get to see Sarah and Ben!” What could I do? I couldn’t even pull a Judge Judy and walk away from this one.

“Well, you can see Sarah and have a sleepover party with your friends, but Ben won’t be able to come.”

“He doesn’t want to see me?”

“No, sweetheart, Ben loved “babysitting” you. (She called her assistants babysitters.)

“Is he sick?”

“No, he just… he’s taking care of Jeremy for you, and so it will be a while before you get to see him again.” Jeremy was our English Setter that died last year at age thirteen.

She smiled, “I’ll bet Jeremy loves Ben.”

I smiled and fought back a sob, “Yes, I’m sure that Jeremy loves Ben too.”


I am including this on my blog because I am sure that, my daughter’s disorder being what it is, she is going to ask me where Ben is several more times before we actually get back to Pittsburgh, and my story is going to stay the same. Ben is playing with our dog. We won’t see either of them again in this life, no matter what you believe of the next one. And the right thing to tell your child, be it that the Imagination Movers are wearing Yo Gabba Gabba costumes or someone you loved is playing with a pet you loved, is going to come to you when you need it. Maybe as she gets older and her disorder more controlled, I can go into it with her on a higher level, but for now, my child knows that two people she loved are together, even if she can’t see them.

Man some days are hard…

Our Halloween

I love this town I’m in. I don’t want to start a fight, but I am coming from places where celebrations were out of schools and psychologists said costumes confused little children. Now I live where you trick or treat on the town green and the elementary schools have Halloween parades. It is never protested, and no one forbids their child to participate that I know of. I’ll leave it at that. My kids wore their costumes at Daddy’s work party, gymnastics, the school parade, the town green, and then trick or treating. I really got my money’s worth out of those things this year. The only exception being my darling daughter deciding that she had been Cinderella one too many times and that to the town celebration she would be a ballerina. Of course she decided this at the last minute and the tutu in question was dirty and unraveling. Oh well….

Last year I wrote about how I attempted creativity with costumes and my three angels wouldn’t buy into it. This year it was much easier. The baby wore the outfit his brother wore when he was his age, no argument. I had forgotten how nice it was when you could just put them in something and they couldn’t protest. Kenneth was Spiderman, but lost the mask. I tore this house up looking for it, and in doing so I found a ton of stuff I had been missing, including a Very Hungry Caterpillar onsie that Frances wore and a library DVD. I was about to convince him to go as “Peter Parker” when a friend told me he could borrow her son’s mask from last year. Hallelujah! And Frances was Cinderella, as already posted once before.

Autisable has some wonderful blog posts up on their site with Halloween tips and tricks, and I’m not going to repeat anything, but I did decide that for the first time I would carve Jack-o-lanterns. I have never carved pumpkins before. EVER. I did buy the Mr. Potato Head (love him!) Jack-o-lantern parts once at Target and we always put those on a pumpkin, before anyone thinks my children have been doing without. I couldn’t stand the idea of the glop and the mess and the seeds and cutting with a knife. Those of you who know me well, can you imagine? But this year, I was going to go for it and carve pumpkins with my older children.

I also found out about pumpkin stencils, where you can trace your carvings on the pumpkin. How cool is that? We printed out a Yo Gabba Gabba Foufa and a Spiderman to carve on our pumpkins. The plan was to do this in the garage so we could make a mess. I had knives, paper, garbage bags, and bowls for the seeds. I also had two little helpers that had been dressed in their costumes since six a.m. We got the stem carved out and we looked inside. Man that is nasty looking. We started singing, “Pumpkins guts, pumpkin guts, yucky pumpkin guts” (The tune is jingle bells). It took a good forty-five minutes, but I got two pumpkins scooped out. I wonder if you can buy a pumpkin already hollowed out and then you can go home and carve the face. I would pay for it.

Next came the decorating. I taped the Foufa stencil to the pumpkin and attempted to carve it, but it kept ripping apart. I took it off and tried to free hand it. By the time I had done the flower on top of her head, the flower took up the whole pumpkin and the kids were looking around the garage for something else to do. Then I decided that less was more. And that while I have never attempted to be super mommy before, why should I start with uber jack-o-lanterns? To make jack-o-lanterns, all you have to do is cut out triangles. I can cut out a triangle. I cut out three triangles and then some weird looking mouths. The kids loved them. We carried them to the front porch and then they clapped for me and their jack-o-lanterns. Ta-Da! Next year it’s back to potato head parts.

I ended it with toasting pumpkin seeds they wouldn’t touch, but I thought they were yummy. Now we are filled with sugar, get an extra hour of sleep, and the dress up box is a little fuller. It was nice to celebrate Halloween and see my daughter in a parade and say the words “Trick or Treat” without running away. Next up is the Thanksgiving Play, yikes.

Cinderella Just Got Quacked

My daughter has not cared about a single princess in the six years she has been on this Earth. I remember when she was about eight months old I bought her Disney Princess sippy cups. She didn’t touch them. The only time she was slightly interested in a princess was Fiona the Ogre from Shrek. Lovely. We own three princess DVDs, and they have been ignored in order for us to get our fill of the Imagination Movers. I get all kinds of protests if I suggest we watch one.

Cinderella and all her princess buddies get more mud thrown at them than a politician. I myself am guilty of this. She cleans and cooks for the sisters and the only goal is to have this big beautiful wedding and live happily ever after while everyone cries that they aren’t her? I wanted to teach my daughter not to be a “princess.” She would be a strong, intelligent, independent woman. Then she didn’t develop in the normal way. I told myself that I would be a good mom, and that I wouldn’t “expect” anything. I knew not to have high expectations before I brought her home from the hospital. I was in therapy and self-help groups growing up and I knew better. It was the little things that got me. I expected that my daughter would walk and talk, and it didn’t happen. Were my expectations too high when my 18 month old was still crawling? I didn’t know; she was my first.

About a month ago, we were going for a long drive in the car and the only DVD I could reach quickly was Cinderella. Cinderella is pretty tame. No dragons, no sharks, and no beasts being attacked by wolves. Nobody's mama is shot by a hunter. You only have to deal with a dysfunctional family, kind of pre-Harry Potter if you think about, just a nasty step-mother doting on two ugly daughters and forcing the beautiful worthy one to do their bidding. The minute I started the video the older two threw a fit, but I told them it was that or actually just stare out the windows like I had to do when I was their age. About twenty minutes into it the baby starts cracking up. I mean the kid was cackling over the mice. There is nothing more adorable than a toddler's belly laugh. Then I started laughing and the other two children start laughing, and then they loved Cinderella.

With the discovery of Cinderella, her girly girl side took over with a vengeance. She had to have the gowns and the shoes, she had to have the backpack, she wanted the dolls and she started brushing her hair. She chases her brothers around the house begging them to dance with her or help her try shoes on to see if they fit. Kenneth can fight her off but Lowell gets dragged around the playroom.

I guess I should be glad it’s Cinderella and not a different princess. Cinderella isn’t perfect, she managed to lose a shoe at a dance, I lose my keys and my glasses three times a day. Now we line up the Barbies and the Cinderella doll for “snack time,” and Kenneth the know-it-all yells at his sister that it must be tea.

Cinderella can be viewed as a girl cleaning and being a slave to her sisters and then just becoming a “slave” to a man. I don’t watch it that way now. Cinderella has given me some wonderful lessons the last few weeks. She has also helped me remember things I already knew. The first one, she “Stuck it to the bitches.” She didn’t fight or scream or make a fool out of herself. She played it cool and everyone got what they deserved in the end. The second? That magic doesn’t last forever. I remember little things, like when Frances finally walked, but then I had to get her to run. I remember two nights before Kenneth was born, she asked for “Barney” and Kevin wanted to run out and buy up every Barney in the store. Magic happens a little every day, and like Cinderella says to the Fairy Godmother, even until midnight is more than she could have asked for. In your time of need, the right people and the right things will come to you when you need them. It also gives a new spin to the idea of, “He’s just not that into you.” If that prince had his people take the shoe out and make every girl in town try it on, he definitely wanted to find her. My husband would have sold it on Ebay.

So now we have moved on to the Disney Princesses in all their glory, glamor, and commercialism. I did plan to raise my daughter on Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, and Ani DiFranco. But now, after six years of waiting for a little girl to come out, I’ll let her do it just a little longer. I am just not ready to squash it out of her yet. She can always figure out that monarchies have no real power later…..

The Grocery Store Diaries 4

The Grocery Store Diaries 4: When you have extra people with you

Dirty Looks: 3 in the parking lot, one in the meat section
You’ve got your hands full: o
Damage: None that I know of, but it is kind of like watching Hagrid’s three headed dog Fluffy at times.

Daddy went with us on Sunday after our weekly trip to Moe’s. That means that all three of them had a Moe’s balloon. Of course none of them wanted to give up the balloon and leave it in the car, so they carry them in the parking lot. Frances loses her balloon immediately and runs after it, in the rain, in the grocery store parking lot. Daddy runs after her while the boys start squirming to get away from me and follow dad.

Fortunately the Race Car cart is available so there is no crying about the unavailability of the cart. But there is a HUGE fight between the older two about who is going to push the cart, mom or dad. They finally decided they would let me push the cart like “normal days.” Thanks guys. They all agree to a seat when I hear the first “POP!” one balloon down, two to go. (Note: the toddler is under close supervision the entire time he has his own balloon, don’t email me.)

The older two sense a disturbance in the mommy force since daddy is with us, look at me with a wicked grin, and take off running. One insists we need cookies, the other one popsicles, and both boxes go in our normally fruit and vegetable filled cart (yeah right). In the mean time, the little one screams to eat everything as it goes in. I swear he can say “NOW!” This continues as they alternate between perfect angels sitting in the car cart and running around begging for junk they normally don’t get immediately.

The weirdest part was in the meat area, this woman was taking her time going through the chicken and staring at it like it was going to fly south for the winter. I’m not sure what she was looking for, but it made me think I should look closer before I throw the antibiotic free organic chicken in my cart. Then I remembered I had three kids hanging on me and I didn’t have time to do anything other than trust that the grocery store was selling me good poultry.

Of course with another adult, check out is smooth and loading the car in the rain is easier. Father of the year just doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. Grrrrr

Today I picked my babysitter up from our old neighborhood, and before I drove home to the new neighborhood, I asked her if she would sit in the car with the kids while I ran in to the store and grabbed a few things. I had three on my list. She said sure no problem. I ran in and grabbed a basket. I was hunting for three things, but as I went around I kept throwing things in that I knew I needed. By the time I got to the check out, I was weighted down by the basket of “three things,” and had a case of diet coke in the other hand. I hobbled with all of it back to the parking lot. They looked at me like I was crazy, but it was a really quick trip and worth the upper arm workout.

It’s always fun to go to the store with other people…..

Southern in the North Part 3

Part 3: I am actually living here-the present

I was a Spanish major, and I read a lot of Spanish literature. One of the famous old Spanish men you are forced to read is Miguel de Unamuno. He believed in something called “Intrahistoria.” That is history of the average person going about their daily life. It didn’t matter about who was president or what war was being fought. He tried to write about a day in a regular person’s life. I actually really enjoyed this one novel of his about a Catholic Priest who didn’t believe a word of what he was saying but wanted to keep his parishioners happy, but that isn’t the point right now. What is the point is that I am going to finish this three part series on how my daily life is different now. Nobody wants to read another exposé on how the weddings in the North go on for hours and hours starting with a sit down dinner and how in the south our bridesmaids wear hats and gloves with a buffet line centered on a punch bowl that matches everybody’s pastel shoes. Nor am I going to discuss politics. Google election maps if you are interested, except for Reagan in 1984.

Let’s get this out of the way, the weather. I got here last October, and it was already cold. It was already like coat and mittens and hat cold. I don’t think I had anything for the baby that fit. It snows a lot, every time I turn around it is snowing. When it snows, they close school. Then, the minute it stops, all the snow plow machines are out and it is all gone. I can even take thirty bucks down to the local bar and this guy named Josh will come plow my driveway. I have seen more snow here in a year than I ever saw over thirty years in NC, but I have seen plow machines and trucks that I never knew existed too. As far as it being “cold” goes, the buildings are heated and people have sweaters. Again with the living in Cary, but now I know why so many of my students were still wearing shorts in January. I go home and want to wear shorts in January now. When I did go home, there was a sign that said, “Heat kills pets” in a parking lot. Up here, it is perfectly acceptable to leave your dog in your car; it would never get so hot that an animal would be in danger, except maybe for one week in August. What I am trying to say is that at this point in my life, I will take the cold over the sweltering heat and humidity any day. I can always put on more layers; I’m getting too old to walk around naked.

Tip O’Neal used to say “Politics is local.” Up here, everything seems to be local. No one drives across the county for school; everyone goes to their neighborhood school. The schools are run by each town instead of the county. In Cary, the carpool lines and buses were quite an ordeal. Here you go in and sign your child out if you are picking them up and it takes less than ten minutes. I can call the district office if my daughter’ s bus is late and they will know which route it is and who the driver is just off the top of their head. The principal seems to know the families well and he calls me personally to set up IEP meetings (sidebar: I have finally quit cringing like he is going to yell at me). Classes are smaller, and kids still get to have a Halloween parade (my daughter refuses to do it, but the option is there). You see the same families everywhere: on the town green, in the library, at the playground and beach, and at gymnastics. A week after we moved here I was out on the green with the kids and this woman said to me, “You must be the professor’s wife in the brick ranch?” How could they know that so quickly? Could it have been the southern accent and the buck wild kids?

Before I moved to Connecticut, I had never heard the expression, “It is what it is.” They say that a lot up here. “It is what it is.” If you hate your job, it is what it is. The price of gas? It is what it is. This could be taken a couple of different ways. One way could be defeat, or a kind of “Screw it” attitude. I kind of think they mean this is not a battle that deserves a fight, so there is a level of acceptance to it. Again, why get too terribly upset if there is nothing you can do about it? That doesn’t mean that when it is time to fight, you don’t have at it. You most certainly do, but you don’t waste time, energy, and emotions on something that is out of your control. As a southerner I have hard time with deciding when something is what it is, but I’m getting there. (Note: My BFF in Richmond, Virginia says that “It is what it is” is said in Richmond, but I have never heard her or anyone else say it before I moved here).

Houses have a basement, which is pretty cool. The only house I know of in NC with a basement is my grandparent’s. I’m getting used to oil to heat the house, although when I first moved here I was looking for a gas company in the yellow pages before my husband told me not to set up an account because the house needed oil. And the dirt is full of rocks. My baby hated to wear shoes at first but he was always stubbing his toes, so now he wears sturdy shoes. You can’t dig without hitting a rock, and a lot of houses have walls of rock surrounding them. This explains Owen Meany’s parents and their rock quarry. I also have numerous orchards in this area and the surrounding ones, which explains how Homer Wells found a job in one. John Irving turned out to be a great place to start.

The minute it is pretty, everyone is outside. Not a single day of beautiful weather is wasted. It can get a little boring every now and then if you have had enough of nature, but I can hop on a train and be in Grand Central in less than two hours. Then I can wander the streets of Manhattan and get my fill of noise and people and sky scrapers and go home rejuvenated. A lot of those kids I grew up with in Greensboro are living in New York. What is it about that place that made us move here?

I went to a Southern Baptist wedding once. The preacher talked about how the Lord had been preparing the Bride to be the Groom’s wife, and how he had done the same for the Groom to become a good husband. Huh, nobody said that at my Episcopalian wedding. BUT-I think when I look back at Parts 1 and 2, God, the Force, the Pagan Willow Tree spirit, or somebody else was preparing me to move north. I have made really good friends up here and we hang out and complain and enjoy just as much as I did with my mommy buddies in NC. And I’ll say this, where women are present, there are going to be, um, differences, no matter what part of the country they are in. If I had stayed home, I never would have written a thing, ever. Who knew I would have so much to say? Even though I will always support the Steelers and the nearest Chick Fila is in the Philadelphia airport, here I am, and here I will stay. I think they like me….

Southern in the North Part 2

Moving from the north to the south Part 2: Living and working in Cary, NC
1997-2007

All right, so I graduated from Meredith, and unlike some southern schools, the population as far as I can remember was more southern girls than northern girls. I landed a job at an elementary school in Cary, NC, and I was told by the foreign language coordinator at the time that I was “Very lucky to get a position in Cary as a first year teacher.” I kind of frowned when he said that. I was semi-born in Cary. In the 70s it was a tiny little town with a tiny little Episcopal church. My parents chose to live there because it was dirt cheap. The Cary of my toddler hood was not the Cary I worked in twenty three years later.

The first day the other language teachers welcomed me and showed me the ropes. I remember telling one of them that I lived in Cary as a toddler/preschooler but I grew up in Greensboro and hadn’t really lived anywhere else. They laughed that C.A.R.Y. had become an acronym for Central Area for Relocated Yankees. I still didn’t know what they were talking about. Then I got into the groove of the school. My boss was a Yankee. A lot of my colleagues were Yankees. The majority of the students were Yankees. I might as well have already moved to Connecticut. They laughed when school was cancelled for half an inch of slush. They followed the Boston Red Sox. I taught with a lot of people who had, “rented a u-haul and driven down to get a job,” because it was a lot easier to get one in NC than it was in the iron fisted union north.

Some people say that northerners are “blunt.” I found that to be true, but I liked it. Let me give you an example with something simple, like the hole-puncher. Some of the teachers required all the kids in their class to have a three ring binder. But I wasn’t punching holes in my worksheets. A southern teacher would have just bitched about the new teacher who didn’t bother to punch holes, then smile when I walked by. Then for all the years we worked together, that woman would be mad I didn’t punch holes. However, a teacher from the north would just say, “Hey, can you punch holes in their worksheets?” Then I would say sure and start doing it, and then there were no hard feelings over something that wasn’t that big of a deal in the great meaning of life anyway. Of course, the next year I just had each kid bring a pocket folder for my class so I didn’t have to worry about it. And thirteen years later I am teaching online, so no one has to punch holes in anything.

The parents were interesting. The moms that volunteered worked really hard. I mean they were determined work horses. If you asked them to cut paper, they cut paper. If you asked them to color a poster, it wasn’t out of the lines. They could dry wall and make Christmas cupcakes with reindeer pretzels on them from scratch for a class of thirty (this was before such things were banned). One parent was supposedly “difficult” or didn’t want to “hear it” about her child. A teacher who had him in her class said, “Well, she is just VERY Manhattan, but I’m VERY Boston, so I can handle her.” I didn’t have a problem with her either really, I just told her he was talking too much and she told him to “SHUT UP DURING SPANISH!” There you go.

My Yankee boss, well, um, she was very by the book. I will say that she never did or said a single thing she didn’t have the right as the boss to do. I remember one time, I was standing in the school lobby and I could see out the front windows, and some guy was honking like a maniac at a woman trying to walk across the street. I said to no one in particular (I was talking to myself, all right? Just call me Smeagol/Gollum) “We don’t honk our horns in the south!” She was standing right behind me. I waited for the fall out, but she just sort of smiled, shook her head, and walked back to her office. To this day I don’t know how I got away with that.

By being in Cary, I learned where everything was in the north. I didn’t realize it was all so “close.” I finally knew that Raymond and his family were on Long Island. Seinfeld, Friends, Sex and The City, and Mad About You were all in New York. I was getting it. The Sopranos were in New Jersey but it didn’t take Meadow long to get to Columbia in the city. Ally McBeal was Boston, as was The Practice, and Fenway Park is there too. That was the same time I was watching and loving Good Will Hunting, where the last place I ever wanted to visit was South Boston. I learned about block parties. That is when everyone pulls all of their grills and chairs and coolers out in the driveways and the kids run wild everywhere and everyone is out and about eating and drinking. So that is what was going on in Pushing Tin. My neighbors from New York tried to get this going, and it worked a little, but she said it was nothing like it was at home. My students who went to New Jersey to visit grandparents always complained that “95 sucks.” They were telling the truth.

My colleagues from the north talked with finality. They knew their stuff and they believed their beliefs. They also enjoyed good meals and good drinks, but they didn’t seem to get sloshed. They talked a lot about how it was better in the south. Things were cheaper and the weather was nicer. A couple of them rarely went home, a lot of them went back every summer, but wouldn’t go for Christmas. When Kevin was offered the job, people said, “Why would you move there when we are all moving here?” Indeed….

(end of part 2)

Southern in the North Part 1

“What’s it like to live your whole life in the south and move to the north?” I keep getting this question and I have been afraid to blog about it because I just have this feeling that someone will get offended or get their feelings hurt. If I say I love living up here everyone at home will go off and if I say I want to go home everyone around here will go off. Then I decided people are people and they want to go off anyway over anything, so I would just go ahead and do it. How The Mommy Quack went from North Carolina to the north. I have thought about this long and hard, and it will be divided into three separate posts, parts 1, 2, and 3. Today, you get part 1. Enjoy!

Part 1: My roots and my early images of the north, Birth-1997

I grew up in the city of Greensboro, North Carolina. It is the third largest city in the state. It is famous for the February 1st Woolworth sit-ins, and probably other things I don’t have time to Google. I was obsessed with Study abroad when I got to college, but I never once thought about leaving the south other than that. I wanted to get to Raleigh, the capital. I knew I would go to school there and I planned to stay there. Don’t know why now, but I did. I moved to Greensboro in the second grade and I stayed, my parents were from the area and all my grandparents were there. I grew up with the same kids from second grade until we graduated. There were very few changes in the group. Everybody knew somebody else somehow, that’s the way I remember it anyway. I knew very few people from “The north.” If they were from the north, they had been in the south a long time.

When I thought of the north, my first vision was Gone with the Wind. I have only seen it once and that was when I was in Kindergarten and I remember Scarlet, I think it was Scarlet, throwing dirt in a “Yankees” face. That must have meant they weren’t nice people. I have not seen that movie since, and I probably should. I also thought, as a five year old, that “Yankees” were going to burn my house down. My parents should have explained that one, but then again, they also let me stay up for Dallas, so what would be wrong with Gone with the Wind?

I went to high school with a girl who told me that John Irving was the only contemporary author worth anything. I naturally had to keep up with her and read all of his books. These gave me my second round of northern images. The boys were on the wrestling teams. The characters were funny, but it wasn’t slapstick, ha ha funny. It was dry, ironic humor. They were opened minded and they explained that there was more than one way to view a problem. Garp’s mom was a single working mom and her best friend was a transsexual. That didn’t happen in Greensboro. In the north they had granite quarries and orchards for cider houses. They never seemed to complain about the heat and they were always jumping into bed with each other. It was always cold and everybody could drive in the snow. To this day, almost twenty years later, I still remember reading The World According to Garp, The Cider House Rules, and A Prayer for Owen Meany. Irving made me want to go to a prep school in Massachusetts. I would have cut my tongue out for Ellen James. Well no, probably not.

In college, the next “Yankee” I was introduced to was Kevin Smith. I love that man. I really, really love his work. I will even admit to a giggle during Mallrats, OK? I’m surprised I wasn’t kicked out of the theater for laughing so hard during Clerks. So everyone in New Jersey smokes, cusses, and watches hockey. Got it. And again, the humor was more my speed. Chasing Amy defines our generation in a lot of different ways, but I digress.

I made real northern friends the two times I studied abroad. The first time in Ecuador, I was taking this class, and I met Ecuadorians absolutely, but there were two girls from Brooklyn that were there too, Lisa and Michelle. I don’t think at the time I knew Brooklyn was a borough of New York. Michelle lived in the apartment above the laundry mat/dry cleaners her parents owned, in the “neighborhood.” After we got back from Ecuador I was in Greensboro for Christmas and my phone rang. It was Michelle from Brooklyn calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, but then she went off on me because she called directory assistance at my college and they gave her my mom’s address and phone number. She ranted and raved for five minutes, “I could have been anybody! I could have been a stalker! She just handed over your information young lady!” It never occurred to me to be more cautious. Of course, why did she call and ask for it? So I took this to mean they didn’t give out important information so freely in the north.

My second two friends from the north were Jeannie from Boston and Kysa from New Jersey. I met them on the airplane to Madrid. I also met a really cool girl who went to Bates in Maine, and all I could think was Maine? Wow! All the way up in Maine? Where is Bates? I had never been past New York, New England sounded so beautiful. Kysa attended a women’s college very different from the one I attended. At Meredith you had to jump through a lot of hoops to start “alternative” clubs back then. At Barnard the only club not allowed to have a charter had something to do with girls interested in, um, better not say here, email me if you have to know. Jeannie used to save my phone messages and play them for her friends so they could hear my “cute accent” for themselves. Good times.

This was my exposure to the north during the educational phase of my life in North Carolina: reading John Irving, watching Kevin Smith, and studying abroad with others from the north. I wasn’t even in the States with them. I know the rules to the Southern Belle Primer. I might not always follow every single one of them, but I know them. I don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day. All three of my children have good, solid family names. I ate my grits and drank my iced tea and loved barbecue. I was living the southern way.

And then I got my first teaching job in Cary…..

(End of Part 1)

What to do when On Demand is not on demand

I don't know what the hell parents of children with autism did before things like youtube, DVDs, and On Demand cable. I remember the scene in Rain Man, when Tom Cruise pulls over on a country road and begs a lady to let them watch The People's Court. That was a pretty creative solution until he bought the little television. I totally get that scene now.

I have blogged about the Imagination Movers before. My kids love that show. I could go on about how I am a tad disappointed that Knit Knots was fired from season two. My only main comments there are 1) What does Nina do now other than act as a "groupie" for the band since she no longer works for her Uncle Knit-Knots? and 2) I hope the actor was well compensated or has other acting opportunities ready to go because they put him through a lot last season, including carrying around a pet rock, watching paint dry for fun, and dressing up like a cu cu machoo that couldn't speak English. Then they go and fire his ass....

So the point is my child loves this show. So much that we sprang for tickets for their concert in November. She understands it will be crowded, she understands it will be loud. But she wants to go and you better believe you will be reading a blog about it later. I have always been grateful that she can go to school and come home and watch Imagination Movers to decompress while I get dinner done. She knows how On Demand cable works, and she can read the names of the shows on the buttons to choose from.

A couple of days ago, The Imagination Movers were removed from the ON Demand menu. To say that a tantrum followed is a bit of an understatement. We have a DVD of them as well, but alas we have no DVD player at this time. I took for granted that I would always have access to cable. What was a mother to do? A good mother would have held her and said life wasn't fair. A perfect mother would have said "let's go color." A superior mother would have said, "How about we read some books." And a guilt trip mother would have said, "Have you seen Slum Dog Millionaire? CHILL!" Now, who is ready for what the Quack Mother did?

As much as I hate math, I can count to four, and a light went on in my brain stormin' head. I found Noggin, now Nic Jr., on Demand and hit an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba as fast as I could. As soon as my man DJ Lance Rock had the toys coming to life, I held her close with her special blankie and said, "Look Frannie Monster! The Imagination Movers are wearing Yo Gabba Gabba costumes today!" Four movers, four Gabba Gabba friends. Scott is Muno, Rich is Foufa, Smitty is Plex, and Dave is Brobee. Nina comes over and voila, we have Toodee. She smiled and said they did a great job pretending to live in Gabba Land. My four year old, catching on, nodded and said that I sure did solve an idea emergency.

Any mom can brainstorm. But the mother of an autistic child needs the quick thinking of the Imagination Movers combined with the wackiness of Yo Gabba Gabba daily.

Think Fast ladies,

Page

I need more Barbie!

Please forgive the week without any posts. We moved, Kevin is out of town, and I have had a lot of work to catch up on. Since I stayed one night in a hotel and just changed houses, I haven’t really had a grocery store diary either, except maybe taking the baby to the 7-11 for whole milk while he ran up and down the aisles touching everything and laughing.

I thought I would talk about another toy that has a special function in our house. I’m talking Miss Thing herself, Barbie. Barbie and I go back, I had the mansion in 1978. Maybe it was in Greenwich. No, it couldn’t have been with those pulley elevators. I remember I got in big trouble for taking a chapstick and smearing it all over the Barbie doll’s hair. I had Western Barbie, and if you pressed her back she would wink. My aunts were only eight and thirteen at the time, and their bathroom was full of Barbie perfumes and make up that I wasn’t allowed to touch. I bet if I went over to my grandparent’s house tomorrow it would still be in the medicine cabinet upstairs.

Yes, yes, we can debate the importance of Barbie in pop culture and what she means to little girls. I googled it and got all kinds of crap. Feminism Friday had a good one, The Body Shop had a poster about ten years ago, and did you know what her real life measurements are? I remember that fact being flashed at Lollapalooza back in 1992. Don’t knock her, she has had so many different careers she is ready for anything. I have a Spanish Teacher Barbie the nieces gave me a good eleven years ago one Christmas. I love that thing. I would go back and forth between wanting a convertible like Barbie or a jeep like Barbie, and then I remembered I can’t drive worth a crap no matter what it is.

So let me bring this back down to today. I have a little girl, and that little girl doesn’t play like other children. I also have a mother with four grandsons and wants to give my daughter dolls. My daughter has about six Barbies and a Ken in counting. They sat there for three years. The poor little Barbies, if they were played with at all they were lined up in front of mirrors to be left alone to stare at their beautiful reflections. Then last year, during Pre-K, something happened, and you will never, ever, hear a harsh, sassy word come from my mouth about that doll again. (Well, ok, maybe one.)

Frances comes home from school and tells us nothing. She couldn’t re-tell a story, or sequence events. If I ask her how her day is she says, “fine.” If I ask her what she does, she says “Nothing.” Now I know that all kids do this, but you can talk a kid into a story with the right bribes. But I still got nothing. Frances also comes home and plays alone. This is part of her autism, some might call it her “stem” but I am not good on terminology, I leave that to the experts.

One day last year, she was in the playroom and I heard her talking to the Barbie doll, she had named it, “Maddie,” then she had another Barbie named, “Bella” (I’m making these up). She named each Barbie and Ken for a student in her class and they kept the same names all year. Then each day she came home and re-enacted the entire preschool day with the Barbies. I knew who answered a question, what was said at circle time, who went to OT and who had speech. She could tell me through the Barbies what each kid had for snack. She would sing songs and do the weather.

Her brain rocks and her memory blows me away. I can’t remember what snarky comment I made to the woman at the library that handed me her mommy business card. This also means I have to be careful what I say around her. Once “Mommy Barbie” was on a toy telephone like this: “Uh huh uh huh, ok. Bye bye (hang up toy phone) Idiot,” and then “Mommy Barbie” rolled her eyes and shook her head.

A couple of other moms in our groups tell me this is wonderful pretend play. I go back and forth on this being pretend play. She is acting out her day using dolls that look like people, which according to Barbie History, is what she was originally designed to do. It is a start but not exactly there. Barbie is giving me hope though.

I am always searching for toys and games and the educational stores to find things to get my daughter to talk and sequence. Who would have thought that I would just need more Barbies? Now I’m looking for Barbie everywhere. Yard sales, consignment stores, I am searching toy bins at Wal-Mart. We must have a Barbie or Ken for each member of the class. Thanks Barbie, you might have made me feel like shit about my breast size, but you have given my daughter an outlet and a way for me to spy on her day.

The Medium

Thursday was my 35th birthday. You hit a certain age, and your birthday means jack. You don’t get parties. The cards taper off. You really don’t need much, and you are watching the calories because you just can’t lose the weight from that third surprise baby. So birthday smirthday, I say.

Well, this year about a week before my birthday, I decided I wanted to do something crazy, or different. I narrowed it down to three choices: memorize a Vagina Monologue, get a tattoo, or have a psychic reading done. And honestly, I chose the last option merely because it required the least amount of time away from home.

All things paranormal are hot right now. We have Professor Trelawney in Harry Potter and The Ghost Whisperer. I am not saying if I believed or disbelieved, but I googled around until I found a “medium” in my small town. Let me say this, where I live we have quite a few spas, yoga studios, and psychics. Sometimes I think nobody told Connecticut the economy is bad. Googling worked for my son’s preschool, and it worked in this case too. I set up an appointment on my birthday, and with that, I had my first “reading” ready to go.

Now, I am not going into a lot of details about the actual session, and I’m not saying his name because he didn’t give me permission, but maybe he will sense that I wrote this and find it online. Hmmmm. Here are my “Mommy Quack” observations.

• He was incredibly good looking and had a great accent. I’ll bet women just pay up to sit across the room and stare at him.
• He made it very clear to me that I wasn’t who I was anymore, that my life was very different now. You mean I never gave a damn about sports and now I live to track the Steelers? Yep.
• It was really nice to know that my super anal grandmother is indeed NOT rolling over in her grave every time my toddler dumps his milk cup on the floor and tries to lick it up like a kitten.
• He said a lot of little subtle things that I am convinced there is no way he could have known, but that is just me…
• He asked me if I was always this dry and witty or was I just saving it for him? You guys will have to let him know the answer to that one.
• He said other things too, and I will say that, whether he googled the hell out of me or if my lovely relatives told him from the other side, I felt better about what he had to say.
• He DID NOT say stupid shit like, “EVIL spirits are after you and I can get rid of them if you give me a grand.” So don’t even think it.

When it was over, I told him that was the coolest thing ever, and thanks. Will I go again? It depends on how accurate some of his predictions are, but even then, I might go get that tattoo or memorize a story about my vagina.

Now, let me warn people who want to do something crazy on their birthday:

1) It is YOUR birthday and YOU decide how YOU want to spend it if you get a birthday check. Don’t worry about other people. Could you pay the phone bill with that check? Sure. But what are you going to remember in five years? Your crazy choice, whatever that is, or the bill?

2) If you tell people what you are up to, like when writing a blog post, be prepared for different reactions, for example:

• My brother in law pissed me off beyond belief by calling me Whoopi and telling me he was going to ride his unicorn to work the next day. I hope he sits on the horn.
• My sister’s friend is scared for my soul and wants me to do a cleanse and get healed by a priest.
• And my favorite? I have a good friend who said, “Really? Cool! Let’s go to Lily Dale and dance naked under the moon…..I am so there!

May you always do something memorable on your own damn birthday,

Page

The Grocery Store Diaries 3

Dirty Looks: 2, possibly 3, might just have been his face
“You’ve got your hands full”: 0 (didn’t have the baby with me)
Damage: One box of blueberries on the floor


By now no one is confusing these with the Red Shoe Diaries so don’t bother looking for David Duchovny. I had to write that in the spirit of the new season of Californication. This is how something weekly and ordinary can become extraordinary, at least in my world.

It was a beautiful day in our neighborhood and I decided that since Daddy was home and the baby was napping that the older two and I could go up to the green and we could stop in at the little “Guilford Food Center” for a few things I forgot at the Big Y. Yep.

The ride was fine, they know the rules now. Actually, Kenneth rides his bike and Frances skips beside him. She still doesn’t have quite the coordination to peddle for that long of a distance but she is happy enough in herself to skip along with her brother. Neither of them seems to notice that one can do more than the other. When they are together, they just “are.” I hope Frances and Kenneth always have that relationship. They both stop at every street and look both ways and wait for mommy. This is due to Barney and his annoying songs, not any good mothering on my part.

Kenneth parks his bike outside the store, and then the real fun begins. The aisles are tiny and the food is fresh, but they do have some general staples for the few people like me who don’t make a grocery list like they should and have to grab a couple of things they forgot.

My son goes running to the baking aisle for his volcano ingredients. He is really interested in volcanoes right now, so I constantly have to re-stock the pantry with vinegar and baking soda (I just learned from a friend that I can always dump the left over down the drains, by the way). We have plenty of food coloring, so I don’t have to worry about that this time, but I get to the baking aisle and they don’t just have “vinegar.” They have at least ten different specialty gourmet organic vinegars ranging in price from 7-11 bucks. Do I want to put that much into my son’s little science project? Then he looks at me sweetly and reminds me that it is magma when it is just baking soda and food coloring and we have to add the vinegar and then it becomes lava because it is out of the Earth. So we decide that the red wine vinegar might just do the trick. It might even be better than generic Big Y vinegar. He is so excited about setting off his volcano. Any day now it is going to fall apart and I will have to spend an afternoon making a new one. I am trying to talk him into a volcano birthday party because that would make me so much cooler of a mother than a Spiderman one.

In the mean time, Frances has meandered over to the fruit section. They have everything fresh and available for little hands to grab and I hope I stopped her before she took a bite out of an apple and put it back, I looked but I didn’t see any. She begs me for strawberries, but they were looking a little too fuzzy, so I bargained her into blueberries, which fell on the floor.

As we head to the little check out area, Kenneth starts to scream, “Don’t forget Daddy’s Diet Coke! You know how he is without Diet Coke!” Yes, we all know how Daddy is without his coke, and now so does the rest of the store.

As we are leaving a pretty teenager tells Frances she had to wear an eye patch when she was a little girl too, but they didn’t have the cool purple ones when she was small. This makes my child’s day!

We wander home through the green, say hello to the Civil War statue that I have accepted is a Union member, and my cell phone isn’t ringing, so I know that the baby is asleep and all is well.

A trip to the small store with only a few little setbacks.

I have some nice days all things considered…

Picking Berries

When I was talking to my real estate agent about living in Guilford, the first thing she said was, “you are going to love living here, we have orchards and you can pick your own apples and berries.” I have never cut grass; I have only really raked leaves once because a friend of mine told me her dad said he bet I couldn’t. Now I was leaving the hustle and bustle of Pittsburgh to go pick my own berries? Nope. I don’t play the Grapes of Wrath.

We did try to do it the second weekend we lived here. It was apple season and you had to wait in line for the big trucks to take you up the actual orchards. This was before you even started picking the apples. The crowds were too big and the wait too long for any of my children, forget the one that can’t stand a crowd or loud noises.

When I was in high school, it was the early 90s and Kurt Cobain and all that grunge stuff was popular and my parents were divorcing. I was headed to a women’s college, and I was obsessed with Sylvia Plath. I loved her pain and her depression and the world hates me and doesn’t understand me angst. The bottom line is she was a girl from New England going to Smith and working for a magazine. Come on girl, you weren’t waiting in line at a soup kitchen. But I loved her. I wrote papers on her. I memorized “Daddy,” yeah, I know. I didn’t have much of a life then either.

OK, now I am a mother of three little ones and I know that Sylvia killed herself while her toddlers were napping. I know that isn’t funny and please don’t take this the wrong way, but who hasn't used naptime at least once for a full blown psychotic mommy melt down? But since I have other outlets and know, thanks to the internet, that I am not alone, dear Sylvia, you and I have parted ways. I will stay on the earth as long as I am allowed….

At least I thought we had parted ways until I agreed to a berry picking play date. It was my children and three other moms and their kids at the blueberry patch. All the kids were ready to pick berries with their buckets. It wasn’t nearly as crowded or confusing as that day in the apple orchards. They had the bushes marked for picking, and off we went. Yeah right. Sylvia’s brilliant Bitter Strawberries popped into my head, and it has stayed there. It was still there three months later when we went for raspberries with daddy. Here we go, my Blueberry picking against her memories turned poetry of her Bitter Strawberries:

All morning in the strawberry field
They talked about the Russians
Squatted down between the rows
We listened
We heard the the head woman say,
‘Bomb them off the map.’

In the blueberry fields, probably closer to eleven than the original plan of ten, the six kids all ran in completely different directions and didn’t hear a single thing any of the mommies said about healthcare, if we mentioned it at all…

Two Children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged

Page’s kids decide they would rather throw rocks than pick berries and invite the other boys to join in the fun. The baby squirms and wants to join them. He has incredible aim for a twelve month old. Wow.

How many quarts?
She recorded in the notebook

Most people’s buckets were filled and the totals were in the 20 dollar range, cash or check only. My three kids picked less than four dollars worth.

Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger

What nice fine motor skill work. Occupational therapists should really encourage berry picking, considering my daughter had about zero fine motor ability right before she turned three. I couldn’t get her to pick up a cheerio with a pincer grasp. I tried broken crayons, I tried three little pig finger puppets from Guatemala, and I tried popcorn. No go. But she did really love picking the blueberries for a little while. Then you remember no attention span and after about fifteen minutes, give or take ten, my kids were yanking on everything and shoving it in the bucket.

We did try to recreate our “Pick your own” experience with Daddy in the raspberry field, and I did try harder that day. They each had a hat they refused to wear, and I put sunscreen on them. But no one, and I mean no one, told me that raspberry bushes had prickles on them. Good night nurse the screaming that day isn’t worth writing about. Sometimes I am almost sure my husband wishes he had married someone else who would have given him cute kids that would have worn matching Gymboree outfits and filled their baskets to the brim without eating any or smearing berries on themselves or scream to get out of the stroller. Then we could have gone home and made tarts from scratch and read Jamberry together and scrapbook the day.

Sylvia so should have blogged….

The Grocery Store Diaries 2

If I am to do this Bridget Jones style, I’m going to do it right:

Dirty Looks: 4
“You’ve go your hands full” - 3
Break anything: 0


Today’s trip was all about teamwork, starting with digging through the carts for the police one. The Big Y now has your choice of toddler carts. Before it used to be a Fire engine only, but now you can also ride around in a taxi or a police car. Someone had returned a blue police car cart, and my son was not going to sit in anything else. So after I pulled out three other carts with a baby on my hip, everyone was happy in the cop cart.

Usually all you have to do is push your cart up and down the aisles, grab what you need according to your list, grab what you need according to your cravings, or grab what you need according to the sale price. My son on the other hand decides that we need to be a team about it. It was Frances’ turn to sit in the cop seat while the boys were in the front. Kenneth decided that she should hop out and pick up the food, and then she should hand it to me. THEN I should give it to him to throw in the cart. How many people does it take to throw food in the cart? The answer is three apparently. We did this around the grocery store and it didn’t get old and he didn’t give up. “Frances give it to mommy, mommy, give it to me, now watch me put it in the cart.” It did prevent fighting and biting and it killed a rainy Saturday afternoon, so there you go.

The baby did decide to scream over a yogurt cup I wouldn’t let him eat today, since now I know his game, just in time for two little old ladies to look up and say, “What is that screaming?” Did babies in the 50s really act that much better? I doubt it.

The trip could have been worse, team work drags it out but definitely made it less of a headache.