In the event that you find yourself without a radio . . .

Honda is dedicated to protecting its drivers. I appreciate this. I appreciate the various safety features that come standard in our Element. I even appreciate that they don't interfere with the rather spartan attitude of the vehicle. I do not, however, appreciate that anytime the battery is changed or drained - you need a super secret special code to make your radio function.

There are other things I don't like about the Element. I don't like that small items in the trunk slide under the seats and wind up in the front. I don't like that it sat in the driveway for 6 months in desperate need of brakes. But generally, yay Element. So I was generally pleased when I was forced to get new brakes earlier this week after the Blazer once again thumbed its nose at us and left me, the kids, 14 bags, a vacuum, and some snacks, sitting awkwardly, forlornly even, in the driveway. And there the Blazer still sits. Defiant. Mysterious. Not starting. The kids and I, eventually, disembarked and started in on our next great vehicular adventure.

Element brakes do not, despite Honda's best efforts, magically appear when summoned. (They're working on it, though). So it took a few days and more than a few hundred dollars to get the Element in tip top shape again. And I was excited to retrieve it from AutoTire, knowing that not only would it be actually take us where we needed to go but it would now be ever so much safer to drive since it actually has functioning brakes and properly aligned alignment. Jordan and I really shouldn't be allowed in retail or repair establishments without supervision. He sprayed Axe on me, I laughed when I should have parented, we babbled and quirked all over poor AutoTire man who was all too pleased to offer me the keys and direct me to the parking lot where the Element awaited us.

We were so ready for the windows down, music up, carefree spring afternoon that makes having an operable vehicle so much fun. Windows down. Radio . . . wait a minute. All it says is "CODE" and then silence.

"CODE" seems rather demanding. Especially when I don't have the "CODE". And I'm much too busy of a woman to spend days on the phone with Honda or in the occult Honda Element Owners' Club chat rooms trying to figure it out.

So we drove in silence.

Well.

Maybe not silence.

We were forced to sing.

Okay, I was forced to sing.

Jordan was forced to slouch in his seat, praying we didn't stop at a red light next to the super cute blond girl from his science class or anyone else he has ever or might ever meet.

But it didn't take long before I drew a complete blank. What else could I sing? I'd already exhausted my collection of Queen, Cake, Hole, The Beatles, some Jan and Dean, Lady Gaga and yes, even Miley Cyrus.

What choice did I have but to resort to camp songs? Jordan was no help at all. I gave him the microphone/soda bottle but he just stared blankly at me.

So I started singing this shark attack song that he learned at 5th grade camp. I thought, "sure! this'll be fun! He'll love it! This is right up his alley!I'm such a cool mom!"

Did I mention that Jordan turned 12 recently?

12 is a very cool age.

A very NOT shark attack song from 5th grade camp with my mom - age.

And again, he stares.

But then to my dismay I realize - I can't remember how the song goes!

And thus began my relentless mental pursuit of this song. I drove this very secure and owner-loving Honda around for more than 3 days trying to remember the words and tune to this ridiculous song! And it isn't even a very good song. Sedona was a real sport. We spent the 10 minutes to and from school every day trying different tunes, arguing about the order of events, even deciding at one point that we should call the 5th grade camp counselor and see if he could help us.

As we left the China Buffet one evening, we got it! Sedona and I lined the pieces up and sang pitch perfect shark attack magic. Ahh sweet satisfaction. Jordan, of course, was thrilled and said something like, "cool, mom" (roll eyes here).

So in the event that you find yourself without a radio. . . . . call a friend, practice quiet mindfulness, employ your phone's Pandora app, enjoy the silence but do not under any circumstances allow yourself to become singularly obsessed with the lyrics, motions or tune of a camp song.

And for your viewing/listening pleasure . . . Jordan (who was NOT paid to do this) joins Sedona in singing/signing "Shark Attack".

Who knew?

As it turns out. . if you fancy becoming a writer and dream silly little dreams of calling yourself a writer and maybe even having more than one slightly unflattering pair of glasses. . .you have to actually write something. Who knew?

I'm reading a fantastic book by Ariel Gore and even she suggests that writing things (other than manuals for your employer)is the first step in becoming a writer. So on that authority, I rejoin my 3-7 followers on this little adventure in blogging.

I'm exploring other blog platforms and toying with a separate, more sophisticated blog (read: not one that is all about the kids and the gnats and the silliness). You know, one that will tackle the tough issues, that will discuss politics, religion, sex, and the abhorred fashion/diet trends. Where else can I pontificate about NKOTBSB and the Israeli conflict?

Or maybe I should stick to what I know. And what I know is that this moment is a gift. There are but joyful tasks at hand. There is gratitude and grace flooding in and I'm struggling to capture it in all its glory. Animals rubbing their faces with their paws and yawning ever so delightfully that I almost want to die. Babies snoring in messy rooms. Calm settling on a joyfull home. These are the ridiculous amazing moments that I know.

And so I find my way back here and I have notes all over the place about things I'd like to write. Things I'd like to share. Things I'd like for you to laugh at and retell. Things I'd like for you to pay me for having said. Well, laugh anyway and smile and revel in that moment of joy that you find yourself about to miss.

Aren't they darling?

I just found the cutest non-insect related thing in my kitchen cabinets.

Coasters. Just plain old coasters.



What's so cute about coasters?

It's not actually the coasters that are cute. It is my 21 year old bridal delusion that is cute. I actually stood in Crate and Barrel and thought - yes. We will definitely need coasters. Duh.

I dreamed of a life in which coasters would be necessary. A life in which we'd have furniture that needed to be protected from moisture. A life in which my kids aren't as messy and clumsy as I am. Just today I threw a whole cup of water at/on myself in Jack in the Box. Didn't stumble. Just picked it up and away it went - ALL over me and the floor.

Coasters? Really?

Adorable, Jana. Simply adorable.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

And a woman scorned hath no fury like a woman whose house in infested with gnats!





These innocent little pests have taken up residence in my kitchen and bathroom. I even found 3 in my bedroom last night. You wouldn't think they'd be that repulsive. Just a little gnat. Annoying? Sure. But disgusting? probably not. infuriating? riotous? abhorred? vile and wicked and . . . well, I may have developed some rather strong feelings about our little winged invaders.

I've tried everything to expel them from my presence. Ammonia, bleach, Raid, vinegar traps, Raid, ammonia, bleach, Raid and then some more Raid and then . . .well you get the idea. There is no food out. The trash cans are emptied every 12 minutes. No wet towels or clothes. . . and yet still they insist on tormenting me.

Maybe this is an opportunity for spiritual growth. I'm sure that's what it is. So maybe murderous rage and disgust isn't the response I should be embracing? Oops.

But seriously. When one walks into a bathroom in the middle of the night one should not be pelted (in the face. ew.) with startled insects. It seems reasonable to expect that living in a relatively civilized society, in a relatively well kept home, in a relatively quiet neighborhood, one should be safe from such atrocities.

I'm afraid my crazy is starting to show.

I'm really asking for it this time

*** I had written this months ago and refrained from publishing it, figuring I'd calm down and get on with my life. I just came across it as I searched for something to post to end this blog drought. So . . . why not? Here's a little rant from May 13th. Enjoy. ***

Jordan is now a proud D.A.R.E. graduate. (pause for applause and the appropriate awww, how darling remarks). Yes, yes, he's growing up. He is now equipped to say no to those devastating flesh eating drugs.

I told you I was asking for it.

We attended his graduation at the high school on Tuesday evening and frankly, were a bit disturbed by the insistence on the evils of drugs/alcohol. I'll be the first to share with you the dangers of drugs and alcohol. They are the stories I traffick in daily. The over doses, the arrests, the addictions, the jail time, the 10 years without a driver's license, the heart ache, the self loathing, the despair. We are all too familiar with the dangers and consequences of drugs and alcohol.

Sadly, though, we are also all too familiar with the fact that peer pressure isn't the only reason that people ever drink a beer or light a joint. They do it because it can be and sometimes is a heck of a lot of fun. They do it because they can't stand the noise inside their own heads. They do it for a hundred different reasons each time - only a fraction of a percentage of which they can be aware of at any given time.

So why don't we talk to kids about reality?
Why don't we prepare them for the fact that the the meth head they saw in their slide show didn't scratch the skin off their bones and lose all their teeth the first time they smoked a joint or cooked up some meth?

Because what they created in that classroom, it seems, is a horror show version of what drug/alcohol use looks like. So what happens when Johnny gets high and doesn't actually die or go to prison? Was it all a lie? How easy is it to throw out the sound medical/scientific/legal consequences along with the realization that people don't lose their teeth and hair and future right away?

I'm concerned by this apparent disregard for reality. Are there really kids in the hallways and at the bus stops pushing drugs? Not where I went to school. Sure the drug were all too available - so was the alcohol, but no one said "You'll be cool if you smoke this". I may have told myself that, but what could it hurt? They all looked like they were having fun. No one was suffering the kinds of consequences that our DARE officer said were sure to come if you didn't just say no.

So I did it. Not because of external peer pressure, but because I decided that I wanted to. Simple as that. Whatever cost/benefit analysis I conducted came back saying that having as much fun as everyone else far outweighed the outlandish and almost sensationalized ideas of Juvie and overdoses and wasted lives.

But what we fail to equip our kids with is the practical understanding that those serious and devastating consequences don't always happen, don't always happen right away, and don't always look the way they did in the slide show. Can't we help them make informed, rational decisions based on reality? Can't we have an impact on that cost/benefit analysis?

Because here is what I am hearing from the DARE graduates here:
"I won't ever touch a cigarette or drugs or alcohol because my whole life will be ruined. I will never finish school, have a good job or a family if I do drugs."

"If you do drugs like meth you will look like 30 years older than you are and you'll scratch all your skin off - like down to the bones."

"People will try to make me do drugs but I can say no because I want to be an NFL quarterback when I grow up and I can't be a good athlete if I do drugs."


I thought I was over it. I thought I had smiled and encouraged and asked smart questions, created safe space for real conversations. And I thought that the DARE maneuver was just a little rite of passage that we could discuss and then forget.

And there went my non-profit mind. . . . I'd like to see their outcomes. How do they measure the success of this program? What are the deliverables? Completion of coursework? Is there a control group? Any 5th graders around who did not receive this training? Did they say no to drugs at the same rate that those DARE graduates did?

And then I opened the packet that Jordan got after shaking 10 self-important people's hands.

And I am not over it. (clearly)

And I am asking for all kinds of ridicule and disdain with this post. (obviously).

When I picked the envelope up off the table, I thought, well maybe there's something of substance here. Maybe there is something that encourages parents to be real with their kids when it comes to this stuff. Maybe there was something that says "you're a smart kid. Think about your decisions. Consider the cost. Decide what you want. Use your brain. And at the end of the day, I love you and I'm here to talk." Because, you know, we trust that we've equipped our kids to be individuals, to think for themselves, to talk openly about their experiences and concerns. Oh wait.

But there wasn't anything like that in there.

Instead there was half a forest (yes, entire forests now only produce 54 sheets of paper) congratulating the DARE graduate on his/her achievement. Letters from everyone you can imagine. Letter #1 - Joe Biden. all the way down to a councilman I've never heard of. 27 letters of congratulation. Most of them commend the graduate on their commitment to completing the coursework. They recognized the time commitment that the graduate made and how seriously they must have taken the program to have completed it.

I'm sorry. . .did I miss something?
Was this optional?
Was this offered outside of school hours?
Was more than half of Jordan's workbook even filled out?

No. It was not.

Do these politicians know anything about my kid or about the program they so readily endorse?

DARE has never been for the kids. It is apparently for the politicians. It is one way that parents and teachers and politicians can feel like they are doing something without ever really doing anything.

Dammit man.

Oh yeah, one last gem. Jordan informed me later that night that they really focused just on gateway drugs. "You know, like cocaine."

Clearly, he has received quite the education.

"Why do I still smell sushi?"

Sedona wonders in a loud whisper from the back seat as we drive through Dairy Queen after a delightful sushi dinner. I'm pretty proud of the fact that this little girl is the first to try just about anything new. She tried the wasabi, loves the sashimi rolls and can't get enough of those fascinating little slivers of ginger root. She's very sophisticated at a very early age.

I, however, evidently lack both the grace and refinement required for a sophisticated, no, civilized, sushi dinner.

Here are just a few of the reasons I should not be allowed to eat sushi (in public, anyway):

- After we'd placed our order, the kind server came back and asked if we'd like to try the egg rolls. Midway through Jeremy's "No, thank you, I think we're okay" I had some involuntary facial tick that said "Sure! what the hay! Let's try em shall we? Yippee! What an adventure!" and he stuttered and looked confused and then said, "I guess we'd like to try them. Yes. Thank you." I had NO IDEA my face did that. And now in addition to the obscene amount of sushi we had ordered we were going to have to choke down some egg rolls too because of my spazzy face. My face cannot be trusted when ordering or declining food in an Asian restaurant. Obviously.

- The egg rolls came with a plate of foliage. Some lettuces and some sprigs of something that the man called basil, but I assure you, was NOT basil. I think he said that we should roll the egg roll in the lettuce with some of the "basil" and then dip it in a little bowl of pinkish sauce. Jeremy was convinced that the plate of lettuce was a garnish. He approached his carefully. And with silverware. I wound the lettuce around mine and dunked it enthusiastically in the sauce, sending little sprigs of "basil" and pink sauce all over the place. And then I cackled, thinking that was great fun and secretly thanking my spazzy face for insisting on this little adventure.

- I dropped my salmon sashimi in the pretty little bowl filled with soy sauce.

- the dropping of the salmon into the soy sauce caused an unbelievable splash. See the GIANT splotches of soy sauce that now adorn the cover of my journal (that was in my purse on the floor) or ummm, my chest, which is now also covered in soy sauce. Sexy, I know.

- I find the O'Fallon roll just a bit too much for one bite. At least for one civilized, tasteful bite. I tried it. I choked. I spit some of it out. I laughed hysterically at my disgusting behavior. I'm usually accused of having too big a mouth. You know, because I talk too much. Well, this is not the case when it comes to sushi.

- I use the chopsticks to awkwardly deliver the sushi to my mouth and I like to think I'm doing okay on this part but then . . .I bite each piece in half, grabbing the rejected half with my fingers. I do not think that this is the way chopsticks are supposed to be used. Use chopsticks. Or use silverware. Or use your hands. But good grief woman, not a combination of the three!

- I enjoy the flavor, but half way through and just as my pants begin to feel a bit tight around the waist . . . the entire idea of sushi begins to nauseate me. I then develop an involuntary gag/recoil reaction to watching other people eating it, even though I myself, am still eating it. So there I am. . . eating . . . making a terrible face at the people around me. And let me tell you - I have a VERY expressive face. You should see me repulsed or unsure or afraid or happy or confused or excited sometime. Its a real sight.

- I coached my 6 year old daughter to use one of her chopsticks to spear a particularly ornery piece of sweet and sour chicken. Again, with the improper use of utensils.

- I found it amusing when a piece of onion from Sedona's plate found its way into my flip flop. She is definitely my child.

It's probably a good thing we were the only ones in the restaurant.

Sedona plays school

In case you are unable to decode Sedona's sing-songing, she is saying "These are my stu-dents". She was playing school and had a dozen stuffed animals set up in the kitchen.

Such a happy girl.

Hurry! Cast your votes!

Alright folks, time for a little voting magic.

What artistic genius sculpted this Play Doh masterpiece?



Was it:
a. Jordan
b. Sedona
c. Jana
d. Jeremy
e. the rabbit whose name is ever changing



I know the suspense might just be too much for some of you. Or maybe the suspense is just too much for me. Here I am, already gonna spill the beans. Just moments after conceiving of the multiple choice, rock the vote approach. Oh well.


There are many reasons why I love my husband. This is just one of the most recent reasons and it shot straight to the Top Ten List. Oh how I love that man.

So yes, the correct answer is d. Jeremy. Did you call it?

In the meantime . . .

I've started a few ranty posts and then decided against posting them. At least temporarily. So in the meantime, you can enjoy pictures of the kids. We went out to Klondike Park in March and did some wandering. Check out Sedona's socks! There will be a more detailed documentation of her basketball fashion sense in an upcoming post.

Nit - Pickah!!

I have never fully appreciated the term "nitpicking". That is, never until today. Now that I have actually picked a nit. I get it.

It is tedious. It is disgusting. And it seems futile. It requires meticulous, unwavering attention. Commitment. Determination. And obsession to the point of mania. And disgust. Minute and unjustified (so says Webster).

Did I mention disgust?

You guessed it. One among us has been infested (INFESTED. This is the terminology used the world over, apparently.) by none other than Pediculus humanus capitis. You may know these pests as the ever elusive, head lice.

Disgust.

Infestation.

But all the literature warns not to freak out. I wonder if ever the writer of such advice had stared into his (presumably,because after all the majority of scientific fact and literature was penned by men, right?) child's scalp to see things scurrying around. Reproducing willy nilly all over the child.

Disgust.


But I did it. Not only did I stare. I sectioned and lathered and rinsed and sectioned and lather and rinsed. And picked. And picked. And picked.

I spent the better part of 4 hours. 4 HOURS. combing through Sedona's long, tangled, long, blond, LONG, hair to remove what are affectionately called nits/lice. We laughed. We cried. We picked. Minute and unjustified. They had no business being there. But I did it. My child, my love, my dearest, is now nit free once more. All is right with the world. (Well, except for the fact that her stuffed animals are staring sadly out of plastic bags, awaiting the demise of their likely passengers). But nevertheless, our home has been restored to justice and order.

And I'm looking for my super hero name. Some preliminary ideas:

Ghost Face NitKillah
Ghost Face NitPickah
Stone Cold Steve NitBeGone
Super Bada** Lice Nixin Momma
Lice Ends to Kill
Chuck Norris


So it's a work in progress. (shrug)

What can you come up with?

Okay fine. Here's something cute.

Even at age 4 when labeling tends to be a BIG hit (for a certain little girl I know anyway*), Jordan never labeled anything. Is this what 11 is all about? Territory? Staking your claim? Colon health? Or is it just that the boy REALLY likes Raisin Bran?
The world may never know.


* Did I ever tell you about the labeling? Scribbles on bedroom door "Saaaaays . . . Sedona's Room, Mom. What? It IS my room." Draws on hallway wall "But its our FAMILY, Mom!" Draws stick people next to her dresser, just out of sight, "They are my REAL friends, Mom".

Obsession (not the perfume, no near nude photos)

So I've become obsessed with this notion of performance. Funny I should question it here for all to read. . . but it was inspired in part by facebook. The amount of ink already spilled on this subject is immense but I thought I'd throw my two cents in anyway.

Disclaimer: Asking questions. Not espousing truth or claiming to have figured it all out. Asking questions only. Don't get all bunched up.

Are we deluding ourselves if we think that our presence and participation on social media sites isn't changing the way that we live?

How can the immediate audience of hundreds or even (gasp) thousands not change the way that we interact with the flesh and bloods beside us?

Does our writing of our realities change with the incessant request for feedback from our audience? Do I understand my hair in the wind differently today because it might make an interesting post? Someone might like it. Someone might see me. Have I lost the simple beauty of my experience because I am always evaluating how it will play to my fb audience? Or does it somehow become more beautiful when shared with so many others?

How do different personalities negotiate this performance differently? Consciously or unconsciously?

None of this is to suggest that facebook or other social media sites cannot or are not useful tools and great opportunities for connection and relationship. I believe they can be. I also believe though that we may be naive if we do not acknowledge the power that they have in altering our relationships with those in our actual lives.

Do we live a separate, virtual life? To what extent do we write ourselves as characters, claiming authenticity and genuine concern for others when really we seek attention and approval?

Do we invest emotional energy in so many others that we have less for those in immediate contact physical with us? Are we able to escape, even if unintentionally and momentarily, from our everyday interactions because we can access hundreds of other, more interesting moments with the touch of a button? Can the buzz of a phone indicating that someone else, or dozens of someone else's are vying for our attention, pull us away from whatever eye contact and conversation we may have had? With what effect?

Maybe it is the things that we choose not to post to fb that tell our stories. Maybe it is only my own insecurities and fears that drive this suspicion and questioning. Maybe I would have condemned the first television, saying that it would lead to the demise of the family. And maybe, I wouldn't have been as crazy I seemed. We create powerful tools and then deny their immense power in our lives.

Disclaimer negated. I ended up on a soapbox anyway. Questioned myself clear into an opinion. (For today anyway).

This is obviously a departure from the kinds of things I usually post here. And maybe that is a perfect example of how I create the version of me, of my family, that I want you all to see. When my kids are blowing up a Peep (Easter marshmallow)in the microwave - I miss it because I'm trying to take a picture to put on the blog. My presence here infects my interactions out there in the real world.

I don't usually write anything here that requires commitment on my part - I keep my opinions and platforms to myself. Which, arguably, makes for a friendlier blog. But in my fear of not being adored, I don't share all of me or, maybe, even the real me. I play to my perceived audience. I keep it light and quirky. I may be the perfect example of what I suspect exists elsewhere. Either that or I am so riddled with self-doubt and a desire for approval that I've created a narrative here that exists only in me, one that could only be shared by those who care what other people think.

But would you dare suggest that that isn't the vast majority of us humans?

Bear with me. Recognize the absurdity of playing this out in front of all of you (aka my psychosis).

I'll be in the bomb shelter waiting for the Cold War to end if you need me.

A little bird poo never hurt anyone

Sedona played outside for hours yesterday and it wasn't until a friend asked what was in her hair that we discovered the poo. She continued playing, planning to deal with it after dark, squeezing every last drop of sunlight out of the day.

And so the sun went down, and dinner needed to go on the table. Sedona asked to help and I replied, "No, you need to go get in the shower. You have bird poo in your hair."

She filed obediently out of the kitchen, presumably to get in the shower.

She returned just a moment later wearing a hat and simply stated that "now no poo will fall in the food. Can I help?"



How could I say no?

Old Spice: Long Time Rep turns Sponsor

While there is no doubt that Old Spice has long since been the official, spray on, masculinity product it isn't until this afternoon that I learn just how far the Ol' Spice has come.

They are now sponsoring puberty, not just manhood. And they are doing it by way of the "Always Changing: A Boy's Guide" which Jordan just so happened to receive during his human growth and development class today.

Puberty: Brought to you by Old Spice.


Are you kidding me?! It is printed on EVERY page. And if that wasn't enough . . . it reads like an infomercial.

"To stay looking and feeling your best, take a bath or a shower at least once a day. Any time you get sweaty, you should bathe more often. For 8-hour odor protection, us Old Spice Red Zone Body Wash. Then grab some clean clothes (body odor stays on clothes) and apply Old Spice Red Zone Deodorant to help keep body odor away. If you are concerned about underarm wetness, try a Deodorant/Anti-perspirant like Old Spice Red Zone High Performance Solid that fights not only odor but wetness too."

I did not make that up. Straight outta the book, featured prominently on page 15 alongside a near-infant who presumably is now struggling with body odor.

This consumer driven curriculum is only more surprising when the Old Spice pamphlet is taken in conjunction with the other materials that Jordan received today. "Growing Up and Liking It: Greg's Story", the groundbreaking work first introduced in 1972 and last updated in, oh um, 1992. Only today, they are copies of a copy of a copy quality photo copied, crooked stapled booklets. Little hard to read. But really, what does it matter? We've got the Old Spice version, after all. Why invest in quality educational materials when we've got the very real opportunity to boost sales and increase local families toiletry bill by 25% (have you SEEN the way an 11 yr old applies products - all or nothing, baby. I either will not wash myself or I will use the whole damn bottle of body wash in a single shower.)

Is anyone else at all surprised by this?

Now don't get me wrong - the physiological changes that adolescents encounter have not changed all that drastically in the last 30 years. But hasn't the way that we talk to our children? Hasn't the way that we talk in general?! You should see the vernacular used in this here handy dandy booklet. Not to mention the fashion sense demonstrated in the photos. Wait. Nevermind. The copies are so blurred and blackened you can hardly see that striped sweater vest being worn by one very popular, very responsible young man.

Thanks, Old Spice. The scent of men (and now boys) for 73 proud years.

I couldn't not do a little bit of research before (okay, midway through) ranting about Old Spice and I cannot do justice to the marketing materials I just found. You'll have to go look at them yourselves. Oh man.

Rant complete.


But SERIOUSLY?!!

Landscape of a 5th grade romance

"You shouldn't even be asking me these questions. Dude, I'm going out with Maddie. I like Maddie. You have no business even asking me who I like more you or Tori or who I would want to go out with. I've made my choice so just stop. There is no way for me to answer that."

A proud mother overhears 11 yr old boy wrestle with pushy girl-friends on the phone who aren't pleased that he is now 'taken'. Should this kind of thing be an issue for 11 yr olds? Probably not. They should probably be playing Legos and dolls, but the sad reality is that they aren't.

And I thought that it was a sign of the declining times. Something in the milk. Societal decay. And then I saw the red and white ruler that still stands in the pencil jar on our desk. Link Elementary School, Elk Grove Village, IL. and on the back "I LOVE Matt Naase".

I was in second grade.

And I remember so clearly the infatuation with this silly red headed, freckle faced boy. By third grade he was "going out" with someone else. I suppose the end of fifth grade is every bit as appropriate for infatuation as the second grade was.

So it seems that "going out" consists of an occasional hug and once, just once, a kiss on the cheek. They share secrets and try to be even nicer to each other than they are to other people. (This, straight from the source)

Have these kids got it figured out? Take a look at the relationships all around us. . . what if we were just nicer to the people we were somehow bound to? What if we exchanged secret kisses on the cheek?

And so I reflect on the sweetness of puppy love. And while I would rather he not have discovered such a fascination with girls until a little while later .. . .he is having this conversation right next to me. He told me about the hug (and the kiss). And I can't ask for more than that kind of honesty. I can't ask for more than a kid who tries so hard to be true to the girl he likes, who won't give in to the squirrely little girl tricks. Maybe his character/honesty will carry us through the tougher years ahead.

Maybe.

Passive aggressive or suprisingly skilled?

Of squirrels and neighbors. . .

It came to my attention this afternoon that we either have highly skilled squirrels in our backyard or an extremely passive aggressive neighbor. I discovered no less than 12 corn cobs in the backyard. That's more than a dozen ears of corn that have been consumed and abandoned. But by whom?



Is it possible that the squirrels have a particular interest in using our yard as a cob repository? Or is it carelessness on their way to another more exciting (and tidy) backyard?

Maybe I should make it clear that we are not the providers of the corn. That being said, you might expect the occasional cob accidentally left in the yard by a hurried squirrel. OCCASIONAL.

We're talking more than a dozen scattered in close proximity to one another.

And then it occurred to me. What if it isn't the squirrels at all?

What if the neighbor is intimating his displeasure with the condition of our yard or our neighborly prowess? What if HE is throwing the cobs into our yard?

So I did a little bit of investigating . . . . and while I can't be sure whether it is the surprisingly consistent squirrels or his passive aggressiveness leaving the corn cobs. . . I can be sure that he is the one providing the corn cobs.



What to do? Stake out? Encourage our honeysuckle to grow even more menacingly over his fence? Baked goods as peace offering? Squirrel trap? new 'found art' forum?

With a bit more thought I've come to wonder whether or not squirrels can typically remove a cob from such an apparatus. . . . the plot thickens.

5 years of blogging?!

I've always wanted a montage. Manipulative music, swelling at just the right moments, framing the moments of our lives. . . ahh, yes if only there were a camera rolling all day everyday. And then of course the film crew, the editing staff and a whole mess of other people who could do the manipulative soundtrack.

Sadly, we've had no such crew over these last 5 years. 5 YEARS(?!!) to the date from when we first announced that there was a dead hippo in the yard. Now would be a great time for that montage. A moment to reflect on how our lives have changed, my how the children have grown, ahhh what a happy little life they lead. Alas, no montage.

What I can offer you though are some of my own highlights. There are stories that I jotted down here that I like to think are great snapshots of our lives.

Enjoy.

I'll just, you know. .

Son of a . . .

Monkey Prayer

My Boy Now?

Can't Love You Anymore

ABC Poop She still picks this book off the shelf occassionally and CRACKS UP at the dirty pig. And yes, she still insists that it says poop. Neveryoumind that she can actually read at this point.

The Hair (and perhaps the early stages of their more recent insistence on being filmed).

Mama Mania

Desperately Seeking Sunflowers

Which gets us dangerously close to present day. And I"m assuming you can navigate these last few months sans tour guide or manipulative music.


And now for another 5 years . . .

By the way . . . It's an honor to have you along.

A bird's eyeview

Ok so really, it is my eye view of a bird bashing into my bedroom window - REPEATEDLY.

We've determined that it is a female cardinal. What that gets us, I don't know. Team spirit? Now, I don't really know how birds are supposed to fill their days. But I am sure that this is not it. Shouldn't she be building a nest? Getting a worm? Migrating? Like I said, I don't know what her regularly scheduled responsibilities might be, but she is clearly shirking them.

She starts with the bashing and pecking somewhere around 5:30am and continues throughout the day. What was at first tragic (aww poor confused bird, don't hurt yourself) turned infuriating (I'm chopping down the tree and buying a pellet gun)is now somehow comforting (ahh . . .must be morning). Ok maybe not comforting, but at least familiar. Now all we need to do is name her. Any suggestions?



What the video doesn't capture is the racket. The bashing crashing flapping racket that characterizes this futile effort. And as Jeremy has just pointed out to me, a minute is an awfully long time to stare at the bedroom window. You should get a good idea of what we're dealing with in just the first 25 seconds and are then excused from watching the rest of the video.

These go up to 11.

Well, today is the day. The boy officially turns 11 just before noon today. We've wondered for weeks what changes this milestone birthday might bring. After all, he starts middle school in a few months, has recently had his heart broken by a particular girl, all the signs are there . . . he is growing up.

We took a picture last night before bed to commemorate what "10" looked like. He asked, "So, do you think I'll look any older tomorrow?"



Well, friends, what do you think? Does "11" look any older?

Ahhh spring . . .

"Mom can't you just smell it?! The grass is growing!"

Upon walking out into a balmy 56 degree sunny morning. If only you could hear the wonder in his voice. Spring. Possibility. Life. Ahhh . . . . .deep breaths.

(Only . . . .this happened last week and I was a bit slow on the publishing. Deepest regrets)