Cracking myself up

Sometimes I am so clever, I crack myself up. So much, in fact, that Dean and I made an acronym about it -- CMU. He knows that if I text that to him, it means I'm feeling very pleased with myself. Sometimes he even asks what about, and I will tell him (spoonerisms! bad puns! song lyrics!). Sometimes he knows better than to ask.

Well, I won't text him right now because he's still in bed, and now that I have this blog, something that's on my mind can just be stored here for a while and maybe he'll read it later. See, this morning, I made up some song lyrics that are making me smile.

A song about CrossFit Marin
to the tune of "My Favorite Things"
(with apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein)

Jumping on boxes and using the rower,
Doing a push-up and hearing "go lower",
Bear crawl on pavement that scuffs up my skin --
All this I love thanks to CrossFit Marin.

Holding on tighter to rings and to high bars,
Lifting so heavy I'm starting to see stars,
Working my back squats again and again --
All this I love thanks to CrossFit Marin.

Practicing jump-rope and doing more sit-ups,
Going so hard at it, I almost spit up,
Getting the fittest I ever have been --
All this I love thanks to CrossFit Marin.

When I'm down low,
When I feel slow,
When my day's been long...
I simply head back in to CrossFit Marin
I know I will feel so strong!

See, this is MY superpower. I forgot about it in that post about everyday villains and heroes, where I just cast myself as a villain. Give me a tune and a subject and I will give back to you a very clever song in about half an hour. It will come pretty close to the feel of the original song, and be appropriate to the situation. And although I may refer to a thesaurus or rhyming dictionary a few times, it will mostly be spontaneous.

This is something I've done for so long that I can't remember when I started. Making up songs, making up little poems and lyrics, even inventing tunes now and again. As long as the circumstances are somewhat personal, it will end up in some sort of ditty or jingle.

For the kids, the songs were almost always to distract them from screaming or fussing. During tooth brushing, for instance.

We brush-a-brush-a-brush brush,
brush the teeth,
We brush them on the top
and we brush them underneath.
We brush-a-brush-a-brush
your teeth and gums --
We brush them in the night
and when the morning comes!

And diaper changing, particularly when Adrian was a little bound up.

Oh, it's better for your belly
and it's better for your bum
and it's better for your Mommy
so you better give her some.

But it's awful for your Daddy
and it makes him want to cry
Not because he doesn't love you;
You're his favorite little guy...

He just doesn't like poop!

There was more; I'll spare everyone verses two through six.

There have been songs about animals, songs about the babies, songs about riding in the car. And now, a song about the gym. I used to sing so often that it drove baby Adrian to say "Stop singing, Mama" at age 14 months, and little Nathan (an early bloomer) learned to say "Don't sing" before he turned one.

Now, what rhymes with "my husband's up and it's time for a cup of coffee"?

CMU!

Shrinky dinks

No, this post is not about how funny the boys think it is when they look at each other through the wrong end of the telescope at bath time. (Although that might make a good subject too.)

This is about actual Shrinky Dinks, and how fun and probably toxic they are, and how conflicted I feel about providing yet another disposable toy for my children.

For me, doing Shrinky Dinks with the kids is like rediscovering the joy of using the "reduce" feature on my dad's office Xerox machine when I was little. For someone who likes miniatures anyway, this was a miracle: draw a picture, push a button, and it comes out half the size! Then you can use THAT picture, push a button, and it comes out even smaller! Do this a few times, and you suddenly have a very tiny, cute, somewhat muddy picture of, say, a tree and a house and your mom and a cat.

You also have eight or ten 50-95% unused pieces of paper that were just used as the interim steps, which, because it was way back in the 70s and you didn't really think about it, you just crumpled up and threw in the trash.

While it's probably too late for me to feel guilty about wasting the electricity, copier toner, and paper from those projects, I do get a twinge when the boys do craft projects like ironing beads, coloring books, Shrinky Dinks, and mosaic sticker pictures now. Because let's face it, do we save any of these masterpieces? The half-finished dinosaur coloring pages, the fusible bead bracelets that don't fit anyone, the warped Shrinky Dinks in the shape of small African masks? Nope. We enjoy them for a short while, and then we stick them in a box or sneak them out for recycling, and forget about them. (We do save actual illustrations by the children, but the boys like putting things together better than drawing from imagination, so we have very few of those so far.)

Each month, I'm trying to be more mindful of waste -- I'm reminded every Wednesday night when our neighbors put out one trash can apiece and we put out two, that we could be doing better. I try to buy in bulk from time to time, I use my own bags, I pay my bills online. But selfishly, I want to be able to keep doing disposable crafts so my children can share in the fun of creating something special -- whether or not it's a keeper.

Getting better all the time

I did my first handstand today! I don't remember ever having done one before, even as a kid, although I must have tried now and again. But it's been gymnastics and more gymnastics at CrossFit Marin this week, and along with my first kickover, my first two feet up a climbing rope, and my first backward roll, I've now done my first 'real' handstand.

What's so special about this? Well, first of all, I'm forty-three. And second of all, I weigh over 200 pounds (down from 220 half a year ago). So for me, doing a handstand feels like kind of a miracle. I didn't stay up there long, but I did it correctly, balanced for an instant, and then tucked and rolled out of it to the generous applause of some of my gym friends. My goal is to be able to hold a handstand for 30 seconds or so, by the time I'm 45.

Motherhood has not come easily for me. I love those boys, of course -- I wouldn't want anyone else to be their mom, and I wouldn't want anyone else's kids either -- but it's been a drain physically, psychically, temporally. I didn't love my body much before kids, and I certainly didn't after. I love my husband, but we didn't make the transition to parents very well. I was trying to balance having a paying job with being the primary kid and home care person at the same time. And for a while there, I used food and wine (and tequila and beer) to get through the long frustrating afternoons and evenings and weekends -- and months, and years -- of new motherhood.

It got pretty out of control when Nathan was almost two and Adrian was approaching four, but I got my hands around its throat and wrestled it down to the ground, and can say proudly that I've not had a drink since. It'll be two years next month.

For a while, that was enough for me -- it was hard enough just to make that change, much less fit a diet and exercise plan into my white-knuckle motherhood. But once we got a little space -- the boys are more independent, we have begun being separate people, Dean and I have some time for exercise and are not so sleep-deprived -- I started going to the greatest gym in the world. (More about that in a future post.)

Now, through sweat, labored breathing, and trust in my own strength, I'm getting better all the time. I'm a happier mom, a stronger wife and friend, and more compassionate and proud of myself than I have been in years. Plus the effort of actually doing CrossFit is like rebooting your brain -- there's no spare energy during the workouts to think about anything other than giving yourself your maximum attention.

I'll be back a little later -- right now it's time for handstands. I only have about 22 months to practice before my 45th birthday!

When is a salad not a salad?

If anyone else's child was given a takeout box with grilled chicken, cheese, tortilla strips, and dressing, they would probably call it chicken. Nathan calls it a salad. He's not delusional, it's just that the "Chicken Taco Salad" from Grilly's [watch out for the embedded hat dance music on the site!] has been modified for Nathan, with the elimination of all vegetables.

"Grilly's in Mill Valley, how can I help you?" says Nicolas, when I call to place an order.
"Can I make an order to pick up, please?"
"Sure, what would you like?"
"A Chicken Taco Salad, no salsa," I say, ready for the response.
"No salsa?"
"No salsa. And also, no lettuce." Here it comes.
"No lettuce?"
"No lettuce."
"NO LETTUCE?" shouts Nicolas, sure he is talking to a crazy person.
"That's right. No lettuce, no salsa."
"Hold on a second." (Sound of fast Spanish talking.) "You want a salad with no lettuce."
"Yes, please. It's for my child."
"It's gonna come in a smaller box."
"That's fine. Thanks."
"Your name, please?"
"Emily."
"OK, Emily, ten minutes in Mill Valley." (This they say because there is also a Grilly's in Fairfax, and they don't want to have extra salad in one town and hungry customers in another.)

The reason I know how this goes down is that I have called like 10 times in the last two months and I make the same order every time. Every time, the question. Every time, the incredulity. No lettuce? What the heck kind of crazy salad has no lettuce? And on the other hand, how many people call to order a crazy salad with no lettuce OTHER than me? If there are that many of us that he doesn't already know who it is, then they should invent a Lettuceless Chicken Taco Salad and put it on the menu and then I can order that, unmodified.

The funny thing is, Nathan does still think of it as salad. "Mom, can I have some salad?" he asks as we drive down Miller Avenue past Grilly's every day. What would he do if I put a plate of lightly-dressed field greens in front of him?

Same thing as me, probably -- look for the meat. Because I share Nathan's point of view: that a salad just isn't a salad unless it has some kind of meat on it. My salads DO have lettuce, but only as a vehicle for the blue cheese, the bacon/salami/pepperoni/turkey, the croutons, the sesame seeds, and the candied walnuts.

Maybe that's where he gets it. At least he hasn't started asking for ambrosia salad... now THAT's crazy.

Silence is golden

When Adrian was a baby growing into toddlerhood, I remember a few noisy playdates with older children, and those moms who would joke about how you had to watch out when you couldn't hear the kids. That when everything goes quiet was when you knew you were in trouble.

At that point, I really wasn't apart from Adrian unless he was sleeping or in someone else's care -- you just don't leave an 18-month-old alone very often. So I would laugh along with them, nod my head in agreement, make those sounds of polite assent that we make. "Mmm-hmm, I know what you mean. You say it, sister," and so on.

Well, my house went very quiet this morning, and I understand even better what those moms meant. There are different qualities of quiet.

There's the quiet of your child quietly coloring at the table, and there's the quiet as your child silently covers every white-painted surface in the kitchen with pink highlighter. (Adrian, age 2.)

There's the quiet of your child building a block tower next to your desk, and there's the quiet of him plucking every letter key off your iBook keyboard while you're getting his lunch ready. (Adrian, age 3.)

And there's the quiet of your child playing Legos or patting the cat. Then there's the quiet of your child silently unwrapping four spools of thread around the living room furniture. (Nathan, this morning, age 4.)

When I caught Nathan this morning, he was on his tenth circuit of the living room, with about 250 yards of thread strung out behind him. He looked so pleased with himself, and had concentrated to thoroughly on the job, that I just said, "OHhhhh well, what do we have here?" (Note that I flowed seamlessly from "OH MY GOD" to Oh well..." -- that takes practice.) He said he was making a web so the flies would get caught. Who can blame him? They're pesky this year. And even when he asked if he could have scissors, I let him do it -- what's my frustration about having thread ends all over the house, compared to his satisfaction with a job well done?

So he cut the thread into about a thousand pieces, and we picked all of them up together so the cats wouldn't eat any of the strings.

And now it's very quiet in here but it's the kind of quiet that means both children are at school, the cats are outside, the dryer has stopped cycling, and it's time to get on with the housework.

A Mad Tea Party

Breakfast time at our house resembles nothing more than the Mad Hatter's tea party from Alice in Wonderland.

In this image, Alice has joined a tea party already in progress. Three companions (us!) are arguing and kvetching and acting absurd (like we do!) around a large table with many chairs (like ours!). Without warning (how familiar!), one of them (Nathan!) decides that he has made too much of a mess at his place (dripping milk, wet Cheerios!) and wants a fresh start.

“I want a clean cup,” interrupted the Hatter: “let’s all move one place on.”

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse’s place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change; and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

You see, one of my greatest failings as a mother is evident at mealtimes. The boys are not allowed to put their feet or their bottoms on the table, and they can't throw food or swear, but those are pretty much the only rules. I don't provide place mats, set a proper table, make the boys sit up straight, teach them which fork is which, or even make them use a fork at all most of the time. Perhaps, in time, I will.

I can't remember when we learned table manners at my house growing up -- we did learn them in a basic sense, in that I know which utensils belong on which side of a plate, where to put a napkin, where to put a cup. I know just enough to know that I don't know how to do it properly. And with children our kids' ages, and with a table as large as ours, it doesn't make sense to ask them to hold still, or sit with their feet hanging down toward the floor -- the table comes up to their chin, and they have to climb up into the chairs. They spill drinks, drop food, laugh and argue, and it's as much as I can manage to get them to eat some of their food without also harping on their posture.

Maybe in a few years I'll have the energy and willingness to make a game out of table manners. We can learn together, it'll be fun! But for now, at our table, it's a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

Everyday heroes

Have you ever seen "Higglytown Heroes"? It's a cute kids' show with a nice message; the 'heroes' are everyday workers in a small town doing the jobs that keep things moving smoothly. The characters are colorful, bouncy matryoshkas with arms; they're good natured and supportive of one another. Haven't yet seen an episode with a 'bad guy', just bad circumstances -- someone locked himself in the bathroom, someone needed to get across town fast, etc. And the theme song is by They Might Be Giants, my favorite musicians.

Hearing the theme song recently made me think of the specialties that we ourselves have developed in this past few years of raising a family. No, we're not really Wonder Woman and Superman, but we have our moments.

For the record, here are the everyday heroes -- and anti-heroes -- at our house.

"Sir Sorts-A-Lot"
From the time he could sit up on his own, Adrian has liked arranging his world into size, shape, rainbow, and/or alphabetical order. It made him very well suited to his Montessori preschool, and probably explains his disinterest in most types of 'pretend play'. He likes working with the actual pieces of the physical world more than imagining himself as, say, a knight in shining armor. I'm much more tolerant of dawdling when I know he's 85% done with a big sorting job -- he, like his father, likes closure.

"The Vanisher"
A little while back, we learned that Nathan's super-power is the power of disappearing stuff. He can carry a handful of crayons across a room and two of them will be gone by the time he gets to the table. Likewise Legos, marbles, Goldfish crackers, playing cards. For almost all of his 2s and 3s, his most common statement was "I don't know where it goed." Somehow with a flick of the wrist, he can force up to 12% of any set of objects out of this universe. If they show up in yours, please let me know.

"Daddy!"
Dean, of course. The man who reads everything, understands it, and has near-total recall of any fact related to the sciences, history, mathematics and the arts. He is the one who is invoked when the children ask questions like "How many minutes has it been since the Earth?" and "What temperature is the sun?" I can ask clarifying questions like, "On the surface of the sun, or in the center?" but regardless of how they answer, I have to say "Let's go ask Daddy." "Who was President before Barack Obama?" "Check with Daddy." "What does a jellyfish eat?" "Daddy can tell us."

"Roaring Tiger, Yelling Dragon"
I consider myself a patient person, tolerant of delays, incompetence, bureaucracy, and the many failings of others. It makes me a good teacher, a good employee, a good customer. But somehow our kids can short-circuit my patience, and if this happens at a stressful time or during one of the two times a month that I currently have my period, WATCH OUT. I can reduce the boys to tears without saying any actual words. "Mom, why are you roaring at us?" they weep, as I struggle to get the too-tight, too-round waterproof mattress pad onto Adrian's bed. "I'm not roaring at YOU, but I did roar, didn't I?" I sigh, as I gather their hot tearful selves onto my lap. "I'm sorry that scared you. I am not mad at YOU, but I AM feeling very mad."

"Plumpy Dumpling"
Smoky. Round and grey, he hurls himself up onto tables and bureaus like a crazed gopher, digging through our papers and spare change, dipping his paws in our water glasses and cereal. Also sometimes called "S**t Mittens" for his tendency to track stuff around on the carpet. "Smoky, get your s**t mittens out of my water glass. And by the way, There Is Not Enough Room There For You."

"Smidnight"
Midnight, a.k.a. The Bad Cat. Both hero and anti-hero. Able to flatten himself and stretch out like a snake on the end of the bed and sleep all night long. Also able to drag small creatures into the living room every few days.

Distract-o-mom

OK, so I'm writing this quick post because sitting down at the laptop and checking my facebook status reminded me that I haven't posted in a couple of days. Not a great track record for someone who just started a blog last week.

And I sat down at the laptop because I happened to be over at my desk, where I had come to get a Sharpie. Although first I had to find somewhere to put the screwdriver I picked up off the floor on the way here, because (A) it's somewhat of a hazard and (2) we'll never find it if Nathan (a.k.a. "The Vanisher") gets his hands on it.

I needed a Sharpie because I was going to consolidate the new half-dozen eggs with the previous half of the dozen carton, and wanted to differentiate the "now" eggs from the "later" eggs.

So once I found a place for the screwdriver, I had to shift some stuff to find a place to put the egg carton. Which uncovered the insurance card that I have to remember to put in the car sometime in the next three weeks. So I put that in my pocket, along with some Legos that should be dropped off upstairs in the boys' room.

And I decided I needed the Sharpie because I was unloading the groceries and was reminded once again how small and inefficient a storage unit our refrigerator is, so before I put each thing in I have to remove, discard, consolidate, rearrange.

But now it's 15 minutes later and I had forgotten not only the original goal of my coming over here, but several of the intermediate steps.

And then I had to pat the cat a little bit. He was digging in my "To File" box because he likes to be near me when I'm at my desk, and I can't be mad at him but I do want him off my desk. So I had to pat him before putting him down, which reminded me that we need to stop by the vet and get some more topical flea and tick treatment.

Which I knew the other day but then forgot to write it down on my To-Do list, which I am about to do now. OK, done.

Hey, where on earth did these six eggs come from?

Honesty is the ____ policy

From time to time, Nathan will beg for a sip of my coffee. If I concede, we have a little routine. He swishes it around between his teeth like mouthwash. I say, "Nathan, that's not mouthwash. It's coffee. Just swallow it, please." And he responds, "But Mom, I want to get the same color teef as you!"

Kids are brutally honest. When they tell you they love you, you can count on it. When they say they enjoyed the lunch you packed for school, they're being truthful. And when they tell you your teeth are yellow, you're 'bumpier' than a TV anchorwoman, or you smell like sweat, they're just calling it like they sense it.

Having been on the receiving end of a few of these observations this week, I started thinking about my responses and whether the behavior I'm modeling is enough to help the boys 'get' the social contract without having to lie outright. Here's one example.

"Mom, your arm is fat," said Nathan.
"Hmm. I feel a little sad that you said that."
"Why, Mom?"
"Because I'm proud of how strong I am. And when you say my arm is fat, it's hard to keep feeling proud of myself."
"I'm sorry. But your arm is still pretty fat."

And another, with a first grader who is not my own:

"You're fatter than my dad."
"Am I?"
(Hesitating.) "You're not really fatter..." (Looks more carefully at me, head to toe.) "No, actually, you are fatter."
"I think that's probably true." (He probably doesn't have a 240 pound deadlift, either, but... I'll keep that part to myself.)

So what do I do about this? If it's something directed at me -- bumpy skin, yellow teeth, jiggly parts -- I try to contain my own irritation, be glad that they're comfortable saying their truth, and gently condition them to be careful with other people's feelings. In our house, we know we're not perfect. So we don't typically point out other people's differences except in broad strokes (height, eye and hair color, age), and when the subject comes up -- who's fatter than whom in our family, who has more hair, who is older -- we try to be matter-of-fact about it. You know, the whole everyone-is-different spiel... at least for appearance a few degrees on either side of 'average'.

Where it gets my knickers in a twist is when we see someone who is further outside of the average: a person of restricted growth, someone in a wheelchair, someone missing limbs. Then I clench my jaw and offer up a prayer that Nathan won't shout out, "Look, Mom, he's so silly!" (as he did when he saw a man of short stature) or "Why does his face look like that?" (as he did when he saw a little boy with cystic fibrosis) or "When did that lady get so fat?" (as he did at the gas station yesterday).

I know my discomfort is about ME -- my embarrassment and awkwardness, my wishing to not make waves. Nathan is just a four-year-old asking a question. But it's still hard! If we're face to face with the person, I sometimes say to Nathan, "If you would like to ask a polite question, maybe he will answer it." If there isn't an opportunity -- and I'm certainly not going to chase someone down the sidewalk to let Nathan ask about her wheelchair -- I'll say quietly, "People all have different bodies. Would you like to know more about her condition?"

So we go through our days, getting ready to launch the kids into big-boyhood, hoping that we're giving them the tools they need to get the most out of their world. And if they can do it without hurting anyone's feelings along the way, I'll be a happy -- albeit yellow-toothed, bumpy, and fat-armed -- woman.

Under the influence

I realized something yesterday. This should probably not have come as such a surprise, and it's not like we shelter the boys from the world or anything. But I didn't quite 'get' this until just now: our children are, from now on, going to be influenced by others almost as much as they are influenced by us.

It came up for us on the occasion of Midnight (the Bad Cat) bringing a mole into the house. The cats have 'outside adventure' a few times a day, and if I'm feeling lazy, I'll just leave the slider open while I'm doing laundry or paying bills or whatever. And yes, I continue to do this even after the snakes, birds, and chipmunks that have been brought in. Let's just leave why a mystery for now.

Yesterday, the Bad Cat brought in a small black mole. I saw the cat put it down, but I wasn't quite quick enough to nab it before it squoze itself in between the hutch and the dining room wall. This is an impossible piece of furniture to move even with two people, and there is just a half-inch gap on either side so I couldn't even get a broom handle in there to scootch the thing out again. So Nathan and I put the Bad Cat back outside, and went out to get a Havahart trap.

When I got home with the boys and the trap a little later, I realized my mistake: we had put out the Bad Cat, but not the Slightly Less Bad Cat. He -- Smoky -- had lurked nearby until the mole ventured back out, grabbed it and presumably played with it for a good long time. It was on its last legs as I picked it up, and I held its little body gently until it died a few minutes later. (FYI, moles are actually really cute close up -- no visible ears or eyes, a long pink nose, out-sized hands and feet for digging, fine white whiskers and soft black fur. I don't know if they have teeth, but it didn't bite me while I held it, so maybe not.)

Anyway, getting back to the matter of influence.

As the mole died, Adrian (a recent first grader, not quite six) said "Oh, Mom... Did it pass over?"

"Yes, Bunny, I'm afraid it did. It was probably so hurt and afraid from when the cats had it that it just couldn't stay alive."

"Poor little mole. It was just having its little life and now it's gone."

Pass over is not a term our family uses. It must have come from his teacher, Mrs. S., who last week truthfully answered the class's question about her own mother by explaining when and how she died. I'm guessing she used the term, and once Adrian said it, I had to explain it to Nathan too. (I just said that some people use that term for when a living thing dies, whether they think it's going to Heaven, being reincarnated, or just changing back into dirt.)

Hearing Adrian use a completely foreign term gave me a bit of a poignant moment. I'm so used to him being a smaller version of us, with our turns of phrase, our jokes, our interests, our family vocabulary.

I won't say goodbye to him yet, of course. But I'll try to be aware that we're not his only teachers any more -- and support and encourage him as he forms his own relationships in the world.

Ms. Understanding

"Oh no, Mom, a spider!" cries Nathan.

We've just gotten into the parked car after supper with friends at Pearl's Phatburger downtown.

"What? Where?" I fret, flailing around. I am not fond of spiders even at a distance, and the only phrase I've heard in Marin that includes distance and spider links them with "between you and the nearest" and concludes with "is never more than 14 inches."

"Dere, Mom, look dere!" he yells, pointing toward the windshield.

I try to change my focus, certain now it's actually in my purse instead of on the dashboard. "I still don't see it! Is it inside?"

"It's flashing red!" he insists, beginning to be frantic himself.

"Oh good Lord!" I do a quick mental inventory of my Venomous Spiders of the World files, even though I know very few of them live in California. "Wait a second --" I say, noticing the parking meter at last. "Do you mean the meter?"

"Yes, Mom, it's ekspidered!" he says, glad that I finally stopped being such an idiot.

My heart rate returning to normal, we pull away and I explain about the hours of operation and our local 6:00 p.m. cutoff.

I often imagine how frustrating it must be for a child -- infant to, say, 25 years -- to have things to say, yet to lack the ability or the right words to say them. This has been a personal bugbear of mine from childhood to the present day, actually: the ability to say my truth. Ask Dean -- even with therapy, it can take several days between a bugging event and my ability to say that I was bugged. And I'm MUCH better than before! Just call me Ms. Understanding.

We can give kids some of the tools they need, help them make connections between concepts and the terms that describe them, and then we need to listen hard. But even then, it seems to me that our experiences outpace our ability to describe them.

There is not enough room there for you

With two kids under 6 and two cats under 2 at our house, we repeat several phrases over and over again these days. Here is a partial list, and if Dean reads it, he probably won't feel so far away from us on his current business trip. In fact, he may want to extend it a couple of days.

I love you, Daddy/Mom/Sweetie. 'Nuff said.

There is not enough room there for you. Typically directed at Smoky, the plumper of the two cats, who will screw himself down into a tight wheezing ball between my shoulder and my ear and the headboard no matter now much acreage is free on the bed. Smoky also gets into boxes, drawers, laundry baskets, toy bins, and kitchen cabinets.

Use your "I" message. I started hearing that in Kindergarten last year, and adopted it for home use with both boys. It took me a while to figure out that the counselor wasn't saying "eye message", so for a few weeks last September I pictured all the little kids waggling their eyebrows and looking meaningly at each other. But by saying "I don't like it when..." or "I wanted you to..." or "I wish that...", the kids realize that they, as much as the 'other', can be responsible for how an interaction goes.

Don't bite my leg. Also cat-focused, this time at Midnight who, in his eagerness to get outside in the morning, does a kind of arch-rub-meow-bite maneuver against which Dean (usually in his bathrobe holding a pot of boiling water) is powerless to defend himself. Once I said it to the cat within Adrian's hearing, and Adrian absently replied, "I won't, Mom." Midnight also chews the aglets off my sneaker laces every week or two. We think both cats -- rescue animals chosen on Nathan's third birthday -- were weaned too early.

Please put your shoes on. "Your shoes. They're right there. Put them on your feet, please. Put. Your. Shoes. ON. Eitherputthemonorpickthemup and go to the car RIGHT NOW, [expletive deleted]." We shift between natural and logical consequences as the situation warrants. A logical consequence of not putting on your shoes might be, say, not getting to use the iPhone in the car. A natural consequence would be having cold, wet, uncomfortable feet, and probably not being allowed into school. Which would then involve me having to deliver shoes anyway, plus a bunch of extra unhappiness on all fronts. So we usually take the logical route in this case.

(There is a great deal to say about logical vs. natural consequences, mostly about how the natural consequences are the ones I prefer but that as a responsible parent, you can't just let the child find out that when you put a metal skewer into an electrical outlet, you get shocked and possibly burn down the house whose wiring was questionable to begin with. That's a good subject for a future post. Plus we can talk about how, although I am a very loving parent, I'm totally not on board with 'playful parenting' and don't think every single transition in our lives should be made into a fun game.)

I am never going to be your friend! Usually boy-to-boy, sometimes boy-to-parent. Used to bug me, but it blows over so quickly that I've learned to say, "I hear that you're upset/angry/frustrated/disappointed about this. What would you like to do, talk about it together or spend some quiet time?" Although when coupled with hitting or throwing something, it's usually "I hear that you're having strong feelings, but we do not hit/throw things. You need to have some quiet time now," and then comes the carrying and the waily waily waily. I am not sure how much the boys will weigh in their mid-teens, but I am training hard so I will still be able to carry them to their bedroom as the situation requires.

Can I do something on your i-F-O-N? Adrian is learning to S-P-L, and spells things out for us all the T-I-M. We haven't hitherto counted iPhone time against the kids' overall screen time, and although I do try to engage them in conversation and thinking games in the car every day, sometimes it's more peaceful when they're occupied.

Here, Mom! A warning to anyone who might ride in a car with our children some day: think twice before you blindly reach behind you to take whatever object or substance may accompany this phrase. You may find yourself with a piece of chewed gum, a handful of wet cracker, or worse.

I love you, Sweetie! Come home soon.

Only in front of other people

The other day I was at Paradise Foods, getting a couple of side dishes to take to a BBQ later in the day. One was an edamame salad, on the presumption that everyone in Mill Valley eats edamame. And a friend had introduced me to an 'arugula and corn' salad (odd, as the main ingredient is barley) that was a big hit at my in-laws' house, and I wanted to get something similarly healthful and yummy to take to this other friend's shindig.

The nice lady packing my salads remarked, "Boy, you're sure eating healthy!"

"Only in front of other people," I quipped.

"Ha, ha," she said.

"Ha, ha!" I said. "But seriously, I'm getting the potatoes with bacon for my own house tomorrow. And the cole slaw, heavy on the sour cream. The two salads are for a friend's party -- they're really just for show."

This is a good way to get a laugh out of people in fancy grocery stores here in Marin, or they shake their heads. Or sometimes they just look blank. Not that I go around saying it every minute, but every few weeks in a fit of self-deprecation I'll defend myself against imagined scorn by joking about how I get my Lucky Charms at odd hours because there's less chance that I'll run into one of the boys' teachers. Or about how I'll take the kids for fast food once or twice a month, but I won't let them eat inside. (Totally ridiculous because the only people I'd meet inside McDonald's are other perfectly normal people who eat there.) Or about how I sent plastic vegetables to Kindergarten in Adrian's lunchbox once because he doesn't eat the real ones, and I got tired of throwing all that great produce away after a couple of days of it being being carried back and forth to school.

I'm sure I'm imagining the judging looks in the checkout lines. Because as long as we're raising strong, healthy, bright kids who get enough sleep, exercise regularly, and brush their teeth, who cares if they drink a root beer from time to time? Or that they go through phases of eating only Cheerios, or string cheese, or bacon?

Me, I guess. And I hope nobody's watching now as I let them say no thank you to their salad ("Well, you know Daddy and I like when you try new things") and eat only a few bites of chicken. At least they're drinking their milk.

Only they just spilled the milk on the carpet while they were playing a 'strongest finger' game, so I guess this post is finished too.

Three is the new Six

Our older child started first grade a couple of weeks ago. We love his teacher already. Mrs. S. is smart, witty and consistent; she provides a good balance of incentives and consequences; and, most importantly for me, she helped the children to set a class contract so that they can get the most out of their year together. She gives them a sense of accountability for their own behaviors and choices that will serve them well.

Mrs. S. is also organized and communicates regularly with parents. Each week she has sent home materials that describe the curriculum, plans for the upcoming week, and in some cases, developmental insights to help put first graders' mood swings and physiology into perspective.

This past week, the flyer was called "Growing Up / Grade 1, Week 1". It led with a sweet poem from A.A. Milne's 1927 poetry collection, Now We Are Six.

Now I Am Six
When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three,
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am SIX
I'm clever as clever,
So I think I'll stay SIX
for ever and ever!

That's a lovely sentiment, and brings back nice memories. But A.A. Milne obviously spent very little time with my children.

My kids had just begun at about 4 weeks; were still nearly new at about 2 months; and were hardly me by 3 months. By the time they could see beyond the stroller edges and hold their heads up, they were already firmly themselves. And once they were three -- even APPROACHING three -- fuggetaboudit. They were articulate, self-aware, determined, opinionated, and passionate. Poor impulse control, sure. Still running with bent arms like a baby T.Rex, sure. Having accidents, messing stuff up, learning to hold a pencil, and looking to Mom and Dad for comfort and security, yes. But 'hardly me'? No way.

And now that they are in pre-K and first grade, our boys are firmly on their way, guided often by adults who know that having your own voice is great, and that it is also important to acknowledge the social contract: share, don't hurt others, be kind, teach when you can. That's our job now as parents, I believe -- to recognize who our children are and let them be themselves whenever possible.

It's great that we know enough to listen to our children today. That we honor their little personalities and opinions even before they learn to speak. That our kids will grow up able to say their truths and claim their share of control in a new world.

Boys, we may get aggravated a lot, but please continue to be yourselves. We hear you, and love who you are.

Be sure to get my good side

I love pictures taken by my children. Whether it's the low perspective, the complete candor of the moment, or the sneaky timing, the images are immediate and honest. And who doesn't need a bunch of pictures of boobs and nostrils? The boys even, in their charity, shake the camera body and smear the lens with butter, the better to blur my edges.

This one -- a shot I've used for half a year, to various ends -- was taken as I leaned in to buckle someone into a car seat. New haircut, decent lighting, no double chin! And the timing was perfect: immediately after this, I stood up too quickly and slammed my head into the door frame, scratching my sunglasses and driving the nose piece deep into my scalp. Good thing my Canon Digital Elph has a built-in profanity-reduction filter.

Some of us are not cut out for photography, and some are. My husband, for instance, has a wonderful sense of composition and timing, the patience and passion for gear research, and near-perfect recall for the uses of all buttons and levers. Plus he is part Luddite, part Gadget Guru, and embraces the full spectrum from large format film to cutting-edge digital. But me? Give me a pocket-sized point-and-shoot and I'll guarantee that one out of every hundred pictures is worth sharing with my mom.

And now, having surmounted the first two obstacles of blogging -- naming and profile picture selection -- I'll shut this one down early.