Good Friends

You can tell someone is a good friend when you hardly notice you’ve just run/walked 3 miles around a lake in the rain.

For starters, it would be much simpler to call for a rain out with a lesser friend. They’d say, “No problem. I understand. We’ll do it another time. Yeah – rain in Seattle in October – who would have known?” Good friends have a way of not letting you off the hook quite so easily. They can discern if you really are, in fact, under the weather or if you just woke up, saw the rain and decided to eat a cinnamon roll. Good friends are dialed in when we offer up lame excuses. And they know just the right mix of persuasion, guilt, and the silent treatment to get us up off the couch.

The other thing is that the run/walk concept would not work so well with just an acquaintance. You have to know someone well to be totally at ease in saying “I…NEED…MUST…WALK!” at any moment and not be self conscious if those moments happen frequently. A good friend also knows how to read your hyperventilation cues -- when it’s time to pick up the conversation baton and when it’s OK to pass it back. What’s more, good friends get when it’s important to be doing the “run” part of the run/walk. Like when you have an opportunity to pass large groups of people. Or when someone over 60 passes you. Or when a Starbucks is within line of sight. Lesser friends might make the mistakes of suggesting a second lap around the lake to continue talking. But friends who know you well understand that’s what Starbucks or next time is for.

Conversations just flow with good friends. You could be talking about you child’s sleeping habits, in one moment, skip over to the grave water shortage in Atlanta in the next breath, and then jump to the topic of a new diet idea that involves more sex. All done completely seamlessly. No awkward transitions. No need to explain how or when topics shifted. And, because you’re not talking to husbands or children, repeating yourself is also not necessary. Time is precious for all people, particularly mothers, and so the best friendships are the ones where you can skip over the niceties, get to the meaty stuff, and then rapid fire through as many topics as possible in 90 minutes. The best moms can also do this while making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I think most Moms would say there are days when you wish you could switch your role as a work-at-home or work-out-of-the-home Mom. Having a good friend for honest discourse about this never-ending internal debate helps a lot. That debate has a way of quieting down – at least momentarily – when you share in the successes and failures of a friend living your opposite life. On the last run/walk, my dear friend Cory was able to vicariously live through me as I shared some recent office successes. Because of her eagerness to hear all the details, I didn’t feel the need to self edit or tone down my enthusiasm. And just like your own Mom would do, she stroked my ego -- telling me she wasn’t surprised. And then asked me what my plans were to ask for a raise and promotion.

Likewise, I was able to live vicariously through her as she shared her and her husband’s strategy for teaching their kids about some core family values. The “5 Star Plan” is reviewed regularly at dinnertime and even has some visual aids posted around the house. (Overachievers can find a use for Powerpoint skills both in and out of the house.) Instead of feeling immediately inadequate about my own core value family plan, I was 100% inspired to shamelessly copy the idea.

It’s also great to have a friend that is hip enough to want a pair of “f**** me” shoes (um, just repeating how they’re known in fashion circles). These shoes I learned are basically heels with an ambitious arch, a hellacious heel (I guess you could say – heelacious), and preferably in a can’t-me-miss-color like red. Until my recent trip around the lake, I had no idea what they were or when one would find an occasion to wear them. Since my dates nights with my husband are infrequent and I’m challenged already with a mini boot heel, I don’t think I’ll pursue a pair of my own – but man do I respect having a 40 year old friend that could totally pull it off and look good doing it. And, if I’m ever brave enough to change my mind – if even just for practice around the house, I know where to find a pair to borrow.

Thanks to all my dear women friends for making life that much more than it already is.

Middle School is Coming

What do you drink before a marathon?
Lots of running water.

Why did the ghost go to the game?
To boo the umpire.

What happens to a quarterback who eats too much?
He becomes a fullback.

Which of Santa’s reindeer is a track star?
100-yard Dasher.

Which baseball team also takes care of sick animals?
The New York Vets.

That’s 4th grade boy humor in a nutshell. Simple. Pure. 100% Family Circus. Slightly over the head of a 4 ½ year old desperate to understand what’s so funny but more than willing to accept that it is. Somewhat painful to anyone past puberty, particularly those living under the same roof with the 4th grader and his jokebook. Chuckling at the punch line however is critical; otherwise, it will be repeated until confirmation is received that you’ve actually heard it. Or without a laugh, you might be inviting back the “poopyhead” days where reactions were guaranteed.

If the truth be told, I remember getting excited when I started to understand that words could have double meanings. Excuse me a minute as I think of a good excuse for why I am up so late writing this post. It’s just that I’m not yet content with the content of this post. (I’ll stop that now.) As I have aged, I realize that the universe of words with double meanings is even larger than I had originally imagined. Take for instance the word, shop (v). To a female, to shop is to browse, try on, purchase multiple items, try on again, and finally return something. To a male, to shop is to enter and exit a store in under ten minutes.

So why was the baseball player’s mother happy?

So why was the baseball player’s mother happy? (second attempt)

Because her son reached home safely! And because her son was not the one overhead during a recent carpool saying, “Say rubber buns and liquor fast after everything I say …. What did you have for breakfast? What did you have for lunch… What do you do when you see a cute girl?”

AHHHHH!, middle school is almost here! And middle school is NOT 100% Family Circus. I’m so not ready for this. I’m not ready for crude jokes that my son doesn’t yet understand, particularly ones that are at the expense of another person. I’m not ready to make more judgments about when to speak up, and when to simply let things run their course. I’m not ready to be unpopular with his friends, or worse yet, an embarrassment to him. I know that there will be more whispered voices, private chuckling, and closed doors in the future. The iPod will leave it’s docking station and move into my son’s ear. I know that we will soon be entering a stage when my advice will be sought less often, and my opinions challenged more frequently. Other voices will start becoming louder in my son’s ear, and so my hope is that we’ve said and done enough that the voice he attends to most consistently is his own.

Until then, I will try to laugh even more heartily at Santa’s track star reindeer, 100-yard Dasher.

A Happy Home Needs Kleenex

My parents take care of my nephew Josh one day a week. In preparation for their weekly visit, my sister likes to stock her house with some of my parent’s favorite goodies. It’s her way of saying thank you. My way is to move the dishes into the sink and find the TV remote just before they arrive for babysitting duty. Both are appreciated. As is the on-time “Happy Anniversary!” card from my sister compared to my four-days-late phone call. Not surprisingly, only one of us has any idea when “Grandparents Day” is.

Recently my sister told me that my Dad had made one small request for their next visit. He wondered if it might be possible to get a box of Kleenex. Like me, my sister has embraced toilet paper as a completely adequate tissue replacement. With special provisions allowed only for the most severe of colds (repeated blowing and raw skin variations). Paper towels could also be used in a pinch. But a regular everyday supply of Kleenex? Never.

It hadn’t dawned on either of us that maybe it was slightly uncouth to send our family members and house guests to the bathroom to blow their nose. It certainly wasn’t a targeted effort to exhibit boorish manners, or even a veiled attempt at conservation – more like a complete oversight on WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO. The typical home that plans to have visitors should include running water, heat, a bottle opener, maybe a grill, but certainly a $1.59 box of Kleenex. Some chairs would also be good. [The normal home probably also doesn’t have condoms lying around under every seat cushion, but my husband maintains that the desire for spontaneity coupled with the need to prevent a fourth child is more important than just about anything else. So if you visit our home, please don’t go looking underneath the couch. That might be even more awkward than sending you to the bathroom for scratchy toilet paper.]

I digress, but it still defies expectation how both my sister and I have maintained a Kleenex-free home. We grew up in a home with a never-ending supply of Kleenex. It was a staple. Found in every room. And not just the cheap stuff, but the good multi-ply super soft kind. I’m sure we were one of the first to get Kleenex with Lotion when it came out. So, either my sister and I share an uncommon insensitivity to sandpaper on our nose or this represents a twisted form of repressed rebellion against a lifetime of an overabundance of tissue.

Regardless, we are now committed to making Kleenex a part of our happy homes. I plan to include it on my next stock up (actually purchased a 10 pack today at Costco) and hope that my Dad notices and tells me he is proud. In spite of this, I have no plans to stock up on Rueben sandwiches or Ding Dongs. Because that would mean I was trying to compete with my sister for my parent’s affection. I would never do that – at least not so brazenly. I also have questionable self-control where Ding Dongs are present. In fact, it’s a long and sordid history with the Ding Dong and the rest of the Hostess family.

While happy to be on our way to tissue recovery, I fear that my sister and I have much more work to do on our “half-pour” habit. Most commonly observed when pouring orange juice, my sister and I learned at a young age that orange juice was expensive and therefore not to be squandered and that full glasses of anything had greater potential for spillage. So began our years of pouring only a half a glass of juice – for yourself or anyone else. That was something we definitely got from our mother – probably even passed down from her mother - and so it’s difficult to overcome. It may also explain why all the women in my family are challenged with finishing a full bottle of water. Although we are exceptionally good at carrying half drunk water bottles from room to room. Our brother on the other hand took a different path. He took the 7-Eleven road which says that every pour should be at least 32 ounces.

Observing habits that you share with your siblings is intensely amusing. It reminds you of years of bonding and shared experiences, some of which are deep and others just a little whacky.

A Change in Plan

One of the things that most parents learn early on is that only bad things can come from abrupt changes to the game plan. Unless it involves a visit to see baby elephants or Ben & Jerry’s, most kids - particularly ones that are less flexible and slightly deficient in frustration tolerance - really don’t like to be taken by surprise. Preschoolers especially seem to have a knack for locking in on “the plan.” Any hope to shift their thinking requires a great deal of pre-emptive parental intervention and patience.

The same kind of patience it took to grow out your bangs for the first time. Only now, it takes repetition not barrettes for reinforcement. Creative thinking in place of hair gels with mega hold. And when things get really ugly (and the headband used to be your only fallback solution) use this instead: “ASK DADDY WHY THE PLAN CHANGED!”

Brett recently missed the pre-emptive parental intervention step. Instead of the normal routine of dropping Colin off at preschool at 9am, Brett had to change up the plan. The new plan involved dropping Colin off at his BEST FRIEND’s house at 8:30, heading across town to drop Lawton (and all his stuff) off at Grandma’s house by 9:00, and then busting it downtown to make a 9:30 meeting (showered and not in shorts for a change). Way more coordination than is required of me by 9:30am at the office.

So conventional wisdom might expect that a bonus 30 minutes at one’s BEST FRIEND’s house would be the cause of great delight. But then you would not be thinking like a focused preschooler who missed the all important parental set-up. Kind of like a computer who has trouble working with more than one application open at a time.
So the car meltdown ensued and Colin refused to get out the car. First there was wailing. Then there was prodding. Then there was pounding on the steering wheel. No baby elephant could have moved this boy. And so Brett waited. But the tears did not stop and so Brett did what we often have to do as parents, he got out the hair gel with mega hold.

He drove around to kill time until school opened. After several laps around a traffic circle, making grunting noises in lieu of profanity, he arrived at school roughly 7 1/2 minutes before 9am. Just early enough to say with surprise "Oh, we’re early today" but not too early to reveal the true desperation for early childcare assistance. After that, he raced across town to make the Lawton drop. Managing the drop off in ninety seconds, he made it to his downtown meeting by 9:32 thanks to some strategically timed speeding and a visitor friendly parking lot.

So when our friend Ellen mentioned last week that she was suggesting a change to our regular Sunday Supper kid routine, we knew that we needed to take immediate action. Instead of the normal routine of feeding the 9 kids first, then plopping them in front of a movie while the 8 adults ate (a very reliable and grown up friendly routine) … Ellen decided to mix up the plan with an after dinner craft activity that involved hammers. Hammers and lots of boys.

We sat Colin down on Thursday to explain the new plan – a plan that did not involve Scoobey-Doo or an animated talking animal. It was immediately met with some resistance, until hammers were mentioned and we confirmed the dessert plan remained intact. The luminarie project turned out to be a great success for all participants last night. The only slight issue that came up had to do with Colin wanting his luminarie on "all night long" in his room. Baby steps.

As I’ve been considering this whole issue of warning, I’ve actually been thinking about how much we as adults still require it ourselves. And, how even with it, it still often isn't enough to keep the crankiness at bay.

For example, even though I’ve had many life experiences to tell me that laptops not plugged in to an electric socket will, in fact, use and drain my battery and even though Microsoft was kind enough to put a batter indicator in my system tray for status, I still curse my laptop every time it shuts down “unexpectedly”. Doesn’t it know when I’m right in the middle of something very important?

Or, even more illustrative, I have gotten no less than a dozen emails over the past several weeks telling me that my 2008 benefits are changing. While I have acknowledged this truth, I guarantee that when I finally log in to enroll this week I will freak out about my new premiums. Because even with the warning, I can't stop long enough to really grock the inevitable disappointment and hit to my pocketbook that I know is just around the corner.

And so, I fully expect to not get out of the proverbial car for awhile -- or click accept on my new benefits enrollment -- without first doing a little dog and pony show in the privacy of my office. After that, I just may treat myself to a little Ben & Jerry's.

Smart People

I thank God for the mind he has given me, but more and more I’m starting to see what sets the truly smart people apart from the rest of us.

For one, I don’t think the smart people are tempted to click on links that say: “Singer Bobby Brown has heart attack.” Because why on earth would someone who’s intelligent care about a man who was never fit to be Whitney’s husband in the first place. (For those who do however, it was a mild heartache caused by stress but he is home now resting and in great spirits.) I know for myself, celebrity and entertainment news has taken up some of the space that could have potentially been used for quantum physics (or at least the capacity to spell it all by my own self.)

I also don’t think that smart people flip through an issue of “The Economist” looking to read as many of the short articles as they can get through in twenty minutes so that they can feel “productive” with their reading time. I fear that I have instilled in my own son the drive to quantify one’s reading. When asked about the book he’s currently reading, his typical reply is “I’m on page 112, only 40 pages left.” The difference however is that he can sustain his reading without the need for potty, chapstick, or snack breaks to stay awake. The last time I read more than 100 pages in one sitting I was on vacation fueled by twelve hours of sleep and several cookies.

The other thing I’m realizing is that smart people think deeply much of the time. I was noticing this recently getting off a plane. There was a man in the row next to me who had spent the entire flight earnestly studying a thick document that was a) clearly work related, b) in a font size that doesn’t agree with me and c) absent of any pictures, graphics, or cute emoticons. Totally not my kind of document. I on the other hand was doing serious work on digesting my texas barbeque lunch without giving myself away. Once my gastrointestinal track was clear, I managed to make it through the last 50 (!!!) pages of my David Sedaris book. Pleased with the accomplishment of having finished my 10th book of they year (because I am totally counting), I rewarded myself by taking a snooze.

While we were waiting to disembark, this same man – now with aforementioned thick document packed away – still looked deep in thought. He had the kind of expression on his face that said “not only are the two hemispheres of my brain interconnected and communicating, but they are also operating at full capacity and should not be interrupted by needless airplane chatter or conversation.” To ask “So is this your first time in Seattle?” seemed like it might threaten all of our chances to find out if time travel is physically or logically possible. Because this was a brain that was clearly working on something that important.

As I considered this man, I reflected on what was had been going on in my own mind. The predominant thought was whether or not the man in front of me was aware that his hair was completely sticking up in a million different directions having slept the entire flight – and then guessing the odds of whether he would notice and take action or if he didn’t what his wife might say when he got home. My mind then drifted to thinking about where on earth I parked my car and then remembering that I didn’t actually drive my car and then wondering if cab drivers took credit cards and then debating on whether I should just stop and get cash but then realizing that I wasn’t sure I remembered my bank pin code and then worrying that if they didn’t take credit cards that maybe I would be stuck unless the cab driver was nice enough to drive me home and then let me write him a check and then my Blackberry buzzed and I thought about not checking it because I really needed to focus on how I was going to ask the cab driver this question but then I am completely addicted to my Blackberry and I couldn’t resist it’s call and it turned out to be a good idea because I got an email from a colleague who was on another flight that was arriving at the same time and who unlike me had remembered that I didn’t have a car and offered to drive me home which was so great because then I could stop thinking about the whole cab dilemma and get back to the important business of the man with the unfortunate hair situation.

Watching this man was a signal to me that maybe I could use these “downtime moments” to better exercise my brain capacity. So I started to run through multiplication facts to get the synapses moving and pledged to read and ponder more. Even to read the stuff in small font. And especially the stuff I don’t understand or agree with entirely.

Tonight I did a google search on “smart people” and found a link titled “Why Smart People have Bad Ideas” and another that said “Smart People Believe Weird Things.” It was getting late and so I didn’t want to take the time to actually read the articles (I was already all filled up with my reading quotient for the night), but just seeing the headlines made me feel better. I’m sure if I looked further I would have found something about intelligence and wisdom – and about how much better it is to be wise. I also bet I might have stumbled on an article about a man who was sitting on an airplane runway who was close but did NOT actually solve the mystery of time travel due to an inopportune distraction regarding a seriously messed up head of hair.

Reunion

Half of the 1992 grads. I failed to get a picture of the other half. Or a picture that didn't chop off the heads of the top two rows.

So Brett and I recently went back to the Chicago area for our 15 year college reunion. My writing about the weekend has been a bit delayed because of a work trip last week that immediately followed the reunion. One would think that one would have more time to write while on the road, but my work trip involved long hours as a booth babe at an executive offsite meeting. There are many perks to being a booth babe – like the all you can eat mints and not having to decide what to wear (the up side of the company sweater) – but extra free time is generally not one of those perks. So when off the booth clock, I was either catching up on my day job, hanging out with my fellow booth compatriots, or sleeping (quite well I might add) in my heavenly bed.

The reunion was a blast. Brett and I had a fabulous time seeing old friends, making new ones, and traversing the paths where our love first bloomed. (I can’t wait until Brett reads that line.) So by all accounts it was a complete success, but here are a few of the things that didn’t happen:

1) I did not get mistaken for a student. And for the record, neither did my youthful looking husband. Not that I expected that to be the case, but I also didn’t think that the college students would look so shockingly close in age to my nine year old son. I know the math suggests that college students are in fact closer in age to my son than to me, but he is still my baby and not able to walk more than three blocks away by himself yet. Naturally, the thought of him thousands of miles away living in dorm squalor with a mind entirely his own is much more than I can bear at this moment.

2) I did not feel guilty about leaving my children at home. They were happy, we were happy. We were actually deliriously happy. We had no one tugging on our sleeves to hurry up a conversation, no one asking us when we could go play baseball, and only one person who still wanted more real food after the dinner was over.

3) I did not run. Though I did bring three running outfits anticipating a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday early morning run. I love the hope that I had in myself that without a child waking me up at 6:30am that I would actually choose to get up out of bed and start my day before I had to. Instead, I got up at 10am every morning and felt completely at peace with my slothfulness.

4) I did not revert back to my freshmen year habit of ordering the chili and cheese nachos followed by the mint chip ice cream as my afternoon snack. My roommate Julie and I are still recovering from the horror of hearing that the basketball team used to call us the “freshmen fifteen duo.” We know this to be factual because Brett was on the basketball team and because we spent large amounts of time in the cafeteria lamenting the fact that nobody was asking us out.



Brett and Julie talking over the "freshmen fifteen duo" comments.

5) I was at the football game, but never actually saw the football field. The infield was buzzing with people to talk to that by the 4th quarter I was all done talking and needed someone to start tugging on my sleeve so that I could go take a people break. Thankfully, my friend Sarah came to the rescue and we ventured to the bookstore to use the new 20% discount we were now eligible for as fifteen year grads. So although I didn’t see any of the football game, I did see the $400,000 new video scoreboard that was apparently funded by some generous parents. These must have been the same parents who had missed the fact that the crumbling down football field restrooms looked to be months away from mandatory closure due to hazardous conditions. The Wheaton THUNDER sound effects sure did sound sweet on the video scoreboard, just plan to hold your pee.

6) I did not call anyone by the wrong name or make any known inappropriate comments. I had a doozey of an inappropriate comment at the ten year reunion which I was intent on not repeating. It turns out that bringing the eight pound yearbook along with us (me) to study before the Friday night event paid off well in the name department. I did accidentally mistake one women’s daughter for a boy, but it was from the back and so by all accounts would not be deemed a faux pax.

7) I did not even try to compete. You hear that people are often trying to one up each other during reunions with their personal and professional accomplishments. Yeah, well, given that some of my classmates are CEOs, others are championing causes around the world, and others are doing things like giving a year out of their lives to work as a nurse in Iraq – you start to understand just how small your own contribution is. While in some situations that realization might discourage me, I actually felt energized just hearing people humbly share about their life’s work. Besides there was probably only a handful of people that wouldn’t have fled the scene immediately had I started the conversation with this, “Well, I recently put together a really great marketing plan for a new wireless product ….”

8) I did not scold my husband for being a lame Reunion committee member. Turns out he wasn’t the only one. The Reunion committee was actually two women – Shayne and Katie – who managed to pull off the entire weekend without a hitch and without much help. I did however scold my husband when he failed to remember that not only was I involved in an on campus organization during our senior year, but that I was actually the Chairwoman of the organization. “Ohh, sorry, he said … I guess you were.” I wonder how that would play if I told him I momentarily forgot that he was on the basketball team. I got over it quickly though because we were enjoying rekindling our college romance.



Brett and his basketball coach, Coach Harris, and friend Nate

9) I did not get any good pictures. For as much as I love taking pictures, I completely failed in capturing the moments of the weekend. And not for lack of having my camera handy – I lugged that thing around with me the entire weekend, but I rarely used it and when I did, I seemed to miss the whole idea of candid shots. But for the record, here are the few photos I did get …



Becky thinking about whether her tube top needs to be pulled up again or not



Tess, Sarah, and Steph at dinner looking radiant



Me, Steph, and her new son Johnny!



Crowd of people + Steph who sees my camera!



Me, Janna (who had just done a triatholon!), and Julie at dinner



A good shot of the backs of people + Carolyn listening intently



Me and Julie + Katie and daughter Phoebe in the background

Jelly Bellies

A couple of Christmases ago, I splurged and bought Quinn the Playmobil Airport set. Not because he had been jonesing for it or because he loved Playmobil or airplanes, but because I had determined that he needed to work on his building skills. (It was also in a very large box that would make for an impressive Santa delivery.)

Within this box contained a movable elevator, baggage carousel, control tower, passengers, staff, even a customs officer and dozens of tiny plastic potted plants. I’m not sure what the piece count was, but I do know that it was significantly more than the number of the pieces included with my Cuisinart. It also looked like enough pieces to occupy several hours on December 26th so that I could enjoy some pleasure reading. What I didn’t anticipate however is that this new *fun* building project would require not just the full time involvement of an adult, but also the dexterity of a dentist and the patience of someone who is not me. By the time the airport was finally put together and ready for play, Quinn had lost interest and it was time for dinner.

We kept the airport assembled on the dining room table for several days (I wanted to make sure that this labor of love was on full display), but there’s only so much you can do with a play airport that for all it’s hundreds of pieces didn’t actually include any airplanes. Since then, the $60 Playmobil Airport has largely remained in the toy cabinet. I’ve insisted that all the pieces stay together and have even bought a special plastic tub from Storables to make that possible. I continue to hope that someone, sometime will enjoy snapping tiny plastic potted plants around the check-in counter. I tried to resurrect it when Colin turned four because he loves airplanes. While I was wrestling with where to attach the computer terminal in the control tower and throwing in a couple of expletives for good measure – Colin had already built his own multi-room runway with pillows and cardboard boxes and was busy flying his fleet of airplanes to Boston and Hawaii. So no need for the customs officer?

I now think of that Playmobil set every time I set foot in a toy store. I remind myself that my kids don’t need all the plastic stuff to have fun, that sometimes/oftentimes it’s the small things that bring them the greatest joy. And a little sugar doesn’t hurt either.

On a recent trip to Costco, Brett happened down the candy isle and decided to pick up a $10 super sized jar of jelly bellies. At first blush, I thought this was a mistake. After all, my husband
hasn’t had a carbonated soda in decades, nor has he ever shared a box of Hot Tamales with me. He’s the guy who knew about high fructose corn syrup before Dr Oz, and who is visibly burdened by white flour and anything other than plain non-fat organic yogurt. So the jelly bellies were naturally a surprise, but one that has brought incredible amounts of delight to our boys.

In addition to being the perfect after dinner treat because of the inherent ability to ration (look like a hero on a 15 jelly belly night!), do you know that there are 49 different flavors in this jar of jelly bellies? And do you know what mystery there is in trying to figure out just what jelly belly goodness awaits with each one that is popped into your mouth? Or what kind of trades you can make with your younger brother to try to pawn off a buttered popcorn jelly belly? We have spent hours laughing and ribbing each other during these jelly belly evenings. We have played games. We have ordered and reordered our favorite flavors. And we have found uneaten strawberry cheesecake jelly bellies (the least favorite on everyone’s list) throughout the house.

My favorite moment was when Colin ate his first Licorice jelly belly and exclaimed, “Mom, mom – this one tastes like FENNEL!” That’s right people, my four year old knew the taste of fennel before he knew the taste of licorice. I felt incredible pride at this moment knowing that I had shaped my son’s palette to know a vegetable before a candy flavor. What a good and righteous Mom I am, I thought.

As I was basking in these thoughts, the conversation somehow turned to college. A couple of minutes into the conversation, Quinn looked over at Colin and said, “Colin, do you know what college is?” To which Colin immediately replied, “Of course, Quinn … college is where people play basketball.”

Maybe not so righteous.

Creating His Own Style

He prefers his loose and comfortable. No shirt. With blanket.

1 Year Letter to Lawton

Dear Lawton,

Happy birthday! You turned one year old this weekend. Colin had been counting down the days to your birthday for over a month. He has been obsessed about your birthday and told just about everyone he knew that his brother was turning ONE on Sept 15. You have no idea yet on just how much Colin adores you. He constantly reminds all of us that he loves you more than anyone else in our family. That’s big stuff.



You also have him to thank for your first birthday cake which he helped me make. As you know, you were not disappointed by the experience. You devoured your cake in the same way that I drink coffee in the car – with abandon and without much concern for keeping a clean shirt. You finished your piece way ahead of anyone else and immediately started searching to see which one of us might share what we had left. We decided that we should probably limit your first significant intake of sugar, so we just sang “Happy Birthday” to you again to keep your mind off it. The distraction tactic no longer works with your brothers, but it’s a killer strategy for little munchins like you.




Here’s a picture of you and I that Quinn took this weekend. I got my hair cut and colored on Friday night and since I hadn’t pre-planned a night out on the town afterwards, I thought I should at least document the three hour hair appointment with a photo. Since I’m the official family photographer, there aren’t a lot of photos of me --- and there certainly aren’t many of me with blow dried hair. So I wanted you to know that although I tend to favor the wet pony tail look, I am capable of better.



When I was at the hair salon, I saw this mom with her two pre-teen daughters. I smiled as I watched them flip through hair magazines and discuss (in excruciating detail) about their hopes and dreams for their approaching hair makeover. I also started to do some mental math about what kind of financial outlay this poor mother was going to be making in just a few short hours. But beyond that, I had this moment as I watched them where I realized that I was so happy to be the Mom of three boys. Not because having a daughter didn’t look to be an amazing gift, but because I felt so filled up having sons. When I left, I did call your oldest brother however to tell him that it was VERY IMPORTANT that he tell me how good my hair looked as soon as I walked in the door.



As a boy, you do love to explore. Especially the few places that we’d prefer you not to. The bathroom is the main place that you seem not to be able to resist. I totally understand why unraveling the toilet paper and crawling into the shower is great fun, but I don’t understand the need to hang out behind the toilet or the fascination with the plunger. You love to venture into very small spaces that you can’t get out of, and seem to be particularly interested in ones that are both unsafe and unsanitary. You should know that I have both a fear of heights and snakes and so I beg you to keep your growing need for exploration at sea level and away from reptiles.



Of course, you also like power strips a lot and pulling on stray power cords. We have tried to keep these things away from you, but you’ve managed to find all the gaps in our very half hearted effort at child proofing. You are the third child after all and so we are prone to chinks in the armor. We do however usually catch you before you put the electrical cord in your mouth, although we have not always been able to prevent the iPod from crashing down to the floor. You have not sustained any injuries due to falling iPods – although it’s debatable on whether or not that is more or less dangerous than making it through one of our family iPod dance parties. The iPod dance parties usually involve lots of flailing arms, running in circles, and the occasional chest bump. They also interestingly always end up with Colin stripping naked.



As our third child, your Dad often thinks we sometimes treat you like our pet. For example, this question comes up a lot at home: “Has anyone fed Lawton yet?” We are committed to getting you three meals a day, but we are fairly flexible in how that gets accomplished. We are looking forward to when you will be able to do some more self hydration, but so far you appear to be challenged by the sippie cup. I know we shouldn’t press you on the issue, but it’s just that you aren’t really into the bottle either and we know that you need your liquids. You used to be so focused sucking down your bottle, but now you’ve redirected that focus into telling us that you would please prefer foods with a little more flavor. Pesto pasta is your current favorite and you now reject toast that does not at least offer a light spreading of butter.



Oh my goodness, do you love to talk. You weren’t a very loud infant, but as soon as you discovered your voice several months ago you’ve been a little chatterbox. You engage in these amazingly long “dialogues” with people and already use the art of inflection. You are much more talkative than either of your brothers were at this age. It’s fun to think about what you might be saying. I wonder if you’ve been asking questions about why you’re the only one that has to be strapped to your chair or why shoes are mandatory for all of us, but optional for you. Or why we keep so many old newspapers lying around. I can’t answer that one. You’ll have to ask your Dad.



You were baptized with your cousin Josh on September 9. It was so special to be able to stand before God, our family and friends, acknowledging the gift we have been given in you. The verse we picked out for you was Zephaniah 3:17 which says “The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” Wow. Your Dad and I promise to the best parents we possibly can to you, but that’s a promise that we couldn’t even begin to touch.



Happy Birthday, Lawton.

With love,

Mama

Giving

The Tigers are chasing the Yankees for the Wild Card spot. 50 Cent is chasing Kanye West for top CD sales. Jude Law is somewhere chasing a new skirt. And the executives in my Company are chasing me for my United Way contribution.

It’s only been 10 days since the campaign began and already I’m exhausted. There are emails, voice mails, conference calls, town hall meetings, building posters, elevator posters, flying rubber chickens (ok, so maybe not in our office but I heard about this in Flint, Michigan.) -- all with the just inbetween the lines message that giving to the United Way is good for our career ….ummm, I mean for the people who receive it.

So the chase is on. I’m being courted. And not just for participation, but for giving at the “leadership level.” Which means real, hard cash. Not just a nominal contribution that one could write off as a cost of employment, but one that causes you to recalculate your overall compensation package and giving plan. One that would also surely cut down on the number of cool boots walking around the office.

Let me say, that I believe in giving and giving generously. The idea that “To whom much is given, much is required” is something that I wholeheartedly agree with. I also believe that the United Way is a good organization doing good work. And I am all for encouraging people to look beyond themselves. But I do have heartburn over the idea that giving is anything but a personal decision. And, I think that people should be able to give to the places and organizations that are important to them. I say that if you want to give to “Ducks Unlimited” or to “Accuracy in Media” as your charity, then you should be able to do that. Our 2008 presidential hopefuls might really appreciate some extra money in the “Accuracy in Media” foundation coffers.

When someone first told me about the expectation for a certain dollar amount, I thought they were kidding. So I re-read the email to the “leaders of the Company” and realized they were right. Then I was confused. Then I was offended. Then I went to lunch.

As a “leader of the Company”, one of the important things I have learned is to not send email when confused or offended. This is what the DRAFT folder is for. Nothing good can come of it. Unfortunately, I haven’t always ported that learning into my personal life – and so some misguided missiles have made their way through cyberspace. Like the nasty gram I sent to my son’s principal when I got an email about his days absent from school. It was after I hit send on my reply that I realized that a) I had forgotten about a couple of “extra” trips my son had taken, b) that the email was autogenerated, and c) that maybe it was actually nice of the principal to be concerned. But I digress…

After my cooling off period and some informative conversations with friends, I realized that my employer is not charting new waters. This level of intensity is common among many big companies. How else could you explain the one upsmanship with flying rubber chickens. So I guess I’m still roughly at par with my friends over at Microsoft – except they do get a big fat maternity leave policy, an athletic club membership, and filtered water in their office.

By the way, it turns out that you do decide where your money goes – you can even elect to give to organizations outside of the United Way family. Now that I know it, I’ve jumped on board the train … and somehow now I can better see the pictures of needy children on the elevator posters.

The Stuff in my Shower

Brett and I recently had a discussion about the differences between cleansers, exfoliants, and body scrubs .. or as he might say, all the SH** in the shower. So to further elaborate, here are some reasons for all the stuff in the shower:

1. Must alternate between expensive shampoo and inexpensive shampoo to amortize the $200 check written to Aveda.

2. Turns out that expensive Aveda shampoo smells like the heavens, but is not all it’s cracked up to be - coarse hair is a life long condition and no amount of Sap Moss is going to magically turn frizzy hair into strands of satin. Though the quest continues.

3. While the Lever bar of soap may do an adequate job of keeping my husband clean and fresh, it has its limits. It’s the same reason that not all dry skin conditions can be treated with Vaseline, (honey).

4. There is fundamental agreement among all beauty experts that women of all ages should use a gentle facial cleanser on their face in lieu of bar soap. Ask anyone, (sweetie.) Think of it like this: basketball shoes vs running shoes. Same fundamental thing. Completely different uses. I really could use your support on this initiative toward healthy, radiant, well nourished skin because I keep overlooking the fact that the facial cleanser is actually in the shower ready for use.

5. Body scrubs, anything related to foot care, and books with titles like “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff” and “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff at Work” are very popular gifts to give working women. So it’s natural to oversubscribe on body scrubs that I DIDN’T BUY.

6. It is difficult to part with any razor, even a disposable one, for fear that you are throwing away the one of the five that still has some life left in it.

7. In my quest to try everything at Trader Jo’s, I thought I should give the Grapefruit Body Scrub a whirl. It, like the canned three bean salad, was a one time experiment. I also briefly forgot about point #5.

8. I continue to believe the one day I will have an extended shower – without interruption – that will allow me the time required to do a deep condition and facial mask. Until then, I am aware that these items are accumulating a great deal of shower scum on the bottoms of their containers and that it is entirely possible that they will smell like wet dog hair when finally opened.

9. Our children require special, tear-free shampoo and their own body wash. They also don’t seem to get the fact that they have their own shower – which unlike ours, includes a tub with an assortment of rubber duckies. Must I wait until puberty to take back my bathroom?

10. The sometimes present mirror in the shower is to aid my retrieval of a contact lense that has gone missing somewhere in my eye socket during a particularly vigorous face washing. It therefore contains no hidden meaning or innuendo in our family friendly bathroom. However … that mandarin orange body wash ….


Now, shall we talk about the stuff in the garage next?

4 1/2 Year Letter to Colin

Dear Colin,

So you are just about to turn 4 ½ years old. I am so glad for that. The last eighteen months of your life have had more than their fair share of parental challenges. I wasn’t always sure that we’d make it to the other side. But we have, and I count it a miracle. At least as big as Jesus feeding the five thousand. Because that’s what a miracle is isn’t it – God setting up a problem situation for us to face that we cannot possibly solve without His help.

Let’s just say that I never heard your Dad raise his voice until your turned three. Our neighbors Chris and Ellen have heard it too … really. And I never said so many “Help me, Help me” prayers in all my life.

I think my low point was the night you threw you metal trash can across your room during a time out … into your full length closet mirror .. and then decided, for effect, to pee all over the shattered mirror. We (now) affectionately refer to it as the “Rock Star Story.” When I came upstairs to see what you had done, I said something I never thought I would say: “Don’t move. I have to call your Father.” Your Dad recognized the panic in my voice and rushed home immediately. I was kind enough to clean up the shattered glass, throw you some band-aids, but then quickly exit the room before the craziness set in. It wasn’t pretty, especially because it took a long time for me to stop crying about how I had failed you as a Mother and for you to understand that urinating on things was not the answer to being frustrated.



We’re still waiting until your 5th birthday to have a birthday party that involves other children. You seem eager for that to happen, but we are happy that we still have six months to prepare for the event. It’s a good thing you aren’t old enough to know that your older brother had his first kid birthday party at 3. That was back when I was worried about keeping up with all the other new moms and when I thought that creating a fish bowl habitat for a beautiful Betta fish pet was somehow an age appropriate activity. All the fish pets sent home died within the first month. I now believe in non-perishable goody bags.

You spent a lot of the Spring uninviting me and the rest of the family to your birthday party. It was an interesting tactical move on your part given that a) you’ve never actually had a birthday party, b) you’d need some help with the cake, and c) if it was possible to outsource the party to another parent, I’d be all over it.

I read books on how to raise your spirited child and how to raise your explosive child. They have helped. Mainly because they have reminded me that I am not alone. And, that your independent spirit is also what makes you incredibly special.

We do feel like we are coming out of the dark years now that you have gained some skills in managing your frustrations. Counting to ten, hitting pillows, and humor have all helped along the way. At least now we don’t have twenty minute meltdowns about who put the parmesan cheese on your pasta or how spicy the toothpaste is.



Your Dad and I often talk about how neat you are. You have this incredibly wit and sense of yourself. One night this summer you were playing hide and go seek with your blanket. Towards the end of the game, Aunt Nancy “hid” your blanket in your bed in an effort to end the game and get you to bed. When you saw it, you knew exactly what was happening and said in complete deadpan, “That’s not my blanket.” Your humor is so beyond your years … as is your fascination with your private parts, but that’s a story for another time.

You also love baseball like no other four year old I have ever seen. It’s your obsession. It’s not usual that you know every player on the Mariners, or even the Red Sox, but it gets kind of freaky when you know that Jayson Werth has taken Shane Victorino’s place in the Phillies batting order. You wear a different baseball “jersey” every single day. You also used to wear matching baseball pants and socks with each jersey until you realized that was a big commitment during the month of August. You told me recently that the only thing you wanted when you turned five was a new (cool) bat … and catcher gear including the mask, chest plate, and knee pads … and lots more baseball jerseys of other players like Yuniesky Betancourt on the Mariners and David Wright on the Mets. Your requests are few, but painfully specific.



I was pitching to you earlier this summer and you told me that I couldn’t pitch underhand any more … that I needed to pitch overhand fast balls .... because you were too good a hitter now. You told me that you were worried that you would hit a line drive “into my boobies” on accident and it would hurt really bad. Since I’ve been pitching overhand, you’ve been complaining that I’m not doing the leg kick right and that I’m not very good at pitching from the stretch. I plan to fake an elbow injury soon if my batter (that'd be you, buddy) doesn’t start giving me some grace soon.

The amazing thing is that your skills seem, at least for now, to be equal to your passion. People stop and stare when you are playing. “Wow! - how old is that kid?!” “Oh my goodness, that’s incredible!” It’s disarming to see a four year old hit the ball like you can. You have this beautiful and powerful left handed swing that is beyond your years. Then again, you usually are the “full time” batter when you play and so you do have the benefit of repetition on your side.

Who knows how your interest and skills in baseball will evolve over time, but it is clear that you will be a winner in whatever you set your mind to. I say that because you are lucky enough to have both the kind of focus and innate self confidence you need to really be successful. So if not baseball, please just anything but the drums …or flute.

With love,

Mama

Reunion Committee

I try not to make it a habit to tell my husband what to do. Unless we are in the kitchen or the bedroom. Those are places I usually have good ideas in. If I do this in other parts of the house, say hovering over the computer while he’s reading his email – it often ends up backfiring. Which is why I waited until he came upstairs (to the kitchen) to tell him that it would be a really good idea if he were to go back downstairs and retrieve the email he just deleted. The one asking for volunteers to serve on our 15 year college reunion class committee.

Because all committees need a token man. Preferably a strong one that can move heavy things.

I would have volunteered myself, except that would have cut into my yearbook study time. And that preparation is important. Especially for people like me who can’t remember the name of the doctor who delivered my first born. It can’t be wrong to want to at least act like I have a stellar memory for just a weekend.

Besides, I’m pretty bogged down already with committees at work. Like the “80’s Trivia Brown Bag Lunch Committee” (of which I’m a member in good standing but poor performance) or the “Bring Back the Sparkling Water to our Pop Machine Committee” (of which my friend Elaine is the President and Ted is the supervisor.) Note: this is the first time I have used a hyperlink in a post, Ted. I would have hyperlinked to Larry (President of the 80's Trvia Brown Bag Lunch Committee) except that his blog is password protected from people like me who would send him crushing amounts of traffic … as evidenced by the sheer volume of (hidden) comments left on my blog.

Come to think of it, most corporate work is managed via committee. Because it could be dangerous to trust one person to decide what color a brochure should be. I’m really not cynical about all collaborative thinking, just the kind that makes me crazy. Or the kind that make me want to do a quick ROI analysis on whether having a ninety minute meeting with ten people where the only clear output was to have a future meeting makes any economic sense for people being paid over $.99 an hour. I’m pretty sure these meetings don’t happen in the McDonald’s break room without someone getting fired.

Do people at the Nike corporate offices really “just do it?” Or do they too create subcommittees to do exploratory work which results in a matrix of potential solutions that are weighed and debated by a governing body before committing to a course of action on a trial basis? Just wondering. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s normal to take four weeks to make a text change on a website.

Anyway, back to my husband. He didn’t jump at the suggestion. But he also didn’t dismiss it entirely. So I emailed the committee chair to say that he was IN and “looking forward to it.”

It was the same approach I used to get him to chair the school auction clean up committee. I hooked him before he actually said yes or no. He’s done it for three years straight now … it’s a torch that’s hard to pass on. At least with this though, he knew that he’d be off the hook for the 16th year college reunion class committee. Because the only people that could possibly be on that committee would be ones that study their college yearbooks. And I don’t think there are many of us.

Anyway, the first meeting was a conference call. Held at the local Red Robin. (?) I can only assume that someone had a hankering for a bottomless plate of fries. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to patch Brett into the call. Perhaps Red the Mascot confiscated the meeting agenda that included out-of-town committee member’s phone numbers.

Since then all the committee activity has been over email. As far as I can tell, Brett’s only contribution so far has been to vote on the name for the Saturday night party. You’d vote too if the initial name was “1992 Reconnecting Dinner.” Because they are trying to actually encourage people to come. And because they want people to believe that their classmates will be there, not graduates from 1952. One very wise committee member suggested an alternate name: “Fiesta of Friends: Nacho Ordinary Party”. It was unanimously approved.

There was some more voting regarding the name and ticket pricing of the Friday Night Coffee House Concert. Apparently, Brett abstained from that vote --- maybe because he’s planning to be somewhere else that night? One of the other committee members swooped in quickly to find an underwriter for the event to keep the ticket prices down. It was of course a woman who is skilled at being a good, contributing committee member. Thank you, Shaney. I will definitely be there, with or without my husband, who may be playing a game of pick up basketball in Coray Gym instead.

The invitations got sent out this week. We got ours yesterday. Brett’s name is on it. As the first committee member listed. Hee-hee. And to think that all he had to do so far is agree that it’s better to eat nachos than reconnect.

My housemate Sarah was responsible for the invitation. I have a lot of respect for what she was able to do with an 8.5x11 invitation written on school letterhead. It requires a great deal of persuasive writing to convince someone that spending thousands of dollars to travel across the country to visit your Alma Madre is worth some chips and guacamole. She made me want to bleed orange and blue again and talk about how hard life was when all we had to do was take care of ourselves and make our way to class by 10am.

Brett and Stan must be saving their creative energy for the planning of the Saturday night program. That’s the part of the weekend that will involve moving things as well as the chance to grab a microphone …. and use it in front of people. People that I know.

Brainstorm! I think I shall email the Committee chair and suggest that all committee members be required to wear sombreros to the event. Now that would be awesome.

I keep asking him when the work is going to “kick in.” He keeps telling me that I should know before he does since I do an excellent job hovering over his email. Then he says that he’d be happy to turn over his committee spot to me, but then I guilt him about abandoning the only other male committee member. Plus, I think he’s secretly looking forward to the email chatter and virtual voting about decorations and centerpieces. And as you now know, I have 80s trivia to consider.

73 days and counting until Pinata Time!...

"Do Not Enter"

My oldest son is a rule follower. He especially likes to keep to the letter of the law with regard to the rules of the road. He has cried every time we (Brett) has been pulled over by a cop for speeding. Roadtrips are now quite a bit longer with Mr. Speedometer in the backseat. Thankfully he has not been in the car during one of my annual tire blowouts. I don’t think he’d understand if I tried to tell him that it was the encroaching traffic median’s fault (which by the way, it always is.) Not even the nicest Tow Truck driver in the world could keep Quinn from losing his marbles.

He is especially neurotic – and I mean that in the nicest way – when it comes to parking violations. He takes bus zones, three minute loading areas, and visitor parking very, very seriously. I’m still trying to explain how it is possible to park, order, pay for, and get a latte in under three minutes. He’s not buying it. Nor he is buying the fact that sometimes we really are in fact the visitor that the sign is referring to. Given his sensitivity to these issues, it is unlucky that our city neighborhood is zoned for parking and that we occasionally get tickets for parking in our own driveway. Though it is amusing to see my mild mannered husband mix it up with the parking rent-a-cops on those days.

While I’m thinking about it … I want to find and hurt the person who thought it was a good idea to put a 30 minute limit at the Airport Cell Phone Parking Lot. This is not helpful to any parent who has rule follower children. Unless of course they thought that circling the airport while throwing crackers to the screaming children in the back seat at the same time you’re leaving the sixth message on your husband’s turned off cell phone was safer than staying parked.

So it should not have surprised me when Quinn flipped out recently because I ignored a “Do Not Enter” sign. The sign was posted on a residential street that bordered a neighboring school. The street was not a one way street, so it was clear that the sign was being used to help manage traffic flow during school commuting times. All makes sense. However, at the time of this infraction, school was not in session and so there was no traffic to manage. There was also a piping hot pizza in the back seat. So my action to fly through the “Do Not Enter” sign was willful, but considered.

Quinn was stunned. After he realized my flagrant violation, out pops this:

“COME ON, Mom – use your skills!”

At first, I thought he meant my driving skills. I don’t have many of those. I wondered if he had noticed my overall reluctance to change lanes or the fact that I will do just about anything to avoid parallel parking. But I soon realized that he was really talking about my skills for following the rules.

I tried to explain some of my thoughts from above, about how sometimes rules can be flexed. About how the context or intention of the rule is also important. About how in business they tell you to “first break all the rules.”

Unsatisfied with my response, he then said, “But Mom, you can’t decide which things you want to follow and which you don’t want to follow. You have to follow ALL the rules.”

It was the same response I would have given at nine years old. Or, even at sixteen. I remember being incredulous when my Mom used to suggest that I skip school to go shopping. That was definitely not in the rules and oh my goodness, what would my absence note say?! To which she would reply that my note would simply say that my Mom it taking me out of class to get some new clothes and have a nice lunch and that PS, the nurses have permission to give me aspirin. I don’t think I ever took her up on the offer, but it certainly wasn’t for her lack of trying.

As I have reflected on this over the years, I have realized that this was one of the ways that the Mom was helping me to break out of being a rigid rule follower. She knew I wasn’t going to cut class, but she wanted to plant the seed that maybe one day that or something like that just might be OK.

I came around by college. And now, if asked to skip work to shop, my only question is who’s credit card will we be using.

So as grateful as I am that Quinn is wired the way he is, I’m hoping that one day he might find a reason to ignore a “Do Not Enter” sign … or at least speed in North Dakota.

Bocce Ball & Poker

So I knew that blurting out this statement: “Wow, I am like winning every game I play!” was a bad idea the moment I said it. Because everyone knows that once you say something like that, the odds of your continued success take a dramatic turn for the worse. And because anyone with a competitive husband knows, them are fighting words. I might as well have said to my darling husband that I could take him in a 50 yard dash and then eat twice as many burritos as he could.

My competitiveness with my husband dates back to our dating years in college. We took our first class together junior year. We both had good attendance. We both took copious notes. I studied. He did not. He got an A. I got a B+. The class: Drugs and Culture. I’m fine if chooses to bring this up in large groups. Because with bragging rights will come the need to explain why he choose such a lame class to begin with. And once he’s done explaining that, we can talk about my superior grades in every Math class starting from junior high on.



Earlier in the day of aforementioned statement (while on an extended family vacation on the Oregon Coast), my sister and I had beaten my husband and dad in a lively game of beach bocce ball. Unlike playing bocce ball on the grass, the sand is really fast and unpredictable - meaning that it takes a lot of skill to get your balls to land closest to the cue ball. The odds were not in our favor. After all, my dad is an above average bowler and has his own bowling shoes. And my husband probably slept with his basketball before I was in the picture. So these are men that know how to handle balls. But my sister and I were not to be denied. I don’t remember the exact score, but I remember that it was convincing enough that neither man asked for a rematch. Instead, my brother and 9 year old son asked for the next game. Another victory. So beautiful in fact that some elderly folks stopped along the beach to take a picture of my sister’s amazing landing of three balls. We were that good.

Coming into bocce ball, I was already on a high from winning Texas Hold Em the previous night. I won the last chips from my sister and father at 2am. My mom, sister-in-law, and husband had already lost it all earlier in the evening. Not bad for a rookie, eh? Even my brother was impressed with my ability to bluff. After all, it wasn’t a skill I often used in his defense during his high school partying years. Brett was fast asleep when victory was declared, but of course I woke him up to share the news. Because that is what good wives do. They wake sleeping husbands up to share good news, to just talk, to check for predators, and to get them to agree to things like major house remodels.

So the precise moment I uttered this statement was during a spirited game of Catch Phrase. (yes, my extended family enjoys a long list of leisure sports.) The Women had just handily won the first game against the Men. Confident from the poker victory and back to back bocce ball wins, I was feeling invincible. (editor's note: upon first reading of this post, my husband pointed out that I had actually written invisible -- opps.) At the time, it felt so right to point out my long string of successes. Particularly to my husband. This ended up being poor timing. You could say that this emboldened the enemy.

The Men ended up winning the next three games of Catch Phrase. I tried to point out that the Women were actually at a disadvantage because there were four of us versus three of them. In a game where the object is to pass a disk to the other team before the buzzer goes off, we had a 25% higher chance of the disk landing on our lap. I thought this was a solid point. Of course the Men argued back that this disadvantage was neutralized by the fact that we had more people to guess for our team. But then I ask, what would my college Statistics book say? I think it would say that I was right.

In an effort to reclaim my title, I then suggested that we then play a game of Scattegories. A game where each man and woman is on their own. The object: write down a unique item that fits into twelve predetermined categories all based on the same letter in three minutes. I felt like this would be an opportunity to recoup my loss, but then soon recalled why I stopped playing Scrabble with my husband years ago. He kicks my butt at anything involving vocabulary, spelling, or trivia. Oh well, I can still eat more chocolate chip cookies in one sitting than he can.

The game decider between my husband and sister: the category was “tool” and the letter was “g.” My sister’s answer: “gadget.” Excellent! Except that the Men didn’t agree. They said they didn’t have anything called a “gadget” in their manly tool boxes. (If the true be told, I don’t know if Brett could tell you the names of most of the things in his tool box.) Yeah, well my kitchen drawer is FULL of gadget tools. What else would you call something that allows you to squeeze all the juice out a lemon without getting any of the seeds? An AMAZING gadget!

So the weekend ended with my title in question, but I have since regained my position with my husband. I can man handle him in Nerts (the fast paced double solitaire game) and did so this week. Unfortunately though, Quinn is the all time Ballbach Nerts Champion. Both Brett and I can’t beat the kid. Ever.

Sounds like it’s time to get a Ping Pong table ….

The Joy of Discovery

We spent last Saturday with Colin's preschool friends at his teacher's cabin.

Thanks Blockbuster

Think what you may about Blockbuster getting in hot water with the State Attorney General’s offices for their fraudulent and deceptive “End of Late Fees” advertising campaign. I still think their renamed “Limited Late Fee” policy is a gift to anyone who has trouble flossing every other day, let alone return a video you didn’t have time to watch by 11am. Besides I think there are other companies have been far more egregious with their advertising. I’m sorry but hair color from a box never delivers as promised. And does anyone really believe that Jack-in-the-Box uses 100% sirloin patties. I’m also not sure that I would agree that United has the friendliest skies.

If not for this new policy that basically extends the rental period from 2 days to 30 days with only a $1.25 restocking fee, I would never have known how bad “Mission Impossible III” was. Or wait, did I fall asleep in that one or am I just having a hard time separating Tom Cruise the person from Tom Cruise the actor? Anyway, if not for the 30 day grace period, I probably would never have gotten around to meeting Olive and her goofy family in “Little Miss Sunshine.” And that would have been tragic.

Given the energy level that Brett and I (don’t) have every night after the boys go to bed, it can take several days, sometimes weeks, before our intention to watch a rented movie actually becomes a reality. Most nights we pass on the movie to “read” instead, which really is code for saying “I’m planning to start snoring in the next ten minutes.” Other nights we park ourselves in front of TiVO and watch a little Jon Stewart. Those are typically the nights we’ve endured an epic meltdown and merely need assurance that it’s not only our four year old child who struggles with “making their word gold.” Rummy, Alberto Gonzalez, John Bolton – just to name a few – seem to have that trouble too.

Once or twice during that 30 day window, we muster up the energy to watch one of the handful of movies we've rented. We generally rent three to four at a time so that we have options to choose from depending on our mood. This means that we usually only watch 50% of what we rent. It also means that we will probably have to rent “The Last King of Scotland” for the next six months before we get “in the mood” for that one. Sorry, but even Forest Whitaker’s winning performance can’t hold a candle to checking out Daniel Craig as the new Bond. Or wait, did I fall asleep in that one too? Darn that narcolepsy.

I did make it all the way through “The Freedom Writers” with Hilary Swank this past weekend. I didn’t even need popcorn to stay awake. And although the plot line maybe a bit overdone, it’s good when a movie reminds you that your life is pretty blessed. Thanks Blockbuster. No need to call with my reminder voice mail about my late movies, we got them back just in time for our restocking charge.

9th Month Letter to Lawton

Dear Lawton,

Tomorrow you turn nine months old which means that my body could theoretically be capable of birthing another baby eight weeks from now. Thankfully, that was not the recovery plan we were on. And we (your dad especially) are doing everything in our power to insure that you remain our last baby. Knowing that you are our last, I’ve been trying to savor every moment with you. To live in the present and not be obsessed with whether you can hear me perfectly or make the right number of vowel sounds. With your brothers I was so eager to get to the next milestone – anxious to know that all was well with their development, but with you – I only wish I could slow things down. And I’m not saying that because I know you are about to start crawling with purpose and change our lives forever. It’s just that I can’t rock your brothers to sleep anymore, or make them laugh by simply blowing on their faces. And so I want to enjoy these things with you as long as I can.

As you know, we haven’t totally settled on what to call you. Lawton. Lawton James. LJ. Lawton Jimmy. Plain ol’ Jimmy. It must be confusing to be called by so many different names, but you are responding to all of them. I keep wanting to call you Law, but it seems too grown up for you right now. I sometimes dream about hearing it over a PA system one day: “Law Ballbach for two points, two points Law.” It sounds so cool to me. I hope you end up liking your name(s) when you get old enough to have an opinion about it. Be glad that you weren’t born during the brief phase twelve years ago when I thought Forest might be an interesting name for a son. I doubt your Dad would have ever agreed to it during the name ideation phase (which in my world is a very long process), but I think I probably could have gotten anything I wanted in the 8-12 hours following childbirth – even Forest. That would have been scary had that happened though. Your nickname could have been Woody instead of Jimmy.

Your mobility is increasing with each day. We try to keep you contained to the living room rug, but you are finding your way to the edges of it with a combination of scooting and rolling. You have also decided that the edges of the rug are your MOST favorite thing to put in your mouth. I wish you could understand how dirty that really is. The rug mat has never been cleaned and it’s been lying in the same position since we moved in. Frankly I think it might be more sanitary to lick the bottom of my purse. You should know that as our third child, our hygiene standards are much lower than they once were. We do reuse unfinished bottles of formula and you are bathed sporadically at best, but we do feel strongly about keeping the rug out of your mouth.



You’ve been clearer recently that though you like virtually everything we put in front of you, that you would prefer that we stop feeding your yummy Spinach and Potatoes. I can’t say that I blame you; but when your Dad was at the grocery store two months ago he must have convinced himself that there would be no more jars of green vegetables until October or he was planning for lockdown. So needless to say there is still a lot of yummy Spinach and Potatoes to get through, and our family is all about finishing things off. This will become inconvenient to you one day in the shower when you are left with the shavings of a bar of soap. Ditto that for all the hand me down shoes with worn soles that we will be asking you to wear.

You have become quite a fan of Cheerios and other finger foods. It’s amazing to see how proficient you are with only those two lower teeth and how much you enjoy the quest of getting the food into your mouth. I know we have been a little slow on introducing the “messy” finger foods, but we’re hoping that your dexterity improves a little bit before we commit to things like bananas and avocadoes. This will mean that I will definitely have to start mopping and bathing your more often.

We are all in agreement that baby socks are for the birds. The only purpose they serve is to be lost or chewed. Even though you still love to chew on things, you are making it known that you’re even more interested in playing with real toys. You love to play with your stacking cups or interactive toys that have lots of buttons to push. You also love when we build tall towers of blocks for you to knock down, which I find cathartic too. Sometimes you get frustrated with your toys because you can’t make them work the way you want them to. Kind of like I get frustrated when I can’t get Colin to cooperate with me … although you get over it way faster than I can. I like that about you.

You’ve had a runny nose for over three weeks now. You’ve been such a champ about it – I don’t know that I would have a similarly good attitude about being utterly dependent on another person for tissue. I feel terrible when I’ve been multitasking and fail to notice when you start looking like a walrus with snot hanging all the way down to your lower lip. I would completely understand if you decided to make more of a stink about that. I can tell that it is bugging you a little because you now willingly allow me to use the nose plunger. I suppose you would rather surrender to the unnatural method of nasal irrigation than have mucous mixed in with your yogurt.

Clapping is your new favorite thing to do. You always seem genuinely surprised and delighted when your hands successfully find each other. Your brothers are especially excited about this new development because now they can get you to do a trick on command. Since we don’t and probably will never have a dog, I’m afraid that this might be a recurring theme in your life. However, because you think that your brothers are the best thing since breastfeeding, you appear to not mind the “wrestling” and dirty four year old fingers in your mouth as much as I do just watching it. Thanks goodness you are a sturdy boy with above average balance. Any other baby in our house might spent a lot more time toppled over screaming for that big boy to please stop assuming that just because you can clap, you are not yet able to catch blocks.

You have a lot of amazing skills as a baby, but one of them isn’t sleeping on the run. You really seem to need to have your bed to find sleep. I suspect that a big part of that is because you don’t want to miss anything when you are out and about. Your Dad says that running in the Baby Jogger is just about your favorite thing to do. I haven’t done that with you yet because I’ve been on a running hiatus for about a year now waiting to “get my body back” so that less of me is jiggling when I finally decide to strap on the running shoes. Since we stopped breastfeeding, there is a very important part of my body that has started to dramatically decrease in size which gives me hope that I will be able to run again without a lot of extra bouncing. I’m quite happy about that even though I do miss our special cuddle time. It’s not quite the same with the bottle, but man do I love how you lock in on me with your big blue eyes when I’m feeding you. Your eyes are such an amazing blue. People always mention that about you. I hope they stay that way because believe me, the ladies will find those irresistible one day.

You are babbling so much more now. I think you’ve figured out that to be heard, you need to pump up the volume. You don’t seem close to any discernable words yet. Like any mother, I’m hoping that you decide to make “Mamma” your first word but I do think that probability is higher that “Daddy” will be it. Not only is it easier to say, but just like your brothers – I think you’ve already figured out that your Daddy is extra special and that he too will be your hero.

With love,
Mamma

Bald-By-Choice

All the parenting books I’ve read have a disclaimer that says something like this: “Your child is unique. His or her learning and growth rates may differ from other children the same age.” Which really is to say that given the uncertainty and risk inherent in all child interactions, they’re just guessing too.

I’ve been primed to look out for certain recognizable four year old behaviors:

1) Stills throw tantrums over minor frustrations.
Not pouring the milk on the cereal “in the right way” should qualify there.

2) Likes to shock others by using “forbidden words.”
Check, butthead.

3) Changes the rules of the game as they go along.
You get a turn after I take two turns, OK?

4) Persistently asks why; may name call, tattles freely.
But WHY can’t I call him poopyhead since he just called me stupid?

But here’s the one they didn’t warn me about:

5) May want to radically alter their appearance to express their individuality, like shave their head

????

So there it was. Right in the middle of dinner during a completely normal conversation, Colin announces to us that he wants to shave off all his hair.

“You mean get it really short, like a buzz cut?" I ask.

“No, I want to shave it all off so my head is smooth.”

Strike one.

“Oh, is it because you want to be like LJ who doesn’t have much hair yet?”

“Not really.”

Strike two.

“Oh, I know - is there a baseball player you really like that is bald?”

“Mom, Ichiro’s my favorite player and he HAS hair.”

Strike three.

“Mom, don’t you remember that guy that was at Uncle Matt’s Superbowl party? I want to look like him.”

That’s right. That prematurely balding thirty something year old guy that we just happened to share some chips and guacamole with over four months ago. That guy who’s name none of us could remember and who none of us have seen since. That guy who is now my son’s inspiration for wanting to be “bald-by-choice.”

This must be some early preparation for how I will handle tattoos and piercing. Which in my minds eye will not be handled with the same kind of grace and understanding that I believe I have achieved with allowing my four year old to dress himself. I accept that he only wears jerseys with numbers on them. I accept that he wears socks with his sandals. I accept any and all color combinations. I accept that if I am not diligent about removing clothes from his dresser that he has outgrown, that they are fair game to be worn no matter how small, how holey, or how high they come up.

I understand the role that fads play in children’s fashion. If not for fads, why else would I have worn jellies sandals, leg warmers, and shoulder pads in the mid 80s? I’m sure my parents weren’t exactly keen on me looking like a Line Backer with sweaters on my legs and some sorry plastic mesh on my feet, but I suppose they figured that I’d grow of it. At some point they had to know that I would realize that you didn’t need big shoulders to get noticed.

Bring on the baggie jeans. Bring on the IZOD polo shirts. Bring on the PINK IZOD polo shirt. I’m really for all of it.

BUT, I cannot, will not, should not allow him to shave his head. I will not allow him to go Britney on me. So it’s not just that being “bald-by-choice” is anything but mainstream, or that it conjures up images of neo-nazi skinheads, bikers, and convicts, but it’s that … well, I love Colin’s hair and I have a secret (or not so secret) wish for him to grow it long because I feel like he doesn’t have a “short haired kid personality.”

Brett just shook his head when I came out with that one. However, since I think he worried that I may start pining away for a girl, he graciously agreed to the growing Colin’s hair out experiment so long as I promised no ponytails or experiments with nail polish.

So Colin has been living with a full, bushy head of hair that seems to be growing wider instead of longer. Bedhead has new meaning with these locks. And as summer is now upon us, I see that living underneath all that hair may be a little warm and uncomfortable. But man, you should see how cute it is pulled back with a headband.

I’ve been working on Colin these past couple of days, pointing out how much his hair looks like his Daddy’s and how when it’s longer, you can see the waves in it. I’m having these conversations fully aware that my opinion is barely registering. I’m also fully aware that I’m trying to control his hair and that this behavior is not becoming to a mother. And that maybe my obsession with his hair might be the exact reason he wants to get rid of it.

So, I’ve let this one go. Sort of. Brett is on the hook to take the boys to the barbershop this week. My hunch is that with a tootsie roll for bribery and a barber that doesn’t speak very good English, Colin will come home sporting a short hair cut that has been dubbed the “ALMOST BALD KID’S SPECIAL.” With that we’ll get friends and family to call him “cue ball” for a couple of weeks.

And then, he’ll ask for some blonde highlights.