Kitchen Adventures, Part Three

We have been trying to eat more home-cooked meals to save some money, and I had seen a recipe for enchiladas that I thought would be pretty good. On a day that I had to stay home with Zane because he was not feeling well, I decided to try the recipe. The package that the recipe was on indicated that "Prep time" would be 15 minutes. I figured that I could do that. I managed to cook and shred some chicken while Zane was napping, and was very proud of myself.

I got all of the ingredients together and started to prepare the food. First on the agenda was to chop a small onion. Okay...I started chopping the onion.

"Mama, what's that?" Zane wanted to know. I explained that it was an onion, and told him that the smell would make him cry. While I am explaining this, my eyes started to water, so then I had to explain to him that Mama was not actually crying. Since I have a sacrosanct rule about using sharp implements when blind, I had to put down the knife and wait until my eyes weren't so teary. All told, it took me about 20 minutes to get the onion chopped.

Next I put the onions and some olive oil into a skillet to brown them. That went okay, so then I added all the other ingredients to the skillet, per the instructions, stirred it all together. It was time to put what was in the skillet(which smelled REALLY yummy) into tortillas, and then...

"Mama, I go poop," came a plaintive voice from the other side of the kitchen. I sighed heavily in my frustration at being interrupted. In my defense, I was starting to get a little hungry, so I was very focused on my task.

"Okay, sweets," I replied. Then I realized that Zane wasn't wearing a pullup, he was wearing underpants. He had been telling us when he had to 'go', but I guess that he was very focused on what he was doing, just like his Mama.

Ten minutes later, after I washed my hands, I went back into the kitchen to find that some of the gooey-goodness that was in the skillet on the stove had burned. I tasted it, and it still tasted good to me, so I wrapped everything up in the tortillas and got everything in the oven. I did think that it was kind of odd that there was not really any sauce to go on the enchiladas, but I had followed the recipe and the recipe did not call for any rojo sauce or verde sauce. I cleaned up the kitchen. I was very proud of myself.

When Larry came home and found out what we were having for dinner, he was skeptical.

"What about the sauce?" he wanted to know.

Marriage-Saving Rule #478: when your spouse has been working hard and cooking your dinner for you, do not say anything except "Thank you". I gave my husband a pointed look, and subtracted -50 DHP(dedicated husband points, in gamer terms). We sat at the table and began eating.

Objectively speaking, the enchiladas were pretty good for a first attempt. They would have been better with some verde sauce or even some queso. (these weren't really enchiladas, no matter what the Philly Cream Cheese people say.) Overall, I was quite pleased with how they turned out.

Larry ate about four bites of one enchilada, then got up from the table and came back with a jar of peanut butter and some bread. I watched him approach the table and sit down with my mouth hanging open a little, because who DOES that? Who completely blows off someone's efforts like that? Even if the food is downright horrid, who would hurt someone's feelings by indicating that they would rather eat a FREAKIN'PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICH than the food you spent more than fifteen minutes preparing and cooking?

"What are you doing?" I finally asked.

"They really need sauce," Larry explained. I just looked at him.

"But they're okay," he added. I continued to blanky stare at him.

"But they're pretty good?" Larry is slow sometimes, but he finally realized that he was in the deep water without swim fins.

"But they're DELICIOUS!" Larry said again. I shifted my eyes toward the peanut butter, then back to my husband's face.

This is the sort of moment when I fervently wish that the Hand of God would come down from on High and smack my husband right upside the head.

Speak Slowly

Zane's language skills are improving every day. He is easier to understand these days, and most times we only have to ask him to repeat himself once if we don't understand. We may have gone overboard in some of our efforts to understand him, however.

"Zane, do you want to go with Daddy to the store?" Larry asked this morning. Zane mumbled something. He was busy putting a puzzle together.

"I couldn't hear you, son," my husband IS a little hard of hearing, but we both sometimes say that when we don't understand what Zane said in the first place. Call it a delaying tactic, but we felt that asking Zane to repeat what he said would help with his speech.

Today, Zane turned around and looked directly at his father.

"Nnnnnnnn-oooooooooo," He spoke very slowly and enunciated very clearly, just so Larry could understand.

My sudden fit of laughter was cleverly disguised as coughing.

In Which Zane and I Throw Down.

Zane has developed a bad habit of throwing all of his toys on the floor.

All.

Over.

The.

Floor.

I am not a neat freak; I understand that kids like to play with toys, and sometimes this is messy. A little mess is lived-in, and I'm okay with that. What I can't stand are toys left lying around which I inevitably step on, trip over, slip on, etc. I either end up breaking the toy or injuring myself. (The one positive is that I've invented quite a few 'colorful metaphors' which should be making their way into the collective unconsciousness shortly!)

Tonight the boy stepped on My Last Nerve when he dumped an entire box of train parts into the middle of the living room. He has his own play area, but he wants to play near us, so he brings his toys to where ever we are. This would be acceptable if Zane ever put these toys away.

I asked Zane to please pick up the toys and put them back into the box. Nicely.

He said no. I asked him again.

He said no. He even turned his back on me and resumed playing. Oh, no-no-no, little boy. It is ON. There will be none of THAT in MY house.

"Pick up your toys off the floor NOW and put them in the toy box or they go into the trash," I spoke in my VERY CALM VOICE. Larry suddenly noticed the enormous thundercloud building above my head, and hightailed it out of the room. Zane remained obliviously ensconced in his defiance. He felt that he had won the battle.

I went into the pantry and grabbed a trash bag. I returned to the living room, opened the bag and began throwing toys into it.

"NOOOOOOO!!!! MY TOYS!!!!!" Zane started screaming.

"I asked you to pick up your toys. I told you that if you did not pick up your toys, I would throw them away," I continued throwing toys into the trash bag. Zane threw himself on the ground, having a tantrum. I kept picking up the toys and throwing them into the bag. Zane started following me around, screaming and crying, trying to grab the trash bag from me.

"Zane. I asked you to pick up your toys. If you do not pick up your toys, they are going in the trash," I repeated.

Zane finally saw the light and started running around picking up toys and flinging them into the toy box as fast as he could. I just stood there and held onto the trash bag until he was finished. Zane cried the entire time, and I had to redirect him a couple of times, but he got the job done.

When he finished, I picked Zane up and hugged him and told him that he did a good job. We had a brief conversation about taking care of his toys and that when Zane left his toys all over the floor it told me that he didn't want those toys anymore, and those toys would be thrown away.

I have no intention of throwing all of Zane's toys away; I intend on putting toys up in the closet and getting them back out in six months or so. I'm not a completely horrible parent. But it seems to me that every boy should grow up with a healthy Fear Of Mom, who will love him always, even if it requires occasionally that I become a big Meanyhead.

New Word

I was working with Zane on a puzzle, which he seems to love these days. He was trying to put a piece of the puzzle in upside down, and was using kid logic--if it doesn't "fit", whack it a few times until it does. (which pretty much describes my dating life in college, actually. *badoom-kish!*)

"Zane, if you turn that piece the other way..." I reached for the piece. Zane snatched it away from me.

"No, Foo! I do it!" He said.

"What the heck is he saying?" I looked at my husband, who was sitting on the couch playing on his laptop. In his usual helpful manner, Larry shrugged.

Twice more, for various reasons, we heard Zane say "Foo!" After the third time, that little refrigerator light in my head clicked on.

Not "Foo!"

"Fool!" My son was calling me a fool. Using it appropriately in a sentence and everything, which would normally be celebrated a lot. We don't know where he picked this word up, but daycare seems the likely culprit.

We've tried explaining to Zane that calling someone a fool, however true it might be, is "not nice", but so far he isn't buying it. I actually kind of prefer "Foo!" to "Stoo-pid", which is what he was calling me last week. (If we're lucky, next week he'll be calling me a "cretin". I'll be happy about that one, should it occur. THAT word is on the SAT.)

Sometimes We Need to Carry Our Super Friends With Us

Zane is very interested in dressing himself now, and we are willing to let him do this, within reason. The other night Zane was undressing to get into the bathtub. I poured some Mr. Bubble under the running faucet and turned around.

Zane was having trouble with his underpants. He was having trouble because he was wearing four pairs of underpants. Captain America, Spiderman, Superman, and the Hulk were all present and accounted for. I helped Zane get those superheroes off, and then Zane was able to get into the tub.

I guess that Zane was expecting some challenges to appear in his day. In anticipation of these challenges, my son brought along his heroes as reinforcements. He probably felt very prepared for whatever came his way.
I am a bit jealous. I want to have some superhero underpants that I can wear on tough days.

Wordless Wednesday Suspended: I Won An Award!!!!!

This award was given to be by The Professionally Insane M


Check her out when you have time!

And here I was all jealous of other bloggers with awards!

THE RULES:
And As a condition of accepting this award, some rules must be followed:

1. Link to the person who gave you this award (in a post, or in your sidebar, wherever you have this).
2. Pass the award along to seven other people who post about at least slightly amusing things and tell them (by emailing them or commenting on a post, etc.).
3. Say seven things about yourself that no one knows (or at least you think no one knows).
4. Pass these rules on.

I nominate:

Yeah. Good Times

Zombie Mom Comics

It's A Lollipop World

The Only Child Chronicles

Facing 50 With Humour

Just Add Whine

Married To A Geek



Seven things about me that nobody knows or if they know I forgot that I told them:

1. I cannot stand to hear people biting their silverware when they eat.

2. I have a hammertoe named MC.

3. I was a Migraine Mentor, which is not as glamorous as you might think.

4. Batman is my very favorite-est superhero.Next to The Tick.

5. I have very strong opinions about a number of things, but I keep my mouth shut. Which is why I have TMJ.

6. I am sucker for Almond Joys. And Bit O'Honeys

7. I don't own a gun because I have a sacrosanct rule: if you kill it, you eat it.

"We Was Semi-Robbed"

This morning right after I got out of bed, went downstairs, and turned on the coffee pot, I took my "briefcase" and some other stuff out to the car. I do this often because then I don't have to worry about carrying four tons of things while rushing around trying to get out the door. It was still half past dark, but I still noticed that our neighbor was getting into his car to leave.

When I opened the trunk, I paused. All of the stuff that we keep in the trunk-reusable shopping bags, a blanket, a camera tripod, a first aid kit and various random items, was not where it was supposed to be. It looked as if we had slammed on the brakes and all of the stuff had been flung around. This made my Spidey-sense tingle a bit, but I chalked it up to randomness, put what I had carried out of the house into the trunk, and went back inside. I was picking up the paper and anticipating my hot cup of coffee. I decided to yell at Larry about leaving the car unlocked later.

About forty-five minutes later, it was time for us to go. Zane and I headed out the door first, and I opened the car door and let him get in. I went to put my purse on the front seat, and I noticed that there was stuff all over the floorboards. I looked at it, blinked, and registered that most of it was stuff that was supposed to be in the glove compartment. Then the little tiny refrigerator lightbulb in my brain clicked on, and I opened the door of the glove compartment. It was empty, because most of the stuff that had been in there had been pulled out.

I looked in the center console. There were more items strewn about, and more things that weren't where they were supposed to be. I put Zane into his car seat, and I noticed that all the items that had been in the seat pockets(pullups, wipes, maps) had been thrown on the floor. It became obvious that someone had been in our car. Larry had by this time come out of the house, and I informed him of my deduction. He was less than impressed by my conclusion.

"What the heck did he take?" he wanted to know. So I started looking. All the loose change that we kept in the center console, which probably added up to two dollars on a good day, was gone. Three or four cds were missing. As we looked through the car, I gathered the 'trash' and put it in a bag, so the car would be clean. Later, I would realize that a sandwich bag of about 60 tokens from Chuck E. Cheese was also missing(I had left it in the glove compartment). That was all we could think of that might be missing, because most of what stays in our car is child related. Not really anything worth stealing.

As we were driving up our street discussing whether someone had indeed gone through our car-trash and taken some stuff, Larry spotted two police cars and some people standing on their front lawns. Larry pulled in behind one of the police cars, got out and spoke to one of the officers for a minute. Apparently someone went up and down our street breaking into cars. He also tried to open someone's garage door, which set off an alarm and got someone's attention. That person called the authorities, I guess.

I am feeling a bit creeped out about all this. I spend more time worrying about surviving a Zombie apocalypse than having our car broken into, and now that bugs me. What if this guy had been nearby when I walked out to put the stuff in the trunk? This guy was probably only looking for loose change(and if he didn't have an overhead light on, that bag of game tokens must have felt like a ginormous bag of quarters), and items he could carry off quickly, but if he had taken me out, the front door of our house was unlocked. Easy pickings with my husband and son asleep upstairs. That thought makes me extremely angry. It makes me want to hurt this person, who is probably just a random teenager who decided to see what he could get in the way of spare change. I still want to punch him in the face. A lot.

The Big Dog

The other day I was talking to Zane about leaving all of his small toys all over the floor and how he needed to pick them up and put them away.

"No," Zane tells me.

"Yes," I respond. "If you don't put your toys away, I will put them into 'time-out'." Zane HATES for his toys to be put into 'time-out'.

"No! I tell Big Dog!"

I almost laughed out loud.

We have quite a few dogs on our street; Zane knows most of them by name. There's Pepper, and Mojo, and Nikki, and Jade, to name a few. The dogs know Zane, who has no problem running up to these friendly pups and playing with them.

But we also live next door to two Rottweilers. They are relatively friendly, if high spirited. Personally, I don't think that they get enough exercise, but they aren't my dogs. Zane has never actually seen these dogs. He has no idea what they look like. He does, however, know what the male dog, sounds like. This dog seems to always be in the garage(to be fair, he is in the garage because he keeps breaking out of the backyard), and he barks at everything. Zane calls him The Big Dog.

Zane is 'scared' of The Big Dog. He will tell you that he's scared, but sometimes he will just start screaming. There are days when we have to carry Zane from the car to the door because The Big Dog barked and Zane is afraid to walk. There are times when we are inside our house and Zane comes running to us because The Big Dog barked, and he's very terrified. (We've explained that dogs don't know how to ring the doorbell and that The Big Dog doesn't have opposable thumbs to turn the doorknob to get inside, but this somehow is not as comforting as you might think.)

We don't know why Zane is afraid. I am not afraid of dogs and neither is Larry. Zane's been around a large dog; our Lab Sandy just passed away last year and Zane climbed on her like she was Everest. But who knows why any of us become afraid of anything? There are lots of people afraid of snakes who have never even encountered one, for instance. And I don't want Zane to throw caution to the wind and approach strange dogs, because that's not smart, either. The important thing is to deal with the fear in a positive way instead of just running from it.

We've been working on this anxiety of Zane's, talking with him about it, modeling good responses, and just generally reassuring him about The Big Dog. It seems that our efforts are working, since now Zane is going to tell The Big Dog if I put his toys in 'time-out'. Good. Zane will most certainly encounter many things that are scarier than The Big Dog, and I want him to be at least a little prepared to face them and not frozen with fear.

Obstacles

What do you do when you come to a "Bump" in the road?

Do you even notice the Bump until it trips you? Does the Bump appear to you as a mountain in the road, or a minor mound?

Do you stop moving when you come to the Bump, thinking that you have reached the end of your journey? Do you then build a house, plant flowers on the Bump and live out the rest of your days?

Do you stop to study the Bump when you find it? Do you pause to consider the feelings of the Bump and the Bump's internal motivations for showing up on your path? Do you assume responsibility for the Bump, believing that it is your fault that the Bump appeared?

Do you blame the Bump for existing and being in your way? Do you feel that the Bump deserves to die because it inconvienced you by being there? Do you use dynamite to blast the Bump into oblivion, then complain about the hole created?

Do you go around the Bump? Do you go over the Bump? Do you go under the Bump? Does it even matter, as long as you continue on your journey?

Fear not the obstacles on your path, as they say.

He Told Me

Previously I blogged about Zane's "go-to" sentence: "When the sun comes up, it will be light outside." I spoke to a speech pathologist friend about this. She pointed out that Zane probably liked the way the sentence sounded, and he liked the attention that he got when he said it. He is learning the power of words, she said. Fair enough.

However, I think that the best way to learn something is to change the routine up a bit after the initial aquisition. (I have no particular theory supporting my hypothesis, but that's how I roll.) So I decided to be pre-emptive.

Hey, Zane," I said to him while I was driving him with me to the store. "You know, when the sun comes up, it will be light outside." I expected him to repeat the sentence the same way he has the other eleventy-billion times.

"See? I TOLD you!" came the response from the back seat.

The Best-est Boy Ever

The best way to get anybody to do anything more than once is to let them know that they "done good", as my father would say. Whenever Zane does something we want to see again, we heap on the happy attention, throwing our hands in the air indicating a touchdown, offering high fives, and generally heaping on the praise. Zane loves this, and will often come in and announce "I DID IT!" even though sometimes we have no idea what he did.

While I was preparing dinner yesterday, my son was playing with his toys in the living room. Zane usually dumps out all of his toys and drags them all over the place, which means that I have to spend a lot of time grumbling about picking stuff up. Today, for some reason, I heard the sound of toys being put into the toy box. I was intrigued, but I knew better than to get overexcited. Soon the sound of toys being thrown in the toy box ceased.

"Mama, I put up all the toys!" Zane came running into the kitchen, a big grin on his face. I threw my hands into the air.

"Yay!!!! I exclaimed. I gave my son a high five. "You are THE best-est boy!"

"EVER!" Zane added. I couldn't help it; I laughed. I know that eventually, Zane will have to learn that he is not always going to be the 'best-est boy ever" on every endeavor. But for now, he can stand on top of his world with pride, and we will celebrate with him.

Establishing Good Boundaries Takes Time

As a result of several behavioral experiences in Zane's daycare career thus far, my husband and I have a morning ritual as we drop Zane off at La Petite.

"Zane, no hit, no kick, no spit, and walking feet," we tell him as we are getting him out of his car seat. We do this because it is important to state the boundaries of a situation clearly and concisely(you can't assume that they know what to do, you have to tell them the expectation). Zane dutifully repeats what we have said, and then off he goes to 'school'.

Yesterday when we arrived to pick up Zane, Ms. YoGabbaGabba!(that is what Zane calls her) informed us that she had observed Zane while he was working on a puzzle. Whenever a peer would join him, she reported, Zane would address that child by name.

"Ethan, no hit, no kick, no spit, walking feet," he told the boy. His teacher imitated my son's 'bossy' tone perfectly, so I could picture it. Then it was Alejandro's turn, then Sierra, all the way down the roster of his classmates.

Larry and I thought it was great that Zane was able to repeat 'the rules' without us being around. Ms. YoGabbaGabba! then told us the punchline: immediately after bossing all of his peers to use 'walking feet', Zane got up and ran to get another puzzle.

So we still have work to do. But at least Zane didn't hit or kick or spit, which is an improvement.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

Just a little bit of sunshine to brighten up the winter, because this time of year is kind of blah. This surprise sprang up in my backyard last summer and this picture just doesn't do it justice, but it's a nice memory for me, just the same.




Now that I've sent you some vicarious sunshine, check out the humongous giveaways over at We Don't Have It All Together! I spent over two hours last night just trying to enter as many giveaways as I could, and I still don't think I got them all! And you don't have to be a blogger to enter! Good luck!

Don't Be A But-Head

Dear Insert Name Here,

There are times when various people, including you, come to me with a problem, or multiple problems. Ask, and I will try my best to give you some solutions. Just don't "Yes, but" me. I hate that. Here I am, trying to help you, and here you are, shooting down whatever I say without any consideration at all.

It's insulting, really. You're patronizing me, killing time by making conversation. You're also wasting my time, because you have no intention of following any of the suggestions I make. Ultimately, you are avoiding taking responsibility for yourself by wandering around asking everyone's advice and wasting their time instead of actually DOING anything.

I have one final suggestion that you can "Yes, but". and then I will thank you to move along. Get off your backside, take responsibility for your self and your actions, and quit being a 'But-Head'.

Regards,
Tina

MLK Day

When I was in the tenth grade at Montgomery Blair High School in Silver Spring, Maryland, a very important person came to play an impromptu concert in support of a federal holiday celebrating Martin Luther King. That person was Stevie Wonder.

We did not know why we were having an assembly, and at first I was a little irritated about the change in my routine. But I got caught up in the excitement buzzing around the auditorium, and then Stevie Wonder came out on the stage.

He didn't play long, but he got all of us into the moment. I remember there was a LOT of screaming and quite a few people on their feet. He spoke about Martin Luther King, and I can remember thinking that it was kind of silly that someone who had such a significant impact on America did not have their own holiday. I thought something along those lines, at least. I'm sure it was more surly, in keeping with my teenager self.

Then the show was over, and we all headed back to class for the rest of the day. I believe that the local news had a story about the event, and then pretty quickly after that, Martin Luther King got his very own federal holiday. There was much rejoicing.

But think about it for a moment, all the things that Mr. King accomplished in his life that merit a federal holiday. I know that he didn't do those things with any sort of personal gain in mind. Those are big shoes to fill, aren't they?

Naked In The Garden

Last night I was helping my son get ready for bed. He had decided on wearing his Sponge Bob pajamas, and I was looking for the top to go with the bottoms. Having finally found what I was looking for, I turned around. Clothes strewn around his feet, Zane was standing in the doorway of his room, completely naked, his hands on his hips in the classic Superman pose.

"I'm NAKED!!!" He announced proudly, and I had to smile. He was so very happy about being naked. I reflected that most children his age are perfectly happy being in the altogether, and most adults MY age are not. That very awesome joyfulness at just BEING that all little kids have goes away somewhere, and most of us never get that back. That's kind of sad.

Not that I really WANT to see a bunch of people my age running around naked. Ew. If I were to show my own pale backside in public, a dude named Ahab would certainly show up! But it would be nice if more adults could just be who they are in the proverbial garden without worrying about whether they are missing their fig leaf.

My Son the Word Generator

When we arrived at the daycare yesterday evening, Zane's teacher, Ms.YoGabbaGabba!(that's what Zane calls her) met us at the door. She reported that Zane had had a brief altercation with his current BFF, Ethan, during an activity. Zane settled things the way small children do: he called Ethan a "poopy-a**".

We were shocked, and quickly we reassured the teacher that we had NO idea where he had heard such a word. And that we NEVER used that particular word. I think we were convincing in our parental horror. We packed Zane up and got into the car.

Larry started off by wondering aloud where Zane heard that word. I was quick to point out that Larry had used the word "poopyhead" at one point in discussing politics. And "dum-dum". And "stupid". And "crap". I probably wasn't all that innocent in my word usage, either, but my personal memory bank had mysteriously been wiped clean by the fact that I had slept. My husband and I could not think of a single time where we had used the word "a**". We don't know where Zane got that word.

But the more I thought about it, Zane's usage of "poopy-a**" was actually a GOOD thing. Because he actually took a word he had heard my husband use, "poopyhead", deleted part of the word, and added another word he had picked up somewhere, to create a BRAND NEW WORD. That's pretty darn smart for a three year old, to manipulate language to create a new word, all by himself. So this is very much a wonderful occurrence, then, and we would normally be praising Zane for his ingenuity IF he had chosen to create a different word.

We will not do that, of course. At least we probably won't.

Does A Mental "I Told You So" Count?

My husband has been ill these past 48 hours. He has been spending a lot of time in the bathroom, if you can imagine. Well, I would advise against imagining that.

When you have a stomach bug, you don't keep stuffing your face. You drink s lot of water or gatorade, but you don't eat much. If you do have to eat, you eat very bland food, like saltine crackers or plain toast or plain white rice. Stuff that won't make things inside you worse. Prolonging the agony is not the name of the game. Unless you like that sort of thing. Ew.

So I walk into the kitchen this evening to find Larry about to cook himself ham and eggs.

"You can't eat that, Larry," I told him. "You will regret it. A lot."

"What? It's just eggs!" Larry said. I just looked at him, eyebrows raised, then turned around and walked out of the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, a very unhappy husband rushes past me on his way to the bathroom. I did not say a word. I did, however, think it.

"I heard that!" he yelled at the top of the stairs.

Family is an Awesome Thing

One of the biggest issues that a working mom faces is what to do when your child gets sick. On the one hand, the ever present desire of your heart is to look after the welfare of your child. On the other hand, working women have a duty to their employer to show up to complete the work they were hired to do. And on the third hand, there's the paycheck. The paycheck that can make a huge difference if it is not there on billpaying day.

I once told my husband that he needed to become a famous person so he could support me in the lifestyle to which I could become accustomed, he apparently did not believe me. So we both work at this point in our lives, and it will be that way for awhile. When our beautiful little big boy is sick, one of us is more than willing to stay at home with him.

Except...when I have federal deadlines to meet, kids to test, important parent meetings to attend, lesson plans to create, writing projects to present, and workshops. Then it's not so easy to decide to stay home with a sick child. Larry usually ends up staying home, because he, at one point, had more sick days than I did. But it is getting close to the Imaginary Time, as I call it, when all of the school children will suddenly and magically learn to read fluently and write coherently for the flagrantly worshipped idol called TAKS. So now his days are limited as much as mine. We live in Converse, but carpool to New Braunfels. Sometimes we work late, for various reasons. Sometimes,as painful as it feels, we just cannot drop everything and leave to go pick up Zane.

Yet just as we have been gifted with the most miraculous child, we have been gifted with the blessing of family. My family is not very chatty. We don't talk a lot on the phone. We do try to eat lunch together every Sunday, although I don't get to pay as much attention as I would like because I have to pay attention to Zane around sharp knives and forks. My husband marvels at how little I seem to communicate with my family, and I marvel at his seemingly constant communication with his mother. (when we first started dating, Larry was on the phone with his mother at least 7 times a day. I am not kidding.)

But here's the thing: whether I talk to my parents or my brother five times a day or never, they are there for me when I need them. My sister-in-law spent two years taking care of Zane for us because he wasn't supposed to be at a daycare. Denise did this cheerfully on most days, and Zane thrived. He still talks about going to 'Auntie's house'.

On Friday, when the daycare called and asked us to come pick up Zane because he was ill, Denise went and picked him up. Then my parents picked him up from her house and took him to our house and played with him until we were able to get home. Today, Denise is going to be taking care of Zane(once again, he's got the runs, so no daycare). If my parents finish their appointments early(my dad has a CT scan to check for any cancer, they are going to go and get Zane and take him home and will watch him until we are able to get there. Occasionally, when we have to work late, Larry's mother will go and pick up Zane from daycare and take him home and wait for us.

I think that it doesn't so much take a village to raise a child as it does a family. Parenting is such an extreme sport that you never know what is going to happen. I am grateful that Zane has such loving and wonderful people in his family to help raise him up to be a good man. His Mama and Daddy sure do need and appreciate the help!

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

I just realized that I need to get some more recent pictures of me with my son. This is one of two decent pictures of the two of us together:



Now, Father/Son pictures? There are TONS of these, because I am the one taking them. This one was taken just last month.



I guess I need to try harder. And bribe my child to participate.

How Plain Does Plain English Need to Be?

Larry stayed home with Zane yesterday, both of them sick with a stomach bug. I went to work, since the evil bug did not hit me until later in the afternoon. I got a text from Larry.

"What should I feed Zane?" it says.

"Plain bread, crackers, plain pasta" I texted back.

"What kind of pasta?" comes the reply.

"Macaroni." I text.

"Being specific is helpful." he shoots back.

"I AM being specific. Plain macaroni noodles." I type. Who doesn't know this stuff? My husband, apparently.

"With cheese? Kraft? Adult? Kids?" comes the reply.

"PLAIN NOODLES." My eyes are rolling so far into the back of my head that my coworker was concerned that I might be having a seizure. And to be honest, I wasn't sure myself. But SURELY, this time, he got it, right? No.

Your specificity leaves much to be desired." was the response. And I had had enough.

"Ask your mother." I texted, proverbially passing the ball. I figured that since she raised him, she could explain it to him.

100 Followers!!!!

WOW!!! I never thought it would happen to me! I had resigned myself to blogging in obscurity, in the basement of life, my only companion a red Swingline stapler. And now look at me! One hundred completely awesome people decided to follow me!

I would like to thank my husband and my son for providing great blogging material; my friend Jillsmo for pushing me out of the nest and giving me confidence that I could write again; and all the autie parents for making me feel right at home in the blogosphere.

And I especially thank all of YOU for reading and commenting here! It makes me feel squishy inside. I love reading all of your blogs, even when I don't get to comment! Thank you!!!

I hope I didn't sound too Sally Field...

Prepositions Make a Huge Difference.

My three year old son comes running up to me in the kitchen while I am doing dishes.

"Mama, I pooped Woody," he says. I turned the water off.

"WHAT?!!" I said, my voice a little high. I was trying to remember the last time I saw the Woody doll in the house.

"I pooped Woody," Zane says again. I look at my child. He doesn't look like he's in pain. Investigating further, I discovered Zane had had an accident ON his Woody underpants. Whew! No trips to the ER today!

If there was ever an argument for the use of prepositions in a sentence, that was it.

One Small Kindness Counts Big

All around me, people are resolving to do things differently in 2011. They are going to lose 400 pounds, exercise 14 hours a day, and become perfect. This is the year, they tell me. These grandiose plans last about as long as it takes for the average coffeemaker to make a pot of coffee, and then they are dismissed. Until next year, anyway.

What if instead of resolving to be perfect this year, we all resolve to perform one small kindness to one another every day? To say 'hello' and smile to people we pass on the street? To help a grumpy elderly person? To talk for a few minutes with a person who looks lonely? To hold the door open for a mother holding her child and 40 packages? To smile and speak pleasantly to the service people at banks and stores, even when you've waited in a long line?

These are little things, I know. There is certainly nothing grandiose about doing one small kindness for one person every day. I believe that the energy that a person sends out into the world comes back to that person threefold. I also believe that there is too much negativity in the world today, and I know that we as individuals can choose to change our own behavior. However, I think that each of us doing one small kindness for one person every single day will add up to something very grand indeed. I hope that you will resolve to make 2011 a kinder year for all.

Are We There Yet?

Getting ready to go anywhere is a major ordeal, mostly because I am just plain disorganized. Also, I am easily distracted by shiny objects. So I am usually rushing around, trying to get myself ready, Zane ready, all the little things that Zane will have to have ready, and get out the door not too late for whatever it is we are supposed to be punctual.

I am not a morning person. This is actually the understatement of the century. Grass is more sentient than I am before ten in the morning. I usually don't even speak until I've had at least two cups of coffee. Yet somehow I ended up being responsible for getting the entire household up and ready for the day.

I try. I really, really try. Those books on organization make it all sound so easy. I lay clothes out the night before. I get the coffeemaker ready the night before. I put Zane's clothes out, get my lunch ready, gather up my work-related items, etc., all the night before, so I don't have to worry about them in the morning. I do this in the mistaken belief that this will make us all magically become better people who are actually on time.

What usually ends up happening:

I get up ten minutes after I am supposed to because I don't hear the alarm which is right next to my head. I go to wake up Larry so he can get into the shower. He swats at me, and mumbles something incoherent, which I wrongly interpret as "I am awake, my love. I will get out of this bed post haste." I go downstairs and make coffee, make Larry a cup and go back upstairs to find him still asleep. I try again, punching him in his hip and pulling the covers off of him. Larry again mumbles, and I hear his mumble as "I am so very sorry that I did not immediately get out of bed the last time you were up here, darling. I will endeavor to obey your every wish from this moment forward." I go back downstairs.

About halfway through my second cup I realize that Larry is still not awake and go back up stairs. This time I whisper-yell his name, trying not to wake up Zane. Larry shoots straight up in bed and acts like he's having a major coronary, then gets mad at me for "scaring" him. I stand over him until he actually gets out of bed.

I get my lunch from the fridge, put it by the door. I pour Zane a glass of apple juice, pour a cup of coffee into a travel mug for Larry. I eat a quick breakfast of whatever is handy, and inevitably the second I sit down, Larry comes down the stairs and starts yelling at me to hurry up or we are going to be late.

I run around frantically trying to get ready. I rush downstairs. Zane is ready to go, Larry is ready to go, I am ready to go. We open the door to leave and--Zena runs out the door. We have to go and get her. We corral under a car and finally succeed in snaring her. We pick her up, put her in the house and--

"Want apple juice," my son says. *sigh* I unlock the door, Zena explodes from inside the house to the Great Outdoors. I go in the house to get more juice. I bring it out to my son, who is now strapped into his seat.

"Oh, I forgot I'm supposed to bring a movie for after the test," my husband says. "I'll be right back." He goes in, says but can't find it. I know exactly where "it" is; on the shelf in the laundry room. I tell Larry this. Larry goes back in, and comes back out again to tell me that he still couldn't find what was needed. I usually end up going back in the house to get the item, which is exactly where I said it was. By the time we finally get to where we are going, it's time to go home!

Midnight at the Mos Eisley Cantina

We have a feral cat living in our back yard. He's a very round, yellow, shorthaired cat that we named Lalo(because that rhymes with 'yellow'). Well, at least we think it's a 'he', because it's never been preggers as far as we can tell.

Lalo lives on our patio, sleeping on the chair cushions when it's sunny, and underneath various places when it is raining. Sometimes he wanders off, but he always shows up eventually We put food out for Lalo, and make sure he has water, and that's about it. I always wondered if other animals were eating the food we put out, so one day I started watching.

There are other feral cats who wander into our yard; Two Socks, Blondie, and Moe are their names(I give them nicknames, sue me). But Lalo has planted his flag on the patio and no matter who else comes through his territory, he stays. Birds of all sizes/varieties show up during the day to grab some of Lalo's food(I wonder if they can tell they're eating chicken? And if so, what do they think it tastes like?). Some of the birds will dunk the cat food into the water dish to soften it up; which I think is pretty cool, except it messes up the water. There are possum who come by at night to snack on Lalo's food and get a drink as well. One night we saw what was probably an entire possum family--Mom, Dad, and the two kids--chowing down. Also cool. Lalo just sits or lays on his cushion and watches(or snoozes), and none of the other critters seems to pay much attention to him. Watching all this makes me think of that bar in Star Wars, if all the characters had been animals.

Tonight as I was turning off all the lights for the night, I glanced outside and saw Lalo curled up asleep on his cushion. And nearby, chowing down, was a thirty pound raccoon. I did a double take. My friend Jillsmo often speaks about all the raccoons they have in Berkeley and how they will come into your house and eat your food and drink all your beer and play all your Xbox games before sleeping in your bed. I thought about going outside and shooing it off--my husband will not share his Call of Duty game under any circumstances--but then I decided to just turn off the lights and go to bed.

After making sure the door was locked. Raccoons are tricksy.

Book Review: Nelson's Biblical Cyclopedic Index

I chose to review this book, Nelson's Biblical Cyclopedic Index, because it looked like a good reference book for bible study. The back cover states that this book "offers more word listings than any other Bible resource available." It is described as a Bible dictionary, concordance, and topical Bible all rolled into one book.

The title, Biblical Cyclopedic Index, could be a little confusing to the average person. They might decide not to look further. That would be a shame, because this book packs a powerful punch. If there is a topic that you are considering for a lecture or bible study group, it's in this book. If you are looking for a good subject for a sermon, it is in this book. If there is a biblical word that you can't figure out, it's in this book.

Look up a word or a person or a place and in the Biblical Cyclopedic Index you will find all the bible verses, in order of appearance, which use or refer to that word, person, or place. I think that is pretty awesome. Someone spent a lot of time on this book. I am used to just opening the Bible and reading random passages or reading an entire book from start to finish, but using the Biblical Cyclopedic Index is a bit more systematic. The end result is a richer, more consistent approach to any topic which gives the reader more to discuss in a group or to just ponder on their own.

In addition, the Biblical Cyclopedic Index includes word studies, where they take a word such as 'trouble' and give you the word as it was in the Bible, how it was pronounced, and how that word might have been originally used at the time that the Bible was being written. I love to look up words in the dictionary and see where they originated, so I was very fascinated by the word studies in this book. The Biblical Cyclopedic Index is very definitely "a house with many rooms" that will give even a beginner much to explore and enjoy.


**I received this book from the publisher through booksneeze.com for the purpose of review. I was not told what to say or how to say it, so any dangling participles are strictly my fault.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday

This is the very first picture of my son with his daddy. I was in ICU following Zane's birth, and Larry was on his own to deal with Zane in the NICU. I think he did good. We all need someone to hold our hand from time to time.

Ruckus Raising is Essential for Good Health

When I was in elementary school, back before electricity, we didn't have to sit quietly and eat our lunch. We had no cafeteria monitors glaring at us if we had a negotiation with our table over a bag of cookies someone brought. I don't remember any food fights happening; most of us kids were starving by lunch and would have bit any hand that attempted to grab our sammich or apple. I got to sit with my friends, whoever they were on that particular day. When I was finished eating, I got to rush joyfully outside to the playground and raise a ruckus, which at that time meant that I ran, jumped, hollered, laughed, and had an all-around good time.

These days, however, kids are escorted into the cafetORIUM, marched through the cafeteria line, and then seated at assigned tables and expected to eat quietly without raising a ruckus. There are adults who monitor the tables to make sure that there's no ruckus raising. Anyone who starts to raise a ruckus is escorted out of the cafetORIUM(can you tell I hate that word?) and sent to the office for the standard beration and consequence. I've been in these places during lunch. It is a sadly unappetizing place. It should be outlawed on elementary campuses(but strictly enforced on middle school campuses, because those teenagers talk to darn much about nothing as it is).

What adults seem to have forgotten is that kids need to raise a ruckus at least once a day for optimal health. Most of them can raise a ruckus when they are at recess, unless their recess is as severely curtailed as their lunch. But a ruckus, even a small one such as a whoop of joy, must occur at some point during the day. If a kid doesn't get to raise any ruckus, their brains are stifled and they will not learn. It has been proven scientifically that running, jumping and other aspects of ruckus raising result in higher scores on standardized measures. Some schools have even purchased treadmills or other exercise equipment specifically for this purpose, but I could tell these places not to waste their money. All that is needed for proper ruckus rasing is wide open space in which to run, jump, and holler. Or a grassy hill to roll down while hollering. Or climbing to the top of the monkey bars while hollering. You get the idea. Hollering out your joy is at the heart of all ruckus raising.

I try to let Zane raise as many ruckuses as he can. I let him just run around the kitchen hollering at the top of his lungs for a minute or two before dinner. I let him run around the backyard, and some times I will chase him with the hose. He likes that, and I enjoy it as well. I guess that inside, I am still a kid who likes to raise a ruckus.

Sweet Repeats

Zane jumped into bed with me yesterday morning, put his face close to mine, and when I opened my eyes, he says...

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside."

"Uh...Okay," I blearily respond. Because if you don't respond immediately to a child, if you don't hear him or pretend to ignore what he said to get him to change the subject, the child will repeat himself.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside." If you STILL don't respond, Zane always decides that volume might get the point across.

"WHEN THE SUN COMES UP, IT WILL BE LIGHT OUTSIDE!"

So I agree with Zane's assessment regarding the sun, we go downstairs so I can have a cup of cold coffee and maybe read the paper. My husband gave this statement to him, when they were discussing day and night. I have no idea why Zane has been repeating this sentence over and over for the last three days, but he has. He always states this fact with the same inflection and cadence, which I normally would find fascinating. If not for the fact that he's said the same thing about eleventy-billion times.

Thirty minutes later, Zane walks over to me carrying his Buzz Lightyear doll, er--action figure. I am at the kitchen table, actually reading the newspaper, which I don't usually get to do.

"Mama," he says. I don't respond immediately; I am reading. Actual big words and complete sentences, which require some concentration.

"Mama," my son tries again, more urgently this time. He pulls my arm as emphasis. I look up at Zane, expecting him to tell me that he has to go to the bathroom or something.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside," my child states this with certainty. You can see that he is very committed to this statement.

"Yes. You are exactly correct, Zane. When the sun comes up, it WILL be light outside," I respond, changing the emphasis a bit to see what will happen. Zane runs off with Buzz to play some more, and I get to finish reading my newspaper article.

Twenty minutes later, I am in the shower, getting ready for the day. All of a sudden, Zane bursts into the bathroom.

"Mama! Mama!" he yells. I turn off the water and open the shower door, my MomAlarm!(tm) sounding in my head.

"What?!!! What is it?!!!" I look at my son, expecting him to tell me that his father is hurt or some other emergency that would match the urgency in his voice.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside." Zane runs off, leaving the bathroom door wide open and his mother with heart palpitations.

Fifteen minutes later, Zane is suddenly at my side. I am putting on my makeup. He takes my hand in his, rubs it on his cheek.

"Yes, sweetie?" Zane mumbles something. I lean down to hear him. He mumbles again. I lean closer still.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside."

It was a very long day. And as I tucked my sweet, wonderful, smart child into his bed and kissed him good night, he reached up and touched my face.

"When the sun comes up, it will be light outside," he whispered, just before his eyes closed.

It's a Nice World

In my son's eyes, there are simply two ways of being: Nice and Not Nice. Nice includes just about the entire world on most days; Zane trusts that the world is a Nice place. A world where people are Nice to each other, not just because Christmas is coming, but because Nice is the proper way to exist, no matter who you are or what your situation might be. Most small children have that trust, that the world is Nice and that everyone is their friend. I truly love that idea. It is a beautiful image, this picture of the world as a Nice place. I am okay with Zane tripping along life's path with that little idealistic balloon for a bit longer. Idealists give me hope, even if I know that most don't survive very long with their idealism intact.

Happy New Year! Get off My Lawn

Our neighbors like to celebrate the New Year by lighting fireworks. Lots of them. It seems that they buy fireworks by the caseload on this street alone. I have no doubt that if someone were to set up a Fireworks store outside this subdivision, it would sell out of everything in less than an hour.

I do not have a problem with fireworks. Some of them are very pretty in the night sky before they burn themselves out (there's a metaphor about life in there, and I wasn't even trying!) However, I do have a problem with some of the people who light the fireworks.

My neighbors light fireworks on the street, away from the grass and from any cars. There are always adults out there supervising, and they are the ones who are lighting most of the fireworks. I've also seen that these people have the implements to extinguish a fire if they need to, including a fire extinguisher. When they are finished with the fireworks, about five minutes after midnight, they take the time to clean up as much of the debris as possible.

Then you have the idiots who were out behind my house last night. Teenagers with no adult supervision, judging by their laughter. Someone had to have purchased the fireworks for them, and should have known better, so that person is even more of an idiot than these teenagers. Yes, these teenagers were lighting fireworks in the drainage ditch behind my house, which is full of tall, combustible grass. Some of the fireworks found their way into my backyard, and probably a couple landed on someone's roof. It is fortunate that we had some rain two days ago.

I probably should have called the police, but on New Year's Eve, the police have a lot more important stuff to do, like keeping drunk drivers off the road so they don't kill anyone. So I just keep an eye on the kids out back, ready to call the fire department if I see any smoldering grass. Maybe next year I'll ask the firemen if I can borrow their hose so I can hose down those kids and their fireworks before they start. Or would that be too much?

Where Does He Get This Stuff?

Zane has been on a Lord of the Rings kick, so that is what we have been watching, and reading, and talking about. Of course, we have to watch the extended version, because my husband is a purist about such things. We've been watching all of the movies from start to finish, over the past two weeks, because Zane is rather single minded about his movie watching.

So it wasn't that big a deal for me to come downstairs to find my son watching Return of the King with his father. What WAS a surprise was that when Zane saw the Mouth of Sauron, he said, very clearly, "Oh, that's Steve."

Yes, folks, you heard it here first! The REAL name of the Mouth of Sauron is...Steve.