Why Everything In My House Is Destroyed

It was a Come to Jesus weekend in the House of Picket.

And while prayer may (or may not) have been involved, I invoke the saying because it sounds much sweeter than admitting that the Kid and me shouted and chest-thumped our way through the last coupla days -- a rainy bunch of days; a deluge, in fact -- over the kids' (in the Kid's words) "lack of respect for our home" and their trashing-of-it ways. A meeting commenced early Sunday night. A huddle was had. A speech was made.

Good times.

When B first tagged an armoire with her toddler scribble, we reacted with typical dismay horror pride: what an artist we have, such a genius, and also what wonderful, creative parents we are, we who supplied the crayons and (apparently) do not hover. That's the excellent domain of newbie parents: to consider everything the offspring does with nothing but stupified adoration. (Dear Newbie Parents: it fades.)

Now, the bookcases in what was once the office and is now the playroom are detailed with either brown marker or brownie mix -- I'm not sure. Now, the cabinets in the kitchen (a mere four years old) are dented and gouged from someone's good idea to ride the scooter inside. (OK: it was me. But it's that cool scooter, the Powerwing, which I could steer but NO ONE ELSE COULD.) Now, the couches are not so much comfy spots to sit in but instead devastated lumps, former pommel horses or uneven bars or ships or forts or platters for Play Doh.

(I do not have a room in my house where kids aren't allowed. I do have rules about food and where it should be eaten, but I bend those rules from time to time, if it serves me -- like this week, while The Kid's gone and we have no school for two days. I have an accessible cabinet filled with nothing but paper and art supplies and I do not lock it. I like kids to get messy; I believe in the goodness of messy.)

But for the love of all that has been paid for and more importantly earned, is it too much to ask of that no one vaults over the freakin' couch? Because vaulting over the couch leads to landing on the antique chest/coffee table that though not valuable has meaning? And means that the couch will become increasingly unstable and unhinged and unsuitable? So is leaving it alone, just sitting your ass onto it -- IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, SHORT DRUNK PEOPLE?

So the speech was delivered by The Kid. He meant it. He was serious. He wasn't taking your shit and he didn't care that you wanted to do something else. You would listen. And you would look him the eye. And you did, because his voice his deeper than your Mom's and also when he stands up, it's almost like his head touches the ceiling (which is not so true of your Mom.)

But today? Today, when you ran the entire stretch of the house, took a running leap and flung yourself into the air over the arm of the couch -- with a MARKER in your hand - and then answered my question -- which was DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT DADDY SAID LAST NIGHT?!?!? -- from your huddled perch on the bare wood floor where you fell, with the obvious reply that Daddy isn't here....

Well, I'm sorry that I laughed for those couple of seconds because I shouldn't have because Daddy is right and also, I'm sorry, so so sorry that I find these shenanigans in any way funny because I really, really need to stick with the plan, which is a good plan and the right plan. And my back hurts from that crap couch (which I keep writing as "coach" which is probably Freudian) so here's your grilled cheese and carrots: go eat dinner in the playroom tonight, there's no school tomorrow and I need to write this down.

Also, PS: daddy gets a kick out of it sometimes too. Trust me.

Public Freaking Update

So anyway....

Despite the comment to the local banker who was providing a generous financial gift -- a comment along the lines of "funny accounting" and "mortgages" or something equally inappropriate, I can tell you that everything I imagined would happen mostly did: in other words, I have no idea what I said but it all worked OK.

I did however take notes. I also used the same sheet of paper to pass notes. I present those notes here, with identifying or incriminating details blocked out with my fancy photo editing software (aka: a Sharpie):



While I managed to include some important educational philosophy stuff, I also pondered Porta-Potties and upcoming parties. Because I am a multi-tasker, yo. And have remarkably bad handwriting. And a strange manner of organizing data, which should come as no surprise considering the state of nearly every drawer in my kitchen.

None of which, by the way, are currently housing my fancy phone. Which is missing. So, don't bother calling.

Public Freaking

In T-minus two hours, I will stand before hundreds tens? a bunch of people and attempt to make words leave my mouth. Not the words that will be racing around my head mind you, but the words I am supposed to say: the official representative type words. Eeek. I am skeered.

It's not that I mind public speaking, if the public is like ten people who are hammered and loving me. Once I did an impression of Mick Jagger for 15 minutes (too long) and I was all kinds of brave then -- and public. (Tonight, there will be a bar with booze involved, but still: THIS is different.) And also, what if I've watched too many stump speeches lately and start doing the (gasp) mock thumbs up thing? Or the wave-point-wave thing?



Shudder.

I'm not bothering with the make-up because I don't know how what's the point? Within 1.2 seconds of opening my mouth, the blood will leave every part of my body and go directly, flash-flood style, to my head. It will not be the sweet blush of youth: it will be "oh my fucking god, my heart is beating in MY FACE."

After I have spoken with enthusiastic eloquence blabbered, I will sit down, having no idea what I've said, because my words will be delayed getting to my ears ala cell phone call to Tokyo. And then I will black out for the next ten minutes. What with the blood draining back to my toes.

Next, I will consider drinking heavily, then I will consider abstaining (so I don't start holding up my lighter and chanting "rock on" while the Superintendent talks), and then I will scribble VERY IMPORTANT notes (that will mostly be "remember to look up the word _____" and "what did he just say?") and then I will nod and smile and go home.

Hold me.

Tree Chopping Passive Aggressor

The good news is the gang warfare is over. The bad news is that it ended not in a peace treaty or an alliance but because a couple of giant trees fell heavy across the embattled ground. Like literally smack on top of the forts that made up the embattled ground. RIGHT ON TOP.

I wish I could say that the trees toppled in a windstorm or a nor'easter but alas, they did not. They fell by human hand in what might be the work of a passive aggressive neighbor. The horror! Passive aggressive tree-chopping neighbors walk amongst us!

So the hulking browning wretched fallen trees have literally crushed the handiwork and architecture of the girl gang and the boy gang. Both structures lay beneath the bulk of the axed maples, leaving them squashed and crushed and "ruined mom! omigod mom! ruined!" It's a giant mess of branches and trunks, which could be fun in another way come to think of it, but for reals? RIGHT ON TOP OF THE FORTS?

Neighbor Friend Ally and I have powwowed. We have assessed. We have walked the embattled ground that now seems even more ruthless. We have seen the battle line and where it has fallen and we know what it says: get yer stinkin' kids a new lot of public woods to build in because this one is officially off limits!

Maybe. Maybe not. There's always this option:



Rebuild I say! Rebuild!

PS: Those orange chaps are a must-have, no?

Soccer Mom V. Pit Bull

Soccer was the sport that made me love sports. I was a decent player and the physics and geometry of the game were all I really ever mastered of math. I was good at seeing the game from above so to speak and while I never had finesse or skill or speed of any kind, I could make the ball go to the right place at the right time almost every time. I could set up plays, what with my loud mouth and my perch at center half-back.

(I once scored a goal from 50 yards out, but that was a fluke of the highest order and would never happen again. Also, I was at my prime then, 14, and soon would earn a spot on the state team. Injuries on that team and through high school plus a growing obsession with records would initiate a slow slide downward. I did not play in college. I watched one practice my first week there; division one is scarrrrry. And large.)

Still, I think all those statistics about girls and sports were true for me. The discipline of the sport, the camaraderie, the physical commitment: they were all things that helped to define me, but mostly they gave me a healthy respect for earned achievement -- so I busted my butt off the field too. My girls play soccer for two reasons: the aforementioned and also, because I kinda I wish I was still playing soccer myself.

So, I coach. I am one of three women head coaches in a 12 team girls' league. This means nothing, but I mention it, because well, maybe it means something to me. I've coached some of these girls for years. Two of them showed up at the game today with a poster for the team just like the one I had made for the first team we were on together. If not for the pre-game adrenaline, I might have cried.

The assistant coach, who has been with me twice, is a dad of two soccer playing kids who splits the practices: running between helping our team and his son's team all at the same time. Not sure if awards are made for that, but they should be and he should be given one. And also, he's a man, with loads of soccer knowledge, but I am the coach. He makes sure everyone knows that, especially when the other coaches approach HIM to shake hands before the game. He deserves a different award for that.

We won our first game, in the rain, with one sub, 6-1. I got in trouble: I should have stopped the scoring. I knew that. I couldn't: we were up 3-1 after the first half and scored three lucky goals in 8 minutes at the beginning of the second half. I used our one sub to spread the "hold back" message. There was no gloating from our team at the end. These girls were proud but they were sportswomen. If not for the post-game adrenaline, I might have cried.

We lost today 4-0. Three goals were scored against us in the second half. Even though those kids played like aces and essentially, we dominated, sometimes its boils down to luck. You win, you lose. That's how it works. Everyone left smiling. I took the poster home for safekeeping.

(Enter: bitch. SELF-EDIT HERE*. Exit: Bitch.)

I'll spend 5 days out of the next seven looking for socks and shin pads for practices and clinics, which will make me utterly crazy and also utterly happy all at the same time because I figure if my love of the sport matters, it might matter to them too. Also, I will be practicing my subtle *stick-foot-out-one-way-and-look-the-other-way trip maneuver for next week's game, should I need it.

So anyhow, soccer matters to me. The "soccer mom" thing? It means something different to me too. Also, I know for sure that there are no differences between hockey moms and soccer moms.

But do you know the difference between a soccer mom and a pit bull?

Brains.

Just saying.

Dear Lady in New Jersey

I don't know you, but I am pretty sure we would be fast friends.

My excellent brother-in-law who you work with mentioned the fact that his wife's weirdo younger sister writes a blog. And apparently you listened to him, which is funny in about three different ways: 1) he mentioned the blog, 2) he has co-workers who ACTUALLY listen to him (oh brother-in-law: I kid, I kid) and 3) you referred to The Kid in public as "The Kid" which I am telling you now, dear Lady in New Jersey, is gonna make The Kid crazy, crazy happy.

We started off on the right foot, right there. That pretty much sealed the deal between you and me.

The fact that anyone would bother with the ravings and rantings I put to (virtual) paper is a complete happy riddle for me. I think that's how most minor writers bloggers feel. I think most of us declare some space on the interwebs, tap tap on the noisy keyboard and whoa! wait! people actually read this babble?

It's weird, and it's great, Lady in New Jersey.

(It turns out most interwebby writer people consider themselves very lame in real life social circumstances* like Carolyn does sometimes or even Ciii and Jen W or For Myself or Kristin or Aimee. Which is really funny and strange because, out here? They only seem all kinds of confident and interesting and brave.)

But I digress, which you know I do anyway, because apparently you found something here that keeps you coming back, and so you've seen me get so off the path before that you might have wondered (as I have): was there ever a path here to begin with? And the answer is: mostly: nope. No path. But like Gretel, I follow the crumbs and get back on track eventually. Right? Right?

Dear, dear Lady in New Jersey, who has a life so different from mine, when my sister told me that you read these words on A REGULAR BASIS, I mean, listen Lady from New Jersey, I wanted to grab you by the shoulders and just kiss you straight on the mouth. Which I would actually never do, what with that whole problem* (unless I had already imbibed like 5 million Miller Lites, because then I am all kinds of kissy) (just saying) (shut UP!) but still: I love you Lady from New Jersey and I think it's pretty cool that you come around.

xoxo,
Ms Picket

PS: To you blog dudes: consider this a serious ass tag (that I am starting yo!) and also YO! write a letter to your secret (or not so secret) (or you wish was a secret?) reader. And let me know when you do.

PSS: OMG. Carolyn is so totally gonna love this.

Homework

Is it cheating to google "polygon"? I mean to say, is it cheating if I google "polygon" and then pretend to know the answer?

Math makes me sweat. Spelling I can manage. Reading I can do. Math gives me heart palpitations.

Also, why do I seem to be the only one not taking notes at school open houses? Am I supposed to be taking notes? I snuck a few peeks to see what my note-writing neighbors were writing but I got side-tracked by the image of grown adults perched 15 inches off the ground in tiny seats hunched over tiny desks. It was so cute really and I started to day-dream a little: was the guy in the suit the class clown in 4th grade? Which one of these grown-ups stared out the window most of the day or drew little hearts on the edges of the pages? At which point I drew little stars on the edges of the information packet in front of me. And then I actually took some notes: peer pressure's a bitch.

The 4th grade teacher is a whip smart ball of awesomeness only made more awesome when she encouraged us NOT to correct homework. I generally have not corrected homework anyway, mostly because I think the teacher should see that my child really has no freakin' idea what she's doing sometimes, which sometimes happens to be the case. Still, it's pretty sweet when the teacher tells you to do exactly what you want to do. So, I sat at the counter, well I stood actually, as I was also trying to sort through a massive pile of paper that held somewhere within its mass a couple forms I needed to fill out (damn forms!), and gave some direction, and also some encouragement ("do your homework!"), googled "polygon" on my phone and just casually tossed out the definition to impress my short people and the extra ones hanging out for the day.

And the heart palpitations? At a very low level thank you very much because I honestly I have no idea what a regular polygon is since I really didn't read the part that mentioned there might be different types of polygons and anyhoo, "Just go with what you remember most from school and your awesome teacher will look it over tomorrow because I am NOT SUPPOSED to correct it which is not saying I COULDN'T correct if I WANTED to, but I'm just following the rules, buddy. I took some notes, you see, at the open house -- it's written down right here on this packet, next to the doodles."

It's gonna be a great year.

Big City, Green Lights

I've been twice to Boston in the last five days.

This is only worth mentioning because before that, it'd been a solid year since I hung there (excluding a couple Sox games and a few runs to the airport) and that strikes me as both telling and pathetic. Or pathetically telling, which is, you know, what I do...

The Kid set me up on the anniversary with a car and a babysitter so I could meet him for dinner. He had me at "babysitter" but the car was pretty fly too. Food was eaten. Champagne was sipped. Miller Lite was had -- and who knew they even served the swill at joints like that? But they do! They really do! They would not let me keep the bottle on the table, but bygones.

We hit up a bar in which I felt my June Cleaver meets a blonde Amy Winehouse might be less obvious and all I wanted was one of the glass mugs they hung above the bar with my own name etched into it.

The man behind me looked like a serial killer and while The Kid was in the bathroom, I imagined all kinds of strange and dangerous things about him. Then the bartender handed him his mug, etched with his name, and so I switched into imagining strange and dangerous things about me.

Three days later I drove my own ass to the City to meet a best friend from high school in on business from San Francisco. Two kids, a husband, saver of the world: if she wasn't so completely awesome, I would probably seethe with jealousy but mostly I just wanted to hug her and tell all my secrets. We told some, we ate some less than good food and drank a beer or two at a very lame sports bar.

I know! I meant to show her how Boston is sisters with Frisco but what with all the never actually going to Boston (anymore) (except to see BaldBlondeGirl), I just failed miserably. The conversation was an excellent distraction from my lameness in that department and also, I think the last time we were together here there, we were drinking canned Milwaukee's Best out of bathtub filled with ice. Might have been a bathtub in a really nice hotel (someone's dad was paying for) but still...

(Boarding school is so weird that way. The best part? You get so used to saying goodbye and hello again that distance and different lives matter so very little; you just pick up again like summer finished and carry on...)

We walked down the streets -- it was a Love Story kind of night, perfect weather, possibility everywhere -- and she said she could move here and I said I wish she would, not only to have her closer but because I knew she would most likely live in the city and then maybe, just maybe I could get my mojo back there (here? there?).

Like it used to be. Like when I knew all the coolest places to go and didn't feel funny and out of place. Like when I could walk the sidewalk in front of some dive bar/rock show venue and know people walking by. When I didn't grip her arm (or she mine) when the cars seemed too frisky in the crosswalk ("we can't die!" she said and she was right). When I was more happy about the lead singer not passing out on stage than I was about every green light I hit on the way home, which by the way, made me very, almost deliriously happy.

At dinner with The Kid, celebrating what turns out to be the Ivory Anniversary (he googled it, I didn't: note to future self: google next anniversary), he said, he considered pearls. I said, but I hate pearls -- hate them not so much as an idea or an item, but on me -- and he said, I know, but for a minute there I thought maybe you were over that and -- tiny fight ensued -- and I said I think I'm grown up but I still don't want to wear pearls and then -- another tiny fight ensued -- and we moved on.

(I think the waiter plunking down the bottle of Miller Lite helped to finish it off. It was a metaphor three dimensionally. And deliciously. And funny too. The ivory bag he decided on? YO!)

So, we moved on.

Like we all try to. Her job gets bigger, our kids get older, the gaps in our phone calls widen but we still know how to hang even though a couple years have passed since the last time. Our bills increase, our kids get older, the time that we spend alone seems to diminish by the minute but we still manage to make fun of serial killers. Because we roll like that, we always have, and it's starting to feel like we always will.

Those kind of changes, that seem to reap little change when you think about it, I like those changes. The other kind? The kind of change where you find yourself driving down a city street that is not your street anymore? And that will probably never be your street ever again?

It dawns on you driving home under a blaze of green lights that become both an omen and a reckoning -- because you realize how much you like being home after all and apparently some God of Traffic Lights knows that too -- but still? But still you wonder: do you even like music anymore anyway? Were you ever that girl who was completely at home backstage or at the bar giving out drink tickets, negotiating interviews, fending off without offending, knowing EXACTLY what she was talking about? Was that ever, in fact, you?

It dawns on you, on that short green-lit ride home, that secretly inside you felt all along like a girl from boarding school who was just playing the part. With nail polish.

And it dawns on you, suddenly, when you pull into your driveway, a driveway you helped to pay for, that you might be doing the same thing now.

That makes a girl all thinky and awkward. And quiet.

And turning up the radio, trolling the Itunes, cranking the Ipod. And writing it down.

MeMe HeHe Style

So the awesome LilSass (who I tend to live vicariously through) hit me up on the meme thing, the one where you have to write six things about yourself that might have gone unmentioned. Since I rarely talk about myself (ahem, cough cough) and since it is also my anniversary today (that's right: 14 years which means I have been officially married half of my life) (ahem, cough cough), I have decided to alter the plan a bit.

Here are 6 things I did not know about The Kid until after I had married him:

1) He is on occasion allergic to beer. I know this because once while eating seaweed salad, which at the time seemed very exotic and mildly scary, he started to develop a fuchsia rash on his neck. As it crept ever upward, he sauntered casually to the bathroom to check it out. I waited. And waited. I finally got the nerve up to rescue him, sure that I would find him laying comatose on the floor of the Japanese restaurant bathroom, but at last, he emerged. Still bright red, but breathing. Turns out, it was not the seaweed salad but in fact the beer. He remembered that it had happened once before (um? ever think to tell ME that?) and it would happen again. Except that the next time my advice would be to tell him to drink more*. It worked.

2) He had a dog named Lollipop. Not King or Brute or Buddy, but Lollipop. And he loved Lollipop, the hot dog dog.

3) He has some serious issues with screen doors being closed. And bugs. And rodents. And sharks. Also, with liberals, which makes for a lot of Carville/Matalin nights around here but much less intelligent. And with more bugs.

4) He always thought he would marry a 30 year old black woman. She is always 30, always black, and always a woman. He got one out of the three. I am pretty sure that in his fantasies, she is really tall too. Which means he got one out of four. I thought I was going to marry Jason Bateman so go figure.

5) He once passed off Jim Morrison lyrics as his own. His father thought he was a genius and a deep thinker for about 30 minutes, which were probably the best 30 minutes of The Kid's life before he met me. He still writes songs but never writes them down. So sad for the world -- all the music it'll never know.

6) While hanging out backstage with a band I was working with, The Kid, *who had obviously been trying to get that allergic rash under control, tried to convince the lead singer of the band, who was mildly famous in general and definitely famous for his very cool shades, to trade glasses. He worked on the dude for a good twenty minutes: wire frames from Lenscrafters for vintage rock star specs. He probably would have tried to sell him some song lyrics if I hadn't stepped in. I banned him from the backstage for months.

And 7 for good luck) Before I married him, I had no idea how crazy I would become, how grumpy, how weird, how worried, how tired, how confused I would be sometimes. I had no idea that he would have the tolerance of a pre-school teacher when dealing with my ebbs and flows and that after 14 years, he would still find me funny and still find his way home.



So young, so stupid, so many hats ago.

*****

Wanna play? Let me know. And I'll link to you here.

Speaking of restaurants...

Wait? Were we speaking of restaurants? We weren't, but I'm hungry and would very much like for someone to bring me a menu. Just saying.

Anyhoo, B was out to lunch the other day with her friend and her friend's family. The hostess/neighbor mom mentioned that she wanted a taste of the salad being enjoyed by the man at the nearby table. Which I understand completely. The plates get piled down on other tables and all I want to do is tuck in right next to them and check out the yumminess. I sort of wish that all restaurants were dim sum style or of the tapas variety: that way I could see and try and taste and devour little bits of everything.

So, B, who is always ever helpful, flipped over her paper placemat and created the following, a sign of sorts that the host/neighbor dad could use to get the attention of the man at the nearby table:



I'm not sure why the "please" is crossed out -- frankly, I would have kept that -- but I am keeping the drawing in my bag nonetheless, just in case I see a salad that looks particularly tasty.

Pssst, Are You Sleeping?

That's what the voice (voices?) whisper to me some nights.

Hey lady, are you sleeping? it sneers.
I'm trying too, I say.
Why bother? it laughs. I am relentless.

Then the barrage comes in a totally random order, starting innocently, harmlessly -- wait? what time is the doctor's appointment? -- and ramping upwards -- birthday presents, weeds, cousins, eating habits of nine year olds, bumper stickers, agendas, practice schedules, phone calls, yoga, ants. Unflinchingly, it drones on, while the whole house sleeps.

I consider plodding downstairs. Think about making a list. Unloading the dishwasher. Picking a paint color once and for all. But its dark and quiet and what if when I flip a switch, so I don't die tripping over some misplaced fire truck or fort material, the light just shakes me out of sleep completely. And what if there's a bulb missing and where are the extra bulbs/I know I bought some/were they the green kind?/the twisty ones/or old school and is global warming really real and I should read something unbiased about that/I should read more/like a book/ohmygod!/book group.

So I roll over, flip the pillow. Wonder what everyone is dreaming about. Hear someone sigh down the hall.

Then: name tags. God, I hate name tags. They look so lame, so lamely official, and I never know where to put them: above the boob, on the boob, between the boobs? And what if I forget to take it off and run around for hours all HELLO! I'M a Loser? Because I've done that and it sucked. But still, I should get some for that thing on Thursday at the school with cookies (!!) and sign up sheets. I like cookies. And if I have a name tag, maybe someone will sign up for something. Which would be good. Maybe instead of platters of cookies, we should have platters of money. People like money. Why do I never have any in my wallet yet my daughters collect cash like... like cash collectors?

Consider getting into the lemonade stand business. Consider lemonade in general. It's good with iced tea, but otherwise, not so much. AM I STILL AWAKE? What time is it? And I'm tired. Roll over. Take deep breath. Sigh.

And Mad Men? Why can't that show be on teevee 24 hours a day? Because Don Draper is sort of hot and the whole thing is so subtle and genius and did it mean something more when they dumped all their picnic trash on the lawn at the park? Mean something more than bad manners and litterbug-ishness? Like maybe a symbol of their impending arrogance, their ascendence to another, wealthier class? I mean, she shook out the blanket and just flung the debris all over the place! Did people do that in the 60s? I don't think my mom did that. We cleaned up washed-up garbage along the beach in the 70s, after all. Remember that sand cake I once made her? The one I decorated with discarded plastic playtex tubes as candles? Gross. I should ask her about that.

Snoring is really kind of funny, if you think about, if you listen to it long enough.
Yawn. Roll over. Pull up covers... And finally, finally, FINALLY: sleep.

This day will be fueled by buckets of caffeine. And nametags: HELLO I'M sleepy.

I Take It All Back

Because this? This is beyond sad and seriously profound.

So, internet? We're friends again. And I'm sorry.

Dear Stupid Website

Thank you for erasing EVERYTHING.

Thank you for sucking.

Thank you for making me think that my ten minutes tonight when I wrote about my mother's mother...

the one who loved storms
the one who tied me up to a wicker couch during a storm that would kick this storms ass --

thanks for making me think that was not worth worth saving.

Because you didn't save it and you suck.

Since you didn't save it, didn't save ONE WORD THAT I WROTE which was probably soooooo genius and funny and smart? And since now it's way past midnight and my lame attempts to find those words are wasted? Fucking wasted? And since now I seem all bitter? Again?


I got this for you, Stupid Website, stupid internet who just screwed with me once again: you are tasty and yummy but I am supposed to be the one in charge. And you just made me tantrum again.

Got tantrums? TELL.

Packed Up, Nowhere to Go

The GFYO was supposed to start pre-school today. The GFYO is spiking a fever and wheezing like an old man huffing Marlboro Reds. I figured we would just let the Big First Day pass by so I neglected to mention it. I figure we'll head to the doctor's for some meds and do more of the hanging out that we are famous for.

Instead, his ever-nosy sisters started in on us both bright and early.

THEY: You are sick. You are sicky sick. You don't feel goody do you?

HE: (thinking) Why are they talking to me like that? Weirdos.

THEY: You are all saddy sad. Poor GFYO. You --

And this is where I start waving my arms in the background, a foolish umpire trying to get my message across: DO NOT MENTION THE SCHOOL WORD --

THEY: -- will miss your --

More waving, and also some hopping on one foot. DO NOT SAY IT!

THEY: BIG FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!!!

HE: (looking at me, knowing I am a big fat liar) B-b-but? There's school today? I wannnaaaa go to school! (Cough. Wheeze. Swoon.) I waaaannnnna go!

The girls snag their back packs, turn tail on us both and skip out the door. Ta-ta, they taunt, Off we go to the Awesome Land of School! Have fun, sicko!

Crying, wailing in fact, ensues. Followed by sobbing and that lower-lip quiver which is a major killer. Especially when it appears under blood-shot, feverish eyes. Poor GFYO. He had his backpack packed and everything. He knew where his cubby was. He wanted to get his hands in that sandbox, wanted a little of that circle time love, wanted to get the hell away from me for a couple hours.

After the doctor, I will buy him a muffin AND a popsicle. I will sit with him on the couch and read that book. And when the girls come home from school? I will rifle through their bags hoping that they have mountains of dreaded homework. MOUNTAINS OF IT.

Raising Palin

Raising daughters is a mega bitch -- and I mean that completely pun-free. Raising daughters who you hope become self-assured, wikkid smaht, and self-possessed Women (with a capital W, not like a GW "w") is seriously hard work, especially for a grrl like me who tends to over think her feminista-ness a tad too much. Who tends to get caught up in labels like (oh shut up) SAHM and (good God) Soccer Mom. It's hard for anyone to raise a girl, even Republicans apparently, and right now, it's not so much fun for my sister (mother of a 15 year old) or for Laggin and her heart-broken girl.

One of the first things I thought when they said "it's a girl!" was what the? because oh my god, the pressure. I mean, this tiny baby was gonna look to me for all kinds of knowledge: mascara and tampons, boyfriends and bitches, sports bras and sweat management. I could manage a few of those things, but not all, not hardly, and also, OH MY MOTHER FUCKING GOD did he just say, it's a girl?

That daughter made purses out of gym socks so she's never needed me to learn the feminine ways. (Silver linings.) (Lucky girl.) But she does need me to show her leadership and girl balls and how to not hide in the corner and how you gotta try things over and over because it doesn't matter if you're not the best the first go 'round. I am good at modeling this only about 25 percent of the time. Maybe 40 percent on a good day. Fifteen percent on bad one. Which is not to say that I am not a natural leader, because listen, since first grade they were calling me bossy, but the other crap? See what I mean about the pressure?

When they told me for a second time "it's a girl," I wasn't shocked. I figured that's what we do.

That daughter made gym socks out of purses. She fashioned belts into holsters to hold sticks swords when she was three. She hopped on a bike at four and rode it when no one was looking, because her sister was on a bike and also because WTF? it's bike, I can ride it! She needs me to show her how great it can be to be a girl and how it's not such a bad thing to use a brush and that making friends sometimes means stopping running long enough to talk to them. SEE? Fucking pressure.

I thought when they were born (less than two years apart) that they would look the same. They didn't. (All three of my kids have different colored eyes, which is pretty much karma telling me to sit down and pay attention.) I thought that they would become similar kids. They're not.

While one runs herself ragged on the soccer turf two days a week, the other trips UP the bleachers and smashes her knee. While one lays out her clothes and organizes her files, the other has gum in her hair for days without telling.

While one teaches me to listen more and realize that cool, smart girls can dance and chat and do cartwheels, the other one teaches me to let go more and realize that a strong boot and fancy foot work is not all that makes a girl. Sometimes I think my yin and yang of daughters are brought to me FOR A REASON. A reason I had nothing to do with. Which is the reason.

Because you know what? We aren't in control of the babies we birth for much longer than nine (or ten) months. After that: they are who they are and we get to scramble (for the rest of our lives?) to figure that out and make adjustments and plans that help them get all the way to where they're meant to be.

And lest you think I might let this Palin dog lie?

Shit's gonna happen. So a little more than abstinence teaching might help along the way for my girls, for all girls, and a little more than the world emerged from the finger tip of a God might help to make scientists of my kids, and a little choice in how a girl could deal with the unexpected realities of life (like say? um? ADOPTION? why not ADOPTION? that other "A" word? perhaps that's a choice a 17 year old Alaskan girl could consider) because, seriously, this raising girl stuff?

We should arm our girls with everything we know, everything everyone else knows, because hoping for the best? Expecting outcomes like you think you owned the word outcomes?

Never worked. Never will.

Lost and Found

Things I have lost:

School health forms
Recorder for 4th Grade music class
Insurance Cards
Cell phone charger
Paint chips

Things I have found:

Alarm clock
Lunch bags
Bottom of my desk
Another school supply list I didn't know I had
Compassion for 17 year old pregnant Alaskan girl

I managed to get us all out the door without yelling once. I am pretty sure everyone has underwear on -- a first day of school must! (I haven't checked the GFYO but since he's hanging with me all day, I figure one more day ala commando is AOK.) Soccer cleats and clothes are packed and ready for practice this afternoon, but I'm still not exactly sure where that practice is happening. I updated the calendar with the barrage of upcoming meetings and dreaded open houses because looking organized is almost more important than being organized. Am I right?

Fly zipped? Check. Stain-free shirt? Check. Call to doctor's office to order replacement school health forms? Check. Flipped the bird at the Bad Man on the Radio as if he could see me? Check. Bribed GFYO to get in the car with me for "fun" errands? Check.

I do believe things are back to normal around here.

Going Going...

I had a very extensive post that included pictures of things I didn't write about this summer and pictures of things I did write about though in more detail, BUT...

I've now lost all of it twice.

TWICE!

Maybe I've been edited by karma because here's what lasted:

This is the girl who has cancer who I didn't write much about:


And who relapsed right before the summer started and who had a bone marrow transplant right before summer ended. She is the blondest, bravest bald girl I've ever known. She is my cousin. She was the flower girl in my wedding. She is one of my best friends. I got to write about her (elsewhere) and house her parents when they needed it this summer. My daughter will be HER flower girl some day.

This is the ball I showed once. With the girl I kinda showed who caught the ball


on the day neither she nor me nor the Kid will ever forget.

I didn't write about the ridiculously real Tarot card reading I had but I bought this bracelet right after:



It says: "create your own destiny." I've worn it every day say since.

When I talked about our road trips, this is what I meant:



And this is how I felt feel about anonymous ? dudes



who hurt my precious feelings.

And this is what summer looks like





when it's going



and going






and gone.