Tippy Toes and Tantrums

I'm becoming a real grown up!

We're having our carpets professionally cleaned this weekend for the first time...ever. I know, I know, it's gross. We didn't even have our carpets cleaned at our first house when we moved in after the cat people had left. Living in a house with cat carpets has an advantage: when you dump a gallon of paint on the carpet because you thought the lid was on tight before shaking it, you can laugh hysterically as the giant puddle of paint gets absorbed by the floor. The carpet was going anyway, so why bother cleaning up the Valdez of paint spills?

But this house is different because the carpet needs to stick around longer. For some reason the previous owner thought nearly white carpet would be perfect. They had a child and I could only imagine the rules in place to keep the nearly white carpet pristine. Paper booties over shoes/socks/feet? Eating while standing over the kitchen sink? The plastic walkways my grandparents used? We have no rules and as a result, every step we've taken is grotesquely visible. We've pledged to keep the current flooring as long as we own a dog and I swear there are some days I look at her and...what? Did you think I was going to say "will her health to fail?" Because that is awful and nothing I would ever think. I will admit to filling out an actuary's table in my head, but that's different. Pugs don't live forever, people.

Buying into the Latest Playground Fad

My daughter didn't need to "have" anything for school until this year, second grade. I don't mean school supplies, I mean there wasn't a hot item all the rage on the playground until this year. At the start of the year, it was Pokemon cards. The Pokemon phase happened to coincide with her birthday and no surprise, she received a ton of cards as gifts and a binder that she lugged to school every morning. That was until Christmas, when the next thing came along. Now - between two kids - we have a hundred little Gogo's Crazy Bones around the house. I find them in the laundry, in a drawer along side the tooth paste...basically I find them everywhere around the house, either because we have too many or because they are breeding.

Between holiday gifts and some of my daughter's money, we have a lot of these little things. I don't buy my kids toys just for the sake of getting toys, but still we've ended up with a lot of whatever toy my daughter and her class mates have pegged as the "It" item. So why do I feel like such a chump for buying them? 

The "It" items frequently end up being the shared markers of a generation's childhood. Many people my age collected Star Wars figures, Scratch n Sniff stickers, and Smurf figurines, all items that feature prominently in my elementary school memories. (Gogo's mean something different to those my age and the name sometimes puts the songs We Got the Beat or Vacation into my head.) I justified buying Pokemon cards because those will likely be handed down to my son. Pokemon cards seem to always be popular making it likely my son will go through a Pokemon phase too. For example, when I bought a generic card display binder for my daughter, the 19-year-old cashier reminisced that he used to own the same binder as a kid to hold his Pokemon cards. Gogo's are cute, but I certainly don't need over a hundred of them around the house once this trend blows through.

The hardest part of a playground fad from the parent perspective is dealing with the Joneses. Some kids have parents that are more indulgent and some kids have parents ordering rare pieces off eBay, both are fine, except when it comes to the repeat questions from your kid about why you're not going to follow suit. In one way, it's a good life lesson, I just wish it didn't include whining.

I've managed to steer my kids clear of the stores carrying Gogo's, but anytime we go out, my daughter will take some of her money "just in case" she sees a five pack of Gogo's. Recently I had to assure her that the nursery, where we were headed to buy plants and soil, did not carry Gogo's. I had to offer to lend her the money in case it turned out they did.

When she does get a new pack, she does the closest thing to praying that I've seen from her as she tears open the wrapping. "Please let there be a five or 15, please be a five or 15, five or 15, five or 15..." (In a slick move, the manufacturer made some of the Gogo's in limited quantities, producing a top five and a top 15 most wanted.) For a moment it was all worth it when she opened a bag and found a highly coveted (by her friends) top 15 Gogo. The scene was more emotional than when Charlie found the golden ticket. She froze, her breath quivered, she closed her eyes, paused, and then jumped to her feet shouting. When she ran over to me, she had water in her eyes. She must have kicked up some dust as she ran over, because I got some water in my eyes too. I wasn't crying over a Gogo! Silly.

I think I'll hold onto the Gogo's after they've been abandoned by my kids. I cringe when I think of all of the Star Wars toys my parents discarded when I was finished with them. Who knows, maybe 25 years from now I'll be able to cash in on at least one fad.

Not Far, But Away

We were lucky enough to go away with some of the families from Clover's class to a nearby...farm, preserve? I don't know what to call it, so this is from the website: "Hidden Villa is a nonprofit educational organization that uses its organic farm, wilderness, and community to teach and provide opportunities to learn about the environment and social justice." It was open, relaxing and outdoorsy. It was a lot like camping, without the camping, and a lot more fun. Sitting back at dusk on Saturday night, one dad bouncing a toddler on his knee, said, "We always think that we need to take a plane or a long drive to get away." We were only 15-20 minutes from home, but it felt a thousand miles removed.

 

I didn't want to get my hopes up, but Clover and I did something one morning that I'd always wanted to do: milk a cow.

 

Prior to the milking, the woman walking us through what to do kept stressing how important it was to milk the cow soon because of the pain it could cause from holding all of the milk in. Each time she said this, at least one of the moms clucked or said "mmm hmm" in agreement. I think every mom who breastfed has felt like a dairy cow at one time or another.

 

In addition to cows, there were sheep, chickens, pigs, a sprightly gopher, and a depressed goat who had recently lost her daughter to a mountain lion. Sad things can happen on organic farms too.

But because it was spring, life was abundant.

The 40x40 Countdown is Really On

Yesterday was my birthday, leaving me under one year to complete my 40x40 list. It's an "accomplishable list," as my sister said, but I'm starting to fret a bit, asking myself, "When? When? When?" again and again. The good news is that I'm off Diet Coke, I've started the Couch to 5K program and I've pretty much figured out my new camera. I whipped up a chunky scarf, in green, with the expectation I could wear it on my birthday, but it turned out to be a beautiful, short-sleeves type of day, so I wore the scarf only long enough to take a photo. Kudos to all of you who can take your own photo using a mirror. I ended up with about 10 shots of the ceiling or moulding before my sister asked to end the misery and take the picture for me.

The scarf is longer than it looks. With all of the photo adjustments, it got pulled over to one side, making it look really short in the photo. Also, I forgot to wear makeup, so posting this marks a brave moment.

This cupcake has my name all over it. Literally.

From a birthday gift to myself, this makes me laugh:

For those keeping score, three and a half things down, 36.5 more to go before turning 40.

Last Minute St. Patrick's Day Prep

This morning I've washed pennies, printed cards and assembled these little lucky penny cards for Rocket to bring to school tomorrow. It really doesn't take much time at all - unless you are neurotic and insist on adding your child's name in Photoshop in a complementing font. Then it takes up most of a morning.

I washed the pennies in white wine vinegar and salt, then rinsed and dried them. The pennies are affixed with a teeny bit of double stick tape. The templates and more helpful hints can be found at Pumpkin Petunia.

It's Spring in California

I am always ready to welcome the next season. I think Fall is my favorite, with the cooler weather, cozy clothes and the promise of holidays ahead, but Spring is amazing in its own way. I love the fresh start that Spring brings with it.

This weekend I got the soil ready for another year. I went with the kids up the hill to my friend's house to get some chicken manure from her compost. My kids joined hers and ran inside to play. Hello? Chickens are everywhere? A green egg was about to be laid? What could be more fun? (Answer: stuffing your mouth full of huge bubble gum balls, unsupervised.)

I hate the time change, but I love the extra evening light.

It's been a long, cold 50-degree Winter. Welcome Spring!

Buddha Freak On

Our Betta fish Ruby seemed lonely. She lived for weeks alone in the big tank with some Java Moss and a small Buddha statute with no changes in the tank. The Buddha's box said, "To bring harmony to your Betta." Only the best for our Ruby Sky. Last month we added two "rare" snails - I forgot their name, but the shells are distinctive and pretty. The fish store worker told us they were expensive because they were so rare and while in my mind I was thinking $15? $20? $30? it turns out rare in the snail world is valued at $3.99. She twice told us that if they end up being a male and female set and they breed, the fish store would buy any offspring from us. That's all I need to add to my resume: rare snail breeder.

The first morning we noticed that Buddha had been knocked over. I put him upright, but then a day or two later, it happened again. And again. Buddha went from looking like he was celebrating a touchdown with his hands in the air, to looking like he was mimicking Superman.

One snail's shell was scuffed up, but we never saw either snail anywhere near Buddha. Finally up early one morning I caught one in the act:

I should have known what the fancier snail shells really meant: we have gay snails. I've left Buddha down because no matter what I do, those snails are going to have their way with him...not that there's anything wrong with that.

When Will We Get Serious about Punishing Sex Offenders?

Sadly, it takes tragedies to make people aware about problems or make changes to laws. What frustrates me is when the changes are only baby steps that do nothing to aggressively pursue the problem. Chelsea King - by all accounts a successful kid full of potential - was raped and murdered by a sex offender and soon after the body of another promising girl was discovered and possibly linked to the same guy. Days later I saw a headline about a California lawmaker trying to change a law currently protecting these horrible predators. Finally, I thought, but then I looked at what he and Gov. Schwarzenegger targeted for change: a law allowing parole records for sex offenders to be destroyed after one year.

How would storage lockers full of paperwork have kept Chelsea King alive? Her killer was still let out of jail early against the recommendations of a psychiatrist. What would have allowed her to return from her jog safe and sound would have been keeping her killer in jail forever after he brutally attacked and raped a 13 year old girl that he lured into his mom's house in 2000. There should only be one strike for sex offenders. Period. Why do we treat people who brutally harm our children almost the same as someone picked up for pot possession? Sex offenders are not going to get better, they are only going to continue. Small changes to laws, for instance keeping sex offenders a certain number of feet away from a school or playground are not helping, other than to make lawmakers feel like they've addressed the problem.

Equally as distressing as our weak laws is the attitude of people who shrug their shoulders and diminish the crime. A few summers ago there was a man who was masturbating at a kiddie pool in Palo Alto and while there was alarm among many moms, a mom friend of mine who was there at about the same time as the man, shrugged her shoulders and said he wasn't touching the kids. So we should wait until this man - or any suspicious person - reaches a nadir before taking action?

Or there are the people who believe most pedophiles listed under Megan's Law are really 19 year old guys who got busted for having sex with their 17 year old girlfriends. Take a look because that is not the case. When Megan's Law finally reached California and our state database was ready, I looked up our house, my kids' schools and my parents' house. Many, many hits came back (one of whom was the son of a friend of my mom's) and not one was the classic case of a teenage couple straddling the legal age for consent. Almost all were crimes against young children (including my mom's friend's son). That's not to say those cases don't exist, but it wasn't one of the 50-100 predators I saw.

For those who need any evidence about how sexual abuse impacts lives, listen to Loveline for one night. Much of the dysfunction is quickly linked back to childhood horrors. It's painful to hear.

I'm very protective of my kids and with whom I allow them to be left alone. I've come under criticism for that, especially from my mom who tells me I'm judgmental, but I don't care. On our first day home from the hospital with Clover, I stood holding her and asked Kevin what I should be doing. He said, "Your job is to keep her alive." It turns out there's much more in the fine print of the job description, but it's true that my chief concern is to make sure Clover and Rocket are safe. I can watch the people around them, but some day they are going to walk out of the house alone and I would like to know that when they do go out for a jog or walk to a neighbor's house, that the universe will return them to me alive.

The Weekend that Was

Softball opening ceremonies

Cookie sales booth

Date night on the cheap. We dropped them off at Smaland while we shopped and then sat in the cafe to talk in peace. I mean the cafe was buzzing, but it wasn't our kids stomping on ketchup packets, which qualifies as peaceful. It's was Rocket's first time inside Smaland, as he finally passed the height minimum. Both kids were sweaty and tired when retrieved. Rocket was bouncing with excitement, while Clover complained about all the rules. "No throwing the balls! No jumping from the stones into the ball pit, even though I was being totally safe! Gah!"

Blackberry cider. All the joy of Smaland, but in a drink for me.

School auction stuff

More decoupage for the school auction

I'm ready for you, Monday.

Hiding the Play-Doh to Avoid the Mess

My secret mom confession is that I hate kid crafts. I don’t mean the little crafts that come home from school, like a pine cone smeared in peanut butter and birdseeds. I hate art projects done at home. They require my participation at some level: set up, clean up, assistance during or all three. I feel like a curmudgeon saying this, but it is not worth my time.
 
My hang up with kid crafts is more about my own guilt. Our house has tons of craft project supplies and my kids have full run of our craft closet, but I feel guilty for hiding the Play-Doh or saying no when they want to watercolor. I have friends who let their young kids use their sewing machines or they have cupfuls of gorgeous oil pastels out on a table, awaiting the next masterpiece. I don’t have the nerve to do either. Play-Doh magically ends up in the carpet every time, even though use is limited to rooms with wood flooring. Water brushes get knocked, tipping over a large glass of grey water. Oil pastels would end up on the walls, if my son’s crayon use were any indication. 

Despite the lack of organized craft time in our house, my kids spend a good deal of each day coloring, writing, cutting and - unfortunately - hole-punching ("We made snow!"). When I see other moms embarking on great projects at home each week, I feel bad. I like crafting a lot, so why can’t I find the patience to involve the kids more often?
 
I've deliberately signed my daughter up for a camp with a 60s art theme because I know she loves to tie-dye, but I don’t want to be the one dealing with the mess. I’d rather pay than play.
 
My intentions are good. I pick up interesting art kits when I see them, imagining us all sitting around the family room calmly learning to embroider. The reality is that one kid will need help, then the other will monkey around to get some attention too, then both start monkeying around enough that supplies usually go flying every which way, then comes the inevitable end to everything at our house: a wrestling match. Now the dog is barking, adding a soundtrack to the chaos.  It’s not fun.

Maybe it’s not supposed to be fun. It’s easy to make the pictures on a craft blog look joyful and harmonious, but maybe that’s not reality for almost anyone. My kids don’t need a group art project to express themselves and any future artistic endeavors are not likely to be cut short because they were limited to washable markers instead of oil pastels in their youth.  We may not make Gak at home, but I’ll enthusiastically listen to all about how they played with it at school. School is a great place for messy art.