I've always been fascinated by the way people attempt to express themselves with their cars. We are a car culture, of course, so our automobiles have become both second living-rooms and a way to telegraph our status. I especially love the bumper stickers, the placards, the antenna balls. People use them to alert the world to their specialness, their individuality. But of course, trying to express yourself in shorthand with a sticker on your car, a sticker that at least a million other people have, is a bit of a lost cause.
It can be well-done, of course. My friend, Annemarie, has a parody of that woman's pornographic figure that you see on mud-flaps of semis morphed into a woman in a skirt reading a book. And I have to say that I was proud to be one of the first to have an Obama sticker, back in the early days of the Obama-Clinton battle. For awhile in Marin, there was someone going around plastering bumper-stickers on SUV's reading "My car is killing the earth". I had a boyfriend years ago, a guy in his twenties, that had a sticker reading "Sexy Grandpa". It was somehow very fitting. Maybe that's why that relationship didn't stand the test of time.
There's always some kind of trend happening in car decoration. Years ago it was those "Baby on Board" signs, which I found confusing. So if my car is veering out of control, I'm not going to hit your car with the baby in it but instead, in my leisure, choose the single guy in the Datsun next to you?
Then there were the small, metal fish ornaments. At first, I thought they indicated that a fisherman was driving. It was a good year before I was informed that the fish was a symbol of Jesus. Over time, of course, the fish got legs and a Darwin label.
I've noticed, actually, that there's a cycle to these trends. They start in earnest, become more popular and more personalized and then finally are parodied. Like the "My child is..." bumper stickers. The first ones said, for instance, "My child is on the honor roll at Mill Valley Middle School." The next generation, as people got less ambitious, said something like "My child is a participating student at Old Mill School". Then you got the jokes. "My kid knocked up your honor student". "My kid kicked your honor student's ass". "My child is an honor student at the state correctional facility."
There was the "Got Milk?" commercial which spawned all kinds of clever stickers. "Got Jesus?" "Got twins?" "Got chi?" "Got mullet?" "Got hula?" "Got hope?" Over time, they got very specific. "Got colonics?" "Got kombucha?" "Got stem-cells?" It's so over done that every time I see one I think, "Got an idiot driving the car?"
There are the yellow antenna balls that started out as a simple happy face. Now the little yellow guy can be Santa, a cowgirl, a policeman, a princess, a devil or a football player for any team under the sun.
There are, of course, the personalized license plates. I had a rule when I was single that I wouldn't date a guy with a vanity plate. Because that person clearly took themselves too seriously. A bit harsh, I suppose, but you've got to do something to narrow the field. The best is when the plate is paired with a personalized license plate frame. Like a frame that says "Riley and Madison's..." and a plate that reads "HOTMAMA".
Ben and I have even had our own ideas for bumper stickers over the years. Ben came up with "Jesus!". It could be devotional or a curse, depending on your point of view.
The latest trend are the family stickers on the bottom left corner of the back window. At first, it was simple figures of varying sizes representing Dad, Mom and however many kids. Occasionally, I've seen a long line of kids. Like six. I sidle up to the driver to size him up, thinking what kind of maniac has six kids? Are they counting nieces and nephews or what? I wonder how they fit all those kids in that car. Lately, these stickers have been getting more customized. You get a kid riding a skateboard, playing the guitar, skiing. There are dogs, cats, rabbits.
Wouldn't it be awesome - and tasteless - to have a white man riding a mountain bike, a white woman pushing a vacuum, a medium-sized white girl with her nose in a book, a smaller white girl with a baby-doll under one arm, reaching out to hit a little black boy with an Afro. His mouth is open in a howl and he's kicking at his sister. That would be self-expression. The blog in pictures.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Left
We got the news this weekend that our next-door neighbors in Marin, the Hutchinsons, some of our very favorite people on the planet, are moving. It's one town over, the charming Fairfax, ten minutes away, but I am devastated. As we move back into our house in June, they will be moving out.
When they moved in three years ago I heard from another neighbor that the new tenants were a family. They had two kids, ages five and three (exactly the ages of Mae and Lana). I was ecstatic. And that was before I met them. It turned out that Lee and Ann were cool, funny, generous - the whole BFF package. Ann was pregnant then with Luke, who would, it turned out, be Mihiretu's age. Their daughter is named Mae. We had the only two Maes in Marin county within a hundred yards of each other. It seemed meant to be.
We've always known that this was probably a temporary situation. They were renting the house, though they were looking to buy. For as long as they've been there, the four of us have been strategizing on how Ann and Lee could convince their landlord to sell to them. Lee sent endless emails to the owner offering to buy the house. Ben and I would lay in bed at night with our eyes closed, holding hands, envisioning them owning the house. Fucking hippies.
And, indeed, just a few weeks ago, the owner decided to sell. But he was asking two hundred thousand dollars over market and by then he had thoroughly exhausted Ann and Lee with his caginess. At the very same time they found a property they fell in love with. Huge, flat, sunny lot right next to open space with a real, honest-to-God, child-sized train running through it. I mean, come on.
Ben and I put together a plea after we heard the news, a carefully sculpted email. Don't you realize, we asked, how special it is that we live next to each other? We've had this whole long year to regret our terrible mistake of moving away from them. We asked them to consider staying.
A lot of nerve, really, making that kind of request. We've been leaving people all over the place. Five years ago we left our idyllic micro-community in Fairfax to move to San Anselmo. Then, last summer, we up and moved again, this time all the way to San Jose. And now, in June, we'll leave our friends here to move back home. All these moves were (and are) difficult for us. Heartbreaking. But I think, in the end, it's easier to be the leaver than the left. It's like breaking up. Yeah, it sucks either way but it's infinitely more sucky to be deserted then to be the one who makes the decision to go.
And so now we have a taste of our own medicine. And it is one bitter pill. It's like a mini-death. I know that we'll still be close to the Hutchinsons. But I won't be seeing Ann many times a day on our shared driveway with just a ten second news update ("Mihiretu won't nap - I'm going to kill myself and everyone else", "New pair of boots, come over later and tell me if they're good", "Let's meet at the green for dinner at five"). Or calling down to see if she has any cayenne, evaporated milk or cream of tartar and having one of her kids, an "emissary", run it up and stay to play. Watching the kids climb the hill behind our houses, searching for bunnies or wild turkey or lizards. That stuff, that impromptu give and take, won't happen. And it's killing me.
I try to be philosophical at times like these. That yes, things change, they always do but as old things leave, new things come. When God closes a door, he opens a window. All that crap. But all I can feel right now is sad. All year, I've just been wanting to get back home, to be with my friends again, especially the Hutchinsons, my extended family. And the thought of driving past their empty house or, even worse, seeing someone else's car parked in front, I can't take it.
I never knew what they meant by you can't go home again. Now I do. Yes, you can return to the place but you can't return to the time, to the era. Inevitably, it will have changed. Such a bummer. Because I'm so homesick.
When they moved in three years ago I heard from another neighbor that the new tenants were a family. They had two kids, ages five and three (exactly the ages of Mae and Lana). I was ecstatic. And that was before I met them. It turned out that Lee and Ann were cool, funny, generous - the whole BFF package. Ann was pregnant then with Luke, who would, it turned out, be Mihiretu's age. Their daughter is named Mae. We had the only two Maes in Marin county within a hundred yards of each other. It seemed meant to be.
We've always known that this was probably a temporary situation. They were renting the house, though they were looking to buy. For as long as they've been there, the four of us have been strategizing on how Ann and Lee could convince their landlord to sell to them. Lee sent endless emails to the owner offering to buy the house. Ben and I would lay in bed at night with our eyes closed, holding hands, envisioning them owning the house. Fucking hippies.
And, indeed, just a few weeks ago, the owner decided to sell. But he was asking two hundred thousand dollars over market and by then he had thoroughly exhausted Ann and Lee with his caginess. At the very same time they found a property they fell in love with. Huge, flat, sunny lot right next to open space with a real, honest-to-God, child-sized train running through it. I mean, come on.
Ben and I put together a plea after we heard the news, a carefully sculpted email. Don't you realize, we asked, how special it is that we live next to each other? We've had this whole long year to regret our terrible mistake of moving away from them. We asked them to consider staying.
A lot of nerve, really, making that kind of request. We've been leaving people all over the place. Five years ago we left our idyllic micro-community in Fairfax to move to San Anselmo. Then, last summer, we up and moved again, this time all the way to San Jose. And now, in June, we'll leave our friends here to move back home. All these moves were (and are) difficult for us. Heartbreaking. But I think, in the end, it's easier to be the leaver than the left. It's like breaking up. Yeah, it sucks either way but it's infinitely more sucky to be deserted then to be the one who makes the decision to go.
And so now we have a taste of our own medicine. And it is one bitter pill. It's like a mini-death. I know that we'll still be close to the Hutchinsons. But I won't be seeing Ann many times a day on our shared driveway with just a ten second news update ("Mihiretu won't nap - I'm going to kill myself and everyone else", "New pair of boots, come over later and tell me if they're good", "Let's meet at the green for dinner at five"). Or calling down to see if she has any cayenne, evaporated milk or cream of tartar and having one of her kids, an "emissary", run it up and stay to play. Watching the kids climb the hill behind our houses, searching for bunnies or wild turkey or lizards. That stuff, that impromptu give and take, won't happen. And it's killing me.
I try to be philosophical at times like these. That yes, things change, they always do but as old things leave, new things come. When God closes a door, he opens a window. All that crap. But all I can feel right now is sad. All year, I've just been wanting to get back home, to be with my friends again, especially the Hutchinsons, my extended family. And the thought of driving past their empty house or, even worse, seeing someone else's car parked in front, I can't take it.
I never knew what they meant by you can't go home again. Now I do. Yes, you can return to the place but you can't return to the time, to the era. Inevitably, it will have changed. Such a bummer. Because I'm so homesick.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The history of curses
It's no secret that I have a fascination with swearing. I had an affinity for foul language even at an early age. When I was five, we had a Tahitian exchange student. A swap had been arranged by a family friend. My sister, then seventeen, would spend the summer in Tahiti with a family this friend knew. Vatea, the Tahiitian family's seventeen-year-old daughter, would return with my sister and spend the school year with us.
The casual set-up probably foretold some of the problems that arose. My sister had a terrible time in Tahiti (leave it to her to have a terrible time in Tahiti) and returned rather traumatized. Vatea turned out to be something of a tramp. She managed to pick up three guys on the plane to the States and, upon arrival, promptly announced to my parents that she was going to live with them.
My father, always in command, set her firmly back on the prescribed course. And so a sullen and resentful Vatea moved into my room and I relocated to the couch in the study (very happily - it was closer to my parents, who, at that stage, I worshiped).
I have only the vaguest memory of her appearance. I remember thinking that she was gorgeous but I've seen what my girls were impressed with at the age of five. The shinier and more gaudy, the better. I do remember she had a butterfly tattoo on her ass which she was more than willing to show off. She was, I'm certain, sexy (hence the guys on the airplane).
She lasted perhaps a week, maybe two, before her bad behavior (smoking, provocative clothing, general surliness) set the volcano that was my father boiling and she was summarily dispatched back to the islands.
After we returned from putting her on the plane (and we did, literally, watch until the doors were shut to make sure she was truly gone), we ventured, as a family, into my bedroom to survey the damage. The room reeked of cigarette smoke and too-sweet perfume. The clown curtains my mother had made were slashed (and stayed so until she finally sold the house in the nineties). We discovered, when my mother stripped the bed, that not only were there deliberate cigarette burns on the new teak bunk-bed but also carefully etched into the sheets. Vatea had written a number of things with her cigarette. Most of them we couldn't decipher, either due the imperfection of her writing implement or her shaky hold on the English language. One word, however, was clear, even to me, who had yet to start kindergarten.
I looked down at the letters, F-U-K, and said, "That's not how you spell it."
The casual set-up probably foretold some of the problems that arose. My sister had a terrible time in Tahiti (leave it to her to have a terrible time in Tahiti) and returned rather traumatized. Vatea turned out to be something of a tramp. She managed to pick up three guys on the plane to the States and, upon arrival, promptly announced to my parents that she was going to live with them.
My father, always in command, set her firmly back on the prescribed course. And so a sullen and resentful Vatea moved into my room and I relocated to the couch in the study (very happily - it was closer to my parents, who, at that stage, I worshiped).
I have only the vaguest memory of her appearance. I remember thinking that she was gorgeous but I've seen what my girls were impressed with at the age of five. The shinier and more gaudy, the better. I do remember she had a butterfly tattoo on her ass which she was more than willing to show off. She was, I'm certain, sexy (hence the guys on the airplane).
She lasted perhaps a week, maybe two, before her bad behavior (smoking, provocative clothing, general surliness) set the volcano that was my father boiling and she was summarily dispatched back to the islands.
After we returned from putting her on the plane (and we did, literally, watch until the doors were shut to make sure she was truly gone), we ventured, as a family, into my bedroom to survey the damage. The room reeked of cigarette smoke and too-sweet perfume. The clown curtains my mother had made were slashed (and stayed so until she finally sold the house in the nineties). We discovered, when my mother stripped the bed, that not only were there deliberate cigarette burns on the new teak bunk-bed but also carefully etched into the sheets. Vatea had written a number of things with her cigarette. Most of them we couldn't decipher, either due the imperfection of her writing implement or her shaky hold on the English language. One word, however, was clear, even to me, who had yet to start kindergarten.
I looked down at the letters, F-U-K, and said, "That's not how you spell it."
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Allergies
The day before we moved into the house in San Jose, while we were staying at a nearby hotel, Lana broke out in a horrific rash. It covered her entire body, from her earlobes to her toes. She was itchy and swollen and soon bloody and scabby from scratching. Her first day of kindergarten, three days later, was not her prettiest day. She took it well for a girl who's as vain as her mother.
Two months and twenty-five doctors later, we still didn't have a firm diagnosis. The closest guess we got was extreme (and sudden) sun sensitivity. And so we lather her in Aquafor (to quell the rash) and sunblock (to keep it at bay) and largely, the rash remains dormant. There are often small eruptions on her chin or neck or arms, but nothing like when it first reared it's ugly, pimpled head.
We do, as a family, have a secret theory that Lana's actually allergic to San Jose. That her skin will clear miraculously as soon as we cross the Marin county line on our move home. That, bear with me here, her skin issues are due to our "rash" decision to move to San Jose in the first place. These are the jokes, folks.
Beyond the skin rash, Lana has, for as long as I can remember, had some kind of allergy that manifests in nasal congestion. The girl most always has a runny nose and her speech sounds like she has a perpetual cold. I've promised her that when we return to Marin in June, I'll take her to an allergist and we'll get to the bottom of the situation.
This morning, she wondered aloud if she was allergic to cats. Ben and I, having been awakened, as usual, at five a.m. to our lemon of a cat scratching and howling at the door to our bedroom, smiled furtively at each other. Wouldn't that be convenient, we thought. An excellent excuse to find a home for Daphne, or as we privately refer to her, Fuck-Ass (a name generated in a flustered moment of pique as she was clawing our new couch) . She's problematic. She sent me to urgent care with a flayed hand a couple months ago because I made the mistake of trying to move her while she was dreaming. She pees in the house. And she's just, frankly, not too bright. A big, dumb, fat cat. I apologize to any animal rights activists out there for so demeaning this creature publicly but man, she drives me crazy. Having to choose the well-being of my child over my commitment to this pudgy feline would be a relief.
Next, with a small smile, Lana suggested that maybe she was allergic to Mihiretu. I watched the same train of thought I'd had about Daphne waft through Lana's brain. That would truly be the top prize in the endless sibling rivalry. I quickly assured her that she was stuffed up long before he came on the scene. She returned to her toast with a look of dismay.
Two months and twenty-five doctors later, we still didn't have a firm diagnosis. The closest guess we got was extreme (and sudden) sun sensitivity. And so we lather her in Aquafor (to quell the rash) and sunblock (to keep it at bay) and largely, the rash remains dormant. There are often small eruptions on her chin or neck or arms, but nothing like when it first reared it's ugly, pimpled head.
We do, as a family, have a secret theory that Lana's actually allergic to San Jose. That her skin will clear miraculously as soon as we cross the Marin county line on our move home. That, bear with me here, her skin issues are due to our "rash" decision to move to San Jose in the first place. These are the jokes, folks.
Beyond the skin rash, Lana has, for as long as I can remember, had some kind of allergy that manifests in nasal congestion. The girl most always has a runny nose and her speech sounds like she has a perpetual cold. I've promised her that when we return to Marin in June, I'll take her to an allergist and we'll get to the bottom of the situation.
This morning, she wondered aloud if she was allergic to cats. Ben and I, having been awakened, as usual, at five a.m. to our lemon of a cat scratching and howling at the door to our bedroom, smiled furtively at each other. Wouldn't that be convenient, we thought. An excellent excuse to find a home for Daphne, or as we privately refer to her, Fuck-Ass (a name generated in a flustered moment of pique as she was clawing our new couch) . She's problematic. She sent me to urgent care with a flayed hand a couple months ago because I made the mistake of trying to move her while she was dreaming. She pees in the house. And she's just, frankly, not too bright. A big, dumb, fat cat. I apologize to any animal rights activists out there for so demeaning this creature publicly but man, she drives me crazy. Having to choose the well-being of my child over my commitment to this pudgy feline would be a relief.
Next, with a small smile, Lana suggested that maybe she was allergic to Mihiretu. I watched the same train of thought I'd had about Daphne waft through Lana's brain. That would truly be the top prize in the endless sibling rivalry. I quickly assured her that she was stuffed up long before he came on the scene. She returned to her toast with a look of dismay.
Monday, April 19, 2010
No TV
I forget every time how much better life is without TV.
We cycle from months (or even years) of very little TV (like a movie once a week) and then start a slow slide with one PBS show, and then two and then, like lately, we're down the waterfall of Elmo and Arthur and Caillou.
We have, once again, cleaned up our act. It's only been a couple days but already everyone's happier. Our mornings are less rushed because I'm not tearing the kids away from the screen to eat, to dress, to put on their shoes, to go out the door. We actually talk to each other. Instead of standing over them asking questions with increasing volume and irritation while they stare blank-eyed and deaf at the television, we are discussing their day as they eat their oatmeal.
I always think the TV makes things easier until we stop watching and I realize it's made things much harder. It is lovely to have them occupied for a gloriously silent half an hour but the price we pay when they disagree on a channel or, even worse, it's time to turn it off, doesn't, in the end, make it worth it. They are, after watching, spaced out, strung out, unhappy. Certainly not the ideal way to start a school day.
And the funny part is, they don't miss it. When I took away TV privileges so suddenly on Saturday, Lana, ever eager to land on a plan, quickly decided that not only should we stop watching for this week, we should make it a permanent change, with the exception of our established movie night on Fridays. Mae, when I asked her about it this morning, said that it was nicer without the TV. Shocking. But they're exactly right.
The one wild card, as always, is Mihiretu. TV has been the one way I can occupy him without actively playing with him or physically restraining him from his path of destruction. How I'm going to make dinner, I don't know.
We cycle from months (or even years) of very little TV (like a movie once a week) and then start a slow slide with one PBS show, and then two and then, like lately, we're down the waterfall of Elmo and Arthur and Caillou.
We have, once again, cleaned up our act. It's only been a couple days but already everyone's happier. Our mornings are less rushed because I'm not tearing the kids away from the screen to eat, to dress, to put on their shoes, to go out the door. We actually talk to each other. Instead of standing over them asking questions with increasing volume and irritation while they stare blank-eyed and deaf at the television, we are discussing their day as they eat their oatmeal.
I always think the TV makes things easier until we stop watching and I realize it's made things much harder. It is lovely to have them occupied for a gloriously silent half an hour but the price we pay when they disagree on a channel or, even worse, it's time to turn it off, doesn't, in the end, make it worth it. They are, after watching, spaced out, strung out, unhappy. Certainly not the ideal way to start a school day.
And the funny part is, they don't miss it. When I took away TV privileges so suddenly on Saturday, Lana, ever eager to land on a plan, quickly decided that not only should we stop watching for this week, we should make it a permanent change, with the exception of our established movie night on Fridays. Mae, when I asked her about it this morning, said that it was nicer without the TV. Shocking. But they're exactly right.
The one wild card, as always, is Mihiretu. TV has been the one way I can occupy him without actively playing with him or physically restraining him from his path of destruction. How I'm going to make dinner, I don't know.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Rascals
The kids have been out of school for two weeks. Mae and Mihiretu (private school) were out the week after Easter and Lana (public school) was out this last week. Combine that with the stress of packing up half the house, putting it on the market, trying to keep it spotless while the three kids are doing their usual mess-to-mess procession, then, the veritable straw, Ben went out of town. I woke this morning at 5 AM to Mihiretu scratching my face, insisting I get out of bed. I didn't take it that well. While we've been making great progress, this morning he and I were combative again. He was testing and I was failing. It felt terrible to be back in that dark place, particularly because, now that I have new tools, I have expect more of myself than this morning's incarnation of grumpy, angry mom.
We've been watching way too much TV around here. When we lived in Marin, we watched the occasional movie with the kids but limited it to that. Here, particularly lately with the house for sale, it's been a free-for-all. You might find it on at any hour. And then, when the kids go to bed, all I want to do is watch my Tivoed Survivor or Project Runway or, the creme-de-la-creme, America's Next Top Model. When I want to escape my world, diving into somebody else's silly story is palliative care.
This morning around seven-thirty, the TV had been on since dawn and all three kids were fighting over what to watch. Remotes and fists were flying. It seemed time to pull the plug, quite literally. From the depth of my sleep-deprived gloom, I proclaimed no TV for a week. Firestorm.
Once the dust had settled and we were finally eating breakfast, Lana gave me a new "what if". She has already planned her future family. She really wants to be a mother but she doesn't want to have a baby in her belly. Having had two in mine and, more impactfully, had two come out, I can see where she's coming from. She wants to adopt. This morning, she said that she would adopt a one-year-old from China. Then she came up with the idea of adopting a baby from the orphanage Mihiretu came from in Ethiopia. Yes, she said, a one-year-old boy from Ethiopia. Then, after further thought, she said, "Actually, no, a girl." I smiled and my daughters looked at me questioningly.
"I like girls," I admitted. My history up to now with girl children has been simpler than my experience with my boy. I have no doubt that will change but when I think of girl babies, I feel soft with motherly affection.
"Yeah," Lana said, "Boys are" and here I must interject that Lana has a bit of a speech impediment and what I heard was "assholes."
I howled with laughter. Lana looked confused.
"I said 'rascals'," she said.
"Oh," I agreed, trying to keep a straight face. "Yes, boys can be rascals."
We've been watching way too much TV around here. When we lived in Marin, we watched the occasional movie with the kids but limited it to that. Here, particularly lately with the house for sale, it's been a free-for-all. You might find it on at any hour. And then, when the kids go to bed, all I want to do is watch my Tivoed Survivor or Project Runway or, the creme-de-la-creme, America's Next Top Model. When I want to escape my world, diving into somebody else's silly story is palliative care.
This morning around seven-thirty, the TV had been on since dawn and all three kids were fighting over what to watch. Remotes and fists were flying. It seemed time to pull the plug, quite literally. From the depth of my sleep-deprived gloom, I proclaimed no TV for a week. Firestorm.
Once the dust had settled and we were finally eating breakfast, Lana gave me a new "what if". She has already planned her future family. She really wants to be a mother but she doesn't want to have a baby in her belly. Having had two in mine and, more impactfully, had two come out, I can see where she's coming from. She wants to adopt. This morning, she said that she would adopt a one-year-old from China. Then she came up with the idea of adopting a baby from the orphanage Mihiretu came from in Ethiopia. Yes, she said, a one-year-old boy from Ethiopia. Then, after further thought, she said, "Actually, no, a girl." I smiled and my daughters looked at me questioningly.
"I like girls," I admitted. My history up to now with girl children has been simpler than my experience with my boy. I have no doubt that will change but when I think of girl babies, I feel soft with motherly affection.
"Yeah," Lana said, "Boys are" and here I must interject that Lana has a bit of a speech impediment and what I heard was "assholes."
I howled with laughter. Lana looked confused.
"I said 'rascals'," she said.
"Oh," I agreed, trying to keep a straight face. "Yes, boys can be rascals."
Friday, April 16, 2010
Fiercely individual
It's amazing how different the kids are from each other.
Lana is all about "what if". "Mama, what if there was never school except on vacations and then when you went to school, it was a giant school and all the children in the world were there and it was so loud and you couldn't hear anything?" "Mama, what if when you bounced on the trampoline you went all the way into outer space and you landed on a star and you had to live there but there wasn't any food?" "Mama, what if we had to drive all the way to L.A. to get those yogurt things and they weren't even any good and there were really good ones in San Jose but we went all the way there and then we didn't even drink them and Dad didn't go to work? That would not be good."
She also has a need for control. Last night she was having trouble going to sleep so I was sitting next to her in her bed reading my book and scratching her back. After awhile she said, "You can finish those two pages and then you can stop scratching." Most nights, she wants me to check on her during bedtime. I get strict directions. "Check on me in four minutes, please. Set the timer." There is often haggling. "Check on me in two minutes." "Five minutes." "Three!" I set down the law with "Four." Then a grudging "Fine."
Mae is physically gregarious and very strong. Her hands travel on their own accord to touch, tickle or hug those around her. Just about every hug she's ever given me, I've had to say, gasping for breath, "Gentle, Mae, gentle." The customary hug before I leave her at school in the morning generally feels like a Heimlich maneuver. When she was three, she hugged her friend, Ella, then four, so hard that Ella, who is lucky enough to have a richly diverse genetic heritage, squealed, "Mom, Mae just hugged the Native American right out of me!"
Mihiretu is, of course, very much his own man. I can't wait for him to have more language to describe what's going on in that head. I have no doubt it's funny and very interesting. Already, his sense of humor is evident. He plays jokes, he gets jokes, which isn't easy with only a relative handful of words at his disposal.
Fascinating little people.
Lana is all about "what if". "Mama, what if there was never school except on vacations and then when you went to school, it was a giant school and all the children in the world were there and it was so loud and you couldn't hear anything?" "Mama, what if when you bounced on the trampoline you went all the way into outer space and you landed on a star and you had to live there but there wasn't any food?" "Mama, what if we had to drive all the way to L.A. to get those yogurt things and they weren't even any good and there were really good ones in San Jose but we went all the way there and then we didn't even drink them and Dad didn't go to work? That would not be good."
She also has a need for control. Last night she was having trouble going to sleep so I was sitting next to her in her bed reading my book and scratching her back. After awhile she said, "You can finish those two pages and then you can stop scratching." Most nights, she wants me to check on her during bedtime. I get strict directions. "Check on me in four minutes, please. Set the timer." There is often haggling. "Check on me in two minutes." "Five minutes." "Three!" I set down the law with "Four." Then a grudging "Fine."
Mae is physically gregarious and very strong. Her hands travel on their own accord to touch, tickle or hug those around her. Just about every hug she's ever given me, I've had to say, gasping for breath, "Gentle, Mae, gentle." The customary hug before I leave her at school in the morning generally feels like a Heimlich maneuver. When she was three, she hugged her friend, Ella, then four, so hard that Ella, who is lucky enough to have a richly diverse genetic heritage, squealed, "Mom, Mae just hugged the Native American right out of me!"
Mihiretu is, of course, very much his own man. I can't wait for him to have more language to describe what's going on in that head. I have no doubt it's funny and very interesting. Already, his sense of humor is evident. He plays jokes, he gets jokes, which isn't easy with only a relative handful of words at his disposal.
Fascinating little people.
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