Boobs Mitchell Says....

HELP SAVE SECOND BASE:
http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=2

Here's the dirt

How dirty is Dan's desk, you ask?

Say Goodbye to the Old Studio!

AH the fun we had-the times we shared-the messes we made!

Stressed is Desserts spelled backwards

What good is having a blog if you can't bore all four of your faithful readers to death with a long diatribe about the pressures you are under? Because if I hold it all in; the stress will continue to manifest itself as THESE HORRIBLE THINGS that appear on my face and do not disappear under two tons of maybelline concealer. (And by GOD if I am going to have to suffer from hormonal acne; I want a hickey or two to show for it.)

So here it is: free floating random stress. Welcome to the jungle.

First of all- I am MOVING. And I will not go into the hell of moving because the best way to deal with how horrible it is, is to just keep going through it. Eventually you come to the end of it, and you find yourself in an office where you can't locate anything you need, and then you realize that you have thrown it away because at some point in the move you looked around AND JUST WANTED TO LIGHT A MATCH.

But adding to the stress of moving is the fact that my father is also moving. From a pallatial estate in Kalamazoo to a one bedroom. And rather than get a dumpster-he decided that the best way to deal with his accumulated possessions WAS TO SEND THEM TO HIS CHILDREN.

(And I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Dad. I love that you have put the time and effort into choosing things for me and my children that are precious and symbolic of treasured memories. I do. Really. Please don't cut me out of the will.)

Amongst a lot of GREAT STUFF ( really Dad, thanks) the following items arrived by UPS while I stood knee deep in receipts from 1989, surrounded by half packed cardboard boxes:

A Stamford High yearbook from 1986. I graduated in 1981. My siblings did not attend this school.

All the pictures of my older sister after she had just given birth to her first child (apparently even a father cannot tell us apart at that particular moment in our lives)

A four foot high paper mache sculpure of acrobats on trapeezes.
ME: (on phone) Dad-thanks--erm, you know I live in an APARTMENT, right? It's an awfully big sculpture...
DAD: I always knew you loved it.

BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Merely letting off a little of the old steam...squeezing the end of the balloon to make rude noises. Not too much though, in the end I think the only thing holding me together is the stress itself.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

Dear Kip,

This is your sixth official FATHER'S DAY. Seven years ago we would have spent it sleeping late, enjoying a brunch of Eggs Benedict and several Bloody Marys, and then futzing around- unemcumbered-- throughout the day--doing any damn thing we pleased. Not today. Today we are not together because in addition to being an Amazing Father, you continue to be an Awesome Husband--supportive of me in every way. So while most guys today are enjoying a round of golf or just relaxing, you are taking care of our babies so that I can pack for our move, and do what I need to do for MUD--the third and neediest child of our union.

Happy Father's Day! Like Jesse wrote in his card: YoU Are ThE GrATisT DaD. (Upon hearing Jesse say that, Annie told me you are "the very, very, very gratist.") I agree.

It seems like just yesterday that Jesse had the rotovirus-- when you leaned over to fetch the diaper you had dropped, leaving him naked on his back on the changing table above you, he had explosive diarrhea-- which landed right on top of your head, and you stood up with poop dripping down the side of your cheek and YOU DID NOT KILL ME WHEN I LAUGHED. In fact, you laughed WITH me. Thank you for being that kind of dad--the kind who sees the humor even when you are knee deep in poop.

Remember when you used to throw Jesse up in the air and I would say "DON'T DO THAT!" in my SanctiMommy voice which I used to warn you against dangers that lurked everywhere--and you would laugh and say "Relax-I'm not going to DROP him" and then you were tossing him up in the air on the streetcorner and his head HIT THE STREETLIGHT? Thanks for being the kind of dad who turned to me and said "Ok, I'm not going to do THAT again."

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who is there for the shots. (At some point, they are going to figure out that if it's bad...Really Bad...It's ALL YOU, Special time with Dad and oh yeah-a throat culture and a needle or two.) Thanks for always being strong enough to do what has to be done for their own good. I remember when Annie had her accident; seeing you in the emergency room with her, holding her tiny hand down while they stuck needles in it--the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes--but still, holding her hand steady, doing what needed to be done.

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who helps pick up. When I announce I am the Evil Witch and will throw away any item left on the floor in fifteen minutes, you are always on the side of the "Good Guys". "Let's clean up and show that Evil Witch a thing or two" you say, and as a team leader; you melt me.

Thanks for being the kind of Dad who finds all of the flatulence that occurs in this house hysterically funny. Annie is going to be quite the little lady--except for when someone pulls her finger.

Thanks for being open to learning about how we can be better parents, and better people. A lot of men would have gone and surfed porn when "The Secret" was popped in the DVD. A lot of fathers would grow weary of a mother who quotes "SuperNanny." You are always open and receptive, and as a result I think we have both grown along with the kids.

You are an amazing Dad. You talk to your children about important things like teamwork, honesty, and love. In the middle of the night, after the worst possible nightmare, they find comfort in your warm embrace and the knowledge that you are always there for them--like a rock-- a safe haven. Pappa Bear.

Forgive me for all the times I have told you how you should do something differently.
You are doing it so well.

You are
so very loved.

XO
L

Why Do We Blog?

"My story is important not because it is mine, God knows,
but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are
you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours.
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I,
of these stories of who we are and where we have come from
and the people we have met along the way
because it is precisely through these stories, in all their particularity,
as I have long believed and often said,
that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally."

-Frederick Buechner

Awwwwwwww some

We keep a list attached to the refridgerator door with a magnetic pen beside it. Everytime we run out of something--cheerios, toothpaste, pickled onions, etc. it must be WRITTEN ON THE LIST. It is part of an overall complex system of household management. I grocery shop once a week and I rely on The List to keep the cupboards stocked.

WOE unto thee who takes that last of any item and does not write it on The List. The next seven days will sound like this:
"This would be a beautiful day...IF WE HAD ANY APPLESAUCE."
"You wanna know why she's crying? I'll tell you why she's crying. Your daughter wants APPLESAUCE."
"We were discussing APPLESAUCE, not PMS. Don't try to change the subject."
"I would have cooked tonight, but the recipe called for APPLESAUCE."
"I realize it is the 9th inning, but you need to go to the store RIGHT NOW for applesauce and I am not kidding. Yeah well, maybe you should have thought about the two seconds it takes to write the word applesauce on The List"
(Note to Readers: I Know! It's a wonder he stays with me.)

So today I went to reach for The List to go shopping--and found The List WAS MISSING.

Someone had removed the entire thing from the door of the refridgerator--a crime that would surely mean death, divorce, or at the very least no sex for several weeks.
(Note to Readers: I Know! He really is a great guy to put up with it!)

So I tore through the house cursing a blue streak in my mind. When I do this, I resemble Muttley the dog on Wacky Racers--the one that was always muttering "smukumrackumshmakumsuchum."
(Note to Readers: My memory is not what it was. If you remember this show with Penelope Pittstop, please post in comments)

FINALLY, I locate The List in Jesse's room, on his desk.

Underneath "Garbage Bags" he has written
I LuvE MoMmy.

Which means there is enough sugar in this house to last for a long, long time.

Steve Irwin is Dead

Steve Irwin is dead.

I am guessing most of you know this already, and can probably recall exactly where you were and what you were doing when you got the sad news about The Crocodile Hunter.

Jesse was five at the time. And maybe because we didn't want to ruin what looked to be a perfectly good day, or maybe because we just knew it would lead to incessant questions about life, death, and stingrays: WE CONCEALED THE CROCODILE HUNTER'S DEATH FROM HIM.

It has been a Year Long Version of Weekend at Bernie's. ( Except we didn't schlep a corpse around,and there were no umbrella drinks.) And it hasn't been particularly easy; there has been many a moment when I questioned my decision--but a few glasses of pinot usually removed all doubt.

For example, a few months ago, we were at the aquarium in Charleston with the cousins. Joseph--one of the "older" cousins--turned to Jesse, (who was admiring the Crocodile Hunter Action Figure in the gift shop), and said matter-of-factly: "HE'S DEAD ." Which was a bit of a problem, because after all we were having a swell day at the aquarium so why ruin it--especially when a peaceful cocktail hour was almost in reach. And so I sunk to a new all time low; debating wether or not Steve Irwin was dead with a nine year old who knew the truth, in front of my five year old who I did not want to hear it. Sorry, Joseph. Think of me as your Wacko Aunt. BTW: that thing I said about your mom smoking crack was wayyyyy out of line. My bad.

But today, at our house: THE CROCODILE HUNTER HAS DIED. (again)

It happened because several children in Jesse's class told him that Greg Wiggle is dead. Now this is JUST NOT TRUE and my gosh, if someone is going to lie to my child then it better be me.

Greg Wiggle is NOT DEAD. He has retired his yellow jersey--given it over to the understudy SAM as a matter of fact (I know this because I am a Wiggelette) because he suffers from an odd disease that causes him to become nauseous when he wiggles, and that is THE TRUTH.

(And let me just say-there is a HUGE Wiggle/Crocodial Hunter connection which comes into play--Steve having starred alongside the Fab Four in WIGGLEY SAFARI--in which he sang, danced and interjected "aw Crikey" into a bunch of musical numbers. I think if you play the video backwards, it says Dorothy the Dinosaur choked to death on a ham sandwich, but that could be a rumor.)

So anyway: I told Jesse today that Greg Wiggle was NOT in fact dead, but felt compelled to cop to some passing of someone--so I told him the truth about Steve Irwin--thinking enough time had passed, Discovery Channel has been usurped by Nick Jr., and his feelings for the Australian Icon safely transferred to Ned, of Ned's Declassified--who BTW- BETTER NOT FREEKING DIE ANYTIME SOON.

Jesse has been sad off and on throughout this beautiful day. He wants to know if the stingray "is sorry." He wants to know how Steve's children feel. Mostly: he wants to know if Kip and I will ever leave him.

But in between these moments, he plays and sings, and annoys his sister, and paints pictures, and experiments with feeding the cat legos. So really; maybe it isn't Jesse who has the problem with change and loss and the whole circle of life thing.

One of these days I will need to break the news to him that all those times he was able to call Spiderman on his direct phone line, his dad was in the bathroom on his cell. I will have to tell him that the magic ring I let him wear to school when he is worried about something is really something that was picked up at a tag sale and has no powers. We will have to discuss Santa, the Easter Bunny, and our own personal "Valentine's Pixie."

In the meantime, drive safely Ned of Ned's Declassified. I am counting on you to be with us for awhile.

Rose's Blog Topic

Rose asked: What song is your child singing right now in public?

Well, Rosita--that would most likely be 100 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL. Kip and I felt that teaching him that little ditty would be educational, since after all, counting is involved.

Busted

Last week, Kip and I had to both fly out of town on business. This caused great anxiety for Jesse--not so much that we were boarding a plane together (after all--if a problem occurs mid flight, Superman will appear and rescue you as evidenced by the documentary SUPERMAN RETURNS)--but because it involved me making a statement involving our departure and return times, and Jesse has begun to suspect I am A BIG FAT LIAR.

I don't know when we started telling Jesse that we were going to "MEETINGS" when we would go out to socialize. In my usual lazy mom way, I must have had a EUREKA moment when I realized he did not cry, cling to my legs, or throw himself repetitively at the elevator doors as they were closing; if I simply told him that Mommy and Daddy had to go to work. And thus began the mythology of the nighttime meeting. If Mommy changes out of her black sweater and takes a shower, chances are, she is going to A MEETING. MEETINGS often occur on a weekend night. Mommy and Daddy are always in a great mood after a MEETING. One night Jesse turned to me and asked me why my breath always smelled so funny when I come home from my MEETINGS, but beyond that he rarely has complained--having made the association between WORK and HAVING MONEY TO BUY STUFF.

So for the most part, I am totally advocating this whole LIE TO YOUR CHILD thing. I'm thinking it might even be to my advantage when he grows up and talks about what an amazing work ethic his Mom had--if I can just remember to have a damn breath mint before I walk back in the door.

But back to our legitimate trip last week.

JESSE: I don't want you to go on this trip! ( Read this aloud with a realllllllly whiny voice)
ME: Oh honey, you know Mom and Dad will be back right at bedtime.
JESSE: But you LIE Mom--you LIE all the time.
ME: (lying) I DO NOT LIE. What do you mean?
JESSE: You always SAY you will be back at bedtime, but you never are. The movie is always over and I always have to watch tv and wait for you on the couch. You are ALWAYS late. You never come home when you say you are going to come home (read this and dissolve into dramatic tears.)
ME: (said with six years of accumulated guilt about working and occasionally going out for a glass of wine with friends) I am SO SORRY Honey! I will try to be on time.
(Go back and forth about ten more minutes with more tears and begging)
ME: Honey-I promise, this will ALL BE WORTH IT. Mommy and Daddy really have to work hard so that we can have all the things that make our life so great: so we can spend more time together and go do stuff together, and stuff like that. But I promise I will not be late. (Blappitty Blah Blah--eventually get out the door in time to make the flight.)

And of course, as luck would have it-our return flight is delayed an hour and a half--which meant that every reassurance I gave about what time we would be home was meaningless. Of course we would not be home in time for bedtime, and of course Jesse would still be up waiting for us....

Which he was. And like a 16 year old caught sneaking back into the house after curfew, I apologized for being late. Surprisingly, he was nonplused. And I soon discovered why.

"It's okay that you are late" he said, "I know what you were working for. We're getting a FARMHOUSE."

Peedle's topic

So, when asked to suggest a blog topic, Peedles wrote:
"I, too, have been in an unblog-o-liscous state of mind. Sometimes life needs to be LIVED not BLOGGED....yeah yeah....I know you see through it....it really means I have a new man and something more fun to do...."

Which means that while P is currently getting a little "sumpin sumpin", I am left to stare at my two children and say: "CAN YOU PLEASE SAY SOMETHING ADORABLE AND WITTY FOR GAWD'S SAKE--MOMMY HAS A BLOG TO WRITE."

Perhaps the fish will die this weekend. Or maybe I will let you know what happens when you exceed the suggested serving size of sugar free candy. Inspiration can be lurking just around the corner--so watch where you are stepping.