A Lesson in Peel n' Eat Shrimp

My sons are at an age that I can recount stories from my formative years. Only the G-rated ones, of course. Um, not that there are any stories that venture out of NC-17 territory. While we were waiting to be served at a restaurant recently, I told Bird and Deal about how I was a waitress for many years. Seven, to be exact. I was about to lecture them on how hard the waitstaff works but I knew they would be like the dog in the Far Side cartoon so I stopped myself. Instead I shared a personal story about one of my waitressing experiences.

I waited tables in an English pub in town. It was part local watering hole, part tourist trap, part college cheap eats, part businessman's brouhaha. I donned the requisite khaki shorts and hunter green polo shirt and set out for the night. I sipped Diet Coke in the back while noshing on ungodly amounts of bread slathered in butter. I was in college then and had no idea that one day my thighs would touch. I remember being in a particularly chipper mood. Again, this is because I didn't have a crystal ball telling me about my mushy future.

A tweed jacketed gentleman of about 50ish came in alone. He was the kind of guy whose jacket actually needed suede patches on the sleeves and weren't there merely for professorial effect. He had a mop of brown hair that was tousled and sloppy, and I recall that his pants were so ill fitting his belt looked as if it could wind around him twice. He ordered a Boddington's and the Peel n' Eat shrimp.

Not only was the entree entitled "Peel n' Eat Shrimp," the menu blurb clearly described it as such. I did not feel the need to be even more explicit when he ordered the PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP. I served 'em right up, and he smiled and nodded, as anyone with a dollop of manners would do. When I checked back, he had cleared his plate and piled up the shrimp shells on the side of the table. I asked him how his meal was in my most friendly waitress voice (This is akin to phone voice but much trickier because people can actually see you.). In one sweeping gesture that caught me totally off guard, the gent (who turned out not to be one) picked up a handful of shrimp shells and threw them at me. In the middle of the dining room. In front of everyone. He exclaimed, "I didn't realize I'd be working for my dinner!"

"Well sir, the dish is called PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP, " said I, suddenly feeling my chipper attitude being chopped away.

The bastard wanted his meal comped.

We said no way. After all, he hadn't flagged me down to complain. I'd like to interject here that I was a very attentive waitress so it's not like I deserted him and hung out in the back smoking with the cooks or anything. Besides, he ate the whole damn thing. He paid but didn't tip me. The good news is that all the other patrons who witnessed his tantrum generously tipped me as a kind show of sympathy.

So I recounted this tale to my sons at lunch as we were waiting for a waitress to serve our chicken and dumplings and crayfish soup. I was hoping they'd get the gist of my parable, as I going all Aesop on them. I asked the boys what they thought of the man's behavior and how it made me feel. I was probing for a lesson in empathy here. Bird and Deal gave the expected head nodding and shoulder shrugging and said that the man was mean. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it.

Then Bird, who couldn't hide his killer grin that's gonna make him the male version of Helen of Troy one day, snickered and said, "He was rude, but it's still pretty funny." He cracked up while saying this and could barely get the words out.

And with that, we all laughed.

The Day My 6 Year Old Asked Me About Abortion

I drive by a particular Catholic church in my neighborhood almost every single day for one reason or another (mostly because that route leads to Target and Trader Joe's). Normally I'm a big believer in letting people believe whatever they want. While I am a vehemently opinionated soul, I do not use my breath to spew my ideals to anyone who will listen (As for this blog, you choose to come here, right? No prodding or payment from me. No payment for me either, for that matter.). I don't believe in proselytizing. I don't believe in incendiary messages spouted from soapboxes. I don't believe in subjecting children to hideously complicated adult paradigms.

What I believe is it is my job, my duty, my honor, to protect my children.

Please check out my post on Deep South Moms about what has me up in arms about what this particular church is doing to pollute precious, innocent minds.

Here's a hint:

No mother of a six year old should have to answer the question, "Mommy, what does 'abortion kills babies' mean?"

Joy to the World

The best thing I can do for my children is raise them in a home bursting with joy. Unabashed, no-excuses-for-laughing-obnoxiously-loud, snorting-and-squirting-milk-out-your-nose, pee-in-your-pants, jokester joy. Joy, unlike happiness that is often misconstrued as a destination, is happenstance, free, serendipitous. It prances on us unsuspectingly, melting us into giggles and grins.

Joy is a team sport.

For much of my life I thought I grew up in house that was devoid of love. I realize now that I was indeed loved, albeit shown in ways different than how Mac Daddy and I raise our children. For starters, we have marital love, which is a far cry from my house growing up. I never doubted that I was loved but I did doubt that I was adored in the same way I treat Bird and Deal. I was cared for, fed, warm, clean, educated, and given all the opportunities in the world. But no one ever tickled my funny bone. No one nurtured and caressed the orb of innocence and delight that lollygags around in all of us, especially in children. That orb shrivels if it is not stimulated. Oh no, it was not love that my home lacked. It was joy.

I have one photo of my parents laughing. I don't even know where it came from. I recognize the clothes they are wearing so I am figuring that picture is from about 1980 or so. They are looking in different directions, but it is clear that the same thing struck their funny bones. It is a beautiful candid moment that looks like the kind of picture that comes with the frame. I have never seen my dad laugh like that in person; all I have is that photo.

My home was shrouded in a veil of stress, anger, discomfort, trepidation. Those walls rarely heard laughter. We were not a family of pranksters or joke tellers. Mine was a serious house. I never learned the philosophy of work hard play hard until I went to college. We didn't play much. At least not as a family. No one played tag in the yard, built obstacle courses out of bean bag chairs and hula hoops, or trashed the kitchen decorating Christmas cookies.

We had our share of issues, as all families do. But no one was violent or drunk or enraged. We were safe. In fact, we were guarded. We lacked spontaneity, a sense of fun, and the freedom to laugh until our bellies ached and cheeks stiffened. It was not all unhappy times. But there was no joy.

The best thing I can do for, and with, my sons is chisel my face with laughlines so that they know joy and can pass it on to their own children one day. Memories of joy is what will bring them home.

Things I Didn't Say When I Was 5

My Bird is teetering on the cusp of 6. He just finished kindergarten and is warming up for first grade. First grade! Bird is a smart one. I realize that statement holds no credibility, considering they are borne from the keyboard of me, his mother. But trust me, he is a smart cookie. I imagine he takes after me. Ahem. Bird's precocious in a way that is charming and often alarming.

I wish I could hook him up to a tape recorder, if such a thing still exists, so I could capture the funny, crazy, silly, ridiculous stuff that he blurts out. I am amazed at the way his brain works, not only as a testament to the inner workings of his very being, but the sheer shift in how times have changed.

Just a sampling of things I know I did not say when I was 5-years old:

1. This one time, in Chinese class...
2. My German teacher said...
3. That water is zu heiss!
4. I think we need surround sound.
5. Whale is a three-way homonym.
6. But's a homonym too.
7. That hair is called blonde, not yellow, Deal.
8. I'm a LEGO architect.
9. Actually, Mommy, that is a crustacean.
10. My brain must be smart because my head is hard, not mushy.
11. Take my picture! Now can I see it?
12. Can you please pause the TV while I go to the bathroom?
13. Can you please fast forward through the commercials?
14. More proscuitto, please.
15. I'd like to have mussels for dinner tonight.
16. Do those popsicles have high fructose corn syrup in them?
17. The guy in that Hummer thinks he's so cool.
18. That huge car is bad for the environment.
19. Here are my plastic sandwich bags to wash and reuse.
20. Every animal has a job to do on our earth.
21. Sometimes you don't know who's a man and who's a woman because boys can have long hair and earrings.
22. We need some more olives.
23. Smoked salmon for breakfast? Only if we have capers?
24. Super heroes don't exist. Someone just made up the stories to teach us stuff about being strong and respectful.
25. That house is obnoxious!
26. Today in school we learned about nanotechnology.
27. Don't forget to pack the beer for the grown ups!
28. Sometimes the truth makes people feel bad.
    
29. Are you going to blog about that. Mommy?
30. Are you going to tweet what I just said?

So tell me, what are your kids saying that floor you?

Talking About God

What I love about having two children who are the same gender is seeing their differences unfold. Despite the fact that they are both boys and raised in the same house, they are distinctly different creatures. I've kept a little chart since Deal was born of how they have differed throughout their various growth spurts and stages. I'm nuts about charts and tables and pie charts (even though Professor Malthouse steered us away from pie charts, claiming they do not depict graphical excellence).

Both Bird and Deal attended the same Methodist preschool. They both went to chapel and had the same teachers. Bird still thinks "Jesus" is pronounced "Cheesus" and remarks how they must have a lot in common since he likes cheese too. I guess he figures since Mac Daddy is from Wisconsin this all clearly makes sense.

Deal wants to end every declarative statement with "Amen." He also wants a Jesus themed birthday party.

So take this recent exchange as an example:

Deal: Where does nature come from, Mommy?

Bird: It's Mother Nature, Deal. Mother Nature gives us the rain and stars and plants and snow.

Deal: NOOOOOO She doesn't!!! Mother Nature isn't real! Mommy is our only mother!

Bird: I SAID MOTHER NATURE MADE NATURE! That's why we call her that. MOTHER NATURE!!!

Exasperation beads in little sweat droplets on their upper lips at this point. Neck hairs are saluting, voices are quivering, fists are shaking.

Deal: God made nature. God did it. God did it. God did it. God did it...

This starts to sound like goddamn it after while, and I crack up.

Bird: Deal, I told you, there is no God!


I can't win. I don't necessarily agree with either one of them. I had no idea what to do. So I did what every mommy blogger would do. I fired up my laptop and let them fight while I captured a blog-worthy moment.

Amen.

Life Lessons

While the economy is top of mind in the media internationally, nationally, and locally, here in North Carolina the two wars we are waging still make the top headlines. North Carolina's fallen make daily headlines around here. There are two major bases close enough to my home that their stories make our local news. Fort Bragg is home of the elite 82nd Airborne and Special Ops. Camp Lejeune is the largest marine base on the East coast. Soldiers from the esteemed bases of Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune continue to depart to war zones, some never return, some return broken, none returns the same.

Recent estimates count over 4200 U.S. military deaths since the war's start in March over six years ago. Those fallen 4200 were someone's son, daughter, first born, namesake, middle child, only child, flesh and blood, heartbeat. The data is comprised of people; we choose to dehumanize it to make the news more palatable. Let's not forget that each soldier killed, injured, missing, or scarred is someone's child. That soldier's heart beat inside a woman's womb for nine months, and his head sleepily rested upon his father's chest for what seemed a lifetime ago. I know North Carolinians don't forget that.

The Iraq War began in March 2003, before I became a mother.

Motherhood has given me perspective. With every staid military portrait of a young man in uniform flashed on the 6:00 news B-roll, I see a cooing infant expressing pure love, a babbling baby learning to crawl, a curious toddler peeking beneath the tablecloth, a deliriously happy and innocent preschooler collecting rocks in his pockets, a restless kindergartener squirming in his chair. And then the slideshow stops because I have not yet ventured past kindergarten with my oldest son. I am still making memories.

It was an unremarkable morning when I was taking my Bird to school. As we approached the car pool line we were both flummoxed by the stream of soldiers in dress uniform walking silently by. I was struck by their exceedingly perfect posture and shiny patent shoes. Bird was fascinated with their hats and trappings of decorated men in uniform. Soldiers are glamorous and glorified to a boy of five. I followed the path of those soldiers with my eyes and realized they were walking to a funeral home. How could I have been coming to this school all year and not even noticed the funeral home across the street? The subtle signage and beige brick faded into their elements, almost camoflouged within the backdrop of the neighborhood. Suddenly the sight of an elementary school, where children come to grow, and its neighbor, a funeral home, where people come in their passing, was hauntingly ironic. I gulped and tried my damndest to keep an even tone when Bird asked me what all the soldiers were doing.

Because it was a rare moment we had alone, without my three-year old son in the car, I told my little Bird the truth. I explained that a soldier died and his friends and family were coming to celebrate his life and their love for him. I told him that America is waging war in two different countries and that war is scary, dangerous, and scarring. I told him that the soldiers sacrifice an awful lot to help keep America safe. Sometimes they sacrifice their own lives. I struggled with what I had just done. Will this be a moment my son recalls in his adulthood as the time his mother punted him into reality? Will he have nightmares? My Bird, my oldest son, simply looked more sad than bewildered. He told me he didn't think he wanted to be a fighter pilot anymore, and I was secretly relieved. Granted, he will choose 734 different professions before he's 16. He'll engage his imagination and ask questions and keenly observe the world around him. I won't stop his flirting with the military at this tender age but I won't encourage it either. He will eventually make these choices on his own, and I will support him.

Bird has seen death and what it does to a family. He understands why his daddy cries on Father's Day. We still talk about Grandpa and Capote and Casey. He understands that we'll never see his grandfather or our family cats again. And so he stated, in an innocent, heartfelt manner, "Well, I hope the soldier can see Grandpa and pet Capote and Casey in heaven."

I exhaled. And brushed the welling tears from my eyes as I thought about that soldier's mother.

Cross posted at Deep South Moms.

Interrogation

I spend a lot of time with my sons. I'm a chatty one so we talk. I figure I've got a captive audience until they're at least eight so I babble and ponder and regale. Plus both boys are chatty, so we all fight for air time. We are in the car running to and fro an awful lot. And when we're not staging a singalong to Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Robot Parade, Shake Your Booty, or anything by Barry White, we are chatting. Mostly I tell them stories, real tales or fabrications of what strike me as better antidotes to the truth.

And there are the questions. Geesh, the constant questions that boggle my mind, wrench my gut, tickle my funny bone, squash or propel my inner cynic, depending on the inquiry. The questions range from the deep to the absurd and back 'round again.

And it all starts with, "Hey, Mommy?"

There's the God/Jesus/Bible line of questioning:
Whom did you talk about school, Jesus or God?
Is God the same as Jesus?
How old is God?
Was God poor?
Where does God live?
How old is Jesus?
Why does the Lord want to take us away and keep us?
Why don't we have a Bible? Why don't we read it before bed?
Did those gods really have all those arms and blue skin? (a nod to the Indian folktales we read)
Who hears our prayers? Is someone listening?
Who are the angels?

And the baby questions that offer no easy way out:
How does the baby get out of your belly?
How did the baby get in your belly?
How does the baby know when to come out?
What does the baby eat?
Where does the baby poop?
Do daddies have babies?
Did you know that we start out the size of a sprinkle? (my personal favorite quip)

Biology, the body, and the like:
Why is Daddy hairy? (not on the back, mind you, for that's a deal breaker)
Do you really have eyes in the back of your head?
Why does your belly touch your belt buckle when you sit down? (badge of motherhood, I say)
Why do we have a belly button? Can it do anything?
Babies drink milk from there?! (guffawing ensues)

And the random deep thoughts, Jack Handey style:
Will our next pet die?
Who's the oldest person on earth? (for a while the boys' debate was between my dad and my brother until I squashed that)
When will I die?
Who invented seeds?
What was the first seed? (Adam's?)
What language would people speak if everyone from around the world met?
How long ago was "back in the day?"
You mean we don't just take some meat and sew up the cow?
Do we kill animals when we eat them or are they killed before they're on our plate?
Why does hair grow crooked? (perhaps because it's cut that way to begin with)


I entertain Mac Daddy every night with tales from the car. We lie in bed cracking up, feeling the oozing warmth of love and pride and amazement that the mantle of parenthood carries. For some reason Bird and Deal don't pepper Mac Daddy with such questions. I guess they realize that Daddy is the fun, wrestling, Super Hero, magic epee wielding playmate, while I am the erudite omniscient one. Or they're simply trying to get me to stop singing Can't get Enough of Your Love off key.

Paying it Forward

So the movie Pay it Forward actually kinda sucked. Am I wrong here? I mean Helen Hunt rocked it in her Mad About You days, and Haley Joel Osment was still cute then, but overall this movie blew chunks.

But the concept of paying it forward has really stuck with me. Call it karma. Call it divine justice. Call it what you will.

Case in point:

A tow headed young boy of four asks Santa for a train set for Christmas. The real deal. With lights, pretend steam blowing from the engine, tiny faux trees and conductors, a track that doesn't break if someone creaks on the floor next to it. A Lionel. Unparalled in the world of trainmanship. Yes, I realize that's not a word. Work with me and don't act as if you don't know what I mean. This little boy just wants a train set. A perfect train set. And so his grandmother goes on a hunt. A hunt for a steal. More than a bargain. She's become a highway robber.

Goodwill is about to answer this tow headed boy's dreams. Grandma finds a complete train set in fine working condition. For 90 bucks. Oh, excessive for a four-year old, but answering his dreams on Christmas morning is priceless. Thanks for ruining that term, by the way, MasterCard. Grandma collects the various cars, tracks, and accoutrements. She lugs it all to the counter and starts counting out her cash in fives and tens. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty...Eighty. Sounds of rifling through change, receipts, business cards, expired McDonald's coupons, to-do lists fill the air that seems to stand still. A lousy ten dollars short. No train for her fair haired grandson. Shoulders slumped, face forlorn, she gathers the pieces to return them to their spot on the shelf in back.

In sashays an old friend. "Why the long face?" she asks.

Grandma can barely summon an answer. She manages to faintly gesture to the train and mutters something about her four-year old grandson asking Santa for a train set. She's defeated and lacks the energy to catch up on niceties with this old chum.

"Ten bucks?! Why here's ten dollars! Merry Christmas to you and your grandson!"

And so the universe winked in its wily way, reminding her who's in charge.

You see, a few weeks ago this grandmother met a man at Goodwill. This very same shop. A man clean from months of treatment and job training. A man about to graduate to a new, sober life. He wanted to dress the part of success. He had borrowed a tie and had gently used pants in hand. Now if only he could find a collared shirt in which the collar buttoned snugly without choking his Adam's apple when he gulped. He relayed his story in casual yet ripely emotional conversation as they both pecked through the racks of discarded Joseph A. Banks oxford shirts. He hadn't enough money for a proper shirt and he dragged his feet as he somberly walked away, feeling spent, tired, sad,defeated once again.

Grandma slipped him a ten spot.

And the universe paid her back. Sobering indeed.

It Happened This Day in 1968

I had a great, insightful post about turning 40 today. Blogger ate it. F%&^!!!!

Now I've got to actually spend some time finishing a report in between bouts of hacking and putting my head on my desk to alleviate the cold building up in there. Argh.

I'll have to muster the energy to rekindle that post tomorrow. I'll write about being 40 +1 day.

Instead I'll leave you with a taste for what happened this day in 1968.

September 17, 1996 Dodger Hideo Nomo no-hits Colorado Rockies, 9-0 at Coors Field (What's with all the sports highlights?)
September 17, 1992 House votes 280 to 128 to give FCC control of cable TV rates (And later voted to have our phone lines tapped.)
September 17, 1992 NFL decides to suspend World League Football (Tell me it isn't so!)
September 17, 1991 U.N. admits Estonia, Latvia, Lithuiania, North and South Korea, Marshall Islands and Micronesia (Who can find these countries on a map?)
September 17, 1989 41st Emmy Awards: LA Law, Cheers, Dana Delany and Candice Bergen win
September 17, 1988 Jeff Reardon becomes 1st to record 40 or more saves in both AL and NL (I don't even know what the hell this means.)
September 17, 1987 Philadelphia celebrates 200th anniversary of Constitution (And now we have a bunch of mavericks positioned to tear it up.)
September 17, 1986 U.S. Senate confirms William Rehnquist as 16th chief justice
September 17, 1983 Vanessa Williams (NY), 20, crowned 56th Miss America 1984, 1st black (No Ugly Betty)
September 17, 1972 "M*A*S*H," premieres on NBC TV (Best theme song ever)
September 17, 1968 Ilina was born in a hospital in Calcutta, India. Ticker tape parade ensued.
September 17, 1964 "Bewitched" premieres on ABC TV (Still wish I could wrinkle up my nose to make dinner appear.)
September 17, 1964 Beatles are paid a then record $150,000 for a concert (Kansas)
September 17, 1964 Supremes release "Baby Love" (Back before Diana was a nut job)
September 17, 1962 Justice Department files 1st suit to end segregation in public schools (1962, people)
September 17, 1959 59th U.S. Golf Amateur Championship won by Jack Nicklaus
September 17, 1958 U.S. performs nuclear test at Nevada Test Site
September 17, 1956 Black students enter Clay Kentucky elementary school
September 17, 1953 1st successful separation of Siamese twins (Egads!)
September 17, 1953 Ernie Banks becomes Chicago Cubs 1st black player (Yet, I've never heard of him.)
September 17, 1948 WLS TV channel 7 in Chicago, IL (ABC) begins broadcasting (How fitting that TV started on my birthday!)
September 17, 1946 "If the Shoe Fits," opens at Century Theater New York City for 20 performances (Well, if the shoe fits, but it!)
September 17, 1940 Hitler begins invasion of England (operation Seelowe)
September 17, 1900 Commonwealth of Australia proclaimed (Fire up the barbie!)
September 17, 1862 Battle of Sharpsburg (Antietam)-bloodiest day of Civil War, 23,110 die
September 17, 1859 Man in San Francisco claims himself Norton I, emperor of America (I'd like to declare myself Empress.)
September 17, 1850 Great fire in San Francisco (Burned all the bread and then called it sourdough)
September 17, 1835 Charles Darwins lands on Chatham Galapagos-archipelago (Sarah Palin does not believe this.)
September 17, 1796 President George Washington delivers his farewell address
September 17, 1787 U.S. constitution adopted by Philadelphia convention (And we must protect it.)
September 17, 1778 1st treaty between the U.S. and Indian tribes signed (Fort Pitt)
September 17, 1691 Colony Massachusetts Bay gets new charter
September 17, 1683 Antonie van Leeuwenhoek reports existence of bacteria (Hence my OCD and fear of germs. It's this guy's fault.)
September 17, 1678 France and Spain sign peace treaty (Imagine the tasty food at this banquet.)
September 17, 1598 Netherland sailors discover Mauritius (Long lost brother of Maury?)

I'm Booked.

Over Labor Day weekend Mac Daddy and I heard a thumpity-thump-bump-CRASH one night while we were busy vegging on the couch with a bottle of pinot grigio (a farewell to the lazy days of summer wine, none of that white stuff in the fall and winter months will do). We shrugged it off as a book falling off of Deal's bed, a common occurence considering he goes to bed with a veritable library cache of reading material. It was the CRASH that stirred us from our pre-kid-like vegging euphoria. We rushed upstairs to discover two snuggly sleeping boys. One freaked out 16-year old cat whose hair would have been standing up had we not gotten her shaved recently, and a bookshelf toppled in my office, books littering the floor.

Sigh. Labor Day was indeed a day of labor.

I just reorganized all the book shelves in my office. I purged (not in the Sarah Palin sense) and boxed up some goodies to share with my book club and put some in the Goodwill pile. It took me longer than the average bear to reorganize because I found myself flipping through the dogeared, marked up pages, checking out my changing handwriting (I always write my name inside the cover of my books.), admired the unbroken spine (One of the byproducts of my self-diagnosed OCD is that I cannot stand for a book spine to be creased or bent, requiring me to read very gingerly. This is why my friends just buy me a new copy of a book instead of returning the trashed spine book they borrowed from me.), and even burying my nose into a few, the smell taking me back to Ms. Smith's English class or Mr. Harrison's British poetry class.

I was the kid who eshewed Cliffs Notes, even for Jane Austen, whom I loathe. I was the kid who laughed at kids who couldn't get through the summer reading list. I was the kid who was repeatedly told not to bring books to the dinner table. I was the kid who crept under the covers with a flashlight and got lost in Ramona's adventures until the wee hours. I was the kid who oohed and aahed over gifted books at my birthday party. I am still that kid.

I love words. I am in awe of people who can put words together to spin an enthralling tale, paint a vivid picture, mend a troubled psyche, or create a character so real you feel you should add him to your Christmas card list. Words inspire me. Excite me. Tempt me. Poor use of words infuriate me. Words are powerful little buggers, whether spoken or written. They invoke emotion in ways moving pictures cannot because they leave us to our own devices. Words take us on a journey, challenging us to create the pictures and images and people that accompany them. Words are instruments that few people can master.

Books are my escape. Cheaper than a plane ticket, more engrossing than television, often more effective than therapy, and they don't talk back.

The one gift I hope to impart to Bird and Deal is a love of books. So far so good. One of my proudest moments was when Bird was about 3 or so. I offered him the choice of going to the library or the park, and he enthusiastically chose the library. That's my boy, I thought to myself, smiling. Both Bird and Deal devour books of all kinds. Bird's driving force behind his kindergarten excitement is that he will learn how to read. Right now he's memorized a million books so he often sits with Deal and "reads" The Lorax and other such jewels. The bounty we bring home from the library would leave me $64 dollars poorer if I were checking those books on a US Air flight.

My friend Norman gave us one of the best baby gifts ever. Not the standard Goodnight Moon, Mother Goose, or Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. He gave us Honey for a Child's Heart by Gladys Hunt. The book is a clever, delightfully written guide to help choose age appropriate books for your kids. Hunt also writes candidly about topics such as censorhip and what makes a good versus bad book. Honey for a Child's Heart is peppered with the old standbys that I love to read to my boys. The House at Pooh Corner. Where the Wild Things Are. Richard Scarry. Shel Silverstein. Mercer Mayer. Even if you are a voracious reader like I am, this book will serve as a handy guide should you ever need a kick in the pants to actually go to the library with a list.

Oh, in case you are wondering what books Sarah Palin supposedly wanted to ban (rather "purge" since that sounds less like censorship) from her library, wait no more. Check 'em out. Thanks my old buddy Mike for passing this along.

Sarah Palin's Book Club - Asterisks* are by the ones I've read. You'll see that I am clearly a heathen who has no business being a card carrying library book checker outer.

*A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
*A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
Annie on My Mind by Nancy Garden
*As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
*Blubber by Judy Blume
*Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
*Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
*Canterbury Tales by Chaucer
*Carrie by Stephen King
*Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
*Christine by Stephen King
Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
*Cujo by Stephen King
Curses, Hexes, and Spells by Daniel Cohen
Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
*Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
*Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
Decameron by Boccaccio
*East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Fallen Angels by Walter Myers
Fanny Hill (Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) by John Cleland
*Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes
*Forever by Judy Blume
Grendel by John Champlin Gardner
Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
*Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
*Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
*Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Have to Go by Robert Munsch
Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
*How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
*Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
* I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
Impressions edited by Jack Booth
* In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
* It’s Okay if You Don’t Love Me by Norma Klein
*James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
* Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
*Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
*Little Red Riding Hood by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
*Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Love is One of the Choices by Norma Klein
Lysistrata by Aristophanes
More Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier & Christopher Collier
My House by Nikki Giovanni
*My Friend Flicka by Mary O’Hara
Night Chills by Dean Koontz
*Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
One Day in The Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
*One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
*One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
*Ordinary People by Judith Guest
*Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women’s Health Collective
*Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl
Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones by Alvin Schwartz
Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
*A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Silas Marner by George Eliot
*Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
*The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
*The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
The Bastard by John Jakes
*The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
*The Color Purple by Alice Walker
The Devil’s Alternative by Frederick Forsyth
The Figure in the Shadows by John Bellairs
*The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
*The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Snyder
The Learning Tree by Gordon Parks
The Living Bible by William C. Bower
*The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
The New Teenage Body Book by Kathy McCoy and Charles Wibbelsman
*The Pigman by Paul Zindel
The Seduction of Peter S. by Lawrence Sanders
*The Shining by Stephen King
The Witches by Roald Dahl
The Witches of Worm by Zilpha Snyder
* Then Again, Maybe I Won’t by Judy Blume
*To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
*Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff
Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts: The Story of the Halloween
Symbols by Edna Bart

And now, I am peeling my fingers away from the keyboard to open up my latest crack. Plan B by Anne Lamott. Must see TV? Nah. Not for me tonight.

What's Buggin'?

In light of the 136 mosquito bites I got just in the time it took to walk six blocks to Rite Aid and back, I am posting about random things that bug me.

1. Mosquitoes, natch. I am allergic so the little bites turn into giant welts. Now I look like someone took a switch to my legs. Poor Deal has inherited this frailty from me.
2. I bet Posh Spice has a kick-ass kitchen. The woman clearly doesn't eat so I imagine she doesn't cook either. In general, one must cook to eat, no? I see a lot of take out cartons in the Beckham household. Somehow I don't think Posh dons an apron and makes homemade cookies, flour flying everywhere, butter dripping on the hardwood floors, mixer thingees being licked. That's what I did with Bird and Deal today. A warming drawer would have helped. So would a Kitchen Aid mixer.
   
3. Kids with bad manners is one thing. I have no tolerance for adults with poor manners (granted, they started as kids with bad manners). Guess what Lady in the Stationery Shop, I am not interested in the hives and red splotches on your nasty-ass scaly feet. Do not take off your sandals so I can get a better look. The absolute last thing I want is a closer look. Your feet make Mac Daddy's feet look freshly pedicured by the adorable Vietnamese ladies down the street.
4. The sound of a cat puking. Must it sound like a waterfall of guts spewing out? I love my Casey, but the nightly throw up is putting unconditional love to the test.
   
5. Nature. Why can't it just be brightly hued blossoms sitting pretty, sedating streams trickling, lazy clouds puttering, dolphin-rich waves billowing? I don't need the itchy grass, relentless weeds, creepy crawly critters, bugs whizzing, snakes slithering, rocks underfoot, or dirt of any kind.
   

So tell me, what's buggin' you?

My Mom the Democrat

Liz, of Mom 101, Cool Mom Picks, and Momcrats fame, wrote this article that I just read in my new issue of Brain, Child. I actually laid in bed with Casey, my shaved Persian cat, purring upon my chest, while I read the whole magazine. Cover to cover. Ads and all. This story, for obvious reasons, was my fave. 

Mom-101: My Daughter the Democrat

I knew I liked Liz even before I found out she's my buddy's buddy. Yeah, that's what you call some bloggy sucking up. Only I mean it. No brownie points to be had here, but brownies would be nice. 

My mom is a die-hard Democrat.  You'd know that about her in the first, um, .002 nanoseconds of meeting her. When she met Bill Clinton at a book signing she called me in a tizzy telling me she'd never wash her right hand again. After his antics during the primaries, she scrubbed her hand with Lysol. My mom can't drive or swim or ride a bike, but she can manage to get herself wherever she needs to go to cast her vote. Nothing lost on her American citizenship. My mom definitely has a dossier on file with the Department of Homeland Security. Her phone must be tapped, unless she's on a party line with a tap dancer or a cow that types clickety clacking all the while we talk. 

My mom is the original Obama Mama. Check her out here. She's the one in the middle with her signature ginormous earrings about to signal lift off and even bigger purse. And note that the woman is always high fashion. She's the one who walked into my house when Bird was 8 days old and proclaimed that I needed to wear mascara every day to make myself feel better. This was, of course, a ruse just so she could stand to look at me. Nevermind that I had a newborn who couldn't breastfeed and a house under construction while she had a mom, sister, and a nanny when I was an infant. Do I sound bitter? Nah. Maybe just a tad. Until I saw this photo of my mom I had never seen her in a T-shirt. Ever.

And damn, I am so proud of her. 

Teaching your kids about political values is no different than teaching them about the values and morals you believe in general. In my case, the blue apple didn't fall far from the tree. If everything goes my way, neither Bird nor Deal will come home from college as Alex P. Keaton.

I'm meeting with the NC head of the Obama campaign tomorrow and taking Bird with me. When I kissed him good night I told him about the meeting and said that he's going to wear his Yes We Can! shirt.  Sleepy eyed and nestled under the covers, he stuck out his little hand and gave me a thumbs up and an incredulous grin. 

That's my boy. 

What Not to Say if You Want to Be My Friend: Deal Breakers

I owe thanks to Poison Pen for slipping me this post idea this morning. She's the one of Ball Pit fame.

Back when I was in the dating game, there were certain deal breakers. Tighty whiteys for starters. Keep in mind I was dating before the days of boxer briefs, but those would be a definite potential deal breaker. Boxers all the way, man. Squeezing toothpaste in the middle: a deal breaker to this neat freak. Granted, things had already gotten pretty far if I was privy to toothpaste habits. A hairy back was a definite deal breaker. An ass smaller than mine: also a deal breaker. There are of course the obvious ones like voting Republican, wearing too much cologne, talking about his ex, bad table manners, being plain stupid, mussed up shoes (Aw, come on! Shoes tell a lot about a man!), or hitting on my friends (with a hotties like Shannon and Cathy as my closest friends, this one cropped up a lot).

Now that I'm learning to feel and find my way in the mom world, I find myself dating again. There are deal breakers in this game too. Here are a few recent ones I've encountered. These are for real, not figments of my imagination. I wish I had mugshots to warn you to stay away, far away, from these women.

"We home school our three children ages 2-6." Luckily my cell phone rang, and I just had to take the call.

"We're thinking about buying a pop-up camper." I wanted to say, "You're not Barbie, Lady."

"What do you think about a mom's weekend away? We could do crafts in our camper!" Again with the camper. Who are these people?! I reckon there would be no margaritas served in that camper.

"So maybe we could get together to do some scrapbooking?" Frankly I'm insulted she took me to be a scrapbooker. Anything I'd create from these hands would be a crapbook. And that sounds more fun because there would be alcohol involved.

"Oh, isn't it sad that Jesse Helms died?" WHAAATTT??!!!?? It was all I could do to not punch her in the gut. The world would have been better without the likes of him. Now sock it to me for saying something so disparaging about a dead man . Being dead doesn't make him sacred.

"I see my role in life to make my husband happy." Um, yeah. I'm all for that if he's making me happy too. Has she not heard the adage, "Ain't nobody happy if momma ain't happy?" That's rule numero uno at my house.

"My son is wearing a shirt from Target, but his shorts are from Talbotts." I'm not kidding you that these were the first words uttered out of this woman's mouth. What on my face made me look like I gave a shit what her kid was wearing? Little did she know that there was no need to be so apologetic about the Target attire; that carried more weight than Talbotts.

"Did you breastfeed? My daughter is five, and I still breastfeed her. She really enjoys it." DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS ONE. Shudder. Shudder. Shudder.

"I just vote the way my husband tells me too." And are you enjoying living in the year 1953?

"I don't like to shop and I don't care what shoes I'm wearing." Seriously? I thought she was joking. Find me a woman who doesn't like shoes for cripes sake! I'd rather hang with the homeschooler than a woman who doesn't drool over shoes.


So tell me, what are your deal breakers? I'd like to be armed with some examples lest I'm accosted at the park by a suspicious looking scrapbooker sporting lace up Keds.

Sensitive Boy: My Deal

"Don't pound on that xylophone so hard. You'll hurt it." Mac Daddy

"Oh, does the instrument have feelings, Daddy?" Deal

That right there sums up Deal's personality. He dropped the xylophone mallet immediately and looked so sad. He gently stroked the keys as if to say he were sorry. Then he wanted a hug. Sweet, sweet sensitive little thing.

Everything I Never Needed to Know in Life I Learned from My Dad

My dad is not the kind of guy who sat around the fire goofing off with us. We didn't live in a house where anyone told jokes or pulled pranks. There were no feisty nights of Sorry, Life, or Clue. No rainy afternoons putting together a misty mountaintop puzzle scene. No games of catch, touch football, or tag. No one baked cupcakes and licked the batter off the mixer thingees. I honestly don't remember any tickling, wrestling, climbing fits of fun like Mac Daddy endures with our boys. No nuzzling.

What I do remember are lots of heavy moments. My dad, he's a stoic one. He's Indian. He's an engineer. He's mathy. Oh, and he's a man. All that adds up to a pretty stiff guy. He's smart, well-read, curious, world traveled, and savvy. He is also gentle, kind, and patient. Oh, the patience. He did have to raise me after all. A job he kind of got stuck with. With no manual. No support line. No life raft in sight. A job he never got thanks for.

While my home sounds like a pretty gloomy place, it wasn't all bad. It's not what I want for Bird and Deal, but it wasn't bad per se. You see, my dad's plate was more overloaded than a blue hair's at a Vegas penny slot buffett. Like all parents, he did the best he could. Based on how my brother and I turned out, I think he did pretty darn well.

He did teach me some invaluable life lessons without even realizing it. And you know what, I never did read that stupid self help book he gave me when I was in seventh grade, How to Be an Assertive Woman. I guess his worry was that a tiny, 85 pound 5 foot tall runt like me needed some sort of boost to keep up with the bully boys and Heathers. Looks like that assertion gene was already in my blood. Plentiful at that.

So here goes, Dad's Top 10 List:

1) When you find a job, you must love the work, enjoy the people, and get paid well. Two out of three is pretty good.

2) Study anything in college that interests you. A liberal arts education will teach you how to read, write, and think creatively and analytically. A job will teach you anything else you need. College is about an education, not a trade.

3) Do anything for your children. Sacrifice has no bounds when it comes to providing for your kids.

4) Learn to drive a stickshift.

5) Don't drive with the radio louder than the sounds of the road.

6) Work, and only work, will get you where you want to be. Luck is for the feeble minded.

7) Learning a foreign language is about way more than conjugating verbs and memorizing vocabulary.

8) Love your brother, for he will be all the family you have one day when your parents are long gone.

9) Don't work for someone who isn't smarter than you. You'll learn nothing and get frustrated in the process.

10) Learning doesn't stop after you collect the degree.


And so it goes that Bird and Deal will benefit from their Dadu's advice. Hopefully they'll take it at an earlier age than I did. Happy Father's Day, Dad!


And I would be remiss to not wish Mac Daddy a Happy Father's Day. If you look up fatherhood in the dictionary, Mac Daddy's picture would be right there. There is nothing hotter than him holding and cuddling our boys on the couch, rumpled in their Sunday morning finest. Bird and Deal have no idea how lucky they are. They have a daddy who is affectionate, playful, funny, smart, and truly loving. He sets the best example to teach our boys how to treat women, care for others, be good stewards of the community, and live responsibly. All with a dose of humor and conviction.

Lastly, let me say that this is our second father's day without Mac Daddy's father. We miss him. We miss his laugh, his voice, his gentle tousling of the kids' hair without even realizing he was doing it. He was a fine grandfather to our boys. Mac Daddy would make him proud.