Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

I'm 6 Years Old. Today.

I started first grade yesterday. I just walked right in, green backpack that my mom made me monogram, slung across my shoulders, and started whooping it up with my boys. High fiving and smack talking and giggling and stuff. I didn't miss a beat considering I missed the first three days of school. I even got all sorts of attention, being the birthday boy and all. I just might be the only kid who was five when first grade officially started. Well, no matter because today I am six.

Let me repeat: Today I am Six.

Six.

I was born six years ago, a so-called "Ice Storm" baby of 2003. Mommy says I popped right out after three pushes and 20 minutes. Her friends roll their eyes and turn away when she tells that story. Mommy and I shared an inferno burger and vanilla shake just before that. And we rocked the prenatal yoga classes. Apparently I had some feeding issues a few days after I was born, making me all weak and whiny and wobbly. I think they official term is "failure to thrive." Wow, Mommy and Daddy would croak if that were ever on my report card. Anyway, that's when the doctor ordered the syringe.

You have been wondering why they call me Bird, right? Well, Daddy christened me Bird when I was three days old, and it's clearly stuck. Sometimes my teachers even call me Bird. Mommy calls me Bird on the playground when it's time to go. She even called me No-Strike Bird when I played T-Ball, claiming that would make a fantastic headline-grabbing nickname when I play for the Brewers one day. Actually, I bet it was Daddy who mentioned the Brewers because Mommy doesn't know a thing about sports.

Anyway, when I had trouble feeding from my mommy the doctor told my parents to let me suck my mommy's pinky while my daddy used a syringe to shoot some formula into my mouth. It was apparently the only way to nourish me while keeping my suckling in tact. I don't really get the ins and outs but I do know that Daddy said feeding tiny little baby me with a syringe was like feeding a baby bird. Hence the name. By the way, Mommy still has that syringe in my baby box. And obviously they still call me Bird.

Mommy tends to get all weepy on my birthday. She says that her vision improved after I was born so I'm not sure why she gets all emotional, seeing that she doesn't need glasses anymore. She also loves a good party so I bet the luau I requested for my 6th birthday party is gonna rock. All I know is that boxes from Oriental Trading have been littering our living room. I'm just excited to wear the tiki shirt my Dadu gave me. For some reason Mommy refuses to wear the grass skirt and coconut bra I found for her at the party store.

So today I'm looking forward to a few of my favorite things: playing the Star Wars LEGO Wii game that my Uncle gave me, eating beignets for breakfast, engaging in a fierce dart launcher war with my brother (thanks to the Nerf shooter from my Nani), chowing on cheeseburgers and shakes at Red Robin, and generally being spoiled. I'll squeeze in some LEGO time and an art project or two with my Mommy too. And I get to go to a swimming party since my friend Sarah and I share a birthday (Happy Birthday shout out to you, Sarah!). I might even test my limits and whine a bit just to see if Mommy and Daddy have the heart to scold me on my birthday. heh heh heh. I mean really, six won't come around again.

Mommy tells me that I'm just like her. I guess that means she's smart, funny, and clever, Ha ha ha. I swear I am the funniest person I know! Strangers stop me and Mommy on the street to comment how our smiles are so much alike. I guess it's a good thing we make each other smile...most of the time. I share my mommy's temperament but I am definitely a daddy's boy. I also pretend that my little brother Deal drives me crazy but I actually love him and race home from school to play with him, even though my interpretation of "play" is wrestling and shoving decorative throw pillows on his face.

The birthday horoscope my parents have for me says that I will grow up to be creative and mathy. It claims I will make a living as an architect or engineer. It also says I will inherit a sweet tooth from my Mommy. Right on all counts so far!

My name is Bird, and I am six today.

Wordless Wednesday: Bird

Wordless Wednesday: Mini Me in Looks and in Temperament

Wordless Wednesday: Juxtaposition

Wordless Wednesday: Yum Thumb

Wordless Wednesday: Sunny Disposition

Wordless Wednesday: The Case of the Disappearing Baby Cheeks

His Future's Not Bright, Take Off the Blinders

I do not wish for a future like Levi Johnston's for my sons. The Republicans are saying "Life happens." In my world, Levi's situation feels more like "shit happens."

Take a look at Levi's MySpace page. He sounds like a typical uneducated, smart ass, punk, jock of a guy. Not the kind of gracious souled gentlemen I want my boys to become. I realize boys will be boys. The saying does not proclaim, however, that boys will be heathens. And if I had a daughter, hell if I'd want her to marry a guy like Levi. Take a look for yourself.

Excerpted from his MySpace page, Johnston boasts, "I'm a fuckin' redneck" who likes to snowboard and ride dirt bikes.

"But I live to play hockey. I like to go camping and hang out with the boys, do some fishing, shoot some shit and just fuckiin' chillin' I guess."

"Ya fuck with me I'll kick [your] ass," he added.

He also claims to be "in a relationship," but states, "I don't want kids."

His folks must be whiz bang proud. Yeah, I'm hip like the cool kids saying things like "whiz bang." I'm just happenin' like that, ya know.

I happen to know a few 18-year old boys. They are gracious, ambitious, polite, witty, and charming (not in an Eddie Haskell way). They have bright futures. The boys I knew when I was an 18-year old myself were as randy as the rest, but none would have sounded as egotistical, rude, and plain neanderthal as Levi Johnston. Nope, not son in law material for my girl (Granted, I don't have one.).

I'm simply saying that as a mother, I am appalled. Granted, perhaps naive too. When I read that MySpace page my heart jumped with a tinge of shame, worry, embarrassment, and even empathy for Mrs. Johnston. I am certain that she envisioned a different future for her son, as I do for mine. I am just struck my his seeming lack of empathy, brute ruggedness, and gross display of testosterone. What insecurity lurks behind all that machismo? I do not think those statements necessarily make the boy, but they sure lay one hell of a foundation.

Oh, and so much for not wanting kids. Is this guy really ready for fatherhood? I find it so unfair that we don't choose our parents. This child will come to the world with many strikes against him/her. Love is critical, yes. But what life lessons can a teenage mother and father impart when they have yet to experience life themselves? Cliche, perhaps. True, indeed. I write this without political motivation. I write this as a mother. As a 35-year old first time mother who still found herself floundering, hormonal, overwhelmed, awestruck, confused, excitable, moved, and impressionable.

Teaching abstinence in schools is plain irresponsible. The people who believe that teaching abstinence equates to taking the moral high ground might as well move to the lush savannahs of Africa and put their heads in the ground among a flock of ostriches.

A Special Birthday Toast for 5:00 Fridays

I'd like to start by wishing my Bird a HAPPY 5th BIRTHDAY!!!

Five years ago I was still drinking milk at every meal and sipping on non-alcoholic sangria at block parties and weddings. Note, alcohol-free red wine blows. Alcohol-free alcohol blows. I drink neither milk nor non-alcoholic wine anymore.

Five years ago I went into labor at 8:00 PM, went to the hospital after downing some noodles and a burrito (yeah, I know, weird combination), barely missed getting an epidural since I was already dilated 8 cm, got comfy, joked with the nurse about not wanting to poop while pushing (I didn't for the record), freaked out, watched Mac Daddy share a chocolate bar with the nurse, stared in a trance at the monitors, pushed 3 times for a total of 20 minutes, and there was Bird, squealing and squinting in my arms.

As for me? A puddle. Emotion that I don't even have the words to express. My baby. My son. A first generation American. A family.

Bird and I are exactly alike, minus the 35 year age difference and gender discrepancy. He is the apple to my tree. We butt heads often because we are so much alike: stubborn, passionate, nitpicky, dramatic, emotional, and always think we're right. Mac Daddy and I like to say that Bird feels life passionately. His tantrums break the sound barrier while his laughter would make the palace guards bust a gut. Just like me. He puts hot sauce on everything and has a dentist's dream of a sweet tooth. Just like me. He loses himself in books and doesn't forget a thing. Just like me. He is meticulous, and perfection rules his world. Just like me. When he is older, I will explain to him that no one in the world understands him better than I do. I totally stole that from my friend Shan who says that to her son.

Bird is my first baby, my oldest, my guinea pig, my eyes to my childhood. He is inquisitive to a fault (consider this a warning Miss Ross!) and is a rather deep thinker.

Just yesterday Bird informed me that horseradish is named so because it's a radish with a strong flavor and since horses are strong, they called it horseradish. Well wallop me upside the head with a rolling pin and pop me under the broiler! Makes total sense, doesn't it? Find me a better explanation for the etymology of horseradish. I'm telling you, Bird put a lot of thought into that and likely had many a silent debate in his head before nailing down the goods. Smart boy, that Bird.

Oh, have I mentioned that he also drives me crazy? That's because he's me. I live with a mini me who enlightens me to my faults and I don't like that much self exploration. Mac Daddy gets particularly wired because he has to live with two little people with such big personalities. Cue violin music here.

So today's cocktail is for my Bird. My first baby who has started kindergarten. My baby who is one shoelace away from being self sufficient. My baby who still nuzzles into the warmth of my chest and caresses the inside of my arm. My Bird who gives extraordinarily wet kisses, a thousand at a time. My Bird, who giggles at eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses while begging for just one more. My Bird, whose time to fly the coop is thankfully years away.

Cheers to my Bird!

Baby Blue Martini

Pour one shot of each into a martini shaker loaded with ice:
Hendricks Gin (my personal fave!)
De Kuyper Blue Curaçao
pink grapefruit juice
pineapple juice

Pour into a chilled martini glass.

Garnish with a sliver of lemon peel.

Sit back, admire your parental accomplishments, squeeze your kids, and take a long, slow, deliberate sip. End with an audible "ah."

Kindergarten Tears and Triumphs

Cesar Chavez. Jim Henson. John Lennon. Jane Goodall. Albert Einstein. Pablo Picasso. Mahatma Gandhi.

Those are the faces peppering the halls as you enter my son's school. An international studies magnet school (public! free!) in our homogeneous neck of the woods is a dream. Five foreign languages taught starting in kindergarten. My Bird's gonna learn French! Curriculum designed to cover a global perspective. Again, a dream, considering my children say the words for grandma and grandpa in three different languages. We are the UN of families, and we are not alone as soon as we walk through the brick corridors of my son's school. My. Son's. School.

I have no reason to feel such trepidation. No reason to be anxious. No need to be so scared. So sad.

Millions of parents do it every fall. Most live to tell about it. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

I couldn't.

Let me get one thing out in the open. I cried. More than tears welling up in my eyes with a dumpling stuck in my throat but less than Niagara Falls. I'm saving up my boo-hooing for Tuesday, when school officially starts full time. Five. Days. A. Week. Oh, and when I have Mac Daddy at my side to mop me up. I treated today as a test drive. Denial. They say admitting it is the first step to recovery.

Bird, my Baby Bird, started kindergarten today. A milestone indeed. I suppose this is the stuff that makes people hate and doubt "mommy bloggers." I say fuck you. This stuff is important and has an impact on the human spirit, certainly a mom's spirit. Sending your child to spend more hours with someone else than you is a giant step. We spend so much time wishing away the time that we often forget to enjoy the ride. "I can't wait for him to talk. I can't wait for him to walk. He's making me nuts. When will school start?" Well folks, school has started, and I miss my Baby Bird already. Day One.

I have arranged my work schedule to eat three squares a day with my boys. I also take them to school and pick them up everyday. Now Bird is sitting in some cafeteria eating a ham sandwich and edamame out of his Batman lunch box with rowdy 5 year olds talkin' smack about Star Wars and Bumble Bee. Oh, and some little bully's gonna tease him about eating edamame and other stuff like snap peas and hummus. Bird told me that he met a bully today, in fact. I guess the kid headbutted Bird in the belly. When I asked Bird what the kid's name is, he responded, "I didn't ask, Mommy. I don't care what his name is because I don't want to be his friend." Then he asked me if I thought the bully would beat him up for not being his friend. Gawd, I can't handle the social pressure at the tender age of 5 (technically 4 til Friday!).

Yes, that's right. Bird will be 5 in two days, making him the youngest kid in kindergarten. Yet he makes the cut off. And you know what, he's totally ready. I know he's ready. I know Mac Daddy and I made the right decision to send him to kindergarten. No waffling here. The simple truth is, I'm not ready. As one feels intimate with one's mortality after a tragedy, I feel time slipping away more briskly than I thought possible. I never understood the whole time flies speech from seasoned parents when my guys were newborns. Now I've been initiated into the club. I get it. Every second is palpable. I hear the sands' of time grainy count down. My heart beats to the tick tocking of the clock. I get it. Time is the elusive beast.

My Bird, in the end, fared exceptionally well today. He took a good 10 minutes to let go of my leg and squeeze past the book shelves in the library to join the throng of kids. He refused to sit at a table with other kids, choosing an empty table instead (totally unlike his gregarious personality). Bird and Deal (who was also stressed, sensing it from us, no doubt), proceeded to color and draw rocket ships, aliens, and such. When it was time to get in line, Bird grasped my legs again. I silently willed him to break away lest I cry. My tears would have exacerbated an already tender situation. Alas, I realized I left my keys by the bookcase and had a legitimate excuse to step away. Those wily teachers took that opportunity to whisk him away. I took an extra long time to gather my keys (and umbrella that I would have forgotten on this soggy day) so I could do some quick yoga breathing and put on a happy face for Deal.

Deal and I spent the day as we usually do: gym, Starbucks, Target (2 1/2 hours!). In fact, at Starbucks, Deal insisted I buy an extra Horizon vanilla milk for Bird to enjoy when he gets home from school. That's my sensitive boy. I'll be too much of a wreck to blog when my baby goes to kindergarten. Now I know what my mom means by the "baby of the family" mess she blabbers on about when she refers to me. Even pushing 40, I'm still a baby.

My poor Bird spent 30 minutes of his first day of school with his head under a desk because we had tornado warnings in our county. Apparently the teachers and staff operated with aplomb. Teaching is tough enough without Mother Nature stumbling in the path. And let's face it, all the other mothers are probably more challenging to deal with.

When I picked up Bird from school, he greeted me with a gigantic grin and an ecstatic, "Mommy, my day was awesome!" At dinner his thank you for the day was that he got to go to kindergarten.

And so it goes. Once again my children are the ones teaching me a life lesson: Children are way more flexible and resilient than we give them credit for. Moms are another story. At least this mom is. I'm torn between tears of sorrow and tears of pride.

The Incredible Edible Egg

San Diego Momma has doled out the most eggsellent writing idea for today's PROMPTuesday. I have 10 minutes and 250 words to write about an....drumroll, please, egg. An egg. So what comes to mind? Fertility? Chickens? Omelets?

Here's what came to my mind:

At 20, they were plentiful. At 30, their legions were slimming. At 40, worthless. From enviable to inviable in 20 years.

And yet, the swimmers came. Somewhere between 32 and 42, there was a love connection. Puzzle pieces adjoined. Penetration yielded penetration. One egg is all it took. And from that egg was borne the son who starts kindergarten tomorrow.

Luke Russert would make his dad proud.

Mac Daddy and I should only hope that our sons turn out to be half as poised, gracious, bright, and warm as Luke Russert.

Some say you are not a real adult until you lose a parent. Luke was just a boy a few days ago; he has emerged a mature, gentle, affable young man. A lovely father-son relationship indeed.