Polliwalks Rock!

Bird was given a chance to try out some fabulous new shoes from the clever folks at Polliwalks. I'm talking sizzlin' cool shoes. Bird slid them on as soon he ripped open the package and practically hasn't taken them off since. This is the kid who takes off his shoes and lines them up in the mud room before the door behind him is even closed. He doesn't see the need for shoes at all, which makes me wonder who his real mother is. Bird feels like a million bucks in his Polliwalks. And boy, you oughta see a four-year old strut his stuff. He picked the Gator because of the menacing teeth, so I suppose that ups the coolness factor (and his testosterone level).

The cool thing about Polliwalks is how freakin' fun they are. There are four different animal styles to choose from, Gator, Ladybug, Frog, and Duck, with more in the works. The design is adorable, the colors tasty, and the price is so great that there's no way Mac Daddy can bitch about how much I spend on shoes (wait a sec, he only bitches about how much I spend on my shoes). The coolest thing on the Polliwalks is the tread. Each animal footprint leaves a different impression.

Stomp in puddles!
Sashay through the sand!
Squish in the mud!
Strut all over the wet cement in front of the neighbor's house!

Leaving a trail of where you've been has never been so fun. I, the neatnik OCD mom that I am, even let, no, ENCOURAGED, Bird to trail through the mud yesterday. Just so we could see the Gator prints. We were cracking up at the sheer novelty of it. The best thing is how easy is was to clean up the shoes. Some water, a spritz only, and they're good as new (well, granted they are new). Bird ran downstairs this morning and put on his Polliwalks rightaway and couldn't wait to show them off to the kids at school. I have a feeling we'll be the proud owners of a shoe menagerie this summer. You too can get them at http://polliwalks.com/.

Don't think for a minute that these are Mock Crocs. Banish the thought. Polliwalks are a whole different animal (pun fully intended). I succumbed to the Crocs last year but never found them to be anything more than a utility, easy on, easy off, easy to clean. Polliwalks are all those things and cute to boot. Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive in my world.

Kids shoes should promote a life of being footloose and fancy free. We'd all have a bit more whimsy in our world and spring in our instep if we sported Ladybugs on our tootsies too.

Needless to say, I hopped online and ordered Deal a pair of the Frog Polliwalks. He's gonna be one hoppy little boy.

Can you make change?

For the first time in something like 20 years, North Carolina will perhaps have a voice in this Democratic primary. I am a voice of one, but I AM LOUD.

Back in the Picture

I missed out on three days of my sons' lives.

Yes, I was here, in the same house, but totally out of the picture. Being balled up in fetal position with a fever and intermittent chills and sweating does not make for great fun-with-mommy time. Mac Daddy, along with our beloved nanny Miss Emma, held down the fort. Mac Daddy had to bear the brunt of it since he had to enterain the kids all weekend while tending to my needs: chicken noodle soup, tea with honey, water with a straw, Chapstick, Motrin, tissues, remote control, blanket, socks, more water, juice, bread ever so slightly toasted, apple sauce, tissues. Of course he tended to the kids' needs too: apple sauce, tissues, Spiderman bandaids, water with a straw, blanket, potty training, M&Ms, grilled cheese. You get the picture. Mac Daddy has been a short order cook, waiter, nurse, professional wrestler, housekeeper, and best-in-show entertainer. Somehow he managed to do it all while still keeping close tabs on the Rasmussen Reports.

The official results are in: I won the husband jackpot. Crackpot and Jackpot, we make the perfect pair.

While I was in bed for three straight days I missed out on a lot. I find that the magic is in the humdrum of our Sisyphus lives. I missed out on celebrating Deal's potty training successes and Bird's mastery of the letter B. I missed out on silly time together, nonsensical knock-knock jokes, and messy peanut butter and apple snacks. I missed out on meal time thank yous (Our dinner time tradition is to take turns saying something we're thankful for from the day. It makes for some heartwarming material.). I missed out on bath time when the boys' excrutiatingly long eyelashes are glistening with water droplets and their little bottoms and tummies are scrumptiously soft. The I-just-had-a-bubblicious-bath smell puts me over the top and makes me want to gnaw on Bird and Deal's ears. I missed out on goodnights, story books, and our ritual butterfly kisses.

Between my fits of sleep I heard the boys happy (and sometimes not so happy) noises downstairs. There was a chorus of "He hit me!" mixed with "NO! NO! NO!" peppering the pandemonium, along with some hearty laughter and giggling. All I could do was lie in bed and feel my family's presence but be totally disconnected from it all. It seemed as if I wasn't even there and I didn't even matter. Life went on without me. I've been told I have a flair for the dramatic, but work with me here. For three days I was not a caregiver to my children. I was nothing more than a feverish blob with mucus breath and a red swollen nose. Sure, Bird and Deal greeted me each day with a kiss to the forehead, but then I was out of the picture. It reminded me of the book I just read for my book club, "The Ghost a the Table."

In the book the mother is an invalid who lies in bed upstairs for pretty much the entirety of her girls' childhood. In reading the book I sympathized with the children and gave little thought to the mom. Now that I spent a few days bedridden myself, I totally sympathize with the mom. What torment she must have felt. What torture to hear her children's tears and laughter and not be available to hug away the sadness or partake in the joy. Her heart must have cracked a bit each day. Her sense of purpose was diminshed. She had no way to show her love. I feel her anguish now. It's palpable and still fresh.

Today is a gift.

We're enjoying spring temps in the middle of winter. Now if you'll excuse me, I have two delicious little boys to tickle and squeeze.

The FLU has befallen, and I can't get up.

My choice for the last four days has been to sleep or to breathe. I have chosen to breathe. Ah, to sleep perchance to dream... I am dreaming about getting out of bed. This germ infested, snot infused, cough suppressant stained platform of boredom. I promise to return soon. Cheers from the sickbed, which is a step up from the deathbed it was a day ago.

Out Sick

Mac Daddy filling in for my wife, she hopes to be back tomorrow.

Enjoy the Super Bowl!!!!

Mouthing Off

Obviously the best, and most important, part of parenting is seeing the values we try to imbue into our children come to life. To watch your children sharing, hugging, and truly loving on each other is one of life's greatest gifts. To see empathy creep into your child's emotional vernacular is inspiring. Daily I am in awe of what kids pick up from us. Just when I think our children are headed to a military academy for total and utter defiance, they surprise me. Like today, both Bird and Deal exhibited such textbook perfect manners at the craft store that a worker and two people in line behind us commented on their charm. I looked around at first because I thought, "Surely, these people are not talkin' to me." Like I said, something clicked for those kids today. I know better than to expect the same thing tomorrow. Those prechool buggers like to keep us guessing.

If I didn't hate those country decor wooden signs so much I would have them peppered throughout my house with words like "Believe," "Inspire," and "Imagine" hand painted on spliter-laden rectangles of wood. Instead we at Chez Dirt & Noise try to live those values instead of just wax poetic about Bono and Angelina Jolie. Blah. Blah. Blah. My friend Scott recently shared a true story of belief, inspiration, and imagination. I'd add a big heaping dose of perserverance, optimism, gratitude, and love to the story too. Scott shared Jared Dunten's story.

Jared is an accomplished painter. He has a Matisse-esque quality to his work. Jared paints in color, black and white, and everything in between. He paints still lifes, portraits, and abstracts. His paintings have a dreamy, whimiscal quality that forces the viewer to imagine and dream. I'm no artist or collector, just someone who appreciates art. I like to surround myself with things that are aesthically pleasing and conjure up something emotional. I don't go shopping for art. It finds me. It speaks to me, cliche as that is. I like for each piece to have a history or an anecdote behind it. Art with a story is unparalleled. Back to Jared's story... The painter of such flowing, interesting lines and exquisite use of color is paralyzed. Jared paints solely with brush in mouth.

When Jared was 25-years old he dove into the Rio Grande for a quick scrub while on a camping trip. By freak accident, he hit a rock and broke his neck. Jared's friend administered CPR and kept him afloat until help arrived...two hours later. Jared woke up to find himself paralyzed from the neck down. Not to be beaten down or discouraged, Jared demonstrated the ultimate perserverance. He broke free of the ventilator when no one said he would again breathe on his own. He battled pnemonia in his frail state and won. He spoke when the doctors prepared his parents to never hear their son's voice again. He married his one true love. And with the encouragement of his parents, he took brush to mouth and painted. And painted. And painted.

Check out his portfolio and his story at http://jdunten.com/. Jared's work will be gracing the wall of Chez Dirt & Noise very soon. I'm thrilled to own some art with a story and to have a real life tale of courage and victory to tell my sons.

Anatomy 101

I have boys. Boys have penises. Boys love their penises. For that matter, men love their penises too.

I recall a time in seventh grade math class (It was dummy math since I am the only Indian in the world who is bad at math and science.) when this kid J.T. was called to the blackboard to solve an equation. The teacher kept calling J.T.'s name, but J.T. just sat and sat and sat with a startled stare in his eyes that made me think he had made it all the way through sixth grade without knowing English. This would explain why J.T. was never in my other classes, which were at a much higher level than the math I was demeaned to take because the understanding-of-the-basic-concept-of-empirical-value gene skipped me in a rare genetic mutation. After a few very uncomfortable moments, J.T. arose. In light of something else that arose, said moment was exponentially more uncomfortable. J.T. scrambled to untuck his kelly green Polo shirt (upturned collar, of course, it was 1981) from his baggy Duck Head khakis. He hobbled up to the board and proceeded to fumble his way through the problem. I can still vividly remember seeing him try to steady the chalk in his quivering hand, face abashedly crimson.

At the time, I had no idea why the room was suddenly filled with a din of snickering. My parents neglected to explain any birds and bees details to me so I had no concept of boys' bodies, or of my own for that matter. After class, my dear friend Cat explained the gory details to me. Her mom worked for an Ob/Gyn so she had the benefit of candor and honesty in place of the shame and the if-you-don't-talk-about-it-it-isn't-real mentality I faced at home. Come to think of it, I learned an awful lot from Cat.

So now when my boys inquire about their penises, I think of J.T. and how clueless I was. I'm trying to equip them with as much information and honesty as their 4 and 2-year old minds can handle. For starters, we call "it" a penis. Not a willy. Not a wee wee. Not a johnson. We call an arm an arm so why should private body parts be any different? When Bird first learned that girls don't have penises, he would randomly go up to girls at the playground and inform them that, "You don't have a penis because you are not a boy." To him it was no different than saying "Today we had waffles for breakfast." Just a fact with no baggage or editorial attached to it.

Now the questions are becoming a bit more challenging. For instance:

"Is a girl's penis thing just behind all the hair?"

"Why is my penis up sometimes? Why won't it go down?"

"Why can't I play with my penis on the couch?"

"What do girls pee out of?"

My answers:

"No, girls don't have penises."

"Because sometimes it feels good and happy. If you let go of it, it will eventually go back down."

"Because that's private. And it's rude to have your hand down your pants. Now go wash your hands."

"A vagina."

Then I change the subject or leave the room. Perhaps I'm not ready to be as thorough as Cat's mom was. But it's an improvement. And for the record, Mac Daddy never gets these questions. He is far better equipped to answer them, no?


This post is dedicated to my niece, Nic, who has a 3-year old boy who loves his penis.