Jesus

Captain Daddy and I almost didn’t get married based on vastly differing spiritual beliefs. All of that now seems like the sort of completely irrelevant nonsense that young people fixate on when making monumental decisions like who to spend the rest of their lives with, unaware that it’s actually anxiety, boredom and the laundry that will do you in, not God.

Religion rarely comes up around here. But it does have its moments, and it’s true that the Chickens get vastly different results depending on who they hit up for information on the subject.

Friday, Chicken Noodle approaches:

“What are we doing for Easter, Mom?”

Captain Daddy was nowhere in sight. This one was mine.

“Going to Grammy and Grandpa’s for an Easter egg hunt.”

Her face crumpled. “But we have to go to church!”

Curious. Where on Earth could she have gotten this radical idea? I doubted it was Captain Daddy. He doesn’t actually go to church anymore, just occasionally frets that he’s failing as a parent and going straight to hell because he doesn’t.

I looked at her inquisitively.

“Maddy said!” Ah. Maddie. In her Kindergarten class. Whose father is a minister.

“Hmm.” I considered. “Well, it’s true that Easter is actually a religious holiday. It’s about Jesus.”

“Who’s Jesus?”

I told you religion doesn’t come up much around here.

Knowing that if Captain Daddy were here, this conversation would now veer confusingly into talk of the flesh of God, and perhaps, gruesome-yet-apparently-necessary description of the crucifixion, instead I delivered up the child-appropriate version of what I actually believe about Jesus.

“He’s a famous and really wonderful man from history.”

Noodle contemplated this.

“So we’re not going to church?”

“Well, sort of. We’re going to the church of Grammy, Grandpa, chocolate and love. It’s quite nice, really.”

Things I Learned This Week

Listening to Lady Gaga with the kids is super fun until you drop the little one off at preschool one day and she belts out to her teacher: “Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick. I want to take a ride on your disco stick.”

If you are feeling beaten down by grown-up life, a super upbeat movie about the rise of an underdog teen pop star is just the ticket. Especially if you get to drink two grown-up glasses of wine beforehand. (I LOVE YOU JUSTIN BIEBER!!! EEEEeeeeeee!!!!!!!)

Taking small, temporary mental vacations throughout the parenting day is fine, but becoming so spaced out that you hit your child in the head with the car door will only escalate your problems.

March and Spring don’t necessarily have anything to do with one another.

If your child poops on the booth seat in a restaurant, you will feel obliged to leave an extra-large tip.

While juvenile, it is actually quite satisfying to correctly guess the answer to the trivia question printed on the cheese stick.* (Take what you can get—it’s the simple pleasures, you know?)

*Q: What city is the largest in the world by area? A: Greater Los Angeles

Raise Your Hand if You're a Deviant

Remember when you thought your parents had done the dirty deed twice—once to make you and once to make your sister?

And then at some point the illusion shatters. Too bad it’s usually far before the whole concept can be, ahem, appreciated.

A friend shared this story with me last week and I have been laughing ever since.

She and her nine-year-old son were driving in her car. They passed a billboard promoting safe sex. “Mom, what’s that about?” he asked.

“It’s about birth control,” she replied, being an open and honest sort of parent. “I’ve told you about it before. It’s what you use when you are having sex so that you don’t get pregnant.”

“I know,” he replied. “Which means you are doing it just for the fun of it, which is weird.”

She said she thought she'd remind him of this story on his 21st birthday. I say--wedding toast.

What Happens When You Go To Sleep With A Fistful Of Silly Putty

In case anyone was wondering.

Quote of the Day

Chicken Noodle (Distraught, after a lengthy time out for kicking her sister in the head):

"Mom, I know I need to listen to my heart, but my heart said beat Maris up."

Literacy Begins At Home

When you know your word-nerdly ways have been successfully passed on to the next generation:

Chicken Little, aged 3:

“Mom, I tooted twice. Hey, an alliteration! Tooted twice! (giggle)”

How to Completely Freak Out the Trader Joe's Checker

Checker: You girls are so cute!

Chicken Noodle and Chicken Little (preening): Thanks!

Checker: Do you have any other brothers or sisters?

CN: We had a brother.

CL: But he died.

CN: Yeah, he’s dead.

CL: Really, really dead.

CN: Super dead.

Checker: Oh. (begins to shove grocery items very quickly into bags, avoiding eye contact)

Trick or Treat

When I was young, Halloween was my very favorite holiday. No big surprise for a kid who was always yearning to be anyone but herself. Even if it was a fantasy, this was my one chance a year to be wilder, freer, happier, better.

The last few weeks have been pretty darned real, as was this Halloween night. No rock and roll fantasies this year. I felt exactly like myself.

This meant I wandered around after two gorgeous princesses, drinking a beer straight from the bottle in the middle of street with no shame whatsoever, wearing a fresh pair of Rod Lavers, an oversized witch hat and some cherry chapstick.

With me were some of my very favorite people in the whole world and a pig on a leash. Iron Man was there, too, masked and ready to protect us all. He ran with the frilly girls from house to house and only once asked the Spanish Dancer if maybe she would touch the giant spider first.

There was camaraderie and laughter and love. For at least one brief moment late in the dark and starry evening, the whole world sat centered in the palm of perfection.

Right about then, The Pumpkin Princess climbed on my back, tucked her cheek into the nape of my neck and said, “I love you, Mommy.”

Why would I want to be anyone else?

Let Me Entertain You

Chicken Little, three-going-on-four, has learned a new word. She’s been working hard to insert it in as many sentences as possible.

I need to go to bed right now, dammit.

Where is my ducky blanket, dammit?

Dammit, I hate oatmeal.

Dammit, I want to catch a butterfly!

Meanwhile, Chicken Noodle, five-going-on-six, is writing her own songs. She coins lyrics and a tune in her head before requiring us, her family and built-in fan-base, to sit raptly while she sings. She uses a red rake as a guitar. Occasionally, like so many rock stars, she performs half-naked.

Her lyrics, like her, are dark. Except for when they are inspiring.

We love the sun/the sun/the sun/but not the ocean/because sometimes you bonk your head/and get ate-en by a shark.

Wouldn’t it be great/if we had a cat cat cat/who didn’t bite us/and make us bleed bleed bleed/when we picked him up?

And we know in our hearts we are helpful and kind/sometimes we just make mistakes!

We can find the secrets in our minds/we can find the secrets in the stars/we can do it/we can!

I don’t know why anyone thinks they need amusement parks, or Wii, or heroin. Children are the world’s best entertainment.

What Did You Do Today, Mom?

After school, one day this week:

Chicken Noodle: Mom, you be me and I’ll be you.

Me: Okay.

Chicken Noodle: What did you do today, sweetie?

Me: I went to Kindergarten. It was so cool! I love it I love it I love it!

CN: Oh, that’s nice, honey.

Me: What did you do today, Mom?

CN: I wrote a book.

Me: Oh yeah? What’s it about?

CN: Courage and love.

Me: Wow. I really want to read that one.

CN: You have to learn to read first, honey.

Me: Oh.

Blooming Eventually on Bend Moms For Moms!

This very blog is now feeding onto Bend Moms For Moms, a cool new site for those of you lucky enough to be mothering in Bend. Check it out!

Baby Takes Flight

Actual dialogue between my husband and myself, two weeks ago:

Me (troubled): You know what I think it is? I think I am anxious about Kindergarten.

Capt. Daddy: You are going to do fine in Kindergarten, honey.

If anyone needs me this morning, I’ll be that middle-aged blonde dripping tears in the parking lot of M. Elementary. I swear just yesterday Noodle was a little package of love with a dimple in her nose who screamed like a pterodactyl when she was angry and got me up eight times a night to breastfeed.

Mama’s so proud. Her little pterodactyl’s going off to public school. Still got that dimple in her nose, though. Sniff…

Snip

A year ago yesterday, the chickens did this to their heads.

Yesterday, I discovered this.

Coincidence? I think not.


From now on, Sept. 1 shall be National Scissors-In-The-Closet Day.

Last Week's Pop Quiz

(answers below)

1. If you take the waffle iron out of the cupboard on a Saturday morning, open it up and discover an old petrified waffle inside, is it misguided to immediately turn an accusatory eye to the only man who lives in the house?

2. Should an (almost) 40-year-old woman really be expected to fit sheets on the top bunk? (“Mom, I can’t believe you came up here and didn’t break it!”)

3. If you’re at the public pool and one of your children tries to drown the other one, isn’t that really the lifeguard’s problem?

4. If you open your purse and find a half-sucked, half-melted lollipop embedded in its interior, would it be wrong to just throw the whole thing in the trash and buy a new one?

5. If you’re looking for a little stress release after a hell of a week, is happy hour with a three-year-old and a five-year-old the answer?


Answers:
1. He’ll just deny it
2. Darn kids should clean their own rooms, already
3. The mother is always responsible. Haven’t you figured that out yet?
4. Take the money out first
5. Hell no

Happy New You Part IV

Long overdue for an update to my blog profile. I've been confusing people with the whole book burning thing.

So here's me, modestly refreshed:

Me: mother, wife and writer watching 40 climb the front steps like a peddler pushing time and me with nowhere to hide. The writer part used to come first, the 40 used to be a 30, and marriage and motherhood were abstract activities I thought I’d try someday. Ah, growing up. If only it was the thrill promised when we were six.

I started this blog to chronicle my quest to publish a book. I’ve published all sorts of other things—articles, essays, even poetry. I wrote a first book. Then I set it on fire. I am now neck-deep in edits on a second book, and have a publisher interested. But as my mother says, “It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings.”

So the question remains—will I bloom, eventually? Or will I ditch the whole writing thing, adopt a xanax habit, abandon my own identity and live the rest of my life vicariously through my children? Hmm, let’s find out.

I Need You Like a Donut Needs a Hole

Barry Louis Polisar emailed me yesterday. He saw my post here yesterday and sent me a message to tell me he’s glad he cracks me up.

It was like my childhood hero turned up on my front porch.

I stared at his name in my in-box while my brain did spastic flip-flops between 1978, when I listened to Barry constantly on a small black cassette player in my tiny yellow bedroom, and now, when I play Naughty Songs For Boys and Girls on the Ipod in my kitchen for my girls while I make breakfast.

But Barry turns out to be a real person living in Maryland who actually takes the time to email me because I posted the lyrics to his song?

Hot damn.

I was grinning like a fool.

I ran outside to tell my husband, who was raised Catholic in the 60s in a small rural town by a mother and father who were well into adulthood when he was born. He grew up watching Lawrence Welk and listening to big band and had never heard of Barry until we had kids. But even he thought this was extremely cool.

I emailed Barry back and said, “Is that really you?”

Those of you who had a deprived childhood may not know Barry’s songs and stories. But there’s a good chance you heard him sing "All I Want is You" in the opening credits of the hit film Juno. You know, when she's walking around with a big jug of Sunny D? That song was actually recorded on his second album in 1977.

Polisar has been making smart, witty, deep, funny, silly music for kids for over three decades. Kids like me, who grew up listening to "Never Cook Your Sister in a Frying Pan" and "My Brother Threw Up on My Stuffed Toy Bunny.”

And only ended up only the most deliciously sort of warped because of it.

After he was censored, Barry started putting stickers on his albums that read “Warning: the songs on this recording may be offensive to some people. Children are advised to use discretion in exposing adults to this material. Exposure may result in a sense of humor.”

My pal Barry wants everyone to know that some of the rebellious children he used to entertain recently banded together and released a 2-CD, 60-song tribute album of his songs called We're Not Kidding! A Tribute to Barry Louis Polisar. Hear free samples at http://www.barrylou.com/.

Barry Louis Polisar emailed me! Made my whole stinkin’ day.

Tempting

My mother ran away today
She walked right out the door,
Packed her tooth brush and pajamas
Said, "I can't take any more."

She said that she was tired,
She said she had her fill
Of cooking our meals, washing our clothes
And cleaning up all our spills.

She said she'd write us letters
With no return address,
She said she'd come back someday
But now she has to rest.

She took the plants, she took the cats,
Took our pictures from the wall,
And though it's just been two hours ago,
I wish that she would call.

I never thought I'd miss her,
Isn't that the way?
You don’t know how much Mom means to you,
Until she runs away.

Barry Louis Polisar. He cracked me up in 1975. He cracks me up now. Anyone remember the Man and the Chicken? I'll post it next...

A New Essay of Mine in True North Magazine

This quarter's True North Magazine features an essay of mine: Roots and Flowers: Loss, Grief, and Growth

5 a.m. Returns

Chicken Little typically appears at my bedside between 5 and 5:30 a.m. “Mommy!” she says exuberantly, as if she herself has already had several cups of coffee and can’t understand my languor. “Is it wake-up time?”

I always have a hard time answering this question. Primarily, because I am in a coma.

But also because no, of course it isn’t wake-up time, it’s clearly and obviously still sleeping and dreaming-of-a-Hawaiian-beach time.

But on the other hand, yes, simply the arrival of this small person grinning and shaking her mop of crumpled white-blonde hair and boinging up and down like a cross between Jack Nicholson in The Shining and Tigger means that, by definition, it’s wake-up time.

Usually I just grunt and haul her into bed next to me with hopes that she’ll go back to sleep, or at least allow me to lay there like a drunken sailor for five more minutes.

This morning she curled up under my arm. “We picked our mommy and daddy at the store,” she announced matter-of-factly. “We said: not that one, not that one, not that one. Yes, you. And, you.” She punctuated these last two statements with tiny jabs at my arm.

“Ummm,” I murmured. “We are so lucky.”

“And you and daddy picked us at the store. You said: not that one, not that one, not that one. Oh yes, THAT one.”

“Mmmm.” I was starting to come to. “Boo boo,” which is what we’ve called her since she was little-bitty, “why did you pick me?”

She put her cheek to my chest. “Because you have the softest, warmest skin in the whole world.”

Super Moms, Unite!

Happy Mother's Day to all you super mamas! This card came from my own superhero mother. She's awesome.

Since Captain Daddy is working today, I'll be performing all stunts myself. Now--faster than two small children high on maple syrup! More powerful than a mile-high pile of useless plastic toys! Able to tranform a disaster area into a functioning kitchen!

Wait...is that a cup of coffee I see? And the newspaper?

Hmm...come to think of it, no one but me will see the kitchen until Tuesday...