Cupcake Dreams, Redux

In honor of this child's 9th birthday, I am reposting this gem, which, I must confess, I never tire of listening to.  Don't think I ever will.

* * *  

I want to be a kid again.  I want to tell stories the way my youngest daughter does.  I want to dream about cupcakes.  And I really, really want a Dream Teller of my very own.

During dinner last night, Little T was devouring my homemade spaghetti sauce and making me feel like Martha Stewart, Julia Child, and Ree Drummond, all rolled into one, and she mentioned that she knew she was going to have a good dinner tonight because her Dream Teller told her so.

Come again, daughter?

Your what?

That's right.  She has a Dream Teller.  Every morning, after a night of dreaming about cupcakes and unicorns and whatever other lovelies visit her while she is sleeping, her Dream Teller tells her what her dreams mean.  Here's last night's:

Actually, I don't want to be a kid again: I want to be THIS KID.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 44

I don't care if Monday's blue • Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too • Thursday I don't care about you • It's Friday, I'm in love.

And it's Friday, I'm writing Quick Takes.

~1~

Time to say goodbye to our 2011 Birthday Season!  Every Fall, we have 4 kid birthdays in 6 week.  The last one was a few weeks ago, but the party is officially tonight.  I am hosting four little girl guests for a sleepover.  There will be pizza.  There will be face painting.  There will be movie watching.  There will be cake.

There will be a tired mommy at the end.

Hopefully, there will be a happy 7 year old at the end, too.

And thus endeth the AIRY5 2011 birthdays.  If I start planning now, maybe the 2012 birthday season will go a bit more smoothly.

~2~

And this great advice letter made the rounds on Facebook this week; I've seen it before (it's been around since 2007), maybe you have too, but certainly, it's worth another read or two or ten.

Thankfully, I have no friends who have ever expressed the ignorance of the letter writer, who basically admits that she doesn't understand what a stay at home mother does all day or why a stay at home mother has less time for other people.  I've never heard someone be so blunt and clueless about the subject before.  So it's not really the in-your-face, take-that quality of Carolyn Hax's response that I enjoy, although that is pretty delightful.  Rather, it's the reminder to me of what I do all day long.  It's easy to forget what we moms are doing here, raising kids and such.  Stay at home dads (HM) too.  Anyway, everyone should read this, especially if you are in the trenches, wiping butts and noses, cleaning messes, doing laundry, negotiating toddler peace deals, and wondering where you put your sense of humor.

~3~

Obligatory halloween costume photos.

Jessie

Andy Samberg, Random Clown, Judy Jetson

Pajama Girl

~4~

I ♥ Stephen Colbert.  And Michael Pollan.  And food.  So this video clip?  Is golden.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Michael Pollan
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog Video Archive

~5~

If you live in the Bay Area, and you like nurseries and finding lovely native plants to stick in your garden, there is a little out of the way nursery you really must visit.  Native Here Nursery, which is part of the California Native Plant Society, is a fantastic small nursery located in Tilden Park.  Going to visit is like stepping into another world.  It's quiet and woodsy.  The plants are healthy and inviting.  You'll feel like you stumbled upon a well-kept secret.  And you can combine the trip with a hike in Tilden Park and a visit to the Botanic Gardens.  

You really must go.  

~6~

My kitchen, this morning.  Kid X turned around and shouted at Kid Y, for no reason:  "YOU'RE DUMB!"

Five minutes later, Kid Y walks into the living room and whacks Kid X, who responds with incredulity.  

Mom: "Well, if you shout at someone and tell them they are dumb, you should expect them to be unhappy with you.  It's not surprising she would lash out at you."

Kid X: "Oh come on.  That was five whole minutes ago.  And she already hit me for that!"

Oh, well, in that case, it makes no sense whatsoever.  

Sigh.  Kid logic makes me crazy.

~7~

And one more little Halloween gem for your enjoyment.  This Shouts and Murmurs column appeared in the Oct. 24th 2011 New Yorker magazine.   I think you will enjoy it.

* * *

Please go visit Conversion Diary, the host of 7 Quick Takes, visit the links of 7 Quick Takers playing along, and through out some comments.

* * * 

Death and Life

My son asked me the other day how long it takes to get over the death of someone you love.  There is an inherent hope in that question, that getting over loss is possible, that everything will be OK at some point in the future.  I didn't want to answer him, because...well...who wants to tell a child that there are things you never get over?  But I answered.  I told him that you never get over a death, that you always miss a person whom you love, and no one and nothing ever can take his (or her) place in your life.  It's also possible, I told him, to go on and live a wonderful, full, exciting and happy life, to meet other people that you end up loving very much, to be joyful and to enjoy your life to the fullest.  But you don't get over death.  You don't ever go back to the way you were before a person you love dies.

My other son asked me questions today about 9/11.  He asked how it was possible for a small plane to bring down a building as big as the World Trade Center.  He had it in his head that the terrorists who flew into buildings that day were in small two or three seater planes, and had just taken off from wherever and flown to their targets.  I watched his face as I explained that no, actually, the planes were as big as the one he flew on to his cousin's wedding, that the terrorists were not the only people on board, that there were passengers on those planes as well.

Then he asked me about the field in Pennsylvania: why did the terrorists want to crash into a field?  Again, I watched his face as I explained that they actually wanted to hit another building, perhaps the U. S. Congress, and that some of the passengers fought back and caused the plane to crash into a field, and that by doing that, they saved the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who would have been killed had the plane reached its target.

I cannot describe the look on his face when I explained those things to him.  Horror, disbelief, rejection... Rejection comes close.  He didn't want to know this about the world, I could tell.  He thought he knew the story of 9/11 -- I thought he did too.  But the details, as one learns them and lets them sink in, are freshly tortuous each time, for each person.  I watched those details torture him today.

I turned my face away from him, because I teared up telling him these things.  I felt like the hijackers were making me hurt my son by showing him that these things are possible, that people can really do unspeakable things, and that people are faced with impossible choices.  He couldn't respond to me in words.  He had no more questions.  He just sat there, looking stricken and sick, and we drove on to the field where he would be playing in a soccer game in another hour.

* * *

9/11 gave us devastation, pain, suffering.

9/11 gave us the knowledge that people can do evil.

9/11 gave us dust covered faces and falling bodies.

9/11 gave us goodbye voicemails.

9/11 gave us a scorched Pennsylvania field.

9/11 gave us widows and orphans, and 3000 unfillable holes.

9/11 gave us sorrow.

9/11 gave me, gave Rick and I, something else, too.  9/11, five years later, gave us the deepest, fiercest kind of love, the strongest and best thing two people can produce together, 9/11 gave us Little T, in all her defiant and radiant glory.

She turns 5 as the country marks 10.  She'll wake up tomorrow overjoyed that this is her day, that she was born, that she is to be celebrated, even as the country wakes up to remember, soberly, lives that were lost to dust and steel 10 years ago.  She sees tomorrow as the greatest day ever in the history of the universe and in the history of every person ever born...because this is a kid who loves life like few people ever will.

When she said good night to me tonight, she asked about her Fruit Loops, since we let the kids eat sugary cereal on their birthdays.  I told her I still needed to go to the store and buy them, and she asked if I would be going tonight, or tomorrow morning very early.  When I told her I wasn't sure yet, she said, in that crazy cartoon voice of hers: 

"Well, if you leave tonight, and you think I'm asleep, and you leave without giving me a hug or a kiss?  Well, you can still hug and kiss me, even if I'm asleep, because I really don't ever want you to leave without giving me a hug and a kiss.  And sometimes, when I wake up and your car is gone, I think you should have given me a hug and kiss before you left."

And then she hugged me, with her strong and spindly arms and legs, and I felt her small frame pressed against mine, and I felt her smooth cheek, and I thought to myself there is nothing as purely good and right as the hug of a little kid.

She is --  all of my children are -- my hope that love will triumph over the evil done on 9/11 and the pain and suffering that reverberate out from that day.  She reverberates too: a resounding and repeating song of grabbing life with both hands, jumping in with abandon, and hanging on for the laughter filled ride.  

9/11/01 and 9/11/06 have given me the very same thing, namely this lesson:  hug and kiss the people you love, each and every time you leave them.  

* * *

Flip This

Flip-flop birthday cake for an end-of-summer birthday party sleepover:

K, so I've got 9 little girls (11 if you count the little sisters, which you really have to do) draped all over my living room, watching The Parent Trap, the first one. These are the cutest, funniest, most polite, quirkiest, kindest girls ever.

My daughter is one lucky, blessed little girl. And her mother is one weary lady.

One down, four to go. Eight weeks from now, I will have pulled off birthday celebrations for all five kids. Just in time to gear up for the holidays.

* * *

The Abandoned Road

I drove past an abandoned road the other day.

It was an old farming road, not paved, and it bent away from the main highway and into marshy hay fields that bent and swished in the breeze. An old and unconvincing fence stood across the entrance to the road, keeping out people, but not time. The marsh lands had begun to take the road back, grasses and weeds encroached its edges, rising up along its center and asserting their quiet, persistent strength against human enterprise. About 75 yards down the road, off to the left, stood an empty threshing house, only its frame still standing. The concrete floor was swept clean by the breeze, as if at any moment it could be used once more to catch, cut, and cube bales of hay for a prosperous farm. But it too was abandoned, no longer an active or thriving place.

I had a few moments to gaze at this essentially empty scene, sitting as I was in an unmoving line of bumper to bumper traffic, impatiently waiting to thread through a two lane highway and into the business of the coming day. Cars stretched out endlessly in front of me and behind me, and I sat there frustrated by this inconvenience which had interrupted my progress, my productivity, my efficiency.

But with the interruption came the gift of this little abandoned road. As I looked at it, I imagined a time when it was heavily traveled by trucks and tractors and men whose livelihood depended upon the threshing that happened at its end. I imagined the farmer, employing the men and working beside them, all of them striving together to accomplish a task, to bring in the hay, and send it back out in a useful form. They must have worked very hard, sweating daily at a dirty and tedious task, but there no longer existed any trace of their efforts or struggles.

My fellow travelers on the highway were, like me, scurrying to work, to errands, to things that must be done. Some of us, no doubt, were bound for important destinations, such as hospitals to care for the ill or schools to teach the young or markets to deliver needed goods. Some were probably going shopping, or headed out to the beach, or on their way to the dentist. But all of the sudden, none of those destinations mattered. Because once upon a time, the threshing house at the end of this road mattered, too. Once upon a time, it represented a family's sustenance; now, it stands empty, abandoned, unimportant. Once, it was the center of a worker's day, the sum total of his productivity and purpose; now, it is useless and ignored.

But somewhere, there is a child whose father, or grandfather, or great-grandfather, drove down this road every single day, in order to bring back food to his family's table and keep them healthy. Somewhere, a child lives and breathes because of another person who traveled this road and worked in this threshing house each and every day. Behind the work and the struggle: a beating heart, a grasping hand, a dripping nose, a lilting voice. Because of the work and the struggle: generations roll forward, people meet, children grow. This is what lasts, what does not become abandoned or forgotten. This is what transcends utility and productivity.

Someday, all our efforts and struggles and projects and goals will be taken over by marshy wetlands and quiet, persistent weeds. Someday, none of what masquerades as important today will matter. But there are other things, things that do not tremor with utility or economy or productivity, things that seem lesser because they simply exist and don't do anything at all.

And as my car finally toiled away from the abandoned road, I saw with clarity that the business of the coming day was in many ways only a distraction, not to be confused with what really matters. So I will tend to those lesser things, the things that do not produce, that are not useful, and that will not pass away. I will tend to you, my love, and to the small sweaty hands that come from our tending of each other, and to the hearts that beat because ours beat together.

Happy Birthday, my own true love. I love you with all my heart, all my soul, all my strength, and all my breath.

* * *

This reflection was written 11 years ago, originally as an Anniversary Essay; converted to a Birthday Essay this year, and shared with my readers.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 15

Visit the Hostess of 7 Quick Takes Friday.

Learn a thing a two about killing scorpions.

~ 1 ~

Four birthdays in six weeks ended this past Wednesday. But two of the parties are still pending, so we can't quite say we are finished yet. I'll be finished just in time to raise my head wearily from a pillow and realize it's time to start shopping for Christmas presents.

As my babies get older, I find myself staring at little newborns and getting all misty-eyed and wistful. Babies are pure possibility, pure potential, pure opportunity to be the best we can be. Toddlers...school kids...pre-teens...well, they also represent potential and hope and possibility, but mine also provide all those moments when I am less than who I want to be, the moments I yell too much, or lack consistency, or make the wrong decision.

It gets so much more complicated as they get older. Children growing up is a true test of one's belief in second chances and never giving up. It's never too late to be the mom I want to be. It's never to late to be the parent you want to be.

~ 2 ~

Speaking of being the kind of mother I want to be, it has come to my attention lately that I (a) am a pushover and (b) do far too many things for my kids and for my household that my kids can and should be doing. This was actually a New Year's resolution of mine, to stop doing so much and start teaching them "how to fish," so to speak. I have come some distance towards this goal, but I still have a very, very long way to go.

So. My main question today is, how do I go the rest of the way? I'm not looking for answers that include chore charts and consequences and systems. I'm looking for a way to crack the whip around here with compassion, firmness, and detachment. Compassion, because we are all learning a new way to be and we all need help doing so. Firmness, because I'm given to caving -- or at least waffling -- when the kids resist. Detachment, because I am also given to despair when things don't go the way I want them to.

My kids do not help out around the house willingly. They mount massive fronts of resistance. They whine and complain. How do I combat those forces?

~ 3 ~

Halloween is looming. This year, we've got a monkey, Violet from The Incredibles, a mad scientist, a bloody version of Edvard Munch's Scream, and an "old-time, classic" gangster. My task will be to keep my mouth shut and help them realize their Halloween visions. Although I prefer a little creativity when it comes to costumes, I might end up stealing my 10 year old's costume, since this entire time of year makes me feel like this anyway:

~ 4 ~

Three of my children are participating in a fantastic outdoor education class called Trackers. So far, they have learned how to build fire without matches, hiked all over Tilden Park, made plaster molds of wild animals' paw prints, learned how to remove bitter tannins from acorns in order to make them edible, discovered "quick mud," and caught fish with their bare hands. Oh yeah, and the boys stepped on a wasps' nest. I don't think that last thing was technically part of the curriculum. They each came home with a nice collection of wasp stings (4 for one and 16 for the other) as souvenirs.

Viva la homeschooling!

~ 5 ~

Recommended reading: Zeitoun, by Dave Eggers. I had not heard of this book before my husband brought it home to me earlier this week. He knew how much I loved What is the What, also by Eggers. Zeitoun is an amazing book, all about one family's experience of Hurricane Katrina. As the back side of the books says: "The true story of one family, caught between America's two biggest policy disasters: the war on terror and the response to Hurricane Katrina."

Eggers is a wonderful writer and story teller. I devoured the book in about two or three days. This is one of those stories that should be more widely known, a cautionary tale we should keep in mind. I knew about the terrible things that happened in New Orleans because of the hurricane, but I had no idea how the war on terror intersected with that disaster. I'm saddened by what representatives of this free country did to our own citizens. All I can say is the book was an education. Please read it.

I'm reading The Corrections next. Another upper...but at least this one will be fiction.

~ 6 ~

Do you ever feel like it's impossible to keep up with the interesting and important things and people in the world? This past week, I wanted to watch miners get rescued, read about the bullying issues rocking the nation, learn more about the winners of the Nobel prizes this year, listen to enough NPR to win Wait Wait Don't Tell Me (albeit from my kitchen), read more of this week's New Yorker than the cartoons, catch up on blogs I follow, and figure out how I'm voting in the upcoming election.

What did I actually do? Battled the on-going ant invasion, made an imperceptible dent in the laundry pile, lamented the state of my home and fed people mediocre meals. And drove people places.

There is a quite large gap between how I would like to spend my time and how I actually do. That makes for some interesting dissonance right there.

~ 7 ~

I've been thinking about poems lately, because I'd love to incorporate poetry memorization and recitation into my homeschooling. The one minor obstacle to overcome is the fact that, when invited to read and memorize poetry, my children roll their eyes so far into their eye sockets that they can read their own minds. So I guess I'll put that idea on hold for now. Instead, I will share a short and wonderful Robert Frost poem I memorized and grew to love in high school.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

As Summer slides into Autumn in melted wax-colored light (it happens late here in California), this poem keeps rising up in my mind. I am thankful that even though nothing gold can stay, nature's first green will keep coming back, outside my window and here within my own four, sticky-with-little-handprints walls.

Here's to second chances and never giving up.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 13, the 12th Birthday Edition

~ 1 ~

We gave our son a cell phone for his 12th birthday today. He was thrilled, of course. When we were running an errand today, and I ran into a shop with him in the car, I got a text message from him: "Can we go home now?" So we may have some things to learn about responsible use of a phone. But shortly after getting this Holy Grail of tween life, he told me the following:

Mom, now I know that having a phone doesn't make me a better person or really feel better or different. I thought it would because my friends were giving me such a hard time about not having one. But now I know.

Man, I love that kid! He is such a thinker and such a talker: I never, ever will have to wonder what he's thinking about. I may, every now and then, daydream about installing a filter between his brain and his mouth. But mostly, I will be grateful that such a device does not exist.

~ 2 ~

My beautiful 12 year old has been looking forward to two things for the past several weeks: (1) His birthday and the attendant festivities, including watching a college soccer match live and going on a camping trip with buddies, and (2) playing a momentous soccer game against some players from his former team and stuffing a victory down their throats. Actually, he's not really that ruthless, so I'm embellishing for dramatic effect, but I can say confidently that he has never wanted to win as badly as he wants to win tomorrow's game.

He has been sick for the entire week. High fevers. A killer sore throat. Stuffy head. Wicked cough. He has been really, really sick. He can't eat, because his throat hurts so much, and even his favorite foods have no taste. Fruit loops -- his chosen birthday sugar cereal -- tasted like cardboard this morning.

So we had to cancel his party and the trip to the college match, and he will not be playing in his game tomorrow. Despair, thy name is 12-year old boy. He feels supremely cheated by the Birthday Gods. This is one of those times when pretty much nothing his parents say will help him; he'll just have to suffer through today and tomorrow, itching to be out on the pitch.

Life is not fair. But did it have to be not fair on his birthday?

~ 3 ~

Same kid: He told me today that he has had a recurring dream over the past several years. In the dream, he is trying to lift something that appears very light, but when he tries to lift it, it's really, really heavy. At first, I was flummoxed. My fears were that his dream was telling him lacks confidence to do easy things. I asked him if he is able to lift the things in his dream, even though they are heavy, and the answer was yes. So I started talking, and out came the following: I think that dream is saying that even though something turns out to be hard to do, you are able to do it anyway. Which means you are very strong and very brave, that you are able to do hard things even if at first you think they are going to be easy. Hard things do not stop you.

That's about the time I was thanking the Patron Saint of Thinking On Your Feet. If there isn't one, there really should be.

~ 4 ~

We are electing a new governor here in California. I listened with great interest to their debate the other night. My chosen candidate did very well, I thought. That yahoo from the other side was annoying. But both of them get two enthusiastic thumbs down for their response to a question posed to them about immigration. I can't get this out of my head. The question was a two-parter, and I am paraphrasing from memory: First, do you see any positive impact on the state of California as a result of immigration? And second, do you support a path to legal status for those who are currently here illegally? Jerry went first. He completely ignored the first question, and gave predictable answers to the second. Next, Meg completely ignored the first question, and gave predictable opposite answers to the second.

What gives? It can't possibly be that our would-be governors see no benefit from having immigrants here. I can't believe that. Is it then, that they fear alienating those who might disagree with them? And is it remotely possible that a significant number of Californians do not see anything positive about immigrants in our midst? Do these people perhaps not eat any of the bounteous vegetables harvested in this state? Do they see hoards of non-immigrant job seekers lining up to take all those service sector jobs that immigrants take and do with integrity?

I'm curious. And disappointed in my candidate and in that other yahoo for not speaking directly to the question.

~ 5 ~

Having homeschooled for about one month now, I can safely say that there is one thing that homeschooling is not good for: having a tidy home.

If I had a working camera, I could document my dining room table and show you proof that curious minds wreak havoc. Instead, I'll just give you a list: Packaging from a National Geographic Bug Collector and Microscope set; the bug collector and the microscope; dead bugs from the collecting and microscoping fun; a Science View Digging Dirt set; a tupperware full of beads; buttons strewn across the tabletop; glue, some in the bottle, some on the table; scissors; markers, some with caps, some without; a screwdriver; an Anne Bonney action figure doll; a photo album; a thermometer and some fever medicine; a small beach ball; a half-eaten apple; a couple of plates and cups; a broken hair pin; a cardboard box partly covered with glued-down buttons and beads, a castle in the making; and today's mail. Oh, and ants. Because we are once again under attack from the little vermin.

I am living life according The Theory of Loose Parts, apparently, and I didn't even know it!

Thank you Nicole, for giving us the Nat'l Geographic set and the Digging Dirt set. They were warmly and immediately welcomed.

~ 6 ~

Recommended reading this week comes from an article in The Huffington Post. It will make you laugh if (1) you are a mother or (2) you love a mother. Your particular brand of politics will not matter. As a little teaser, I'll give you my favorite line from the article: "That's the key to understanding Moms: we simultaneously control everything and nothing."

If you like the article, and you will, you will want to check out the authors' blog: Rants From Mommyland. It has become my surefire comic relief, and I thank my sister for bringing these two great writers and women to my attention.

You can thank me for doing the same.

~ 7 ~

I spent a good bit of this evening sitting at my computer, hands poised above my keyboard, searching my brain for a 7th take. Giving up, I instead joined my husband in clean-up supervision. It didn't go well. It rarely does. After repeatedly directing my erstwhile laborers to pick up the tupperware next to the fireplace, I was dismayed to see it still there. With no small amount of firmness, I sent Lady E's bad self into the living room to get it. I was clear with her that I was displeased.

Remember that ant invasion referenced above? Well, the other day, I placed an ant trap near the fireplace. Spying it on her way back from doing my bidding, Lady E shoved the tupperware at me and said: "I wish you would check in to that ant hotel!"

Thank you, Lady E, for my 7th and final take of the day. Thus closes another week of Motherhood.

* * *

Visit the birth place of 7 Quick Takes Fridays.

* * *

Purple Haze

Let the Birthday Party Season commence! This past weekend, we hosted a birthday party for our 8 year old. Thus begins a wild ride that will see us hosting four more birthday parties in three and a half months.

Birthday parties render me comatose. After yesterday's festivities, I am in a haze. Thus, the title of this post. The purple? Why, that would be because of this:


She's a self-respecting rockin' eight year old girl, and this was the cake she wanted. Plus a treasure hunt, plus a soccer game. Plus steak. With 11 little friends.

No wonder I'm comatose.

One down, four to go. Must start self-medicating now, and keep myself there until October 13th

48 THINGS WE LOVE ABOUT DAD

1. He teaches us soccer moves. • 2. He read Little Women to me. • 3. He takes us to Fenton’s for ice cream. • 4. He’s the milkshake parent. • 5. He creates beautiful gardens. • 6. He takes us to In-n-Out. • 7. He makes us warm fires in the winter. • 8. He finds stuff for us at Thrift Town. • 9. He tells mommy she is beautiful. • 10. He wrestles with us.

11. He gave us Bob Dylan. • 12. He brings me ribs from T-Rex. • 13. Two words: Top Dog. • 14. He draws pictures with us when we are doing art and on the menus at Fatapples. • 15. He read Shakespeare to me when I was really little. • 16. He says sorry. • 17. He tells us he loves us every day. • 18. He carried all of us kids in the backpack when we were little and let us all drool down his back. • 19. He loves to take naps with us. • 20. He reads Always Room for One More and One Morning in Maine to us.


21. He likes to make us laugh. • 22. He read The Phantom Tollbooth and The Hobbit to us in the evenings on mom and dad’s bed. • 23. He makes us delicious paella and pizza. • 24. He goes on our field trips when he can. • 25. He takes me to play soccer at the park early in the morning before school. • 26. He makes mom yummy Old Fashioneds. • 27. He makes sure we always have the right soccer shoes. • 28. He writes poetry for us. • 29. He takes us on the train in Tilden Park. • 30. He reads and learns all he can about coaching youth soccer so that he can be the best possible coach for our teams.


31. When we were inconsolable babies, he would pack us into our car seats and drive around for as long as it would take for us to settle down. • 32. He likes to watch The Incredibles with us. • 33. He takes us to the lawnmower store (Urban Ore). • 34. He has an amazing collection of weird and funny faces. • 35. He (and mom) got us a Wii for Christmas. • 36. He makes “bonfires” in the back garden. • 37. He takes us to see professional soccer games. • 38. He’s a cuddler. • 39. He makes coffee for mom in the morning before she gets up. • 40. He makes sure all of the doors are locked every night.


41. He takes us to Albany Memorial Park. • 42. He makes sure mom remembers the whipped cream when she buys stuff to make hot chocolate for us. • 43. He takes us to the Botanical Gardens to find lizards. • 44. He’s the teeth brushing parent. • 45. He gave us lollipops with bugs in them. • 46. He gave us life. • 47. He brought us to his classroom while he was teaching and let us draw. • 48. He works hard each and every day to take care of us.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD. WE LOVE YOU.

* * *

Why I Don't Need Trendy Clothing Stores

Thanks to mom and dad for the classic, perfect-for-me birthday card. (And for the New Yorker subscription renewal that came with it.)

* * *

cartoon credit: Dave Coverly

* * *

Gifts

It's my birthday this month. And my kids, who by the way are the most excellent offspring on the planet, decided to start early and celebrate from Day One of November. I think they had some encouragement from daddy.

I went to the grocery store and came home to my first gift. Grapes and flowers, harvested from our very own garden. Sweet, sweet.


I am loved. Life is good.

For a practiced complainer, glass-is-half-empty kind of a person like myself, this is saying something.

Thank you children and husband.

* * *

Hook and Eye

Not very many people use hook and eye latches anymore. They're a bit outdated, I suppose. But there are two in my mom and dad's house, and I love them.

Lest you think I have some strange attachment to bits of metal, let me tell you the story of how they came to be on the doors of the two bathrooms in my childhood home, and then you will know why I love them.

* * *

My mom and dad hosted my wedding reception in their backyard. It was a gorgeous June day. Early that morning, the preparations began, with family, friends and workers carting tables and chairs, spreading linens, and readying the BBQ. It was a lively, crowded scene.

Two of our guests, our friends Margaret and Lola, arrived to dress, having driven up early in the morning in more comfortable clothes. Both were in the category of our "older" guests, and because of this, I was especially concerned about their comfort. They were also extremely honored guests; they have both had a profound, wonderful impact on our lives, so I wanted them to both enjoy themselves and feel well treated.

The old, quirky house of my childhood was not built with locks on the bathroom doors. Somehow, this was never a big deal when I was growing up. We all got fairly used to hollering or knocking to establish vacancy. I never recall, even in my intense teen girl years, caring much that the bathrooms did not lock.

But on the day of my wedding, my two dear, older Austrian friends did care; the prospect of having someone walk in on them was, I am sure, horrifying.

The beautiful part of this story, at least from a bride's perspective, is that most of it occurred without my knowing anything about it.

I was at the house, getting dressed, with my sister and other bridesmaids. I was, as was natural, a bit self-absorbed. I had no idea that Margaret and Lola were having "dressing room issues."

But I do remember seeing my dad, all decked out in his classy tuxedo, walking out to his studio, rumaging around, returning with tools. There, amid the flurry of activity, the people running to and fro, guests in the way on the deck, my dapper dad calmly found two hook and eye sets, got the right tools, went into the house and made our bathrooms lock-able. For Margaret and Lola. Before I even knew they were having a minor tizzy about the lock-less bathrooms.

Such a small, simple thing. But on a day when you are hosting 260 people in your back yard, when you've got a million details to see to, I think it takes a special kind of grace to screw hook and eye assemblies into place, especially to do it calmly. He took care of my friends; I heard about it later. But now, whenever I'm at their house and in one of those bathrooms, the hook and eye latch reminds me of my wedding day, my good friends, my lovely father, and the care he and my mother took that day to make everything perfect.

Saturday was Dad's birthday. This post was supposed to have been written and posted that day. As with everything else in my life, it didn't get done until a bit too late. So two days later, here it is, straight from my heart and my memory, to my dad on his birthday. Happy Birthday Dad, and thank you so much for the hook and eyes.

Love, Monica



* * *

Just Wait

Just wait, you brand new parents, traveling through Safeway in your new baby fog. Just wait until that mushy little bundle is 5 years old and demanding sugar.

* * *

The other day, I took my 4 (almost 5) and 2 year olds to Safeway for a little shoppin'. It was the night before Samuel's birthday, and around here, birthdays are an occasion for sugary cereal. We don't buy sugar cereal except when we have a birthday, and then, the person of honor gets to pick one. He picked Fruit Loops.

So there I was, in the produce section of Safeway, with IT and OTHER IT, who were both, at 5:30 in the evening, a tad wild. Along came the new parents. Mom, looking all glowy and soft, like a clean, downy pillow that has just been punched, fluffed, and smooshed into maximum comfortability. Dad, wearing the baby sling, with Newborn Miracle snuggled contentedly inside. The two (or rather three) of them were strolling through the veggies and fruit, doing that slow, ethereal walk one does when the very miracle of life coming forth is ever present in one's mind and walking through the grocery store feels other-worldly. They had that look.

Plus, they looked clean, if sleepy, and wore that distinctly Berkeley uniform, the one that says "We are progressive, enlightened, comfortable, and organic. We wear 100% cotton, and these shoes are really expensive, but no animals were harmed in their production."

My little girl-terrors love babies, so I pointed out the newby, which elicited the expected cuteness reflex. Then they started running all over the produce section and screaming like banshees. I had one of those moments where you realize that your kids are behaving exactly in a way you thought you'd never tolerate. You balance this with the fact that you're quite happy they haven't upended the apple display. You finish off the musing by calling the excursion successful, so far.

The new mommy and daddy smiled at them. I could be projecting, but I think there was a tinge of "We'd never let this little miracle run rampant like that. Now, where's the organic locally grown celery?"

There was quite a bit of smiling back and forth; their baby was completely adorable. I got lost in a little moment of nostalagia, made more potent by Sam's birthday, the 11th anniversary of my first foray into that squishy pillow stage of new motherhood. My revery was interupted by It and Other It chanting: "FRUIT LOOPS, FRUIT LOOPS, FRUIT LOOPS!" Translation: "Let's get the hell away from all these vegetables and find the freakin' FRUIT LOOPS!"

So off to the cereal aisle. To our great fortune, it turned out Fruit Loops were on sale, and therefore, on an end cap of one of the aisles. With a family of seven, I knew I was basically committed to two boxes of pure HFCS. So when Elizabeth saw the Fruit Loops, started panting and frothing at the mouth, and said: "Can we get two boxes!?!?!?!?!? One for breakfast and one for lunch?!?!!?!", I was ready to say yes.

As luck would have it, cute little ethereal organic newborn family was strolling by right at that moment, in time to hear my crazed daughter ask for two boxes of sugar AND my willing agreement. They floated by the sugar cereal, as I did 11 years ago, certain, I am sure, in their resolve to never, ever buy cereal loaded with HFCS and all manner of crappy crap.

* * *

Time does change things, doesn't it? The best laid plans of mice and moms meet reality as their children grow up and demand Fruit Loops. I remember that lazy, foggy walk through the grocery store of new parenthood. I'm pretty sure I thought I would raise kids without Fruit Loops.

And in reality, it physically pains me to purchase Fruit Loops. But it also gives me great delight to be able to offer my 11-year old the forbidden fruit of sugary cereal on his important day. That's the stuff I didn't count on 11 years ago, the power of making your kid happy.

I couldn't resist. Before they were out of earshot, I said to the girls: "Why don't we go for the trifecta and call it dinner!"

* * *

Mermaid Cake

Here it is! My mermaid cake for Lola's birthday party last weekend. Computer troubles have prevented me from posting this photo before today. Very fun cake to make...now, if I could figure out a way to plan well enough that I am not making cake at 1am the night before the party, I would be golden. Maybe someday...

* * *

Ice Cream and Cacophony

Lola is 7 today!

I had to work (boo) so I could not spend the day with her. But she did get to pick sugar cereal for breakfast -- went to the grocery store after bedtime last night with dad to buy Cocoa Puffs. I didn't even know she knew what they were: I've never bought them before. But kids get to pick a sugar cereal for their birthdays around here, and I barely had the question out of my mouth before she shouted "COCOA PUFFS!"

So, the lady had Cocoa Puffs.

Not one to go lightly with the sugar fest that is a birthday, I took them for ice cream after picking them up from Auntie Debra's this afternoon. {Side note: Auntie Debra rocks, plain and simple.}

Taking five hyper, dirty-from-playing, tired-of-each-other children to the local Baskin and Robbins was quite exciting. I can't decide which was my favorite part.

Was it the mommy mommy mommy I want mint chip I want mango tango I want chocolate I want M&M flavor I want cookie dough I want a sugar cone I'm first she's pushing me I want a double scoop I want I want I want I want I want?

Was it one child dropping his double scoops of ice cream in his lap? And then doing it a second time? And then another child dropping her double scoops on the floor? And then me dropping my own single scoop on the table? (Excuse me, but doesn't this sound like faulty ice cream-packing? Four scoops tipping off of their cones? User error? I think not! Scooper error, thank you very much!)

Was it the many times small children wielding sticky cones bumped into some part of me? My nose, my fore arms, my elbows, my jeans? I exhibited some truly delicate, boxer-like contortions, trying to keep away from Tallulah's drippy mint chip mess.

Was it the sheer number of napkins we went through? (Yeah, I've heard all those arguments about large families wasting the world's resources, seen the bumper stickers that say "make love not more" [on the bumper of an SUV], and heard all about population control. What can I say: I like me some babies.)

Oh, I know what it was! It was the rubber-necking fascination of the mom-of-two sitting at the table next to us. You know how people can't NOT look at a train wreck? Well, whatever that phenomena is called, cute little mom-of-two was suffering from it big time. She was speechless and, I think, a little horrified. Yup, that was my fav. I just love being on display for folks who cannot fathom having this many children. It's like living under a great big microscope. I almost asked her if she'd like to pull up a chair to get a better view.

And really, all of the other "favorite" contenders can be wrapped up into this one, because cute little mom-of-two got to see it all. The ice cream mustaches and beards, the tears when scoops went plop, the mommy mommy mommy, the arguments about who got to sit next to whom, the whole lovely, chaotic, definitely un-tidy cacophony that is the Alatorre Family out for ice cream.

We had a great time. No, seriously, we really did. Even those who came in grumpy left happy. Ice cream does that, thankfully and predictably.

* * *

Lola wanted a turtle for her birthday, a real one. Who knew how expensive a turtle can be? After recovering from the shock of the $300 price tag for a turtle plus accoutrements, I happily settled for a cute little stuffed one from Barnes and Noble, which she promptly named Glitter. She told me Glitter is more fun than a real one because she gets to play with her and bring her places and she doesn't have to feed her.

* * *

Seven years ago today, Lola arrived in a whirlwind. I woke up around 12:30am and realized I was in labor. After getting Rick up, and alerting Grandma that it was "show time," we both took showers. Rick made us sandwiches. We took our sweet time. Both of our boys took 11+ hours to arrive; we expected the same with #3. One the way to the hospital, the contractions really started coming, fast and furious. We made it to the maternity ward registration desk at 3:10am and Lola screeched into the world 37 minutes later, my biggest baby at 9 lbs., 4 oz. Rick almost missed it because he had to move the car from the temporary "drop off your laboring, crazed-from-pain wife" lot." She arrived in time to let us watch the South Korea vs. Italy game of the World Cup 2002. She'll tell you now that she saw her very first soccer game that day.

Happy Birthday, sweet, funny, tough, charming Lola: we love you more than you will ever know.



* * *

Forty

40 days.
40 nights.
40 thieves.
40 ouncers.
40 lashes.

And 40 years. That's what I got. And just in case I have any doubt about what 40 is, my son clarifies:


He actually put 40 candles on my cake in this picture! It took him forever, during which time I was not allowed in the dining room/art room. It's kinda hard to serve dinner without going into the dining room. I actually carried food in there and served his sisters with my eyes closed. Silly. But the card is priceless, no?

And turning 40 isn't so bad. My eye twitch has slowed down to only 2 or 3 per minute and I haven't heard my bones creak in a good half hour or so and if I wear the right bra, I sorta feel like I'm still 20! Well, you know, 20 but sleep deprived, battered, bruised, broken, chewed up, spit out, stomped upon, climbed over, and really really hoarse.

Bring it on world: if five kids can't send me to the looney bin, then I can handle anything.

Flower Power

Thus concludes the 2008 Birthday Season. Thank you for coming.

Rockin'

Proof that there's a little bit of Martha lurking in us all:

I made this cake for Samuel, for his 10th birthday party, which we celebrated today at the local pool. I took a big chance, having an October party at a swimming pool, but it worked excellently! First, the weather was great, and second, the rest of the world is on to other activities at this point in the Fall, and we had almost the entire place to ourselves.

He chose a Rock and Roll theme; in a few weeks, he is going to be Brian Setzer for Halloween. (Well, if I can find a blond pompadour wig, he is. Any suggestions? Send them my way.) Last week, he decided he wanted to give his friends a song book, filled with lyrics from some of his favorite songs. So he spent lots of this past week typing the lyrics on the computer. Play, listen, pause, type. Next line: Play, listen, pause, type. It took him a long time, but it was definitely a labor of love for him. He came up with some pretty creative lyrics, too! My favorite was the line from Stray Cat Strut: "I wish I could be as caffiene wild..." (For anyone not familiar, the line is actually "I wish I could be as carefree and wild.")

He also burned CDs with some of his favorite songs, and gave these to his friends as party favors. (This was his dad's fabulous idea: why didn't I think of that?) His taste casts a wide net on the music world. His CD featured Bob Dylan (not a word, family members, not a word!), Alvin and the Chipmunks, The Stray Cats, Alicia Keys, U2, and John Fogarty (local boy!). He designed a cover for the CD case, and included a play list on the inside. It was an inexpensive, easy and fun way to give his guests a "goody" that was way more interesting than the usual cheap chotchsky crap that no one wants, no one needs, was probably produced with slave labor and gross chemicals, will end up in the landfill sooner rather than later, and may in fact be part of the reason our trade deficit is so high and our banking system is collapsing.

But I digress.

In true family tradition (my side), Sam's cake did get a little something extra added to it: Lola dropped the neck of the guitar on the sidewalk right in front of the Swimming pool. I don't think much grit got in there, but I just plopped the thing right back on the tray and pretended nothing happened. Family tradition, because we Murphy's have been known to eat patio lasagna and kitchen floor cake in our day. (If your child slaves away for an afternoon, making lasagna the slow way, and then drops it on the patio as she is delivering it to a waiting family, you scoop it up, pick out the trumpet vine, and eat the damn thing, right Katy?)

And tomorrow, our fourth child turns four. We have four birthdays in six weeks at our house, and that six weeks comes to a thundering close tomorrow. Well, not really, since we will have a little party for Elizabeth in a week or two. As the last child to celebrate her birthday in 2008, she may have to settle for one pooped out mommy who is plumb done with creative birthday party ideas. (I will be frosting another cake tomorrow...if it's "Martha-worthy" maybe I will post it.)

And I close a long day with these questions: Is it possible to have a birthday party for a child that does not render one utterly spent and useless by the end of the day? Can one throw a birthday party without losing one's mind? I really must know what is possible, so I know whether to keep on fighting the good fight...

**edited on October 13th, to add a photo of the birthday boy**

A Milestone Event

10 years. He's been in my life for 10 years. I've been a mother for a decade. Happy Birthday to my absolutely wonderful and amazing son Samuel. When he arrived on the scene, I hadn't a clue in the world what I was doing: he has taught me everything I know about being a mother.

His laughter lights up a room. His questions fire up my imagination and my thoughtfulness. His love of music has rekindled my own. His love of books reminds me of myself at 10 years old. His legs and feet have a way of catching on the smallest item imaginable, and dumping him in a clunky heap on the floor. His sensitivity is a constant reminder to me that all children hear, see, and absorb what happens around them. His love for his baby sister is palpable. His disgust at his other sisters is almost as equally palpable. His tenacity rivals only that of his father's. Actually, he might have his dad beat on that front. His highs and lows bring me right along with him, for every elated discovery and every crushing disappointment. His gift to me is this adventure called family.

And the milestone? Not that he is ten. No, the milestone is this: As I sat at my pathetic excuse for a desk, working late into the night, he came stumbling down the stairs because he could hear me in the kitchen. Sleepy and newly 10, he climbed into my lap with a mumbled, "I know I'm getting too big for this..." I didn't mind. But what's this? A new experience! My son stinks! His armpits stink!!! HE HAS B. O.! Time for deodorant!

What a way to ring in a new decade, don't you think?

I gave him an ice cream sandwich at 1:00am to celebrate his birthday. I tried to take his picture, but he was so sleepy that his attempts at smiling looked much more like miserable grimmaces. Shortly after the ice cream, my great big little tiny boy hugged me, kissed me, and crawled back to bed.

Thank God for middle of the night visits from children. Really.