Comedy Planet with Little T

Overhead:

Little T: "Daddy, we're learning all about the planets and the solar system!  Did you know that Pluto is not considered a planet anymore?"

Daddy: "No, I didn't know that.  What about Uranus?"

Little T: "Your anus is considered a moon."

She'll be here all night, folks!  Really.  Aaaaallll night.


* * *

On Migraines and Laughter

OK folks, I come roaring back to the blogging world with two things.

Thing one: Yesterday, I got a migraine.  The kind that makes you weep and call for your mommy when you're pushing 50.  The kind that makes decapitation seem like a viable option.  The kind that makes you shake your fist and curse at whatever creature you were in a past life. 

Come to think of it, there is no another kind of migraine.  They are all like that.

My kids know what to do when I get one of these: keep the house quiet.  But knowing what to do and being good at doing it are two very, very different things.  They mean well, of course, but their execution needs a bit of work.  

Case in point.  This is a picture of the sign my daughter made for the rest of the family and propped up on my bedroom door last night:

She propped it up on my door.  On a hard wood floor.  Where it kept sliding down and clattering on the floor, banging into the door on the way down.  Not to be deterred, she kept putting it back.  Roughly.  Noisily.  Slamming it against the door in an effort to make. it. stay.

Then she would pound down the stairs.  And the damn thing would slide, bang and clatter.  And she would pound back up the stairs and slam it back into place.

I was, sad to say, sorely desterbed.

* * *

Thing two: As of tomorrow, my parents have been married for fifty-one years.  FIFTY-ONE.  612 months.  2,652 weeks.  18,615 days.  That just boggles the mind.  My beloved and I haven't even made it to 20 yet, and there are days I'm amazed he hasn't woken up, realized what he really got himself into, and walked off hysterical.  (I mean, who could blame him, I'm kind of a nightmare.)   Here are Larry and Rose back in 1965:

I'm willing to bet that the thing that has helped them last so long, perhaps more than anything else, is their great big, generous senses of humor, and their complete joy in things that make each other laugh.  Just yesterday, my dad remarked on how wonderful it is to see my mom laugh at the Frasier re-runs they've been watching for weeks now.  And even in my mother's current situation -- struggling with a vague diagnosis of dementia and unable to live in the home she loves -- she is still "killin' it," as the saying goes.  I asked her if she had any words of wisdom about how they have stayed married for so long.  Her instant reply: "Nope.  Just a lack of imagination."

There aren't words to describe the breadth and depth of delight I felt when she said that.  It was delightful, joyful, hopeful, hilarious…and just so completely her and them.  The past few years, we've all struggled with her not being able to be more herself.  And in an instant, there she was.

There is no lack of imagination there whatsoever.  So I guess they must really love each other.  

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!  And thank you for all the laughter!  

* * *

(Hmmm, note to self: make Rick laugh more and maybe he'll see this thing through!)

------------

Postscript: I had to edit this post after a dear friend and reader did the math. FIFTY ONE NOT SIXTY ONE!  I'd be embarrassed if I didn't have that migraine to blame...

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.

* * *

Get Ready to Ramble

I feel a rambling, unfocused post coming along…

I received an honest to goodness piece of mail on Friday, a card from a good friend.  Tears, people.  I shed tears.  She wrote such lovely things about our friendship, such good reminders to me of what really matters, and what really doesn't, and she wrote in an actual card, not in a Facebook post.  Such novelty!

So the front made me laugh and the inside made me cry and all at once, she made me want to be better.  A better mom, a better friend, a better calm (let's make that a noun, shall we?), a better presence, a better Lover of Life.

But then I woke up on Saturday morning and I. Was. Daunted.  I was the very picture and definition of Daunt.  I desperately wanted a lovely day, a love-filled day.  I wanted to be grateful and peaceful.  Oh, and I wanted to shop at Costco, do all the laundry, clean the bathroom, fix Little T's scooter, buy myself some new clothes, read my New Yorker, and take a looooooong nap.

None of that got done.  Exactly NONE.

One small thing did happen: I took my kid and my dog for a hike, and tried not to let Little T's rastafarian hair (fine on an actual rastafarian) chastise me.  We had a delightful time.

We ate apples.

She contemplated life with her dog.

I stared at her a lot.

And I got a little taste of that woman I want to be.

Later in the day, I drove all over creation, to futsal games, and play rehearsal, and birthday gift shopping, and birthday party drop offs, and Awards Night dinner…and there were clashes at home over bedrooms not cleaned and plans not communicated and feelings being hurt.  There were defensiveness and pride and laziness.  There were large hair tangles and larger laundry piles and no moments to read my New Yorker.

In other words: family.

* * *

Her rastafarian hair does, in fact, chastise me, and makes me cringe when she takes that head of hers out in public.  But apparently, it does not chastise me so much that I actually do much about it, at least not as often as I should.  This is an interesting lesson in chastisement.  Because I think I chastise my children rather a lot, about those bedrooms not being cleaned, for example, and I freak the f*** out when the behaviors in question do not change.

What makes behavior change?  What makes a mother better?  What makes a kid do what his mother says?

I'm not sure about the kid.  But for me, words written on a card and sent through the US Postal Service seem to work quite well.

I found a little slice of peace and gratitude this weekend, under the many layers of life that usually clamor for my attention.  I hope this is the beginning of a habit of being peaceful and grateful.  I hope I get many more reminders and that I pay attention to them.  I hope to lose myself in reminders of what really matters.

* * *

Cupcake Dreams

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.

* * *

Averting Awkward Alliteration

Little T learned about alliteration today in school, and she had a great time creating little one line "poems" with her classmates. My personal favorite, koan-like in its profound simplicity, is this:

The careful cat cooked colorful cupcakes in the courtyard.

Let that soak into your brain for a moment. It's pure beauty, right?

She remembered many of the others she composed at school:

The lion licked lots of lemon lollipops.

Savana slid down several slippery slides.

The seal told his sister several silly stories.

Then we started making up our own, Little T, Lady E, and I.  I'm guessing the ones we did here at home used the words "butt" and "poop" more than the ones Mrs. Onu collected from her 2nd graders. I'll save you most of those but here are a few of the gems we came up with:

Happy hippies hold hands and hop through hothouses.

Isabelle has a big icky contagious illness.

The canine’s colorful crap cooled down after being freshly cooped up. (Thank you, 5th grader.)

Big bears bang their butts on the backs of banana trees.

For that last one, she had the word "paws" instead of "butts."  I got a kick out of suggesting she might be able to think of a body part that started with a 'B' and then watching her crack her little self up with the revision. 

I refrained, however, from making the same suggestion for this one:

The princess printed pretty pictures of her prince’s...BUTT.

She was so pleased with herself!  So amused!  So delighted with her hutzpah! 

Mommy was pretty happy, too, to have avoided an awkward -- although admittedly hilarious -- alliterative apex!

Language is such a thrill, isn't it?

Dancing Hands

Dementia and decline. Decline and dementia. Disease and depression and doctors.

It can feel all consuming, as if all those "D-words" are the only things that exist, as if the person suffering is hardly there, crowded out by D's big and small.  My father's time these days is spent managing all those D's, trying to make sense of them, trying to respond to them, and trying to make BIG D DECISIONS about care for his wife of 49 years, 8 months, and 18 days.

My too brief visits with my mother these days are overwhelming for so many reasons: guilt that I cannot visit more often; anguish over what she is experiencing and our inability to help; compassion for her, and for my father; gratitude that I can be there at least in some small ways.  And great sadness over how much she has changed.

It is a painful time, but it is not without its bright moments.  As is usually the case, one such bright moment came to me, and to my mother, courtesy of one of my kids.

I brought Little T to visit Grandma Rose a few weeks ago.  Our stay was a mixed up, jumbled bag of good and bad.  When we walked in, Grandma immediately said: "Boy am I glad to see you!" and we proceeded, over the course of about 45 minutes, to talk about things Little T was doing in school, what her siblings were up to, the book Grandma Rose wrote, and myriad other things.  These brief interactions were punctuated by my mom's anxiety bursting forth in expressions of fear and struggle.  One minute she was talking about her book, the next she was wailing about how the staff was punishing her, the next worrying about spitting too much, or her hands trembling, or the pictures on the wall moving.

(A side note: One of the most challenging things for me, about my mom's dementia, is that I'm certain that many of these things are truly happening for her; she is not imagining double vision, for example, or the walls moving, and those things alone would make a person "crazy." It's easy -- but not accurate -- to lump all of a person's odd behaviors into the category of dementia. They do not all belong there. If my hands trembled all the time, it would drive me nuts and would be such a distraction that I'm sure I'd talk of little else. That's not dementia: that's just life. In many ways, it does not even matter where normal ends and dementia starts. She still deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. As do we all.)

Little T did an amazing job of responding to Grandma's now and then questions and of trying to respond to what she thought Grandma might need. She offered tissues, looked for a book to read her, and gave me little suggestions of things that might help.

After about the 6th or 7th time Grandma raised her hands from the bed to show us, with some force and agitation, how much they were shaking, my giant of a tiny seven year old whispered something to me that made me smile. I told her to tell Grandma. Here's what she said:

When your hands are shaking like that, 

you should pretend you have jazz hands!

Something amazing happened. Grandma laughed.

I had not seen that happen in months.  I wanted to grab that girl, swing her around, hug her tight, and tell her how brilliant and wonderful she is.  Instead, I laughed too, choked back a few tears, and joined in as Little T and I did our best jazz hands, in solidarity with my mama, whose hands now danced above her bed cover.

I thought this a rather remarkable interchange.  What I learned later is that not only did it make my mother laugh, but it stayed with her.  She told my dad the next day about Tallulah's suggestion to pretend to have "dancing hands" and since then, she will refer to her dancing hands frequently, with less agitation now.  She also mentioned those dancing hands to me, almost a month later, recalling that Tallulah had suggested them to her.

She's not happy that her hands shake.  But I think -- I hope -- that she now has an occasion to recall a small bright moment with her granddaughter when the shaking thing takes over.  It makes a difference.  It's a chance to smile, when she has too few of those chances these days.

I think, in the midst of my daily striving, while I'm trying to raise children right and do my (paying) job well, as I'm steering teenagers to good choices, and working with Rick to get the bills paid and the carpools accomplished and the house maintained, that the Jazz Hands moment is the single most significant event of the last several months for me.  That moment is proof positive that simply being present is, truly, the most important thing we can do in this life and for each other.

It was absolutely not an earth-shattering moment.  It was a quiet, simple laugh, almost no more than a smile.  But nothing has meant more to me than to see my mother laugh that day, or to hear that the dancing hands have stuck around.  Everything else swirling around me pales by comparison.

Jazz hands, dancing hands: take a small moment and transform it by saying something, anything, to make someone else feel better.

When it works, it will stay with you forever.

Meep Meep!

One sibling's obervation:

"Mom, if you think about it, Little T is kind of like the Roadrunner, and the rest of us in the family are Wile E. Coyote."

It's true: after a battle of wills, I often feel as if I've been smacked with an Acme anvil.

Image source: http://tinyurl.com/9bux784 

Prayers accepted.

* * *

SMH*

I am a list maker.

I live and die by my lists.  I make them every morning, and use them like a religious zealot.  And while there are not many things about which I am obsessive or anal retentive, when it comes to my lists, I am both.  I need clean paper and good pens.  In a pinch, I'll go for a very sharp Ticonderoga pencil, but I'm bound to feel just a little resentment that I can't find one of my fine point pilots.  

I don't need much. Clean paper.  Good pens.

So when I sat down this morning to make my list, and found my nice new pad of yellow legal paper had been hijacked by a 5 year old, I was displeased.  Here is what I discovered:

And it went on and on and on.  Every.  Single.  Page.  Of a brand new yellow legal pad.  

Stupid creativity.  This is what happens when I don't let her watch TV.  I won't make THAT mistake twice.

* * *

*True confession: it was not that long ago that I had to turn to my teenager to find out what SMH means.  Here, for the also clueless among us, is the translation: Shaking My Head.

One of These Things is Not Like the Other

A Little T tidbit for tonight:

I know they're all cute and smiling, but one of them is tricking you.

My other kids will tell you, about their youngest sibling, that she makes friends wherever she goes. It's true. Once, she went to the park for the afternoon and by the time she got home, I had an evite in my inbox, inviting her to the birthday party of a boy she had met that very same day.

This past week, she went with Rick to the local swimming pool for the afternoon, and quickly buddied up with a bunch of kids who were all there from the same YMCA camp. She splashed around, giggled and played, and pretty much stayed with these kids for the whole time. During one of the breaks from the pool, she went with these campers over to where their counselors were gathering everyone to give them some instructions. She sat with the YMCA kids. And one of the counselors commenced a head count.

Rick narrated the scene that followed. First counselor counted the group three times, and kept coming up with 1 extra kid. First counselor got a second one involved: same result. A third counselor joined in: same result. These poor suckers never did figure out why they kept coming up with a head count of one more than they should.

Finally giving up, the counselors broke the kids into groups to give them each some instructions. Little T sat in her group for awhile, until the counselor looked at her directly and gave her a job to do. She looked at him, arms akimbo, and said emphatically: "I'm not even IN your camp!"

Mystery solved for the poor confused YMCA camp counselors.

Rick watched the whole thing unfold without feeling the need to intervene at all. He just sat back and enjoyed the drama.

Is that mean? Maybe. Or maybe we don't get out much, and we grab entertainment wherever we find it!


* * *

Farmer T

We are chicken sitting.

A neighbor down the street is away for a couple of weeks, and since we never go anywhere, we are taking care of her chickens.  This means fresh eggs for us!

Confession?  I inwardly groan every morning when it's time to go "do the chickens."  I described the whole thing to a friend like this: "Yet another thing I should not have said: 'Sure!  That sounds fun!' to."

Sigh.

Little T is thoroughly enjoying it though.

Will this exposure to local chickens just complicate my life?  Am I going to be dealing with Pleasemommypleasemommypleasemommycanwehaveourownchickenspleasemommypleeeeeeeese?

Oh dear.  I hope not.  I'm not quite ready to walk my local food talk in that particular way.

But oh-so-yummy were the fried eggs we had for breakfast!

* * *

I'll See Your Stubborn and Raise You A Little T

Two sisters were wrestling on the couch, and the fun was getting out of control.  I told them multiple times to stop.  They ignored me.  I warned them that one of them was going to get hurt.  They ignored me.

WHAM!  The 5 year old slammed her head hard against the couch frame, and looked at me with equal parts fury, panic, sheepishness, and pain.

My mistake: My immediate reaction was not one of sympathy but of annoyance.  "Didn't I JUST tell you that you were going to get hurt?  Didn't I JUST SAY TO STOP???"  Within about 5 seconds, I was feeling bad for her throbbing head and trying to coax her into my arms for a little love.  She was having none of that.

She spent the next 10 minutes sobbing in a heap on the couch, holding her head, and screaming: "I MEANT TO DO THAT!  I MEANT TO DO THAT!"

Yeah....riiiiiight.

* * *

Porch Swing Sillies

Little T expresses herself.  Sonoma, February 2012.

* * *

7 Quick Takes, Volume 47

Hello Friday!  Love ya' baby!  You look fabulous--what's your secret?

Here are some quick takes for your perusing pleasure.  Please visit our lovely host and sample some links to other quick takers.  And a little comment here and there wouldn't kill ya'.

~1~

Every year, we say we are going to have our taxes done early, and every year, we end up being big fat liars. This year?  Taxes DONE.  In the words of my 5 year old: BOO-YAH!

~2~

So yeah, the kids went back to school.  I am sitting in an empty house, blogging with abandon, and reeling from the tornado that is my house in Getting Out The Door For School mode.  Returning to school was a big decision.  The thing about big decisions is that they aren't usually clear cut.  There are pros, there are cons, and sadly, there is no great big neon sign pointing to the right answer.

THIS is what I need!
photo credit: Being Alexus

I loved homeschooling.  It was damn hard, and it didn't always go well, and there were plenty of days when I felt certain I was accomplishing little more than ensuring the livelihood of my childrens' future therapists.  But the kind of education we all enjoyed, and the "off the grid" lifestyle, and the moments of radiance, all of that made it great.

So why are they back at school?  It's complicated.  It's part financial -- I can work if they are in school and increase our income; it's part administrative, as in the school administration changed and the whole place is moving in a positive direction; it's part preparation, for the different directions my older kids want to go.

I do wish big life decisions came with some kind of assurance, a certificate or something that would officially decree that THIS WILL BE GOOD.

Lacking that, I'll just have to wait and see.  Hate that.

~3~

My 11 year old son is getting ready to apply to the Oakland School for the Arts, a public charter school for grades 6 through 12.  Students are required to apply and audition in their chosen arts area: his is visual art.  We toured the school a few weeks ago, and he really, really, really wants to get in.  There is no question that he is talented, but we have no way of knowing what kind of talent he will be competing against for the open slots.

I want this for him.  Bad.

Wish him luck!  Say a prayer!  Send positivity out into the universe!  Say another prayer, because that vague positivity stuff is a little wishy-washy if you ask me!

And come on.  Look at this.  I mean, really.  I ask you.  What other decision could they make?  Really. Am I right?  Of course I am.

~4~

My other son begins rehearsals next week for A Midsummer Nights Dream.  That's by Shakespeare, you know.

This production is put on by The Greenwood Players, a group made up entirely of young people.  Students in middle and high school direct and act, create the sets and costumes, design the programs, and handle all of the logistics, and my kid gets to participate for free.

And so today, the recipient of the Faith in Humanity Restoration Award goes to the amazing kids of the Greenwood Players.  You are an inspiration to the rest of us, and a lovely antidote to the news of the day.

~5~

Funny text mishaps:  I wrote a text today to let a friend know what time I would drop by to give her something, and accidentally wrote: "I'll be on my way to pick my kids."  After re-reading it, I got a little chuckle, imagining myself at the school saying: "OK, I'll take that one...and that one...but definitely not that one...hmmm, who else do I want today?"  Maybe I could come home with a whole new set of 5!  That might be interesting for awhile!

And that of course made me think of the time my phone autocorrected another text of mine that was supposed to say:

"I will have kids with me."

to 

"I will have LSD with me."

Wow!  That sure would be a game changer!

What's your favorite autocorrect story?  And if you haven't seen this site, then I suggest hiding from the children (this is definitely not kid-friendly content) and get ready to laugh so hard you'll cry, spit, snort, and possibly pee.

~6~

We watched Super 8 for our family movie night a few weeks ago.  That was a great movie.  Did y'all see it?  If not, do yourself a favor and rectify that situation.  Heart, humor, terror, and an alien.  What more do you need?

~7~

I can't think of a final take, so I'll leave you with a photo of one cute newly-minted Kindergartener:

Look out world!  Little T has been unleashed!

At Least She Knows What She Likes

Today, in the car (of course), Lady E and Little T got into a bit of an argument about who has the better life.  It started with Little T complaining that she never gets to have play dates with friends.  Lady E, to her credit, was merely trying to make Little T feel better by pointing out all the fun things the youngest one gets to do.

"You get to play in the garden!  In your sand castle!  In your pirate ship!  You get to play dress up!  And you get to go visit Emmett (our neighbor)!  And you get to play with Tule (our dog)!"

She went on for awhile.  It was a little too much for Little T, who started getting madder and madder.

Finally, from the backseat, Lady E said: "Mom!  I'm trying to make her feel better and she just said to me: 'Oh, yeah, and here's another thing I like to do: ANNOY YOU!'"

Sighing inwardly, I chided Little T: "Little T, that is not a very nice thing to say.  Your sister is actually trying to make you feel better."

Little T: "Oh yeah, and another thing:  NOT LISTEN TO YOU!"

I have very little chance of ever having an impact on this child.


* * *

Trippin'

We've been field tripping all over the place.  Trippin' with Little T is quite an experience.  While getting ready for one of our trips this week, I stood in the shower and listened to Little T pound all over the house yelling "I'm not ready to go yet!  I'm not ready to go yet!"

Later, in the car, watching all the people stuck in our hideous Bay Area traffic, I remarked on the awesomeness of the carpool lane.  And as we zipped past all those barely moving cars, my sweet five year old pointed at them and said: "Yeah, SUCK-AHS!"


Sigh.

Anyway, our trips this month: We went to the John Muir Historical Site, and learned about one of the greatest hippies who ever lived.  He had a "scribble den" in his big beautiful house.  I want a scribble den.    A photo from the trip:

We went to the California Academy of Sciences, a place that rocks.  And that has lots of cool rocks, too.  A video of that trip:

There are a surprising amount of fish in the Academy: everywhere you go, there is a fish habitat, or a huge tank, or some way to see fish behind glass.  Later, on our way to a soccer field, Little T said:

This is wi-wee weird, mommy.  I feel kind of like a swimming fish right now.  Because we saw all those fish through glass today, and now we are sitting here with the car windows around us, and I feel like I'm a fish behind glass.  This is wi-wee weird, mommy.

See? Trippin' with Little T.

We went to Sutter's Fort State Historic Park, and learned a little about life right before and during the Gold Rush.  We learned, for example, that if you had strep throat in the 1840s , the doctor at the Fort would stick a glass tube down your throat, with an opening at the bottom just big enough for the mouth (but not the body) of a leech to fit through, thus allowing the leech to feast upon the swollen tissue of your throat, thereby removing the bacteria from your body.  I think the "thus" and "thereby" in the previous sentence do a nice job of balancing the disgusting subject matter.

We also went to the State Capitol building and took a very informative tour; the highlight for me was seeing the State Assembly Gallery, where Assemblymembers cast their votes and make the laws that govern our lives.  Very cool.  Some more photos:

The awesome dome.

Jerry Brown, our state's youngest (from 1975-1983) and
oldest (currently!) Governor, and his super funky portrait.

Where the Assembly debates and votes!

I am all field tripped out.  Must rest up before we go to the Monterey Bay Aquarium next month.

We Like Those Ladies

On our way to pick up our young Picassos from their art class, Lady E, Little T and I saw three Sisters of the Missionaries of Charity walking down the street.  I told the girls that these women are "Mother Theresa's sisters" and that they spend their days -- their lives -- feeding people who are hungry and taking care of people who are sick.  I explained that Mother Theresa started the order in India, and that she did small things with great love, and that we are blessed to know about her.

Little T got very excited, craning her neck to see the three women as they walked.

"Oh Mama, I like those ladies!  I would like to see those ladies every day!"

"I like them too, Little T."

"I love them!  Cuz I would love to have all that food they give people, because I LOVE FOOD!"

* * *

Dear Sisters,  I promise I will teach her and her siblings to love you for much more and to follow your loving example wherever they are.

* * *

Spunk and Muscles

 I just woke up from a panic dream.

Little T and I were walking along a beach on a lovely summer day.  People were all around us, playing in the water.  We came upon a stand of bleachers facing the water, maybe four or five rows high, and on the bleachers was a group of students from our old school, getting arranged for a class photo.  The teacher, a woman we know and like, stood about 5 or 10 feet in front of the bleachers, with a camera, waiting for the kids to settle into position.

She and I started talking, making conversation, catching up with one another.  We talked about how she just went shopping at Costco in preparation for her students' First Communion.  We reminisced about the First Communion celebrations my kids had when we were one of the school's families.

Suddenly, the tide came in, fast.  The water came up to my rib cage and knocked me off my feet for a moment.  And instead of flowing back out, the water stayed in, high up on the beach, now at about the middle of my thighs.  I looked up at the bleachers, amused by the reaction of the children who were now looking down at water swirling around beneath their bleacher rows.

And then, of course, the panic: Little T.  Where was she?  She was holding my hand a moment ago, and now my hand was empty and all I could see was murky ocean water.  The water was starting to pull back out, and I couldn't find her.  Feeling the strong pull on my own legs, I couldn't stop myself from imagining what that force could be doing to my daughter, pulling her under and straight out into the ocean, without me ever seeing her go.  In my mind's eye, I saw her arms and legs tumbling and rolling beyond where anyone could save her.  Water was rushing by me on all sides, as I frantically scanned the beach looking for her.  I started shaking, and the beach started closing in on me. The moments passed, and with each one, my fear and panic increased and my stomach heaved.

And then, as the water drained from underneath the bleachers, a laughing Little T emerged as well.  She had scurried under the benches while I was talking to the teacher, looked up at all those wonderful jungle gym-like metal rods and planks, and started climbing them.  When the water came in, she just climbed higher, until, with the water at its highest point, she ended up hanging on to the bottom of the highest bleacher row, flexing the 5 year old muscles she was showing off to me just last night before bed ("Mommy, I'm five now, so look how big my muscles are now?")  She was fine, happy even, pleased at the climbing adventure she had had and tickled by the game of keep away she had played with the tide.  Tickled, of course, because she had won.  She hadn't even gotten wet.

She saved herself.

And I woke up with that panicky feeling still holding on.  But I figure that dream is telling me that Little T is a survivor.  All she needs are the muscles and the spunk she already has, and she is going to ride high above life's fray and come out smiling.  Oh sure, I still parent her and do the time out thing and set boundaries and encourage creativity and read her books and make her eat vegetables. But I don't think I'll worry about her very much.  Instead, I'll just hope she's around if I ever need a MacGyver-type set of hands in an emergency.

And I will add two new things to the list of what to pray for:  spunk and muscles.  For all of us.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 38

Whoa!  Did I just blink and another Friday rolled around?  And why does time keep speeding up on me?  Seriously, whose in charge of slowing things down around here?  I would like to file a formal request.  Here's the basic text: "HELP!  SLOW DOWN!"  I sure hope I get a response by next Friday.

Please visit the lovely host of the original 7 Quick Takes and visit the links to other bloggers playing along.

~1~

Yesterday, I offered to take the kids to get ice cream cones if everyone finished their work by 1pm.  Little T looked at me in dismay.

"What?  Ice cweam cones??  Why?"

Her face crumpled.  She fell to crying.

Huh?  I was baffled.  Until she clarified that she didn't want just the cone, she wanted the ice cream to go with it and thought it was very mean of me to just buy the cone.

So yesterday, when my kids finished their work by 1pm, I took them all out for ice cream cones, and I even let them get some ice cream to put on top.

~2~

We have started playing around with the math videos and practice exercises on Kahn Academy.  If you are not yet familiar with Kahn Academy, you should be.  You want to be, you just don't know it yet.  What a cool site!  What an amazing resource!  I ♥ Sal Kahn.

And for further math delightfulness, check out this version of the fantastic Tom Lehrer New Math song:

~3~

We learned how to make these fun paper boxes the other day:

Perfect.  Right when I finally purged all those calendars and children's book jackets I had been hoarding for years.

No matter.  I'm sure I can replenish that supply in a heartbeat, and I expect this to be a fun activity we will do many times.  They make delightful gifts and gift containers.  Thank you Lori and Maddie for teaching us!

~4~

Cooking with Mama Monica

Hee-hee...oh, my, that title makes me laugh.  I'm sure it would make my husband giggle, too.  Ah, the hilarity!  But my limited range in the kitchen is exactly why I am sharing this recipe.  It is the single easiest thing I ever make, and really quite delicious.  Every time I make it, I feel like I'm getting away with something.  So here ya' go:

Rosemary Chicken

I use thighs.  Place your (frozen, if you're like me) chicken thighs in a baking dish.  They don't need to be thawed, another important feature of the easiest recipe ever, since I never remember to thaw things.

1/2-1 cup of red wine
1/4-1/2 cup of olive oil
1/4-1/2 cup of chopped onions (I've used red and yellow, depending on what I have.  Both work.)
1/2 teaspoon of sage
1/2-1 teaspoon of rosemary
You can add a dash of salt: I don't.

Whisk together all of the above ingredients.  Pour the mixture over the chicken.  That's it.  Seriously.

Whoops!  Forgot to tell you to preheat the oven.  Which makes sense, since I always forget to do it.  Anyway, set oven to around 375-400.  Sorry I can't be more specific, but I've got a really spazzy oven, and I'm never sure exactly what temp I've got goin'.   Cover with foil and cook for around an hour...remove foil and cook for another 15 minutes.  Maybe longer.  Test it for doneness.  If you're like my husband, that means cut it open, eye it suspiciously, and poke a forkful in your wife's face and say: "This look done to you?"  I just use a meat thermometer.

Enjoy over rice or pasta.  And bask in the glory.  This takes about 10 minutes to prepare, and tastes like it took much longer.

You are most welcome.

~5~

And a shout out to my 12 year old son, who broke his own juggling record yesterday.   I did not catch the momentous occasion on film, but I did get this video a few weeks ago, to give you an idea of what he is doing.  He got to 50 or so in the video...far below the new RECORD TO BEAT OF 475!

475!  Woot-woot!

~6~

It turns out the Serenity Prayer is perfect for teenagers.  I had occasion to tell mine about it the other day, which reminded me of this prayer for the first time in a long time.  I'm glad I stumbled on a chance to bring it back into my daily life (because I can't control much), and I hope my son makes it part of his.  This is probably better than the Golden Rule as a succinct life philosphy.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can.

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Really, what more is there?

~7~

And if the radically opposing natures of most of my posts have been giving anyone whiplash lately, if you can't figure out if I'm a big sap or a total cynic, if I seem to be sweet one minute and sarcastically cruel the next, welcome to my world.  It's confusing to be me, trust me. But really, what about my kids?  Say a special prayer for them, with me as their mom.  They'll either be hopelessly confused by the world, or ready for anything.  I'm going for better than 50%, so we'll see how that goes.

* * *

Little T's Bedtime Send Off

Little T has been in bed for a bit, but she just stumbled down to ask us this:

"How do people die when they don't even hurt themselves?"

I told her that that can happen when people are very, very, very old, and after they have lived a long time and had a great life.  Lame.

Rick told her that "it just happens sometimes," and that she didn't need to worry about it.

She seemed happy with both answers.

Then, Rick took her onto his lap, cuddled with her for a minute, and said: "Will you take care of me when I am old?"

She said no.

After a little back and forth, she flitted back up to bed.  From her room, she fired down the final salvo:

"I BET YOU'RE OLD RIGHT NOW!"

So she's thinking: "I'm four, and he's asking ME to take care of HIM.  He must be bonkers."

Plus, we all know how she feels about old people.

She's not the only game in town.  I think he'd better put his money on a different horse.

* * *