A Happy and Safe 4th!

What is everyone doing for the 4th? We're off to the Lake for the weekend, but here's hoping everyone has a safe and fun 4th of July. Good luck to my peeps running the Peachtree!

A few pics from 4ths past . . .

On the Genetics of M and M Sorting

We've been using M&Ms to bribe Tiller into using the potty. (I don't want to hear the "you are going to give her an eating disorder" comments, either.) So far, it's not working well, but I can totally use them as good-behavior-inducing after-dinner treats. I've been counting Weight Watcher's points again, hoping to kick my weight loss back into gear (working out alone just doesn't do crap for me), but when i saw the diminutive little individual bags, i thought, "Oh, I'll just have one and count the points later." Big mistake: Four points!!!! They are the devil.

I went into the den, turned on Jeopardy, opened the bag and dumped them out on the coffee table. I separated the M&Ms into colors, then put each color group into a little line, so that i could see how many of each color I had. Then, i ate from the colors with the most candies, until i had evened out the lines. Then, I proceeded to eat the m&ms one at a time, taking one from each color line (brown first) until they were all gone.

At some point, Tiller came in, having inhaled her M&Ms, asking for more. "Nope," I said, "you need to go put your dishes in the sink and then go up and wash your hands." Finishing up my own neatly-ordered portion, I realized I hadn't heard much out of Rollie. Cleaning up my wrapper and grabbing my drink glass, I walked back into the kitchen, belting out a "Rollie, what are you doing, buddy? It's time to clean up and hit the showers!"

"Mama, I'm not finished yet!" he yelled back.

I looked at the kitchen table and came to a screeching halt. Rollie was intently looking down at his M&Ms, all laid out neatly in piles, organized by color. I watched him for a moment.

"Rollie, what are you doing?"

"Eating my M&Ms!"

"You put them in little piles?"

"Yup."

"By color?"

"Yup."

"I used to do that when i was a little girl."

"You did, mama?"

"Yeah, I did," I said with a smile. "You come on up and get ready for a bath when you get done with the M&Ms, okay?"

"Okay, Mama," he replied, not once taking his eyes off the little colored piles, his eyes scanning them, as he carefully picked one and popped it into his mouth.

Sometimes genetics are just downright weird. And sometimes they are kind of sweet.

Apple Book

We started reading "The Giving Tree" to Rollie when he was around two. It was a staple in our evening story time for over a year, was the book that he most loved (so far) and is probably in the top three books that I will forever associate with reading to him as a baby.

There were nights when I was exhausted, and I would think, "Please, God, anything but the Giving Damn Tree." Sure enough, he would toddle over with it in his hands, would always ask for it, the book that he called "Apple book." For months on end, we read it every single night. Todd and I could both recite whole sections in our sleep.

And then one day, just like The Boy in the story stopped visiting the Giving Tree, Rollie started to pick The Giving Tree less and less; His tastes changed, and he wanted to read about trains or cars or Curious George.

Tonight, I asked him to pick out a book to read, and that is the book he picked out. I was pleasantly surprised - I no longer think of it as a monotonous chore, as I once did - and told him I would be in when I finished tucking Tiller in. When I went into his room, he was sitting up, reading aloud the page he was on.

I asked if he was ready to read the book. He said yes, and I laid down next to him and went to take them book from him.

"No, Mama. I'm gonna read it to you."

And he did. And it was pretty damn special.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose!

I've written numerous times about my mixed marriage. The kids are completely on the fence. They see a G on a car in front of me and yell, "Bulldogs!" or "Georgia for you, Mama!" or they see that AU on a car and say, "Auburn!" Course, Rollie says, "Aubrun," and Tiller actually says, "Bullgogs." Which is really cute.

If they see a G and Todd is in the car, they will ask? "Daddy? You like Bulldogs, right?" And we are good parents, who try to consider if certain things we say might interfere with a child's self-esteem; Who knows if Todd telling Rollie that he doesn't like GA, when Rollie likes both UGA and Auburn, will harm R's burgeoning self-worth?

So we lie.

The standard answer for this from Todd is "Yes, I like them. I like Auburn the best, and then my second favorite team is whoever is playing Bama that week, and then Georgia." Very diplomatic, and not really untrue.

Standard answer from me is also the truth: "Yes, I like Bullgogs first." "Then Tigers, mama?" I think for a minute.

"Well, Bulldogs first, then Panthers, then Tigers.

Everyone in the car, even my 2-year-old, look at me like I am crazy.

"Panthers? Who are Panthers, mama?"

"Dillon Panthers, baby. Dillon Panthers."

Yeah, I seriously have a Friday Night Lights problem, and it's not just about the hot Coach Taylor, either. I cried last night watching them win state in the first season finale. No, I'm not kidding.

Plus, it gives me satisfaction to choose a fictional high school football team over Todd's Tigers. Always the rivalry exists.

Mama's Little Jackass

I was washing something in the sink night before last as I readied dinner. I looked out the window over the sink, which overlooks our front yard, to see my 4 year-old son, astride the white trash car, barreling across the street. As it ran up the curve of the driveway opposite us, then onto the grass, Rollie was catapulted off the car, up into the air a good 3 feet above the car's roof, coming down right on his ass, which was quite a drop considering the neighbor's yard slopes from the top of their drive.

I ran out the door, knocking Tiller over as I came out into the garage, to see him stand up, bawling his eyes out, and scared shitless. That made two of us. I yelled at him to stay where he was, as I didn't want him to run out in the street, and I was still running down the drive at this point. This was pointless, as four-year-olds who are frightened and want their mama are not deterred by things like having their skulls bashed in by oncoming traffic. No matter how I shrieked hysterically at him to stay where he was, he was coming towards me as fast as he could go, and there was no stopping him. He made it across without any problem and into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably, and doing the death grip cling to my neck that terrified kids do.

I am pretty sure I was yelling at him that he wasn't allowed to go into the street and what the hell was he doing in the street? He was crying that Tiller had pushed him into the street ("I was pushed!") and at that point Tiller rushed by me screaming, "my car! My car!" and she darted down the driveway towards the road, not looking either way for traffic, and me yelling my deepest, booming Mama's-gonna-tear-up-your-behind-if-you-run-in-that-street voice, again, to no avail. I had to sprint, with Rollie still in my arms, his legs wrapped behind me so tight i could barely take a breath, and managed to snag her arm at the very end of the drive, at which point i realized, Rollie was not bleeding, swelling, broken, or bruised, and was simply really, really frightened. He was put down, still clinging to my neck as I pried his arms away, and gave her a swat on the behind.

Then both children were dragged up the drive by their arms, both fighting me and screaming their personal grief, "Tiller pushed me! Tiller Pushed me!!!!" and "My caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr!!!!" and me still hysterically yelling at them: "Why were you in the street!!? You could have killed your brother, tiller. I don't give a good Goddamn about that car! Y'all are never seeing that car again! You were supposed to be in the backyard with your father! Where is your Father??!" as Todd finally came around from the back, hearing the hollering match, and the screams and probably the absolute "she's completely lost it" tone in my voice, which i admit I must have had.

Todd retrieved the car from the neighbor's yard, and promptly put it in the back of the van. It will be finding a new home, pronto.

Tiller was sent to her room (Todd handled that one, because i was ready to put the shaken baby syndrome on her) and I took Rollie in and sat on the couch with him, checking him for injuries, and just generally hugging his guts out and getting the ful story. It seems Rollie and Tiller were supposed to be watching Daddy put bug spray in the yard, and standing by the gate until he finished. What really happened is that Rollie and Tiller started playing in the garage, and Rollie straddled the white trash car (which is what kids who are too big for the white trash car do when they outgrow it). This means that he was sitting on the roof of it, his legs dangling down to about the doors, but unable to touch the ground. Rollie evidently asked Tiller to push him around the garage and somehow she ended up pushing him into the driveway, which has a slope to it. White Trash Car picked up speed, with Rollie pulling a complete Johnny Knoxville on top of it, and went straight down the hill, across the street (which was where I picked up the visual), and into the neighbor's yard, where he was launched like he was fired out of a cannon.

All I could think about when the initial adrenaline wore off, and when I started shaking, holding my baby on my lap, and crying my eyes out, was that:

a) The little fucker coulda been nailed by a car as he shot across the street and b) The little shithead wasn't wearing a helmet and he's lucky he hit the grass instead of shooting headfirst into the neighbor's driveway, or one of their cars and becoming a vegetable for life.

I am one lucky mom, and the whole thing was such a fluke, pretty much not something you could prevent, or prepare for, or imagine happening. And it just reminds me that all this other crap is just that: Bullshit. We live these tenuous lives and every moment is one second before or after that car comes barreling down the street and takes the important things away. We're all just one little jackass moment away from losing it all, no matter where we live, how beautiful we are, how great our jobs are, or whether we listen to cool music or american idol. The Jackass Moments in life do not differentiate.

Little Grad

So, Rollie graduated from Pre-k. Yeah, it's four-year-olds, but i was pretty damn proud. And he's pretty damn cute.

Yeah, check him out!

New School

7:45 am
[Enter room and see Rollie watching The Jetsons on Boomerang.]

Rollie: Mama, you know what I'm watching?
Me: The Jetsons?
Rollie: Yeah. . . . You like Jetsons, Mama?
Me: Yeah, it was one of my faves when I was a girl. You kicking it old school, or what?
Rollie [staring at me like I am the dumbest person on earth:] No, I'm going to a new school.

Always the little literalist.

Heartwarming Milestone: Rollie's First Bottle of Robo!

Like those other milestones, "First trip to the Emergency Room," or "First Projectile Vomiting Episode," they are so precious. This morning, it was "First Call to Poison Control."

Rollie has a cold and cough. He often wakes up earlier than Todd and me, goes to the bathroom, and then plays in his room until the sun comes up. This morning, I could tell he wasn't feeling good, and he was coughing like crazy, so I made the call to keep him home from school. He was laying on the couch, watching The Flintstones, and just feeling puny. Yes, Mom, his eyes were peaked, too.

It was my turn to get up with the kids, so Todd woke up later and i heard him jump in the shower. Then he came down with the news that someone had gotten into the cough medicine. Now, any parent knows that kids freakin' love taking medicine. It always tastes like Cherry, Grape, or Bubblegum! It's the best! Yes, i realize that kids are not supposed to take the cold and cough medicines anymore, but we never cleaned the old ones out of the medicine cabinet. I mean, who knows? Next month, they might come out with a study that shows children's cough medicine prevents cancer.

We interrogated him for a few minutes, trying to find out how much he took. We had no idea how much was in the bottle in the first place (or how he managed to open a "childproof" bottle.) He kept repeating that he took "four." Four sips? Four chugs? Four teaspoons? Four cupfuls? Sure, his liver might be experiencing irreparable damage, or his heart might be about to explode out of his chest, or he might be about to slip into a coma at any moment, but I still want to throttle him for not being able to express to me exactly how much he took. Mother of the Year!

I got on the phone with the pediatrician's office. When you tell the doctor that your kid ingested poison or got into cough medicine, all you can think is that the nurse on the other end is thinking "why the hell do you still have that medicine in the house, and why weren't you watching your kid? Just another dumbass, crappy parent." They forwarded me to Poison Control. While I waited for them to answer, I looked at the bottle. There was no Tylenol in it. Phew. For Rollie's size, he should have a teaspoon. A cup of it is four teaspoons. 98 pound kids are supposed to get four teaspoons. Rollie only weighs 40 pounds.

Fuck. What the hell is Dextromothorphan.

This is obviously some kind of karmic ass-biting the world is bringing upon me for all the times we shoplifted Robotussin in high school and then drank the whole bottle. I was a terrible kid and now I am the worst mother in the world. What the hell made me think i could be a parent? Just to get it out of the way, I should admit that there was also shoplifting and sniffing of Scotchguard and whipped cream. Maybe a confession here will be considered proactive good karma and the universe won't require Tiller and Rollie to fulfill the "I hope you have one just like you" curse to its full potential.

Poison control guy gets on and asks me questions and then tells me to hold on while they crunch numbers. Seems like forever, and it is not encouraging that Georgia Poison Control is somehow affiliated with Grady Health Systems. I start Googling directions to Children's from the new house.

Guy gets back on the line, and tells me Rollie will be fine. He should not have any other meds today. Drink plenty of fluids. He might be extremely excitable, or really drowsy. (Come on, drowsy!) He is definitely acting a little odd (he called me Tiller and keeps babbling nonsense) and his pupils look like saucers, but he seems okay.

I am so relieved. You forget how much you love the little shits, because you get so tired of the endless questions, and constant chatter, and neverending requests, and the fights, and crying, and messes they make. But when you have ten minutes wondering if you'll be sitting in a hospital that day and if your little man is going to be okay, it puts it all into perspective. You think that sitting on the couch watching cartoons and cuddling with a sick, doped-up kid is pure heaven.

We are sitting here on the couch now, and he is definitely acting squirrely; he keeps repeating "I'm sorry, mama." And I keep telling him that it is okay, that mama and Daddy got mad at him because it scared them, and he just can't ever take medicine without us ever again. Then he says, "I'm sorry I took the medicine, mama." We have been repeating this about every ten minutes for the last hour. I am reminded of the time Mike M. fell off the skateboard and got a concussion. He had no memory of the accident.

He kept asking: "What happened?"
Us: "You have a concussion."
Mike: "How did I get it?"
Us: "You fell off a skateboard."
Mike: "Who the hell let me on a skateboard!!??"

(For those that don't know Mike, he is about 6'8" and should never have been on a skateboard in the first place.) He would seem happy with our answers, and then five minutes later, forgot them and we went through the whole thing again. This happened so many times that da Crease finally wrote "Concussion" and "Skateboard" on his arm and just told Mike to look at his arm when he asked what happened. Still cracks me up to think about it.

The upside to this Robo episode? Rollie is so out of it that I am able to make him watch cartoons I like, rather than the Dora and Diego crap that we usually would have to watch. Right now we are watching The Perils of Penelope Pitstop. He keeps telling me he loves this show. It is his favorite.

Oh, and his cough is gone.

Motivation

Thanks to Maigh for introducing me to this black hole of a time-wasting site. I've made like ten motivational posters for my kids already. Addictive. Might have to do some for myself, too.

First Snow

A little video from our brief snow experience last night.

Things I Forgot About Snow

"Mama, when i was outside in the snow, I made a ball and I threw it on you and it was fun."

Yes, Rollie, it was. It was the most fun I've had in ages. I threw an icy, wet snowball today. But it was a snowball. And I showed you how to make a really sad snow angel. And I showed you how the best place to get a snowball from is a clean surface like the car and then we tried to throw snowballs at Daddy in the bedroom window above while he was on a conference call, while Quint did the low-butt run around the cul-de-sac, like he was a pup.

I had forgotten that snow had a sound and a smell, and that it made dogs frisky, and toes tingle and eyelashes frosted, and that it made little kids and big kids giggle like they were being tickled.

p.s. Mom, I'm real sorry about that mess me and Lisa and Matt and Karen and Sean made in the house, like, every day, throughout the winter in Rochester for two years in a row. We musta been about the biggest pains in the ass ever.

Resolution Broken

One thing that I don't like about having kids is that even on Saturday morning, I sometimes only drink about half a cup of coffee before having to do something like mop the whole kitchen after the kids dump their milk all over the floor for fun. This of course happened while I was in the bathroom for all of about one minute. Look in kitchen and it's perfectly clean. Go in bathroom for a minute, and come out to hear that "not good" silence that all parents dread. Walk into kitchen to find Tiller sitting at the table eating, surrounded by milk everywhere: Covering the table, in both chairs, all over the floor in an approximately 10X10 foot space. Rollie is nowhere to be found, but I finally locate him hiding inside the pantry doors, a sure sign of guilt if I have ever seen one. He proceeds to blame Tiller for the whole thing, and like a good little sheep, when asked about it, she says yes, she did it.

riiiiigght.

Spent the next 30 minutes cleaning the milk up, then mopping, all the while breaking one of my New Year's Resolutions, the one about raising my voice to the children.

Rhyme Time

Rollie is learning to sound out words, and even recognizes some on sight (like "Max" on the boat in Where the Wild Things Are), and it is fascinating to talk about words and letters and languages and sounds and to see how his brain is grasping things. Today on the way to school, he asked me "What rhymes with caution?" I was stumped. I told him,
"Um, okay, you stumped Mama. I can't think of one. Give me another."

"How about 'mailbox."

Geez, kid, I've only had one cup of coffee! I decided to pull a Seuss.

"Snailfox rhymes with mailbox."

In the rearview, I could see Rollie looking at me with suspicion. Parenting is hard.

Bonus: One smartypants point for each real word you come up with that rhymes with caution or mailbox. . . .

Meowing Love

Rollie saw the cats meowing Jingle Bells. So, the other night, when Todd went to Trivia, and I was putting the kids down, we did our usual night-nights, which include a range of oddities created over the last four years: Goodnight Moon turned into Goodnight Everyone we know and Every Object we have Ever Touched. Then when Tiller was little, I started singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to her, and then she started making requests, so that now she gets three songs every night. Then Rollie realized we were singing with Tiller and he decided he wanted to sing at bedtime, too. The last month or so, it has been Christmas carols at bedtime. Usually Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. But when I lay down in the bed with Rollie on Thursday night, he said, "Let's do Meow Song," nodding as he said it.

"Huh?"

"Meow Santa Claus."

And I thought, "Todd, you fucker. A little warning would be nice when you teach him to meow Santa Claus Is Coming To Town."

Kids are a great leveller, though, a fantastic humbling experiment. So, I took a deep breath, and began to meow. There are times when you are alone in the dark, meowing with your child, and it feels like perfection, and you know that it will be a moment that will bring tears to your eyes 20 years later. But right then, you just feel really, really silly. And you love him so much you just don't care.

My Kid Rocks!

Tiller and Rollie are enrolled in Mother's Morning Out/Preschool at a nearby church. Today was their Christmas program, where the parents dress their kids up in the requisite Christmas outfits and then the kids get up in front of the audience and proceed to have a million different kinds of meltdowns. Kids cry, kids talk to their parents, a few kids do their own dances, and not one of them actually sings the Christmas song their music teacher has been teaching them for the last three months. Some of them pick their noses. Some of them hit one another with bells. It is completely amusing. All of this goes on as the proud parents snap photos and take video of their little darlings as if they were Brangelina's Shiloh.

It has been interesting to sing Christmas carols with the kids this year. We sing with the kids at home, and are constantly looking for music that we like that is also kid-friendly. If I do say so myself, my kids have excellent taste in music; Rollie can identify both Band of Horses and Kings of Leon by ear. He even has this funny pseudo-tough face that he does in conjunction with the heavy metal "devil horns" sign when he's really rocking out to a song. (By the way, that gesture is actually called a "corna" from the Italian for horns. Who knew?) But Christmas carols just don't seem cool, until you have a little one whose eyes are all alight with Christmas joy and visions of sugar plums and all that crap. Then, you just have to bite the bullet and sing the hell out of some Jingle Bells at the top of your lungs.

So, there we were, watching the kids perform Christmas carols at the church program. They finished a song, and the audience clapped for them, and Rollie looked at me, wearing his Three Kings outfit and a huge smile on his face, raised his arm, and gave me the clearest, most awesome Corna you ever saw in a Methodist church sanctuary.

My kid fucking rocks.

Winning the Lottery

You probably would not know it, even if you know me pretty well, but sometimes I get depressed. It's never enough to make me unable to function (well, there was that one time after I had the baby, but that was just the hormones), but I just get down. Blah. Uninterested. Bluesy. I don't really want to leave the house. I don't really want to clean the house I don't want to leave. I don't want to do anything at all. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and it would be raining, and there was nothing to do, and I kept on driving my mom crazy, but whatever she suggested sounded like absolutely no fun to me, and the feeling was just pure frustration.

When I get this way, i think I hide it pretty well from everyone but my sister and my husband. God knows, Todd has certainly been seeing the ill effects of my recent melancholy in the sorry housekeeping I have been doing. But for the most part, I really try to overcome my down days, to find things to do to pull me out of the depression, or at least keep me busy until it passes. Which I guess means that I am not truly depressed at all, because I can still function, can still see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Well, it just seems like lately i have have been bored, depressed, whatever. Maybe it's the holidays, maybe it's watching both mine and Todd's parents deal with their own aging parents, when they should be enjoying their retirements and their golden years. Maybe it is feeling helpless at not being able to make all of the people I love just have it easier, or just get a damn break once in a while.

I am still feeling a little down, but you know what helps? When one of your oldest and dearest friends calls and asks if you can drop everything and help her out by going to New York with her for the weekend. All expenses paid. Because her husband was supposed to go with her and something came up with work and now she will have to go by herself.

Um, okay. I guess so. What? Hells to the yeah, I'll go! What depression? What boredom?

Who won the lottery?

I did. When I was born to the most awesomest, givingest Mama ever. When I started playing rec-league b-ball with Mealby "Take a Look at My Choices" Barron, and when I met the most understanding, laid-back, fun-loving, hysterical - and yet responsible - man EVER and made my smartest life move yet - Marrying his ass.

My Dad and sister and kids and cutest dog in the world? They are icing on my life cake.

Coffee, Santa, Margaritas, and Rudolph = Bliss

Good, hot coffee at Joe's. Tiller and Rollie sitting on East Atlanta Santa's lap, with not a tear. Meeting nice new people in my great neighborhood. Margaritas with the Reids and my family at La Casita Cantina. Mmmm. Pork Carnitas. . . .

Coming home and cuddling on the couch with my eldest, dozing to the sounds of him watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Bliss.

This Little Guy

Has grown into a little boy who can sound out words. I almost cried last night, I was so proud of him. He sounded out "Volcano" and "Valley" and almost got "Village" in our Caribbean Alphabet book. (Thanks, Lissa and Addie!) He would have gotten "Village" right, but that whole hard G/soft G (oooh, sounds dirty!) thing threw him off, so he thought it was pronounced "villagh." I never realized how difficult and screwy English was until trying to explain the pronunciation of certain words to Rollie.

None of this would have been possible without the Best Bedtime-Story-Reading Daddy in the Whole Wide World, a Daddy who consistently reads to the kids almost every night, and does it with the most wonderful, sweet, indulgent temperament, when I am just ready to have the day be over, throw their asses in the bed fully clothed, and pour myself a glass of wine.

Parenting is a thankless job, but every once in a while, they throw you a bone. It is a nice day as a parent when you can say to yourself, "At least I know we are doing at least one thing right."

All Hallows Eve

Halloween was ultra fun. We carved the pumpkin (yes, I am a total slacker and waited till the last minute) and then went and had pizza at Grant Central. After that, we walked around East Atlanta Village for the Eav-O-Ween celebration.
All of the shop owners hand out candy to the local kids, and the people-watching is pretty fun. The kids were pretty cute, and I have to say that kids don't get hipper than those who trick or treat The Earl and The Flatiron. Nothing like seeing your little ones waltz right up to a bar for trick or treating. Definitely beats the toothbrushes we used to get from Dr. Grove, the dentist who lived down our suburban street growing up.
After that, we came home and Todd traipsed the kids down the street, while I stayed back to drink beer, er. . . hand out candy. There is something so heartstring-tugging about seeing your husband walking down the street, holding hands with the costumed kids, their other hands gripping the pumpkins so tightly and with such purpose. I had a lovely time talking with the neighbors and then Todd and the kids returned, the kids dove into the candy, and we sat around talking some more, while handing out candy. Halloween in the hood is a little different than in the 'burbs. The first few years, you are kind of put out by the older kids trick-or-treating (as one neighbor put it, if you are out on a date, you are probably too old to trick or treat) and the lack of discernible costumes, but you start to realize that it's just the way that folks do things here, and you get into the spirit and go with the flow after a while. And I dare say that this year, it seemed like more people dressed up and that they were trying just a little bit harder.
Todd hosed the children down from layers of stickiness and put them both down. About nine, we closed up shop (lights out, candles out), and Todd walked down the street to check out the Gay Superheroes. It seems that the money house (what I call the neighbor's house where everyone meets to party while handing out candy every year - a jackpot for the trick or treater) was doing a Superhero costume theme this year. I am sure they went all out and I should have sent the camera. Damn.
I'm drinking beer, fucking around with the Halloween photos, and listening to my Creepy mix. Decemberists' Leslie Anne Levine is on right now. Awesome song. Awesome holiday.

Dispatch from Hell

Hell is the wonderful municipality of Warner Robins, GA, a town built up around an air force base. It is full of concrete and really ugly buildings. My father said he would never come back here after he finished high school and moved back to Savannah, where he was born. He is back, because no one counted on my grandfather making it to 92 years old, and Pop still lives here. So, now, mom and dad do too. My sister and I are in complete agreement that once Pop dies and Mom and Dad get out of this hell hole, we will never come back again. EVER.

We are watching Pop this weekend while Mom and Dad get away for a couple of days. So far, today:

5 a.m. I wake up to hear Rollie and Pop talking on the baby monitor. Pop has gotten up to go to the bathroom, which we were under the impression he can no longer do on his own. Evidently, he can, and the walker woke up Rollie, who thought it was Lisa and yelled out, "Lisa!" which promptly woke both Lisa and Tiller. I run upstairs, wondering what the hell is going on. Everyone is awake. Pop is sitting on the toilet with the door open (awesome) and Tiller is crying out and Lisa is asking me what I am doing upstairs. We get everyone calmed back down, with admonitions to Rollie that he shouldn't get out of bed until the sun comes up.

5:15 a.m. I am back downstairs in bed with the dog. My stomach hurts like shit. I am trying to go back to sleep. I realize that my stomach hurts because it is upset and then I spend the next 3 hours in and out of the bathroom. I never fall back asleep.

8 a.m. Everyone is up and clamoring for breakfast and the dogs need to go outside and i feel like crap. I slap raisin bran on the table for the kids, while Lisa takes the dogs out, because I just can't risk being that far away from the bathroom.

8:15 a.m. Pop calls and wants someone to get his breakfast and his insulin shot for him. He gets the shots at every meal and before bedtime. Lisa takes pity on me and takes both kids and her Jack Russell Terror, Emily, with her. I lay on the bed with Quint and try to enjoy quiet despite cramping stomach.

8:20 a.m. My mom calls. So much for my stolen moments without children. She wants to know what Lisa wanted. I don't know, but will have Lisa call her.

8:30 a.m. Lisa yelling, "No, Emily! No! No!" Lisa is saying over baby monitor.

8:40 a.m. Everyone comes back downstairs, except Pop, who never leaves his Lazy Boy. Lisa freaking out. Emily ate rat poison. After determining that children never came in contact with rat poison, I google "Dog ate rat poison."

8:50 a.m. Lisa and Emily get in car to go to vet, where she will be given something to make her puke up the poison, and a shot of something to counteract the effects of the poison.

8:55 a.m. I venture out to the carport so that Rollie can ride his bike and Tiller can play with sharp and poisonous stuff, of which there is a ton, because my grandfather has not thrown out a single item since about 1935. Quint gets his leash caught up in the porch furniture he is tied to while I chug Pepto Bismol. Tiller runs around at breakneck speed with a stick and then falls and skins both knees, just as Rollie barrels down the slope of the driveway, narrowly missing my Grandma's c. 1980s Cadillac with 19,000 miles on it. Yes, Grandma has been dead for five years, but why get rid of a perfectly good Caddy only driven to the Beauty Shop on Thursdays and church on Sundays? Swerving to miss Caddy, Rollie's bike flies out from under him and he lands smack dab on his ass, then gets up wailing. He climbs up into my lap for consolation, as I juggle Pepto and a dog leash, and Tiller then comes over to give him a hug, too, which was sweet, but only makes him shriek in my ear.

That's just a taste of a few moments in the alternate reality that is my Grandfather's house. Things have gotten better since about ten. Emily is going to make it, and the medicine might even make her sleep for the afternoon. Lisa took Tiller and Rollie to the store to get stuff for dinner and to give me a break from them. Both dogs are sleeping. Pop doesn't need lunch and a shot until 1:30. Lunch for him is easy, because he eats the same lunch every day: 1 pimento cheese sandwich, one small can of baked beans, and one can of Vienna sausages, all cold and out of the can. Puke-O-Rama.

Certainly things will continue on this upward trend until 3:30, when Cocktail party kicks off, at which point Bulldogs will disappoint me, and I will hopefully be over my stomach deal, so I can drink my sorrows away with a few Saturday afternoon beers.

Hope everyone else is having an awesome Saturday. With less poison, poop, barking, and did I mention the pooping? than we are experiencing here.

What to Be For Halloween

This morning, I asked Rollie what he was going to be for Halloween.

"Spider Man," he replied.

"Tiller, what are you going to be?" I said.

"Bida Mon." [Spider Man. She mimics everything Rollie does.]

I said, "Well, what am I going to be?"

Rollie didn't even look up, but stated very decisively, "A cow."

Um, thanks.

Back to School

I cannot believe that I dropped off my little Tiller for her first day of school today. Okay, not real school, but the Mommies' Morning Out program. She goes Tuesdays and Thursdays for three whole hours. She was so excited to put on her big girl backpack. Keep your traps shut about the fact that it is Rollie's hand-me-down backpack; He got a brand spanking new Diego backpack for his birthday, and it just seemed ludicrous to throw the old one out, so I just crossed out his name and put hers on the backpack. I also drew her a nifty flower to girl it up a little. Then I felt guilty for not drawing anything on Rollie's backpack, so I drew him a car. Two more fun things about being a Mom - 1) You can guilt yourself about just about anything where your kids are concerned and 2) You will need a Sharpie. Often.

Both kids got out of the van, with Todd's help. He followed us over to school for her first day, since we did it last year for Rollie's first day. Yes, Todd is the best Daddy ever. They were so cute, with backpacks and raring to go. They humored me while we took some pictures to commemorate the big event. Rollie was cracking me up, saying hello to the Pastor and to his friends from last year. We took him to his classroom first. He went right in, found his hook, hung up his backpack, and started playing. He said, "Hey guys!" when he walked in the room. Tiller followed him in at a run, with her backpack too big for her body, and mimicked big brother with a very cute, "Hey, guys!" to the big kids in Rollie's class. Luckily, she was not upset when we put her in the room with kids her own age.

We walked her down to the room, and the door was shut. She went right in, starting to play before we could get her backpack off her. We showed her where her hook was and hung up her backpack, because she wasn't able to reach the hook yet. She went right back to playing with cars. Todd and I said bye-bye, and slipped out. No tears, not even a glance.

Then I went to meet Lisa for coffee and unadulterated adult conversation (can adult conversation be unadulterated?) for over two whole straight hours. It was good. Really, really good.

We Did It! Kept One of These Critters Alive for Four Years!

Dear Rollie -

I cannot believe that you are four years old today. It seems like just yesterday that I was lying around taking naps, and anticipating your arrival. If only I had known how drastically my life was about to change. You turned everything upside down from the moment you arrived, and I will never be the same.

In the last year, you started school for the first time. You just went three days a week from 9-noon, but it was so hard to drop you off that first time. You were so excited, with your little backpack. I don’t know why I worried – you did great, and you made lots of friends, and you loved going to school. You didn’t get in too much trouble, although I did have to go pick you up one time for biting. I was mortified. We talked about it, though, and you never did it again. Your teacher at the beginning of the year was Miss Michelle; you loved her, and sometimes you didn’t want to leave school and would hug her legs and cry and scream when I came to pick you up. After Christmas, they moved the three-day kids into a different class and your teachers were miss Reshma, who was from India, and Miss Janice. Both of them were very sweet to you, and liked you very much, although you went through a difficult stage there for a while. You were pushing a lot. That was our fault, though, because we let you watch the movie, “Cars.” It was a movie about a racecar, and in his races, he and other cars would bump each other, and you started bumping other people in real life, including your friends at school, and your little sister. Any time you ran into someone, you would say that it was “bumping.” We took the movie away when we (finally) realized the movie was causing the behavior.

Your friends at school are Jackson, Reese, David, Ezra, Zoe, Shruthi, Toby, and Sarah. I loved to come pick you up and see you playing happily on the playground. I always had to bring home a pile of artwork that you did at school. The box in my closet is about to explode, it has so much artwork in it. I don’t know what I will do when you and Tiller are both going this coming Fall. The teachers last year always said that you were very smart and doing well with your ABCs and counting and letter sounds. I am very proud of your intelligence and how quickly you learn things, and I know that you are going to be reading in the next couple of years; I cannot wait to see your excitement when you realize that reading a book is like opening a door to a whole new, unexplored world. I look forward to discussing books with you, and to seeing what subjects you get excited reading about.

Your favorite things to play right now are cars and trains. You are a pro at riding your tricycle, and Daddy and I finally got you a new bike for your birthday. It is a Huffy Rockit, and it has flames on it. We took you to the park to ride yesterday and you did great. You were a little scared, and had a few wobbles when your training wheels went off the sidewalk, but if I walked beside you, holding the end of the handlebars, you were confident. If I let go, you would cry and scream for me to hold on to it again. I admit that I was annoyed that you were too scared to try it, but I was proud that by the end of the outing, you were riding without me helping you, and riding ahead of Daddy, Tiller, and I. You showed us how you could ride in circles, and you were so proud of yourself. I know that years from now, I will wish that you need me more often, that I will want to hold on to your handlebars, or help push you up the big hills, so to speak, but I know that part of being your Mama is watching you become an independent little boy.

You received other stuff for your birthday: A bunch of matchbox and hot Wheels cars, an Auburn shirt (I am hoping you will grow out of that ugly thing pretty soon), a game with a monkey, a football set and a cool die-cast truck from Uncle Mark. Uncle Lyle got you a racetrack for your cars, and a cool Snoopy Snow Cone machine. Grandma and Papaw Palmer got you a baseball glove and tee with a whiffle ball and bat. The glove looks so small, and yet it is too big for your hand. We are taking them to the Lake for Labor Day this weekend, and I am looking forward to playing some catch with you and Papaw (when we’re not watching the Dawgs play, of course – Football season starts this weekend!) Your party was a cookout at our house. We filled the kiddie pool up for swimming, and had hot dogs, hamburgers, cake, and ice cream. All of your Grandparents were here, but Meemaw and Pop couldn’t make it. Uncle Mark and Aunt Lisa were here, and also Uncle Lyle. Aunt Denise was sick, and Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Wade couldn’t make it because they had baby Luci on Friday. That’s right! You and Tiller have your first cousin. I am a little sad that you don’t have a cousin closer in age, but you and Tiller are such partners in crime, that I know you will always have each other to play with. Other people at the party were: Harmony, Gabe, and baby Chase; Ned, Vanessa, and Scarlett; cousin Adam, and Jenny and Addie; Matt Stewart showed up in time for a burger, cake, and ice cream.

Let’s see, what else happened this year? Your vocabulary has rocketed. I am amazed when you ask me things like, “Mama, what are consequences?” and you really caught me off guard last week, when you asked me how babies get out of their Mama’s tummies. For the record, I just told you the truth – babies come out of their mama’s vaginas, kind of like when they go pee pee. You looked confused and then asked me if the baby went into the toilet. You like to say that things are “crazy” or “cool.”

You are a great big brother. You teach Tiller lots of games, and you are pretty patient with her, even when she is a complete pest. You both love to dance, and to sing. Your favorite songs this year have been: Just about anything by Kings of Leon, although your favorite is probably “Charmer.” You love to sing to Sufjan Stevens’ “Chicago,” The Decemberists’ “Crane Wife 3,” and Lily Allen’s “LDN.” You totally rock out to MC5’s “Kick Out the Jams” (I am a good mom, and always do something to distract you from the first line, so that you won’t learn that one) and The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” Your favorite song to dance to is Peter Bjorn and John’s “Young Folks.” The big dance move you do is what we call “The Big Dance.”

You finally potty-trained this summer. I was frustrated as all get-out, and then one day at the lake, you just started pooping on the potty all by yourself. It was like you decided to finally do it once we gave up trying to teach you. I think you may get a little bit of obstinancy from both your Mama and your Dada. Whatever. I am just glad that I am not changing two diapers anymore. You still wear one at night, and during naps. Not that you nap anymore. Unless you fall asleep in the car, or you are sick. I get pretty frustrated with this, because it means that I never get any alone time during the day, but I know that I will miss our afternoons together when you start school for real.

I really, really try to cherish every moment with you, and I think that I do a pretty good job of checking myself when I am not making the most of our time together. Right now you are sitting next to me watching Diego while I type this. Tiller is sitting next to you. You are wearing a purple, plastic lei that you got at the gym this morning, Thomas the Tank engine underwear, and an Auburn shirt. You just turned to me, yawned, and said something about Baby Jaguars.

I cannot believe how much you are the center of my world, how much I love you, and how fast you change. Lately, you have become more pouty when you are mad at us, and sweeter, to the point of saccharine, when you are trying to show us affection. If you are mad at us, you will tell us “You are a joke!” which we reprimand you for, but secretly think is cute. You also sometimes say that “I am not loving you today.” That one hurt the first time you said it, but now it makes me laugh, because you would have to do a whole lot more to make me not love you back. I don’t think I could love you one iota less. I think you yourself have summed up my love for you: You have taken to telling us, when you are being sweet, that “You are my heart, mama. You and Daddy are my hearts.”

I think that people who are not parents cannot possibly understand the all-encompassing love a parent has for their children. It is a double-threat, a totality of body and mind. It is a love that occupies my mind at all times, even stealing into my dreams to wake me in a terror. It is the physicality of the love, though, that awes me so; the physical sense of feeling sick when you are hurt, or even at the thought of you being in pain. The knowledge, fearless and involuntary, that I would take a bullet for you without a moment’s hesitation. I know that I would kill for you, or die trying. I guess it is biology, a primal instinct to preserve my offspring, but I also like to think that there is a bigger power in our world and that it is fueled by loves like the unalterable love that I feel for you and your sister. You are my heart, sweet Rollie, and you will always be my heart.

Happy Birthday,
Your Mama
Annie

The N-Word: The Playground Argument

It took me a day to digest this incident. I think the N-word has so much power that it would be remiss of me to blog about my thoughts on it all willy nilly.

Yesterday, Todd and I took the kids to the Fellini's on LaVista for lunch. We Beat the Baptists, as my Dad always called it when I was growing up. As a kid, after Church on Sundays, we would be ushered quickly out of our Methodist (Baptist Lite) church, and herded to the cars, all of us except Dad just wishing we could go home and change out of the damn panty hose and do something fun with the rest of our Sunday, before the 60 Minutes clock started ticking. Not Dad, though. He had one goal in mind: Beat the Baptists to Morrison's. I may not attend church anymore, but Dad and I have more than a little in common with one another. I still like to Beat the Baptists if I am having lunch out on a Sunday.

We went into Fellini's and ordered. As we waited for our order, we watched Chelsea and Liverpool play soccer on the large TV. Business was slow, as we had beat the Baptists soundly, and the cooks were standing around watching the match, too. Rollie will usually narrate any sport that we watch on TV, even if he doesn't even know what sport it is. I would be lying if I said I didn't filter out about half of everything he says in a day, but Todd and I both were interested when he said the following:

"What is that black man. . . blue shirt doing?"

Todd and I looked at each other questioningly, as if to say, "have you heard him say anything about a person's color before?" We live in a pretty diverse neighborhood. On any given day, there are a pretty equal number of White and African American kids on the playgrounds nearest our house. Same breakdown at the kids' center at the YMCA. Not once has he ever asked me why some people are one color and others are another. It just hasn't happened. It is not for his lack of curiosity, because he has been curious about people in wheelchairs, and he has (quite loudly) asked why the people at the next table in a restaurant are "so big." (As I have said before, parenting is not for the faint-hearted.)

I whispered to Todd, "Maybe he just got confused about the color of the jersey."

Todd replied: "We're lucky he didn't use another word."

"What? What do you mean?"

"He heard a new word at the playground a lot yesterday."

Todd proceeded to tell me about their trip to Kirkwood playground yesterday. They had gone over there, because Brownwood Park was being used for a family reunion. This is a common occurrence, but it is kind of difficult to keep up with two kids by yourself in a mass of people, so he thought he'd be able to better keep up with them at Kirkwood. Turns out there was a family reunion at the Kirkwood park, too. The family reunion was for an African-American family.

Todd said that there were kids of all ages there, and that the boys on the playground were liberally using the N-word.

"You mean there were teens using it?"

Nope, kids. Kids under 8, under six even. He nodded seriously to affirm that yes, there were children using the N-word to each other on the playground.

I looked at Todd aghast.

Todd said that Rollie didn't seem to notice the word at all, but anyone who has a young one learning to talk knows that just because they haven't said something doesn't mean it hasn't been soaked up by their little sponge brains. Exhibit A: Car runs a red light last year and narrowly misses my van as I am taking Rollie to school. I slam on brakes and mutter "Asshole." I look in the rear view mirror and Rollie seems oblivious to the word. Thank God. I get to school and get out to take Rollie in. As I open the van door, I say hello to the woman who works in the church preschool office, who is parked next to us. The door slides open to the sound of Rollie singing, "Asshole, asshole, asshole." Kids have perfect comedic timing. Impeccable. It has been 48 hours since Rollie heard the N-word on the playground, and it has not surfaced, so I am thinking we dodged a bullet with this one. At least, he dodged a bullet.

Me? I feel like I was hit with a silver bullet right through the heart. I have such strongly held emotions about the n-word as it is, but to have my child enmeshed in the discussion makes my blood boil. Three-year-olds should not be presented with the n-word. I am sure there are PhD students writing their dissertations on the origins and power of this word; how on earth is my child prepared to digest the meaning of the word?

I am well-educated. I understand that many African Americans feel that they have taken this word back. I think it is a stupid argument and that people who use the word are ignorant and that the word itself is so fraught with pain that I cannot fathom why someone would want to use it, rather than let it be buried by the sands of time. But I do not think that I can remotely understand what it is like to be African American, and so I tend to just think that it is a word that I myself will never utter, and that my children will never use.

But when I imagine people using the word with one another, taking the word back, so to speak, I imagine that it is teenagers and adults who wield the word; Never in a million years did I imagine that children, some my own son's age, would be using the word on the playground. I shudder to think what would have happened if my son the sponge, with a love for the sound of new words on his tongue and for the plays on words that he so adores, had heard those boys calling one another the N-word, and in his childlike naivete and playfulness, had called one of them by the same word they were calling one another.

What, pray tell, would have been the reaction? I know what my husband would have done. He would have gotten down on his knees and firmly told Rollie, looking him in the eye all the while, that this is not a word that we EVER use. But how do you explain the pain and history of such a word to a three-year-old? How do you explain to a child, one that does not even seem to see the color of skin, that it is alright for one color of people to use the word, to throw it around like a ball at play, but for others to even utter the word is unacceptable?

What would be the reaction from the other children if Rollie had uttered that word? What would have been the reaction of their parents? I would like to think that the parents' reactions would be one of understanding. But in this racially-charged city (and to say that Atlanta is not preoccupied with race is naivete incarnate), I fear that the parents might assume that this is a word that my son learned from us. I am glad that it didn't come up. At times, I prefer being an ostrich, head in the sand. There are some questions to which I don't want to know the answer.

All I know is that I have never liked the word, and I have never used it. I was raised that it was ignorant to use the word. I have never understood why people would want to use it, most especially those for whom the word has such a terrible past. The thing about the word, though, is that it has a terrible past for us all, doesn't it?

I will teach my children that the word is unacceptable and that its users are ignorant. I am sure there are African Americans who would find fault with me calling them ignorant for using the word. I don't know what to say to them; I just know that my heart hurts for those children who know not what they utter on that playground. My heart hurts for my own son, who came so close to having his first introduction to the word, an introduction that I wish would never happen, much less when he is three. I only know that I would be much happier if we all let the word go.

I am one of a multitude of people who have thought about the word, or written about it. My treatment of it here is superficial and barely skims the surface of the myriad ways this word works and thrives and undermines and causes harm in our society. But in everything I have read and watched and heard about this word, I have never found a single argument against any of us using the N-word that is quite as compelling as the playground argument:

Is this a word that we want uttered on our playgrounds? Is this a word that we want little African American boys teaching to their white playmates?

Afternoon Surprise

Not to be confused with Afternoon Delight.

My sister was bummed out about various life stuff and so she came over to destress. Why you would come to the home of two kids under four to destress, I have no idea, but she is a strange cookie.

Anyway, I never even ate breakfast, and then she had me convinced that I should drink a margarita with her, before I had even had lunch. She really had to twist my arm. Ended up having lunch, two margaritas, and hanging out all afternoon in the backyard with the kids, and the two dogs. (She brought her new pup, and once again, I forgot to snap a picture of her.)

The best part was kicking the soccer ball with Rollie. When you have a baby, you just never really let it sink in that they will grow up, start talking, and be able to kick a soccer ball with you in the backyard. It was a little surreal - Just me and the boy, kicking the ball back and forth and talking and laughing.

Might have been the margaritas, but I think it was more that he is just growing into such a nice little boy. Into someone that in twenty five years or so, I might actually be friends with.

A Sad End to an Idyllic Aerie

Things came to a sad end here this morning. A few years ago, we planted Evergreen Clematis at the base of our porch, and trailed the vines up the pillars and along the edge of our porch roof. As evidenced by the name, the vine is evergreen, giving us green foliage right out our window, all year long. The Clematis blooms, with big white flowers, once a year, for an all-too-brief period of time.

The plus to this Clematis has been the unexpected families of birds who have set up shop in the vines. Clematis is strong, and it is strong enough to hold a nest where it runs across the corners of the porch. At one time, we had three nests, all bustling with birds. Okay, it isn't all zippity-doo-dah; The birds occasionally swoop at us as we try to get in our front door, but it has been more than worth it to hear the babies chirping in their nest as we sit in the rockers on the porch at day's end.

This morning, as Todd was leaving for work, and I was being roped into a game of trains with Rollie, Todd knocked on the window from the porch, a disappointed look on his face, and then pointed down at the porch floor.

"The Birds?" I asked?

Todd nodded. He held two fingers up.

Just Saturday night, Todd and I were sitting on the porch, having a couple of beers after the kids went down, and before Todd went out to see bands (lucky bastard). We sat in the fading light, and as we did, a bird kept swooping in the side of the porch, a worm in its mouth, then flying back again to sit on the fence next door. She would sit there, trying to look nonchalant about not being able to get us to move. We took pity on her and moved to sit on the porch steps, away from her nest.

It wasn't readily apparent what happened to our birds. The two babies were just lying on the ground, and they had been there long enough that the ants, who also live around and in our porch vines, had come to take what was there, swarming all over them. There was no sign of Mama Bird. My heart hurts for her. I wonder if she has moved on, this once idyllic aerie no longer holding any joy for her.

We brought Rollie outside to see the s