She said / She said

Dayenu

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 04:21:00 +0000

I feel I owe George W. Bush a debt of gratitude.

Eight years ago, after Clinton's philanderings precipitated Bush's win by forcing Al Gore to distance himself from a reasonably successful administration - not to mention a great campaigner - I consoled myself with the thought that after one term of this election-stealing poser, the country would be ready to elect a real president. I mean, how much damage could one man do in four years?

Let's tally it up, shall we?

If Bush had lied us into a war with the strategy of a bumbling cock and no exit plan, it would have been enough.

If he had lied us into a war with no exit plan and not further instigated enmity among other foreign countries, it would have been enough.

If he had instigated enmity among foreign countries and not alienated our allies, it would have been enough.

If he had alienated our allies and not decimated our civil rights, it would have been enough.

If he had decimated our civil rights and not allowed big business to poison our environment, it would have been enough.

If he had poisoned our environment and not implemented a damaging education policy, it would have been enough.

If he had implemented damaging education policy and not neglected the infrastructure that protect the poorest among us, it would have been enough.

If he had neglected the infrastructure and and not waged a war on scientific reason, intellectual discussion and dissent, it would have been enough.

If he had not waged a war on scientific reason, intellectual discussion and dissent and not deregulated the economy into ruin, it would have been enough.

Have I forgotten anything?

Just like Clinton and his undisciplined penis, George W. Bush allowed his Dick to run rampant, souring the electorate on anything remotely associated with his administration. He failed this country by every possible measure on every conceivable front, (his domestic policy may be tragic, but at least his foreign policy is catastrophic,) which allowed Senator Obama to glide into the Oval Office, along with countless (I haven't counted them) Democrats unseating Republican incumbents.

Sure Obama ran a brilliant campaign, while McCain's brings to mind cliches like train wreck, nuclear holocaust and Waterworld, but would this country have elected a black president had Bush's spectacular abuses not made us us desperate for change? And while the thought of passing this historic milestone makes me a weepy with hope, the thing I'm truly excited about is that all of a sudden, people see the key to saving our country lies in saving our environment. This is not a new idea, but we're finally getting to hear about in places like The New York Times and not just Mother Jones.

Sometimes you have to hit bottom before you can reach great heights, so thank you George, for exceeding my wildest expectations.

Make your own adventure

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 03:56:00 +0000

Nana and Pop are in town, which means the laundry's done, the house is clean and AnnaRay and I have been relieved of parenting duties. In light of these remarkable turn of events, AR and I struck out - just the tow of us - for a grown-up adventure. As we headed south on I5, minus the car seats and their whiny occupants, I felt an old sense of freedom and was reminded of the summer between my last year of high school and my first year of college, when I felt like I was capable of anything and everything was possible. Forget second childhood - I just got to enjoy a second adulthood.

Here are some of photos: (Not pictured is the Coquille Indian Tribe's hotel and casino, where AR gambled late into the night [11 p.m.] and we slept in [till 9 a.m.] on the king-sized bed overlooking Coos Bay. Also not pictured are the Elk we saw hanging out by the side of the road as we drove home, or the diner in Elkton where we stopped for lunch and were reminded that Twin Peaks was indeed set in Oregon. Mmm, Cherry pie.)

This is where we would have seen the sea lions if there were any sea lions to be seen in the sea lion cave - the largest sea cave in the world, according to Ripley's Believe It Or Not. On this day, the sea lions were out frolicking in the surf, but the cave was cool to see anyway.

And tis is the view from the other side of the cave. Can you see the waterfall on the right and the lighthouse in the distance?

Here is AR looking out toward the ocean from the dunesin Suislaw National Forest.

And here is AR trekking back over the dunes.

And here I am hurling myself off one of the dunes. Ok, maybe it was more of a second childhood after all.

a loss for words

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 05:50:00 +0000

I can't recall ever hearing my mother curse in anger. Or ever, really. It's one of the ways I try to emulate her as a mom, because I think it's cool. Aside from the whole not-wanting-my kids-to-curse thing, I think falling back on cursing betrays a certain lack of imagination.

My imagination fails me all the time, of course. There just nothing so satisfying at times as spewing forth a few expletives - like scratching an itch in some hard-to-reach spot. And while I've been pretty good about holding back in front of the kids, I've been feeling lately like I need to make an exception.

We've entered the rainy season here in Portland, and it's beginning to get cold, too, but I am loathe to give up my bike commute. I love the exercise at least as much as I hate to drive, and even a bad day on the bike beats a good day in the car. The Boy, however, shares my commute (on a trail-a-bike hitched on back,) but not my enthusiasm. I've tried reasoning with him by explaining the high cost of parking and how bad bad driving is for the environment, and I've tried bribing him. The bribes seem to work best. I bought a shiny red thermos - a novelty in itself to a five-year-old boy - and told him that every cold and/or rainy morning he agrees to bike in with me he will be rewarded at school with a steaming cup of cocoa.

This morning, which was fairly cold and very wet, he donned his rain gear and ear warmers and hopped on the bike without complaint. He was such a trooper, and I wanted to let him know how proud of him I am. I wanted to give him something more than warm chocolate to chase the chill - something he can hold onto, to make him feel more fierce than the weather. I want to let him know that he's a bad ass.

"You know what you are?" I asked him as he stood stiffly by the bike, rain dripping off his helmet as he waited patiently for me to unload the thermos. "You're a tough guy," I said. "A real tough guy."

Perhaps he found some satisfaction in that, but I sure as hell didn't.

Autumn haiku

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 18:28:00 +0000

Welcome, Portland rain,
chase blue skies and refugees
of high-priced housing.

That's my girl

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 00:59:00 +0000

In case anyone out there doubted that The Girl came out of me, this was our day care provider's written description of her day:

"She enjoyed playing with her friends, but then she wanted to be by herself and so took some books in a corner to be alone. She seemed very happy there."

Oh, I'm sure she did. I could not be prouder of my little loner-in-training.

His brisket is beyond

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 16:27:00 +0000

I have nothing intelligent to say this week, between too much work and a nasty case of vertigo and running around stuffing money in pillowcases because George Bush told me to. Instead, here's something to watch. And remember, as we say in the newspaper business: You don't have to use facts. Use threats.

The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

Three things I saw and one I didn't

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 04:36:00 +0000

Here's my new game: I'm going to tell you four things I saw on my bike ride home today, and you try to guess which one I made up.

1. A naked lady with long, black hair high-fiving skater boys as she rode by them on her bike.

2. A red, white and blue ferry boat with a red paddle wheel at the stern heading south on the Willamette (That rhymes with dammit, for those of you not playing in Portland.)

3. A white man in a black hat and a black t-shirt and black pants who pointed to the ground as he passed by a small, brown lump on the path and said, "Look, that's dog shit."

4. A grey squirrel with a green apple in its mouth run under a sky-blue port-a-potty parked on the street and run back out again, without the apple.

Please phrase your answer in the form of a comment. A winner, chosen at random from among the correct answers, will be invited to play our game on the air.

Senility approacheth

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 04:25:00 +0000

My soon-to-be-13-year-old next-door neighbor and I were having a conversation last night. She's staying with us because her mom is out of town, and she was looking for some music to listen to while she did her homework. I looked through our CDs - which already mark us as geezers in the mp3 age - and was pleased to find something reasonably current I knew she could relate to, when she reached for a Sheryl Crow album. "I like her," she said, and I, eager to introduce her to something new, looked through my collection of really old music and pulled out Shooting Rubberbands at the Stars. "You might like her," I said of Edie Brickell. "She used to be married to Paul Simon." And this is where I should have seen what was coming, but was still taken aback when my 5-days-away-from-being-a-teenager friend said, "Who's Paul Simon?"

Yeah.

I forget sometimes that I'm kinda old. Maybe because I'm kinda old. A friend of mine - maybe she's in her early fifties - asked me recently what I though middle-aged was. I answered, without giving it a moment's thought, "However old my parents are." That's great news for everyone but Social Security, since it means we'll all be living to 130.

Still, none of this makes me feel nearly as old as learning, while chatting with the wonderful women who take care of my daughter at day care, that the John Hughes oeuvre has become all the rage among 20-somethings. The movies that defined my youth have have become retro-cool - what could be more unsettling? I'm not sure, but I'm going to find me some hippies and find out what they're doing for the next 20 years.

You want mean ...

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 03:32:00 +0000

I'm one of the nicest people I know, thank you very much. But nice is relative.

For example, the other day I went out with the deputies on the county river patrol to do some reporting on the topic of people who jump off bridges. (We do, after all, have quite a few bridges and quite a few people who jump off them.)

We are not five minutes out of the dock when they get a call: Subject floundering under the Marquam Bridge. The deputies look at me like they're wondering what kind of weird-yet-effective reporter hoodoo I've performed, then kick the boat into high gear, or whatever the fast-fast speed is on one of those things. I feel that wonderful/awful adrenaline that kicks in whenever something really bad has happened and I get to write about it. In the end, it wasn't a jumper but a dumb guy in a Speedo and a swim cap who was just out for his afternoon exercise -- out in the middle of the nasty, toxic Willamette River.

But it still made me think: I live for stuff like that. Hurricanes. Murders. Car wrecks. Big, hot, messy fires.

I am a very, very nice person. Caring, even. I leave spots close to the grocery store for little old ladies. I stop to people with flat tires. I wave at other drivers, and I usually mean it. Yet I spend my days hoping for bad things to happen to nice people. Which isn't very nice at all, is it?

The nice one

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 00:07:00 +0000

The funny thing is, AnnaRay is generally considered "the nice one." I, of course, have known the truth for some time now, but it's nice that she's finally outing herself as the one with the rage.

I think the common misconception arises from the fact that Anna is the quiet one. This may or may not have anything to do with her inability to hear what people are saying; her default conversation tactic is to smile and nod, smile and nod. More likely, though, her ability to stow away her less social feelings and primal instincts can be traced to her Southern roots and Connecticut upbringing, where not saying anything if you have nothing nice to say is a way of life.

Have I mentioned that I grew up in New York?

My conversation style tends to be direct and outspoken, which makes sense in New York, but it's been a long, long time since I've lived in New York. My mother-in-law once made the fair assessment that what I consider to be intellectual honesty is just plain rude. Really it's a wonder that, given my lack of tact, I have any friends at all. But in my own defense I will say that you always know where I'm coming from. Because I just told you, along with six or eight other strange and personal facts you may or may not have any interest in.

The path from my brain to my mouth is very, very short.

It works both ways, though. I'm just as likely to blurt out unsolicited compliments as unfiltered criticism. Apparently, that can be off-putting as well, but hey - if someone smells nice, I like to let them know. Still, sometimes I worry that telling my girlfriends how pretty they look might make me seem gay.

Oh wait -

Sometimes people do tell me I'm nice. It's usually after I've complimented some work they've done, and I say, no, no, NO! I can be nice, like when I remember to get extra cans of tuna at the store to take to the food bank, or when I stay up late helping a friend edit her resume, but I am never nice when I open my mouth. Really, I'm just being truthful.

Just another morning commute

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 15:51:00 +0000

A quick note to the two people I screamed obscenities at this morning:

To the lady in the green SUV. I am sorry. You were right; I should not have been stopped at a green light adjusting the straps on my bag. Instead, the polite and safe strategy would have been to pull off to the side of the road, allowing you to pass through the intersection before the light changed. However, honking multiple times at me (and my sleeping child) probably wasn't the most mature way to deal with the situation. Nor was calling me a bitch. I do apologize for the language I used in responding, and for the things I suggested you might do to yourself, or the things I suggested I might do to you had you followed through on your threat to step out of your car.

To the gentleman in the white van. Although I understand that you were on your way to work and in a hurry, I must note that I was in the crosswalk when you attempted to make that right turn. Yes, you had a green light, but I had a white walk sign. And Oregon law says I had the right of way. Also, hello, lady on bike with baby. What happened to chivalry? Don't you think telling me to pay attention really was a little silly? Did I really deserve to have the term used by some uncouth souls to describe a certain part of the female genitalia hurled at me? Still, I do apologize what I called you in return. Redneck is so unpleasant. And that other phrase I used -- the one that describes a certain part of the anatomy that needs to be kept very clean and very private? -- that perhaps was a step over the line, too.

All I can say to both of you is that I have some rage issues that seem to be getting worse as I get older and have me thinking menopause might not be such a bad experience. It doesn't help that my adorable daughter has decided that 5 a.m. is the proper time to begin the day. Nor that you're both raging assholes who I would kill with my brain, if the good lord were to bless me with that power for just a moment.

Have a good day. Sincerely yours. Love and kisses.

What I did on my summer vacation

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 00:33:00 +0000

Paxil.
Prozac.
Wellbutrin.
Lexapro.
Effexor.
Cymbalta.

Ok, I didn't try all of those THIS summer, but I sure tried a lot of them, and I'vecome to the conclusion that my brain has just does not get the whole concept of "antidepressant."

At best, these drugs had no discernable effect on me (Lexipro,) while others (Prozac) made me feel, metaphorically speaking, like I was under that giant foot in the opening sequence of Monty Python's Flying Circus. Sure it looks like a good time, and yet, without the humorous squishy sound, it's not much fun. Paxil made me yawn a lot and not want to have sex, and Wellbutrin made me cry and cry and cry. Effexor had promise - it gave me the energy to spring out of bed in the morning. Unfortunately, it did nothing about the not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. Also, it gave me the shakes. Then there was Cymbalta, which might have helped if only I could have tolerated the headaches, nausea and dizziness.

I've always been a big fan of talk therapy, and for a long, long time I had no interest in popping pills to feel better. Over the years I'd developed some effective coping mechanisms to get me through my semi-regular little sojourns into the badlands of depression. But sometime after The Girl was born, my short stay turned into an endless stretch of colorless days and desolation. I was stuck there, like a castaway on Gilligan's island, minus the hilarity (and not a coconut cream pie in sight.)

My life is great. I'm nearly forty, and I pretty much have everything I want. With each year, I grow more confident in and comfortable with myself. I love my job and my family and our home, and even though I wish we were closer to our dearest peeps on the East Coast, I recognize that to have that, I'd have to give up everything that makes our life so great here in progressive, affordable, environmentally aware and bike-friendly Portland. My life is great, but I just can't seem to enjoy it.

And so the promise of better living through chemistry becomes oh-so alluring. Even though endless, hit-or-miss trials of this drug at that dose, I find myself tolerating the intolerable. My health care professionals assure me that there is something out there that will work for me, and for a while, I believed them. When you're stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere, it's easy to get your hopes up about a radio made out of two coconuts and a ball of twine.

Anyway, I'm feeling better these days. I'm taking a new drug - not an antidepressant - called Provigil, that's all the rage among narcoleptics and fighter pilots. It was prescribed for my ms-related fatigue, and for the first time in about 10 years I feel like I have enough energy to get through the day, and that makes me - what's the word I'm searching for? Oh yeah - happy.

A fairly big deal

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 19:18:00 +0000

The first Monday in April is a big deal in the newspaper biz, our own version of the Oscars except without fancy clothes or attractive people. It's the day they announce the Pulitzers, and today if you visit the right website -- say this one right here -- and follow the links to the explanatory reporting winner, you might notice this down at the bottom of the page:

Also nominated as finalists in this category were: Beth Daley of The Boston Globe for her evocative exploration of how global warming affects New Englanders, from ice fishermen to blueberry farmers, and the Staff of the Oregonian, Portland, for its richly illustrated reports on a breakthrough in producing the microprocessors that are a technological cornerstone of modern life.

It's the second part there that's important. It refers in part to this. And it means something pretty stupendous:

My little Judybat was a finalist for a Pulitzer.

Stop reading this

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 14:30:00 +0000

And go read this. Our North Carolina friends -- actually, they're friends of the world -- Lisa and Jacob are in China adopting their second beautiful not-quite baby girl. It's much more interesting, funny and heart-warming than anything I can tell you on this, our national day of NCAA mourning.

Congrats, guys. Two is so much harder than one, which it sounds like you're discovering already. But worth it. Most of the time. Except for that moment last night before dinner when both children decided it was time for a meltdown. That just sucked. Have fun!

the numbers game

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 07:18:00 +0000

I turned 39 a little while ago, and it was cause for celebration, because I keep thinking I'm in my 40s, and this was a reminder that I'm not quite there yet. It was not unlike last year, when I learned to my great delight that I was not, in fact, 38 going on 39, but 37 going on 38. It was like daylight savings, except instead of an hour, I got a whole extra year!

Actually, I'm kind of looking forward to 40. Clearly I don't have to worry about my memory going, since I don't seem to have one, and thanks to long-term back problems and ms, I'm used to feeling decrepit. Sure the added wrinkles are freaking me out a little bit, but the rewards of aging far outweigh the loss of elasticity.

Turning 30 was a great, because along with the big three-oh came more confidence in myself than I ever felt in my twenties, And now as I approach 40, I feel like I'm much better at recognizing what's important and what's bu!!$#*t. I can't wait to find out what added bonus 50 brings!

A friend of mine once told me a story about an old man. He said, "When I was young, I thought a tree was just a tree and a rock was just a rock. Then I got a little older and and saw that a tree was much more than just a tree, and a rock was much more than just a rock. Now I am older still, and I know that a tree is just a tree, and a rock is just a rock."

I feel like I know what that dude was talking about.

What really matters

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 02:53:00 +0000

I didn't lose my voice last night. Bruce was great, but I'm not the type to go nuts over any rock star, even the best of the best.

But tonight, I'm going hoarse and my hands are already sore from clapping. My boys were up by 12 at the half. Now they're up by 4 with 5:37 left. I am slightly drunk and very loud, with all sorts of very inappropriate language drifting down from the TV room to TheGirl's crib. Judybat and TheBoy are out being social, which is good, because nobody needs to see me behave this way. I say work is where I'm happiest, but that's not true. It's watching the Tar Heels, screaming at them to box out and hustle just a little more and play just a bit smarter.

A five point lead with 3:31 left. Make one more pass before you shoot, please?

At least Duke is gone already. Maybe it's the beer talking, but I think if we have another baby, we should use Tyler Hansbrough's sperm.

Judybat, is that OK?

Bruuuuuuuuce

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 06:40:00 +0000

For our 14th anniversary (the anniversary of our first kiss, that is - not to be confused with the up-and-coming 7th anniversary of the day we stood up in front of friends and family and got hitched) AR shelled out a ridiculous amount of money and got floor tickets for Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Here are a few observations I made during the show:

1. Those guys - and girl - are old.
2. Those guys - and girl - can rock and roll.
3. The audience was old.
4. The audience was whiter than the state of Vermont.
5. It's fun to watch middle-aged white guys dance to 'Born to Run'
6. Steve Van Zandt is just as funny on stage as he was in 'The Sopranos.'
7. With all due respect to Clarence Clemons, nothing says 80s rock band like a wailing sax.
8. It's cool to hear thousands of people sing in unison.
9. It's even more cool to ride your bike a mile or two down the road to see Bruce Springsteen in concert.

THANK YOU PORTLAND AND GOODNIGHT!

His ancestors would be horrified

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 16:27:00 +0000

TheBoy was born in Raleigh, but we seem to have gotten him out of North Carolina before certain unpleasant Tar Heel traits took root. How do I know? This morning, as we were leaving his sister's daycare, he sniffed the air, frowned and let out this little pearl of little guy wisdom: "I smell a cigarette. That's disgusting."

Keep in mind that my parents both did a little time in the tobacco fields during their summer breaks, and that my first newspaper internship was in Winston-Salem, a place where the smell of tobacco still hangs in the air, sort of like chocolate in Hershey. A certain respect for Big Tobacco runs in his family, if not his gene pool. So I wanted to make sure I'd heard him right.

"Disgusting, really?"

"Disgusting."

"How do you know?"

"Well, Grandma smokes. And you say it's disgusting when she does it."

Yes, Mom, I do. TheBoy learns well.

Not quite the cruelest month

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 22:23:00 +0000

October used to be my favorite month. I'm a bit of a grey-scale girl to begin with, and there's just something about the smell of fall in Connecticut, the beginning of college basketball season, the end of baseball season. But now I'm a continent away, and older and wiser, and March is quickly gaining on my ranking of the best time of the year.

It's rainy and windy here right now, except when it's sunny, except when it's freezing cold and hailing. The variety pleases me. And there's something to be said for all the things going on right now: The occasional glimpse of sun and fun and Joba in spring training, the adrenaline rush of election season, this wacky life in which my small family celebrates both Purim and Easter on the same weekend. Noisemakers yesterday, colored eggs today, in other words.

And then there are moments like this one right here, sitting upstairs watching the Tar Heels -- knowing good and well CBS is going to cut away any minute because we're up by 24. TheGirl is sitting right next to me ripping apart the Sunday Times. TheBoy is eating jellybeans from an egg hunt. I'm acting like a true Portlander, drinking one of these and feeling the way I should feel after half a glass. Slightly tipsy and very pleased with the world, in other words.

Happy holiday, everybody.

I'm not an addict

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 19:29:00 +0000

I gave up caffeine on August 26, 2006, in preparation for the effort to get knocked up. I figured it was better to kick the habit before the stress of trying to conceive really kicked in, and to give myself as much time as possible. I went cold turkey, and I suffered through four days of -- I kid you not -- vision-blurring headaches.

Friends told me I was stupid to give it up completely, but I knew two things: First, I lack the willpower to slowly wean myself off anything. It's got to be all or nothing. Second, I knew cutting the caffeine entirely would be horrible -- so bad that I would never, ever want to go back.

I was right. Or at least, I was, up until now.

Regular coffee is calling to me. And real Diet Cokes. And maybe the occasional, adult Coke, in the pretty red can, with all that sugar.

The other morning I made a pot of coffee that was half-regular, half-decaf. Twenty minutes later I felt the oddest sensation: Awake. The colors of the world were more vivid, maybe because my eyes were actually wide open. My brain couldn't keep up with all the stuff I wanted to accomplish. I felt like myself, only myself two or three or 10 years ago. Eager, energetic, maybe even happy.

I'm not going back completely. At work, it's still caffeine free Dike Coke -- I know all about the brain tumor I'm giving myself, thank you, but I figure the one I'm getting from cell phones will be bigger. After 10 a.m. or so, I'm solely a decaf kind of girl. But I've started adding at least a spoonful or two of the good stuff the pot in the morning, a little jump start to the day.

It feels good, even though I know better. I'm in complete control of my habit. Really. I swear. Pass the half and half.

Where'd we go?

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 23:52:00 +0000

That, my friends, is an excellent question. This blog has slowed down considerably here in the lord's year of 2008. It's not that we don't love you. It's not that we don't have stuff to tell you. But life interferes, you know?

For example, the not sleeping. Round about early January, The Girl began sleeping through the night. You'd think that would mean her mommies are well rested, right? Wrong. My body has responded to the end of breastfeeding and the wonders of a kid who sleeps 10 hours a stretch with the nastiest case of insomnia I can recall. Every night I collapse by 10:30. Then I wake up at 2 or 3 or 4, wide awake. I should just get the heck up and do some work or read or watch the movies Judybat won't watch with me. Or my Xena DVDs. Instead, I toss and turn ... and notice, as I do, that darling spouse is doing the same thing. She's sleeping, sure, but not deeply enough to really feel rested in the morning. I want her to do one of those sleep studies where they hook electrodes up to her body and track her dream patterns. She wants me to call the doctor and get some Ambien. Either way, we're exhausted.

I'm also working too much. The nice guy who took over city politics for me suffered some severe health problems earlier this month, so I've lost my cushy feature writing gig and am back wandering the halls of government. Speaking of things that keep me up at night ...

And it's the end of college basketball season. And I'm really depressed about what just happened in Ohio and Texas. And The Boy just turned 5, with all the pomp and ceremony such a grand event requires. (Not to mention a clown, who was nowhere near as terrifying as I'd feared. He seemed like what he was, a guy from down the street, rather than one of those Ronald McDonald, my-mouth-looks-like-I-just-ate-a-baby, clowns in the professional makeup.) And we've got a steady stream of visitors enjoying the hospitality and the upstairs skylight shower of the Little Green House. And the big blue car needs new tires. And our basement light needs replacing. And and and.

There's really no excuse, I know. We should be writing more, both of us. For the moment, however, accept my apologies and know that if you could see what I see right this second -- a little girl toddling her way across the hall, a boy making thank you cards for his buddies, early March sunlight shining through the front window -- you wouldn't feel like sitting down at the computer either.

Milestones

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 20:01:00 +0000

Warning: this may be one of those nauseating parenting blog posts that marvel about the wonder that is my child. Although, there is a reference to someone's stinky butt, so maybe not. Or maybe that's worse. I know it's been a while, but maybe you just want to skip this post and wait for the next one.

That said, there are a few moments that stick out in my mind as gateways to a new and better way of life, moments where parenting got - if not easier - a little less hands-on. Moments where I got to sit down on the job. Like the time when The Boy learned to pump his legs and I no longer had to push him on the swing, or when he figured out that he could drag a chair over to the fridge and get a yogurt out all by himself. We're still trying to get to a place where he can consistently - and cleanly! - wipe his own butt, but he has reached the point where he can reach the water fountain all by himself.

And now we are on the verge of the biggest, most satisfying milestone of all. A couple weeks ago, I sat down with The Boy and Hop On Pop. He had been calling out some simple words he saw - like "to" and "from" and "stop" and "go" - for a while and I wanted to see if he was reading them or just recognizing them. When we opened the book, sure enough, he started sounding out the words. I had to help him out with things like "fight" and "night", and sometimes he would get a little lazy and guess a word based on its first letter, but there was an amazing light bulb moment when he realized that if he could read "play" he could also "day." It was just as amazing for me to watch him work through the book, page by page, as if I could see things click into place as the little gears turned in his head.

We're still a ways away from that delicious moment when I say to the child nipping at my heels, "go read a book," but it's so close I can almost taste it.

Further signs that I'm old

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 00:15:00 +0000

Forget the silver that keeps appearing in my hair, or the fact that certain parts of my body seem to have permanently migrated to a new southern home, or the increasing amount of time it takes me to find the keys in the morning, or the fact that I can no longer claim to be in my "early 30s."

Here's how I know I'm really creeping close to middle-aged: See this woman?

She just turned 40.

It was only a matter of time

noreply@blogger.com (judybat) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 04:32:00 +0000

I realized we'd hit another milestone this evening when, from the kitchen, I heard the wife chastising The Boy in his room. He had taken a permanent marker and written his name on his door. And the floor. And on a couple of bookcases and his bed. He wrote his sister's name on the lower bunk, which I thought was quite sweet, actually. And while I wanted to be mad, I couldn't help but notice that his penmanship has improved quite a bit. Maybe paper just isn't his medium.

At 4-nearly-5-years-old, the boy seems to vacillate from heart-aching sweetness to mind-addling frustration with the frequency of a molecule dancing in the heat of a Bunsen burner. Does that even make sense? Anyone here remember anything from seventh-grade science class?

Anyhoo, The girl has entered her own brave new world this week; she is definitely walking now, choosing to get around on her own two feet way rather than employ the butt-scoot she had been using to propel herself from room to room. Or, I should say, from hazard to hazard. It's clear to me now how things are going to be for the next few years, and I wonder how much time we have to say "no" to our kids before the word has lost all meaning.

He's fine, but I'm bummed

noreply@blogger.com (AnnaRay) — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 19:16:00 +0000

Being a responsible adult sucks. Big time.

We're headed to Southern California this weekend for the annual Brown alum Super Bowl party/game marathon, and I was all set to take the family to Disneyland on our spare day. Imagine TheBoy's delight! Imagine how big TheGirl's eyes will get! Imagine the thrill of replacing my faded, hole-riddled, 12-year-old Eeyore t-shirt! What a great mom I am!

Then I started doing my research. And I quickly realized that taking the 4.5-year-old and the 14-month-old to the happiest place on earth for a day was the worst idea I've had since drug-free childbirth. Every website I turned to had one thing to say about day trips to Disney: Don't do it.

So we're pulling back. Instead of Anaheim, we'll take the kids to the Santa Monica pier along with a bunch of other Brownies and spouses. It will be lots of fun, TheBoy will get to ride the big-ass ferris wheel, and Judybat and I won't have to spend the rest of the weekend recovering.

Still ... I was really excited about replacing that t-shirt.