Another One Parents Everywhere Will Love. Or Hate.

Thanks, Laura!

Closing a Chapter

Charlotte will be three in January. And, after clinging to some of them for more than five years, I've finally packed up my maternity clothes. Tomorrow, I will take them to Goodwill. For a long time, I jokingly told myself--and other people--that I kept the clothes because they were the nicest I'd ever had. And, in some cases, eh, maybe that was close to being true. But like most other things, the truth was a little more complicated.

When Charlotte was about six months old, Thomas and I talked about having another baby. Crazy, I know. Because of my history, my OB thought it prudent to send us to a fertility specialist. Basically, I'm high risk in several categories: Multiple miscarriages, two premature births, my age, a "structural abnormality," etc., etc., etc. We decided that we'd give it a few months and a lot more thought.

In the end, it wasn't just the high-risk stuff, but also that I was tired of getting up in the middle of the night after night. Sometimes for the whole night. I'm not young enough to do well on so little sleep. It makes me cranky (crankier). Irritable. Short-tempered. But even though we had decided that our family was just perfect, every month without fail, I'd experience mingled anticipation and dread, followed by both relief and sorry. Because I always thought I was pregnant. And I never was.

But I kept the maternity clothes because getting rid of them would have been an admission that I was done. No more babies. No more baby smell. No more warm, toasty little someone snuggled up to me. And that has to be ok, because I am old-ish and tired. I don't really want to change any more diapers or change spit-up soaked clothes (mine) every hour.

So tomorrow I drop off the clothes. Which means I'll be pregnant before the year is out. Kidding!

The Weekly Dammit, #13

There isn't much, but I managed to scrape together a few.

Dammit #1:
No one should have to read headlines like this:

"GOP strategists urge candidates to stop snubbing minorities"
(Original article, Washington Post)

Seriously. Why does that even need to be said?

Dammit #2:
Other people (ok, usually other Moms) come to my house and are almost immediately able to redirect my children. I'm not just talking about being new and interesting--though I fully appreciate the value of that newness. No, I mean people who come in and are able to offer Hannah and Charlotte a distraction that I never would have thought of. "Pretend that your tea cups and saucers are flying saucers with aliens," for example. Me? I just get so tired of tea parties and picnics that I'm busy just drowning out the sound my brain makes when it shrinks. Which is the bonus, hidden dammit: My brain should be coming up with new ways to think about these things rather than cowering in a corner!

Dammit #3:
Rex Morgan and June Morgan, nee Whosie-whatsit, must be 70 by now, but I fear they're going to be having "harrowing" adventures for the rest of my natural life. I need to work on my filters so I can learn to ignore that particular car-crashishness that takes up valuable real estate in the comics section every day.

Told you it wasn't much, but I'll try harder next week!

Hannah-isms, con't

On Wagner:
"Do we have to listen to this? It's so dramatic."

On camping:
"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hannah?"

"Tomorrow morning, can you wake your wife up early so we can go camping?"

To an overnight guest:
"Hey, Aunt Kerry? Maybe since Daddy isn't here, you can sleep on the couch."

The Weekly Dammit, #12

Dammit #1:
I've been so busy writing that I don't write anymore. Anti-dammit: I really like this project, and when I'm writing for someone else, it's much easier to stick a deadline.

Dammit #2:
I worked 30 hours last week--in addition to my day job. Literally. Most of it was at night after the girls went to bed. I've found that the combined gentle snores of a Great Dane and a husband pretending not to sleep in front of the TV create a very effective white noise.

Dammit #3:
We have a new coffee maker, one which has achieved near-deity status in our house. No more brewing a pot at a time, hoping that Thomas won't make it slap-you-silly strong again. Now I just set it the way I like it and push the button. One perfect cup of coffee at a time. And then another and another . . . And one slightly more than perfectly caffeinated mom, jittering through her day. (I'm not sure if this is an actual Dammit, or just gloating.)

Dammit #4:
There's a new kids show on Nickelodeon that was touted as the one show that parents would actually like, too. To this I had to ask, "WTF were you watching when you wrote this article??" (The article I was actually reading the one time we saw the show.) Seriously, there were only two things I liked about Yo Gabba Gabba: 1) It was only on Noggin once--to preview before they moved it over to Nick. 2) I didn't actually have an ice-pick in my hand with which to jab the memory of it from my head. I almost feel as though I owe Barney an apology.

Aw, Mommy! Did you buy me a kitty?

No, sweetie. I just brushed the dog.

The Weekly Dammit, #11

My new template seems almost too, well, pretty for a list of cranky Dammits, but you know I have to do it.

Dammit #1:
On the 27th of August, Hannah started kindergarten (yay!), I started a freelance project (yay!) and Charlotte decided she was no longer going to be napping.

Dammit #2:
MoveOn.org released an ad attacking General Petraeus before even hearing what he had to say.

Dammit #3:
No matter what the General reported, both sides had already decided that that report would justify their respective stances.

Dammit #4:
According to a recent New York Times/CBS News poll (bottom of first page), 1/3 of the American population still believes that Saddam Hussein was directly involved in the attacks on September 11, 2001.

trying something new

You may have noticed that Left Coast Mom's look has changed a bit. I'm trying something new, but not to worry: I will not be changing the template as often as I change my hair color.

Let me know what you think!

I Miss Calvin and Hobbes

I know it's been a dozen years since they retired, but I still miss Calvin and Hobbes. And, as we've already established that I am (about some things) a dork, I can say that December 31, 1995 was the first--and last--time I ever cried when a comic strip ended.

It's not that the strip was always funny, though it was 99.99% of the time. It's more that it gave you a glimpse at what life would be like if we could keep the sense of wonder, the joy in imagining, that children have before we sacrifice it on the alter of the Four Rs.* Calvin, only six, possessed the child's imagination, but he combined with an intellect to match that of some adults. He also had a child's belief in his own immortality and the knowledge that, no matter how bad he was, his parents would always love him. Even if they didn't forgive him for a long, long time.

What brings all of this to mind? Our recent heat wave, of course.

Last week it was 100 degrees outside the house and 87 in. We don't have air conditioning, so I took the girls to the library, where I discovered that the Calvin and Hobbes books are all in the children's section. At first I thought this was a mistake, and then I realized that it was the one place the parents, a.k.a. "the people who need them the most," would find them.

I can't speak for all parents, of course, but rediscovering Calvin was a strong reminder that, while I may loathe the idea of another tea party or picnic, to Hannah and Charlotte it is more than just a game. And when they leap on unsuspecting passers-by from the back of the sofa, it's not to annoy, harass or induce heart failure. It's because they can actually fly. And Hannah's seemingly ceaseless stories are worth far more than the occasional, unthinking "uh huh, and then what?" even if I'm not fully caffeinated.

So I'd like to thank Bill Watterson for reminding me that there is a whole other world that doesn't run on adult time. A world that chafes at adult rules and demands because, to its small residents, adult rules make no sense and, so, have no bearing on their lives.

* The fourth would be "Rote."

Is This Normal?

Hannah tossed a couple of questions at me today that I wasn't expecting for at least a couple of years.

First:
"Why are all humans only boys and girls?"

I went with:
"Because you need boys and girls to make more humans."

Hannah:
"But where did the first one come from?"

Is it normal for little kids to think about these things? I know adults who couldn't care less (though there are some who would start wars over this particular issue).

So I told her that scientists believe that we evolved from other organisms and that it took us a long time to get to what we are now.

But I have no idea how to really explain that to an almost five-year old, especially when I'm pretty sure that this almost-five year old is a lot smarter than I am.

She let me off the hook this time, but I'll be ready for the chicken-and-egg question.*

* It was the chicken.

The Weekly Dammit, #10

Dammit #1:
I've mentioned before my distaste for the more litigious among us who have made it necessary for lawyers to write ridiculous things such as "Caution! Hot iron can burn eyes" and "Dramatization! Professional driver on a closed course," even when the car in question appears to be underwater. So I shouldn't have been surprised to see this notice on the tag attached to Argus's new bed: "Accessories not included." The "accessories" shown on the tag were a very large cabinet and a dog.

Dammit #2:
Why is it that the politicians who try to legislate "family values" so often seem to get caught with their pants down? And those who rant the loudest against gays and gay marriage seem to have more hidden in their closets than pinstriped suits and stuffed shirts.

Dammit #3:
Two of the top three (announced) candidates from the "party of family values" have three divorces and at least three affairs between them.

Dammit #4:
At the rate we're going, we're going to have the first presidential primary before Christmas.

Dammit #5:
Charlotte peed on Argus's foot. That's not my dammit and it wasn't today, but Argus asked me to pass it on.

Really--We're Just Laughing WITH you . . .

Thanks, K!

Talk About Starting Early . . .

It took 10 years, but Thomas has managed to turn me into a magazine junkie. We now get The Week, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Sunset, Men's Health, Women's Health, Fast Company, Esquire, Ode, Wired, and possibly a few others I can't remember at the moment.

Being a news junkie, one that I really look forward to is The Week, which arrives every Friday morning. But today, when I pulled it from the mailbox, it had a cover wrap announcing "only 137 shopping days left!" and "HOLIDAY GIFT SAVINGS" and "GIVE MORE GIFTS! Spread the joy!"

Now I wouldn't mind spreading the joy, especially to my friend who stops by the day before every election for a basic explanation of every measure and the background of each candidate. I don't mind helping--I like it, in fact--so she always leaves with the explanation (including why some are for and some against each), plus a little annoyance that I refuse to tell her which way to vote on any measure or candidate. But though she is a very intelligent woman, she is also a very busy woman, so I don't know that she has the time for another magazine.

All of this notwithstanding, I didn't need to know, more than a week before Labor Day, that I needed to begin panicking about holiday shopping.

Hannah-isms

On why it takes her so long to get out of the car:
"Hannah! Get out of the car!"
"I can't, you have too much crap in here!"

On entering the car after our camping trip:
"Daddy, if I start to feel hungry, feel free to stop at a restaurant. And no garbage, please, okay?"

To Charlotte, mid-temper tantrum:
"You stop that! I was crying first!"

On going to her kindergarten Open House:
"I don't know about this. I'm feeling a little apprehensive . . . "

On siblings:
"I still think we should take Charlotte back. I want to be the only kid in the house. I don't like sharing her toys."

After dropping a toy for the third time:
"Dammit!"

"What did you say??"

"Hammock. I said hammock."


Kindergarten starts on Monday. I'm going to leave Thursday open for our first parent-teacher conference.

The Weekly Dammit, #9

Dammit #1:
Apparently, the Toyota Prius can do over 100mph. How cool would it be to go down the highway with Argus's ears flapping in the wind*? Kinda like an Eddie Izzard sketch. But, alas, it still won't fit a Great Dane. I think I've mentioned this before somewhere . . . And speaking of dogs:

Dammit #2:
Michael Vick.

Dammit #3:
The Bush administration just announced changes to the Children's Health Insurance Program that will make it harder for individual states to cover additional children. They're worried that the program is going to become a substitute for private health insurance. On a completely unrelated related note: In the United States, the poverty level for a family of four is $20, 650.

Dammit #4:
There is an entire cookbook devoted to the almost mind-bending combination of zucchini and chocolate. Together. In the same dish. And to think that I've been tossing all of the lovely zucchini at the end of our summers because I couldn't bear to eat another one and no one else wanted it either.

*Yes, yes. The dog and his head would be inside the car.

Best In-Store Sign Ever?

Thanks Sarah!

Guilty Pleasures

No, no; it's not what you're thinking. I don't eat that much ice cream anymore.

No, my guilty pleasure is Go Fug Yourself, a blog that skewers the sartorial mishaps and wardrobe malfunctions of various celebrities, as well as the occasional "celebrity." Every once in a (great) while, someone will get a "Nicely Played," but the writers are at their best when they're being wicked.

It's not the skewering I like as much as the writing, which is almost always laugh-out-loud funny, and sometimes get-a-tissue-I-can't stop-laughing funny. (Never read it with a mouth full of coffee.) Take as an example this post wherein they imagine a conversation between Harvey Weinstein and a very badly dressed Alicia Keys, whom he has mistaken for Diahann Carroll:

"HARVEY: I haven't been so turned on by an older woman since you were on Dynasty. Those were some serious turbans. Serious SEX turbans. If you hadn't been Blake's half-sister, that could've been hot, I tell ya.

ALICIA: Did you just say "sex turbans"?

HARVEY: You're goddamn right I did. Listen, let's do lunch. Or dinner. Or brunch. Except I don't care for the cantaloupe, so maybe not brunch.

ALICIA: I don't want to be rude, but I'm not...

HARVEY: Honey, I want to be in the Diahann Carroll business. Let's make it happen. You look GREAT for your age, Diahann, although we might want to rethink that spelling. It makes my intestines throb.

ALICIA: How about we spell it "Alicia Keys"? I'm 27, and I'm a singer. Seriously, you have NO idea who I am?

HARVEY: Keys? Never heard of it. But I like the cut of your jib. Not the cut of your dress, though, we'll have to change the whole thing. And the shoes -- you look lost in 1988, like you're a bitch in search of a lily pond."

But you must read the full exchange and see the photo which inspired it. Then bookmark the blog because you won't be able to resist going back.

The Weekly Dammit, #8

It's been another busy week, as we're going through our first "back-to-school" season. So this is late. Again. Which leads right to

Dammit #1:
Someone needs to work a little harder to get The Weekly Dammit out earlier in the week. Oh wait, that would be me. So maybe my boss? Ah, same problem.

Dammit #2:
If you know me, you might not think that the news that Karl Rove is leaving the White House would rank as a Dammit. But if you know me, you also know that I don't trust that gerbil, nor do I believe the excuse of he wants to "spend more time with his family." That is the standard Washington excuse and is rarely the whole, or even the partial, truth. My (perhaps overly cynical) guess: He's been sent off to stir up more mischief in his on-going effort to build--and keep--a Republican majority. Since that's worked out so well.

Dammit #3:
We can't impeach Bush for two main reasons: 1) That would leave Cheney in charge, and 2) It seems that, in this era, we can only impeach a president for having consensual sex with another adult, that being the "misdemeanor" part. The high crimes (illegal war, illegal wire-tapping, illegal seizure and detention, violation of the Geneva Conventions, destroying the credibility and career of Colin Powell . . .) don't seem to matter anymore.

Dammit #4:
We still have 522 days before Bush follows Rove on down that road.

Dammit #5:
This:



I think that's enough for one week.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I use my cell phone for all long distance calls and have noticed a gradual deterioration in Verizon's service. Or perhaps I'm noticing it more now since I call my sister (in Georgia) almost every day. Last week, I twice lost the reception in my own house--in the kitchen by a large window, if you must know.

"Sarah? Can you hear me? Hello?"

That was the moment I realized that the Verizon commercials are not quite what we've been led to believe. Instead of the guy showing us that Verizon's service covers America from coast to coast, he is actually searching the country for a space where he can get a signal.

"Can you hear me now?"

"Only if I stand on the third tile from the door, sixth from the window."

"Good."

Boogie Shoes

We went to a wedding in Tahoe City this past weekend, where both girls took advantage of the opportunity to show off their dancing skills:

Hannah:




And Charlotte:


Of course, Charlotte stopped dancing as soon as she noticed that Thomas had the camera. But Hannah? We had to drag her out of there around 10:00. PM. She can't wait for the next wedding, which, apparently, will be Mommy and Daddy. You know, because she wasn't invited to the first one.