She says talks to animals...they call her out by her name

I know it's weird, but I have always had pets that talk.

I think this started with my brother Bill who's imagination was, is and always will be huge and endless. For unexplicable reasons, he started calling our cat Midnight, Muchas Buchas (aka Muchas Buchas Puddinhead) and along with this silly nickname, she got a voice. It was kind of Morris-like but more feminine. And when your cat gets a voice, well, you have no choice but to talk to her.

Next, our puppy Samantha came with a voice. With the evolution of our talking animals, more personality traits came into play. For instance, Samantha was a photography student who preferred being pet with bare feet to being scratched with the hands. She was also exceptionally nerdy and needy. In high school my friend Kerry came over and we walked into the TV room where Sam was sitting. Sam had manners and greeted Kerry. Later, I reminded myself that perhaps Kerry hadn't known that it was Sam who was greeting her...that perhaps she thought that I was re-greeting in an effort to be an extree warm hostess. It is to larf.

I was reminded of this when the twins and their mom came over to play a couple of weeks ago. The mom was petting Dallas and Dallas (this time with Brian's, er, assistance) directed, "scratch my tummy" and I immediately jumped in with, "Uh, that was Dallas, by the way, NOT Brian". I mean, you can't just assume, right? I knew the mom was cool, or at least adaptable, when she directed a response right to Dallas. Nothing bothers me more than people who won't speak to my pets directly. It's rude, it is.

Although my speaking with animals is as normal a part of my life as wearing socks, I have become a little self-conscious about it because I have warped Annie to the point where she wants me to create a voice for everything, so maybe we are waiting at the pediatricians and her foot might say to mine, "Hi mommy!" and I don't want to be all, "hey kid, be cool" because it's best if she doesn't know we are too weird for public consumption, and yet I can't exactly have an all out mommy-and-baby foot conversation in front of the public at large, can I?

I knew that O would be my friend for life the first time we visited her and not only did her Jack Russell have a voice, she was also an alcoholic (martinis) with a smoker's rasp. When our then babies first sat down together, I felt as though I found family as Annie and Max, though only a few months old, had clear, defined voices and personalities to match. Sometimes it's the little things that choose your friends for you.

Sick sick sick

I have lots to write but have been stricken (yes, stricken!) with a flu that may or may not be mono which I believed only kissy teenagers got because I like things to be simple that way.

So, just a thought for now. The 300 millionth person has been born. Just the other day Brian and I were watching the CBS Sunday morning news and they talked about the 200 millionth person and how when he was born Life magazine came and did a special piece on him and everything. Well, come to find out that this guy was born a mere 3 days after I was. I could have been in Life! And I was born early...so, okay, not 3 days early but still! Life magazine!!

It's the ibuprofan talking.

Wasted words

I know it's anal retentive but there are certain groupings of words that are very common in conversation that need not exist. Hrm, maybe not anal retentive, but minimalistic.

In the past few years I have noticed the increasing popularity of beginning sentences with this: Not for nothing. As in, "Not for nothing, but your shoes are untied". What does this mean? If it's not for nothing, is it for something? And since you are saying it, can't I just assume that you are telling me for some reason? How come no one says, "For something, your shoes are untied". Is this from The Sopranos because I don't watch the Sopranos and like to think that everything I don't quite comprehend might originate there.

This next peeve usually appears at the end of a sentence: whatnot. To me it's a pretty lazy petering out of a sentence, the speaker being too tired to really finish strong, he or she wraps it up vaguely, letting the listener fill in the blanks. "After I had a 104 degree tempreature for 5 days, I finally insisted that the doctor precribe some antibiotics or whatnot." Whatnot is interchangeable with the old standby: what have you. That one may be more vexing, though, as it is clearly a question that there is no answer for.

How about people who start there statements with the word listen. To people who do this, I say, "Listen, I am having this conversation with you, you can safely assume that even though I might be bored I am at the very least listening". Big on soap operas as in: Listen, Eden or Listen Colton.

Another unnecessary waste of vocals is: I'm just saying. Yes, we know you are just saying. Your lips move and words come out and that is you just saying.

Oh! oh! How about this one, popular among the realiteratti, specifically of the MTV variety: yo. I am not referring to the attention getting YO! That bothers me not at all. What I am puzzled by is yo as the suffix to entire sentences, yo. What is this (yo)?? WHY is this (yo)?? I plain don't get it, yo.

And since we were talking about reality TV, let me finish with this related irritant: The Reality TV Defense for Shite-y Behavior: I'm the type of person that will tell you what I think about you. Why is that okay? Does that make you a good person? No, it makes you a bitch. I don't want to know if you hate me, thanks. Or if you think I smell, am fat, dumb, slow,mean or whatnot. Yo.

A rookie mom’s year’s worth of lessons

I was cleaning out my inbox tonight and came across the letter that I wrote to Annie on her first birthday. I was happy to see it. We are currently mired in fixing Mary's sleep issues and her debut at daycare is likely to happen sooner than later and I needed this to remind me that each crisis passes, and quickly.

Here is goes:

A rookie mom’s year’s worth of lessons

What I want is not important. What I want to do, where I want to go, and when I want to leave has become irrelevant. I am on Annie time now-she’ll let me know when it’s okay. There’s a word for this-patience. I had heard of it before but never knew its meaning until now.

This to shall pass. And this. And that other thing, too. Every new phase that feels like the end of the world ends just as I have learned to adjust to it. What I’ve learned from this is there is no reason to panic-the current disaster will give way to something new.

Um-that passes too. The perfect series of days comes where you think you have graduated from the hardest trials of babydom. Her nose is not runny, she doesn’t scream at bath time and everything you do is like the funniest thing…ever. Complacency sets in. For five minutes. Until the hellbeast returns and makes you long for bedtime.

Though it seemed as though you were trying to split up your dad and me I kind of see now how you might could maybe have brought us closer together. We definitely are learning how to act like a team now-one picks up when the other has run out of steam. Also? You look at your dad like he hung the moon (it’s okay, everyone at our house looks at him this way) and help me see new ways to appreciate him constantly.

I learned that a baby’s smile is the best thing since…since…a fat cat’s snuggle. Oh how you light up when you see your brother-and he in turn lights up right back atcha. You squeal for the people you love best (always preferring the company of men, you little such and such) and they pull everything from their bag of tricks to get you to smile even more. And me? I practically run from my car to the door of Little Learner at the end of the day because when you see me you will smile goofily and happily and widely and make me feel like a won the lottery.

Family means more when you have your own family. I now gaze at my own mother who has made me nuts the past few years, with admiration. How did she do this six times over? How did we have clean clothes, home cooked meals, hugs, and bedtime books when she must not have had time to sit? And how did she do it all maintaining friendships, hobbies, and social work? And my sisters…what good mothers they are…how could I not notice? My brothers-one of whom I swear adores her as much as I do…the other who will, once she’s older and less of a mystery. And my Dad who wanted us to have everything and whose quiet adoration of us set a standard that I hope to live up to.

American Pie is a great song to sing when you are losing your mind. See, we had a deal during the worst days of the colic. You WILL stop crying by the time I get through the final verse of American Pie. The length of time of American Pie roughly equals the length of time that a person can carry a screaming, tomato-faced baby. If this hasn’t been proven scientifically, it should be. And an addendum to this: If you don’t stop crying by the time I finish, I will start crying. Then I’ll start from the top.

It’s hard to be the baby. Seriously. Who would want to be a baby? You crap your pants. No one understands you. Much of your food consists of a liquid that smells like burnt rubber. You can’t GET anywhere. And when you can, the places you most want to go are off-limits. Why wouldn’t you be hell on wheels? Even when I want to send you to live with Uncle Jerry, I understand that your life is no picnic.

A Top 8 List

What...you think lists are a copout? Oh, she believes this actually counts as an entry? Slackass, you think to yourself.

Relax, you.

This is my list of top eight songs people have written for their own or someone else's kid. And when I say people, I mean men and women. Har-I say that, and only Old Friend M will get it, but it's from a brochure written and distributed by a man that used to bartend at the diviest dive on campus. It was about how a 250 pound bartender (him) stayed in such great shape. Throughout the pamphlet, every time he used the word people, he'd follow it with men and women leaving us all to wonder what in the world else would be meant by the word people??? Men and snakes? Smoked meats and women? The mind it does wonder.

Anyway, here's my list.

1. Gracie-Ben Folds
Oh, this is the best. He captures little girls of a certain age just dead on. The first line, "You can't fool me I saw you when you came out" sets it up perfectly and the rest? Knocks it down. My favorite part goes:

With your cards to your chest
Walking on your toes
What you got in the box
Only Gracie knows

I had a thought while I was compiling this list. I started thinking that maybe 10 songs was too ambitious and about how I might fill in some spots (later I pared the list down to eight). To me, the most obvious song for this list is one that I don't really love, Stevie Wonder's Isn't She Lovely. I mean, in spite of the fight he and I are in because of the very existence of I Just Called to Say I Love You, I do loves me some Stevie. Just not so much the grating repetitiveness of the song for his kid. But, I was running through it in my mind anyway, seeing if maybe I might like it now and I got to the line, "Less than one minute old" and I thought of how silly that sounds, as if he gave a quick how do you do to the baby and then jetted off to whip out a song. Where'd Stevie go? Oh, he's he's just GOT to rhyme wonderful with one minute old.

Don't mind me.

2.) Little Miss Magic-Jimmy Buffet
Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling
The clever little looks she gives me can't help but be appealing

3.) Sweet Baby James-James Taylor
To me, this one is a classic lullabye. It was written for JT's nephew. I used to sing this to Annie when she was colicky, crowding in Sweet Baby Annie at the chorus. You know, to keep her interest. I have known this song for as long as I can remember.

For reasons I can't explain, I also used to sing Copacabana to Annie and I now sing it to Mary. It makes me larf to sing, "Your name is Mary, you were a showgirl. But that was 30 years ago when they used to have a show. Now it's a disco, but not for Mary". Ah, good times.

4.) Oh-Dave Matthews
I'm cheating. This sounds like it was written for an old friend rather than a child. But when I worked for publisher B I had a Mac that had iMovies so I downloaded a bunch of pictures of Annie to it and added this music so that this song always reminds me of her, of being at work but thinking about her.

I love you oh so well
Like a kid loves candy and fresh snow
I love you oh so well
Enough to fll up heaven, overflow, and fill hell

5.) Beautiful Boy-John Lennon
Contains the single best 2 pieces of advice ever smooshed into a couplet:

Before you cross the street, take my hand
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans

6.) Raina-Peter Himmelman
When I met O's friend and her daughter Raina I was all, "Like the song, right?" but she hadn't heard of the song. Even though I tried to impress upon her that she really should, I didn't want to be annoying about it even though that was my inclination. I doubt she sought it out. Jerk.

There's so little in this world that's true
I have boundless dreams for you

7.) Just the Two of Us- Will Smith
I'm such a honkey but I just love Will Smith's music. People used to tell Brian that he'd like this song when it was just him and Ryan together. It's very cute and I imagine that this kid will smile to himself quite a bit over it when he's older.

Five years old, bringin comedy
Everytime I look at you I think man, a little me
Just like me Wait an see gonna be tall
Makes me laugh cause you got your dads ears an all

8.) Bedtime Girl- Ralph's World
Kids' music is so much better now than when I was little. Growing up, we had this album of Thumbelina for kids and I can remember this maudlin song all about, "When the weeping willows stop weeping, when the bluebirds stop being blue". And we had the 45 of "It's a Small World after All" I mean, if ever a tune made a kid want to slit their wrists more, I don't know it. So, at an early age, I'd sit in my older sisters' rooms listening to their Beach Boys, Beatles and America records. Now, though, there is so much children's music, and so much is so very listenable for kids and adults. Anyway, Ralph's World is really just Ralph Covert who has a very alternative sensibility that he brings to his kids' songs. Bedtime Girl is a very sweet, hooky updated lullabye.

How's about a smile from a bedtime girl
Sweetest little monster in the world
Hush-a-bye hug friom my little angel
Sail away upon your pillow

See? I didn't just list the songs, I said a little sumphim' sumphim' about them. If I know you and you want me to burn any of these for you, lemme know. I'm good that way.

Another word about the kangaroo

I have withheld some history regarding myself and the kangaroo. Here's what: I have from time to time found kangaroos sexy. Now before you judge, go to yahoo and in the search box type in "kangaroo photos". Peruse the photos of kangaroos. Notice the smoldering looks. They see the camera; they see through the camera. They see you and they want you, baby.

As you do.

I am not into beastialilty. This all started when I worked for publisher A. We published a new grammar book and in it was a stock photograph of a kangaroo, in repose. I looked at it, then looked again. When I found myself looking a third time, I brought the picture over to my friend Ms. Berg and asked her, "um, do you think he's kind of hot?". She had to admit that yes, the kangaroo was rather hot. Later Ms. Berg cut the photo out of the book and presented it to me framed. I kept it on my desk until I left the job and later, even though I needed a frame that was just that size, I couldn't remove my kangaroo boyfriend.

I say "he" but I don't know. How can you tell? There was no pouch but the picture wasn't shot from an angle that would have shown the pouch anyway. And what does it matter if this kangaroo, nay all sexy kangaroos, are male or female? I'm not gay but I'm not like, going to date them. I'm just admiring another species. In a sexual way.

I am presuming that male kangaroos don't have pouches. Maybe they do, decorative ones that serve no purpose, kind of like nipples on men. Or maybe kangamen are very involved in the rearing of the babies and actually use their pouches like their own built-in baby bjorns.

Boing.

A 5 year old found my achilles' heel

The first time my heart physically hurt for Annie happened this summer. She had taken up with the neighbor girl, a really gorgeous, sassy 5-year old who I won't name but suffice to say her name rhymes with bratty and she shall be referred to here as such for reasons you will soon understand.

Annie was and is totally infatuated with Brattie. She wants to play with her all of the time and Brattie does come over to play with Annie often. The two of them played all summer in our kiddie pool or on the slip and slide. Brattie would pull Annie in her wagon and then they'd take turns blowing bubbles.

But trouble arose. For starters, the difference between being a 3 year old and a 5 year is vast. In some ways it's really the difference between being a baby and a little girl. So Brattie would boss Annie. Or ignore Annie. Or say things to me like, "how come Annie talks funny?" Um, because she's three, bitch. I'm totally kidding. About the bitch part, anyway. This was all small potatoes compared to what was to come. What I like to call the alienation of Annie.

Brattie has two other friends in the hood. The first is a the four year whiose family is extrememly close with Brattie's. Kristin does Brattie's bidding. The two of them would completely gang up on Annie, pouring buckets of water over her head until she'd beg them to stop (as she laughed all the while) or make up games designed to allow the sanctioned bossing of Annie. For example, they might suggest to her, "we'll be the mermaids and you be the baby fish and we'll tell you what to do" or ""We'll be the sharks and you be the whale and we'll tell you what to do". See the pattern here? Worse was when Brattie and Kristin would leave Annie out completely, seeking out activities for two with Annie begging to play. This was where my heart would rip a little. See, Annie would just ask over and over again so sweetly, "can I play?" not really understanding that these girls were being small versions of females at their worst, having sussed out the weakest among them, they must now set about asserting their power.

The other neighbor friend is older, a sophisitcated 7. She used to adore Annie, ringing our bell to play just with her. Their 4 year age difference didn't seem to bother her as she was always so patient and kind that it warmed the cockles of my cold, cold heart. But now that she's a big second grader, Emma is now entering a hoochie mamma/cool girl phase complete with hip hop dance moves and gymnastics lessons. Now when she comes over, she is usually accompanied by her lacky, Brattie, and the two of them whisper rudely while Annie politely waits for them to finish so the playing might commence. A few times I have seen them simply walk away from Annie, leaving her in our yard to ask me where they went and if I think they'll be back. Oh, god, my heart can't take it.

I have intervened. I have scolded. I have gone so far as to tell these girls that if they want to come play with Annie that's great but if they feel like they can't be nice to her, maybe they should go home. Here's the killer part. While I die a thousand deaths at the cruelty I see against my little angel, Annie remains unflappable. See, she isn't aware that they aren't being nice to her. Wonderfully and beautifully, she doesn't know that "being mean" exists. But I am . And I'll be watching out for her for as long as I still can.

Typewriters

All through my school years, papers were typed on typewriters. Can you imagine?? Do you remember? Oh, it would be such a freakin' hassle. I can remember having to ask my mom to use her typewriter. Mind you, this was a manual one, housed in a hard, square case that weighed roughly one million pounds. And you needed special typing paper, parchment-like in texture with the odor of chemicals.

Do we have typing paper, mom? There was about a 50-50 chance that we did. Okay, now. Check the ribbon. Again, maybe there's some ink left, but maybe not so much. Finally the typing could begin.

And this would always take me at least twice as long as writing the paper. It was an ordeal. Ugh, just thinking about it-remember erasing? Having to turn the dealiebob on the right to get the paper up where you could wedge in the eraser (oh, I hope mom bought the erasable kind) or whiteout (dammit mom, buy the erasable kind!). Then having to turn the whatzamadizzle down so that you could pick up typing on the same line where you made the mistake. But let's face it, it NEVER went back on the same line. It went on the line above or below the line below causing yet another error to be erased or whited out. The mother of Mike Nesmith from the Monkees invented whiteout and got really rich offa it which I just said to impress exactly no one.

I once took a typing class at the local public school but I broke two fingers that summer playing first base and my quick brown fox was really more of a slow brown fox. Or a quack briwm fix. Thank god for the lazy dog.

In college, the typewriter was a commodity. Stephanie had an electric one, Mark did too, I think. But these were shared by whole populations of people. While the electric kind had a way cool correction key, the correction tape was rarely restocked by the previous typist so the erasing and whiting out issue persisted. Term papers were the only assignments I ever completed ahead of time in school knowing that I best leave a day or so to get the typing done.

Now every college kid has a computer. But I tell you one thing they don't have: the return carriage. Wasn't that the best feeling? I have reached the end of a line and now...yes...I am going to... swipe ca-ching! start a new line. What a tactilely pleasing exclamation point signifying that you were one line closer to filling 5 pages. And yet, I think I'll stick with the pc.

The Olson twins and the aging athlete

Yeah, I used the Olson twins to hook you. This post has very little to do with them and quite a bit to do with getting old. Er. Older.

It was the last softball game of our season and my team was sitting in the dugout waiting for the rain to stop. Terri's kids were there and they kept quoting lines from Full House. So, wanting to make a little conversation, I blurted out, "Is Full House like The Brady Bunch was to us when we were growing up?" What I wanted to know was if Full House is this generation's cultural touchstone. Do kids quote certain episodes to their peers? Do kids watch the reruns over and over, finding comfort in the predictability and happy endings? Is "You're in trouble mister" the "Mom always said don't play ball in the house" of today?

My question was met with silence. Oh, they didn't hear me. Louder, "Is Full House likeThe Brady Bunch was to us growing up?" Another beat and then our pitcher frowned and said, "I watched Full House when I was little."

Thunk.

Geez, Mag, know your audience. The funny thing is is that this season in particular I have been hyperaware of being one of the older players. See, the league is for women 19 and older. Our team isn't the most egregious offender when it comes to being stocked with 19 year olds but we have our share of younger players. I guess I am not used to being one of the old ones yet. I am still shocked when I realize that some of these girls are right out of high school; high school being a lifetime or so ago to me.

What hurts isn't being old, though. It is for the first time in my life realizing that not only am I not one of the best on the team, I never will be again. This season I was put in right field. Right field! Oh, if the younger me could see this, she'd DIE of shame. One game I was even put in as catcher. Like, on other teams the catcher is frequently played by the grande dame of the team, too old to play the field, too well-liked to be told to take up golf.

No one ever talks about how the recreational athlete feels when it's time for her to hang up her cleats. I mean, as realitively old as I am, I can still hit the ball. I can still track flies. Inside, I feel so young. But I am slow,and I am carrying around 20 pounds of baby weight and two massive feedbags that these younger girls won't have to worry about for years. Do I want to play until I suck or do I retire with a shred of dignity?

What would Carol Brady do?

I laughed so hard I cried, Part 1

If I had to name my favorite thing ever, it's laughing until I cry. God, I love that sensation that something is so damn funny that I can hardly breathe.

This has happened to me three times recently. The other night in bed, Brian and I were watching some newsmagazine or another on how mean girls are to other kids. Apparently the internet is helping mean girls be just that much crueler. To hear Diane Sawyer have to use the term Fruity McGaygay as she read aloud from some blog was just too much. First off, how have I lived so long to have not had that term in my arsenal? How many friends might I have taunted with that gem? Secondly, does this thought ever cross Diane Sawyer's mind: What the HELL am I doing?? Aaah, Fruity McGaygay. Delicious.

Another moment came when we brought Annie over to our neighbor Mrs. M's house so that Brian and I could go see the new birthin' wing of the hospital. Annie brought her Woody doll. But Mrs. M., God bless her, really wanted it to be Buzz Lightyear. But she couldn't spit out Buzz Lightyear. So the Woody doll just kept being called "Bud Bud er Bud Light". At the time I kept my cool and just let her run with it. She doesn't need to know the difference between Woody and Buzz or Buzz's real name, even. But the next day I spoke to her on the phone and she started it again, all this talk of Annie and Bud Light. When I hung up, the tears came. I was shaking as I tried to recount the details to Brian who couldn't understand why it was so funny to me. I dunno.

Finally, last January during our girls' gift exchange, B shared a story. She had recently moved to California and her sister, C came out to help. While B was outside waiting for the moving van, C was chatting up B's landlord inside. When B returned to the apartment, the landlord was filling B in on what he and her sister were talking about. Oddly, though, he said, "...as I was telling your nephew here..." NEPHEW!?!? B's sister is a feminine 40 some year old woman! Nephew!?!? A slip of the tongue obviously but so absurd that it took me a good half hour to get over it.

So, uh, anyone out there? What made you laugh so hard you cried?

Dodging the infertility bullet

When Annie was about a year and a half old, I had a miscarriage. I had planned that I might get pregnant so that Annie would have a sibling 2 years younger than her. Just as with Annie, I got pregnant right away. To make a long story short, the pregnancy was never quite right and it ended about 7 weeks in.

Afterwards, my body started doing some pretty funky things in the womanly bizness department. Periods that had come right on time since puberty started showing up late. I bled at strange times. I wanted to get pregnant again as soon as possible but my body was telling me to chill. Dude, you're coming up on 40, it said. So I started worrying.

I also started a pen-and-paper journal where I wrote things like: I am scared and pessimistic and hopeful and doubtful. And: If I am never to be a mom again I understand that I am already blessed in spades. And then cryptic infertility codes like: A positive OPK last night which means I o today or tomorrow which means if I get AF when abada abadoo blah blah blargh.

I started reading things and did things like take my temperature each morning and pee on certain sticks that would increase my chances of conceiving. I joined a group of women online who were trying to become pregnant but they were all so young and all got pregnant so quickly that I had to leave. I complained to my friend O constantly until she got pregnant and then I just felt jeaous and small that I couldn't be happier for her. I ignored Brian's admonishings that I was worrying over nothing and that it would take time and everything would be okay. As revenge, I had him get his whatnots counted and evaluated. Wait, no, the doctor recommended that. They were fine. actually, I believe supersonic was the medical term (HI BRIAN!).

My doctor prescribed clomid. It made me cranky and then pregnant. Mary came April of this year, just about a year after the baby I had initially hoped for was due.

Yes, it did take my minor run-in with infertility to really be able to empathize with couples who try years to have a baby. Though I adored Annie from the moment I laid eyes on her, it has been Mary who has shaken the last vestige of the non-mom me from my body and replaced it with a love and appreciation purer than I had known before.

The Giving Tree makes me cry

Why does the book The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein inevitably make me cry? I'd avoid reading it altogether if I could. I think the copy that resides in Annie's room must have been Brian's because I am pretty sure I wouldn't have bought it for myself, knowing what it does to me. Regardless, it's there and sometimes she wants us to read it to her.

It didn't always upset me. My mom used to read it to us when we were young and I liked it. I liked watching the boy age. I liked when he brought his galpal to the tree. I liked that the tree was anthropomorphized because I like when things that don't talk do talk. I even read it in church, once. Our grade had planned the mass and my best friend Maria and I read it, alternating pages.

Later and still, I must have felt like the ingrate that the boy becomes. I took so much from my parents and they gave so much. But it's not the same, really. No, really. I didn't leave them as stumps, for example. There were 6 of us siphening, I can't be held responsible for any lasting damage to them. Wait. I don't cry out of guilt. I got it! It's the damn beauty of it. Parents give and give and give more. There is no limit. And it's likely that their kids will never exude gratutude, nor should they. We give and give and give more and in return we want their happiness and we want them to return to us when they need to. It's one o'dem circle of life things.

So, it's the beauty. But it's still sad. Maybe because I think of my own giving tree, my dad, and how maybe even though he wouldn't have wanted it, I maybe could have exuded a little more gratitude before he died. But doing so would have outwardly acknowledged that I knew he was going to die and I am sure neither one of us wanted to go there.

I like Shel Silverstein, too. When Miss Hickey read his poetry to us in the third grade it was the first time I had been exposed to a kind of writing that was both current and funny on purpose. Even though Shel looked scary on his book jackets, he didn't scare me because he was silly.

Just as an aside, I hate a very similarly themed song, too. That stupid f-ing Cat's in the Cradle song. Manipulative and maudlin. And what is that plinging instrument between verses? Plink plink plink plink plink plink. Is that a harpsichord? Hate it.

When Annie chooses The Giving Tree as one of her storytime selections, I tell her it makes me sad ("WHY, MOM?" "I don't know, it just does") but that her dad will read it to her. As he does, I bite the inside of my mouth and watch her enjoy the talking tree and the growing boy.

The worst breastfeeding advice ever

Look, I ain't nobody's idea of the la leche poster mom. I am breastfeeding now because I did my homework and Mary played nicely. But I had intended to breastfeed Annie, really I had. But like most things in my life I just assumed it'd go okay without my actually having to like DO anything.

I did take a class. They showed a movie. The movie depicted an overty hirsuit woman (are there any other kind in childbirth related movies? Yeeg.) popping out her baby. The cord is cut and the baby TAKES IT UPON ITSELF TO SCOOTCH UP THE MOM'S BODY TO COMMENCE BREASTFEEDING. Yeah, I'm yelling, but come on. How was I not to think this was a piece of cake? The baby did all the work, people.

But that's not even the bad advice I got. I am not even sure how what happened there even could be framed as advice: Clear the alley from your hoo-ha to your breastages so that the baby may travel the path of least blah blah..

No, no. The worst advice came in my childbirth class. The RN who taught the class told us this welcome hint, "The night of your baby's birth, get a good night sleep. Tell the nurses to keep your baby overnight in the nursery-you'll need your rest." I didn't need to be told this twice. I never have to be told means by which to get more sleep twice. So she said it and I did it and my the time my baby met my breast, she had a taste for formula and a fairly intimate relationship with silicone nipples. I was powerless to intervene.

After the frustration of failed breastfeeding, I now know the truth. Never introduce the bottle if you want to breastfeed. Your baby won't starve. Their stomach is roughly the size of a marble those first few days. And the best advice: as soon as you can get your hands on that baby, do so and shove your boob in its mouth before it has a chance to think about it. I mean, this is such a crucial and proven piece of information. Someone might have mentioned it.

The downside to all of this is once you start breastfeeding, you are breastfeeding. You cease to be a person, you are a pair of breasts with a baby attached. You are always the star of the show and there is no understudy. More on the pros and cons to come. Boing.

Why Kangaroo Life?

When I was pregnant with my second daughter, I was trying to learn as much about breastfeeding as I could. I kept coming across this unfamiliar term: kangaroo care. As I understood it, this was a certain kind of mothering that involved just kind of strapping the baby on and keeping him or her as close to you as possible, with the boob available for snacking. The concept was a little too hands on for me, but the idea stuck with me, especially when Mary was born and became my pal joey; in my pouch as much as I'd allow. But it's not just Mary I carry with me, I thought. Aren't all of our pouches sort of overflowing with the things we carry? Aren't we all just a bunch o' kangaroos?

Friendships, family, memories, friends...the older I get the more I carry. I am not sure what the capacity is for a pouch but I started thinking that if I don't empty mine I might lose some of it. So this is my blog, here for safe keeping.

I imagine what I will mostly write about is what weighs me down the most which also happen to be the things that make me hop. Yeah, I don't get that either. Boing.