December 12, 2011

Merry Winter Holidays, People!

Whether you plan to light the yule log, keep vigil the longest night, celebrate the rededication of the temple, hold your breath in a stable somewhere, or finally press charges against that fat man that breaks in every year, I hope it goes well for you. 

I recently heard someone refer to this time of the year as "these darkening days."  I'm pretty sure he meant that literally, our days become shorter and shorter here in the Northern Hemisphere, until it seems as though we begin and end each day in darkness, only seeing the sun for a few precious hours, if at all.

I think it's valid for life, though.  It might not be at this particular time of year, but we all have darkening days.  Days when things just seem to get worse and worse, and little by little the things that bring light and warmth into our lives slip away.

That's why I love the winter holidays so much.  The annual recognition that eventually, light comes to us all.  That the days will get longer, the sun will return, and no darkness lasts forever.

So I'll say it again; Merry Winter Holidays, People, and A Happy New Year!  May the new year bring goodwill and joy, and instead of peace let's wish for revolution, revelation, and fewer darkening days for us all.

November 21, 2011

This morning was fine.  The kids woke up cheerfully, Waxor got ready (it took him two hours, which is a wee bit long, but then, we'd gotten up early so he had the time.)  We all ate breakfast, and everyone kissed Daddy good-bye and sent him off to the salt mines.

Then all hell broke loose.

It started with a toy.  Of course, right?  There's this train track.  Not a TRAIN, mind you, just the V-tech track that it runs on.  We got it at the Salvation Army a few weeks ago.  The track has the alphabet on it and you can play four or five different learning games on it.  Great toy, right?

WRONG!

See, the kids love it.  BOTH kids love it.  So I pretty much treat it on a first come, first serve basis, meaning that they have to share, but whoever started playing with it first has right of way.

So this morning Charlotte was happily pushing buttons ("V!  This is the letter V!  Very good!) when Elliot decided that he was having none of this.  Have I mentioned the toy folds up?  So he starts trying to fold the train track, with his sister inside it.

This does not turn out well.

"Elliot, stop trying to fold up your sister."

"NO!"

"Eya!  Eya! Holp!"

"Charlotte, I am helping.  Elliot, I am going to count to three, and if you do not leave your sister alone I am going to put you in time out, do you understand?"

"I will not listen to you anymore because you're saying som'fin I don't like!"

"Nonononnnnnnnooooooo EYYYYYYAAAA!"

"One."

"I did not hear you, you stop!"

"Holp!  Holp! Nonono!"

"Two."

"STOP SAYING THAT!"

"EEEEEEYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAA!"

"Three."

Boy is separated from sister.  Boy is placed on stairs.  Mother looks sternly at boy.

"You are in time out."

Boy starts to get off stairs

"Elliot, you better put your butt back on those stairs, or you are going to your room for time out, and I will SHUT the DOOR."

Boy sits back on stairs.

Charlotte and I go back to what we are doing.  In Charlotte's case this means pushing the buttons.  As Elliot sees Charlotte still playing with the toy in question he begins shrieking at a volume that is only slightly less than that which might possibly rupture eardrums and cause pregnant women to spontaneous begin labor.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--"

Pause for breath.

"--OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I calmly get up, go over to the stairs, and hoist my screaming son into the air.  About this time he realizes he has made a tactical error.

"No!  No! I want to be with you!  I want to be WITH YOU!  Put me down!  Put me back!  You put me back right now!  LISTEN TO ME!"

I deposit my son on his bed, walk out, shut the door, and tie it shut with my bathrobe tie.  My bathrobe tie has been PERMANENTLY appropriated for this usage, because otherwise I have to stand there and hold the door shut.  And Been?  I was wrong, all those many years ago.  It DOES take more than once.

I go back downstairs and try to do dishes.  Charlotte, having forgotten that she's mad at Elliot, hears one of his more pitiful screams;

"I'm firsty!  I need my milk!  I'm so firsty!"

So, being a sweet little girl, she goes and gets her brother's cup of milk and carries it up the stairs to him.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs and discovering that she cannot complete her delivery she, too, begins crying.

"Eya!  Molk, Molk!  EYA MOLK!"

Reality rarely mimics the movies, but I do, on occasion, actually beat my head against solid objects.  It is oddly comforting.

I fetch the girl.  I distract her (via a clever application of the jack-in-the-box that is actually a monkey.)

"Nomkey!"

I go upstairs.  I open the door on my no-longer-screaming-but-still-sobbing son.

"Youdidn'tlistentomeandIwantedyoutolistentomesoIamsadgivemeakissandtakemedownstairsandgetmesomemilkcauseyoudidn'tlistentomewhyidn'tyoulistentomeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?"

"Elliot, you are not to scream at me like that."

"I *sob* was *sob* screamin' *sob* cause you wasn't LISSENIN!"

"I wasn't listening because you were in time out."

"I didn't want to be in time out."

"I know, but you didn't listen when I told you to leave Charlotte alone."

"SHE WAS MESSIN WITH MY TRAIN!"

"No, she was playing with the train.  You were messing with HER."

Thoughtful pause.

"But I'm so firsty."

"Would you like to come downstairs and get some milk?"

"Yes, but I need you to carry me."

"I don't think so, buddy.  You can walk downstairs on your own."

"I cannot, I'm so tired."

"Then you're going to be up here a long time."

Do I really need to tell you what happens next?  If you guessed "Elliot begins wailing again"  then you are correct!

Wash, rinse, repeat.  No, I am not kidding.  We went through almost exactly the same scenario a complete second time, with the only real variant being that the second time I actually took the train and put it away, and almost everything went faster, because he'd expended so much energy pitching a fit the first time he didn't have the stamina for the second go round.

***

Today is Monday.  Monday, November 21st.  In case anyone has missed this, that means it is the Monday BEFORE Thanksgiving.  I have, thus far, received 4 emails from companies advising me that "Black Friday Deals Start Now!"

WTH?

I'm sorry, Mr or Ms Email Person for Old Navy/Target/Amazon/Ebay/Etc.  What you mean to say is "Okay, we all realize that black Friday is completely arbitrary, and only a giant shopping day because so many people have the day off from work.  We ALSO realize that if you're getting this email you are likely a troll who does all your shopping late at night online, and don't care if sales are high, you're still not going out in that madness.  Since that's the case, we would like the opportunity to secure your holiday dollars for ourselves, rather than our competitors.  Please come spend your money with us, and we will pretend it has something to do with Turkeys."

Turkies?

Turkii?

TURDUCKEN!!!!!!

I love turducken.  Anyone who does not is either crazy or a vegetarian.

(Lil side note:  I even know vegetarians who like turducken.  It's hard not to like.)

***

Charlotte adores baby dolls.  I mean, she loves them with a passion.  Elliot likes them, too, but he no longer LOVES them (although he did.)  Anyway, when we go shopping ANYWHERE the kids always want to cruise the toy aisle, and, being a fairly magnanimous dictator, I generally allow them to do this.  We hit the vehicles ("Oh look, there's THOMAS!"), we coast on by the expensive V-tech stuff ("Mommy, can I have my own computer?"), we take a gander at the stuffed animals ("It's a cat!" "Mee-yow!  Mee-yow!"), and inevitably we come to the doll aisle.

"BAY-BEEEEEEEEEE!"

It's like her little head explodes.  Elliot will generally point out to me the more activity oriented dolls (like the Strawberry Shortcake who comes with a color change dress and a little spinning platform you can spin her on.  He spins that sucker like mad, and I can't help but feel bad for the little red-headed piece of plastic.) but Charlotte goes straight for the baby dolls.  Doesn't matter how realistic or what it's intended to do, she loves it.  

This obsession of hers has led me to many long minutes in the doll aisle, and I've come up with a few questions.

Why do they make drink and wet dolls?  No one thinks it's fun to change a baby's diaper, why do we assume that a little kid will want to do so?  Also, why on earth would we give a child who may, or may not be potty trained ANOTHER way to pee on the floor?

Has anyone told the people who make those babies that laugh spontaneously when they sense motion that their dolls are CREEPY?!

Why do dolls only come in caucasian and caucasian-painted-brown?  

Why do they bother selling outfits for dolls that are intended for children under the age of 4?  The kid is just gonna strip the baby naked and never dress it again, first chance they get.

If I spend long enough in the toy section I get the urge to go home and throw all the kids toys away.  I feel like they could have more fun and get more out of some cooking lessons, or being taught the practical applications of geometry.

***

I took an IQ test on my phone the other day.  It was fascinating.  The questions could be divided firmly into two sections - most of them went into the "whether I answer this correctly or not, I understand the pattern/logic they are asking me to apply" catagory, but a few went into the "whaaaaa?  Where's the pattern?"  catagory.  I wish I could go back and look at the exact same test again, and show it to some other people, and see if they can identify the pattern for me.

They were invariably the kind where they showed you pictures set up in a square, and a question mark in one of the slots, and you were supposed to identify the picture that needed to go there.  It's not that TYPE of problem that I can't answer, a number of them were fairly simple.  But some of them were... really weird.  At least, to my own personal brain's way of thinking.  I just could not find a pattern.

***

Do you believe in random psychic (for want of a better word) STUFF?  I was just putting Elliot to bed, and he was lying there and I was playing sudoku on my phone, and all of a sudden I got this really strong impression of one of my friends, like he was there, with me.  Anyone find this weird?  Plausible?  An excellent plot for my next book?  Speak up.

Speaking of my book... I have gotten to THE scene.  The scene in which our hero and heroine, in all their youthful joy and blooming innocence, finally, at last, after much soul searching _get_it_on_.

I am somewhat at a loss.  They are in a wood.  In the middle of winter.  See what I'm saying?  It's COLD, people.

There's something DISTINCTLY non-romantic about saying "she shivered and pulled the fur back over her shoulder, squealing at winter's bite on her tender skin."

It just doesn't evoke that head over heels FEELING.

Commentary is invited.  Unless it's snarky.  If it's snarky, you have to take a number.

***  

So, since this is likely the Thanksgiving edition for the year, I should say something thanksgivey, right?

Hmmm... There's a hymn we sang recently, it goes like this:

For the beauty of the earth

For the beauty of the skies

For the love, which from our birth

Over and around us lies

That covers it, doesn't it?  For these things, we are thankful.  For the beauty, for the love, for that which graces our life with generosity and strength and truth, we give thanks.

Also for flowers that bloom unexpectedly in winter

And for good dance music.

For anything that makes your blood beat faster

And for the exhilaration you feel when you make an impossible jump.

For scents that remind you of every good time you've ever had

And the laughter that went with those times.

For the hard times

Those moments that bring us back to ourselves no matter how far we have strayed.

For all this and more, our lives in their completeness

We give thanks to the universe, to whatever else might be out there, and to the people who share our lives with us.

And on that note.... Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all.  You'll likely hear from me once more in December, and then, holy bejeezum crow, it's gonna be 2012 and a whole new year.  Which means we'll be headed into Year Four of the Life In The Slow Lane Cycle:  Year of Changes.

(power of positive thinking.  don't be a downer.  go with me on this one.)

November 20, 2011

Hello peoples,

I am in the midst of an existential... not crisis, no, but, maybe hullabaloo?  Yes.  I think that's appropriate to the ridiculousness of the situation.  I am in the midst of an existential hullabaloo.

Details, details, boring boring details.  I'm not even sure what the details of said hullabaloo ARE.  I am lacking the concrete-itude of thought that would allow me to put word and concept to my hullabalooing.

Suffice it to say that I feel all my time is full, but I am doing nothing. 

I scurry, scurry, scurry, to sit around and wait.

All my creative impulses have fled me, like rats from a hullabalooing ship.

I have doubts about my skill and talents as they relate to parenting.  I have doubts about my skill and talents as they relate to pretty much EVERYTHING, but the parenting one is the one that is getting me down.  

I have guilt concerning my comfortable status in the world.  I realize that my identity as an activist is valid only if such things can be hereditary, and I'm a little mortified by that.  Maybe a lot mortified.

I squirm with the knowledge that my problems are, as my father would call them, "first world problems".  And they still bother me.  So I squirm about that, too.

I wish to look all these thoughts in their beady little eyes and DEAL with them.  I love to DEAL with things.  It is one of the great satisfactions in my life when I can DEAL with something.  But I find, as I try to grasp one of the slippery little buggers and expose it to examination, that they are too tricksy for me.  

I loathe tricksy thoughts.

October 21, 2011

Charlotte's got a new favorite game.  I'll be sitting, working, goofing off, whatever, and up she toddles.

"Ah peeeeeeeee!"

"Chaaaaaarlotte..."  This comes out as a groan, as this is only the five bajillionth time she's said this in the past hour.

"Ah pee! Ah pee!"

"You want to pee?"

"Yahp.  Ah pee. Ehl-ya."

"You want to pee like Elliot?"

"Yahp.  Ehl-ya!  Ehl-ya! Ah pee!"

Groan.  Off to the bathroom we go.  Charlotte opens the potty, puts Elliot's potty seat on, pushes the stool into place, and turns to me.

"Ah peeeeeeee!"

"Okay, baby girl."

Now, at this point I have one of two options.  I can go easy route, which involves just lifting her, with her clothes ON, onto the potty seat for a minute.  Or I can go with the more roundabout route, which means I take her pants and diaper off and let her sit for a moment.  Easy is faster, roundabout more educational.  I tend to fluctuate.  But it is important to note, it makes no difference to Charlotte WHICH I pick, because under no circumstances is she actually going to pee in the potty.  Nor will it alter her next several steps in the slightest.

I pick.  I put her on the potty.

"Ah peeeeeee!"

"You peed?"

"Yahp."

"Ready to get down?"

"Ah pee, Ah pee."

"Do you need to wipe first?"

"Yahp."

Into her tiny hand goes enough toilet paper to wipe an entire battalion of toddlers.  I carefully extract some so that it merely enough for a small scouting squad.  She cheerfully pushes it through her legs and into the toilet, never once making contact with any part of her body, even if I have removed her diaper.

"Ah duhn."

"You're done?"

"Yahp."

"Ready to get down?"

"Yahp."

Off she goes, to announce to Daddy and Elliot "Ah pee!" and the adventure is over, at least for the next 15 minutes.

 ***

You know a lesson that I have to learn over and over?  No matter how much your kids like prunes, don't let them eat more than two.

***

Becca sent me an article about a woman who's son has Tay-Sachs.  It was heartbreaking and thought provoking.  Highlights are as follows:  Her son will not live to be three years old.  She sees that most parents "parent for the future."  Parenting a child with a terminal illness means you don't parent for the future, you just parent for *right*now*.  At one point she says "We have a very permissive household."

I've been thinking about it a lot.  Most parents DO parent for the future.  We have to, right?  You can't let your children have cheesecake at every meal because it could do hideous things to their health, not to mention their food choices the rest of their lives.  You can't let your kids stay up all night long because, in addition to needing at least a few hours to yourself, it would be horrible for them.  Right?  Right.

So I've been finding myself, oddly enough, slightly envious of this poor woman.  Not actually envious, of course, because I would never in any reality trade places with her.  No, the fact that my children are healthy and whole is, quite possibly, the greatest gift I have ever been given.

But I wish I could parent more for right now.  I wish I could let my children do what they wanted, without the worry of what it might mean in the future. I think maybe that's the biggest thing that you never learn until you become a parent.  Your parents never WANTED to tell you no.  They wanted to say "yes" and make you happy.  But they had to worry about how the choices of today would affect tomorrow, so they sucked it up and said no.

Today I was trying to put Charlotte down for a nap.  She's been fighting me on that, recently, and I had been upstairs with her for an hour, trying to get her to sleep.  I was lying there with her and she reached up and patted my face so sweetly, and said "Ah.  Mama." and then gave me a hug.  And I thought "to hell with it.  Every so often, let's just live for the now."

"You want to get up, baby girl?"

"Ahyah!  Elh-ya!  Upah!"

"Alright.  Let's go."

Now I'm gonna go get Elliot some nut crackers and cream cheese.  AFTER I give him a great big hug.  Cause that's what he just asked for. :)

***

Yesterday I sat down and sent Zanne and Rob the following letter.  As I was most pleased with the result I have decided to quote it you, verbatim.

"From the Desk of Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, first of that name, Royal Sovereign of all that exists between Bathroom and Crib, in the Kingdom of Woodwaxia; as penned by her most beloved mother, the Dame Jessica, Dowager Empress of this realm, and keeper of the Royal Kitchens; to her sister Monarch and Playmate, Queen Jocelyn of Spaihtsmohndium, to be imparted faithfully by her loving parental scribes; Greetings.

We are writing to express our continual and unremitting debt to you for your most gracious and generous gesture in introducing us to the wonders inherent in the joyous and most magnificent ice cube.  Heretofore our efforts at exerting never-ending demands upon our Royal Mother were limited in scope, being bounded by necessity by the physical limitations of the hot dog.  Namely, that hot dogs do not disappear of their own volition, mere moments after presentation.  Having been given this new horizon for demands I cannot begin to express my satisfaction.  During the course of dictating this letter alone I have asked for an ice cube no less than three time.

Bless you, bless you, bless you, my most loyal and courteous friend.  We will declare a holiday in your honor, here in the Kingdom of Woodwaxia.  From this day forward, October nineteenth shall be known as the day of Queen Jocelyn, the day of melting cubes.

Rejoice!

Until we meet again, your Majesty, I shall hold you dear in my heart.

Queen Charlotte Cha-cha Chiztastic"

***

We're sorry.  The person you were trying to reach no longer exists.  You have been connected instead with *Jessica's*Inner*Demon*.  If you would like to reach the original *Jessica*, please hang up and try again.  Your call will be completed at the appropriate time.  We apologize for any inconvenience, and hope you have a nice day.  Goodbye.

October 17, 2011

Imagine a penguin looking in a mirror.  Now, penguins have personality.  Doesn't really matter how symmetrical the beaky little penguin features are, there's just something charming about them.  So this penguin, looking in a regular ol' bathroom mirror, gets a pretty good view.  Our little penguin friend sees a charismatic little face attached to a reasonably flexible neck, and with this partial and therefore skewed vision of his little birdy self he heads out the door, feeling both cute AND adorable.

Now imagine that our friend the penguin is confronted with a sneak reflection.  Walking up to the doors of the grocery, perhaps, or in the windows of a passing car.  Now he sees all the way down.  He sees what those extra silverfish have been doing to his wobbly penguin thighs, and what effect that second mackerel has had on his doughy penguin bottom.  Suddenly our friend no longer feels cute and adorable.  Rather he feels plump like a turkey, ready for Thanksgiving.

And he's not supposed to BE a turkey.  He's SUPPOSED to be a PENGUIN.

This story is an allegory.

In case you didn't get that.

Charlotte is a tiny little sneak thief.  Today I got them both settled with their breakfasts of choice; Charlotte asked for Oatmeal and Elliot wanted Kix (milk on the side.)  Elliot finished about half his bowl, and then announced a sudden need to visit the restroom, so I helped him out of his chair and helped with his Pajamas (mostly he can use the potty himself now, but footie PJ's are hard to deal with when you lack coordination and body awareness.)  When I came back I found an amazing thing.  Charlotte had vacated her booster seat, crawled off the bench, under the table, up into the Captain's chair Elliot was using, and had coolly polished off both milk and most of the rest of the cereal.  She had her cheeks stuffed to overflowing, and 3 or 4 Kix in each hand.  When I said to her "Charlotte, are you stealing your brother's breakfast?"  Her response was unintelligible, but exceedingly cheerful.

Or, as cheerful as one can be, when one is using one's mouth as a personal moist Kix distribution system.

Greetings, fellow homo sapiens!  

Yesterday I was in a horrendous mood.  Today I feel better!  The sun has come out, and that's delightful, but you know what the best part was?  I checked my book on Amazon, and someone I DON'T KNOW wrote a review of it.  A good one!  Of course, I suppose it could be someone I know in disguise, but I choose to believe it was a stranger.  Of course, she said she'd be looking for more by me, so I think maybe I need to stop typing this email and get back to writing my next book...

In just a few weeks I'm going to be turning 33.  In the mythology of the JHC (aka, my family)  33 is a portentous age, the age when you finally, at long last, become an adult.  You understand everything, know what you're doing, and you can magically suck liquids through a chopstick.

It's fine if you don't understand that last one.  You're probably just not 33 yet.

Anyway, with my impending adulthood nigh, I am beginning to think about all those years when I yearned to be an adult.  When I was positive that all the good times in life were being had between the hours of my bedtime and midnight (they were, that wasn't a lie).  When I was positive that when I was an adult I could eat popcorn whenever I wanted (also not a lie, but not as gratifying as I thought it was going to be.)  When I was sure that being an adult was, in every way possible, better than being a kid.

That last one was totally a lie.

Don't get me wrong, there are awesome things about being an adult.  Being one now (or, almost anyway) I can safely say that I would not voluntarily go back in time to when I was a child, unless I could hop about at whim (be a kid for 15 minutes and then zip right back into grown up land again.)  But it isn't uniformly better.  And when my children inevitably say to me "when I'm grown up I won't..."  I will say right back to them;

Don't be in such a hurry to grow up.

Being grown up means that when the dog poops on the floor YOU have to clean it up.

It means that the dirty laundry, full sink, and disgusting bathroom, none of which you made messy yourself, are on YOUR to-do list.

Being the grown up means that when everyone is sick, and someone HAS to go to the store, you sigh and get the car keys.

Grown-ups empty the trash, the compost, the recycling, and the mouse traps.

Being grown-up means that you have to listen to someone else's side, even when you are mad at them.

It means that you have to say you're sorry first, even if you weren't the most wrong.

It means you don't rub it in when you're right.

So, yeah, bedtimes suck, and it's nice to be in charge of your own choices.  But don't over look the charms of being in charge of nothing and getting to act your age, when your age gives you license to run free.

Just saying.

***

Do you live with someone?  If you don't now, have you ever?  It is a truth of life that living with someone is frequently difficult, and the more intimate your relationship, the more difficult it is.  Therefore room mates that never see one another might rarely disagree, while a couple will fight frequently.  It just recently occurred to me that having children is a bit like moving in with someone new for the first time.  Sure, there's that honeymoon period, where they can't talk and have very few opinions, and as long as you're with them they're pretty content.  But soon they start to have wants and demands of their own, and you find your ways and manners clashing.  And it is a VERY intimate relationship - possibly the most intimate you will ever have, so on a scale of "Don't care enough to fight about it" to "I love you so much I will beat you to death if that is the only way to make you see the light" it comes in way closer to the second one.  It's really shockingly like moving in with a significant other.  It varies in two highly significant ways, however.

1) The inequality in the relationship is permanent and absolute, and therefore you can NEVER expect them to suck it up and be the bigger person.

2) If it all goes sour, no matter what happened, everyone, including you, will think it was all your fault.

***

I keep dreaming about a couple people I haven't seen in a really long time.  In these dreams someone is with them - a person I've never met, but is significant to them in some way (parent, child, partner, whatever.  You get the gist)  In the dreams the other person disapproves of me A LOT.  I find these dreams both weird and disturbing. 

Now, if I haven't seen you in a while you may feel free to think that I am talking about you.

If I've seen you recently, I'm not.

Of course, one's definition of "recently" can vary so greatly, that's what makes the game fun!

Anyway, if you know something about dreams and the subconscious mind, please, feel free to tell me what my mind is saying.  If you happen to be someone I have not seen in a while, and you have a person of importance to you that really dislikes me, please feel free to tell them I've gotten the message.

If you live within four hours of my house please rsvp for my birthday party (Oct 29th, 6 pm, costume from one of Joss Whedon's masterpieces).  Am I talking to you?  Well, think hard.  Do you live within four hours of my house?  THEN YES! I AM!.

A simple yes or no.  That's all I'm looking for.

If you live MORE than four hours away you only need to tell me if you're planning on showing up.  Otherwise I'll assume you're not coming.

Now I' have to go deal with my insane and screaming children.  Bye!

September 28, 2011

Hi everyone,

Today my son looked at me (he was about to receive some chocolate chips) and announced "I am three, so I can have three."

"That seems right to me"  Say I. "How many can Charlotte have?"

"One."

"Why?"

"Because she is one."

"Of course.  How old is mommy?"

"You are five.  You can have five."

Many women would have been flattered.  I just felt gypped out of quite a bit of chocolate.

So, where to start?  Let's start with the small, and work up to the big.

Charlotte is definitely small, but getting bigger every day.  She speaks--in words only I can understand, mind you, but still.  Should any of you come to visit this glossary will help:

Booo: Boob.  As in, give me some boob.
Booooa:  Boom.  As in, I fell down, now give me some boob.
Chglahlah: Chocolate.  As in, give me some chocolate, it's the only thing in the world better than boob.
Dada:  Daddy.  As in, Hello Daddy, give me back to Mommy so I can have some boob.
Eya:  Elliot.  As in, Hello oh God of my idolatry, greatest thing in my existence, paragon of all to which I aspire, teach me thy ways and let me back in thy wisdom.  

Charlotte is a rough and tumble little girl.  I have heard stories of my childhood, that involve me leaping from things in the assurance that I will be okie-fine.  I say, with a certain amount of confidence, that Charlotte has inherited this tendency from me.  It's funny, because Elliot has always been such a delicate, cautious little dude.  I never really worried that he would injure himself from over enthusiasm.  WIth Charlotte I worry about it almost every day.

She's a cheerful little person.  People that she likes are greeted with giant smiles, everyone else she stares at mistrustfully until coming to some inner personal judgement about them, where upon she either demands to be picked up or avoids them like they don't exist.  That's my baby, already versed in the fine art of the cold shoulder.  I don't know if it's just her nature, or if she's learning things from Elliot, but she's already much more manipulative than he was at this age.  She perfectly capable of noticing that no one is paying attention to her, and then calculating whether a well timed shriek or a well placed adorable smile is more likely to get her noticed.  

In some ways Elliot gets a way better deal - he doesn't nap, he gets to stay up later, almost all the toys are technically "his" and he can actually ask us for what he wants, which means he tends to get it in a timely fashion.  But in some ways he gets a worse deal.  Waxor and I have started scolding him for pulling stunts to get attention, but we tend to smile indulgently when Charlotte does it.  Of course, we smiled indulgently when Elliot was 1.5, too, but HE doesn't know that, and I think he feels the difference.

Elliot has gotten over some of the snit he was in all summer.  We went through a few months there where every other day was melt-down central.  Now I have my sweet boy back, at least, almost.  I think it's helped that Waxor and I are making a conscious effort to pay more positive attention to him, not because he's acting out, but just a few minutes here and there every day.  He still decides to lose it about once a day, but I've gotten to where that's easier to handle and we just move on afterwards, instead of that being the beginning of a day of horror.  

Elliot can now use the computer all by himself.  Not fully, of course, but Waxor bookmarked a Thomas the Train page for him, and Elliot can open up firefox and click the bookmark all by himself.  He also surfs youtube on his own, and yes, that does worry me a little bit.  Due to our lack of cable TV Elliot had never really been exposed to commercials, but you know what his favorite thing to watch on youtube is?  Yup, toy commercials.  Those advertisers are evil, evil geniuses.

Right now it's 10 am, and the kids have been up for about two hours.  Elliot has eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.  Charlotte has had a hot dog, half a cup of milk, another half a hot dog, a yogurt, about three tablespoons of peanut butter, and she's nursed.  Twice.  You'd think she'd be one of those little butterballs, but she isn't, she just a very normal sized little girl, maybe a bit on the skinny side. Which leads me to wonder - what exactly is Elliot fueling his body on?  Is he, in fact, a breathe-airean?  Because, seriously, the boy doesn't eat enough to stay alive.

On to the larger news... two items.

Item number ONE!  We are not moving to Seattle.  Most of you will be scratching your heads, wondering why that is news, but for those of you who have been in touch over the summer, the answer is no, we're not moving.  And yes, I am quite excited about that.  The prospect of buying a house over there had me all... jumpy.  Also, we've done all this work on our house (in case we needed to sell it) and I have to say, it's looking nice.  And I am looking forward to living it in for a while.

Item number TWO!  I have written a book.  Yes, seriously, a whole, entire, complete, actual book, hopefully the first in a series.  I'm taking fairy tales and writing humorous romantic adaptations.  While I think my chances of getting a publishing house to take it are above average (doesn't everyone think that?)  having looked into the realities of royalties (particularly in Romance publishing)  I have decided to go the self publishing route.  Hooray for Amazon and the Kindle, I say.  Anyway, It's up, now, on Amazon.  If you want to read it (because I have not inundated you with enough of my words, and you long for more) it's under my name and it's called Before the Midnight Bells.  Feel free to check it out.  Word of caution.  It really is a romance novel, if you don't care for the genre I wouldn't read it.  Just saying.

Also, if your read it and you like it, give part of the credit to Zanne.  She edited the book for me and it's about a gajillion times better for her work on it.

Why are you still reading this email?  Why are you not ALREADY READING MY BOOK?!

On a related note, does anyone know a book reviewer?  I can cold send it to a bunch of people, but then it goes in the slush pile, and who knows when it gets read, then...

[Interlude:

C: Mama?

J: What is it, Chazzie?

C: Boo (pats chest)

J:  No, you don't need boob right now.

C: Mama, boo. (pats chest even more emphatically)

J: Are you thirsty?  Do you want something to drink?

C: Hnyah

J: How about milk?

C:  Hnyah.

J: okay (gives Charlotte milk) there, is that better?

C: Hnyah

(J goes back to what she was doing)

C: Mama?

J: What do you need, Chaz?

C: Mor, Mama. Mor boo.

end of interlude.]

Oh, I forgot, in the background, Elliot was shrieking "She said BOOOOOOOOB!  She wants BOOOOOOOB!  She needs to take a naaaaaaaaaaaaaap!  Can I watch THOMAS NOW?!"

My son love Thomas the Train, and my daughter loves Shoes and Purses and Baby Dolls.  I did not do this on purpose.  I have always let Elliot play with the toys that appealed to him, whatever phase he was in, and, to be fair, he does like babies, and he likes carrying things in back packs, which I suppose is similar to a purse.  And Charlotte, of course, also enjoys trains and other wheeled vehicles.  But Elliot's favorite toy is a train, and Charlotte's favorite toy (aside, of course, from which ever toy Elliot has in his hand RIGHT THAT SECOND) is shoes, closely followed by dolls and purses.  As a parent raised on stories like "Baby X"  I feel like I've failed somehow.  But I cannot help it that Thomas is blue so Elliot likes blue, and Charlotte, like any sensible person, seems to have a preference for purple.  I cannot help that Elliot disdains dolls (although he likes real babies) in favor of steamies and diesels.  I cannot help that Charlotte is at her most blissfully happy when she has a sparkly purple purse draped over one arm, and is clopping around the house in someone else's shoes, calling "Bayyy-Bie?  Baaaaaaaayyyyy-bie?"

Also, my children are brilliant.  That is just a side note.  I have been told, by people who know these things, that they are merely developmentally on target, but I have seen a lot of the kids out there in their age groups.  I am convinced that my kids are teeny tiny little braniacs.

Do not tell me different.  

You are wrong.

Waxor is working on several project right at the moment.  He's still programming Bokku for the Big League Chew guy, and he's planning out a DnD game that he's going to run locally.  He's also been thinking about doing something crafty, and also geeky.  

One of my dear friends just had her very first baby, and another dear friend has just told everyone that she's expecting her very first baby, and I am going to get to see BOTH of them this fall, and I just found this out in the past 24 hours.  Isn't that awesome?

Doesn't that make the rest of you want to visit?  Or possibly procreate?  Or both?

OH, hey, speaking of visiting...  This year Waxor and I will NOT be throwing a Halloween party.  I have had some varying luck with them in the past, and this year I am just too tired to deal with it.  

Instead we are throwing a birthday party for ME!!!!  Now, to be fair, this party will be held on Saturday, Oct. 29th, and it is a themed party, and you are expected to come in costume.  But let us just be clear.  It is NOT a Halloween party.  It is a BIRTHDAY party.  For ME.

So, all of you are invited to my birthday party!  It's Oct. 29th, starts at 6 pm, here at 709 River St, Haverhill MA.  The party is Joss Whedon Themed, and if any of you just said "What?"  You are uninvited.  No.  I'm kidding.  But you have to go sit down and watch all of Firefly as a penance.  Waxor and I will be attending dressed as Spike and Drusilla, and if anyone feels inspired to go the Buffy-verse route we could use an Angelus.  All of Whedon's various creations are valid, however be advised that if you choose to go the X-Men comic route you will be cool, but no one will get it.

If you can't come, but would like to celebrate my birthday anyway, may I suggest you curl up with a good book?  Perhaps MY book?  Just a suggestion.

Going away now, before my head explodes.

June 22, 2011

Fuzzy and Dante gave me a series of books by Simon R Green.  I'm apparently reading them out of order - alas.  Anyway, I think I just found the best line I've read all year, maybe more than all year.

It's a spy series, set in a supernatural world, and the James Bond parallels are rampant.  The book's version of Q (called the Armourer) is working in his lab, and our hero and his girlfriend go to speak with him.  They find him working on a little black box that, as he says, is "supposed to go bang.  And it doesn't."  

So he picks up a big hammer and whacks it a good one.

This alarms the hero and the girlfriend, who take the hammer away from the poor Armourer, worried that he will blow them all to kingdom come, and the Armourer then delivers the line.  The great line.  The one I've been waiting to read.

"You have to teach technology to respect you!  It has to know who's in charge!"

That's exactly how *I* feel.  Oh sure, I love riding in cars and flying in airplanes.  Online games are great and without email most of you would never hear from me ever again.  But that doesn't really make me any more comfortable with technology.  When something fails on me, sure, I feel betrayed, but not like you feel betrayed when a good friend stabs you in the back - more like Holmes felt betrayed when Moriarty pulled one over on him.  It's the betrayal you realize you have perpetrated on yourself, for ever thinking you had finally won over the life long nemesis.  

Someone get me a hammer.  I'm gonna go teach my router to respect me.

**********

I've been thinking about the nature of humor, and offense.  Specifically, those things we find humorous that skirt, or outright cross the line, into offensiveness.  Mostly I've been thinking about this because I recently upset a friend of mine with something I found really funny, and also because I read a comic in which the cops were using some pretty serious gallows humor to get through a really difficult crime scene, and the things they were joking about were things that, typically, I would declare to be "never funny", and yet I could see the humor in what they were saying.

There are things that I don't ever really find funny.  George Carlin says anything can be funny, but I can't imagine laughing at a joke about genocide, or mass oppression.  At the same time, I understand that there are times in all our lives that the only way we can deal with something is by breaking into thousands of tiny pieces... or laughing.  So we make inappropriate jokes, and we laugh.  If humor is a defense mechanism, should we ever declare a joke inappropriate?  

Of course, humor isn't JUST a defense mechanism.  I'm not claiming that.  It can totally be offensive (I mean that in the way of weaponry, not in the way of sensibilities).  John Stewart and Stephen Colbert go on the offensive with their humor all the time.  Mostly I cheer them on.  But bullies, both childhood and adult, use humor to go on the offense.  So is the distinction between an offensive joke and a non-offensive joke not the subject matter, but the intent BEHIND the subject matter?

And if that's the case, do we give a pass to people who make racists or sexists joke, if they really aren't trying to hurt anyone by them?  Or do we think they should know better?  But then we're back to judging by content, not intent.

It seems to me that humor is a tricky thing.   Daddy loves Andy Kauffman; thinks he was a comic genius.  I just think he was an intellectual bully, but I know plenty of people who disagree with me.  Who's to say who is right?  I often say that I don't like humor that is based on making other people uncomfortable, and I don't, but then again, I don't actually know how frequently my humor makes other people uncomfortable.  Among my family, and some of my friends, we tend to make fun of people.  The more we like you, the more comfortable we are mocking you.  Chances are excellent that if I've ever said something even slightly mean to you it means I think we're friends.  (Except for you, Kate R.  I really hate you.  PS, welcome to the email list) But I don't know how many people have actually been bothered by that, and just pretended that they found it funny.  

Chances are good that for every joke you've ever told, either someone out there would find it offensive if they heard it, or it wasn't really funny.  I'm not maligning your jokes, I'm just saying that humor and a capacity for offense seem to be really closely intertwined.

At least, to my way of thinking.

***********

Elliot got plowed under by an automatic door today.  We had gone to the grocery store, at his request, to refill our depleted supply of Kix, and he was, as he so frequently is, dawdling.  I had Charlotte loaded up in the cart, and was trying to cajole Elliot into joining us.

"Buddy, come on." No movement.

"Buddy, you're blocking the door, people need to get in and out." A thoughtful glance around, accompanied by a judicious grope of his penis.  Now that he's found it he's constantly checking to make sure it hasn't gone anywhere.

"Elliot, someone is going to come through that door with a cart and not see you, now get over here."  So he starts to move, and at that second the door swings into him.  WHAM!

Elliot wails and goes sprawling.  I check him and find no lasting damage, merely a sense of injustice fomenting in his tiny heart.

There were several older women standing around (YES, Momma, YOUR AGE, which is OLDER than ME.) and they were all horrified.  I heard many exclamations.

"Oh, I can't believe that hit him!"

"Poor little fellow!"

"Oh honey, are you all right?"

What does his heartless mother say?

"See, that's why I don't want you to just stand around in the doorway."

************

This may be my last LITSL email for the summer, unless something so momentous happens that I just HAVE to send one.  Soon Coury and Daniel will be here for two weeks, and then we'll all be in CA at Tiff's house, then Been, Daniel and Joseph will be here through the beginning of August, and then I'm supposed to be maybe meeting some people in NYC, if we can all actually agree on a specific date.  So I'll be a little busy.  Everyone have a lovely couple of months.