All Adither

I've been to Portland, but I've never been to Me

I took the train to Portland on Saturday to visit one of my goodest friends, Stacy.

The Amtrak I was on didn't hit and kill a person. The ride, therefore, was an improvement over my last trip down.

I adore my steadfast, long-term Seattle. But Portland is my illicit love-ah (I will never, ever be able to say or type the word lover without cackling a little), the one I run to when I need a change of pace.

It is its own odd, little planet

with fantastical shopping

a bunch of White People Who Love Their Elms enough to inoculate them

and maniacs who drink hot coffee even when it is one hundred and ten degrees outside

There was only the slightest discontent on this trip: 1) Having to wear the sweat sponges we euphemistically refer to as bras, and 2) That I am too old and too married to play a game Stacy's friend invented in law school called Target.

Being a 39-y.o. mom, I immediately envisioned sport involving my beloved store. Perhaps a gaggle of women trying to fill their carts fastest with cheap flats, dish drainers and lip gloss.

But, no.

Game Rules: Pick a cute guy at a bar and get points for talking to him, more points if he talks to you, points for hand-holding, phone number swapping, etc....

It's a little Heathers-y. Or something. But it is an amusing glimpse into how the other side still lives.

One of the real reasons I visit Portland is to document the contents of Stacy's refrigerator. When I went last January, I was so inspired by its spare contents that I lurched for my sketch pad laptop.

This time I thought to take a picture

Note: two of the items in there belong to me. 

Stacy is a hard-working attorney and, as such, doesn't have endless hours to bounce from Fred Meyer to Trader Joes to Whole Foods, which is my mind-numbing, dreary chore favorite pastime.

As you can see

Keeping an unstocked fridge is as foreign to me as drinking games and recreational activities that don't involve shopping carts as large as Escalades.

But it's fun, for a weekend, going out to every meal, enjoying limitless stretches of time to chat and sip and peruse boutiques and fan myself with a postcard that might say something like:

Dear Seattle and J.~

Portland rocks. But I'm coming home to you soon. 

My three-year-old's disdain for the toilet

Kitty Cat was a potty-training prodigy. 

Slightly after turning two, she decided it was time to use the privy. In her limited toddler garbledy-gook, she'd announce when she had to Go and would high-tail it to the bathroom. 

By two-and-a-half she was in undies. We were delighted. 

After the hand-wringing and quiet cursing we went through trying to entice Fruit Bat to the toilet, we could hardly believe our luck.

Just before she turned three, however, it all went down the crapper.

Now she's all, "I won't EVEN go to the bathroom, mom." Everything these days is I won't EVEN. Tomorrow I expect her to start wearing belly shirts and flicking her tongue ring at me.

She doesn't EVEN have time for the potty. Her Snap 'n Style doll is too bitchin', her TV show too engrossin', her tricycle too thrillin'.

So instead of informing us when it's time to Go, she tries to hold it by walking around like this

We've tried rewarding her with Skittles. We've tried laying off and pretending we don't care. We've tried giving her regular reminders. None of it matters. Because going pee? Bo-ring.

She starts preschool in a church basement this September (only the best for our girl). And, though her new teachers issued this statement in her student packet

and we are relieved that if she misbehaves she won't be relegated to a cubicle under fluorescent lights while forced to stare at spreadsheets on a monitor, we're still concerned. I'm thinking the staff won't be as willing as I am to stuff wet undies in their purses and move on with their day.

Anyone have a Psalm for potty training?

Do they make water wings for twenty-two-year-olds?

I don't know what it is about my kids and swimming lessons, but they refuse to partake.

Last year I signed Fruit Bat up for a Very Beginner's class at a private, clubby-type place, where we don't belong but were allowed to take lessons provided we paid a semi-reasonable fee.

All the lessons were taught by high school girls with bionic mammary glands and pimply boys wearing big ass sunglasses. Yeah, all the better to hide their leers, I suppose.

Anyway, Fruit Bat didn't know for breasts, all he knew was the pool was full of other kids and teachers he hadn't met and that, on first glance, it looked like a gaping blue hole teeming with squirmy, splashy arms and legs. He wasn't going to dip even one toe into the water.

Still, we dutifully trudged to the pool every day for two weeks. I was convinced that by the sheer force of my consistency and motivation that he would give in and immerse himself. But...nothin'.

If anything, it got worse as the end of the second week approached. He wouldn't even deign to come near the pool, much less get in. I tried every tack I could think of: gentle encouragement, bribery, lecturing that his father and I had paid hard-earned cash for those lessons and he was going to at least try, darn it. Still...nothin'.

Enter Summer '08, wherein J. and I decided we wouldn't even give him the option of lessons. We'd wait and let him realize that all his friends were learning to swim and leaving him in the proverbial shallow end and see if he didn't beg. 

We would, we decided, sign up his sister! It was time for Kitty Cat to start getting used to the water anyway and, with her gregarious personality and relatively adventurous outlook, she'd take to it like a (sea)star.

On Monday I took Kitty Cat to her first lesson. I was a little dismayed to find that her teachers were both boys. Delightful, patient boys, I was sure, but Kitty Cat likes her some girls. She likes girl's high voices and their clothes and makeup and, who knows, she may already be envious of their mammary action (Though I hope not, because 1. She's too young for that crap and 2. If she takes after me she'll be sorely disappointed if she puts too much hope in the lure of her rack--or lack thereof)

I kept my consternation to myself, however, and approached the first lesson with a sunny, optimistic attitude.

Kitty Cat and I plunked ourselves down at the edge of the pool. She inched her way in and, when the time came, humored the boy-teachers by letting them usher her away on little excursions toward the deeper end. She kicked and made a rocket ship of her hands when she was asked and did almost all of it with a big, ol' grin on her face.

And then something happened.

Toward the end of that first lesson, she returned from one of her small, escorted swims, her face as crumpled as a wadded Kleenex. I rushed to the edge of the pool like the MEDEVAC parent that I am and asked if she was okay. 

The weeping then began in earnest. There is something about a shivering, crying child (especially mine) that brings out the maternal in me. I let her get out of the pool, wrapped her in a towel and held her for a while, trying to convince her to share what had gone wrong.

She could only say that she "didn't really like the teachers".

Now, I didn't see every second of the lesson, but I can tell you with 99.99 percent certainty that nothing untoward happened. The boy-teachers seemed really sweet and good with kids and were totally surrounded by ogling parents.

But something spooked Kitty Cat and I can't figure out what. All week we've been going to the pool as planned but she will only sit on a chair under the low dark, Seattle clouds.

And to placate her, and find out if she'll participate at all before throwing our money away signing her up for another session, I've switched her to a class with a girl teacher for these last two days.

Update: Girl teacher did not sufficiently impress Kitty Cat this morning with her, er, girliness... Another day of Nothin'.

From zero to twenty at the speed of Shmoo

So Fruit Bat. My five-year-old son. He's taken to walking around the house singing a pºrny tune whose lyrics are: Chicka Chicka Wah Wah. Over and over again. He freely admits that he got this from another boy in preschool. Where that boy picked it up, I'm not sure I want to know.

Fruit Bat is also finally drawing actual representations of his family, trees and the sun rather than just lines and squiggles. His pictures make my heart sing. His renditions of people resemble frowny-faced Shmoos. With belly buttons. But I, of course, think they're the most perfectly-drawn humans ever to flow from a preschooler's marker.

 

 

His sister, Kitty Cat, who is three, is all the time hurting her tonsils. And exercising her tonsils. Tonsils is a word she discovered in our Mad Libs Junior and she uses it frequently. She doesn't quite know what it means, but she knows she likes it.

She's also currently fond of setting up Grand Surprises for me which usually consist of taking off all her clothes then running into the room and shouting, "Ka-Dum!" but which are sometimes really good surprises, like look I just made my bed surprises, or wow I can buckle my own seat belt surprises. And these last two? Are indeed quite grand.

Anything that removes one of the fifty billion things from my heavy plate overflowing with tasks like making snacks, filling water bottles, gathering epi-pens, clipping small fingernails and wearing a foam elephant visor while pretending to eat wooden cake (Yesterday. Don't ask.) is great by me.

Of course, on the flip side of all this hilarity is Fruit Bat's weakness for hitting and heckling his sister. Which I LOVE. Kitty Cat's screeches echo across the Puget Sound and it is all I can do not to send them out onto it, in a small dinghy stocked with juice boxes and fruit leathers.

Kitty Cat's favorite new hobby, too, is flinging herself into things. HARD things. And then wailing because ithurts. And only thirty-seven Band-Aids can fix the horrible pain. In retrospect, it is funny. But while it is happening, I'm cursing the universe and wondering how I could've birthed such a drama queen (er, Hi Mom! She knows.)

In retrospect, it will all seem funny. And so heartbreakingly sweet. And I'll become one of those been-there-done-thats whose eyes gloss over wistfully as I regale how FAST it all went. How the kids went from newborns to twenty-year-olds in the blink of an eye. Blah blah blah.

Right.

I find it really hard to believe it won't be injured tonsils, pºrny soundtracks and Shmoos forever.

I'll do my dreaming with my eyes wide open

~Tony Arata

A couple weeks ago, before I had to have my cat put down, before our frigid-but-fun camping trip, I posted the first chapter of my WoManuscript, The Goodness of Meredith Beam.

Not only did several of you amazing internet buddies of mine actually sit down to read it, but you left me long, astute, spot-on critiques that I believe will not only help me immensely with this novel, but will change the course of my writing for the better.

Thank you so much The Mom, M, Ninja Mama, Mama O'Matrices, Wendy, Mommy Time, Anne Nahm, Laura in LA, Foolery, Deb and BOSSY. And thank you Kristy Alley, Slouching Mom and Doobleh-Vay for emailing me offline and offering to read my revised chapter.

I am completely blown away by your generosity. I mean, really. There is nothing tangible in this for you. You're simply helping a fellow blogger with her dream and for that I am SO grateful. And hopeful for mankind too.

If any of you are interested, I've posted a revised version of Chapter One in my sidebar. Over there to the right under the Feed Icon.

•••••

One night last week I had the pleasure of getting together with some Seattle Mom Bloggers. In attendance were Kathryn from Daring Young Mom, Jenny from Absolutely Bananas, Carrie, of Growing a Baby in Seattle fame, Eve of Good Enough, Carrie from Stop Screaming I'm Driving, Stacy, Miss Mama-Om and Mona from Kirida.

Even though I was using a clunky old, 2 Megapixel Canon that I had to bash with my palm three times before every snap, I got a couple cute pics.

The sky, on the way home, was GORGEOUS.

I tried to capture the Space Needle from a stoplight and, well, I got this.

Seattle. First and Denny. A cold, clear night.

Camptastic Roundup

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Cold.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Beautiful. In a cold sort of way.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Inspiring. Note to self--pack cot, airbed, camp stove, eggs, bacon, bread, butter, tablecloth with clips, silverware, a french press coffee pot and more beer for a better time without the moochy hangover.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Raucous.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Achey. Even with the borrowed Therma-rests.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Primitive. Kids really CAN have fun with nothing more than sticks, stumps and rocks. In a Lord of the Flies sort of way.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Bonding. There's nothing like hearing a kid from another tent yell, "Daddy, I have to go poopy!" to realize you're all in this together.

Camping with four other families in June on Whidbey Island: Worthy of repeating. In mid-August.

Fresh Air Overload

We camped. We were right on the beach. It was forty-something-degrees all night. We survived.

More to come...

Crappy weather camping

This week J. has been hauling out his old camping gear. He used to be quite the outdoorsman. Sadly, a legal career, two small kids and a middling-to-unoutdoorsy wife has put a temporary kibosh on that.

Saturday night though, we're going camping with four other families. When I agreed to the outside overnight, it was winter. And I when I imagined the first weekend of June I couldn't help but think of sun. And warmth. Chirping birds and bikini tops (not really).

Instead, we're supposed to get this:

Huddling in the tent playing cards and eating cookies I guess. Is that what you do during a rainy camping trip? I'm not sure.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to pack all these:

and this:

and most importantly, this:

Halp!

My new blog: The Half Assed Kitchen

I was sitting around the other day with a Real Simple open on my lap, a chunk of Cadbury Carmello in my mouth and an icey daiquiri on the table next to me, trying to decide what to do with all my extra time. Now that I'm not cleaning up cat messes and the two kids are basically taking care of themselves (Ha!), I needed a project.

So, of course, I started another blog.

It's called The Half Assed Kitchen and has some of my favorite kitcheny recipes and tips. It's definitely NOT a foodie blog. Nor does it offer tutorials on how to make Tater Tot Casseroles or Cream of Mushroom Chicken (not that there's anything wrong with those). It focuses on easyish, simple recipes that can be passed off as elegant and presentable. 

I'll be adding to it regularly.

Please stop by, won't you?

Trying to fill the hollow void

I've been attempting to console myself this weekend with canned frosting and butterdillas* (a Mission tortilla heated in the microwave for 10 seconds then slathered with, yeah, butter). Not decadent enough, I guess. It didn't work.

After getting home from the hellish hell that was Ollie's euthanasia on Saturday, I laid in bed and bawled into my pillow for a while. 

Then I got up. And when I arose, I started marching around the house like a soldier whose enemy was extraneous stuff that I wanted to blow out into this planet's orbit, never to be seen again except by maybe a handful of astronauts on their way to the Space Station.

I amassed a huge pile of junk really nice things for Good Will, threw away my fair share of crap that had no resale value or recycling options and generally progressed through the rooms like a single-minded Cuh-razy. Er, organized person.

I figured that my favorite little furry guy was gone, so who cared about the rest. About the trinkets.

My frenzy of sorting and chucking didn't fill the crater inside me though. 

So, Kitty Cat, Fruit Bat and I embarked on a cupcake-making adventure. We chose another delicious confection from Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World.

I present to you...the delicacy that is lime and coconut mixed with a little, flour, sugar and shortening:

After I twisted the lime and placed in lovingly on top, Fruit Bat fell to pieces, shrieking that it looked NOTHING LIKE THE PICTURE IN THE BOOK.

And let me tell you, THAT made me feel loved and appreciated.

Moving on...

One unruly collection that I needed to thin out was my books. It's difficult for me to part with any book I've read and liked, or any tome I think I might someday read and like. But this weekend I was ruthless. I culled through them all and piled at least half in grocery bags to sell.

It seems I passed through a phase in my twenties when I found it necessary to purchase several badly designed Self Help books.

Perhaps instead of making fun of them over cupcakes and butterdillas I should just read one already. It might help ease the transition back into the land of the living non-pet owner.

Or offer some comic relief. Whatever. I'll take what I can get right now.

*Credit for this inspired culinary term goes to my friend Annalise.