Watch Your Mouth!

Last fall, Zip was watching “Free Willy,” and heard the phrase, “Shut Up!”

It was used fairly innocuously, but that didn’t stop my boy from adopting it as his favorite power word. No sir, he bandied it around and slung it at us whenever he found the opportunity. It didn’t help to tell him that it was offensive, that’s why he was using it.

During our road trip over Thanksgiving, we tried using reverse psychology to get him to knock it off. He’d tell us all to shut up, and we’d laugh and say, “no, you shut up!”

This made him furious and he spent half the trip saying, “No you Shut-upa-ME!!!”

We’ve continued to remind him that it’s not a word we use in this house, and he’s continued to fling it at us when bringing out his big guns.

This past weekend we went to visit my mom, and he tried it out on her. She used her role as the fun playful grandma to her advantage and, momentarily, stopped in her tracks, looked at him right in the eye, and said firmly, “We Never, Ever, use THAT word in THIS house!”

He didn’t say it again.

We all know it’s just who he is – he’s sweet and lovely, and a bit crass – but it’s still our job to try and civilize him.

Recently, a neighbor told me a trick her friend uses with her son. Every time he curses, she makes him brush his teeth. There’s no argument. It’s all on him. We’ve decided to employ it here too. 

My boy may have a foul mouth, but, he’ll have a lovely smile.

You Heard it Here First.

Tizzy: I'm five. How old are you?

Me: I'm 36.

Tizzy: 36!?

Me: That's right. Does that seem old or young to you?

Tizzy: Well, you're not an OLD LADY, so it must be young.

Silence while thinking.

Tizzy: You're just one of those tall young people.

And He's Off!

Christmas 2007, Santa brought Tizzy a bike and Zip a tricycle. It seemed appropriate at the time as Zip would turn two the following week. What Santa didn't consider was that Zip would be pining for a big boy bike only six months later. 

When Tizzy was little, my dad had brought a little red bike over that someone had given him from a job. It's chain kept falling off, so for a long time it sat in the garage. For the past year, I would frequently go out to the garage and find Zip sitting on the red bike pretending to ride. Sometimes he would go so far as to drag it out on our patio. The trike from Santa got very little action. 

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I asked my neighbor, who was working on his motorcycle, if he would take a look at it. In less than an hour, he had the little red bike up and running. 

Now, every day, the first thing Zip says is, "Let's go for a ride on my bike!"

Happy Earth Day!

And the winner is...

Look To the Heaven's Above Us...

They say that seven is the Age of Reason, when children begin to think for themselves and separate fact from fantasy. I remember lying in bed at that age, gazing out the vast picture window that looked down over the canyon below our house—the wide night sky opening up before me—and contemplating infinity. 

I would study the blanket of stars and imagine a big white room containing them. I’d sit with that thought until a door made it’s way into the picture, and then I’d have to contain that room with an additional big white room—with God, perhaps, sitting idly by on a footstool twiddling his thumbs as he watched down upon us—and, as the rooms continued to expand on forever, I would become breathless and anxious, and cry out to my mother in the next room (the small one beyond my room, not the ones behind the stars).

She would come in and sit down on the bed next to me and ask, “What is it? Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

Unable to articulate the complexity of my thoughts, I’d reply, “I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of? I’m right in the next room?” She’d say.

I couldn’t put a label on what scared me, but I knew I was scared.

“I’m just scared.” 

“Well don’t worry honey. Every night, before I go to sleep, I surround the house with White Light. It protects us until we wake up.”

“White Light?! What’s White Light!?”

“It’s energy sweet heart. Loving protecting energy, and I send it around the house to keep us safe at night.”

I might have been a child of hippies, but I was growing up during the Cold War. There were still ten years before the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I wasn’t crazy enough to believe that energy alone was going to protect us. 

“But I can’t see it,” I replied skeptically.

“It’s invisible,” She said.

This did not make me feel better. 

In my mind, I envisioned this “White Light,” to be a giant protective Robot Extraordinaire. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted a big, hulking robot—one I couldn’t see, no less—roaming the halls of our house while I slept.

Thinking about this, it was obvious that my mom was in cahoots with White Light, and any ambivalence I felt toward him was likely to be used against me.  Racked with disembodied fear, irrational requests ensued until we were both exhausted and cross, and then one of us finally gave up, my mom retreating back to her bed in the living room, which she shared with the cat. 

I continued to gaze out at the night sky, laying very still, never sure when the damned invisible robot might pass by my bed.

It took me years before I was able to articulate my fears about White Light, and my mom and I still laugh about it when discussing scary topics. 

While not yet seven, Tizzy is now waking up at night, once we’re long done with dishes and emails, and the halls are dark and quiet, and announcing that he’s scared. Our house is not large—you could see through the wall separating our bedrooms if you punched a hole through it—but, I understand that his fear is not rational. It is a disembodied fear, made up of all the uncertainties he has yet to define. His world is expanding, and he doesn’t yet know how to articulate this.

I know better to mention White Light. These days, what I offer up instead, is Night Light.

Gardens Out of Trash Heaps

There's one more day for The Golden Gate Express exhibit at the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers. If you have easy access to the city and are looking for something to do this Sunday, it's definitely worth checking out. If you are nowhere near San Francisco, then just enjoy this event through our eyes.

Each of the buildings, representing a San Francisco landmark, is made out of repossessed materials. Below, spinning the wheel of fortune, the boys are directed to look for such items as red monkeys, making up the Golden Gate Bridge, floppy disks and computer keyboard keys, which make up the Transamerica building, and rulers composing parts of Coit Tower.

Look closely and you can see the used spools of thread that hold up Mission Dolores.

The Transamerica Building is made up of used computer parts and DVD's.

Can you see the cheese grater and kitchen timer that make up the Clock Tower at the Port of San Francisco's Ferry Building?

Audio tapes were used to create the Bentley Reserve.

And, buttons decorate the roof and facade of the Opera House.

My favorite display was the model of Chinatown's Dragon Gate, made up of majong tiles and mother boards.

While the boys enjoyed seeking out the recycled materials, they were as thrilled if not more, by the G-gauge model trains winding their way through the exhibit. 

Way to Go Green! 

Just in Time for Spring!

It's no surprise that Earth day should fall in April. With all the spring cleaning we're doing, it's important that we think of the cleaning agents we use and how they impact our planet. If you'd like to learn more about a fantastic line of eco-friendly cleaners and bath and body products, follow me over to my reviews. You won't be disappointed. 

(There's a Giveaway!)

T Eats T-Rex!

When I asked Tizzy if he thought a chocolate dinosaur was the best choice for breakfast, he said, "It's O.K. Mom! I was ONLY Teasing!"

Like Monkey's in the Monkey House...

My childhood zoo memories are tainted by feces throwing monkeys screaming in the monkey house, melancholy lions pacing in their cages, and empty bear habitats. Perhaps they were hibernating?

The zoo was so depressing, that what struck me most, was not the zoo itself, but the story of a lady whose hair was ripped off her head when she rolled it up in her car window, as told by my first grade classmate during the carpool ride there.

Fortunately, zoo's have changed considerably in the last thirty years, but, they're still not my favorite destination. When I was pregnant for Zip, we got a membership to the Oakland Zoo because it was the preferred destination of most of our friend. While we went frequently, Tizzy was more interested in running up and down the asphalt paths than stopping and looking at any of the animals, so after a year we let it expire.

Two weeks ago we visited again, as guests of a friend.

The boys had a blast!

                                                 Tizzy practiced his lemur leaps,

                            while Zip snuck up on spiders and attempted a web of his own:

                                             

                                             T mimicked giant crocodiles,

                   and was mocked by real ones. Do you see it lurking to the left of him?

                               Of course, we stopped and looked at the animals as well.

                   

                      And, at the end of the day, the boys drove themselves to the airport,

                                                and flew home!

There's more. Zip fell in LOVE with the zoo. He loved the animals so much and would have happily stayed for hours at each exhibit. 

Up until now, he's been uninterested in potty training. He's three and a half, and I'm simply uninterested in continuing changing his diapers.  It seems he's needed an incentive.

He now has an incentive, which is his zoo pass. 

The first few days home from the zoo, he used the toilet unfailingly. After last week, being sick, he regressed a bit. We are now getting back on track.

I will tell you when we get our zoo pass, and when I do, I will be celebrating being diaper free!

Stating the Obvious

T: Do you know what begins with the letter P?

P - begins with the letter P!

Everyone's a Critic!

Me:  ~ Whistling ~

Tizzy: Can you stop that singing please?

Me: You don’t like my singing?

Tizzy: No.

Me: Is it my singing or all singing you don’t like?

Tizzy: Just yours.

Me: Do you like your teacher’s singing?

Tizzy: Yes.

Me: I guess I’m not such a great singer then, huh?

Tizzy: No, you are not!

Trial Run

The year Zip was born, Tizzy was so devestated by the whole experience that come Easter, he just needed a big hug. When we went for "Breakfast with the Bunny," he got that hug and he just kept on hugging – and hugging –  until finally we had to pry him off so the poor rabbit could hide some eggs.

Three years have passed, and he's recovered, but that doesn't mean he'll pass on an egg hunt. Here he is assessing the situation.

Zip's strategy is more hunt first –

Assess later !

These days, T's a bit more reserved, but then, who can pass up a shake with the bunny?

Spring Blooms... See What You Have Birthed?

                                                                                                      photo by B.S.Wise

All winter I’ve marveled at our ability to stay well. Not one cold, no flu. A couple weeks ago I thought we had it licked, and then the pollen started flying, and I remembered, “Oh yes, we’re the respiratory family.”

Zip was struggling SO hard to breath yesterday, it took two treatments at the doctors office to “chase the mouse out of his chest.”

We hadn’t slept much the day before and last night we slept even less. Every twenty minutes a plead for water, arms flailing, reaching for “MAMA! Are you there?!”

This morning I snuck into Tizzy’s bed to seek solace after being mired between two sweaty boys who’d taken me hostage in the night, in the big bed, which felt ridiculously small. I needed twenty minutes, uninterrupted, and just when I’d gotten it, I was brought back with a start, “MAMA!” 

Bolt right, I panicked, “Have I missed an appointment? What day’s today?” 

Just another day.

Although the decision was made long ago about no more babies, when it was clear that babies, while lovely were exhausting, I remembered this morning why the decision was made. Walking around in a half dazed state, hardly able to wash a dish before the next cry for “more water, more juice,” I remembered those days attached at the boob.

Babies are lovely, but, I’ll patiently await grandchildren.

Are You Sweet and Tangy?

For better or worse, I have a terrible sweet tooth, and while I’m pretty good about eating healthy, I never turn down dessert. That gets me into trouble, particularly since I run after Z and T all day, and tend to stay up way too late, and even if I’ve already had dessert, at various times throughout the day, I always seem to think it’s the perfect time for more.

This thought process is, obviously, a recipe for disaster.

You want to know what's sweet and tangy, rediculously chewy, exotically delicious AND good for you?!

Come follow me over to my reviews...

Home Sweet Home

Mid-semester, in my mid-twenties, I found myself needing an apartment ASAP. The housing situation was out of my hands, but, trying to keep up with school while living out of a suitcase was challenging and something I didn’t want to keep doing for long.

My best friend Kate, my then boyfriend, Brad and I, hit the streets one Sunday morning, after exhausting the pre-Craig’s list classifieds. It was dot-com San Francisco, and apartments were disappearing before they even hit the market. Desperate, I’d decided my only hope was to start looking for Rent signs in the windows, and then pray that I was one of the first callers.

After hours of doing so, we paused on the corner of Paige street, just below Haight-Ashbury. I remember standing and looking up at an attic apartment with cute little dormer windows, thinking: “Why can’t I find some place like that? Just a cozy apartment, without roommates, no drama... some place where I can quietly finish up school.”

Pulling from my last reserves, I called out to my grandmother, who’d died the year before, and said, “Muzzy. Please. Help me find an apartment!”

Now, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the thought had literally barely crossed my mind, before Kate pulled the tab off a green paper and passed me the phone number for a studio apartment. There was no description, no location, just the number. I used her cell phone, dialed and spoke to the tenant... and it turned out to be the cute little dormer-windowed attic apartment, that I’d just been admiring from the street. 

We quickly crossed the street, hiked up the three flights of stairs, and there it was, the perfect apartment. The man I’d just spoken to had been accepted to a prestigious art program, was leaving that week, and had to find someone immediately to take over his lease. We called the owners filled out a new lease, and, before the end of the week, I moved in.

Thanks Muzzy.

This was my last apartment before I got married, and, to this day, I swear that living alone, at least once, should be a requirement for marriage.

Fast forward eight years: Brad and I were living in a comfortable, but awkward, duplex with a 14-month old Tizzy. We were thinking of having another baby, but, as it was, we were quickly outgrowing the one-bedroom the three of us shared. 

I remember lying in bed for much of T’s first year, nursing, and fantasizing about living in a free-standing house with a yard, which was something that I’d never had for most of my city-dwelling, adult life. When we’d returned to California, after living in Manhattan, we’d hoped to be able to buy a house. Instead we’d returned at the height of the housing market and the cost of a starter home was equivalent to that of a small, land-locked country. It wasn’t in the cards.

After living in the duplex a year and a half, the owners decided to sell, and once again, I found myself driving through neighborhoods looking for Rent signs, only this time, I was feeling really discouraged. I’d moved continuously as a child and really wanted a stable home for my children. 

Again, I found myself calling on my grandmother. This time I was more specific in my request. 

“Please Muzzy. Help me find a home for my child. I want a sweet little house like you had. I want children on the street. I want a backyard where my son can climb trees, run around, and have the freedom to explore without a mother constantly looking over his shoulder. I want a home for my child to grow up in!”

With that, I came to a light, turned onto a street that I’d never been down, and, two houses in, found a giant Elm tree with a Rent sign posted to it. I longingly looked at the house in its shadow, and wrote down the number. 

When I picked Brad up from the train, I told him I’d found the perfect house, but could hardly imagine it being attainable. We drove by the house on our way home and he agreed it looked ideal. I called the number that night and immediately asked what they were asking for it. I didn’t want to hear the lovely details, only to find out that it was out of our price range and be done with it. Well, it turned out that, after three months on the market, she’d just lowered the rent, and it was exactly the price we were looking for. 

Today, April 1st, is our fourth anniversary in our house. Remarkably, it also marks the longest amount of time I’ve lived in one place, EVER! Within a week of moving in, I was pregnant for Zip. I can truly say my children have grown up here. As I sit typing, I’m watching my children play in the back yard. We have dozens of neighbors under the age of seven, and my children know all of our neighbors by name. Our street holds holiday parties and parades. We have Mom’s nights out, and impromptu playdates. Most importantly, it’s the only home my kids know. Having moved seven times, by the time I was T’s age, this is something I hold in high regard.  

It is true that renting, over owning, leaves us with fewer certainties. However, in this day and age, with entire Californian communities facing foreclosures or already abandoned, home ownership isn’t quite the certainty it once was. For the time being, we have no intention of moving, and having held onto it through the height of the market, it seems our landlord has no intention of selling. *knock on wood.*

The truth is, in life there are no certainties. Whether my grandmother did indeed have a hand in my good fortune, is in itself, beyond my comprehension. What I do know, is that we’re still here. That, my friends, is no April Fool’s joke.