Anti-climactic, unlike poop in the shower.

Me: Quinn! YOU'RE TAKING A BATH AND GOING STRAIGHT TO BED! GET! UP! STAIRS! NNNOOOOWWW!!!

Bryce (laughing): I'm gonna poop on your eyeball.

John: Bryce! YOU'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT POOP! GET IN YOUR ROOM!

Me: Good lord.

Two minutes earlier
My internal dialogue: Don't laugh. DO. NOT. LAUGH. Oh, I don't even want to laugh. This is disgusting. What the hell is wrong with these kids? Quinn wouldn't have done this if Bryce hadn't come racing into the bathroom after him, probably shoving him out of the way and stealing the toilet seat. I can't decide which one to shriek at, so I'll just shriek in the general direction of the poop. On my shower floor. And wow. This really might be the only notable thing about my day. How very sad.

Two minutes earlier than that
Bryce (running down the hall, pointing at us, laughing): I have some bad news for you and some funny news for me!

John: What? Funny news for you and bad news for us?

Bryce (now laughing hysterically): Yeah! Quinn peed in the sh-sh-owowerr!!!

John (to me, contorting his face muscles to hide his laughter, covering his mouth): Did you hear what he said? Funny news for him and bad news for us! And he's totally right. That was hilarious.

Me (rolling eyes): Yes, I heard him. Brilliant. And now there's pee in our shower. What the hell?

John: Sigh. Yeah. Let's go.

Bryce (from bathroom, where he'd just returned): AHAHAHAHAHA!!! NOW QUINN'S POOPING IN THE SHOWER!!

My internal dialogue: How bad is this going to be? Is this going to be the most memorable experience of my day? I really hope not. Ending NaBloPoMo on this note would be so gauche. So disappointing. So painful. Aaaaaand, there's the poop.

Strapped with Memories

At one time during our drive to the end of the universe and back, Bryce let out a moanful wail that almost caused me to swerve off the road. He was complaining about his back being hot and itchy, and I'm sure it was. He had been strapped in his carseat for about 3 hours without a break, and it got me to thinking about the car trips we would take as kids. My dad would fold down the back seats in the station wagon and we would have the entire expanse of the car to roam around in. Like this, only moving.



On one such car trip, my dad took my brother and I to a New York Yankees game. On bat day. With our paid admission, we each received a regulation size Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Mine was signed by Micky Mantle. The year we went was Mick's last good year. He played all nine innings and hit a home run. This was one of my fondest memories from childhood because at the time I lived and breathed Yankee baseball. I slept with my baseball glove under my pillow and dreamed about the day I stepped up to the plate at Yankee Stadium.



One of the things that made this trip really cool was that from the time I was born until about the age of 7, my dad had a series of jobs that kept him away from the family for months at a time. He would come home for a few weeks, then leave again. The trip we took to the ball game was the beginning of his being home more. Up until this time, he had a job in a monitoring station in Greenland, working on the DEW line. While my mom was at home raising us, my dad was here.



I hope someday Bryce and Quinn will look back at some of our road trips with the same fondness I have of mine.

The Halfway House

Tonight Bryce had another music lesson. I think the teacher may possibly have her expectations set too high for five and six year olds, no matter how smart they may be. "She seems wound pretty tight," one of the parents said to me as we walked out, having been - what? shamed? reprimanded? scolded? I can't be sure - for not practicing enough with the children; the teacher didn't know if they'd be able to keep up and stay on track with the lessons and their intended trajectory. Just shy of an actual "tssk, tssk," she warned us wide-eyed that next week, the children were supposedto move on to the song called "Mouse, Mousie," but we'll just have to see how they master "Listen To Bells" because at this point, the kids are nowhere near being ready. Why, their fingers, some of whose can barely reach full size piano keys comfortably in the D Major position, have not yet mastered the coordination and control needed to play a song they were first exposed to two weeks ago. This is unacceptable, apparently. Wide-eyed unacceptable.

It's not just that this level of work was unexpected. That has caused disappointment and a little throwback-to-childhood fear of public reprimand, but I can deal with that. What's most disturbing here is that I recognize some capability in some parallel universe that we might have actually to meether unrealistic expectations, if only. If only John and I could run this place a little bit more efficiently. If only we could find a groove that seems to meet everyone's damned needs, the three-year-old who needs to run off energy and be intently focused upon, the five-year-old who needs down time and a different style of focus after what I consider to be an already challenging and highly structured school day, the seventeen-year-old who needs god knows what type of attention, the adults who want to return phone calls and order holiday cards and have decent family photos taken and schedule business meetings and be attentive, involved siblings and offspring to their fellow adult family members and unpack completely and go to bed early and clip their fingernails and invite friends over for dinner once a month. If only! If only we weren't spending all this time feeling like all we do most days is scrape by, at most half-successfully. Bryce's reading sheet didn't get signed again; we forgot to send the recipe for the class cookbook; no one picked up the fundraising order from the lobby; we never sent my brother's birthday card and now it's six weeks late; we never helped Bryce practice his piano lesson; the bills are piling up again despite our "renewed" focus on organization - yeah right! We take the first steps, but not the subsequent ones. It's not one step forward, two steps back; it's just one step forward, run into a wall, smack foreheads, loathe selves.

During Bryce's music lesson, I have an hour to kill and have spent the past few weeks drinking coffee concoctions at a close coffee shop with three or four moms of the other piano students. One particularly cheerful working mom always has her older daughter with her and chirps away about how busy their Tuesday evenings are - she leaves work early to pick them up from school, goes to saxophone practice, then gymnastics, then to piano, it's so crazy haha!! As she's talking about it, it's all I can do not to run from the table shrieking, leaving frothy, steamy cinnamon streaks from my sacrificed latte in sticky, frantic smears behind me. Is that fun? Are we supposed to think this is fun some day? Because I don't. I am rushing home from work trying to be cheerful and thinking of things I'll talk to Bryce about in the car, we'll use that time so wisely, combining bonding time and travel time, perfect!, but by the time I'm home to get him, my head hurts from the traffic and the demands of my work day and apprehension about how wild things will be when I walk in the door, and my attempts at a cheerful outlook (already a stretch for me and my apparently naturally bitchy personality) are completely snuffed out when I see John's tired, haggard look (a look that's natural for me, but not for him - if HE, formerly perpetually happy guy, can't smile, then how can I?) and I ask him what's wrong and he tells me things have been uncontrollable for the past hour, which means the kids have worn him down with their gleeful screaming and dinosaur roaring and door slamming, fun times.

Then, once I have Bryce in the car, it's back to fighting traffic, only this time I'm fighting traffic while answering a lot of repeated or related questions: Do you know the way to piano lessons? Did you forget the way? Are you going to remember in the dark? Do you have directions? Hey, how do you spell directions? And after seven or eight responses I lose interest in the conversation and am forced to focus on all the brake lights in front of me anyway, and so then it becomes, I SAID HOW DO YOU SPELL DIRECTIONS, DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME? HOW DO YOU SPELL DIRECTIONS? HOW? HOW? MOM! MMMOOOMMMMM!! The yelling reminds me that the piano teacher has made multiple comments about the energy level of the kids, usually with flourishing motions, both hands at eye level, spasming in quick, undulating waves, "things have been, kind of like this with the children" she'll say, shake shake shake. And so in the car, after I spell the word or re-explain why scientists don't think Pluto is a planet anymore, I segue into behavior expectations during piano class: no wrestling, no yelling, no running, no laughing, no undulating hand movements by your eyeballs (just in case the teacher is being literal). It's at this point, the lecture point, that I start to think that this whole thing is a mistake. He's five, after all. The idea behind the piano lessons was that he'd be introduced to the fun of music, not that he would have more assignments, more rules, more demands placed on him, more opportunities for his mom to lecture him, to use bonding-traveling time as scolding and finger-wagging time.

And when the chipper working mom jokes about how crazy busy all of it is, I don't pick up this same sense of regret, worry, resentment, or even fatigue. She is my parallel universe. She's got things running smoothly, if a little "busy." Her older daughter is doing her homework and drinking hot chocolate and occasionally cracking jokes with her mom, who simultaneously talks to all of us and seems amazingly to be muting how content she is, not forcing it. I don't get it. I mean, sure, I know about Zen, I know my stress levels are a state of mind and technically "my choice." But everything feels jumbled, rushed, mistaken. I get home and Quinn calls to me from the top of the stairs, "Mom! I cried. I didn't get a hug and kiss before you left." It feels like a knife through my heart - such a simple request, one I should have anticipated and given without being asked and I can't even manage that - you hear that, piano teacher? Things are, kind of, like THIS, with the children, shake shake shake. Wide-eyed unacceptable.

(Blog) Post Trauma

My brain is too overwhelmed from the six hours of driving and eight following hours of grocery shopping, unpacking, laundry, cooking, bathing the kids, and for some unknown reason cleaning out old toys from the kids' rooms because obviously that was something that had to be done today of all days--

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that there are still piles of clothes to be folded and a few bags to be unpacked, and I haven't even called any of my parents, who are probably starting to wonder if we finally snapped and drove the car over a bridge during the final leg of our journey today, but also probably think if they call and we HAVEN'T yet snapped, the phone ringing might actually push us over the edge.

Since I'm nowhere close to having time to put any genuine thought into this post but also can't let go of the fact that we WILL make it to the end of November, by God, because we've made it this far through a 12-hour trip in a car with two kids under age 5, insane work schedules, the beginning of our family birthday season and enough other schedule restraints that a daily post commitment through the month of November should have never even entered our minds, here are a few final pictures from our trip. Kentucky is beautiful, peaceful, unique.

Still Going

We didn't travel with the kids when Bryce was three, but at the time, I thought this was a smart decision because Quinn was 18 months old. I now realize it was a smart decision because travel with a three year old and another child of any age is just a recipe for disaster. Bryce is five now, and if we were traveling with him alone, I'd probably be writing something mild and pleasant, like, "we're all a little tired, but we've had no problems at all" instead of what I'm here to write, the more depressing and asylum-worthy, "we're all still alive, but I don't know for how much longer," because Quinn - he is not five, he is three and a half.

After the first two days of travel where Quinn reminded us, his stupid, forgetful, trusting parents, that he is totally and comletely rabid-dog insane and will go darting out into streets or possibly force armed guards away from their posts to retrieve him from places he's not authorized to be madly, gleefully darting about, we finally started following through on our hand-holding mandate any time we took the child out in public. This works for a short period of time only when combined with the latest bribe - a pack of Smarties, his latest flash cards of choice, the chance to watch a movie - AND when he is the sole focus of one of us, and Bryce has no access to him to attempt meeting his undying goal of corrupting whatever delicate balance we're trying to maintain with Quinn.

There was a gas station stop today, the details of which I don't even know if I can bear to recount. I was alone with both kids, there was a crowded, tiny convenience store restroom, an accessible light switch, urine-soaked pants to change, a few screams (on the kids' part), some hisses (on mine), a LOT of threats, mostly empty (on all our parts). And after it was over, it wasn't over. I couldn't let it go, these several days of culminating disrespect and limit-pushing behaviors; it's all starting to feel like true, catastrophic failures on our part to teach any basic social rule to the kids, and after the gas station humiliation, I fell into a state of numb, silent resentment in the car. I could simultaneously be aware of my immature response to the kids and still have the audacity to carry it out. It was surreal, disappointing, and yet also somehow satisfying, even relaxing, just to sit there while they tried so hard to push the predictable buttons: Let's scream and see if she reacts. Hmm. What about kicking her seat? Odd. She's still just sitting there. Let's scream again. No, wait. Combine screaming and kicking. How about throwing? Wow.

After a few hours of that, we got to our halfway point and got out to walk around with the kids. It was another clear day with a light breeze, and as we waited to cross a street I looked down at Quinn, still so short and small, his light, wispy hair so easily tossed about by the smallest breath of wind, taking in the sights and sounds of a new city with what I have to believe is some form of remaining innocence, despite whatever colossal failures we've made, despite whatever mixed messages I give both of them (act the right way! but now that you didn't, neither will I! I will give you the silent treatment and metaphorically stick my tongue out at you!). I stood there looking at him and had to be the adult, the parent, to shake off my cloak of pissy, grudge-holding disappointment. I took another breath, gave his still baby-pudgy hand a squeeze when the light turned green, tried in a split second to burn the image of his small profile into my permanent memory files and said, "Okay, buddy. Now we can cross."

Thanksgiving, Ritual, Mystery: Family

The following is the first ever guest post, written by my dad. We roped him in and then tortured him with Blogger's penchant for losing hours and hours of effort and energy poured out onto the computer screen. We all seem to thrive on the extra pressure of NaBloPoMo, because even after days of complying with my kids' incessant demands, and now this "great idea of doing a guest post" for us, he hasn't kicked us out yet. Give him a round of applause, or offer him sainthood. One of the two, definitely.
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Sometimes, seemingly unrelated stories actually have significant relationships to one another. Recently, my experience has attested to this truism again.

This Thanksgiving, my daughter, son-in-law, and two youngest grandchildren visited us for the first time in our new home since my spouse and I moved almost eight-hundred miles away from them three and a half years ago. I currently supervise a chaplaincy program at a small Christian college. A couple of years ago, in order to allow a group of pagan students to have an opportunity to meet officially on campus, and therefore to exist as a group at all on a purportedly religiously-inclusive campus, and because no other member of the staff or faculty had the courage to assume this role, I agreed to serve as the faculty advisor for this group. As one might expect, though, many of the conservative and fundamentalist Christians on campus (students, staff, and faculty) genuinely opposed, and even now continue to challenge, my action—often questioning whether or not I am Christian at all. Despite the difficulties that I have experienced for that decision, I possess and have communicated solid theological and institutional rationales to support my position and justify my actions in this regard.

Other members of our staff, however, recently invited my wife and I to a costume party at Halloween. We decided to attend the party: my wife dressed as a beautiful witch and I dressed as Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven. We had a wonderful time.

During the Thanksgiving visit from my first child and her precious family, we have had many enjoyable experiences. Among those experiences, we built a campfire late yesterday afternoon, on which after dark I later roasted marshmallows with my grandsons.

Having a healthy (not necessarily good) sense of humor and having a history of teasing my own children (including my daughter, of course) during their childhoods, I had a mischievous thought as we waited for the campfire to burn to coals for roasting marshmallows. I told my son-in-law, as we watched his sons and my grandsons play in the yard, that it would be funny, if I wore my raven costume and emerged from the forest behind our home into the yard as the boys played. He told me that he would give me twenty dollars if I would do it. Needing only the encouragement, however, I went inside the house and put on the costume, while he and my daughter maneuvered my grandsons so that they would not see me run into the forest for this event. As I waited in the forest, he told my grandsons a story about a magical raven who would appear if they would call to him: “caw, caw, caw.” As my son-in-law told the story, I hid in the forest, just out of sight, behind some trees and bushes, dressed in a long black robe, wearing wings made of black feathers, a black beak, and a mask of black feathers.

Squatting behind the trees, gradually emerging from the forest, watching my grandsons’ reactions of surprise, wonder, and tense joy, I wondered about the relationships of the exaggerated stories about pagans to people dressed in black robes, fires in the night, and small children. I thought about how much mystery, beauty, joy, and wonder humans have lost because of the intolerance of various religions for those who discover the sacred in the natural world, but especially the intolerance and marginalization of divergent perspectives by Christianity itself. (I also briefly considered the potential proliferation of effects that might occur, if news of this minor mythic ritual reached the ears of those who already question my support for the pagan students on my campus!)

I can only offer gratitude again for the innocence and wonder of my grandsons, the sense of mystery that they carry, a comportment toward the world that invites all of us to explore the interconnectedness of all things: people, stones, sky, trees, ravens, fire, the sacred. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks for them and for my daughter and my son-in-law who gave us the gift of their presence, their mystery for several beautiful days.

Whimsical, and maybe a little sadistic.

This place is exactly what you would picture Kentucky to look like: rolling hills, horses, big houses on big lots, blue sky, and room to run. The kids have spent the majority of their time running off their horrifying energy levels in the woods and hills behind my dad's house, which has freed up John and I to have adult conversations with my stepmom, the only one sane enough to stay inside with us, away from the nuclear fireballs that are my children. My dad is a brave soul, guiding them on hikes through the woods, chasing them in compliance with their constant demands to have the crap scared out of them, forging pirate swords and captain's daggers out of toilet paper rolls, letting them play in his office full of a lifetime's worth of precious trinkets and dozens of current, significant projects, and stopping whatever he's doing to take them on yet another tractor ride or start a fire and prep for marshmallow roasting.


Yesterday, after the Thanksgiving feast, during which the boys serenaded all of us with their cherubic voices and wowed us with their sweetness and maturity in the calm way they requested seconds -- oh wait, that's not what happened. It was more like, I DON'T LIKE CRANBERRY SAUCE OR GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE OR ANYTHING I WOULD NORMALLY EAT AT HOME WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I WANT FRENCH FRIES!, but whatever. After that, and okay, I'll admit, after a collective decent amount of alcohol had been consumed, John and I had a conversation with my dad about a recent costume party he attended, where he went as Poe's Raven. Maybe it was the wine talking, or maybe it was our shared desire to find something to take up ten minutes FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE WE MUST PASS THE TIME, but my dad said, "it would be hilarious if I put on the Raven costume and came walking out of the woods towards the kids." And once it was out in the open, people, there was NO. WAY. I was going to pass up that opportunity. Any time I have the chance to strike fear into the hearts of my children, I recognize it for the divine intervention that it is, Amen.

Oh, alright. We didn't tell them a spooky story about an evil crow. As tempting as it was, I prefer intact eardrums, and that wouldn't have been possible if we'd purposely tried to spook the kids, because their shrieks would have broken all the glass in a ten-mile radius. We told them there was a magical raven in the woods. Oh yeah, they were into it. They had bread crumbs and everything.

I so wanted to scream, "RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, KIDS! HE EATS HUMANS!" But I didn't.

Even with a story about a magical "good luck" raven, they were freaking out. (Above, Quinn is backing up and Bryce is frantically reaching for bread crumbs.) If it had been me in the costume, I would have reveled in the rare chance to silence the kids with shock and awe, but my dad doesn't see the kids very often and I guess he wants to preserve his image of Someone Nicer Than Their Mom, so he came clean right away.

And after that, Quinn completed his transformation to dark overlord. Thanks, Dad.

Technical Difficulties

I've been trying for two hours to post what WOULD have been a hilarious commentary on the day we've had. Alas, the wireless network we managed to piggy back last night is no more. We tried using my dad's computer, but no go. We finally managed to use his DSL connection, and just as I uploaded the last of 12 - 15 pictures, I hit the wrong button, and Blogger lost my entire draft. I know about the "recover post" button, but did it work? No.

It's too bad, too. You were really up for a Thanksgiving treat. Now, it's too late, I'm about two seconds away from chucking my laptop out the window in frustration, and ER, one of the two television shows I actually watch, is on.

It's taking all of my will power even to post this piece of crap. Damn you, NaBloPoMo. You've taken all my already questionable standards and shot them to hell.

Oh, and uh...Happy Thanksgiving. Bear with us. Once I can upload more than two pictures AN HOUR, you're in for a treat.

On the road again, against all odds.

9:45 a.m. Cell phone rings.

Kristen: Hello?

Kristen's Mom: Do you need me to Fed-Ex your glasses to you?

Kristen: My glasses?

John (laughing): She read the blog.

Kristen: Yeah, John thinks I should have called you and asked you to do that, but I figured I wouldn't get them until Friday, so...

Kristen's Mom: So you'd have them for three of the six days you're gone.

Kristen: Yeah. Okay, so that sounds good.

Kristen's Mom: How was your morning?

Kristen: We're just getting on the road. We stopped at the Arch. And...well, I'll have to tell you the rest of the story later. But it involved someone in a uniform. Chasing your youngest grandchild.

John (in background): I can't believe how little respect he has for someone in a uniform.

Kristen: He doesn't know what a uniform means!

Kristen's Mom: Well, he might learn at an earlier age than you'd expect.

Kristen: I gotta go, Mom. The kids are killing each other.


10:15 a.m. Cell phone rings.

Kristen: Hello?

Kristen's Dad (tentative): Are you.... on the road?

Kristen: Yeah, we just left St. Louis because we stopped at the Arch.

Kristen's Dad: Oh good!

Kristen: Uh. Not so much.

Kristen's Dad: What happened?

Kristen: SIGH. We let go of Quinn's hand for 15 seconds.

Kristen's Dad: And?

Kristen: Oh god.

Kristen's Dad: What?

Kristen: He ran up the exit ramp, then turned and ran past the armed guard, through the metal detector, and down the entrance ramp. With. The. Guard. Chasing. Him.

Kristen's Dad: O-o-o-o-h.

Kristen: And then.

Kristen's Dad: There's more?

Kristen: The guard nudged him up the exit ramp, since that's where we now were, standing and whispering profanities at each other and grabbing Bryce's arm as he cackled, but as soon as Quinn saw us, he turned and ran from the guard, who then had to chase him into the museum and CARRY him back to John. Luckily the guard was a young, friendly guy. He never reached for his gun or anything.

Kristen's Dad (laughing, then clearing throat): Uh, sorry about that. How awful!

Kristen: I gotta go, Dad. The kids are killing each other.


2:00 p.m, Car chaos has reached a feverish pitch.

Bryce: Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now? Can I have my next toy now?

Kristen: ENOUGH!!! BRYCE! STOP REPEATING YOURSELF! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT?

Bryce: Two.

John (snorting water): Well, he did answer your question.

Kristen: Yes. Yes he did. So, is there any wine in here?

The Road to Hell

Okay, I'm typing this with no corrective lenses. At the hotel tonight after I took out my dry, twitching contacts, I reached for the comfortable, relaxing oasis of my glasses, opened the case, and screamed with the fury of a trapped bear when I saw that it was empty. I assume my glasses are folded neatly on the bathroom counter at home, 400 miles away. And yeah, this pretty much sums up the day we've had.

Bryce had a short Thanksgiving play scheduled for the first 15 minutes of the school day, so we went to the performance and left town from there. The high point of the play was when all the kids took turns naming something they're thankful for (Bryce's was "the world"), and one of Bryce's friends, after his classmates named things like, "my mom" or "my teacher," stood up confidently and clearly said, "I am thankful for the big bang that made everything we can study." (YES!! That pretty much trumps all the other measley attempts at gratitude: If it weren't for the big bang, you wouldn't HAVE a mom, SUCKAS!!) The low point was when Quinn objected to an older class having the audacity to use the part of the library over which HE was ruling to have their weekly story time. And so he grabbed the nearest stuffed animal and THREW IT AT THE CLASS, HITTING A LITTLE GIRL IN THE FACE. Their shocked, nervous laughter misled the little hooligan into thinking he'd found a niche for himself, and so when the librarian reached for him to return to his pathetically crappy mother (me), he grabbed a bigger stuffed animal AND THREW IT INTO THE LIBRARIAN'S FACE. I'm not exaggerating. It hit hard enough that it bounced back.

I don't know, people. I think this means we suck worse than we thought we did. It can't NOT be our fault, I don't think. We were going to fill out Quinn's application so he could attend school with Bryce next year, but I think that's pretty much out of the question at this point.

I've blocked out the majority of the seven hours on the road, and it would be boring to recount in detail anyway: blah blah, we almost tore out all our hair, blah blah, our ears were bleeding, blah blah, road construction is the devil, blah blah.


When we got to our hotel tonight, we decided to let the kids get their energy out.

After that, we went out to dinner and, intelligent people that we are, chose a place on a busy city street, and didn't physically attach the kids to us, which meant that as soon as Quinn saw an escape route, he took it. ACROSS THE BUSY STREET. Laughing maniacally, I guess sharing a joke with death, who he was staring in the face. I chased him, shrieking, which caused him to pause and turn around IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. Nobody was even grazed by a car, so yay for me and my great parenting skills.

Tomorrow we drive to my dad's for Thanksgiving. What hair-graying experiences await us? I don't know, I'll have to ask Quinn, and his hilarious buddy, death.

Knock knock.....

Who's there?

Dwayne.

Dwayne who?

Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning.

We are leaving tomorrow on an 800 mile trip across two time zones and 5 states. In a car. With both kids. Three months ago I thought this would be a good idea. Fun! Exciting! See the country! Eat every meal at McDonald's for two days in a row! I have since regained consciousness and realize now what a folly my original idealized vision of this trip is.

In the last four days, I have edited two weddings, two engagement sessions, and two family sessions. If your keeping score that's 5682 pictures I've looked at, decided which ones to keep, edited them from raw to jpg correcting for color, density and sharpness, made slideshows, uploaded to my web sales gallery, burned CD's, and dropped them off at the lab. And I haven't even mentioned the four album designs I squeezed in there somewhere. I am now blind and delirious from staring at the monitor for untold hours and I haven't had a conversation with Kristen other than a "I gotta go work" as she walks in the door or a few mumbles as I wake her when I climb into bed at 2:45 AM.

For trip related preparedness, there are countless loads of laundry to be done; trip plans to make including route selection (the leisurely drive through interesting places with character, or the direct drive let's get there as fast as we possibly can before someone gets hurt), where we are going to stay on Tuesday night (must have wireless internet, be close to the highway, and have a pool); the car needs to be hosed out, the oil changed, and tires rotated; bags packed, beer chilled snacks packed, valium scrip refilled, and activity bags for the kids put together; the mailman and paper carrier need to be notified to hold the delivery; neighbors told we will be gone and to watch out for big vans in the driveway; and I'm sure this is only the big stuff I can remember at this moment.

I feel, at this moment, like I am being crushed. I know once we hit the road the crush will ease, slowly, then release completely as I try to talk Kristen into stopping at ridiculous road stop places along the way. 5000 pop bottles! We HAVE to stop!

You can look forward to plenty of mayhem recap for the next week or so, and maybe a picture or two from our Thanksgiving adventure.

Wish us luck.

Fun in John's Archives

Quinn wouldn't take a nap today, but Bryce is sleeping, and I'm sitting comfortably on the couch typing while Quinn (unbelievably) sits in a chair flipping through books he got for himself from the book shelf (with no screaming). He's trying to pretend he's not dozing off, but he's being soooo veeerrryy stiiiillll over there, that I think he might get an involuntary nap in before it's all said and done.

I've spent the past quiet hour (after I made sure I was still conscious, since I don't even know what a quiet hour is supposed to feel like) looking through John's archives. And look! I found more evidence that sometimes, despite what the kids would have me believe (they never get to go anywhere!), they do fun things while I'm at work.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check Quinn's pulse. He's never quiet and still for this long.

Saturday Masochism

I'm tired. And I have a headache. And we're leaving in a few days to go on a major road trip for which I don't think we're even remotely physically, logistically, or emotionally prepared. I think we may have picked the wrong month to try this daily post nonsense. But here I am, the rule-follower, unable to blow off a commitment no matter how detrimental it may now seem. This is one of the many masochistic features of my personality that I can't seem to shake. (Specific, more recent versions of this include Daily Trips To The Gym and also Repeated Attempts at Rationalizing With Pre-Schoolers.)

Today there were failed attempts at phone conversations with both of my parents in the presence of the kids, who think that my being on the phone signifies the beginning of the apocalypse wherein they morph from fledgling, mostly harmless demons into full-size, legitimately frightening dark lords with the sole purpose of driving me over the nearest cliff, or insane, whichever comes first (it's always insanity). After I gave up any thought of talking to either one of my confused and disgusted parents while the dark lords were delightedly jabbing me with their scepters of evil, I grabbed the car keys in desperation. "Come on kids. We're going to buy a tea kettle. I can't go one more second in this house living with tea kettle deprivation. It's absolutely ridiculous."

This seemed to soothe them, I suppose because they were hoping for some fresh blood out in public locations full of stupid, stupid people who thought a trip to Target would end in nothing but plastic bags filled to the brim with happiness shaped a lot like new coat hangers and a 12-pack of Snapple. Instead, the other Target patrons got to witness the dark lords' mother hissing at them within two minutes of stepping foot into the store. Nice. You think white trash is bad? Try DEMONIC trash. As soon as we all apologized and wiped demon slime tears from everyone's scaly cheeks, Bryce had to go to the bathroom, which meant that the three of us had to pile into the first and most foul-smelling stall we could find. I almost fainted from disgust, but the dark lords didn't seem to mind it.

By the time we'd accomplished all of that, I was done attempting to administer any sort of discipline or restore any sense of order to the situation. The kids were hanging off the cart at all angles, yelling at passers by, and insisting that my mom's birthday card somehow include SpongeBob.






I found a tea kettle, and the day did end with Mexican food and margaritas, so all was not in vain.

I don't have a title, and I'm running out of time to post this on November 17.

John and I had a rough "every other day" posting agreement for the month of November, but here's the thing, people. John thinks he can accomplish super-human feats. He's working on a post that details the ridiculous amount of work he's taken on and committed to completing before we leave for a Thanksgiving trip next week, but in an ironic and horrifying twist of fate, he has so much of that very work piling up around him that he can't even finish the post about it. A few minutes ago I walked into his office (note to self: write a post about the state of John's office) and he was tapping furiously at the keyboard, remnants all around him of the past six weeks of photo edits, wedding album designs, scheduling and re-scheduling bridal sessions to accommodate busy lives and weather changes, and any number of other photographer activities which apparently make one's office look like a disaster zone. He looked up and asked me how to spell a word, and between the carnage of his office and the way his eyes were darting nervously around the room and his hands were slightly twitching, I suggested that MAYBE the blog agreement should be a lower priority than the work that people actually pay him for. And that also pays our mortgage. And will at least indirectly fund the trip next week. The trip you won't hear about until a.) John perfects his ability to stop time for the sole purpose of finishing his post or b.) enough days pass that we're actually posting from the road, the glorious road where there are no paper- and box- and equipment-strewn photography offices burying the resident photographer under their crushing, infinite demands.

And there definitely won't be any "demands" on our trip. And their names definitely aren't Bryce and Quinn, and they never yell or kick the backs of our seats in the car. So, yeah. The trip should feel like a real break.

We have to multi-task around here.

And that's why I'm writing this while I watch The Office, drink wine, fold laundry, re-grow the hair that was yanked out of my head on the bedtime battle field, and marvel over the fact that now NBC is advertising commercials: See Ellen's new commercial for American Express! If it weren't for the crushingly compelling peer pressure that is NaBloPoMo, you wouldn't be privy to this stream-of-distracted-consciousness nonsense, but I can't resist. Resistance is futile. We WILL be assimilated.

The other day I was in the middle of one of my many rants about something not all that important, but something that I passionately insist on bringing to the attention of any poor sap around me, including and especially John. This time it was the fact that my company won't shell out the miniscule amount of money it would cost them to provide those lovely five-gallon water coolers for its employees. When I asked about it, I was told I could use the water fountain. The water fountain! Sure. I'll just take my half-gallon container to the water fountain and stand there for 45 minutes to fill it up while the rest of my department forms a dehydration protest line behind me. My only alternative to surviving on carbonated, caffeinated vending machine drinks has been to carry a bottles and bottles of water in left over plastic grocery sacks; I make the trek from my parking garage to my desk a middle class bag lady, a deafening kksshhh-kksshhh, kksshhh-kksshhh rustle the conspicuous soundtrack to my every step. Nice.

Bryce heard my rant the other night, and has apparently made it his new mission in life to brainstorm the solution for me, his uncreative mom. In the past two days, we've had at least three renditions of this conversation:

"Mom, mom. Here's what you do.* Okay. I have the solution* for you about how you can get your boss to give you water. You just have to tell your boss that you're thirsty."

"Yes, Bryce. I did that. But they still won't do it."

"Well, maybe you just have to ask NICELY."

"I did ask very nicely. But sometimes people just say no anyway. When that happens, we just have to accept it even though we're disappointed."

"No, no. I have another idea. Here's what you do: You sneak into your boss's office, and you TAKE HER PENCIL and run away! She'll be like,* 'Whoah! Where is my pencil?!' and then she'll HAVE to buy water for you!"

God, I love that kid.

*Yes, this is word for word. This is the way he talks. Always. (Except when he's screaming some five-year-old version of "you will regret the day you crossed me, minions!" during an undoubtedly unjust time-out session in his room, that is.)

Breathless Miscellany

By the time I have a chance to start drafting a post, I need a device that will take the thoughts out of my drowsy, heavy head and put them onto the screen for me. A device other than my own typing hands. I'm so very tired, but there is always so much I'd planned to say. If I were Bryce telling you in quick, urgent breaths about my day's events or about my latest revelations, I'd be starting every sentence with, "And besides!" That's his favorite segue these days: And besides! Conversations with him can be pretty choppy.

And besides! I found out that I have osteoarthritis in my knees! That means absolutely nothing except that I get to tell my trainer he can't make me jump, squat, or lunge any more. The "treatment" for 29-year-olds with osteoarthritis in their knees is - you're going to love it - TYLENOL! (And besides! I think taking tylenol is my favorite thing ever!)

And besides! The people at work suddenly have this unreasonable expectation that I devote a full eight hours a day to them. It's really cutting into the time I can put into blog-related activities. It's amazing how "behind" I can feel about something I'd have to classify as a hobby.

And besides! We signed Bryce up for music lessons. Soccer is over, and we really felt that our evenings and weekends were mundane and empty; we aren't really racing the clock as often as we'd like. There simply isn't enough chaos or strife around here; we need more activity! The lessons are an hour long and include four of Bryce's classmates. The last two weeks when I've gone to pick him up and write down the insane amount of assignments the music teacher doles out, the kids are literally writhing on the floor around her, completely over-stimulated. Bryce is usually oscillating between telling one of his friends to punch him in the stomach and shouting out random and strange (but not untrue) insults, like, "This house is really spooky!"

And besides! On the way home from his music lesson last night, Bryce asked for dessert. I told him he could have some chocolate pudding. "With whipped cream?" he asked, because he doesn't really EAT chocolate pudding, but he does eat the whipped cream on top (I'm morally opposed to giving him a bowl of whipped cream, but if we both keep pretending he might eat the pudding underneath it, it's a compromise we can live with). This is our recurring chocolate pudding conversation. "Yes, with whipped cream." "And golden grahams? Can you put some golden grahams in it? Oh wait! I know! I want you to HIDE the golden grahams in the pudding. Will you HIDE the golden grahams all in the pudding? Just use your fingers and push them down there really far! Yeah!" Okay. Things have gone too far when I've been so accommodating to my kid that he actually thinks this is a reasonable request. "Bryce, I'm not putting my hands in your pudding to hide individual golden grahams at random intervals! Gross!" "Mom! Please? Come on! And besides! You can wash your hands when you're done."

And now for something completely different....

This, of course, needs no explanation. My brother (on the left) and I (on the right) are attending the Kamusi Cultural Immersion Summer Camp.

Just kidding.

This picture was taken at the 1965 Worlds Fair in Flushing Meadows Park in Queens, NY. The theme of the year long event was "Peace Through Understanding" and dedicated to "Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe". The centerpiece of the fair was a 12 story high stainless steel model of the earth with three satellites in orbit. Me? I thought this guy was way cooler than the Unisphere.

Seventeen Down: Relativity (updated)

Today, John and I inadvertently celebrated Hannah's 17th birthday by paying a visit to the counselor she saw last summer. We walked in feeling frustrated, defeated, and desperate; we wanted a tip or a pat on the back or an understanding nod, because we don't get any of that when we talk to other adults in Hannah's life, particularly the ones in John's family. We feel like we're screaming from the roof tops that things aren't good, something is wrong, she needs help or a diagnosis of some kind or different medication or different schooling or SOMETHING, but everyone around us is deaf or oblivious.

We like this counselor because he gets right to the point. He told us a year ago when we first discussed the possibility of his seeing Hannah that he would not see a kid who was coming against her will. If she didn't want to talk to him after meeting him, he didn't want us wasting our money or time on bringing her in; nothing would be solved by that, anyway and the argument could be made that it would actually exacerbate certain issues. "You can't force someone to be motivated or productive, or to 'feel better,'" he told us. Hannah met with him a few times and claimed to enjoy the sessions, but, par for the course, when the responsibility was placed on her shoulders for letting us know if and when she wanted to return for further sessions, she did nothing. As the school year started and the same problems surfaced that have surfaced every school year for the past two or three years, we threw our hands up in exasperation and did the only thing left we could think of: called a professional.

He asked how she was doing in school and we immediately unloaded: "Not well. It's a total repeat of the year before. She was failing English within a month!"

"Does she care?"

[Blank stares.] "Uh. Huh?"

"Is she upset that she's failing? Does she want to fix it? Is she distraught and looking for ways to get out of the situation?"

"No."

"So you're upset about it."

"Um. Yeah? I mean, I see what you're saying - these are her choices, they'll be her consequences and all that. I know all that. The thing is, we don't really care about her grades in school. School is just one symptom of the larger problem."

"What's that?"

"She has no motivation to do anything in her life. It would be one thing if she were flunking a class here or there but she was really into her job or really into art or really into social clubs or volunteering or acting or music, or ANYTHING. But she's not. Nothing. She is interested in and motivated by nothing."

"Does she go out with friends?"

"Oh, yes."

"So she is motivated to do some things."

"Okay, but listen! Here's an example! When she was 15, we told her in order to take driver's ed. and get her driver's license when she turned 16, she had to keep her grades up. She still barely passed last year, and as a result still doesn't have her license!"

"So she doesn't care that much about the driver's license. I imagine she doesn't really need it. Her friends probably give her rides to where she needs to go, right?"

"Um. Yeeeeah."

"At 17, you can't make her be motivated to do well in school or do anything at all. At this age, she could flunk out and choose not even to get her G.E.D. But for some reason, she continues to go."

"Only because her friends are there and it gets her out of the house."

"So? Half the people in college are there for the social aspects. If she gets a degree secondarily, then great! It's better than the alternative. Have you tried telling her that? Saying, 'We're disappointed that you aren't making better choices about school because we know you're smart and could do much better, but hey! There are a lot of kids who just choose to drop out completely and not even bother to graduate. We're glad you're not doing that. Thanks for going to school.'"

"Isn't that kind of like saying, 'congratulations for breathing air'? She's expected to go to school. I don't see it as a choice."

"But it is her choice. You don't have control over her. Some part of her still wants to please you as her parents, which is why she meets very basic expectations. She doesn't have to. I see plenty of kids who don't. It's all relative. There are parents in here whose kid is a straight A student, but nobody likes her, she has no friends, and her parents want to know what to do about it. Sometimes I wish I could wheel and deal issues. Would the Johnsons be willing to take some bad grades in exchange for a social life? Would the Browns be willing to try no social skills in exchange for a few A's?"

"Okay, but it still seems like she has no aspirations, nothing that motivates her or makes her accountable to herself for her actions."

"For a lot of kids, rather than set expectations and then have to live up to them or listen to their parents say, 'You said you wanted to go to college! How do you expect to be able to go to college if you're failing in high school and not preparing?', they just become bottom dwellers, barely scraping by: no expectations, no failures. It doesn't mean they won't become productive individuals later on. It doesn't mean they won't find something that motivates them, and that's why we don't give up on our kids. You can be disappointed in her choices and you can explain the consequences when necessary and appropriate, but being angry and frustrated doesn't help you and doesn't change her behavior. I tell parents I see that they just have to let that go. What you have to ask yourself at this point is how much you can control. Her decisions are her own at this point. Grounding her or punishing her isn't going to do much, as you can see - it hasn't motivated her or changed her behaviors to this point. And eventually she'll have to be ungrounded. She has to have some life. You don't want her languishing at home all the time anyway. You have to find a way, as difficult as it is, to live life with her and enjoy being around her while simultaneously knowing that you don't like the choices she's making for herself. It can be very hard for parents to do. But that's part of not giving up on our kids. And it might mean praising her for doing things you consider to be 'expected'. Maybe it won't change her behaviors at all, maybe she'll act like she doesn't care about the acknowledgement. But it certainly won't hurt anything."

When he said the part about not giving up on our kids, I felt like he had exposed us under a huge spotlight in a room full of mediocre parents, exposed us for the ones who didn't belong in the room because we weren't even mediocre, we were sub-par, and the spotlight was pointing out the couple whose parenting license was being revoked. Revoked for conceding, throwing in the towel, buckling, relenting - barely being one step above abandonment or disavowal. Ouch, that spotlight burned. The top of my head is still a little singed. Had we given up on her? Have we reached a point where we have to thank her for being responsible enough to get up and go to school? Apparently. But as the counselor pointed out, it's all relative. We could be the parents whose child was just killed in Iraq, who wish their kid was home again with motivation problems and weight problems and flunking 11th grade problems, because then, back then, there was still a chance for something better. "Because there's always a chance, which is why we don't ever give up on our kids."

UPDATED: I should clarify that the counselor wasn't implying that we HAD given up on Hannah. Rather, he was talking to us as if all three of us were on the same page: "We collective decent parents never give up on our kids, right?" It made me feel guilty because I had to hesitate when I considered whether or not I found that statement to be true for us. Of course it is, because as many of you have already pointed out, we wouldn't have been there, and we wouldn't have the stress that we do over all of this, if we had reached a point where we had truly thrown in the towel. The doubt over it was uncomfortable and unsettling, but it was purely my own - not implied by the counselor (at least not directly or purposely).

Desperate for content, she posts the conversation where she begs her rabid three-year-old for material.

"I wanna play on the computer!"

"Well, no. I'm working right now."

"Are you writing?"

"Something like that. Hey Quinn, is there anything you want to say to the world?"

"Yeah, I want to talk about the world."

"Okay, what do you want to say?"

"I want to say, uhhhmm... STATUE OF LIBERTY!"

"What about the statue of liberty?"

"THE SKELETONS!"

"????"

"HAHAHAHA!"

"What were you going to say about the statue of liberty?"

"RED AND GREEN AND YELLOW! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"I'm so confused. But okay."

"Mom, make Quinn stop it!! Ow! That hurts!"

"Quinn. Let. Go. Of. Bryce's. Head."

"AHAHAHAHA!"

"Sigh. Quinn, is there anything else you want to say? Anything at all?"

"BLAWADAWAKAJAWIEDODO! AHAHAHA! POOPY POOPY RRRR SHDOP BOW!"

"Dear god. Where is your father, anyway?"

And now I open the can of worms.

There's a topic that just won't die in the online community, one that in the past I've vowed not to touch. It rhymes with blommy boars. And I really hate the entire concept; it turns my stomach, mainly because I think there's no real argument being presented, just a conglomeration of stated and re-stated opinions about something that ultimately isn't going to change and doesn't really matter. It perpetuates stereotypes about women as whiny, emotional weaklings who can never be pleased, which is ironic, considering the underlying argument that some form of "woman-empowering feminism" is fueling the entire debate.

I should clarify that my understanding of feminism differs from that of most contemporary interpretations. I don't accept it as "power for women" any more than I would see equal rights for any minority as "power for minorities."* In other words, I think there is a difference between equality and power to the level that I think many past and present feminist activists have pushed the concept. The question of whether or not women truly have "equal rights" is a complex one, one I'm not educated enough to fully address. I can say that class culture plays a huge role in answering this question, but I think that makes a bigger statement about Western societal structure than "feminism" per se. Most arguments that women still have a struggle ahead of them to gain equality are steeped in middle and upper class cultural examples - corporate and educational opportunities, salary ranges, job performance expectations. And there are doubtless untold improvements that could be made in all of these areas - I don't dispute that at all. I simply don't see the ultimate goal of the feminist movement to be a flip flop of the power structure such that the masculine, patriarchal rule somehow has to "make up for" the centuries of mistakes made during human social development by accepting some type of "defeat" or surrendering to some science fiction notion of domineering female rule. Let's just make things right and move on - equally. That was the whole point originally, at least as I understand it.

Having said all that, I almost puked when Elizabeth Vargas reported that the U.S. is one of four countries world wide not to offer a national maternity leave program (and in many countries, also paternity or just more generic parental leave) during the 20/20 airing of her post-maternity leave return. People, the other three countries are Lesotho, Swaziland, and Papua New Guinea. Just to give you a sense of scale in terms of resources and commitment to infant and child health, those countries have infant mortality rates between 50 and 90 infant deaths out of 1,000 births, as opposed to the U.S.'s rate of around six deaths out of 1,000 births (and actually, that infant mortality rate is among the worst of the "civilized" Western nations, but that's an entirely different post).

If we're going to have those things that rhyme with blommy boars, if we're going to spend our time debating something about motherhood, it should be over this issue, and it shouldn't be a debate between mothers, it should be a debate between citizens who are parents and the government which represents its citizens. For the moms who choose (or are financially obligated) to work (as are 71% of mothers in the U.S.), there should be absolutely no question over their ability to manage their lives both as employees and as people who happen to be mothers of children. A further point I would make here, one that is consistent with my stance on the feminist movement and its goals, one that is consistent with my ire surrounding the blommy boars, is this: the accommodations given to mothers who care for children should be extended to fathers as well. The biggest problem I've had with the blommy boars is that they place all credit, responsibility, and angst over child-rearing squarely on one parent's (mom's) shoulders, furthering a.) the notion that child-rearing is "woman's work," b.) the stereotype that fathers and husbands are marginal and sometimes even incompetent figures in their partners' and children's lives, and c.) the idea that the blommy boars have reason to exist.

In terms of parental roles, I would see the feminist movement as most successful when mothers and fathers are debating issues of maternity, paternity, and parental leave plans, flexible work schedules, safe and readily available day care options, and across-class accommodations to ensure that children born in the U.S. are born into a society where raising and educating them are among the understood top priorities, and not a side show, a burden to be dealt with and treated as a "women's issue." At that point, if they are truly concerned with the state of the children at the core of these arguments, the blommy boars will cease to exist. This is an issue concerning parents, not just mothers, not just women. When that is the general mentality, and the mentality is not that there is a relevant debate about whether or not parents should work (let's ask ourselves how realistic that argument is, anyway) then feminism will have succeeded.

*When John read this, he pointed out that people have different definitions of "power" - many see the absence of choice as powerlessness, meaning that with the success of the civil rights and feminist movements, formerly powerless individuals gained power. I think this is true. The way I'm defining power for my point here, though, is more that of a power structure. "Equality" between men and women or "equality" between majority and minority ethnicities (in the true sense of the word "equality"), then, would successfully remove the power structure in place, since all citizens, all humans would be on the same "level."

Childhood Humiliation Photos Part II

It was this that made me realize I shouldn't listen to my brother ever again.



As you can see, I'm a gullible dork.

Another Evening In Paradise

Holy Shrek Macaroni and Cheese. You should have seen the carnage tonight. It was bad, people. BAD.

John got home from the gym with the kids at the same time I got home from work. He was at the mail box as I stumbled out of the car in exhaustion and walked around to get the piles of crap out of the passenger side to carry in with me. He gave a halfhearted "hey" and I responded with an even MORE halfhearted, "mmph" and reached up to rub my stupid left eye where my stupid left contact had been causing major pain and discomfort and distraction all day long. I shut the passenger door of my car and hit the lock button on the remote. Bryce was still in John's car, shoving the flash cards du jour between the window and the black foamy insulation. He wasn't looking at me, just at the cards. I stood there for a second, then gave up and walked inside. I heard Quinn's moaning whine from the other side of John's car, quickly giving way to legitimate screams. Great, I thought. THIS is starting off well. Just as I stopped to turn around, John joined me from the mailbox, rolled his eyes, sighed, and muttered, "he peed in his pants at the kids' area in the gym." Quinn really piped up now, "I CAN'T DO IT! I NEED MY BOOTS... ON!" In the voice that suggested he'd already HAD this conversation, John said, "your socks are all wet, and that's why your boots won't go on. I told you that earlier - that's why you weren't WEARING your boots." Quinn adamantly limped up to us, boots shoved over his urine-soaked athletic socks, his toes only reaching the mid-way point of the shoe, leaving his ankles and heels half way up the legs of the boots. Bryce started chanting about Quinn peeing in his pants. I told him to stop and walked inside.

I started changing clothes and heard John tell Quinn he needed to go upstairs and remove his wet clothes and get dressed for dinner. But I'm HUNGRY! - Well then go change. - And then I can eat!? - Sigh. Yes. - But I'm hungry RIGHT NOW! Finally I heard three-year-old pouty muffled steps on the carpeted stairs. I thought it was time for everything to turn around. John had dinner ready in the crock pot, after all. Quinn's monitor violently shook with his next sounds: screaming mixed with whining mixed with growling, "I CAN'T DO IT!" He dresses himself every day. I know he's capable. This was a power play, he wanted to draw us in. I went to the bottom of the stairs and calmly looked up at him, writhing and slapping his stomach for emphasis about how very impossible it was to put on his own clothes. Without raising my voice, I said, "when you're ready to eat dinner, you can get your clothes on and come down." I walked away. He protested violently, but stayed in one spot so as not to make any of us think he was going to go anywhere he didn't want to. He had nothing to stomp or hit but himself, and so he did. He slapped his stomach and jumped with all of his (quite noteworthy) force, and he screamed until his face was literally magenta. He "needed help," he "couldn't do it," it "was too hard." His face and vocal chords were raw from tears and unabashed roaring.

I removed him from the top of the stairs and took him to his room for time out, told him it was unacceptable to scream at us. If he wanted to ask for help, he could use a normal tone of voice, but until then, he needed to sit in his room. When I turned to leave, he chased me and grabbed my thigh and begged me to stay, sobbing. Thinking about it now, I feel like a schizophrenic, because that's how I felt when it was happening. 1.) He is manipulating me. 2.) He misses me, I don't get much time with him. 3.) He's extremely tired and doesn't even know what he wants right now. 4.) End this. Help him get his stupid shirt on. Give in already. 5.) Giving in will make this situation unfold into further and more horrifying depths of hell for the next two weeks. Pry his hands from your thigh and walk away. 6.) He sees your hesitation, slowpoke. Make a decision. 7.) Too late. He's already won. 8.) There are no winners here. He's sobbing and you feel like pure evil. 9.) He's really cute. 10.) He didn't try to hit me, that seems like a step in the right direction. 11.) Okay, now you're really reaching. The kid has been reeling you in from the second you pulled into the driveway. 12.) Of course he has. He's three. That's what he does.

Somehow through all of that frustration / heartbreak / hilarity / anger, Quinn and I worked out a compromise resulting in his being dressed and walking, sniffling, downstairs with me for dinner. My blood pressure had just returned to normal when he spotted his plate of food and the hysterics started up again. Why did you make SHREK Lak-a-loni Cheese? I wanted SPIDERMAN WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! While pretending to ignore this, I dumped half the container of pepper onto my salad (lovingly chopped by John, the patient spouse who accepts my nit-picky quirks as if they're completely normal, like when I answer the question, "do you want tomato slices or wedges?" with "what?! SIGH. I want the tomatoes chopped, if I'M choosing; the smaller the better when it comes to raw vegetables...so wedges and slices are all the same to me." and I subsequently come to the table with a plate full of finely chopped tomatoes instead of what I really deserve, a whole, unwashed tomato with a knife stabbed to a cutting board with a note saying, "so, slices or wedges, then?" Note to John: Thanks. (But don't get any ideas about notes and cutting boards.)). Something about the pepper shaker or the salt being almost empty caught Quinn's attention and he stopped screaming about the injustice of ill-conceived macaroni.

The table was peaceful for five minutes. Then Bryce started spitting out his food as if it were poison. "Bryce, stop it!" I scolded him. He broke down and started defending himself with screams of justification about how he'd encountered a BIG BITE, and we all know he doesn't LIKE big bites, and because we all know this, it is perfectly acceptable, even commendable, for him to spit out said BIG BITES, because unless BIG BITES are BIG BITES of pizza or donuts, they are like poisonous bites, bites that will no doubt block all air to his brain and KILL HIM, HELLO!

We got past the big bite fiasco and he asked for a banana after dinner. John offered him the half that he'd already cut up for the wrap Bryce chose not to eat, but THAT WOULD NOT DO. Bryce wanted a "banana with a top, a middle, and a bottom" FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. When I told him to go upstairs until he was ready to stop screaming about it, he jumped, laughed maniacally, and ran away from us to begin his admirable attempt at drawing us into his psychosis. In between the trips where we were literally chasing him down (during one of which trips John ended up locked in Bryce's room - and you thought I was exaggerating!) we noted that the kids seem to have this brilliant knack for noticing when things are approaching normalcy: when one of them needs a break from the crazy-making, the other one steps up. (They're a great team, uh-huh.)

After that, it's kind of a blur. I know there were baths administered and the kids ended up in bed after dozens of trips to the door to demand water or a different parent or ransom money or daylight, but right now all I'm thinking is we only have 24 hours to prepare for the next round.

Now go do that Voodoo that you do...

I was asked in the comments of a previous post for tips on how to take better photos. I'm willing to share what little I know, as long as you understand that I really don't feel I'm in much of a position to do so. Really. So, as long as you agree that what I am going to say is not gospel, and it's what I do and think about when behind the camera, I'll share.

The number one rule in my book is don't stop at one or two shots. In fact, don't stop at 30 or 40. Change your point of view: get closer, get further back, get lower, get higher, walk around and really work it. With digital cameras there is no reason not to! When you download them on your pc, go though them one at a time, keep the best and delete the rest.

When I woke up and saw the extreme fog outside yesterday, I knew I would be stopping at some point to take advantage of the unusual weather. The picture below of the foggy bridge is one of 75 I took yesterday morning of the exact same bridge from a variety of angles and views from the riverbank. Last night as I was looking through them all, I deleted all but three.



When taking pictures of people, if your photos aren't good enough, you're not close enough. Sure, there's a time and place for including the environment (like Dutch does when taking pictures of Juniper - and I love his pictures!), but just as often you want to get close. Then get closer.



When composing your picture, use the rule of thirds. Most of the time it's more pleasing to the eye to keep the main point of interest of your picture out of and away from the dead center of your shot.

And finally, take the time to learn how your camera works. It doesn't matter if it's a point and shoot, or a digital SLR, you have to know what it's capable of doing. Don't be afraid to change the settings and experiment.

In a nutshell, that's it. If you have any specific questions, I'd be happy to answer them.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

Consistent with my stance on taking pain medication, I avoid doctor visits until I'm experiencing pain or discomfort beyond what I can will myself to ignore. I think most of the time the body has the resources it needs to repair damage, and if that happy truth allows me to stay off of exam tables and avoid wrangling with insurance companies over precisely how much I'll be ripped off for wasting my time in drafty waiting rooms and being handed pain medication samples that I throw into the trash can on my way out, then so be it.

I have a pretty high pain tolerance, as I discovered a few years ago when I finally went to the doctor for a suspected ear infection and she jumped back and said, "OW!" after looking in my ears. In fact, the only time I've suspected my pain tolerance of trying to play games with me was during my first c-section recovery: Pain pills? Oh, alright. Yeah. Yeah, actually. Bring more. Now. DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYING MAN? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MY ABDOMEN HAS BEEN RIPPED OPEN AND SLOPPILY STITCHED BACK TOGETHER. BRING. THE. PAIN. PILLS. Other than that, though, I avoid doctor's offices unless the appointments are scheduled a year in advance and fall under the category of some arbitrarily designed "routine check-up" that happens to be consistent with my anal, structured tendencies. Someone with a high pain tolerance could avoid mentioning knee pain to their doctor for a long, long time. Like, say, five or seven years.

My trainer is apparently schooled in the art of will power voodoo, because he is the only person in the known universe who can quite literally make me do anything. The phrase, "If I say jump, you say 'how high?'" always made me livid with indignation over the idea that someone in any position could or would wield that sort of authority over another human: "Disgusting!" I would mutter under my breath. And yet I find myself in just such a relationship, one I would characterize as dysfunctional under any other circumstances. (In fact, we actually have conversations that very closely resemble, "JUMP!" "Alright, how high?") In this particular case, it happens to be improving my health, and so I'm letting it slide. Plus, his scary I can kill you with a few lunges, a side plank, and two minutes on the incline machine so don't defy me, you pathetic little weakling demeanor is the only thing that has been able to force me to ask a doctor why my knee makes a funny Rice Krispies sound when I go up and down stairs, and also why (thanks to my two months in workout boot camp) I can now perform any physical feat as long as I don't have to bend my left knee past a 90-degree angle while upright.

I don't know how it happened against my will, but I ended up at my office building's on-site clinic with an energetic and talkative nurse practitioner telling me all about her own terrible knees and her knowledge that she will inevitably need knee replacements, isn't it great, ha ha ha!! I sat there and tried to engage in the conversation but all I could envision was a botched surgery and my picture in the record books, Knee Replacement Surgery Goes Awry on Otherwise Healthy 30-Year-Old. "Wheelchair for life," says surgeon. Then, also against my will, I nodded my head when the nurse practitioner said "MRI" because "an x-ray really won't do any good; it's your knee cushion, anyway, not the bone." When the administrative assistant called to scheduled the MRI, she asked, for the MRI facility, "Are you claustrophobic?" and something made me say calmly and with no screaming, "Yes. But I'll be fine," while I was thinking, JUST "YES! YES YOU ARE CLAUSTROPHOBIC!"

Luckily my insurance company wants no part of the MRI until they've loaded me with as much radiation and wasted as much of my time and various doctors' time as humanly possible, so it's a mere "useless" X-ray for me. The nice people at Radiology didn't threaten to sedate me for claustrophobia and didn't make me wear one of those pesky, heavy lead capes to "protect" me from the "dangerous" or "cancer causing" radiation. I was wondering if I should be concerned about that, and so I spent the time standing vulnerably against the cell-mutating machine holding my knee at unnaturally painful angles thinking, "the next time he says 'jump' I'm going to have to find a new response."

Killing time

Here's what Quinn and I were doing this morning. Go ahead, click it.

Traditions

As I was growing up, it was tradition that once a year between Thanksgiving and Christmas we would gather as a family after dinner, pop popcorn, and watch our family slides.

My dad would haul out the projector, set up and open the slide screen, and carefully arrange the stacks and stacks of slide projector canisters in chronological order making sure the current years slides were on the bottom. The lights would be turned off, and we would lay on the floor with our pillows and popcorn and watch and listen as the snapshots of our life were projected onto the screen and talked about by all.

When my dad passed away, I took possession of this slice of our family history recorded on chrome film not knowing exactly what I would do with them. The projector no longer worked, and couldn't be repaired. I thought of getting a new projector, but that never happened.

I came across the box of slides last month while rummaging around in the hall closet. I pulled them out, and began looking at them one a time, holding them up to the window, thinking of how much fun it was to watch them once a year.

I took the slides to be scanned and just last week got them back. I'm going through them one at a time, fixing them up a little in photoshop, and plan on making both an album and a DVD slideshow for my siblings and mom for Christmas. And I'm going to revive this tradition with my family. Every year.

I'm going to post a couple of my favorites up here on the Fringe throughout the month to humiliate myself.

This first one is me as Mighty Mouse, putting fear into the villainous villains (that's my brother without the shirt) and getting the girl.



Now you know why Kristen finds me so irresistible. I'm a dork.

What I miss while I'm at work