Don't Mess With My Family

I haven't written in a while. I haven't felt like I had anything important to say.

Now, I do.

How dare Ralph Reed think he can criticize my family.

In case you are not familiar, Ralph Reed is a small minded, well funded (and coiffed), bigot with a big mouth here in the U.S. who loves to be on T.V. Today, in defense of the country's ongoing prejudice against same sex couples he made he argument that it is "for the children" saying: "The verdict of social science is overwhelming and irrefutable. And that is without regard to straight or gay. In other words, this applies to one-parent households, it applies to foster homes, it applies to the whole panoply – they’ve looked at them all – that the enduring, loving, intact, biological mother and father is best for children."

What the huh?

First of all, "science" is not a citation. Give me studies, Ralph, give me names. I want empirical evidence here, not just something your buddies heard behind the 7-11 before the latest Westboro protest. And not just one study, I want to see a lot of them. They all better have big sample sizes too. I have seen enough of these "500 hundred first cousins" bullshit surveys to know the difference.

This is my family. 

Also, have you looked at the demographics of the United States of America lately? While you may be living in a "Leave it to Beaver" world, this is definitely more of a "Full House" country now.  I'm not just talking about liberal, commie, granola crunching weirdos either. I am talking about your so-called base of Christian fundamentalists. Families are taking all shapes and sizes, no matter your political or religious bent. No, they may not have two Moms, or two Dads, but they likely will have only one or the other under one roof, and have foster or adopted children as well. Do you really think now is the time to start excluding them from the "big tent?"

Lastly, in your defense of DOMA, and Prop 8, and your attack on families, you are trying to somehow say some are better than others. I agree, some are. But it has nothing to do with demographics; it has to do with love. All families will have good times and bad; whether they share DNA, or live in the same house, or have parents of the same gender. It is how we deal with those times, not the statistical picture, that matters.

I wish any of this would make a difference to him. I know it makes a difference to me. I know that I am raising a child in a world that still has so many prejudices it makes me afraid for her. I want her to know that her family is the one place she is always safe, and never judged. It makes it hard when it feels like people are judging her family.

So, I will fight like a rabid badger until that is not the case.

Come at me, Ralph Reed, and bring all your "science" with you. I will fight you with the love I use to protect my daughter.

The love of a Mother.

Because we are family. And not some discounted family.

The real damn deal.

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I Miss Santa

Before I had a kid I used to say things like "I don't think we'll perpetuate the Santa Claus myth," and "I don't see why I should have to bribe my child to behave well with some imaginary specter." 

God, I was an asshole. 

As the mother of a 3-year old who has just come through the holiday season I am hear to sing loud and proud: Santa Claus is the greatest invention ever. Better than sliced bread. Better than indoor plumbing. Don't tell it I said this, but possibly better than wine. 

Just the mention of Santa's name is enough to stop a full fledged toddler fit -- which I think we all know have been scientifically proven to be all but unstoppable. His name gets food eaten. It gets bedtimes observed. It brings moments of blissful quiet in times of chaos brought on by too much time in the car, too much time between meals, or too much excitement. It's powerful enough that the words don't even have to be said, that just the thought needs to be present. Meg actually started self correcting behavior before I could say anything, aware that "Santa is watching." She would be on the verge of a meltdown, and then go silent. The only sound from her? The soft singing of "Santa Claus is coming to town." It was half prayer, half warning -- and it filled my heart with Grinchy glee.

Now though, Santa is gone. The world is dark and cold again. 

I tried summoning him, saying that "Santa is still watching," three days after Christmas when Meg painted her toes -- not toenails but entire toes -- with nail polish from her much coveted "Hello Kitty" make-up kit. For a second I thought it was going to work, until she looked up at me with the eyes of an expert and said "he's resting after Christmas, Mom." 

Then later she painted her fingers. 

I was thinking maybe there could be some other seasonal figures to be employed in a similar Santa matter. I know the Easter Bunny is the obvious first choice, but it just doesn't jibe for me. I can work out a rationale for Santa bringing presents on Jesus' birthday. After all, birthday = presents. However, I just can't make sense of a large rabbit bringing candy and goodies to commemorate a mob murder. Yes, I know the ending is positive, but still... 

What about Martin Luther King Jr.? It's a birthday celebration, and maybe he "has a dream" children will behave? Or what about arbor day? Maybe trees bloom presents for children who eat more than three bites of dinner without Geneva like negotiations. 

Neither one has the same panache though. Nothing does. Let's face it, if anyone could come up with another enforcer as good as Santa Hallmark would have capitalized on it by now. 

Now I just have to sit and wait. Use my patience. Hope that if I am a good enough Mom come November once again Meg will fall under the spell of the man in red. If I'm bad, she may not believe again next year, and end up hucking coal at my head. 

Wait! I've got it! Flag day! 

Okay, so I'm still kind of an asshole. 

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Lessons With Libby

There are so many things I like about Meg starting school. Watching her run, not walk to her classroom every day. Hearing her talk about her school friends and how none of them like to share. Watching her become more confident, and more compassionate with every day that she is in class. Realizing that maybe we haven't done a half bad job raising her.

Yep, all of those things are really great.

My favorite thing though?

It's given me an absolutely fabulous new way for me to mess with my husband.

For those of you just joining us, my husband is a high school administrator. For years I have listened to his stories about the overprotective parents, the parents who push their kids too hard, the parents who do not pay attention to what their kids are doing, the parents who think their kids can do no wrong, the parents who are waaaay too permissive, and the parents who are just all out nightmares.

And now? I get to pretend to be all of them.

The other day Meg came home with sand in her hair. She told me a little girl in her class had thrown it at her, and that she had then been made to apologize and help Meg clean it off. Okay, no harm, no foul, move on. That's how I reacted internally. This is how I reacted when Ryan got home:

ME: We need to call the Millers (not their name).
RYAN: Who are they?
ME: Their daughter threw sand at Meg today. I think we need to call them and discuss the situation.
RYAN: Libby, please don't be this person.
ME: Do you think it's because she's black?
RYAN: For f@*k's sake lady! Are you serious?!

See how much fun it is? Okay, okay. So, the classroom has this stuffed bear that goes home with one of the kids every weekend. Meg was VERY disappointed that it wasn't her turn yet last week. We sat down and talked about it; how her turn will come eventually, and laid out some preliminary plans about all the things we will take "baby bear" to do. Then Ryan got home.

ME: Meg didn't get to take baby bear home. Miller (again, not the name) did.
RYAN: Well, she'll get a turn eventually.
ME: Maybe we could call and see if we could just "visit."
RYAN: Are you doing this again?
ME: Or maybe we could just go over and take it.
RYAN: Please stop.
ME: They haven't met us. We could pretend to be Jehovah's Witnesses. Then BAM, we bust in and grab the bear.
RYAN: Can I at least get in the door first before you become that parent?
ME: OH! And then all the kids in class will be mad at Miller. And then Meg can say she found baby bear in a trash can and she'll be a hero!
RYAN: Wasn't there a vow about not doing this at our wedding? 

I'm kinda giving it a break now, because I want there to be an element of surprise. After all, if I use up all the crazy now he'll get immune. And then what kind of reaction will I get when I ask about SAT prep courses at Parent Teacher conferences? Or ask if we should throw a rager after 3 Pre-K graduation?

It's gonna be a great year!

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Pack Rat

What a difference a month makes!

Meg is growing up so fast. She starts school in two weeks. Her vocabulary is exploding. She sleeps in her own "big girl" bed. Potty training is done. Her tastes are turning from Disney Princesses (disturbing) to Alvin and the Chipmunks (annoying).

Oh, and she is turning into Navin R. Johnson.

You know, the Steve Martin character from '"The Jerk."

I'm not saying this because she was born a poor black child. I mean, the black part, yes, but her circumstances really don't qualify for less than "lower middle class."

I'm not saying this because she has a fascination with the phone book. Hell, I don't think she would know a phone book if it came up and bit her. We, like most Americans now take the phone book(s) straight from the porch to the recycling bin, stopping maybe to take off the crappy magnet on the front. Meg may eventually get excited about a school directory, but definitely not a phone book.

So, what is it about Meg that makes her so "Navinesque?"

She has to take everything with her.


Every morning, as Meg leaves the house, she picks up things she just can't do without. Why can't she do without them? Because she saw them as she was leaving the house.

Duh.

It started slowly at first.

A stuffed animal.

A blanket.

An extra pair of shoes.

A coloring book.

Then, before we knew it, Meg was heading out the door with two dolls, every stuffed bunny in the house, two pairs of princess high heels, three pacifiers, a box of fruit snacks, a DVD of "Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang" and a child sized plastic chair.

I like to think the chair is an homage to the movie.

This morning was a bit better, but her Dad still couldn't get her out without her musical stuffed seahorse, a kazoo, a magnifying glass, and several strands of Mardi Grad beads.

Now, I know some of think Meg must be taking these things with her because she wants to take a long the comforts of home as she heads out into the big, cold, cruel.

Yeah, no. We don't drop her off at the Greyhound station.

That "big, cold cruel world" is her grandmother's house -- otherwise known as the kid Hilton. Oh, and when she's not there she's with my aunt, otherwise known as the kid Hyatt. Seriously, what she is doing is like packing up the lamps at the Motel 6 so she has something to amuse herself while she's waiting for room service.

Maybe it's our fault. Ryan and I are notorious over packers. On our recent week long trip to Big Sur  we took three suitcases. No, we probably didn't need our scuba gear, but we were on the coast, and it is 2012, and you can't be too careful. Also, I packed all of those ziplock bags because you don't know what you might encounter outside of Utah. After all, in California they sell wine in the grocery store. 

Whatever the origin, I am hoping this "Jerk" phase leads to bigger and better things. A love of Cyrano perhaps, a love of art collecting, a devotion to bluegrass music, or maybe even several SNL hosting gigs. Hopefully not a love of movies that bring Bonnie Hunt from a feminist comic icon to a schlocky punch line.

And if none of those things happen?

Well, at least she isn't emulating "Smokey and the Bandit."

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Missing my Beast

Ryan and I just got back from five days in Boston. We saw historic sites. We ate seafood. We went to the movies. We went to dinner after 6:30 and stayed out until after 11pm. We slept in. We wandered around Harvard Square and various old cemeteries. 


Mostly though? We missed Meg. 


That probably sounds silly to a lot of you. I know it did to me up until the point we boarded the plane on Tuesday. I thought it would be good to get away, to spend some time alone with my husband, and alone with myself; to remember what it is like to be an "adult" who doesn't think about if a menu has kid friendly foods, or where the nearest "potty" may be in case of emergency. 


I did all those things, of course. And it was really nice to sit outside at a bistro talking to Ryan and not worrying about chasing a toddler around the sidewalk. It was nice to hear there was a 30 minute wait for a table at brunch, and not decide to go somewhere else because a meltdown was imminent. For all those nice moments though, there were just so many more moments that Meg would have made better. 


Going to the aquarium? Yep. Spying wildlife in the cemeteries? Yep. Checking out the buskers near Harvard. Definitely. Eating anything? Totally. Taking the train? Meg loves trains so much that every ride would have been a treat. 


It was Thursday night when Ryan and I finally reached our breaking point. We had both had out moments, but kept telling each other that when we looked back on this trip we would remember just the time we got to spend together, not the time we didn't get to spend with Meg. Then we went to see the movie "Beasts of the Southern Wild." 


For those of you who haven't seen it yet, "Beasts" is a pretty heart wrenching movie anyway. It is even more heart wrenching though when you realize the little girl at the center of it, the one who keeps yelling for her "mama" looks very similar like the child you are missing 3-thousand miles away. Oh, and kind of acts like her too. 

Meg. 

Movie. 

By the end of the film Ryan and I were both sloppy, sobbing messes. The two small napkins we had gotten at the concession stand in case our popcorn was too greasy (as if that is really a thing), had now been shredded and melted with tears. The collar of his t-shirt looked like he had been in a rainstorm, and my bra was dripping like I was having a hot flash. 

If it hadn't been so much to change the tickets (yes, we checked), we would have gotten on a plane right then. 

Meg will be going on our next trip with us. And the one after that. Oh, and the one after that. Actually, she will be pretty much going on every trip we take from now until we can no longer force her to be seen with us. Yes, Ryan and I will likely miss out on some romantic moments. Yes, the trips will cost more and be driven by different agendas. It's a trade off though. Meg is three now. It seems like just yesterday she was a dream in my head. It will just be tomorrow that she is asking to be dropped off two blocks away from the mall and wanting to go "camping" instead of on a family trip. So, I am going to treasure every vacation I can. It will be worth passing up funky Chinese dumpling shops to find some place with cheese noodles. I will just keep a list of all the dumpling shops for trips Ryan and I take when we retire. Our "doughy goodness world tour" if you will. 

Oh, and the next time I see "Beasts" I am investing in Kleenex first. 

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Literally

We were at a restaurant recently when a group of little people came and sat at the table right next to us. Meg, having never seen little people before, was curious; and because she was curious, was staring. I could almost see the thought bubbles above her head. Were these kids? If so, where were their parents? And why were they acting like parents to some of the kids with them? 


While I understood her curiosity, and I wanted to answer her questions, I also did NOT want to be the person with the ill mannered, staring child. So, I leaned over to her and very quietly said "Meggo, it's not polite to look at people when they may not want you looking at them. Do you understand?" She nodded, and I assumed I had handled the situation and could explain to her about little people later. I went back to my dinner and talking to others at the table. Then Ryan nudged me, and inclined his head towards Meg. 


She was eating with her eyes closed. 


If she happened to open them, say to figure out exactly where something was on her plate, she would clap her hands over her eyes if she happened to catch sight of the little people at the table next to us. Turns out that while I thought I said "please don't stare," Meg heard "don't look at them at all." As they were directly in her line of sight, the only thing to do was to close her eyes. 


I should have known to pick my words more carefully, since every word that comes out of anyone's mouth right now is taken as the total, unabashed truth to Meg. The other day when her Dad told her to hold a baseball bat higher, meaning choke up on it, she instead waved it above her head like she was fighting off birds of prey. When Luke and his friends were screaming they were "taking over the ship" as they played on the jungle gym in my mom's backyard Meg became distraught because she assumed it meant she could never get to play there again. 


And don't even get me started on how she doesn't get sarcasm. 


I guess it was about the age of five when Luke stopped being so literal and started getting the "gist" of things. That means we have about two more years of having to explicitly explain everything. 


After all, we don't want her going through life with her eyes closed. 

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Meg Has Two Moms

When we first brought Meg home I was all about semantics. If someone asked questions about "her mother" I was quick to come back with answers about "her birth mother." I practically snarled it at times, making sure they got the point that I was THE mom as far as Meg is concerned.


Now, I am ashamed I did that.


I may as well have lifted my leg and peed on Meg, because that's all I was trying to do, claim ownership of her. Let the world know that I am her mother, and no one can take that away from me. At the time I was bewildered, and unsure of how this was going to all work out. I was still angry over the fact my own body had failed me, and felt any control I had over the situation was tenuous at best. I wasn't sure if I would be a good mother, and, above all else, I was scared. I was scared for me. I was scared for Meg. I was scared for Meg's Mom. I didn't want all of us to be making a huge mistake. I was parenting from a place of fear, and that is never a good place to start making decisions.


Meg has two Moms. There is nothing wrong with that. Neither one of us wins when a qualifier is placed before the title of the other. By trying to place a qualifier on either I think the real loser ends up being Meg, because it implies she is something other than what she is: a kid who is lucky enough to have many, many people who love her, and want to see her grow and succeed. I don't want her to ever question that there is a hierarchy of people who love her.


Also, the standard qualifiers are kind of stupid if you ask me. "Birth Mom" implies that all Meg's Mom did was pop her out. It doesn't take into account all the time she spent with her in the womb, all of the genetics and history she passed along to her, or the care, love, and concern she has showered on Meg since she came into this world. And "Adoptive Mom?" This one I guess I closer to the truth, I did adopt Meg, but I like to think that was just the beginning of it all. Since then I have been "Mom who buys band aids," "Mom who chases imaginary frogs," "Mom who yelled when she probably shouldn't have," and many, many other kinds of Mom. I think it's easier just to keep it short and sweet.


Now, I am not saying that this is easy. I know there are going to be times I will want to have a "Meg's Mom" tattoo that I can show her if/when she decides to have tantrums centered around the argument "you're not my real Mom." However, I think I will just have to remind myself in those moments that she is coming from a place of hurt, or disappointment, or just being a brat, and that good decisions never come from those places either.


Then I will take a long deep breath, and be thankful for that child.


Oh, and for her Mom.






*Inspired by Kelly at "Monkey Soup." Really, go check out her blog. 

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Buying a Cage -- For the Fight

I am sitting here trying to write this post, which is supposed to be about very important things, but I am being distracted by the mounting rumble in my living room. Did bikers move in, I am sure you are asking. Or ruffians? Or circus people? No, no, and no. The battle royale is between my 2-year old, and her 8-year old cousin, Luke. 


In the past ten minutes I have heard the following: 

• "Meg called me stupid." 
• "Luke is stupid." 
• "Meg, I'm going to put you in a black hole."
• Meg screaming.
• "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
• "Don't hit me with 'Tangled,' Meg."
• Luke screaming. 
• "Don't touch that! Don't touch that!" 
• "Get your feet off my back!"
• Both of them screaming. 
• "She can't be Johnny Cash! I'm Johnny Cash!" (They saw "Million Dollar Quartet.")
• "I'm Johnny Cash!"
• "Give it back! Give it back Give it back!"
• "Am I a pancake?" (Yeah, I'm really not sure where that came from.)

I have gone in there twice when I have been pretty sure bloodshed was imminent, but I am really trying to make them work it out on their own. Well, that, and I am trying to write this very important post. 


There was one moment of peace, but it involved Luke playing his guitar while Meg played her accordion. I guess it was nice that for a short time neither one of them was in danger, but it still burned my ears and sent the dog running for cover. It was only for a few seconds though, until Meg decided she wanted to be in the guitar case and the brawl began again. 


Hell, I might as well give up. I am never going to get this very important blog post done with all this racket. 


I guess you'll never know what I think of this fabulous invention: 

Oh, wait! Maybe if they make them in kids sizes as well as babies all my problems will be solved. 


I mean, as long as I don't hang Luke and Meg within kicking distance...

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Grow it, Show it

My hair has gotten long.

Wait, no, that's not accurate.

My hair has gotten too damn long.

No, I am not talking Crystal Gayle length or anything, because that would be too damn crazy ass long. However, it has gotten long enough that when I see people I haven't seen in a while the first thing they say is "wow, look at your hair." That's actually the only time I am really grateful my hair has gotten as long as it has because they could say, "Wow, you've put on weight!" and that would be a true statement as well. The hair distracts them.

All other times, though? I do not like this hair.

There are really only two styles I can do with it: straight down and ponytail. I tried doing a half up, half down style that I used to love when I had mid-length hair, but I just ended up kind of looking like a Polygamist wife. That is not a look you want to have in Utah. I have tried braiding it, but with the aforementioned weight gain I end up looking like a pin head. Also, braiding would violate all of my rules for how a woman my age should behave.

My hair is everywhere now. It's its own entity. I find it in balls under the table, or wisps on my desk. Meg is always saying "your hair is on me," and it usually is, even if I am standing ten feet away.  As it gets longer it seems to get thicker too, reaching out to overtake everything around it. Oh, and don't even get me started on how it gets in the way when I am trying to be "amorous." I am beginning to worry my husband must have an Addams Family fetish because dalliances with me have become like getting it on with Cousin It.

So, then, why don't I just go ahead and cut it?

Because my daughter thinks it's beautiful, and I love the way I look through her eyes.

I love the fact she likes to pull my hair across her mouth and make a moustache. I love that she likes to sit in my lap and "hide" in it. I love that she wants to pet it as she goes to sleep. I love that she calls it my "big beautiful hair." I love her, so no matter how much I hate my hair, I'm keeping it for now.

Maybe I should start practicing "Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue" right now in case it gets too out of control...

Oh, wait, I already have blue eyes.

"Talking in your sleep," it is.

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Updated: Lizard Logic

Update: now, by popular demand, with video.

It started Friday night. 

Meg came into our bedroom, her eyes wide. "There's a lizard in my bed," she said. 

     "I don't think so," I replied.

     "Go check," she said, and moved into my spot as I slid out of bed. I was half way to her room before I realized that was what I was doing. Nope, no lizard. I padded back down the hall. 

      "Honey, there is no lizard in your bed, or anywhere in your room," I said, trying to reclaim my spot. 

      "Well, I better sleep here just in case," she replied. She did. On my pillow. 

I thought that was the end of it. It was not. 

All weekend we heard about the lizard. She told me, her Dad, her grandparents, her cousin, and anyone else who would listen about the lizard. When it looked like anyone was getting skeptical, or about to tell her it was just a dream or her imagination, she would demonstrate exactly how the lizard blinked his eyes (very fast), and wiggled his tongue (even faster). 

Pretty sure she convinced more than one person. 



Saturday was the height of the lizard hysteria. Every time Meg needed to go in her room: to take a nap, to get a book, to search for lizards, she would have to show Ryan, and then me exactly where the lizard had sat on her bed. She would show us where his tail had been, and once again demonstrate the eye and tongue movements. She was totally obsessed. I was almost ready to either move her room, or else buy a tiny pair of pajamas for the little bastard so at least he wouldn't be in Meg's room naked. Finally, though, my Mom sense kicked in. 


The next time Meg and I went into her room to look for the lizard I stood in the center in the center of the room and put my arms out. "Lizard," I said, "it is time for you to go home. This is Meg's room and she does not want you here. You need to go home and not come back unless we invite you." I glanced down to see if she was buying it. She looked skeptical. I went on. "We like you lizard, but you can't be here when Meg doesn't want you here. Sorry." A little voice below me yelled "yeah," and I knew that it had worked. 


Don't think we've stopped talking about the lizard. We haven't. At least three times a day we have to discuss the lizard that came into Meg's room and waggle our tongues and blink our eyes. However, now the story ends with "then Mama told him to go home," instead of worries about when he will come back. 


That's fine with me. 


After all, Meg's lizard impression is really damn cute. 

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Naming the Mess

Our backyard was a big reason we bought our house. 

It was so pretty. 

It was lush, which is rare in Utah. It had a little stream, that ran into a little pond, filled with little fish. A large oak shaded the lovely deck, and held up one end of a hammock. There was a garden, and fruit trees, and vine covered fences. It was so perfect I wouldn't have been surprised to see a large eyed baby deer frolicking in the backyard with his woodland friends. 

Then it all went to shit. 

The oak tree dropped two huge limbs, and had to be taken out due to a bore larger than my hips in the middle of it. Yes, it was that big. With the tree went the hammock, and any shade we had on our deck. Sitting outside became almost as comfortable as sitting in the oven. 

It turned out our little pond, and little stream are fed by little springs, which turned our yard into a big swamp once the water table shifted. After year two the back third of our yard was completely unusable, except for the vines, which sucked it up like blood and grew to Audrey 2 proportions. I suggested we bow them all up, but Ryan went out and tore them out before they could conquer the earth. 

By year three, I never looked outside. I mean, unless I wanted to get really, really depressed. 

Last year, though, we decided enough was enough. I, again,  suggested dynamite, but Ryan went with a series of drains that push the water into cisterns and then the storm drain. We took out the pond completely (after all we have a toddler) and now are looking at the final steps of landscaping. Again, I suggested dynamite, but by now that' just become habit. Ryan is thinking sod and a rock garden. 

Of course, none of this has, or will, come cheap. And that has depressed me even more. So far we have already spent several thousand dollars, and that's just to get it to this: 

You're probably depressed now too. 

Don't worry, though, I have something to cheer you up: I have figured out how to pay for it. 

Two words: naming rights. 

Yep, that's right. I figure there are lots of rich people who like to see their names on things, and at just ten thousand dollars this will be a bargain. I will even pay for the little plaque, and promise to shine it every day. Ryan assures me the whole "naming rights" thing doesn't work like this, but he got his way on the dynamite/reasonable solution argument, so I figure it's my turn. 

Hey, if we manage to get a new tree I will throw in the naming rights for that too. What a bargain. 

Maybe naming rights will even pay the house off. I bet Meg wouldn't mind changing her name to "Citibank Comcast." It's kind of catchy. 

I knew there was a happy ending in there somewhere... 

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Rove-ing Utah

Three or four times a week I see Karl Rove.

Well, not actually Karl Rove, I don't watch that much FOX News. A Karl Rove look alike. Utah is lousy with them. Men (and, occasionally women, bless their hearts) who look just like the dark lord of the GOP. Not just a passing resemblance either. Dead on. So much so that most of the time Ryan and I (and whoever else may be with us) actually have a short conversation about whether or not it actually is him.

Don't remember what he looks like? Here's a reminder...

Yep. He's a looker.

He looks like roughly 10% the population of Utah. I don't think it's an accident either.

No, I am not saying that "Rove chic" is a thing here. Nor am I saying our genes are Roved (although he did grow up here). What I am saying is I believe people who naturally look like Karl Rove have moved here to find safe haven.

Think about it. It makes sense.

Poor chubby guys (and gals) were living happily in Vermont, or Oregon, or Wisconsin when suddenly, in 2000, they begin being mistaken for what is now the face of the far right wing. They try to lose weight, buy new glasses, buy Subaurus and put HRC bumper stickers on them, invest in shirts that say "I am not Karl Rove," but nothing seems to work. Neighbors start gathering pitchforks. They are pariahs. So, they start looking for a place where the fact they have a Republican doppelgänger  will be a positive.

Utah. The state that would change it's name to "Republicanada" if that didn't sound so much like "Canada" where godless socialists live.

I haven't done the research to prove my theory (that would be work), but I am pretty sure I'm right. I bet if I went through the records at the DMV I would find a large number of balding, pleasantly plump, bespectacled new residents applying for licenses around 2003.

Every time I see a Rovian now I want to tell them to "stay strong." After all, there is a Democrat in the White House now, and probably will be until 2016; eventually Rove will have to retire, and people will forget who he was. Then they can return to their liberal, hippie homes without fearing retribution.

At least I hope that happens. Rove could be having himself cloned, or be planning to have his head jarred ala "Futurama." I really hope that isn't the case though. The more of these Roveugees that come into the state, the more likely that Meg's graduating class will end up looking like an episode of "Face the Nation." How is she going to hang that picture on the wall of her dorm room at Howard University? She'll have to go to Bob Jones University just to fit in.

Of course, there she might actually see Karl Rove.

I just hope she doesn't mistake him for the butcher at our local grocery store. Or the teller at the bank. Or one of the board members of the local Planned Parenthood chapter....

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The Silent Epidemic

I can't believe we are dealing with addiction before the age of three. 


It started innocently enough, with just a little taste, socially. 


Soon, Meg had to have it daily. Then she demanded it hourly. Now she claims she can't function without it. 


When we don't give her any she goes through horrible tantrums of withdrawal. 


Oh, dear God, Pez addiction is a special kind of parental hell. 

On the surface it seems so harmless. Chalky, fruity, candy that can be doled out in small portions, with a colorful container to hold the rest. 


In reality it is so different. One Pez quickly turns into a whole pack for our sugar starved toddler, and then the empty container mocks her with the fact she NEEDS more candy. She can still smell it on the plastic, still kind of taste the residue if she licks it, and she feels she HAS TO HAVE it refilled. 


There is nothing that can distract her from it, either. No way to make her forget. With other past obsessions (stickers, tic tacs, mylar balloons) she has forgotten all about them once they are gone. She may ask about them once or twice, but more in a nostalgic way. With Pez the dispensers are always there, smiling, reminding Meg she is out of candy. I guess I could throw them away, but I've been on Ebay, a couple of them could eventually be sold to put her through college. 


What makes it even worse is the fact there are so many Pez dealers out there. They hide in plain sight, you would never suspect them. Grandma? Check. Aunts? Check. Friends wanting to bring a "treat?" Big check. I would hope they just are ignorant patsies, unaware of the Pez cartel they are muling for, but I think at least a few of them must actively be working for big sugar. 


Meg will, literally, do anything for Pez. I hate to admit it, but I have actually exploited this at times. That's right, I'm an enabler. 


I can't help it. I'm so weak. 


I am willing to trade Pez for eating six bites of dinner when she is lying on the floor claiming she isn't hungry. I am willing to trade it for hair washing too. I am even willing to trade TWO packs to get her to do things like wear underwear and use the potty for a whole afternoon without an accident. I would trade it for brushing her teeth, but that seems counter intuitive. 


The only thing that gives me comfort is the fact we are not alone in all this. The family next door is dealing with the same situation. Their daughter is four. 


I just hope she and Meg don't steal a car in order to make a score. 

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Name All the Animals -- Or At Least the Bears

All bears are apparently named Chris.

Don't feel dumb if you didn't know that until now. I, myself, was not aware of this until just recently. I guess I just assumed that bears, if they actually have names, wouldn't all have the same name. Doesn't that make things awfully confusing at the country jamboree? Do they have last names so they can be "Chris R" and "Chris D" like kids in elementary school? Also, I guess I thought bears would have cooler, tougher names like "Chuck" or "Norris" or "Chuck Norris." Not that Chris isn't a great name, it's fine, it just isn't what I pictured as the perfect moniker for a bear.

Meg is the one who set me straight.

Last weekend Ryan and I decided to have a date night and let Meg have a sleepover with at her Grandparents. Because my parents are on a relentless quest to dominate Meg's affections the night not only included pizza, but also a trip to the toddler hysteria inducing, wallet draining "Build a Bear Workshop" There Meg selected out a large, pink, fuzzy bear. She went through all the rigmarole of giving it a heart, watching it get fluffy innards, picking out the perfect tutu to match it's eyes, and giving it a name. The name she picked? Not Bubbles, or Fluffy, or Angelina, but Chris, of course.

We don't know anyone named Chris.

That's a lie.

Everyone knows someone named Chris.

However, the Chrises in our lives aren't people that Meg interacts with, and certainly aren't ones she would want to name a bear after. She has no Chrises in her various classes or play groups. We racked our brains trying to think of where she came up with Chris. Books? Not that we know of. Movies? Nope. Songs? Bands? Beat poets? We could find no reason in her seemingly Chris-free existence.

On Monday, Meg told us that not only is her pink bear named Chris, but her much loved, smaller, brown teddy bear is also named Chris. I asked her if her stick horse was named Chris as well. She looked at me like I was high. "No," she said, "that's a horse." I felt chastened.

Then, on Friday, Meg got to meet real bears.

No, it wasn't a cage fight. Nor was it an incident that will soon be turned into a Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling as Meg.

Baby bears were brought into my office to promote an outdoors show going on. They were about the size of cats, and one of the cutest damn things I have ever seen. Meg was especially taken with them, and wanted me and Ryan to pet them along with her and the other kids who had been brought in.
"Daddy, pet Chris," she said. Ryan explained to her that we had left Chris, both of them, at home. "No, Daddy," she explained, "not those Chris, this Chris."

That's when we figured out that all bears are named Chris.

I don't know how Meg gained this knowledge. Maybe the fact we called her "little bear" as a baby gave her some kind of physic bond with her ursus brethren. Maybe at her age she still is in touch with her "wild spirit." Maybe she's just messing with us.

Whatever the case, from now on, until the day I die, whenever I see or hear about a bear, the name whispered in the back of my mind will be "Chris."

I won't ever say it out loud though. I don't want people to look at me strangely.

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Lead Balloons

I knew, when Meg was born, that the decor of our home would change. However, I pictured it would be all about moving fragile things to higher shelves, tripping over toys, and papering the walls with her artwork.

I had no idea it would involve a style I can only think of as "festive sports bar chic."

These balloon came to darken our doorstep almost two months ago. They were used for a segment on a TV morning show about Superbowl eats a FULL week before the Superbowl. Afterwards, they were just hanging around the newsroom, so I said I would take them home. I thought Meg would enjoy them for a couple days, and then they would follow in the steps of all other balloons that have entered our house and either deflate or be popped by a cat. I was fine with either. What I wasn't fine with them that I start thinking about rearranging the living room so it involves more stadium seating and replacing the rug with AstroTurf.

Sorry, I'm exaggerating. If I am going to have a field I want it to be natural turf.

I have tried many a time to get rid of the balloons. First, I tried asking Meg if she thought it was time they went home. If she could have said "hell, no" I think she would have. Instead she just screamed about how the balloons are her friends. After that I started planning a quiet, sudden "disappearance" for the balloons, but Meg somehow sensed what I was up to, and started saying good-bye to them every time she leaves the room, and asking me if the balloons will be there when she gets back. I thought about pricking each one with a tiny pin and just letting the helium seep out, but all I can picture is Meg inspecting each one -- CSI style -- looking for the murder wounds, thinking about how she will sweat out the perp: her mother.

I'm stuck.

On the upside, the menus at our house have been fabulous lately. We've been having chicken wings, and nachos, and onion rings, and jalapeno poppers, and mozzarella sticks almost every night. Nothing else feels proper. Salad is for balloon-less homes.

I also like to think of the money I will make renting them out for Superbowls in the future. I think their lure as the "never ending" balloons will just inflate the price.

Get it? Inflate the price?

Yeah, well, see what your sense of humor becomes when living with a Macy's parade float in your living room for six weeks...

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Screaming Child on Aisle 7

My child was the terror of Target today.

It started in the toy section. We were walking through when she spotted a "Memory" game featuring her latest infatuation: "Angelina Ballerina." She was very excited about the game, and I was very excited she had picked a toy that was not only educational, but also only cost seven dollars. I told her when we got home I would teach her how to play.

That's when all hell broke loose.

"YOU WILL NOT TEACH ME," she bellowed from the depths of her soul. "I WILL TEACH MYSELF."

I stepped back, wondering if she was about to vomit pea soup. I swear the entire store went silent, afraid of incurring her wrath. I stepped up to the parenthood plate. "Meg, that is not how we talk to anyone," I said, "you need to be polite." Usually that works. Meg is pretty reasonable for a two year old. Today though, no dice. Instead of returning to normal, Meg ramped up the crazy, responding with an ear curdling scream that reverberated off every hard surface within a mile.

I tried to pry the game out of hands, attempting to make sure the last thing I did was reward this behavior; but she held onto it like it was welded to her hands. "Meg, if you don't behave, we can't get the game," I said. "I DON'T WANT TO BEHAVE," she screamed, and tightened her hold on it.

I decided the best thing I could do was just get out of the store as fast as possible.

We dashed through the aisles, picking up the things we needed, Meg's screaming like a siren warning other shoppers to pull to the right and let us pass. We finally screeched to a halt at the check out line, behind a woman with a baby that was also crying, although nowhere near as impressively as Meg. He was crying just enough though, to make Meg go silent.

"Mom," Meg said, "that baby is crying." I nodded. The baby's mother turned around and gave us a wry smile. Meg looked even closer at the kid.

"Mom, do you think that baby has a penis?"

I burst out laughing. So did the Mom in front of me. Oh, and the lady behind me. And the checker.

Hey, she may be a terror, but at least she has timing.

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To Boob or Not to Boob...

Every Saturday morning we go to music class with Meg. During that class, I know three things will happen: we will sing some ridiculously catchy and annoying song that will be caught in my head all week, the children will bang loudly and with little rhythm on various instruments, and a 4-year old classmate of Meg's will unceremoniously lift her mother's shirt and breast feed. Oh, and then a fourth thing happens: I start arguing with myself about whether or not that is appropriate.

Conservative Libby: PUT YOUR DAMN BOOB AWAY!

Liberal Libby: It's a beautiful, natural thing. Breast is best.

CL: Trust me, that is not that kid's main source of food.

LL: Well, it's comforting to the child. It's bonding.

CL: Great, give her a little cuddle. Meg's binky is comforting to her, but we don't let her have that in class.

LL: You really should start to wean her off of that.

CL: Don't you start with me. We are talking about the boobs. How does that Mom not wear a bra? She's a very full figured woman.

LL: I think that's called Rubenesque. If it makes you so uncomfortable, just don't look at her. Think of Rick Santorum's sweater vests.

CL: Not cool. And like that's sooo easy. Oh my God, now she's dancing AND nursing?

LL: You have to admit that's impressive multi-tasking.

CL: Do you have any idea how many times I've almost sung "roll that little boob round the room"? Or how about "dance to your boobie?"

LL: Stop it. You don't mind it when the other Moms in the class do it.

CL: They have infants. Their children don't come up and undress them.

LL: If you start discriminating against one breast feeding Mom, where do you stop? Who is going to draw the line?

CL: Me. And I'm drawing it right over there.

LL: We should blog about this.

CL: Are you kidding? Why don't we just find an active mine field and go for a stroll?

We're switching classes next term. It was either that, or all of us wearing those boob hats to class to make a point.

Those are the options things both of me can agree upon... And they don't make adult sizes in the hats.

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The "Secret"

People often ask me "Libby, what is the secret to a good marriage?"

I guess they figure that I have been married successfully for seven years, coupled successfully for more than a decade and am, after all, the Libby in Libby Logic. That's why they are probably shocked when I tell them I have no fucking idea what the secret to a good marriage is and they probably shouldn't be thinking about getting married if they think there is actually a "secret" to it. Then I ridicule them about probably still believing in fairies and ask them to talk to me when they stop drawing their initials in hearts on their Justin Bieber notebooks.

Sometimes, as they are they are walking away, crying, I do start to feel kinda bad. I do actually know the secret to a good marriage, and it's "marry Ryan." I don't want to share though.

There are so many reason I love Ryan. I love that he proudly wears a t-shirt that says "this is what a feminist looks like." I love that he helps me see the humor in the fact he loves the t-shirt with this picture too:

Normally, even considering buying that shirt would get a person killed.

I love that he comes in to "tag out" wrestler style when he hears frustration climbing into my voice when dealing with Meg. I love that when he is away from home on business he misses us so much it makes him think crazy thoughts like maybe he should become a beekeeper so he can be home more. I love that when I am going crazy about the whole infertility thing and how he probably wouldn't have married me if he had know about it upfront he says things like "I fell in love with you, not your uterus." I love the fact that at the height of the reproductive crazies, when I threw salt and pepper shakers at him, Ryan didn't run screaming, but instead put me to bed, and then went out into the yard with a flashlight to retrieve them.

Oh, and then there are the things I love about Ryan I can't write here, because my Mom reads this. Hi Mom!

Well, maybe the secret isn't to marry Ryan. Maybe the secret is to marry someone who will love you enough to do all those things for you. Someone who not only wants to give you their best, but brings out your best, and protects you from your worst. Someone who doesn't make writing their initials on your Justin Bieber notebook seem crazy -- just loving.

Yeah, no, that's never going to happen. I would even have to mock myself.

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She Hates Me?

Meg told me she hated me.

She wanted some candy, and she wanted me to give it to her. She knew I had it, a half roll of Mentos right there in my purse, because I had already handed her several pieces while we were driving. However, because she had already had several pieces, and because we were driving home to make dinner, I had said no, she couldn't have any more. She tried to get more by adding a "please" but I said it wasn't an issue of saying please. She tried screaming, and I told her that definitely wasn't the way to get more candy. And then the words came out of her mouth: "I hate you, Mommy."

I have been insulted quite a bit in my life. I have had my feelings hurt a whole lot. However, I don't think I have ever felt the way I did when Meg said that. I felt cold. I was not only hurt, but also felt like a failure, and like I had been issued a challenge. My first thought was to pull over, yank Meg out of the car, and give her a time out. No, wait, that wasn't my first thought. My first real though was to burst into tears and admit I am a bad mother. Then I had the thought about the time out. Then I wondered if she actually does hate me, and how I could fix that. Then I thought about giving her some more candy. Then I went back to wanting to burst into tears. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Meg sitting smugly in her car seat. Her eyes met mine. She was grinning with my silence. I pulled the car over and turned around.

"Meg, you hurt my feelings," I said. I didn't really know where I was going, but that felt like the right tactic. Her face fell.

"Why," she asked.

"You said you hate me. I love you, so that hurts my feelings." I could see the wheels spinning.

"I love you, Mommy. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings."

"I love you too, Meggo. It's okay."

I would love to tell you that was the last time she has used that word. That since then she hasn't said it at all, realizing the power of words. That's not the case though. She is still experimenting with it, trying to see if the reaction gets bigger or smaller. She has also expanded her range. While I have been typing this I heard Meg tell her Dad she hates him because he turned off "Angelina Ballerina." He's now explaining to her what it means, and why it hurts. He's telling her we will always love her, even if she says she hates us.

I guess this is good practice for when she is 16. Of course, then she'll mean it...

I can only imagine how that will hurt.

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Emergency-ish

Monday was Meg's first trip to the emergency room.

No one is really quite sure exactly what happened, except she was chasing after Luke and his friend, tripped on a stair and somehow hit her head. She never lost consciousness, she wasn't bleeding or vomiting, and the paramedics my Mom called said all her of vitals looked fine. So, why did we go? Because she also didn't cry when she fell and hurt herself, was dazed and kept nodding off, and because her response times were really slow to stimulus and questions. She just wasn't herself. We called the pediatrician to get her take, and she said a head injury is nothing to mess with -- get Meg to the ER.

The emergency room is maybe a 10 minute drive from my Mom's house. On Monday it seemed to take FOREVER. Oh, and not just because we were on our way to find out if Meg had a serious head injury, but also because she was requiring we play a "Yo Gabba Gabba" album at full blast because it "made her feel better." Yet, even with the obnoxious music blaring, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Once we got to the ER though, everything changed. It started when we sat down in the waiting room. Meg was curled on my lap, kind of dozing, when she put her head up and said "I want to go look at the fish." At first I thought she had really lost it. Fish? I saw no fish. Was this like her version of seeing stars? I wondered if I should call the nurse. Before I could Meg was down off my lap and walking away. Then I saw it: the fish tank in the far opposite corner of the room, probably 30 feet away at the least. That's when I knew Meg was going to be just fine.

Over the next two hours of waiting, being seen, waiting more, and being seen again, Meg improved rapidly. She started asking questions, singing songs, and playing shy when anyone who looked doctorish spoke to her. The doctor decided she probably had a mild concussion, and asked us to wait and let Meg have something to drink to just make sure Meg didn't need a CT scan. They brought Meg a lemonade slushie, which I am pretty sure she now thinks of as one of the greatest things to ever happen to her. I think of it as the most expensive frozen treat she'll ever have. When she didn't throw it up, or go back into drowsy mode, they let us go home.

It was only as we were walking out that I realized how truly lucky we were. The doors of the other rooms were closed, but all had windows on them, and I'm nosy, so I looked in. One kid bleeding from the mouth, at least three were being given oxygen, and most of them were crying. Outside one door that had it's window covered a group of probably ten crying adults were gathered. I quietly thanked God Meg just had a little bump on her head.

Meg is now recovering nicely. She says her head hurts at times, but it's nothing a little Motrin can't fix. She keeps asking if we can go get slushies again. I tell her yes, but this time let's just go to 7-11.

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