Yeesh, it’s late. I should be in bed, but instead I’m here, blogging for you, my loyal readers. Also, apparently for a disturbing number of people who are doing searches on Google for things like peeing+kids+outside+photos. Hey! Perverts! Move on, there’s nothing but wholesomeness here. Humph.
Anyhow, I would have finished this hours ago, but we took the boys out to see the meteor shower. This required driving out, away from the city lights, and lying in the back of Dad’s truck. There were a few stealth puddles back there. We had quite the assortment of blankets, but Max kept getting bored and burrowing under them, effectively snatching them off us. Raphi’s method of stargazing was to check for the moon every few minutes. Then, satisfied that it was there, he would flop down on someone, or try to climb over the side of the truck. Tre was admirably patient, lying still, watching the sky and quietly complaining that he STILL hadn’t seen a shooting star.
But thankfully, he finally did. He was snuggled up next to me and at the same moment we both gasped, “look!” and pointed at the spot in the sky where it had been. Max objected bitterly that HE hadn’t seen a shooting star and it wasn’t FAIR and why did TRE get to when HE didn’t….
I’m not sure how Max thinks he would have seen that one, since his head was entirely under a blanket at the time. This does not reduce the injustice of it for him.
But Tre did get to see one, and Raphi got to see the moon, and before the night was over Max got to see me pour water on his Amma’s head, so all was not lost.

Ok, continuing the theme from yesterday of things we say but don’t mean, does anyone really believe that childhood is the best time of life? Because if you do, you’re not doing life right. Or possibly your childhood was bizarrely good. But for the rest of us, childhood was not all that golden.
Am I right here? I look at my boys, and they seem to suffer a whole lot of trauma. Raphael, for instance, requested some peanut butter this morning. Have I mentioned that peanut butter off a spoon is Raphael’s major food group? Anyhow, I was busy cleaning the toilet, and naturally didn’t want to a) stop to wash my hands thoroughly enough to feel comfortable handling food or b) scoop out peanut butter and give it to my innocent babe with my hands the way they were. So I asked Max to do it. Max, capable wee soul that he is, was happy to, and scooped out a generous dollop of peanut butter. Unfortunately, before he handed said dollop to the anxiously waiting Raphi, Max took a small lick. Well, have I mentioned to you that Raphi is two? He FELL APART. Flung himself to the floor and wailed with such intensity that I came running from the bathroom to find out who was cutting off his toes. But of course all of his bodily parts were intact, it was his heart that was broken. Over a half a gram of peanut butter that his brother had sampled. Now, you can laugh at that (I did, a little), but he was truly upset. Real tears and everything. What a bummer to be that emotionally fragile. I know living with it from this side of the peanut butter makes me tired. Imaging actually living it.
Also, think of how much of their lives are decided for them. I choose their food, their clothes, and their activities, for the most part. Now, at this weary point in my life I might enjoy a few days of all the important decisions in my life being made by others. But by the third day I would be in total revolt. Tell ME what to do/wear/eat/say? I think NOT. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I spent most of my childhood in revolt. Um…sorry, Mom and Dad. Good times, huh?
Then there’s all the complex social/linguistic rules to learn. Sometimes Max will say something goofy at the dinner table, and we laugh. Can’t help it. He’s so cute and earnest, but it just comes out wrong sometimes. Like…oh, I can’t think of an example right now…well, today I realized that instead of saying, “Have you ever noticed,” he says, “Have you ever know this.” Makes sense, but it isn’t what the rest of us are saying. So sometimes he’ll say something like that and everyone chuckles at how cute he is, and he’ll shriek, “DON’T LAUGH AT ME!” His face gets all red and he scowls at us while tears are threatening. Bless his heart; I remember feeling just like that. I HATED when people laughed at me. Hated getting it wrong. And you do that a lot when you’re a kid.
Sometimes I overhear someone tell a child, usually a teen, “Enjoy these years. They’re the best of your life.” The kid will be looking back at them in obvious dismay. Really? This is it? And I always try to take them aside and whisper the truth to them. This is not the best. Life only gets better. Harder, but better. And anyone who claims high school or, God help us, middle school, is the best time of life is just plain wrong, and possibly crazy.
But then again, maybe I’m wrong. Whaddya think? Was childhood that great? Better than now? Tell me your take on it (the comments section is ideal for this). I stand willing to change my viewpoint entirely, but you’d better be convincing.

There is a commercial on PBS (side note: Commercials on PBS? What is up with that?), that shows a mom chasing after a blonde little toddler. The mother is musing about how she wants to teach her daughter everything, but then it occurs to her that the baby is the one who is learning so many new things every day, and will probably end up teaching her.
Now, this is a concept that has run rampant through our society, and it is time we put a stop to it. Get over it people. Children are not mystically wise beings, sent to enlighten us. Children are wee little people who are figuring it out. We may learn things in the process of parenting them, but that’s not their doing. Traumatic events should always serve to enlighten one.
No, our kids are not founts of wisdom. They may be founts of something, but it’s usually gross. And they may directly teach us things, but their value is questionable. For example, just today Tre told me that Sawmis is a girl. I did not know that, but I do now. It’s there, taking up valuable brain space that could be better used to…well, better used for anything else. I mean, who the heck is Sawmis, if that’s even how you spell her name?
This morning as I was making breakfast, Max climbed up on the counter to watch. As he sat there he said contemplatively, “You know, jillion is not a real number. You’d think it is, but it’s not.”
Well. There you go.
Raphael taught me just today that if you carefully slip a pad of Post-Its into the disc drive of a computer while your mother is busy, it is impossible to take the entire pad out without leaving at least one piece of paper behind. Come to think of it, that actually is a fairly useful bit of information. I now know not to leave Post-Its by the computer until Raphael leaves for college.
My point here is that kids are just kids. They’re dorking their way through childhood just like we did. While they may come through with the occasional nugget of wisdom (“I kind of like the way people be different”), let’s not expect too much. It’s ok to admit that they’re odd little people with lots to learn. Doesn’t mean we don’t love them and think they’re amazing. Admit it. Most of the things they say make you roll your eyes. You can still be a good parent who respects her kids as human beings. Go ahead. Keep listening, keep enjoying them, but roll your eyes when necessary.
I think that old refrain about how much our kids actually teach us is one of those things people repeat without thinking about it. What they mean is some vague statement about how wonderful their kids are, without sounding arrogant. So if your child is smarter than you, it’s not bragging.
I say, go ahead and sound arrogant. My boys are amazing, and fabulous, and brilliant. But they’re eight, nearly five, and two. I listen to the many things they have to say every day, and respond encouragingly. But if they’re teaching me anything, it’s patience. Sheesh. I also learned, thanks to them, how to get coffee out of the carpet. But then, that’s another story.

I had successfully maneuvered two children into their beds. The house was mostly quiet, and I was going to take advantage of the time and write! Except one problem. He is two, and a night owl. And he assigned himself my assistant. I tried to remove him from my lap, to entice him away with his millions of toys. But whenever I attempted to lift him down he squirmed and clung to me with arms and legs that suddenly turned to velcro.
“NOOOOO,” he cried, “Ah sit wap!” He had no brothers to compete with, and he would enjoy this time with me.So we sat at the computer, in the dark. His head fit right under my chin. Tucked away there he pointed excitedly at the screen.
“You do dat? ‘N dat? Wow! How do dat?”
I was pleased that he responded so positively to my work, and I told him so.
Oh, but he knew of even more interesting things than that, and he reached out and punched a button on the monitor. A menu box was suddenly super-imposed over my words. He pointed at it and nodded happily, very impressed.
“Ah do dat!”
“Well, I’m not discouraging your exploration here, son, but…” and I hit the menu exit key. Oh, he was pleased! What a delightful game I had thought of, and we began a rapid-fire volley of button pushing.
It was very hard to type this way, but harder still when he moved to turning the monitor off altogether. Eventually I covered that button with my hand. Typing with one hand is difficult, but possible.
He moved to exploring the other buttons within his reach. Soon he found the CD-Rom. Now that was fun, in and out, in and out. Such bliss. Until he got his fingers caught in the closing tray. He squealed, and I tugged them free. He examined them soberly, and then held them up for my inspection. I kissed their pink roundness and he declared sincerely,
“Owwww.” I agreed with him and turned back to the computer. I was simultaneously protecting the monitor power button and the CD-Rom. This was where I make my tactical error. He did not reach for the monitor. Nor the evil CD-Rom. One quick little finger flashed to the left and my screen went blue. Windows is shutting down…
“NOOOOOOO,” I wailed. He looked at me in surprise. Probably wondered if I caught my fingers in the CD-Rom.
I sighed the sigh of the defeated, and carried him off to his crib.
Some kinds of help…

We had the most wonderful dinner tonight. Although we didn’t eat out, and I’m the one who cooks, I still feel confident in telling you, dinner was just right tonight. It wasn’t an involved affair, no soufflés’ or anything, but it was just what I meant it to be.
All we had was hard-boiled eggs, corn on the cob, watermelon, and raspberries. Now, as a list that sound perhaps a bit odd. But picture it: It’s a beautiful summer day, with late afternoon thunderclouds just moving in. Mom and Dad are arriving home from work, tired and hot and hungry. The boys are rolling in from their efforts in the back yard or at friend’s houses. We all congregate at the table where there are tawny brown-shelled eggs in an antique cream-colored dish. Next to everyone’s plate there is a tiny dish of deep red raspberries. There is a bowl in the center of the table, full of steaming gold and white corn. Another bowl holds dripping triangles of watermelon, the reddest and sweetest we’ve had this summer. It’s a messy meal. Watermelon drips down chins. Eggshells litter the floor. Next to Tre’s plate there is a puddle of butter, from when he rolled his corn on the plate of butter a little too long. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a taste of summer.
I just love meals like tonight’s; meals that aren’t just food, but that fit the mood. Steaming soup on a snowy day. Iced tea on a porch swing. Fresh hot cookies…well, anytime really.
Summer’s a prime time for foods that fit the mood. It’s important in summer to take advantage of these foods, because most of them are so seasonal. I mean, you can eat ice cream any time of the year (and you should), but it tastes best when it’s hot outside. But more importantly, go get the many fruits that are only available RIGHT NOW. And again, I must warn you, do NOT try to tell me you can get peaches in January. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Even if that limpid winter produce could compare to what you can get right now, do you want to be biting into juicy red cherries in November? I mean, maybe you do, but can it possibly be as right as sitting with the sun on your back, watching the kids play in the sandbox, and spitting cherry pits into the grass that you really should get around to mowing, if you weren’t so comfortable and happy with your bowl of cherries? NO!
So get thyself to a farmer’s market, or a neighbor’s garden, or for heaven’s sake, Albertson’s produce section. Buy the fruit (or vegetable, if you’re that kind of person) that most appeals to you. Enjoy it. Summer’s waning, people. Don’t let it get away without getting some sort of juice on your chin.

Oh, two quick updates and a note! First of all, it turns out that the whole cat-mutilation thing is most probably the work of foxes, not satanic human beings. So yes, Josh, you were right. It was not helpful to label that as evil. It was just a great big circle of life thing. I’m here to say, I was wrong, Josh was right. Make a note, people. This doesn’t happen often.
Secondly, Shelley, I missed you very much. Having you gone and the Bleat down in the same week nearly drove me to distraction. Or possibly nearly drove me to doing actual productive things. Don’t worry, I managed to avoid that. There’s always the daily newspaper.
Finally, I may be switching blog hosts. My cousin Mike sent me an email recommending another weblogging service. Given all the blood, sweat, and tears it took me to get the last post up (I was trying from 10pm last night and didn’t get it actually posted until 2 this afternoon. Grrrr.), I may actually switch. Stay tuned. By the way, Mike, what do you mean by “less HTML savvy individuals” like myself? Hmm? I’ll have you know I’m very…HTML savvy, whatever that means.
Shoot. That wasn’t too convincing, was it?

Dear Readers, I must confess. I love my blog. I love that you all come and read my ramblings on a semi-regular basis. And I luuuuv it when you comment. Sigh.
It’s terribly self-focused, this blog fixation of mine. Fortunately for me I have a tool to help me maintain a realistic view of the importance of this blog of mine. It’s my site meter.
I installed it sometime last month, so I could count how many of you read my blog. It’s very interesting data. For instance I know that not nearly as many of you check in on the weekends as on, say, Thursday. Thursday is a very big day for my blog. I guess what else does Thursday have going for it, now that must-see-TV has gone downhill?
But one of my favorite features of the site meter is the referral list. It tells what links people clicked through to get to my blog. And mostly its “unknown.” Whatever. But sometimes it lists someone else’s blog, a friend who has kindly linked to me. And sometimes it lists the Google search that led some hapless soul to me. Usually it shows that someone Googled “kiwords”. But sometimes it’s…well, odd.
Someone found my blog by plugging in the words “swallows” and “intersections.” Ok, I can see where that would lead you to this entry. But why would someone do a search on that, exactly? Well, that’s not as odd as the search that found me with the words “Costco” + “sample”+ “girls.” Oooookaaaay. What were we going for here, people?
But still, that doesn’t give one pause nearly as much as the person who was looking for sites pertaining to “extreme” + “face” + “farting” + “forum.” Um. Wh…why? And would the run-of-the-mill face farting forums been disappointing? Surely not as disappointing as what they found in my wee blog.
But the feature of my site meter that keeps my blogging efforts in perspective best is this one: “Average Visit Length.” Which for today is (wait, let me check) 2 minutes 21 seconds.
Well, there you have it. How important could I be in less than two and a half minutes? Or, to put it another, more comforting way, how boneheaded could I be in that short of a period of time?
Yup, in that span of time I’m safely in the realm of just a little harmless diversion. And now, I must let you all get back to your lives, whatever they may include, because I see my time is about up.

Today the boys and I stayed home. All day. They watched too much TV, played too much Gameboy, and wore their jammies all day. They’re sick. Well, Max and Tre are. Raphael is just…two, bless his heart. He’s possibly potty training, so he’s been bare-bottomed and near a potty all day. Many little dribbly trips to the potty. But he’s getting there. We’ve had a couple…damp episodes, but I’d say he’s averaging about 80%. Not bad.
But my big boys…well, they needed today. We had a run in with their dad yesterday. It was horrible. It was traumatic. And maybe I’m imagining this, but I think they needed to be sick today. I think they needed to be this helpless. To curl up on my lap and be held and feel safe.
I know I needed it. If this were a normal sick day I would be climbing the walls by now. Since 11 pm yesterday, when both feverish boys climbed in bed with me, I have been flanked by two clingy little bundles of need, while Raphi prances about, sprinkling. I have been fetching water, smoothing back sweaty hair, coaxing down medicine, cleaning up the odd puddle, and holding them, holding them, holding them while they radiate heat. Usually after a day like that I’m desperate to be left alone.
Oh, but today I’m just so grateful. Now they’re outside, playing in the back yard in their jammies. I’m going to go sit on the porch swing and listen to their imaginings, and thank God that I’m the one who gets to be here. And tonight if they appear at my bedside, sweaty and confused, I’ll be grateful. Some days I feel like their need could just drown me. Today it’s a gift.
As much as I’d like to, I can’t keep them safe from pain. I can’t remove the element their dad brings into their lives. But I can love them, and so I do.
Yesterday I looked at their dad, and realized again how terribly lost good people can get. So today I wrap my home around me like a mantle, and cherish my place here.

I just finished In Her Shoes, and I know I promised a review. Well, at least my opinion. Hmm. I didn’t like it as much as her first. But it got better toward the end. Even squeezed a wee tear out of me on the last page. But then, I’m a sucker.
Moving on…Tre and Max decided with a handful of neighborhood kids to set up a lemon aid stand this afternoon. Many children came charging into my house. Everyone was talking at once, enthusiasm for the idea spilling just everywhere. Lucky for this crew, I LOVE the idea of a lemon aid stand on a hot summer afternoon. When I was a kid my brother and I had the lemon aid stand to beat all. He was in middle school, so he came home a little before my elementary school let out. So he’d come home and set things up, right across the street from the school. When the bell rang and the front doors started hemorrhaging kids, he’d be there with gallons of icy lemon aid. I’d come and help him, and then it was my job to clean up after the frenzy had passed. We raked in the dough. It was a fine example of free enterprise.
One hot summer day my best friend, Barbie, and I decided to set up a lemon aid stand. Except school was out, and we knew from experience that without the market of freshly freed kids, we wouldn’t be able to move much lemon aid. Plus, all the hassle of making it…and getting all the stuff outside…
We were in my back yard, kicking around ideas, when it hit me. What we wanted was money, right? So how do we get money without actually bothering with all that selling stuff? No, we weren’t going to steal, for goodness’ sakes. Sheesh.
What we did do is position Barbie by the street in an old wheelchair, with a blanket over her legs. I waved a sign that read “Give to MS” while Barbie tried to look in need. I wanted to be the one in the wheelchair, but kept leaping up out of it, so it was decided that Barbie was a better choice as victim. She always was calmer. We weren’t sure what MS was, exactly, but we were pretty sure it was some problem that required wheelchairs and money.
Well, our scheme didn’t last long. My mom overheard me yelling our slogan at passing cars (“Give to MS!”) and came out to investigate. Barbie was sent home and I was sent to my room. Seemed like a lot of trouble to be in for something that didn’t even net us any cash.
Of course, I see the error of my ways now! Ahem. That’s why I was so tickled with the kids enthusiastic, and might I add, entirely NON-fraudulent money making scheme this afternoon. I made them some lemon aid, provided them with paper cups and sign materials, and sent them on their merry way.
After about twenty minutes, Max came in to inform me that I should come buy some lemon aid. He was hopping around on grubby bare feet, informing me of their many plans for their profits. Well now, how am I supposed to resist that kind of sales job? I gathered up some money and scooted off to get two cups of very reasonably priced beverage.
Now, as they were filling the cups (one for me, one for Mom), it occurred to me that I was purchasing back my own cups. And lemon aid. That I had made. Of course, I was happy to do it, but it made me chuckle to myself a bit. But then, as I was heading back to the house the same thought occurred to Zachary. He’s the oldest of the bunch, and sharp. As I was crossing the street he called out,
“Hey, you just bought your own stuff!” I smiled at him over my shoulder, and agreed that yes, that seemed to be the case. “It was yours, and now you had to pay to get it back!” Mmm-hmmm, I allowed. “You paid for it twice, once at the store, and again just now!” By this time he was really yelling, because I was at the front door. I waved a cup of my own lemon aid (twice over) gaily at him and went inside.
Little thieves, every one of them.

Ok, so first of all. Um…yesterday’s snarly rant? Well, that may have been more about PMS and less righteous indignation than I thought. Heh, heh. Sorry. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Kira.
So this morning I was out in the back yard. Raphael was wandering around out there, naked. See, that’s phase one of potty training for me. Naked kid pees in the grass, notices he’s peeing, starts to consider having some sort of control over the issue. Well, that’s the theory anyhow. To be honest, although I’ve potty-trained two boys already, I couldn’t tell you how it’s done. A total mystery to me.
Anyhow, Raphael was toddling about, all drool-spangled belly and white butt, and announces that he’s going to go pee. Actually, he positioned himself in front of a potted plant and announced his plans. “Ah go pee,” is what he said. “No, honey, go pee in the grass,” I suggested helpfully. A better mom would have run for the potty. But I was in the middle of something, the grass was right there, and sadly, I’m not a better mom. But he DID. He walked right over to the lawn, and watered it. He looked at me proudly, and we both stood and admired his sparkly skill for a moment. “Ah pee,” he said, and I concurred happily, “Yes, look at that, you are peeing.”
As the last dribble passed away he leaned over, so as to glimpse his equipment there below the curve of his stomach. Then, to my surprise, he smacked it with his open hand. Not hard, but I didn’t think guys liked to be hit…there. “Pop!” he shouted. And then he wandered off to the sandbox.
I watched him walk away in the morning light, and again the thought came to me as it has so often in my sons’ lives, What planet are you from?