My friend Tori has a blog beyond compare. It is witty and interesting and funny enough to make me spray tea out my nose. BUT Tori’s blog has this freaky color-changing action going on. Now, to tell you the truth, it doesn’t actually bother me all that much. But she had asked her readers to vote: ditch the color strobe or keep it. I voted to ditch it and was massively outnumbered by votes to keep it. Like I said, the colors really don’t bother me. Being voted down – now that bothers me.
I’ve decided to wield the power of my massive readership (never mind that I’m pretty sure Tori makes up about 20% of my massive readership), and sway the vote. So I’m begging you all, go to Tori’s blog and vote in the comments section to LOSE THE COLORS. You’ll be glad you did. Well, maybe not, but I’ll be glad you did, and it’s all about me.
Moving on…
I’m such a good mom that I made buttermilk pancakes from scratch this morning, and Max got his long awaited chance to help. He climbed right up on the counter and dumped things in the bowl as I measured them out. He chattered about everything, cracked the egg all by himself, and when I scooped out a cup of flour he pointed to it and said, “Don’t forget to level off the soft.”
I’m such a bad mom that I sat at the computer first thing this morning to check my email (told you I was obsessed), and took so long Tre was lying on the floor, chewing on my ankle to demonstrate his hunger by the time I moved into the kitchen to make the aforementioned pancakes.
I’m such a weird mom that I spent the evening spitting ice into Raphael’s wide-open mouth because it made him giggle.
And now, because I’ve been reading when I should have been blogging, I’m a very tired mom. Good night.

I discovered Jennifer Weiner has a blog, and I’ve been spending way too much time there, reading through the archives. I also popped right over to Amazon and ordered a copy of her new book, In Her Shoes. Should be arriving in a few days now. AND I sent her an email, giving her unsolicited advice about her daughter’s colic. Um…that sort of behavior doesn’t make me a stalker or anything, does it?
The thing is, it’s not just because she’s this wonderful, successful author. I mean, while I aspire to some sort of writing success, it’s not in the world of fiction. I’ve tried; writing fiction makes me want to drive pencils into my eyeballs. Ok, maybe not, but it’s not my gift. I admire her, but I don’t really want to be her. So it’s really not awe over her professional achievements. It’s…gee, I hate to admit this…it’s her baby.
There, I said it! She’s got a gorgeous new baby girl named Lucy. And to clarify, I’m not coveting her baby. But I am coveting this time in her life. You can hear it in her blog posts; she’s ga-ga over her daughter, and amazed that motherhood has happened to her. She and her husband might as well be the only two people in the world who have achieved the birth of a baby.
I remember that time, when I had one perfect little baby. I remember holding my newborn Tre, and watching other moms with their toddlers, or preschoolers, or God help us, teenagers. I felt sorry for them. They must be so sad, I thought, that they don’t get to hold a heart breakingly beautiful newborn like I do. Poor souls.
Then when Tre got a little older, and started sitting up and cramming everything he could into his mouth, I felt sorry for anyone whose child wasn’t that exact age. And when he started crawling…you get the point.
You only get to be that obliviously enchanted with your firstborn. When Max was born I was enthralled with his squinchy newborn self. But I also had an amazing three year old that I adored with equal fervor. I remember hearing a quote once, that having a baby is like agreeing to let your heart walk around outside your body. With Max’s birth I realized that when you have another you agree to not only let your heart walk around outside your body, it can take off in two directions at once.
Now, with my heart racing around in three different directions simultaneously, you can hardly blame me for looking back on those early days with nostalgia. Yup, I remember when the whole world fit safely in the Snugli strapped to my chest.

This week a woman in our church lost her grandson. Now, as she says, she not only is grieving the loss of a boy who was precious to her, but she has to watch her daughter grieve her only child as well. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, and the pain in her voice made my knees weak.
There’s no point in advising a person that overwhelmed by sadness. It would be presumptuous and cruel. She’s got a journey ahead of her, and only she can go through it. As much as I’d like to ease that trip for her, I can’t. But if it were possible, this is what I would tell her.
God is there. Just keep looking.
I met a woman recently who told me a story. She and her husband were raising five kids, four of whom were adopted with special needs. They were homeschooling the whole brood, and life was good. Hard, but good.
One morning her husband died.
The paramedics came, the fire truck came, and the police came. There was nothing that could be done. As they wheeled his body out, she turned to see her five children, and moved to hold them. But try as she might, she couldn’t get her arms around all of them. One of them was outside the hug. She looked up, and caught the eye of one of the firefighters who was still in her living room. They exchanged a look, and he understood. He stepped up to hold the one left out.
Later, she sat down with all five. She couldn’t remember who had been the child that had been left out. She was worried, because the adopted kids had abandonment issues, and she didn’t want anyone to feel neglected, especially in such a terrible time. But when she asked them, all her kids remembered being in her arms.
In an impossibly painful time, He sent arms to hold a child with such love that they were indistinguishable from a mother’s arms.
And just like that, there is God.

Raphael has a mouse. It lives in his room, and he tells me it’s a happy and nice mouse. He seems very sincere about this. Every night as I tuck him in bed he jumps a little and exclaims, “A Mouse!”
“Really?” I say, “Where?”
“Unner dere!” He points under his crib. He’s so excited that night after night I get nervous and look for the mouse. Of course there is no mouse. If there were a mouse in our house it would be down in the kitchen, with the food. Right? Also, if there were vermin among us, our beautiful, stupid cat Claire would be on the job. I mean, I’ve mentioned here how she’s a heck of a huntress. Why, she struggles mightily every night to rid our house of the menace of the goldfish. Surely if there were a mouse she’d be aware of it, sniffing around and running into walls in an attempt to catch it. Right?
Yet every night Raphael pronounces the existence of his mouse. He seems so sure…
Then again, Raphael is sure there’s an elephant in the field near our house, with all the horses. Every time we drive past the horses, after the ritual goo-bye, Raphi shouts out, “Ewphant!”
“You see an elephant? Where?” I ask, just a touch worried. He gazes serenely out the window, raising one arm as a trunk and making elephant noises in reply. Ok, maybe he just has an active imagination. Maybe he’s starting to have imaginary friends; only in his case it’s an imaginary menagerie. Max had an imaginary robot for a while, named John. That was a hairy time for a while. I was always stepping or sitting on John, who was not as forgiving as you might imagine a pretend robot would be.
But I think there’s something else to this mouse thing. After all, it comes up every night at bedtime. I’m hoisting him into his little crib-prison. I’m saying bedtime prayers, smoothing covers over him. I’m telling him I love him and good night. This whole time he’s casting desperately around for anything that will stop me from leaving him to the horror of sleep. He’s tried saying “Mama? Mama? Mama?” but he has no follow-up question and has learned that that doesn’t hold me long. So instead he’s come up with this mouse thing. It’s a bedtime delay.
Max used to be a master at the bedtime delay. He’d wait until I was almost out the door, then call out,
“Mama?” Now, mothers will understand how this feels. You’re almost out, you’ve gone through the whole bedtime routine, the finish line is in sight. For me, it takes all the strength within me not to spin around and snarl “Sleep, you wicked child!! Question me not, but lie there and SLEEEEEEEP!” But I’ve got gentle bedtime fantasies to uphold, so I’d usually say sweetly through gritted teeth,
“Yes, honey?” To which he would respond with,
“Mama? Um, Mama? How… um… how…” picture him here, looking around frantically for anything to talk about, “how…old…how old were you…how old were you when you painted this wall?”
Or some such vital question.
So I’m sure there’s no mouse. Every night, as I furtively peek under the crib I tell myself, “There’s no mouse. This is silly.” But every night I still have to check.
He’s good.

Oooh, it is far too late to be blogging now. I just finished the book Good In Bed by Jennifer Weiner. Great book.
Also, I’m becoming aware of another point here, that I shouldn’t be blogging this late at night. I’m rambling. Sigh.
But here I am, blogging anyhow. Here’s what I have to say at 11:03 on Sunday night. I should have been in bed hours ago. Well, at least an hour ago. I should have put my book down earlier this evening and watched The Iron Giant with the kids, instead of glancing up and saying, “Mmmm-hmmmm,” or some such non-committal comment at the exciting bits. I should have put the book down and looked people directly in the eye during several conversations I had this evening. But I didn’t. I dove into this book.
So tomorrow I will wake up all gritty eyed and irritable. Monday. Ugh. I’ll pay. And then there’s all the people I neglected all day today…must make amends. So, anyone out there think I’ve learned my lesson? Think I’ll reform my wicked book-diving ways?
Say it with me – “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”
The second step?
Well, it’s called Comfort Me With Apples, by Ruth Reichl…

Took the boys to the library today. This is beginning to be a bad thing for me. It’s sad, because I remember my childhood trips to the library with such fondness. It was a wonderland. All those books. But of course, when I was a kid I didn’t have to unearth the due library books, find everyone’s summer reading program envelopes, argue about how many squares should be colored in, find library cards, but shoes on the baby, make everyone go to the bathroom, put shoes back on the baby, get everyone in the car, drive to the library, discover that one summer reading program envelope has been left home, drive home to get it (swearing under breath), drive back to the library, put shoes back on the baby, and get everyone across the parking lot alive. So it would have been more fun back then.
We finally got to the library, and I have to whine just a bit here. Why do libraries have to have all those videos and computer games and stuff? I hate starting every library trip with a discussion that ends with me snarling, “I SAID you can get ONE video. THAT’S IT.” Sort of takes away from my love-of-reading fantasies for my children when they race in the doors and right over to the videos.
Eventually, however, I was able to lure them away from the videos and into the actual stacks. There was a puppet theater for the kids to play with and they put on a show for me that went like this:
Shark (played by Tre): Hmm, hmm. Nice day here. I guess I’ll just sit down here.
Whale (played by Max): What?
(Furious whispering, during which Tre threatens to take away Max’s role and play the whale himself if he doesn’t pay attention and come attack when he’s supposed to)
Whale: I’m going to eat that shark!
(Dramatic fight scene, culminating in whale puppet being stolen by the baby brother of the two actors, who chase him off stage, yelling threats that earn stern looks from the circulation desk)
From there we moved into the actual picking out of books. Tre picked out a stack of Arthur books. 16 Arthur books, all of which he’s already read. I, being the one who pays the overdue fines in our house, told him he could choose two. There was great sorrow over this. Huge brown eyes, disbelieving my cruelty. I was firm. “TWO BOOKS,” I told him, “we can come back next week.” Now, I know that sounds harsh, especially from someone with love-of-reading fantasies, but understand he doesn’t actually read the Arthur books. He has a stack of books at home that he’s actually reading. He’ll bring home a great armload of books like this and have no interest the books themselves. As near as I can tell, it’s a hunting exploit. He’s happy to have bagged every Marc Brown book. Very manly.
Max, on the other hand, was into the books. He studied the shelves, then pulled down a volume and sat on the floor, lost in its pages. He was totally absorbed until I came up to him and gently asked, “Is that one you want to take home?” Then he looked up at me, blinked, and discarded his book in the re-shelving bin. “Nah. I don’t want this one.” And he was off to commune with another book that he ultimately wouldn’t choose. Over and over again. He finally did pick one, and I picked one other for him.
This whole time Raphael is enjoying the library as only Raphi can. He raced around, pulled books off shelves, and drew a lovely mural on the coloring table. Not on some paper at the table, you understand, but ON the table.
Finally we were ready to check out. Tre wanted to use his own card, and we discovered it had $4.60 in fines. Sigh. Ok, I paid it. The librarian was somewhat grim about that. Max wanted to use his own card, but had somehow managed to lose it between the time I handed it to him while we were parked in our garage and when we arrived at the library. So the rest of the books went on my card. Which had (are you ready) $18.40 worth of fines. Now, I KNOW this is an error. I just paid a bazillion dollars in fines. But the librarian, who clearly felt my literacy should be revoked for such grievous crimes against the library’s trust, was not in the mood to discuss it and was not going to let me borrow my stack of books until I paid the fine. So I did, but I DIDN’T say thank you when she gave me my receipt. Hah.
The boys got their reader reward coins to put in their envelopes, and finally, FINALLY we were ready to leave.
As we made our way across the parking lot, me with a stack of books on one hip and a screeching, wriggling Raphael on the other, it occurred to me what was the problem with these trips to the library for the boys.
It’s the boys. I gotta leave them home next time.

Lookee there! Two blogs for the price of one! I’m trying to atone for my sins of yesterday.
I was out in my garden this evening, pulling out pea vines. The sugar snap peas have come and been eaten, and the vines were dry, dull green and brown, wilted reminders of their former glory. So I was yanking them out, and as I was doing so, something caught my eye. There, on one of the tomato plants, was a tomato. A little green marble of a tomato, with the papery remains of the flower clinging to it. I was surprised, and set out on an exploration of the garden. There were no less than four baby tomatoes, and one round little button of a baby bell pepper. Two nubbins of jalapeno, and at least a dozen velvety slivers of green bean. I was amazed.
I love to garden, and I’m fairly successful at it. However, this does not stop me from being somewhat dense on the subject. Every spring I put seeds in the ground, and then hover over them until they come up. I fret, I check on them several times a day, and I make everyone come out and admire the seedlings when they do poke through the dirt. I’m vastly relieved when they sprout. Again. Just like last year. And the year before, and the year before…and like they have since the beginning of time.
This year I grew lettuce for the first time. One day I glanced at the calendar and realized that the window of spring in which I could grow lettuce was fast closing. So Dad ran to the store for a packet of seeds (he’s great for stuff like that – and making tea unexpectedly. A gem.), and I sprinkled them on my carefully prepared soil. Then I fretted. I misted them. I weeded around them. This was April, not much to weed yet. But I was out there no less than five times a day, poking around and inspecting the ground for signs of lettuce. And (I know you’re all on the edge of your seats here), they sprouted. Beautifully. I grew eight heads of lettuce, ruffled rosettes of green and red. They were just beautiful. And I was amazed.
The thing is, I know too much to be surprised by the facts of gardening. Yet they sneak up on me. Like the flat-leaf parsley. I grew some last year, a plant I bought from the local gardening center. Parsley, you should know, is a biennial. It grows for two years, flowering the second year. I know this. Yet I watched as my transplanted parsley grew lacy flower heads. Watched as they bloomed and faded. Watched as my sons took the remaining seedpods and broke them apart and scattered them throughout the garden. So why would I be surprised this spring to find eight ZILLION little flat-leaf parsley plants throughout my garden?
Dense.
I also watched as the chives bloomed. Gorgeous purple spiky globes of flowers. I even picked a few and dried them. The rest dried there, on the stalk. The other day I felt one of the papery flowers and noticed tiny black seeds sifting down through my fingers. Here we go again. Next year I’ll be staring in awe at an army of green hedgehogs springing up in my garden. Chives as far as the eye can see. That is, if they can compete with the parsley.

Alert readers (and morning people) may have noticed that there was an entry here this morning that is no longer. Interesting story, that.
See, here’s my blogging schedule. As soon as the last boy is in bed (which would be Raphael), I head down to the computer. I sit in the dark, usually, and pull up a blank Word document. I stare at it for a few minutes, thinking, “That’s it. I’ve had my last idea. There are no more.” Until I start typing. When I’m done, I read my email, check out a few web sites, generally fritter some time away. Then I go back to whatever I may have written, edit a bit, and post it.
Well, last night I sat in front of that blank screen. And sat. And sat.
I read my email, and then back to the blank screen.
Nothing.
Claire jumped up on my lap, shed a few million white hairs, and left.
Nothing.
I fed the fish.
I read a few ideas from Blog Ideas.
NOTHING.
I was tired. I wanted to call my brother. So I pulled up some files, old writing. I found one essay I had submitted to an anthology something like three months ago. Hmmm, I thought. Well, they don’t seem interested in it. I need a blog for tonight, and this actually seems fairly similar in length and tone to most of my blog entries.
So what the heck? I cut, I pasted, I went to call my brother. (Hi, Sha!)
This morning I was making pancakes for the boys. Tre helped me, breaking the egg into the bowl, pouring the buttermilk, and generally flinging ingredients about. Max was lying on the floor, wailing that it wasn’t fair, he NEVER gets to help, when does HE get a turn? (The answers to those being, Fair is for games, you got to help last time, you will be able to help next time, and stop screaming or go sit on the stairs to scream.) Raphael was pulling the contents of the fridge out and strewing them about, so I scooped him up and put him in his high chair with a juice box. And on my way back to the stove I swung by the computer and clicked to get my new email. Because I am compulsive about email. It’s sick, really. I check it seventeen times a day.
Anyhow.
I had several new messages, but three hungry boys, and email doesn’t scream or try to kill each other if it is neglected. So once the boys were all elbow-deep in syrup, I sat down to read. I love email. I belong to a pretty active list and get about 60-80 emails a day. Most of these messages were from that list, one was from a friend, gushing over some pictures of the boys I’d sent her (always good to hear), and then there was one from a name I only dimly recognized. It starts, “I’d like to use this piece in my new book…”
OH. MY. GOODNESS.
It’s the UNPUBLISHED essay I submitted a million years ago and just self-PUBLISHED twelve hours ago. Whoops.
Now if a blog is considered “published” is a gray area, from what I can tell. But I yanked the piece anyway. Because one of the things this editor said in her email is that she’d love to see more of my writing, and I’m “very good.” So I love her more than any of you now. Sorry.

I glanced at a magazine today and the date caught my eye. June 17, 2003. June 17, now what is it about that date? I puzzled for a few minutes until I remembered. Raphael’s due date was June 17. So although he was born on June 13, cementing that day as precious for the rest of time, the 17 still hovers in the back of my mind. A nearly special day. An almost anniversary. For months, after all, I went around answering people’s questions with, “Yes, it’s another boy. He’s due June 17.”
There are the due dates that didn’t pan out, one sort of almost anniversary. Those are gently sweet, but never seem worthy of their own celebration. Then there’s the other sort of almost anniversaries, the days of note that aren’t something you celebrate. These memories are bitter. For me July is full of them.
There’s July 4, when I caused that car accident. With Tre in the car, on the way to swimming lessons. Three years ago now, but I can still hear the screech-slap-shatter of our world changing.
It was in July that my ex and I had our first kiss, ten years ago. It was in July that we married, nine years ago. It was in July that we divorced. One year ago. Today.
This morning I woke up, grimly determined not to observe the day. The almost anniversary. How do you remember a divorce, anyhow? Do you go around, tearing things asunder in memorial? I’m sick of grieving, sick of weakening at the memories.
So I didn’t mention it to friends. I didn’t allow for time in my day to cry. I would not be sad. Mom asked last night if I was going to be ok and I said yes. We remembered last year for a moment. Every so often you have to go back and feel the edges of the wound, assess the healing. But today I turned away from the thoughts of then. Life goes on. I resolved to keep my gaze on the future.
And now, with the day behind me, the first year behind me, I’m allowing myself a brief look over my shoulder. Remembering.
I guess that’s the point of these almost anniversaries. They may not be to celebrate, but to hold in your heart. Whether it’s the day you imagined your baby would be born or the day you couldn’t imagine how you would go on, they’re yours to ponder.
Unless you have a blog and get to inflict them on others.

So I was racing around, flinging sunscreen at exposed skin, towels in the swim bag, and orders at boys, when Raphi trotted up to me.
“Ah eat mummy byoo cawwot,” he announced.
“Mmm-hmmm,” I replied supportively. I was busy trying to get sunscreen on Max’s neck, who seemed to feel that was some sort of threat to him. But the words slowly sunk in. Did he just say he ate a yummy blue carrot? I looked at my little angel Raphael, and his mouth was ringed with bright blue. He opened wide to show me his bright blue tongue. That color blue can’t be good for him, I thought, and he made a face.
“Yucky,” he confessed. Yes. I would think so.
“Where’s the blue carrot, honey?” I simply could not imagine what he could have gotten into. He danced off, deciding he was tired of the blue carrot game. So I dropped everything to search the house for what on EARTH he could have been chewing on. You’ll all be pleased to hear it was just a stick of sidewalk chalk. I took it over to show it to him.
“Don’t eat this,” I instructed sweetly, “this is not food.” He regarded the chalk soberly for a moment, and then licked it. “NO,” I said with somewhat more intensity, “DON’T eat the chalk. Yucky.” This time he tried to bite it, before I snatched it away and put it up on a shelf.
“Meanie!”He yelled happily. He ran away, and announced proudly to his brothers, “I talk a meanie.”
Sigh
Well, the sidewalk chalk box says it’s non-toxic, so I guess he’ll be ok. And we made it to swimming lessons more or less on time, so that’s good. And no matter what Raphael eats next, no matter how long he enjoys the thrill of the “talk a meanie,” I cling to one thought.
Eventually they all go to bed.