Can't We Just Talk About Juan Williams Instead?

Scene: Driving to school this morning.  Radio inaudible.

Gremlin:  Mom, can you turn up the radio?

NPR's Madalit Del Barco: "...lights up her glass Hello Kitty pipe filled with primo California weed."

Note: Mom is navigating a rush hour traffic Rotary in a standard shift car.  Can't...safely...reach...radio...

Gremlin:  California Wii?

HRH:  No, she said Hello Kitty pipe.

Gremlin: No! She said California Wii!

HRH: No, she didn't!

MM changing radio station:  HRH, Gremlin is right; she said "Wii"

Oh, thank God.  Nirvana. Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Use Only As Required

As Andy and I stood in Room 319 stalking waiting to speak with HRH's teacher, I had an epiphany; we didn't need to.  Curriculum Night had gone swimmingly.  Mrs. C. seemed great! HRH was happy in his new class, happy with the work he was being given, happy with his position as A Second Grader.  He started his second week of school by exclaiming, "We get homework this week!  I can't wait to see what it is!".  HRH is happy.

When last we spoke, I was in the throes of The Question of whether or not to move HRH's class based on word on the Mommy Telegraph that his assigned teacher was "not a good teacher". What I learned was that she quite simply "wasn't there".  As in, too many subs, kids from her class entering the third grade a little behind, projects that other second grade classes completed never gotten to.  Due to the teacher's absence.

After much deliberation and discussion, I spoke with the principal. I gave him our Kindergarten sob story.  I told him of HRH's in-the-box mentality, his need for continuity, how he thrives on routine.  And the principal moved him to another class.

So when our turn came to speak with Mrs. C., we spent a moment discussing his penmanship (which could be better) and his need to "hold that thought" (rather than having to express every thought he is feeling in real time).  It was a two-minute conversation designed to let her know we were interested, involved, and aware.

But we didn't want to take time away from parents who might really need to talk.

This is Why We Own The Pancake Puff Pan

Remember when we were kids? Remember life before ubiquitous computers and a laptop for every lap?  And remember life before eleventy-thousand cable channels all telling us what to buy? Remember before cross-marketing - before your toys appeared on cartoons, had their own website, and little substandard versions would appear in your Happy Meals?

Remember when the Sears catalog would come out around Thanksgiving? Remember sitting hip-to-hip and cheek-to-cheek pouring over that inch-and-a-half thick tome with such loving reverence and awe? Remember turning that last page that transitioned from the bikes to the camping equipment?  Remember starting back at the beginning of the toy section again and again?

Remember the hell that would come crashing down on the unsuspecting child who dared rip a page from its spine? Remember fighting tooth and nail with your siblings for the opportunity to browse through its pages alone? Remember imagining receiving just the right Barbie Townhouse/Dream Car/Giant Hairstyle-able Head?  Who are we kidding?  We wanted them all.  Remember when Christmastime started *after* Thanksgiving, not before Halloween had even ended? 

Today, I remembered all those things in an instant.  When the IKEA catalog came.

Wordless Waterful Wednesday

Summer is a time for weeknight picnics on the boat.

(no, ours is the little one)

Alone Again (Un)Naturally

Take Two 

Some long-time readers may remember last year's camp debacle in which Gremlin was moved from the camp group containing about 20 of his closest friends and classmates to a group of strangers, due to a clerical error.  This resulted in tears (for both Gremlin and Manic Mommy) and an abrupt end to a week of pre-paid day camp for Grem.

Being a masochist optimist and figuring the PTSD would surely have lessened by now, I signed both Gremlin and HRH up for a week of camp.  I planned ahead this time to ensure they would (a) be together and (b) be with friends. A few weeks ago, Andy and I began introducing the topic.  The boys would be together!  Annabelle, Jack, Sophia, and Abigail would be with them!  It would be different; it would be fun!  I can't understate Gremlin's enthusiasm strongly (weakly?) enough but he didn't say no.

So.  Today was the day!  We arrive at the Boys and Girls Club. Gremlin nearly needs to be physically removed from the vehicle, but is eventually coerced to exit of his own accord. With Gremlin clutching my hand but still moving under his own power, we arrive at the basketball court meeting area where the kids are divided into groups by age.  HRH joins his group with barely a goodbye. As promised, Grem is with Jack and Sophia! 

I introduce Gremlin and myself to the 12 year old counselor and explain Gremlin's reticence due to last year's fiasco.  She is mildly interested but is thrown off course by a very enthusiastic camper eager to tell her all about his trip to Water Country yesterday; "Everyone there was fat!" He's right of course, fat people are drawn water parks much as flies are to roadkill.  "And there were lots of Mexicans!" Awesome, let's check to make sure the altar boy from the Westboro Baptist Church isn't in our group.  He is not!  Amen!

As the milling becomes more focused, Gremlin realizes I'll be departing soon.  I seize upon a happy, playing Jack (a seasoned camper, our next door neighbor, and Gremlin's closest buddy) and ask him how much fun he has at camp.  Response?  "I hate camp!  Camp is stupid!  Annabelle's friend hit me!"  Totally awesome.  I block Gremlin's ears as Jack's mom quickly pulls him away. 

My knight in shining armor arrives in the form of a 13-ish year old junior counselor who came along asking to be Gremlin's buddy, asked to sit next to him in circle, and knows everything about Star Wars.

Gremlin's two armed death grip around my thigh loosens.  I repeat that I love him and I'll be back. That I wouldn't sign him up if I didn't think he'd have fun.  That all I want is for him to try.  And that if he does try...I'll buy him the Lego X-Wing Fighter...and...I...left...



** Full Disclosure; after I (physically) separated from Gremlin, I spoke to one adult counselor then found the director of the program to go into Gremlin's situation in exquisite detail, going so far as to describe his and his big brother's bathing suits for easy identification.  Then I hid behind a door and watched for a while. I gotta be me.

Always Say "Thank you".

Dear Mrs. M.,

As the school year draws to a close, I wanted to thank you so much for everything you’ve done this year. As we've discussed, the transition from preschool to kindergarten was a particularly rocky one for HRH (perhaps more so for his mommy). We had originally looked to St. Somewhere’s due to a misguided belief that the public schools in Manickville could not meet the needs of our son. We could not have been more wrong. In every area where St Somewhere’s failed, New School has flourished! I’m so happy to have found a community of caring, respectful, involved parents and a school ready and willing to accept my help, my opinions, and my neuroses.

Most especially, I am thankful for you. I so appreciate your hands-on, “treat them as individuals” approach to your class. From day one, you have greeted each child, looked into his eyes, and called him by name. It was obvious you wanted to get to know our children in order to teach to their needs and you have more than met that goal.

HRH enjoys school. He is genuinely happy to go every day, just as he was in preschool. One of my greatest fears was that his time at St Somewhere’s would destroy that enthusiasm. I can’t thank you enough for resurrecting it and for fostering it.

As we look to second grade – and kindergarten for Gremlin, I am optimistic. I am confident that, as with this year, my boys will be given teachers who will best meet their needs, who will show them that learning can be fun, and who will provide them with the gentle guidance you have this year.

With warmest regards,

Christine Manic

Suffer the Little Children

...and now for a (rebuttal) guest post in response to my Worst Valentine's Day post written by the subject, himself...

Greetings from Macedonia! What better way to celebrate Valentines Day than scratching old scars? Despite my own experience, I am pleased to know that HRH, Gremlin and others are carrying on this fine tradition, at least until "Facebook" reduces the virtue of such childhood kindnesses to just “virtual”. Actual human contact is so 20^th century.

Your telling of my experience is accurate, but I should mention that my most vivid memory is the look of horror from the teacher when she realized her error. As teacher, she was accepted by all as an ageless elder of secret wisdom, the same presumption that makes kids freeze in confusion when they encounter their teachers doing something mundanely human, like driving or food shopping.

In reality, my teacher was probably 20 years old and unsure of herself. As her Charlie Brown grew up, I realized that the trauma she experienced was probably, by far, the worst of the day. I am pleased to affirm your assertion that I am not now and never have been, a serial killer, but I am not so sure about that 20 year old teacher.

I’ve often wondered what has become of the hopeful young teacher scarred by my childish trauma. Does she spend Feb 14^th getting high sniffing mimeograph (born after 1970? Google it…) fluid before kidnapping a greeting card executive and forcing him to clap erasers until he chokes to death, then disposing of the body using the construction paper guillotine only big kids were allowed to operate? Is she the TV special voice of Charlie Brown’s teacher, so drunk from trying to drown out the trauma that she cannot speak a coherent sentence?

Despite my worst dreams of my teacher, it is probably a blessing that childhood traumas have greater effect on adults than they do on children. Today I visited the Skopje dump and found that many Roma children spend their days digging through the untended garbage heaps for any scrap they can sell. Their faces covered by thin scarves as a simple guard against the smell and fumes of the burning garbage they lit to keep themselves warm while they work. They were their yesterday, I am sure they will be there today, and back again on Valentine’s Day and the day after, etc.

Hopefully, as they grow older, things will improve, and the trauma of such childhood experiences will be less than that of the adults watching them work, helpless at the time to do anything to make things better, except for counting on the resilience of children while waiting for something to change.

That puts my schoolboy Valentine’s Day trauma into new perspective. Suffer the children and their teachers. They are all doing the best they can with what they’ve been given.

Sincerely,

Charlie (David) Brown

Thank you, David.

xoxo

I Think I'll Post This Every December 26th

God Bless Us. Every One.

I wanted to give each of you a little something as a thank you for everything you've given me this year. Well, it didn't arrive in time for Christmas. We're all moms here, so I know you'll understand.

For my friends, the someday moms: May your eggs be viable and your uterus be hospitable. Or may you find another way.

For my friends, the gestating moms: May the first and last trimesters go by with ease. May you take the sleep when you can get it. May you savor the miracle.

For my friends, the laboring moms: May your OB be on duty when you go into labor and free with the drugs. May your baby's head be small. May your partner know his place is to shut up and shovel ice chips.

For my friends, the brand new moms: May your baby latch on like a champ and sleep in long stretches. May you shower most days. May your husband have a great paternity leave policy.

For my friends, the mothers of newborns: May your child find a schedule. May he take a bottle, when necessary. May you be there for her first smile.

For my friends, the mothers of infants: May your child sleep through the night. May she be allergy-free. May he be an "easy baby".

For my friends, the mothers of toddlers: May your child not figure out how to open the child proof locks. May she not share food with the dog, then put it back in her mouth. May he not hit the terrible twos before his first birthday.

For my friends, the mothers of preschoolers: May potty training last days, not months. May she not suffer from separation anxiety on the first day of preschool. May he always like you better than his teacher.

For my friends, the mothers of kindergarteners: May your child adjust beautifully to big kid school. May the teacher recogize the uniqueness and individual gifts of your child.

For my friends, the mothers of elementary schoolers: May your child neither bully nor be bullied. May she love learning in all its forms.

For my friends, the mothers of tweens: May your child find his own moral compass. May friends, music, and movies not steal the precious years of childhood innocence.

For my friends, the mothers of high schoolers: May your children's deeds make you proud. May you be their mother first and their friend, second.

For my friends, the mothers of college students: May your children remember your lessons as they take their first fledgling steps to independence. May they make good decisions and know their own minds.

For my friends, the mothers of adults: May your children grow to be intelligent, loving, kind, good, hardworking, humorous parents. And may they take good care of us as we grow old.

For all of us: Though the days are long, the years are short. May we treasure the good ones and run down the clock on the bad ones with humor and love and friendship.

It was either this or a fruitcake.

No Stupid Deed Goes Unpunished

My wonderful gay boyfriend, Jason, a teacher, posted a truly technicolor set of stories about kids in his class puking through the years. Coincidentally, I was with my dear high school friends over the weekend and we were reliving one of my own favorite puke stories:

We were seniors in high school and my friend, Chris' parents were away for the weekend. As you know, this means a party. So we all headed over and commenced with the drinking. Mary was the first to fall. One minute, she was mid-conversation with Chris' sister, Donna. The next, she's face down in the kitchen sink, losing everything she's consumed in the last (month) day. God love Donna. Without missing a beat, she casually walks over to the sink, turns on the water and the disposal, and continues with her story.

Unfortunately, Mary has not gotten sleep-over permission and it's too late to call her parents. We brilliant, drunk adolescents decide to bring her home. I can't remember what we thought about nearly-unconscious Mary getting past her parents. I would assume they were asleep.

As luck would have it, our friend Sue's boyfriend, Chris, had worked that night and had arrived shortly before Mary's puke-fest. He became our designated driver. I was slightly more sober than the rest, so I was the Wing Man. We trundle Mary into the car with Chris driving, Mary in the passenger seat and me, sitting on the bench seat between them. Mary's getting the spins so we decide to recline her seat, forcing me to scootch a little closer to Chris.

It was at a red light on Winter Hill after midnight that we look over to see Sue's mother (aka, Chris' future mother-in-law) pull up to the light next to us. We wave. She stares. The pieces...click...into...place. Uh oh. The light changes and we take off.

The next day, Sue's mom comes into her room, closes the door, and tells her she has something to discuss with her.


*** Please heed this warning: Never, ever, ever, ever do a Google Image search for "puking". Ever. ***

Anatomy of a Guy Friendship

Last week, after school, HRH caught sight of some kids playing ball and decided to join them. I was pleased as HRH has recently given up most forms of outdoor play, preferring Legos, TV, Wii, Homework, pretty much anything to outdoor exercise. I was also pleased because he insinuated himself into a group in which he knew no one and just waited his turn until it became clear he was indeed included.

The game proceeded for the better part of an hour while I chatted pleasantly with some other mommies over by the play structure. Suddenly, a loud scream rent the air and we all turned to see the victim. It was HRH, running toward me, crying, clutching his crotch! Oh...crap.

As we sat, me cradling HRH, him cradling his package, we managed to piece together what had transpired:

Another boy had been 'fake punching' HRH to make him flinch, then calling him a scardy cat (aside: strange word to spell, funnier that kids still use it). HRH in turn pulled a fist up to the the bully's face and told him he'd "show him scared". I'm actually perfectly okay with HRH's actions and truthfully quite proud of him for standing up for himself in the face of an older (2nd grade) kid. Unfortunately, the kid wasn't as impressed and instead kicked HRH squarely between the legs!

We were able to identify which child and his appropriately horrified mother dragged him away for some serious talking-to. After everyone had calmed down, the mother brought her little hooligan son to HRH to offer an apology. The boy seemed genuinely contrite and HRH accepted graciously.

Since that day, he and HRH have been seeking each other out to play; ball, tag, whatever. His name is Gabe.

And I'm pretty sure he's going to be an usher at HRH's wedding.

One Giant Leap

Forty years ago today, I was 10 months and 11 days old. My sister, Danni was two years and 13 days. And our parents got us out of bed so that we could watch Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walk on the moon.
Human beings were born to explore, to discover. It seems so often the only time the world shares a moment is in time of tragedy. I wish I could remember that day, that moment. To feel the wonder, the awe and the pride that we as Americans - as humans, felt.

I hope to share that same feeling and the belief that anything is possible with my children. Thank you for sharing with me, Mom and Dad.

We came in peace for all mankind.

Mommy Fail

A few weeks ago, the boys and I sat down and made a list of SUPER FUN summer activities designed to keep us from killing each other active. Last week was our first full week of summer vacation. I consulted the list, we filled the sandbox, we played outside, we went to the bookstore, we went for walks, we had a playdate, we kept busy. On a scale of 1-10, I'd give it a D-. The weather was eh, the boys were wild, and mommy was impatient.

Following a book store fiasco (Gremlin threw a book across the kids section at me) and a grocery store nightmare (Gremlin screamed from one end of Stop and Shop to the other when I wouldn't purchase a Star Wars Transformer), I decided it must be the transition to both being home all the time. I had previously rejected a week of summer day camp this early in the season but perhaps it was time reconsider. On Friday, I called our local Boys and Girls Club to see if there were any openings for the Kid Squad day camp that three of Gremlin's school friends were attending for the week. Thank the Lord there was! Where. do. I. sign?!

This morning promptly at 9:(02), I dropped Gremlin and all his gear with his name Sharpied inside at the B&G Club. His cubby did not have a name on it, nor was there a little name tag waiting for him as the other kids had. I had also read the wrong info in the brochure and dismissal was at 1:00, not 12:00. So I had to go home and get a lunch. No big deal. We had signed up last-minute and besides, of the 20 kids in the group, at least 10-12 were from our preschool! After a few minutes of clingy/shyness, Gremlin was in his groove and happily said goodbye to me from his spot on the floor, playing with his friend, Jack.

While at home, I got a call from the Club. We were in the wrong class. They had placed him in the Tot-tivities group (ages 2, 3, and 4) not the Kid Squad group (ages 3, 4, and 5), which was, of course, full up. They were in the process of moving him to the other group. Uh-oh. Big deal. We agreed we'd play it by ear and get a prognosis from the teacher at noon, when the younger class is dismissed.

Sure enough, I arrived at noon and Gremlin was playing outside in the sand. The two groups had shared snack time and when they broke up for activities, this new teacher brought Gremlin back with her. As soon as he saw me, he burst into tears. I looked at his face streaked with dried tears and I wanted to cry. The teacher confirmed that he had been crying off and on since "the break up".

Of course he doesn't want to go back - although he would like to if he can be in the class with his friends. I'll call and try again to have them make an exception but hopes are not high. Sigh.

Where's that list again?

Who's on First?

How many daddies does it take to 'coach' a Little League game?

Gremlin enjoying the game.

Shameless Wednesday

In my defense, it was 1986.

Now I double dog dare you; post yours.

Don't You Forget About Me

When I was a senior in high school, one of the kids in our class organized a spring break trip to Bermuda. I don't know what my parents were thinking but they agreed I could go. I distinctly remember the cost being $510.00 for a full week at the Elbow Beach Hotel. I got my first part-time job as a bank teller to pay for the trip. My boyfriend of two years was already in college but he and most of my best friends' boyfriends also arranged to come with us.

Come April, we boarded a charter flight and headed to what is still one of the best vacations of my life. We ended up in a little two-room suite cabana overlooking the beautiful beach below. Unbeknownst to any of our parents, our room ended up with me, my boyfriend, Stephen, my best friend, Chris, her boyfriend, Pat, my friend Sue, and her boyfriend, Chris. We also had Joe, Chuck, Shelly, Jen, Sean, and half our senior class coming and going as they pleased. Some more than others.

It was an amazing vacation in a fabulous place. We rented mopeds and explored the island. I remember swimming out to dance on a reef to the music of The Bermuda Strollers reggae band as they played on our beach. I remember the tropical fish swimming along the reef that could put Nemo and his friends to shame.

Some nights, we would sit in the piano bar singing along to standards with Sid, the elderly British piano player. And we would drink rum swizzles and mai tais. We would travel between groups of friends, exploring, talking, laughing, and drinking. With this our first shot at legal drinking (18 in Bermuda), you can bet we over-indulged but for the most part, we never got too crazy or did anything too dangerous.

Except for one classmate, Frank, whom everyone had completely lost track of. There were occasional Frank sightings assuring us that he was, in fact, not dead. During one evening's wandering, there was one such siting - as Frank was being thrown out of some girls' room. He could be heard asking "How can I love you if you won't lie down?" And then he was gone. Like Bigfoot.

Fast forward hours or days and Stephen and I find ourselves sound asleep on the pull-out couch in the middle of the night. I awake from a strange dream in which Stephen was sleeping on both sides of me. As I step out of the ether, I realize that there are indeed two people in bed with me. It was Frank! (Near as we can figure, none of us locked the door and Frank, in an attempt to locate home base, had stumbled into our room, found a cozy bed, and snuggled in.) I smack Stephen awake and tell him Frank is in bed with us! Mostly asleep, he opens one eye, says "oh, it's just Frank" and attempts to go back to sleep. Um. No. He's gotta go.

He rouses and agrees to remove our 'guest' from our bed. Frank is not a small guy and he's dead weight so Stephen enlists a sleeping Patrick from the next room. Eventually, they move him out to our patio and throw him across a lounge chair, where he happily spent the remainder of night. We think.

We returned home from Bermuda with only one serious injury (Jen, broken arm - moped accident), nobody pregnant, and our parents none the wiser.

It Could Only Happen in Disney World

Once upon a time, there was a (manic) mommy, a daddy, a big boy, his little brother, and their Gram. They lived in the Kingdom of the Frozen North so the (manic) mommy booked a vacation to the warm and sunny land of Florida, where they could worship at The Altar of The Mouse God. And away they went.

One fine day in sunny (but not too warm) Florida, the family went to the pool at their hotel. Because it was chilly, the (manic) mommy and the gram stayed poolside while the brave and intrepid daddy played in the pool with the big boy and his little brother.

Also out for a swim were a mommy duck and her two little baby ducklings. The mommy duck and the baby ducks meandered slowly around the pool's edge, enchanting the adults and entertaining the children.

A captivated (manic) mommy commented to the delighted gram that much like a human mommy, the ducky mommy would quack to her offspring whenever they wandered too far afield, calling them back. And the ducklings would fall back in a row. The sound of the quacking became the sound of yet another mother on vacation, calling to her children.

Oh, happy family. Oh, happy Mouse God. Oh happy duckies. Until...the quacking became lounder...and more insistent.

A hawk swooped down from the tall trees and snatched one of the poor ducklings from the pool, carrying him off in his talons while all the mommies and daddies, and especially the mommy ducky looked helplessly on.

The mommies and daddies spent some time around the pool that afternoon explaining the harsher aspects of real life to their children: Survival of the Fittest Sucks.

To-Worry List

Am I consistent enough?
Am I impatient?
Am I kind enough to myself?
Am I strict enough?
Am I taking myself too seriously?
Am I taking them too seriously?
Am I too hard on myself?
Am I too hard on them?
Am I too strict?
Are they developing friendships the way they should?
Are they happy?
Are they spoiled?
Are they too physical?
Did I read to HRH more than I read to Gremlin?
Do I change their sheets often enough?
Do I expect too little of them?
Do I expect too much from Andy?
Do I expect too much of them?
Do I expect too much of them?
Do I show enough patience?
Do I spend too much time on the computer?
Do I worry too much about how others perceive us?
Do I yell too much?
Do they eat enough vegetables?
Do they fight too much?
Do they have enough alone time with us?
Do they realize how much they are loved?
Do they spend enough time with Daddy?
Do they spend too much time on the computer/video game?
Do they watch too much TV?
Do we have enough rules?
Do we model behavior correctly?
Have I established clear behavioral guidelines?
He doesn't know all his letters, HRH did at this age.
How do I teach them empathy?
Is he too sensitive?
Should I force him to give up the pacifier?
Should I give them chores?
Should I give them vitamins?
Should we teach them more about religion?
What do I do when I reach the end of my rope?
What do their teachers think of me?
Why can't he play independently?
Why can't I admit I need help?
Why do I feel like I've failed if I get help?
Why do other moms seem to have it more together than me?
Why is this so hard?

Now what?

Any Excuse to Celebrate

Do you know what today is??

Now do you know what today is??

Maybe we should start with lurking: In Internet culture, a lurker is a person who reads discussions on a message board, newsgroup, chatroom, file sharing or other interactive system, but rarely if ever posts or participates. God love The Wikipedia.

So in the true spirit of the "holiday," I'm going to tell you something about me and I invite you to delurk and tell me something about you.

My first "boyfriend" was named Kevin. He lived two doors down from me. I was about 10 years old and he was 11. He brought me lilacs that he cut from another neighbor's lilac bush. He also allowed me to ride his Huffy "Phantom 56" bike when no other girl was allowed to ride it.

Fast forward two summers. Kevin was also the first boy I ever kissed. He was 13/almost 14 and I was 12/almost 13. We were playing Truth or Dare and I chose dare. Suddenly, we're kissing. He smelled like Chaps cologne and tasted like Velamints. I knew right there and then that I liked kissing.

Do you remember your first boyfriend? Who was it?

Do you remember your first kiss? How was it?

Harbinger of Future Gremlinocity

While making up my mind to rename RC, Gremlin, I harkened back this email, which I sent out to a bunch of friends and family in August of 2006. Gremlin was just 16 months old. I should have known...


Subject: My Morning

So I'm sitting on the couch putting on HRH's shoes and getting ready to leave. Gremlin crawls out of the front entry hall heading for the kitchen and I notice that he's got what looks like sunblock all over his arms. I stand up to clean him up and learn that (a) it's all over him and (b) it's not sunblock, it's white paint that I had left in the entry hall while I've been painting the stair risers.

Gremlin had managed to get the cover off a gallon of paint and spilled the ENTIRE thing all over the entry hall rug and a good amount on the floor. He'd then left a trail like a snail stretching from the front door to the kitchen doorway.

As most of you know, we just had all our floors refinished three weeks ago. I didn't even know where to start! I grabbed Gremlin and threw him fully dressed (and covered with paint) into the tub and started filling it while I stripped him.

I then left him upstairs naked while I went down on my hands and knees with a canister of Clorox wipes, a roll of paper towels, and a bath towel.

I got to most of it while it was still wet and it came off fairly easily. The drying stuff came off with the wipes and a little rubbing. The rug is of course a total loss having martyred itself for the floors. Amazingly, there are only few splotches in between the floor boards that I should be able to dig out with a toothpick or similar tool at a later date.

Then I got Gremlin dressed, threw them both in the car, and left for work...

God Bless Us. Every One.

I wanted to give each of you a little something as a thank you for everything you've given me this year. Well, it didn't arrive in time for Christmas. We're all moms here, so I know you'll understand.

For my friends, the someday moms: May your eggs be viable and your uterus be hospitable. Or may you find another way.

For my friends, the gestating moms: May the first and last trimesters go by with ease. May you take the sleep when you can get it. May you savor the miracle.

For my friends, the laboring moms: May your OB be on duty when you go into labor and free with the drugs. May your baby's head be small. May your partner know his place is to shut up and shovel ice chips.

For my friends, the brand new moms: May your baby latch on like a champ and sleep in long stretches. May you shower most days. May your husband have a great paternity leave policy.

For my friends, the mothers of newborns: May your child find a schedule. May he take a bottle, when necessary. May you be there for her first smile.

For my friends, the mothers of infants: May your child sleep through the night. May she be allergy-free. May he be an "easy baby".

For my friends, the mothers of toddlers: May your child not figure out how to open the child proof locks. May she not share food with the dog, then put it back in her mouth. May he not hit the terrible twos before his first birthday.

For my friends, the mothers of preschoolers: May potty training last days, not months. May she not suffer from separation anxiety on the first day of preschool. May he always like you better than his teacher.

For my friends, the mothers of kindergarteners: May your child adjust beautifully to big kid school. May the teacher recogize the uniqueness and individual gifts of your child.

For my friends, the mothers of elementary schoolers: May your child neither bully nor be bullied. May she love learning in all its forms.

For my friends, the mothers of tweens: May your child find his own moral compass. May friends, music, and movies not steal the precious years of childhood innocence.

For my friends, the mothers of high schoolers: May your children's deeds make you proud. May you be their mother first and their friend, second.

For my friends, the mothers of college students: May your children remember your lessons as they take their first fledgling steps to independence. May they make good decisions and know their own minds.

For my friends, the mothers of adults: May your children grow to be intelligent, loving, kind, good, hardworking, humorous parents. And may they take good care of us as we grow old.

For all of us: Though the days are long, the years are short. May we treasure the good ones and run down the clock on the bad ones with humor and love and friendship.

It was either this or a fruitcake.