Livingston, I Presume

Learning his adjectives

Connery is getting to be an expert in choosing adjectives, at least some of the time.

He's learned that certain adjectives give him a pass for certain things. Like if he tells us a food is too spicy for him (pronounced "pie-sy" in Connerese), he doesn't usually have to eat it. Or if he tells us a book is too scary ("cary"), we'll go get him another one. The other morning, on his first day back to school, he told me that school was "too scary" and he didn't want to go. Talk about something that strikes fear in the heart of parents. After several minutes of exploration as to why school was scary, it was clear there was nothing truly scary about it. He just wanted to spend another morning home with mom or dad. Then, last night, he announced that he didn't want to take a bath because it was "too spicy."

We're on to you now, little man.

The not-so-joys of carpet cleaning

I had my carpets cleaned today. This was part of my attempt to have some holiday order in the house, the Beautiful Master Plan (BMP) for which broke down mercilessly last week. Without going into too much wallow-y detail, I'll reveal that the BMP was to culminate in the carpet cleaning last Thursday morning, the day I had Connery slated for a full day of childcare so that I could go frolic in Bozeman with two old friends AND avoid walking around on damp carpets in the middle of Montana winter.

Alas, I returned from Bozeman that dat to find that the cleaning had not been done because of a miscommunication about the key and blah blah blah. No tragedy, but it meant I had to reschedule for this week. So it got done today, but now I am freezing my ass off trying to get these stupid carpets dried, and I'm not entirely sure how the family is going to function without being able to touch both all floor surfaces AND the couch, which we also had cleaned.

Preliminarily, I have decided that Connery will just have to nap until 7pm, at which point it will be time for his bath. After all, if he's in the crib, he's not on the wet carpet! Why oh why is there nowhere to take a toddler in Livingston on a chilly winter afternoon?

The only person less thrilled about the clean-but-damp carpets is the cat. Not only have we ruthlessly removed a year's worth of markings (scent gland markings, not sprayings, mind you--Sotek is nothing if not a lady), but she also has wet paws. Cats do so enjoy that.

Looking for a good charity?

I understand from the media that many people like to donate to charity before the year's end. The media tells me that this is because many people like tax deductions, in addition to the good feeling that comes from giving. What the media almost never tells you is how to choose a good charity. Well, the wait is over. Here at this tiny blogging arm of the media, I would be glad to tell you about one good charity that deserves your support--tax deduction or no.

The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation consistently ranks among the top charities for amount of money that goes toward research rather than administrative or overhead costs. Founded in 1955, the work the foundation has done has helped raise life expectancies for children with cystic fibrosis to 35--before the foundation was established, most children with CF died before they even entered school.

What is cystic fibrosis? The CFF website explains it this way:

Cystic fibrosis (CF) is a genetic disease affecting approximately 30,000 children and adults in the United States. A defective gene causes the body to produce an abnormally thick, sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections. These thick secretions also obstruct the pancreas, preventing digestive enzymes from reaching the intestines to help break down and absorb food. The mucus also can block the bile duct in the liver, eventually causing permanent liver damage in approximately six percent of people with CF.

More than 10 million Americans are unknowing, symptomless carriers of the defective CF gene. An individual must inherit two defective CF genes—one from each parent—to have CF. Each time two carriers conceive, there is a 25 percent chance that their child will have CF; a 50 percent chance that the child will be a carrier of the CF gene; and a 25 percent chance that the child will be a non-carrier.

I first became more aware of CF in 2001 when two friends of ours, Matt and Jen, went into preterm labor at 29 weeks after an otherwise uneventful pregnancy. After several harrowing weeks, they found out that their son, Ashton, had CF. They had no idea that they were carriers. Ashton is a gorgeous little boy who has endured so much already in his young life, and Matt and Jen have become very active in the search for a cure. That search intensified when they got pregnant again this year and found out early on in the pregnancy that their baby girl was also suffering from CF. That baby girl was born on December 20th.

Now, I know what a total wimp I am about dealing with Connery when he is sick or in pain. My whole world is upside down until he is well again. I can only marvel at Matt and Jen's strength throughout their trials.

I know it's the holidays and most of us need smaller Christmas credit card bills more than we need tax deductions, but giving to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is a holiday gift that keeps on giving. If you can't afford it now, consider finding a Great Strides walk to support this spring--or organize one yourself! You can even support Ashton's parents in their Wichita walk. It's always a huge success.

Happy holidays to you and yours.

A long break but back now

I unilaterally declared Christmas to be a computer-free zone, though my laptop did enjoy the ride back and forth to Great Falls. I don't know why I didn't just leave it at home, other than my irrational need to be able to send and receive email at any time, day or night, but I did do a good job of leaving it in the bag.

Anyway, I'm back now and hope to be back blogging very soon.

The wonder of finslippy

Alice over at Finslippy is one of my favorite bloggers. She doesn't post with the sort of anal regularity of some, but when she does, it is quality. Today's entry is apparently from the archives, and it is the sort of thing that makes one spit milk out of one's nose or laugh at an inappropriate volume at the free wi-fi cafe. A sampling from the entry, which is written in the style of a contract for prospective parents:

V. SLEEP

1. Is when I say, where I say, and how I say. If I want to sleep UPSIDE DOWN with my legs locked around your neck, then that’s how it will be.

a. And you will enjoy it.

VI. AFFECTION

1. Occasionally I enjoy being hugged and kissed. I stress OCCASIONALLY.
2. I will not be pelted with wet-mouthed assaults on an hourly basis. Should you feel the need to HUG or KISS, you must provide me with a written request, and then wait for me to offer you my pudgy cheeks.

As always with Finslippy, the sentiment is so close to my own experiences that I could have written it. Except that I couldn't have, at least not half so well.

The fleecing of America's moms

I'm relaxed enough to take part in the latest installment of Breastfeeding Mafia vs. Formula Rocks crowd following the posting of a couple of breastfeeding-related items on Broadsheet, Salon.com's women's blog. Without getting into it again, I want to say that what I feel primarily when I read these ongoing flame wars passing for discussion about modern motherhood (and they come in many guises, from the BF vs. FF, to the Dr. Sears crowd vs. the Dr. Ferber crowd, to the cloth vs. disposable, to the old saw of mothers who stay at home with their kids vs. those who work outside the home) is that we've all been duped bigtime. While we squabble over whether the woman who chooses disposable diapers is doing more harm to the environment (and her child's tender backside) than the woman who gets cloth diapers and a service, progress for women and mothers is at a standstill.

I can be denied access to my birth control prescription in an increasing number of states. Abortion is legal but unobtainable. Guaranteed maternity leave is non-existent, and paid leave is a pipe dream. Women pay way more for health care while making less. Women are pressured to breastfeed but are forced to go back to work after a few short weeks. Daycare is expensive and poorly regulated.

So what do we as women do? Do we rise up and demand better? Do we look to Sweden and other family-friendly progressive states to help us find models that allow us to be good employees, citizens, AND mothers?

No.

We snipe at each other in chatrooms. We talk behind each other's backs about parenting practices that we don't agree with. We gather together in huge, like-minded communities to bash those who make different choices from us.

Ladies, womyn, and grrrls, we have been duped. While we bitch at and about each other, our situation is only getting worse. What we need is not to engage in endless flame wars but to band together behind those things we *can* agree on so that maybe someday things will change.

An eerie calm

For the past few days, Connery has been so cooperative and tantrum free that I'm almost afraid to mention in for fear that he will somehow sense my pleasure and plan his next excursion into the land of going limp while simultaneously screaming at roughly the same decibel level as a Boeing 777. I wish I knew what was making him feel compliant so that I could bottle it and make gazillions selling it to tired and worn-down toddler moms. It will just have to be enough for me to enjoy it while it lasts.

The long-awaited review

NB: I really did mean to do this on Friday, but Typepad was down. Oh, and the cat ate my homework. Really!

How I Became a Pirate, written by Melinda Long and illustrated by David Shannon
Published by Harcourt, Inc., 2003.

To be honest, I think I would effusively praise any book that makes it easier to get Connery to brush his teeth, so this little yarn had me at hello.

"Pirates have green teeth--when they have any teeth at all," reads the first line. And each and every accompanying pirate picture includes a mouth full of rotten teeth. When Connery and I get ready to do battle each morning over tooth brushing, the pirate threat is so far the most effective, perhaps because it is so graphically displayed for him to see. Disapproval, yelling from Mom and Dad, threatening--none works even half as well as the threat of having pirate teeth.

But there is so much more to love about this book than nasty teeth.

One of my main criterion in deciding how much I like a book is whether it's fun for me to read aloud. This one gets it just right. I get to read in a pirate accent, emote loudly while saying things like "Batten down the hatches!" and "Shiver me timbers!", and generally make a Mommy fool out of myself. And Connery loves it.

Another key element is having illustrations interesting enough to find something new or amusing on subsequent readings. Again the author and artist score highly here. Many of the drawings seem to be from the perspective of the main character, Jeremy Jacob, which adds to the interest. In one of the first shots, Jeremy is trying to alert his parents to the advancing pirates, but his mother--cellulite fully on display in a very realistic depiction that scores big in my world for not promoting unrealistic Heidi-Klum-like mom-thigh expectations--is engaged in sunscreening his baby sister and his dad is stuck in their beach umbrella. Each page offers enough details to last through multiple readings, and Connery delights in finding things we've pointed out before, from pirate PJs to Braidbeard's ever-present parrot.

Connery adores this book right now, and I think most kids his age and older--perhaps up to 4 or 5--would get a similar kick out of it. Despite what the Amazon reviewer I quoted in an earlier post had to say about it, I think the lesson in the book gets it just right. Living like a pirate--with no rules, no responsibilities, and no vegetables--is fun for a while, but that fun won't necessarily last long. Sooner or later you're going to want to be tucked in and have a story, and Braidbeard is pretty clear that "Pirates don't tuck!"

Pick up this book for your favorite pirate this holiday season. You'll be glad you did.

Coming up: Judy Schachner's Skippyjon Jones series

Watch this space

I've decided to do book reviews on this blog. Now, I'm not looking to compete with the New York Review of Books or any other high-minded literary fora. While I am not going to claim to be one of those mothers who is so engrossed in the education and development of her baby that I lack even a spare moment before bed to read a book, I do know that my ability to read novels well has really dropped off. A chapter here, two pages there--it's not terribly conducive to picking up the Christ figure symbolism or, indeed, even following the plot too well sometimes.

All of this is a long way of saying that the books I read obsessively are the ones chosen for me by the toddler in my life. And there is a decided qualitative difference in what's on offer, let me tell you. Some children's books are a joy to read, even the 1000th time and even for the adult reading them. Others make me groan inwardly in despair at the thought of transferring the written to the spoken (My First Book of Tractors, which I once described as having been written as if designed to win a boring contest, leaps to mind. Thank heavens the still-not-released-even-though-the-editor- said-end-of-November travel book is still beating it in sales rank, if only slightly.).

I am frankly looking forward to bringing you the best of what we're reading, because children's literature has come a long way from Dick and Jane. I hope to have the chance to start tomorrow with Connery's current favorite, How I Became a Pirate.

Let me give you a sample of what I won't be writing in my reviews. I found this one on Amazon for Pirate and had to read it because I was flummoxed that anyone could give this book one star:

After reading the book once, I threw it away. I beleive the morals in this book are all wrong. First, the boy is on the beach with his parents, the parents aren't paying attention to him so he goes off with some strangers (pirates). FIRST RED FLAG! The strangers (pirates) then teach him how to be foul mouthed and belch. They also teach him that he doesn't have to eat his veggies. I think this book is awful and it should definately not be marketed to preschoolers.

I am at a loss to explain this woman's apparent lack of even the most rudimentary sense of humor. Also, I don't think there is any actual belching, and the swearing doesn't reach much past "landlubbers."

I pledge to try to do better, ye scurvy dogs.

From the archives!

Every once in a while, I'll open my mouth and my mother and father will jump out.

You know, you think that you're your own person, but then you become your parents and it sends you all, well, cattywampus. And there it is. Cattywampus. I was getting Connery dressed after his nap the other day and his hair was going every which way. I looked at him and said, "You're just all cattywampus, aren't you?" And then I licked my palm and smoothed down his hair.

My God. I'm using Momspit as a hair tonic and saying cattywampus. When did this happen?