"...and it looks like all my dreams."*

I am trying to be a more relaxed parent.

I am trying to let things go that don't really matter, and not stress about little irritants (and I don't just mean the children...).

I am trying to not yell so much, and to say yes to (polite) requests more.

It's either that, or lose my mind before August.

So when the boys commandeered my laundry baskets to play in and with, I let them. I let them fill them up with trains and stuffed animals, and race each other around the dining room, and stack them up into towers.

If I had known they were climbing them, I would not have been relaxed about that. Because climbing them is when trouble happens - trouble with a capital T. Climbing them is when Terzo topples off and smacks with a sickening thud - in slow motion, but not slow enough that I can catch him before contact - into the trunk we use for a coffee table.

And thank God we use a beat-up old trunk with softened leather edges, or it could have been much, much worse.

He was so brave - we iced him down and mopped up the blood and applied a Spiderman Band-aid.

In the morning, H decided it would be best to take off the Band-aid and let the wound air out a bit. But he wanted to apply some disinfectant, just to be on the safe side. And he couldn't find the mercurochrome. So he used another bottle in the medicine cabinet, one that very plainly stated it was a topical disinfectant for use on minor cuts, scrapes, and abrasions.

Now I? Always thought gentian violet was only used for thrush - and that's why I had a bottle of it in the first place. But you know, it turns out it is a fine disinfectant, with FABULOUS staying power.

Three days later:



*********

*The Big Orange Splot, by Daniel Pinkwater

"And I'm President of the United States and I'm not going to eat any more broccoli."*

You know, normal people become addicted to things like cigarettes and caffeine - and don't get me wrong, I have had those monkeys clinging on my back, too.

But today's current addiction: sexy, spicy broccoli.

Or raw marinated broccoli.

Whateve.

*I* will call it "broccoli crack."

Broccoli Crack

1 1/2 teaspoons red wine vinegar

1 teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste

2 heads broccoli, 1 pound each, cut into bite-size florets

3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

4 fat garlic cloves, minced

2 teaspoons cumin seeds [I didn't have cumin seeds, so I used half the amount of ground cumin.]

2 teaspoons roasted (Asian) sesame oil

Large pinch crushed red pepper flakes.

In a large bowl, stir together the vinegar and salt. Add broccoli and toss to combine.

In a large skillet, heat olive oil until hot, but not smoking.
Add garlic and cumin and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute.
Stir in sesame oil and pepper flakes.
Pour mixture over broccoli and toss well.
Let sit for at least 1 hour at room temperature, and up to 48 (chill it if you want to keep it for more than 2 hours). [I'd like to be able to tell you how it tastes after longer marinating times, but I ate it all. Sorry.]
Adjust seasonings (it may need more salt) and serve.


I served it with thinly sliced grilled rare steak, a green salad, and twice-baked potatoes. Perfect with a cold Heineken.
But you could just eat it straight from the bowl with your fingers.
Not that *I* would ever stoop that low....I am just saying...people COULD.
People who have been raised by wolves and whatnot.
Not ME.
Ahem.

***********

*George H. W. Bush

“Perseverance is not a long race; it is many short races one after the other.”*

Just finished Mary Kay Andrews’ Deep Dish. God, she writes fun books. Everything always turns out ok and the jerks always get what’s coming to them in a most satisfying manner. I only wish Andrews had included the recipe for the shrimp salad.

Now I am reading Rachel Pastan’s This Side of Married. Did I mention how much I liked Lady of the Snakes? I liked it a lot. Yes, there were flaws, and it was clunky in parts, and I hated the character of Billy the husband from the get-go (what grown man goes by Billy?) but I look forward to Pastan’s future work. I am also - so far - enjoying her previous novel.

I bought a bunch of stuff at Half Price Books last week, mostly for Primo (including 4 volumes of re-issued Enid Blyton stories like “The Magic Treacle Jar,” and a couple of Charlie Bone books, but the biggest hit was a thick omnibus issue by Gordon Korman called something like Nosepickers from Outer Space. Primo howled out loud while reading it TWICE in two days. )

I scored Nigella’s Feast for ten bucks. I am so in love. I admit it.

I picked up a couple other books - Away (I know I said it looked too depressing for words, but for a buck, I figured what the hey), Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name (speaking of sounding depressing), and Detectives on Everest: The 2001 Mallory and Irvine Research Expedition (complete with photos! Of artifacts! Like dead bodies!) because the clearance shelves were full of stuff I wanted. I didn’t even look through the rest of the shelves, just the clearance ones. So much good stuff.

I also snagged a bunch of Laura Lippman Tess Monaghan novels at the church sale this past Sunday. Someone at church has more money than they know what to do with, because there are always brand new hardcover novels in the sale shelves all the time. This person must buy ‘em, read ‘em, and donate ‘em – much to my benefit. (Once I read these, I’ll re-donate them. I like Lippman but I don’t need to own them.)

But with the piles of books cluttering my bedroom (once the plumber takes out the kitchen sink on the 3rd floor and we can move bookshelves up there, I will only have to contend with half the fiction in there and I intend to build shelving right onto the wall), even I am slightly embarrassed to be bringing home MORE BOOKS. So I hid them in a plain brown cardboard carton and fish in there for something to fling at Primo when he whines, “I’m boooorrreddd!!!!”

Which only happens, oh, once every couple MINUTES.

***********************

*Walter Elliott

"Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable." *

Erm. What are we up to this lovely Friday? Not a whole bunch.

Took the baby to the doctor today, and he still has the ear infection despite all evidence (other than an actual exam) to the contrary. So on we go to Augmentin. He still sounds like Darth Vader as well, so we get to administer albuterol and prednisone, too. I will pack up the boys again and drive up to the pharmacy, perhaps stopping at the bakery for treats on the way home. And the coffee shop for CAFFEINE. That ten hours of sleep apparently only made up the deficit, it didn’t give me sleep in the bank.

The two older boys have rounded up every Thomas train in the house and are hard at work writing a play and acting out a story about the Ghost Train.

I heard some serious thumping upstairs earlier and went up to yell at the boys but lo and behold, it was our electrician installing wiring on the third floor. Which we’d asked him to do in, um, let me think, September.

I mailed baby clothes (one part of me says, “Sniff sniff,” but it keeps crashing into the part that’s dancing an ecstatic little jig and crowing, “No! More! Babies!”) and bought chocolate and brought back a fabulous haul from the library yesterday. I am happily engrossed in the newest Mary Kay Andrews (I need fluffy and light right now; my powers of concentration are sapped) and have the next Tess Monaghan mystery awaiting me. This weekend holds the last t-ball game and some rollerskating and maybe a DVD, if H and I can stay awake past nine p.m.

With any luck, I will have an hour to first-coat the baby’s room trimwork AND go for a nice long run.

I have butter softening for chocolate chip cookies, and I am planning a spinach-and-mushroom frittata and tossed salad for dinner, courtesy of our CSA.

My life is back to its usual chaotic self, and it’s ok.

To my friend who asked, “Why do people have kids anyway?” I think this post is the only answer I have. And it’s not much of one, I realize. There’s no quantifying the decision to have children. I know in my bones that this is what my life was meant to be. It could be calmer and quieter and cleaner, but as I said before, that wouldn’t be my life. It wouldn’t feel right. You have to do what feels right for you, my friend.


***************

*Plato

"It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder & violence every single day should be avoided entirely..."

I can’t remember why I thought I wanted to read either Maybe Baby or Susan Cheever’s As Good as I Could Be.

Seriously. No recollection. And for the sake of my blood pressure, I kinda wish I hadn’t bothered.

Maybe Baby is a collection of essays by famous and semi-famous writers debating the merits of having children - or not. I didn’t mind the truly thoughtful, introspective essays – I do believe some people just don’t ever experience a maternal urge or their ticking biological clock, and I am fine with that. (Some days I wish I’d ignored mine.) I understand that children take up a lot of time and resources that many people are not willing to surrender. But is it necessary to be belligerent and rude about MY choice to bear children? I do realize there are parents who have no right having kids, but my boys are sweet and mostly well-behaved, and I try very hard to be a good parent, instilling in my children (I hope) thoughtfulness, consideration for others, the importance of family, and a decent work ethic. H and I work hard for our money and act responsibly with it, and if we choose to spend it on children, that is our prerogative, isn’t it? Why must you be so aggressive and downright venomous about our choice? I don’t care that you have chosen NOT to have children. Yes, there are days when I am exhausted and fed-up, but I love my boys, and I can’t imagine life without them. It might be neater, quieter, wealthier, and less hectic, but it wouldn’t be my life. So, you know, BACK OFF.

As for Ms Cheever – let me put on my Judgmental Hat for one moment now – she married three times, had a child each by her second and third husbands, and then spends several chapters decrying the horror of divorce and the terrible anxiety it inflicted on her son and daughter. She wonders, My kids--a daughter who is now a Freshman at Princeton, and a ten-year-old son--didn't have many of the things that kids are supposed to have--family stability, money, consistency--yet they are fabulous, wonderful children. In thinking about how that happened--what it was they did have that helped them so much -- I began to think about writing this book..

Well, my solution for divorce-scarred children is simplicity itself – don’t do it. I understand the reality of marriages and divorces – sometimes totally necessary – but there comes a point at which it’s just careless to marry/divorce again and I venture to say that three is my magic number. If your spouse dies, or runs off, or abuse is involved, I get it – but to just decide, “You know, we just don’t LOVE each other anymore.” Well, guess what, maybe you should have thought of that before you procreated together.

I realize I am probably in the minority in my views on this, but I am unapologetically a huge believer in staying together for the children. H and I would not still be married if it weren’t for the kids; I love him now, but five years ago, we were ready to not only go our separate ways but as fast as possible in completely opposite directions with nary a backward look. However, this desire was complicated by a couple of little guys, and neither of us could bear the thought of not seeing Primo and Seg every single day, not kissing them goodnight, not waking up to them - in essence, not parenting them, together. We kicked around several ideas and ultimately decided that we would live in our big house as roommates. We hashed out a care schedule so each of us would have a few evenings free, and figured out the money situation, and proceeded to be *very civil* roommates, until H recovered from his premature midlife crisis, and I got my head screwed back on straight, and we tentatively proffered olive branches and slowly returned to the other. And now things are, if not idyllic, good. Happy. Solid. Mostly. We disagree about things, and we fight, and there are days when I could cheerfully clobber him, but I love him. We have history. No one knows me as well as he does. And our boys still have two parents every day, under the same roof, and I would not have it any other way. It hurts my heart to think of my children having to figure out where their bathing suit or stuffed bear or lunch box is – Mommy’s house or Daddy’s house? So I chose to do what was best for my kids, and fortunately in the long run best for me as well, and I am still married to their dad. And I find I have little patience for Ms. Cheever’s selfishness and subsequent cluelessness.

So, here you have it. My eloquent (ha!) review of two “parenting” books I probably should have skipped.

*************

*Phyllis Diller

Dudes!

I just slept for ten hours straight.
(And woke up with a soaked t-shirt...)

Do you know the last time I did that?
Um...lemme think....at least seven years ago.
Seriously.

The Pilsner Urquell I drank with my blue cheese burger last night might have helped.

Or my jaunt through Half Price Books on the way home from my shrink's office.

Or the physical labor of scraping and washing the moldings in the baby's room.

Or the sense of accomplishment from several hours of solid research yesterday afternoon.

Whatever.

I feel like a new woman.

I am off for a run now.

"And I'll drink and dance with one hand free..."*

I packed up three days worth of stuff for the older boys and a day’s worth of stuff for the baby and now I am on my own for the next 36 hours.

H trundled off to the Great Thomas Adventure with Primo through Terzo (I kissed Primo and Seg goodbye but only Terzo did I squeeze breathless and actively wish he was staying home with me. Even though he will enjoy Thomas the most of the three, as he’s totally at the right age and obsession level.)

Am I the only freak who, instead of being happy that they will have a great time and enjoying a little peace and quiet for myself, instead worries that there will be a horrific van wreck, or H will lose track of them in the crowd, or he won’t realize Terzo can’t reach the bottom of the pool, and he’ll come home minus one, two, or all three of them? (I have already decided that if this happens, I will divorce him and take the baby and go live quietly off the grid somewhere up north. I have a PLAN.) I know they make me nuts, but I would miss them if they weren’t around. (Especially my sweet Terzo, who makes me happier than any mom has a right to be.)

I KNOW I am morbid, but there have been so many horrible stories in the news lately and I am terrified when they are not with me. (Not that this stops me from fobbing them off on babysitters, friends, grandparents - heck, anyone who'll take 'em for an hour or two - so I can’t be THAT terrified. It’s more of an abstract terror, I guess.) I eyeballed the little boy whom my babysitter also cares for: Could he be a homicidal maniac just looking to squash a baby flat? Or bop the baby on the head? Or feed him Doritos?

I have been looking forward to this respite for months but now that it’s here, I admit that I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I have lots of writing to do, and editing for clients, and trim work to paint, and a doctor’s appointment this evening. But right now I think I will lie on the couch with my cup of coffee and play Wordtwist, and then finish Alice Hoffman's newest novel, and maybe I’ll stop at the grocery store on my way home from the doctor’s office to buy potato chips and onion dip for dinner.

**********
*"Back in the High Life," Steve Winwood

No more pencils, no more books...

This is the first time I have thought, I can’t do this. When the baby first came, I revelled in being superwoman – getting my seven year old out the door to first grade, my five year old out the door to preschool, my two year old changed and fed and settled in front of Dora or building train tracks, the baby changed and nursed. Sometimes we’d walk up to the coffee shop or we’d go grocery shopping, and I would think smugly, I CAN do this. But the baby came in February when it is cold and grey and icky and therefore perfectly acceptable to hunker down on the couch under blankets watching TV and making cocoa for lunch. Now it’s June, and it’s sunny and breezy and hot hot hot. Everyone is sticking to everything and we’re all melting and cranky.

It's been so unseasonably warm, in fact, that as mentioned in the previous post, I have hauled the plastic wading pool up from the basement and filled it up, letting the boys run around and throw water at each other, and eat their lunches out on the front lawn. I can manage the making of lunches and getting of popsicles because my brother is here, but he will go home tomorrow and the day after that will be my seven year old’s last day of school, and then, THEN, it will be me and all four children, every day, all day, for twenty-four hours, the whole long hot summer.

How am I going to contend with the seven year old and the five year old screaming at each other over Pokemon cards/stuffed animals/crayons/whatever, starting at the crack of dawn? How am I going to cope with the seven year old’s constant repetitive requests to spend 'just half an hour' on the computer? How will I peel the toddler off me long enough to nurse the baby? How will I handle the baby’s need for cool and sleep and still take the older boys swimming?

(Aside: This reminds me of the conundrum I ponder every single time I drive over one of this city’s many bridges – if the bridge were to collapse when I was halfway over, how could I save four children and myself, when none of them can swim? When we are at the pool, must the seven year old (who can swim) stay in the baby pool where I can watch him constantly, or can I trust him to go into the bigger pool with his friends and be very careful and check in with me? If the two year old slips in the baby pool, his head could still go under water – do I force him to hold my hand the entire time? If one of the older boys needs to be rescued, is it permissible to rip the Baby Bjorn off my chest and lay the wailing baby down on the concrete pool apron? (Of course, I’d pick him up again right away as soon as the drowning boy was saved.))

How will I keep my ears from bleeding due to the constant chatter and running commentaries?

How will I keep us all from going completely bonkers and not killing each other? (After all, I can only spend so much money on Pokemon cards, dudes.)

More importantly, how will I keep the neighbors from calling CYS when I lose my shit ALREADY at 730 in the morning?

"...but I ain't up to my baby tonight, 'cause it's too darn hot!"*

Rules for the wading pool

Do not put your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the water.

Do not dump your glass of lemonade in the water.

Or throw it at your brother.

Grapes do not float. Do not put them in the wading pool.

Pretzels do float. Do not put them in the wading pool.

You must keep your swim trunks/swim diaper on at all times.

Preferably covering your butt crack.

Do not try to balance your book on the side of the wading pool.

Do not try to lift one side (or the other) of the wading pool.

Do not throw water at my car.

Do not scoop up soggy bits of peanut butter and jelly sandwich and fling it at my car.

Or your brother.

Do not hit your brother with your water pistol.

Do not throw your water pistol.

You know what, maybe the water pistols weren’t such a great idea.

Do not pee outside.

Do not pee on, near, or around your brother’s shoes.

Do not splash or throw or shoot water near your mom, who is holding the baby.

Note to mom: baby does not like to have feet dipped in ice cold water. Imagine.

Do not drink the pool water.

Do not pour cups of water down the front of your swim suit.

No one wants to see your errant willy.

Which, come to think of it, is a good piece of advice to generally live by.


**************
"Too Darn Hot," from "Kiss Me Kate" (Cole Porter)

"The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.”*

Is there anything more delicious than a freshly washed baby?

With a sprinkle of salt, and maybe a dab of butter?

Although, after reading Cormac McCarthy's horrifying and haunting The Road, I find myself somewhat reluctant to make my usual edible-baby jokes.

Is it just me?

*********

* Julia Child

The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat....

Stupid Red Wings.

We'll get you next time.
(And, you know, congratulations, n'at.)

"Your own preoccupation is where you'll go."*

Reading:
Finished my second John O'Farrell - The Best a Man Can Get - not as hilariously funny as May Contain Nuts but more emotional and eye-opening - and still amusing. He's a good, solidly clever writer.

I also finished the first Tess Monaghan detective story from Laura Lippmann. It was uneven (as the Amazon reviews said), but by the end, I liked Tess very much even if I found her as insanely exasperating as all her friends in the book do, and I promptly requested the next book from the library.

Love Walked In - Not at all what I expected. Truth be told, I'd avoided it forever, it was so ubiquitous(That STUPID cover with the cursive writing and the girl's legs...). But it's GOOD. Cornelia is a bit annoying at times until you get into the rhythm of her voice, but I feel almost instantly in love with Clare, and am devouring the book. Weirdly, I'd picked up the sequel at the library but instead decided to request and read the first one first. Good choice.

Now I have the sequel to anticipate.

Otherwise, we are crazy busy - t-ball and IEP meetings and end-of-year picnics.
Camp registration and signing up for swim lessons and pool tags.
Trying to step up my running (am up to 45 minutes).
Working on the house and trolling Craigslist for furniture we still need.
Working hard, editing, and fixing one monumental screw-up I made last week.

It doesn't look like my summer is gong to calm down any, but I'll try harder to be around here. I owe Jennifer Niesslein a review and I want to do an interview with her, and I owe a few nice editors reviews of advanced reader copies of various novels...and I miss you guys.

****************
*"Gotta Get Away," Offspring

"All people have had ill luck, but Jairus's daughter & Lazarus the worst."*

Reports of my laziness have been greatly exaggerated.

What? That’s not how that quote goes?

Well, I don’t care.

Haven’t you ever heard of poetic license? This is blogetic license. Deal.

Why, yes, I am snarky today. I had a good run and escaped the house to edit a paper and am in a remarkably good, if snarky, mood. H was out last night (watching the Pens lose, they’re 2 down, very sad) and will be out tonight (oh, yes, and Friday evening as well; thank you, I will be accepting my Wife of the Month award at a later date). And while this means I get the kids to bed myself, it also means I have the house to myself (once Quarto finally stops nursing and goes to sleep, and once Terzo stops yelling for me to sing one more song, and once Primo and Seg stop squabbling). And even if I work, or play umpteen games of WordTwist, it’s still relaxing to have time ALONE (ish).

We had a very family-oriented weekend, and while it was mostly pleasant, I am ready to be a hermit for a while.

T-ball out the wazoo Saturday afternoon (first Saturday in the past month it has not been rained out).
Wedding Saturday evening (apparently half the world was getting married on Saturday, and the other half were attending).
Sunday was the family picnic, which, after the hellishly long drive there, was fine. Yesterday, finally, we got to relax a bit. The boys spent the morning (after sleeping in!!!) out in the backyard making forts out of the giant cardboard boxes my neighbor's new porch furniture came in. Then we all went out and bought roller skates/blades for the boys and packed up our hockey sticks and pads and took them all to the hockey deck to play.

Primo whined and cried but ultimately was pretty pleased with himself and his progress (there was minor drama (as always) over the skates we bought him first at a sporting goods store – but then when we got to Target to buy Terzo skates, they had rollerblades MUCH cheaper there AND they were adjustable so he wouldn’t outgrow them in three months…you’d have thought we were taking away food or something. Honest to God, that child. Am I depriving him by returning the $65 skates and making him use $30 skates? You’d certainly think so.) Seg was as always, slow and steady and will be fine. Terzo, his stocky little body planted squarely over his feet, acted as if they were merely extensions of his legs and was skating around like a pro in literally minutes (he’s going to be the one who supports me in lavish luxury in my old age, thanks to his NHL career). I hadn’t been on blades in eons but it’s like riding a bicycle (only more fun).

And I need my own hockey stick. Too bad Mother’s Day is past – do you suppose H would give me one as my Wife of the Month award? Hope so. Especially since *I* am the best skater in the family. She says modestly.


****************

*Mark Twain

"A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men."*

This morning I attended Primo’s Scholar’s program play. (Scholars’ is what the public schools call what WE called TAG (Talented & Gifted). The kids adapted Roald Dahl’s story “The Enormous Crocodile” into a play, and produced and acted in it. They did the set and the costumes and the sound. There were THREE stage managers. Primo had one line (but, oh, what a line it was). No seriously, he had one line but I hadn’t been to the Gifted Center all year, so I was happy to go check out his play. It was fun – the kids were surprisingly good, with mostly perfect comic timing, and such enthusiasm that even had it been boring, I would have still been entranced. And as a bonus, I stopped in at the lost-and-found and reclaimed two of our four missing lunchboxes.

**********

I just finished John O’Farrell’s May Contain Nuts, which succeeded where much satire fails, by being both intelligently subtle and yet so over-the-top as to be hysterical. I can’t wait to get my hands on more of O’Farrell’s work.

Now I am embarked on Jennifer Sey’s so far somewhat formulaic memoir/expose Chalked Up: Inside elite gymnastics' merciless coaching, overzealous parents, eating disorders, & elusive Olympic dreams. Having dreamed of being the next Nadia myself (but being about 6 inches too tall and not particularly blessed with athletic talent), I am pretty into this book anyway; added bonus is that Sey grew up in South Jersey, two towns over from where I grew up, so reading about the places I too frequented is always fun.

I am also reading Laura Lippmann’s first Tess Monaghan novel Baltimore Blues. Lippmann is a mystery writer who has been blipping on my radar for a while, so I figured I’d try a Tess-flavored mystery and one of Lippman’s stand-alones, in this case, Every Secret Thing. When I am in the mood for a good mystery, it’s nice to have a go-to author.

I whipped through Prioleau Alexander’s You Want Fries With That? A white-collar burn-out experiences life at minimum wage. If you are expecting Barbara Ehrenheich-type indignation and enlightenment, this is not the book for you. In fact, Alexander is pretty darn annoying and exhibits some grating writing tics that just about drove me over the edge by the end. Was it necessary to use the phrase “crickets chirping” Every. Single. Time. he wanted to make the point that he was met with silence? Really? EVERY SINGLE TIME? Where the hell was his editor? Hmmmm?

I am having a lot of fun with My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs & Their Final Meals. Badger, or anyone else with an inexplicable yet ravishing case of the hots for Tony Bourdain, like me, NEEDS to see the photo accompanying his Last Supper. YUM. Tasty. And I don’t mean the supper, as I do not care for roasted bone marrow.

***************

*Roald Dahl

"Will you be responsible for seeing that the child you present is brought up in the Christian life and faith?"*

We had the two older boys and the baby baptized Sunday.

Yup, it’s true, we de-heathenized the whole house in one swell foop.

The rector stopped by Saturday morning to make sure the boys knew what to do. “So, when you are baptized, it means you are now officially a part of the church community. When I ask, ‘Do you desire to be baptized?’ you say, ‘I do.’ This will be the last time you use those words until I perform your wedding ceremony! Let’s practice now: Primo, do you desire to be baptized?”

Primo stares at him. “Well…no.”

Um, ok. Having suffered through a childhood of enforced religion, I don’t want my children to require the therapy I did, but I also think the boys officially becoming part of our church is a great idea, not to mention a nice gesture. I was in a quandary; not so H or the rector, both of whom spring into action. H and I know that Primo really just doesn’t want to stand in front of a bunch of people and say ANYTHING; turns out (not surprisingly) that our rector is attuned to this fact. He gently explains what a great thing it would be for Primo to be part of the church, and how much they’d love to have him, and he doesn’t have to say ‘I do,’ he can just say yes. Primo is ok with Yes. So is Seg. Quarto is not given a choice; it’s hard being a baby.

Episcopalians baptize during a normal morning service, meaning we all gathered in the first front pews (all the Catholics looking thoroughly befuddled) and participated in a regular service, which happened to include this Sunday a never-ending processional hymn that started and stopped so often I kept making false starts to the sitting down – I happened to be cradling my infant who may technically only weigh 12 pounds but was like unto a sack of potatoes yesterday morning. Also we endured the LONGEST reading ever, intoned with funereal solemnity at the speed of molasses by a well-preserved older gentleman, and the most somber biddings to prayer I have encountered, recited by an equally well-preserved and noticeably nervous older woman. By the end of these two portions, I was ready to slit my wrists.

The actual baptizing part went smoothly, the kids all behaved and answered correctly (thank heavens). One of the godmothers was worried the rector would ask if she attends church (she does not); I told her that we Episcopalians so don’t care about trivial details like that. Quarto’s godfather kept saying, “What do I do?” and we kept telling him all he had to worry about was renouncing Satan. Everyone did just fine, including – or rather, especially, Quarto who was woken up from his deep sleep by water pouring on his head. I am sure he was all, ‘What the HELL? I HAD a bath this morning, for God’s sake!” but he was genteel enough not to verbalize it – much.

We had planned a pleasant little brunch for the godparents and assorted family after the service. Everyone happily ate and drank (leaving me, however, enough orange spongecake to eat for snacks the rest of the week, thankyouverymuch), and then dispersed to various and sundry paces to watch the Penguins trounce the Flyers.

I? Watched the first period and fell asleep for the next two, in my bed with Quarto snuggled next to me, still smelling faintly of the sweet-smelling oil the rector used to mark him “as Christ’s own forever.”

**********
*"Holy Baptism," Book of Common Prayer

"How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I went wrong?"*

DUDES! This is making my DAY!
Radiohead touring!
Would I like to see them in Barcelona or Paris? Hell, yeah!
Will I settle for Cleveland? You bet your ass I will!

I love me some Thom Yorke, bay-bee!

**************

I finished the Michael Lee West, and am halfway through Octavian Nothing. I am considering hiring Jess as my own personal booker (that's like a shopper, but slightly more literary.) She has NEVER steered me wrong and this book is so far no exception. I am really enjoying it.

Also am getting a huge kick out of Phoebe Damrosch's Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter and James Dickerson's Last Suppers: If the world ended tomorrow, what would be your last meal?.

Am slowly preparing to begin, I think, Kate Atkinson's Emotionally Weird, but I MAY save that Sure Thing for the week H takes the boys to Thomas and I leave Quarto with the babysitter anyway...

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My brother was here for his usual flying visit.

Tuesday I cooked him meatloaf, mashed potatoes, lemon-glazed carrots, and peas. I also baked him an apple cake, the last pieces of which I tucked into his lunch this morning for his road trip home.

Last night we all had panini (pick your own filling - I picked spinach, fresh mozzarella, and prosciutto, and ohmigod, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven) and wedding soup and stuffed peppers.

Because I knew he'd plow through the apple cake, I whipped together a chocolate-marmalade cake from Nigella this morning. (I used the Trader Joe's bittersweet chocolate, which I am pleased to report works just fine; also, half a jar of apricot jam because I only had a cup of orange marmalade left in the jar.) And, oh my, - YUMMO.

Is it any wonder I can't seem to lose any more weight?

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Speaking of, ran for 42 minutes this morning. I will top out at 45 and work on continuous running now (as opposed to alternating walking-running). My stomach may jiggle, but my thighs are steel.

And with that image I leave you.


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*"15 Step," Radiohead, from "In Rainbows"

"M is for the many things..."

My mom:

- Was ALWAYS there when I needed her, even at 2am – especially at 2am. Once, when a boy I loved broke my heart, I drove home from his house in Maryland in the middle of the night, and drove straight to the nursing home where my mom worked. She let me cry and cry and told me what a fool he was, and all her work friends petted me and made me feel better and brought me birthday cake from the nurses’ lounge.

- Thought I was beautiful. Even if she CONTINUALLY told me what I should do to be even more so – wear pastels, curl my hair, lose weight, gain weight, put on heels, shave my legs…if I had ever said to her, “Mom! I thought you thought I was beautiful!” she would look hurt and say, “But I DO! You ARE!”

- Was generous to a fault. Her packages were legendary in my dorm and she handed me money every single time I came home. Even after I had a job. “Just in case.”

- Cried every time I left to go back to Pittsburgh. She’d stand at the screen door and wave and cry as I pulled away.

- Thought I was brilliant. (Ha!)

- ALWAYS got my job wrong when telling her friends what I did, but always unintentionally promoted me. If I was working as a painter, she’d think I was an art director. If I was working as the scenic charge, she thought I was an art director. If I was designing, she thought I was the art…wait, I see a pattern here.

- Was always, ALWAYS on my side.

- Loved my friends and, no matter how much she liked any particular one, never thought any of my boyfriends were remotely good enough for me.

- Made sure we knew how much our dad loved us, and how proud he’d have been of us.

- Put three kids through college, as a single mom.


Of course, she also drove me absolutely nutso on a regular basis, was a compulsive shopper, had too many cats, and never cleaned her house.
But everyone’s got their faults.
In thirty or forty years, you can ask my kids about mine.

Happy Mother's Day, to all my mom (and about-to-be-moms!) friends out there!

"And I'll huff, and I'll puff..."

Finally! The perfect excuse for my anti-social-ness.

Savage Chickens by Doug Savage

"People shop for a bathing suit with more care than they do a husband or wife."*

Primo has always been good at helping me pick out bathing suits. Mostly because, like his dad, he’s really good at spotting my body flaws; for example, letting me know if I look fat and/or pregnant...

Last summer I solved the swimsuit issue by wearing a tankini top over board shorts, nicely accommodating my slightly-pregnant belly and providing comfort and coverage.

I recently discovered a gorgeous indoor pool about five minutes from my house, and am about to go purchase a year’s membership (at an insanely reasonable price, I might add). I love to swim, and can happily swim for an hour or more; I want to get back into it, hoping that not only will my upper arms shape up nicely but also that the twisting movement of the front stroke may whittle my belly. But to swim laps, I need a real suit, one that will stay up and cover my butt.

Many years ago LL Bean had the perfect suit. It was pretty, it fit well, and it made me look skinnier than I am. I only bought one, and wore it to death, so of course they stopped making that suit after that year. I have spent the past several years on the search for a similar suit.

Primo picked out these two online:


I picked out this at Marshall’s where I bought it and paid $20:


And this is the one I want, which is pretty close to the Bean suit:

Of course, to go out in public, what I really need is one of these:

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*Erma Bombeck

"Think what a better world it would be if we all had cookies and milk at three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap."*

Dudes - I wish I had time to write a proper post - heck, I wish I had something interesting to say. But alas, my house is revolting and I must dust this morning. That is my plan. My entire plan. Dust. The. House. You could write your name on the piano. Or the bookshelves. Or the telephone table.

After The Dusting? I plan to Vacuum. So I won't crunch on the floor when I walk.

And then I have to swab the bathroom floors because right now my downstairs powder room and hallway smell like a subway station.

After this frenzy of cleaning, I will consider dinner. Pretty sure we are having poached-in-white-wine salmon, steamed broccoli, cucumber salad, and these sesame noodles. I should probably bake something - I made Nigella's cream cheese brownies for a party Saturday and they were a hit.Then Seg asked for peanut butter brownies. (I appreciate that they think I can conjure up anything, but honestly....) But I did. I used the cream cheese brownie recipe, only, instead of eight ounces of sliced cream cheese, I dolloped on eight ounces of crunchy peanut butter. QUITE yummy but almost gone. I believe banana bread is in my immediate future, as H doesn't much care for brownies and wants something less sweet. (Whereas my little boys would eat sugar by the teaspoonful if I permitted.)

Oh, and I have to go buy milk. Because we drank it all. With the peanut butter brownies.

So, let's review: Dust. Vacuum. Swab. Cook. Grocery shop.
SUCH an exciting life I lead.

Next up in this thrilling saga:
BabelBabe can't find anything at the library to read AND BabelBabe shops for a swimsuit. Can't hardly wait, eh?

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*Robert Fulghum