Small Potatoes

"Mom and Me" by Ethan

Ethan's class wrote and illustated books for Mother's Day. My son's edition is very special and sure to be an instant classic.

My moms name is Jinny Seedor. She is 33 year old !!!!

The first page shows me, MOM!!!!!/Jinny Seedor. Instead of a typical child-drawn skinny stick figure, I am built like a potato - baked, I think - with three-prong pitchfork hands sprouting from my armpit region and upturned elf-shoe toes sprouting from my nether region. Above Potato-Me is this proclamation: 33!!!! I suppose when you are six, 33 (!) warrants multiple excited punctuation marks. Potato-Me's hair is bright blue and overdue for a trim and blowout.

Her favorite TV show is Gossip Girl and Graysatame and Home Ulon.

Potato-Me is either reclined on a piece of furniture, or sandwiched into an enormous hot dog bun, it is hard to tell. Potato-Me's pitchfork arm/hands are waving with glee, so it must be a pretty good episode. On the TV screen is a steroid-enhanced squirrel eating a piece of lettuce. Or Blake Lively. Unclear. Potato-Me now has orange hair.

She is as pretty as a shiny car because she drss is pretty.

This time my potato head is bald, the stress of picking out an outfit must have been quite a lot. Potato-Me is covered with protruding black and green and purple tentacles/fringe, so either Potato-Me is "drss pretty" or in the midst of an acupuncture appointment gone seriously wrong.

She is so smant. She even knows one of my shark names.

Potato-Me's hair has returned - back to blue - and Potato-Ethan is holding my hand. I can tell the two of us apart because he is the red bliss sized potato, with salad fork hands instead of full pitchforks. And because I am so smant.

Mom and I like play chssers.

Potato-Me and Potato-Ethan with a red table in between. Potato-Ethan has about 50,000 checkers on his side and an intensely competitive expression on his potato face. Meanwhile, Potato-Me has zero checkers, and is smiling blindingly despite the loss.

I make Mommy smile when I ticut her because she thinks it feels weand.

Potato-Ethan is now pink and "ticut[ing]" Potato-Me, who is extra-large and purple. It must have been salon day because Potato-Me is wearing a purple hairstyle any drag queen worth their Spanx would envy. Potato-Me is laughing uproariously because being "ticut" feels "weand", especially when one is being "ticut" by miniature cutlery.

I love my Mom because sheloves me.

Potato-Me is large and blue and Potato-Ethan is small and brown. Behind us is a red heart the size of Wisconsin and an American flag with the number ONE spelled out. Because I am smant and, also, patriotic.

I love you with all my heart, my little potato.

Happy Mother's Day to all!

NFL Contract Pending

A Kid's Answers to Questions About Mom

This is a cute idea. Copy this note, ask your child the questions and write down what they say.

Ethan, Age Six

1. What is something your mom always says to you?
I love you.

2. What makes your mom happy?
Coffee.

3. What makes your mom sad?
Spilling her coffee.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
When she tickles me. And "stuffed peppers" (long story).

5. What did your mom like to do as a child?
Ride ponies.

6. How old is your mom?
33.

7. How tall is your mom?
23 inches.

8. What is her favorite thing to watch on TV?
Grey's Anatomy.

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
Write on her computer.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Riding on ponies and not falling off.

11. What is your mom really good at?
Playing football.

12. What is your mom not very good at?
Playing baseball.

13. What does your mom do for her job?
Wear suits and reads papers.

14. What is your mom's favorite food?
Potatoes.

15. What makes you proud of your mom?
Cupcakes.

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Peter Pan.

17. What do you and your mom do together?
Checkers. Snack.

18. How are you and your mom the same?
We both have blonde hair (Mom's Note: His is far more cost-effective).

19. How are you and your mom different?
She wears necklaces and I don't.

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
She tells me.

21. What does your mom like most about your dad?
That he bought her a Winnie the Pooh mug for her birthday.

22. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
Her office. Places with books.

Is This A Boy Thing?

Recriminatory note in Ethan's backpack last week confessed:

I tried to pied on (crossed out) IN the sank.

His teacher was most pleased!

This one is going in the scrapbook. And by scrapbook, I mean big box of papers and such under the bed that I hope to one day file and organize.

Drinking The Supermom Kool-Aid

Tomorrow is Ethan's sixth birthday. They celebrate birthdays at his school. Which means that the moms (the PC term here might be "parent" but - c'mon - I think we can all agree this is 100% Mom Territory) send in small favors and birthday treats. And by this, I mean, handcrafted toys painted with silver dust and cupcakes that would make the spawn of Martha Stewart and Emeril cry. And then beg for the recipe.

I profess to be this laid-back mom who does not buy into this sort of stuff. So I just spent the past three hours tying little bows on miniature flower pots containing miniature dirt and miniature sunflower seeds. The pots have coordinating ribbon attaching HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ETHAN homemade tags with handwritten original poems on the inside fold: I am six, yes it is true! So here is a flower, just for you! (Eat your heart out, Whitman). For snack, I am sending in Rice Krispy treats - thirty - which have been manipulated into the shape of capital "E"s.

To Jeff's credit, I got only an eyebrow raise - but no actual comment - when he walked in the door and found me coated with glitter and marshmallow fluff (*not in the sexy way) and hacking away at defenseless Rice Krispy bits with a surgical intensity that would make Dr. Oz proud. Thank you, J, for that. And I would advise not touching me tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that, because I think I am going to be a bit sticky, at least until this marshmallow veneer wears off.

A line must be drawn, however, so I decided to cancel the elephant rides. Because that is just excessive. And then what would the kid look forward to for his seventh birthday?

True Sacrifice

While making dinner last night and plating vegetables, Ethan help up his hand and said very politely, "No thank you. I am giving up asparagus for Lent."

I said, "Nice try, you are eating your asparagus, now what else could you give up?"

"Fine! I will EAT my asparagus but then I'm gonna give up school instead. For forty days."

Note: We are not religious ... very creative, this one.

Random Nibbles

The Kid:

My husband took our son to school the other day. I woke up and there was a message for me on the table. It was scrawled in multi-colored crayon, handwritten in his best approximation of that little-known MS Word font, Ransom Note:

Can I geT a ponee ?

I will built it A fence.

I was amused. I mean, my husband was not an English major, but still …

Cleavage and Emergency Medical Treatment:

Still intact. I had lunch with my mom last week and was falling the F apart. I had stuff going on at work, stuff going on at home, and just could not cope, right now. Just could not. She told me maybe I should just take a week off. One week would not make much of a difference one way or another, right? Just give myself a week with no medical appointments, no lab tests, no phone calls to doctors. Just pretend everything is OK and then re-tackle it next week. I told her that was the best idea I have heard all year.

On day seven of my self-imposed health sabbatical, we had planned a family trip to the zoo and instead took a family trip to the ER. For Ethan this time! It was nice to mix it up a little. Ethan had surgery for an inguinal hernia about two years ago and was experiencing severe pain in the same spot where the surgical repair had been. And he could not walk.

Jeff woke me up to inform me that, "We should call the doctor because Ethan cannot walk."

"Define for me 'cannot walk'?"

And then I heard Ethan howling at the bottom of the steps because he was stuck.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE CANNOT WALK!?"

The fine staff of the ER determined the cause was an inflamed tendon in his groin (how that happened is anyones best guess) and would be better soon with rest and anti-inflammatory medication. He gimped around for about a day afterward, but is now back in full commission, illicit couch-jumping and all. No permanent damage done. Except for my eardrums, those may never recover, as a result of those dog-whistle noises he made when they drew blood.

Again, thank you Amazing Health Insurance Coverage, we owe you a giant fruit basket this holiday season.

My Dad Is Older Than Your Dad:

My dad turns sixty this week. My mom and I are throwing a party. By that I mean, my mom is dealing with catering, bar, and inviting all the guests and I am going to the party discount store for a giant 6-0 balloon and maybe, some sparkly table confetti. She is an excellent co-host.

I think the event is supposed to be a semi-surprise. I am not worried about giving anything away with my blog because my dad not only does not own a computer but has a cell phone that he refers to as his "car phone." If you call him on the "car phone", you may leave a message asking him to return the call. He will then call you three days later and tell you that he heard his phone ring on Tuesday, was it you who called? He is not the person to try and contact if you are bleeding in a ditch and care about being rescued within the next seventy-two hours.

My husband and I are continually entertained by our home phone voicemail. Dad is so uncomfortable with modern technology that it still confuses him when he has leave a message on our automated "machine." He will clear his throat for about ten minutes before mumbling something indistinct and hanging up. Did I mention the man was a national champion debater in college? Yes he was. Just don't ask him to argue with you over voicemail, his head will explode.

That is not to say he is not intelligent … he is very very smart. Two verys. He was a professor at Georgetown Dental for twenty-five years, as well as a practicing dentist. In fact, he was Patrick Ewing's dentist in the mid-80s! He has not stopped talking about it. I suppose irrigating a celebrity mouth is as close as many dentists will get to their fifteen minutes.

What does one buy a technophobic ex-NBA star's oral care technician for such a big birthday milestone? So far I have a set of golf balls (when I first typed this I typed g-o-l-D balls. Gag. I do not want to further explore any Freudian subtext in that finger misfire but thought it was funny enough to mention. Because I have the same sense of humor as most eleven-year boys.) Moving on ...

Perhaps a book about the Kennedy family? He loves that crazy crew! Every birthday/holiday I wrap up a giant tome of 1,000 (give-or-take) pages of Kennedy non-fiction and he acts genuinely excited to receive it. You would think after the 180th Kennedy book, he would have learned everything there is to know about them.

It makes me sad that my dad has to stress about his daughter's serious health issues. He will often call me (from the house or office, never the car) to discuss new curative ideas.

Suddenly he is a Registered Dietitian: "I just read an article about the benefits of an all-organic diet on cancer. Are you eating an all-organic diet? What?! Put down those Cheetos and Red Bull this second, young lady!"

And a Sleep Specialist: "Are you getting ten hours of sleep every night? You really cannot heal if you do not get proper REM. Well, just tell Ethan he needs to walk to school ... a fifteen-mile hike never killed anyone."

And a Radiation Expert: "I hope you are not standing in front of that microwave while you are cooking? Did I just hear a 'beep'?!"

I joke but it is actually sweet. He cares. This has been hard on my parents too.

One More Random Quote:

Do not throw that turtle in the living room!! (Me to Ethan, not my dad to me.)

On Being Dead:

I have a real confession. My latest obsession involves staying up late and reading brain tumor blogs. I will spare you the time and Google search: They all end up dead. You just KNOW some of them are in bad shape when you read their diagnoses and treatment plans. But some of them deceive you. There's one where the woman had written eighteen chapters over the course of seven years since her diagnosis, a veritable Internet book. At her last appointment her doctor told her that the scans were all stable and she "had decades."

I clicked on her eighteenth chapter and felt as though I had been kicked in the throat. It was a eulogy written by her husband one month later. There were no details, just dates and a short memorial paragraph. I wanted to know what happened. It was like having the last chapter ripped out of the suspense thriller you borrowed from the library, but morose and sad, because it is (was) a life.

At night, I go to bed and cannot turn my disturbing inner dialogue off:

IhaveabraintumorIhaveabraintumorIhaveabraintumor ...

I can practically feel it beating through the floorboards of my skull.

I am constantly on guard for strange things that may kill me. If my nose is running, I worry that it is not a cold, but dripping CSF. If I have a headache, is it a hemorrhage? If my vision is blurry, is it pressing on my optic nerve? It can be tiresome. I do not voice these concerns to anyone but my husband, who has become my when-to-alert-the-authorities barometer.

I was half-heartedly watching TV the other night, while reading a book at the same time. My husband had gone to bed half-an-hour before. I noticed after he left that the actors on the show were speaking out-of-sync. Their lips were about one second off from matching the words coming out of them. I watched for about ten more minutes thinking, "I wonder if I should call my doctor? Is this some sort of seizure?"

So I wake Jeff up and tell him, "This is going to sound weird, but …"

"Oh, I noticed it too. It is not you. It is the show."

And I was all, "WHAT? Why didn't you say something?! I was afraid to go to sleep because I was worried I would wake up with brain leaking all over the pillow. And you know these are our good sheets …"

On High School Revisited:

My fifteen-year high school reunion is at the end of this month. I think this should be causing some sort of angst, but so far, it is not (stay tuned: it will). My one concession to vanity is that I bought a new shirt which is likely as far as I will go. I should be dieting, but life is short, or something.

I have attempted to get my teeth bleached but my dentist is not returning my calls (see, "car phone.") I have large teeth, not EXTRA crazy large teeth, but large enough. They take up, maybe, 1/10th of the real estate that is my face.

In college, I used to hear that I looked like Jenny McCarthy ... I think it was my big teeth. Because she is known for those big teeth; it is common knowledge that showing them off made her famous. To be clear: I used to only hear that flattering(?) comparison from drunken guys in bars. I look nothing like Jenny McCarthy, except that we share similarly oversized mouths. In any event, I bet she does not have to argue with her dentist to get a little whitening action on those generous choppers.

My dad/dentist claims that bleaching ruins the enamel. My response is to tell him that I may consider a back-alley bleach job and might just pick up a $29.99 kit at the drugstore. He says he'll know, in some sort of omnipresent way that infers that if I do, not only will my teeth be irreparably scarred, but I will get caught and then grounded until my fortieth birthday.

Therefore, I am hoping my new shirt offsets my large and sort-of whitish teeth. It will probably be dark, right?

My Brother:

Where art thou. I have not been able to reach you via cell, girlfriend, or email. I am beginning to worry a shark ate you. Call me, you. I need to see if you want to go in on a Kennedy book.

Patriotism, Boiled Down

Alright, my little turnip. Listen up. You may wonder why I am now calling you my little turnip after calling you my little pumpkin for so long. Well it is because you recently proclaimed that you were "embarrassed" when I called you a pumpkin and requested that I not call you that anymore. So we are on to a different member of the squash family. You will not like it, that I know. But guess what: I am the Mommy and get to pick the nicknames! Deal.

This week was an historic one. But you knew that; you were as well-versed about this election as certain people of legal voting age. You knew that Sarah Palin was from Alaska and running for Vice - President. You knew that you have to be eighteen to vote. You knew that John McCain was "old … at least a hundred" (your words, not mine). You knew that Barack Obama was the first African-American ever to run for President. You knew that you enjoyed my response when you announced that you planned on "voting for McCain" … every eight seconds … since mid-October.

I told you that was OK! I was voting for Barack Obama and was proud to do so. But explained that when you were old enough to vote, you could vote for whomever you wanted. Even Ralph Nader! That is what is great about where we live. And if you want to join the Young Republic Club in high school, we will go together to pick out your boat shoes and crested ties. It is YOUR CHOICE and every person gets to make their own choice about their values, their beliefs, and their candidate. Democracy! Yay!

I took you with me to the voting booth to watch the process in action (also, because your dad was at work late and it is illegal to leave you alone in a parked car). You expressed disappointment that neither McCain nor Palin were there to greet us personally. You said you would have settled for an Obama sighting. You wondered what else they could be doing? Wasn't it Election Day? You perked up when the literature people outside the voting venue offered you a donut and a cup of juice. That was almost as good as shaking the hand of a real-live soon-to-be-President. You liked the sticker too. I let you wear mine.

You did not see me when the official announcement was made, later that night, that Obama was our next President. I cried – this would have shocked you. I do not cry at much - amend that, I do not cry at much in front of other people, especially you. It freaks you out. Tears over something like an election were uncharacteristic. But this election felt different, bigger, more important, and more personal … to millions who cast their ballots … and to me. I was moved to be a part of it and to watch history unfold.

I did not wake you up to see the election results but DVR'er the press coverage to watch with you the next day. Together we watched Obama's acceptance speech. I explained to you what an historic moment this was. How proud I was to be an American. How you should be proud to be an American too. How the right to vote is not something every person in every country has and we should be thankful. How the President-Elect had worked hard during his life and achieved something incredible. How I was going to try to talk Daddy into getting tickets to one of the D.C. Inaugural Balls so I could stimulate the economy and buy a new dress … maybe some shoes. I asked you what you thought of all of it.

Your excellent, insightful response showed me that the gravity of this moment in time had not gone over your head:

Does this mean we can have cupcakes for dinner to celebrate? With sprinkles!?

Motivational Quotes

Actual things I said today:

10) Mommy does have prickly legs ... Mmm - hmm, just like a porcupine.

9) Wow! A bag of snakes!

8) One more day until Halloween. Yep - that Great Pumpkin is keeping a close eye to see if you are being naughty or nice.

7) We do not lick our friends.

6) Why am I allowed to eat more Starburst than you are? Well, it is because mommies are taller than their kids and need the extra energy.

5) No ... Starburst are not a fruit.

4) I take it all back. You are not the worst secretary on the planet and you are not fired (to my husband, not to my actual assistant. I would never ever dare call her a "secretary." She owns me and she knows it.)

3) Of course I can tell the difference between a Spinosaurus and an Allosaurus.

2) I am done talking about penises. (This said with my best poker face.)

And ... my personal highlight:

1) Young man, I suggest you think twice before you TEST me! (Followed by subsequent phone call to my therapist when I realized that I have, in fact, become my mother.)

Get OUT Of The Car

So far the one true benefit I have observed from private school is the drop-off/pick-up function. The idea is brilliant. School employees manned with walkie-talkies stand by the front doors of the school. There is a sign that attaches to the dashboard displaying your child's name so when you pull up an announcement is transmitted to the employees inside, "Johnny Walker is now entering the building. Johnny Walker is entering the building." When you arrive in the afternoon, it is the same concept. You simply pull up to the drive-through window, err, I mean front door, and place your order. "One blonde kindergartener with a red backpack! Hold the pickles!"

The first week of school, I walked Ethan into the classroom during the morning and then waited for him outside the class in the afternoon because I knew he would not go for this drive-through idea. But at Back-to-School night the teacher encouraged the parents to do the drop-off/pick-up line to "facilitate independence." Alright - teacher-mandated parental laziness! I love it. Now I don't have to fuss with make-up or clothing choices or talking to anyone before 9 a.m. I simply pull on some yoga pants and slap on the giant black "I am so mysterious and glamorous with half of my face covered" sunglasses and out the door we head. If I wanted to, I could even drop him off while not wearing any pants at all! Not that I would – that would be weird – but it is nice to have that option in a pinch.

Ethan has been all bright and eager to do it himsel (!) and has taken pride in exiting the car alone and then reemerging, alone, at the end of each day to find me waiting. He scans the horizon each afternoon while he tries to pick out which granite-colored SUV is mine (truly, they all look identical) and when he sees me, his face relaxes into a combination of relief ("Whew! She came AGAIN today."), delight ("Yay! Mommy will have snacks and a juice box!") and a touch of smug superiority ("It is so nice to have my own private car service on demand.")

Ethan has gotten accustomed to an earlier bedtime and has been dare-I-say – cheerful? - during recent mornings. After he has been safely deposited at school in the morning, I return home and shower and dress without my captive audience barging into the bathroom with important questions about "my balloons" (use your imagination on this one) or my favorite, "What happened to my penis to make it look so funny?" (My mom said to tell him, "A boating accident.")

So I thought we were getting the new routine down. Until this morning, that is, when Ethan woke up on the wrong side of bed. By wrong side of the bed, I mean the possessed-by-the-devil, whining, everything-you-do-MOM-is-wrong side of the bed. Without boring you with too many details, by the time we got out to the parking lot, he had removed his pants twice ("NO PANTS! You promised … SHORTS!"), flung a bag of Cheerios under a couch cushion ("I wanted LIFE cereal…") and thrown himself onto the bathroom tile because his hairbrush was "too scratchy!" Super fun morning for all involved. Do not ask me why his head was spinning around and he was about to projectile vomit green pea soup this particular morning because all week he has been Little Mary Sunshine with beams of light coming out of his ass. There is no rhyme or reason. I only have a B.S. in psychology so I will not even attempt to speculate.

Eventually Ethan has been secured in the vehicle and we are hurtling toward his 8:25 a.m.-3:25 p.m. destination, as I am counting down the minutes until I can mainline a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte. YES, whipped! We pull up in front of the school and he will not get out of the car. Here's how it works: You pull up in queue. A teacher opens the car door, unloads the child from the back, helps them adjust their backpack, and leads them on their merry way into the school. But Ethan would not get out. He was holding onto the interior of the car for dear life, SCREAMING. When we had a cat and needed to load him into the carrier to go the vet, the cat suddenly developed fourteen arms and tentacles and it took two of us to smush him into the carrier while he made sounds so ungodly that they haunt my nightmares to this day. It was just like that.

At this point, cars are lining up behind me, some moms are honking, and no doubt wondering what I have done to induce such hysterics. Finally I wrench his little tentacles off the car seat and give him a (gentle) push while the teacher delivers the rest of the dead-weight out of the backseat. Somehow he manages to sit down on the ground in front of my car and is now sobbing with such theatrical vigor that he is going to be a shoo-in for the Oscar category "Best Impersonation of a Prisoner of War – Ages 6 and Under."

I hope he thanks me before his agent in his acceptance speech.

Keeping the Face

One of our neighbors has three children. The middle child's name is Ava Faith. For as long as we have known this little girl, Ethan has referred to her as Ava Face.

"So then Ava Face got on her bike …"

"Ethan, her name is Ava Faith … THHH."

"That's what I just said! Ava FACE!"

My husband and I have adopted this moniker when speaking within the privacy of our house. Outside we call her by the correct name. Last night I came home and Ava Faith was playing in her yard. I asked Ethan if he would like to go out and say hello to Ava Face.

Ethan shot me a "Whatever am I going to DO with you?" look. He patted the empty space next to him on the couch with one hand. It is a sit-down-and -talk-to-me gesture that I use often. I sat.

Ethan placed one hand on my arm and said solemnly, "Mommy, her name is Ava Faith … THHH. It is not nice to call her by something other than her real name. How would you feel if I started calling you Mummy?"

The Lump

The weekend is here. Delicious.

This week was Ethan's first week of kindergarten. There is no bus service for his school, so I have been dropping off (8:25 a.m.) and picking up (3:25 p.m.) since my work schedule is the "flexible" one. Flexible means that when I am not sitting at my desk, my clients only call my cell once every thirteen minutes, as opposed to when I am in the office, and then they call my office phone every four.

The school has sent home approximately 7,000 documents this week, give or take a few hundred. 6,998 of them are about what happens if your child arrives "tardy" to school in the morning or the parent is "tardy" for pick-up in the afternoon. From what I can discern, the punishment is VERY severe, and may or may not include leeches and/or some form of Chinese water torture.

I am not good at being on time. I have never been good at being on time. I could generously be classified as "not a morning person." I think "mornings" should start sometime around 11:30 a.m. and involve brunch and two to three mimosas before requiring any heavy lifting on my part. If I ever become President, that will be my first piece of legislation. All of these factors conspire to make getting out of the house in the early morning exceptionally difficult for me. The other factor conspiring against promptness is the five-year-old involved in this process who is, incidentally, also not a morning person. Given his druthers, we would be in our pajamas, eating Cheerios from the box, watching cartoons until sundown. This, actually, sounds fabulous right about now.

My week in review:

At 6:30 a.m. I have looked at my alarm and thought, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

At 6:40 a.m. I have coffee'd up, showered, dressed, and slapped on a little make-up so as not to scare the other moms at drop-off with the depth and breadth of my undereye circles.

At 7:10 a.m. I have prepared a breakfast chock full 'o nutrients and the proper balance of complex carbohydrate and protein for sustained long-term academic performance (for Ethan, not me - typically I "eat" only coffee until about 2 p.m. This is not because I do not enjoy breakfast - I do! - but because I am always at least ten minutes behind schedule).

At 7:15 a.m. I have made efforts to rouse the troop (singular) with a cheery morning greeting. The Snoring Bed Lump ignores me completely.

At 7:20 a.m. after seeing no activity from The Snoring Bed Lump, I have repeated cheery morning greeting, this time with a firm edge to my voice.

At 7:25 a.m. I have started making empty threats to The Snoring Bed Lump about things that will be taken away if The Snoring Bed Lump does not get up RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND and I MEAN IT. "No bike riding after school! And that pony that someday you might get if we win the lottery? Not now, Mister. And you can FORGET about that drivers license when you turn sixteen … "

At 7:30 a.m. The Lump is now sitting at the table. He is upright and out of bed but for all intensive purposes, still asleep, although not now snoring. I have enthusiastically tried to coax him to take a bite of each item on his breakfast plate. "Try the mango! Look – it so ORANGE! And ORGANIC! And TROPICAL! You will like it! Just one bite! Half a bite! A quarter of a bite? Ok, just put it in your mouth, suck on it for five seconds, then spit it back out on your plate?" The Lump's response: "AHH! The mango is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:37 a.m. I have given up, rinsed off the plate, slammed the last swill of my coffee from the mug and thrown a handful of Mini-Wheats (frosted, of course) in a plastic bag for The Lump to eat in the car. The Lump has now put his head down on the table and appears to be snoring, again.

At 7:38 a.m. I have put toothpaste on the brush because The Lump claims the tube is "too hard to squeeze in the morning when I am soooo tired!" I have coaxed The Lump, unsuccessfully, to engage in a thorough tooth brushing. Response: "AHH! The toothpaste is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:42 a.m. I have given up on efforts at oral hygiene and am making empty threats about rotten teeth and eventual root canals. "Fine, you only want to brush one tooth? When the other nineteen fall out, you are going to be the one to explain to Grandpa why your teeth are now missing." Grandpa is - by trade - a dentist, not just some weird guy interested in teeth. Although, as I type this I realize "some weird guy interested in teeth" is, by definition, what a dentist is …

At 7:43 a.m. I have attempted to sunscreen The Lump, while avoiding direct contact with his breath, since he has only brushed one tooth. Response: "AHH! The sunscreen is TOO cold! It smells funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:45 a.m. I have requested that The Lump get dressed, please? The Lump has collapsed on the floor, spent from resisting everything for the past thirty minutes and from lack of food since The Lump only consumed four calories at breakfast.

At 7:50 a.m. I have asked The Lump, "Why are you still in your underwear?! Please, please, please put your clothes on."

At 7:55 a.m. I have asked The Lump why he still does not have any clothes on and why he has now removed the underwear he had on five minutes ago.

At 8:00 a.m. I have walked out the door with his backpack, his lunchbox, my laptop bag, my purse and my sanity balanced precariously. The Lump has followed holding his pants in his hand, which he will then put on while standing on the front porch. I have smiled cheerfully at the neighbors, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

At 8:02 a.m. I have been stuck in traffic, gritting my teeth, and find myself questioning whether I, after all the oral demands made of the Lump, have brushed my own teeth yet this morning?

At 8:10 a.m. I have restrained myself from pounding the steering wheel with my fists – still in traffic! -- and started to break a sweat thinking about all those anti-tardy leeches.

At 8:20 a.m. I have been responsive DJ for all The Lump's requests. His favorite to groove along with: "Momma, Don't Ya Tickle My Ticklish Toes." [Chorus: Don't ya don't ya don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ... momma, don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ...] Door to door, we can play this nine and one-third times. This song also gets played on repeat all the way home. One week, two round-trip drives per day. You do the math.

At 8:25 a.m. I have peeled rubber pulling into the school lot and dragged The Lump, his backpack, his lunchbox, my purse, and my sanity out of the car and hauled some serious ass into the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at other parents, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

In between drop-off and pick-up, I have worked, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, visited the doctor (always – does anyone else under the age of eighty-eight go to the doctor this much?), and procured more coffee along the way. Notice I do not mention "eating." This is because I have not eaten much of anything until dinnertime, with the exception of a few sad stale Altoids fuzzy from rattling around in the bottom of my purse since 2006. I believe the clinical diagnosis is insane schedule induced anorexia. At this rate, I will be smaller than my high school size by my class reunion in November!

At 3:15 p.m. I have returned to gather Ethan (magically, he transforms from The Lump into a smiley, happy kid sometime around morning snack – his teacher reports how "charming" he is), his lunchbox, his backpack, his homework and my sanity from the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at the other parents, "Good afternoon! How was your day?"

Beginning at 4:00 p.m. I have started supervising homework, lunch packing, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, prepared dinner, run bath, read bedtime stories, tucked in, stalked some people on Facebook, and maybe indulged in a little chocolate and some wine.

At midnight … I have CRASHED.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Jeff noticed my frayed-around-the-edges look tonight and kindly suggested that maybe I wanted to sleep in tomorrow? Until noon?

And I was all ... tomorrow ... until noon? Right now, I want to sleep from tomorrow until June.

Birds And The Bees

Conversation from the car this weekend:

"Mommy, are you pregnant?"

"Nope."

Long pause ... "Mommy, am I pregnant?"

"If you are, Ethan, you are totally grounded."

Missing The Point

We are at a loss for how to keep Ethan in his own room at night. We have tried time-outs, reassurance, bribes, tying him to the mattress ... we are out of ideas. Without fail, we wake up in the morning (usually around 3 a.m.) and he has wedged himself right into the middle of our bed. And by middle of our bed, I mean he is sleeping on my back (I guess there is also some sort of Oedipal thing at play).

So I have this bright idea that the beginning of kindergarten this fall can coincide with the purchase of a new bed. Right now, Ethan has a very cool bed in the shape of a race car, but it is small, and he is starting to lop over the edges. We go to the furniture store to check out bunk-beds. Ethan is so excited - the height, the ladder, the novelty - he decides bunk-beds are AMAZING and cannot believe we are just now considering one.

When I ask him his thoughts on this bunk-bed purchase, he is overjoyed, "That would be SO great!! Then the WHOLE FAMILY could sleep together in MY room!"

Good To Know!

Ethan told me this morning, randomly, that a Great White shark is "larger than a pick-up truck but smaller than a luxury SUV."

Wonder how much it costs to gas up a Great White shark?

Anatomy Lesson

We spent part of Father's Day outdoors. My son and I share the same constitution. Our skin requires paba-free SPF 250 from 6 am to midnight and we have environmental allergies to most things - trees, pollen, nuts, cats, dogs, mold - basically any item one might encounter in nature. Except German cockroaches. I kid you not. When I asked the allergy tech why they test for German cockroaches, and not the good old American version, she replied as though I had posed the most intriguing question ever about the Secret of the Universe, "I have NO idea! Nobody has ever asked me that before!"

This is all background to my main point. We arrive home after dangerous and reckless exposure to a non-hermetically sealed environment. I notice Ethan has a few small raised bumps on his chest, maybe hives, possibly an allergic reaction to something or other. But not German cockroaches. I tell Jeff that after Ethan's bath, we should give him a dose of Benadryl.

Ethan whines: "I don't need any Benadryl!" He hates the taste.

Me: "You do. You have red bumps on your chest and I don't know what they are from."

Ethan replies in a tone that I have only heard used by teenagers to convey the message that their parents are the dumbest people to ever be permitted to breathe oxygen.

"Mommy ... EVERYONE has red bumps on their chest. LOOK ..." pulling up Jeff's shirt to triumphantly illustrate his point, "SEE! Even daddy has them. They are called knuckles."

Words To Live By

Yesterday over dinner, I asked Ethan to tell me a joke. So, he looked at me solemnly from across the table, placed his hands gently on the sides of my face and said, "Never take directions from a two-headed banana."

Then he laughed manically for 20 minutes.

??

Polygamy

Ethan and I have had a lot of dinner dates lately since Jeff has been working late for a deadline. All this alone time has resulted in some enlightening conversation. We were out for pizza when Ethan posited the following:

"I am going to marry you someday, Mommy."

"Oh yeah? Well, I am already married to Daddy and in Maryland, you can only be married to one person at a time. Sorry bud."

Reflects on this for a moment, "Well, are there places where it is ok to be married to two people at once?"

"Hmm. I think in some parts of Utah that is legal."

"Well then, we will move to Utah. When should we tell Daddy?"

Five

Ethan Charles-

You turned five on Wednesday, March 5th. Happy birthday to you!

Because you are our very favorite (and only) child, we had two separate birthday parties for you. The first was a simple affair involving twenty-two of your preschool and neighborhood buddies and a healthy handful of their younger siblings. Oh, and (literally) twenty-eight pounds of cupcakes, served right before dinnertime. You are very welcome, other parents. The second was our celebration with Grandma and Grandpa at a local burger place. You opened a new set of toy cars - which thrilled you! At the end of the meal, the servers gathered around and there was clapping and singing as dessert was brought out. You pretended to be embarrassed by all the commotion, but I know that you secretly loved it because you had your carefully practiced "Aw shucks, for ME!?" expression on.

Your father and I are convinced that, objectively speaking, you are the smartest five-year-old to ever walk the earth. You possess the vocabulary and verbal self-assurance of a forty-year-old news anchor. We went to the Maryland Science Center in Baltimore on your birthday and you not only correctly identified the "first bird" by only its fossil skeleton ("Oh - LOOK mom - an Archaeopteryx...!") but you corrected one of the volunteer scientists when he told you that you were a carnivore like T-Rex because you eat meat ("Actually, I am an omnivore because I eat both plants and meat...."). Since squeeze yogurt in a tube and Skittles are the only green things that have passed your lips in the past six months, I think you may, more accurately, be defined as a chickennugget-macaroniandcheese-processedsugarproduct-ivore but I was not going to correct you because it is entirely possible that green yogurt in a tube and Skittles have recently been reclassified on the food pyramid as plants, and that you are aware of this fact and did not want to make me feel bad by pointing it out.

Your father and I are convinced that, objectively speaking, you are the cutest five-year-old ever to walk the earth. Your hair is the color of good champagne. Your blue, blue eyes are fringed with lashes that many of my girlfriends (and a couple of my guy friends) would pay big bucks for at Sephora. You are the tallest child in your class and getter taller by the second, which proves that Skittles are, in fact, not only a nutritiously sound food item, but should be eaten as often as possible, in large quantities.

Your wry commentary on life makes your father and I laugh. A few months ago, I was out for the better part of the day to attend a baby shower. When I returned, you demanded to know what had taken me so long?! When I said that the shower had taken a long time, you furrowed your brow and replied with sincere concern that perhaps next time, it would be faster to give the baby a BATH instead of a shower so that I could return home sooner.

You love sea creatures, dinosaurs, race cars, and riding your scooter around the block. You proclaim that you want to be a race car driver when you grow-up. You never tire of staging loud races around the dining room table with your fleet of miniature cars, all of whom have distinct personalities and names.

You like to quiz your father and I regarding inane details about rare sea animals that you have learned about. When we cannot list exactly what, say, beluga whales eat, you will roll your eyes at our stupidity and quote from your sea animal book verbatim. ("Beluga whales are opportunistic feeders. They are known to prey on about 100 different kinds of primarily bottom-dwelling animals. They eat octopus; squid; crabs; shrimp; clams; snails; sandworms; and fishes such as cod, herring, smelt, and flounder.") Then you will turn to the page in the sea animal book that you are referencing and point out the exact paragraph you are quoting - which, I'll be darned - will be right on - even though you cannot read the words yet.

The first time you did this I called your father at work to report that you would be attending Stanford or Cal Tech before the age of fourteen and we'd better up our college savings efforts right now. Princeton might also be acceptable, but you are not allowed to go to Harvard because both your father and I, right before we met that fateful night in a smoky dive bar -- I mean, at a Save-the-Whales rally -- dated (different) Harvard law alumna who were uniquely obnoxious in their respective smug Harvard-ness. Plus, Boston is cold and I want to visit somewhere sunny with palm trees. There will be no arguing about this, young man; I am your mother and I say so.

So, happy birthday, Ethan. I wish you a lifetime full of happiness and laughter and green Skittles.

Love, Mom

Sugar Rush

Ethan's fifth birthday party is this weekend. Last year I went a bit overboard on the food, goody bags and all related stuff. I promised my husband this year I would NOT "overdo it" (despite an almost pathological inability to not overdo it).

I just received this e-mail about the cupcakes I ordered:

This message was sent to you at the request of Divvies LLC to notify you that the package information below has been transmitted to UPS.

Scheduled Delivery: 29-February-2008

Ship To: ATTENTION: [Deleted]

Boxes: 2

UPS Service: GROUND

Weight: 28.0 LBS

I think 28 pounds of cupcakes may count as overdoing it.

Crazy Like A Fox

I have not posted in awhile. I have been busy setting up my office. After working for a big firm and a small firm and a judge and even the Discovery Channel (Yes -- I am name-dropping and No -- I did not get to go down in those cool shark cages with the Great Whites), I am out on my own. For better or for worse. If you have a phone, you have a lawyer. Call me.

On a non-self-promotional note, I have also been busy helping my son apply and interview for colleges. And by colleges, I mean kindergarten. Haven't you heard - first grade is the new Masters program? To those who have children still sucking on pacifiers, you'd better hurry up and make sure your kid has all of his or her pre-reqs completed. AP Physics by age three is de rigeur, these days.

Of course, my husband and I have different philosophies about private school v. public school. We, in fact, have different philosophies on pretty much anything involving money. He thinks public school is superior because it is - in a word - free. I think private school is superior because it is - in a word - expensive.

Actually, truth be told, public school would be fine and dandy for our little Einstein if safety were not such a concern. Serious issue alert: Ethan has a life-threatening allergy to peanuts and tree-nuts. This means that if he eats even a minute smidgen of something with nuts or that "may contain" nuts or that has rubbed against a nut and has some nutty-like residue on it, his whole body can crash, resulting in shock and heart-stopping, throat-closing death within minutes. Emergency treatment of such an allergic reaction requires giving him a shot in the thigh (or many shots in the thigh) of epinephrine and calling 911 for advanced life support. My little guy does not go ANYWHERE without four syringes of epinephrine and a cell phone.

My issue with the public school is that they agree to keep his epinephrine but will LOCK it up in the nurse's office, which is open at all times, EXCEPT when the door is shut and locked for one hour a day while the nurse is at lunch. I get it - they lock it because it is a needle and medicine and kids will be kids - BUT if your kid were on the ground turning blue, would you be happy about this? What happens when the nurse calls in sick and nobody can find the key? Or is out having a smoke and nobody can find the key? Or her car gets a flat and she is five minutes late and nobody can find the key? It is simply unacceptable.

There are a couple of private schools that do not lock up the epinephrine but instead will keep it on the teacher's person. And can provide a nut-free cafeteria. And seem more than willing to work with us on not killing our kid. It took the public school FIVE days to call me back and then I was told they understand Ethan has a life-threatening medical condition and want to meet with us to review emergency plans and are really happy to do so - but they are currently busy with testing - so maybe we can get together in mid-May?

So, now all my lawyer-like hackles are raised, combined with all my mommy-like hackles. I am yelling "ADA and 504s" and want to take reasonable steps and start writing letters and calling higher-ups and storming the Board of Ed and setting fires, but Jeff placated a bit. This, I should note, AFTER he said that I need to calm down because "confrontation is my middle name [direct quote]." To which I calmly and rationally replied, "What the F*** do you mean by THAT?!!!!!" And then he hid in the guest room. For the next three weeks. So, that went well. Communication is the key to a healthy marriage.

But now we are all "Look, schools! Happy happy family!" and are moving on to the parent interview section of the private school admission process - meaning schools interview the parents, not the other way around. I really hope there will not be an oral math section; I am not strong with computing fractions in my head. Jeff got new shoes and I got eight new suits because nothing I owned matched his new shoes. I hope they like us!!!

If not, have you heard about that lunatic setting fires at the Board of Ed? A travesty, really.