Dexy's Double Life

I was picking up Dexy from day care the other day, when I discovered something alarming.

I am the mother of an almost-two-year-old double agent.

I picked up my baby boy, brushed the blond hair out of his clear blue eyes, and watched as he popped his left thumb in his mouth so his right hand could grab a hank of my hair.

"Dexy!" his teacher said in scandalized tones. "I didn't know you suck your thumb!"

Excuse me? This child, who, if the ultrasound pictures are any indication, has been sucking his thumb since before his actual birth, doesn't suck his thumb at school?

That's right. Not even at nap time. He just lays down on his cot and goes right to sleep.

Right.

To.

Sleep.

Apparently, at school, the Dexy who requires two parents, an iPod of oldies, and seventeen carefully selected stuffed animals to fall asleep doesn't exist.

Interesting.

At school, Dexy also:

• Lies quietly when his diaper is changed (as opposed to saying, "No, Mommy! No poop!" and kicking/peeing on the diaper-er)
• Eats very neatly, using his utensils. He's the neatest one in the class, she says. You lie, I said, thinking of the spaghetti stains on my ceiling.
• Reads several major world newspapers and provides translations for some of the day care staff.

Okay, I made that last one up. But, still, I am disturbed. Who is this little boy? My Dexy is still my little baby, not this grown-up toddler about to sprout facial hair and football pads.

Then, I realized it:

He's humoring me.

He's staying my baby for me. No, stay with me on this one: he likes being the baby, he knows I like him being my baby, so where's the harm?

I promise, if he's still sucking his thumb when the facial hair and football pads appear, I'll put a stop to it.

Probably.

Good News, Bad News

I was cleaning my house today.

No, that's not all, but it's fairly momentous in and of itself, since I simply don't "do" household chores.

Anyway, I was cleaning my house the other day, and I uncovered a box we inherited when Sven's oldest brother, Olaf, passed away. Olaf, who was the oldest of the boys, was 7 years older than Sven. He was only 39 when he died; he passed away the day we brought Princess home from the hospital. Understandably (I hope), when Olaf's partner Jim gave us boxes of things Olaf wanted us to have, we simply weren't able to get through it all. We tried, but the demands of a newborn won out over everything else.

Then, two years later, another newborn came along.

So now, almost four years after Olaf's death, I uncovered this box. Inside the box was Sven's father's watch (Sven's father died when Sven was 17), some other costume jewelry pieces, and some mysterious bagged objects.

The bagged objects contained some real treasure.

As many of my readers know, I'm LDS. We LDS spend a lot of time on family history, or "genealogy," to use the technical, outdated term. My mother's family comes from a long, long line of LDS folks, so much of my family history, at least on her side, is done.

Grandma and Grandpa Debmom.

The Debmom Family Reunion, 1998

Sven's side, on the other hand, is a huge mystery.

As I said, Sven's dad died when Sven was 17. His parents had been divorced for over a decade at that time. His mother, Helga, was an only child; Helga's mother died when Helga was 18. Helga's father, Rufus, lived to be 97, but was a fairly incoherent man by the time Sven knew him. (He knew Sven as "the other one.") Sven's relationship with his paternal family was somewhat distant after the divorce, so he didn't get to know them very well.

In short, there was a lot of missing information. So, imagine my joy when we opened the box to see this:

Sven's dad's Bible

And this:

Cassette tapes of Sven's Uncle Snookie telling the family history and lineage

And these:

TONS of pictures and newspaper clippings, mostly preserved in the Bible.

That's the good news. The bad news was this:

Yes, when I opened the family Bible, I was greeted by a wad of anonymous human hair.

Many of the pictures had no captions or notes, so I'm writing letters to Sven's surviving aunt and great-aunt to see if they are interested in helping me find this information. I sincerely doubt they can help me with the hair.

But what a joy it was to see my children's faces echo some of the photographs! Having grown up myself with a strong sense of my own family history, I am so excited to get to compile some of this for Sven and my children.

We're a good looking family, if I say so myself. I know you can't see much detail, but trust me.

However, all of this got me thinking about the nature of family "heirlooms." There are some heirlooms that I love, I mean LOVE to have. My grandmother's pearls come to mind. In fact, I have a jewelry box so full of current and future "heirlooms" that I just ordered another jewelry box, so I can use this one just for costume stuff.

I have a problem. Don't judge me.

However, when I was going through the box, I laughingly pointed out to Sven that, ha ha, Olaf had saved two gas bills Rufus had received in 1956 for the house we no longer own in Beaumont, Texas. Ha!

"Heh," Sven said. "You know Olaf, he saved everything."

"Ha," I agreed. "Throw those away, okay?"

He didn't throw them away.

So, of course, when I broached the subject of throwing away the mystery hair, Sven poo-poo'd all over it. (Figuratively.)

I get that the Bible, which we're sure was Sven's father's, is an heirloom. It's cracked and old, but it's something of his dad's, so I have no problem keeping it.

But the mystery hair? Is that really an "heirloom?"

One of my friends made the point that she saves things because she knows who the things belonged to, but her kids don't so they can feel free to throw them away. (She pointed out that the things she saved were quite ugly.) Sven and I are keeping a wad of hair, hair belonging to various deceased persons, because that hair PROBABLY came from Sven's relatives.

So, I have contained the entire Bible in two gallon-size Ziploc bags, thusly:

and shall label the entire package "Papaw's Bible And Dubious Hair."

I'm sure my progeny will shiver with delight.

Itinerary

The following is my itinerary for our final summer trip, a two-day expedition to San Antonio. I'm pleased to say that I followed this itinerary to the letter.

7:30 a.m.: Wake up, look at clock, realize you wanted to leave at 7:00, shrug, go back to sleep.

8:30 a.m.: Allow Sven to wake the household.

9:00 a.m.: Begin putting children in the car.

9:02 a.m.: Discover the neighborhood cat on our front porch.

9:15 a.m.: Begin putting children in the car.

9:28 a.m.: Pull out of the driveway. Nod wisely when Sven points to the clock and says, "See, we left by 9:30."

9:32 a.m.: Get fuel. Go in to get snacks while Sven drives home to retrieve the Shamu Sports Cup that entitles us to $.99 refills at Sea World.

9:45 a.m.: Sven returns. "We're not going back again," he grumbles. "That's fine," you say. "Did you get the kids' beds?"

9:46 a.m.: Princess says, "Daddy, we don't say 'dammit.'"

9:52 a.m.: Sven gets the kids' beds, you get the DVD player and an assortment of movies the children will hate and cry about.

9:58 a.m.: "See, we left by 10:00."

12:45 p.m.: Stop for lunch at The World's Slowest Chili's.

1:52 p.m.: Back in the car.

2:30 p.m.: Make the obligatory stop at Buc-ee's for fresh fudge and dubious jerky. Sven vows, "We will not get any stuffed animals on this trip."

2:37 p.m.: Leave Buc-ee's with a screaming Princess sobbing, "But I wanted to see the animals!" and Dexy pointing over your shoulder, crying, "Want that! Want that!" But you are stuffed-animal free.

4:03 p.m.: Arrive at Natural Bridge Caverns. Sven and Princess do the cave tour while Dexy and you "mine" for "gemstones" in Texas' Longest Sluice. Don't pretend you're not impressed.

5:30 p.m.: Go to the drive-thru safari. Purchase 4 paper bags of food and get the strict instruction: don't hand feed the animals, keep your hands inside your car.

5:45 p.m.: Sven hand-feeds an antelope. It goes well.

6:00 p.m.: You hand-feed a zebra and pet it on the nose. The zebra, sensing your weakness, puts its entire massive head inside the car. You coolly scream and throw the entire bag of food at the zebra while Dexy (on your lap) looks mildly concerned. The zebra takes the entire bag of food and finally leaves. You keeps your window rolled up for the remainder of the trip.

6:45 p.m.: You do not go to the gift shop. Stuffed animal count: 0

7:00 p.m.: Eat dinner at the Magic Time Machine, where the waitstaff includes Dorothy, Harry Potter, Lara Croft, and Elizabeth Swan. There was also a Naughty Alice in Wonderland, but you're not sure why she was there. The children get balloons.

7:52 p.m.: The Balloon War of 2009 has commenced in the back seat of the car, where Princess insists that she needs to Hold On to Dexy's balloon, Just In Case.

8:30 p.m.: You find your hotel and check in. You immediately begin putting the kids into their swim gear, knowing this will be the best way to get them tired enough to sleep.

9:00 p.m.: You still haven't gotten anyone into swimwear except Sven.

9:20 p.m.: All are now in swimwear and heading down to the pool.

9:24 p.m.: You get into the pool, populated by a polite family finishing a poolside dinner.

9:40 p.m.: The Rowdy McYell family arrives at the pool. They appear to have 28 children, all between the ages of 11 and 14. These children begin to dive into the pool.

9:42 p.m.: You, having been kicked twice by the same child, turn your gaze to the McYell parents, only to see them making out in the deep end of the pool while holding their baby. Not wanting to disturb them, you make Sven, Dexy, and Princess stick to the shallow end of the pool.

9:45 p.m.: The McYell boys begin diving into the shallow end of the pool. Mr. and Mrs. McYell move their makeout session to the center of the pool.

9:46 p.m.: Princess informs you that there is a monster in the pool, so you need to go.

9:52 p.m.: You are back in the room, promising the children a hot bath.

9:53 p.m.: You discover the bathtub lacks a stopper, so there will just be a quick rinse in the shower.

9:55 p.m.: Princess discovers that her left buttock will block the drain, so she takes her bath.

10:10 p.m.: You take your shower.

10:30 p.m.: Children asleep, Sven goes to get garbage bags. You check your blog, e-mail, and Facebook, then play Bejeweled until you are ready to go to sleep.

10:37 p.m.: You are ready to go to sleep.

11:25 p.m.: Sven comes back.

11:45 p.m.: Sven is asleep.

12:30 a.m.: Sister Act is on.

1:30 a.m.: You are asleep.

2:22 a.m.: Dexy comes to your side of the bed, whimpering.

2:25, 2:37, 2:58, 3:12, 3:31, 3:48: Dexy pulls your hair and kicks you.

4:00 a.m.: Dexy is finally still and you go to sleep.

6:00 a.m.: Alarm goes off.

6:10, 6:20, 6:30: Alarm goes off.

7:00 a.m.: You wake, realizing that Sven, Princess, and Dexy are already up and getting dressed. "Getting up today, Lazybones?" Sven teases. You aren't amused.

8:15 a.m.: Check out of the hotel and set off for breakfast.

8:20 a.m.: Denny's.

9:15 a.m.: On the way to Sea World! Yay!

10:00 a.m.: Sea World opens with the playing of the National Anthem. You go immediately to feed the dolphins.

10:15 a.m.: You feed and pet a dolphin!

12:00 p.m.: Shamu show. You, again, sob throughout.

12:48 p.m.: Ice cream.

1:12 p.m.: You proceed to the Sea Lion holding tank and purchase a small paper tub of partially disemboweled fish and squid to feed them.

1:13 p.m.: Your paper tub falls into the pool, necessitating retrieval by two surly Sea World employees wielding a 12-foot net.

1:17 p.m.: You proceed to the World of Penguins.

1:24 p.m.: You, having seen the entire World of Penguins, prepare to leave.

1:25 p.m.: Sven takes Princess back through the World of Penguins, Just To See.

1:27 p.m.: Sven purchases two stuffed animals: a pink penguin for Princess, a crazy rubber-haired penguin for Dexy. (He already bought Princess a Shamu necklace.) Sven hangs his head in shame.

1:58 p.m.: You load the car and leave for home, secure that you have gotten enough use from your Fun Cards to justify buying them.

2:01 p.m.: Sven says, "Don't worry, Princess, we can come back for Labor Day."

Quirks II: Sven's Mom

I never had a great relationship with my mother-in-law. I don't mind saying it, it's just a fact of life. But, she had one little "quirk" that never failed to amuse me:

She always completely butchered names and titles, but in a way that made them easily recognizable.

I was thinking about this when I saw this recent SNL sketch: (Note: the commercial may not load, but watch the bottom bar, after 30 seconds you should get the sketch.)

We had certain things we had to translate for others.

In her language:

"Fluton" = futon ("I don't know where you want me to sleep, but I can't sleep on that fluton.")

"Siskel & Eggbert" = Sigfried and Roy ("I don't want to go to a magic show. I went to Las Vegas and saw Siskel and Eggbert and they put on the best show you ever saw.")

Celebrity names were a trial. Usually she wouldn't even attempt them. She'd say things like "That pretty blond actress" (Jessica Lange, or perhaps Reese Witherspoon. Who knows?). But our friends' names were also a problem, and she was much more descriptive there.

"You know that friend of yours? Who I thought was a woman? You know? Because his hair is so long? And I didn't notice the beard right away? You'd think he could cut his hair so people wouldn't be embarrassed when they didn't notice he was a man right away." Sven, tears streaming down his face, would repeat his friend's name every time she took a breath, but it did no good. Our good friend would forever be the one she thought was a woman at first, and she made sure to tell him every time she saw him. ("You know, I thought you were a woman. Because your hair's so long.")

She had dozens of home-dubbed videotapes of movies. Some of the titles were entertaining:

"The Truth About the Dogs and the Cats"

"How's the Air Up There?"

Others were just incomprehensible:

"Dead Man Walking Tall." I never knew if that one was "Dead Man Walking," or "Walking Tall," or perhaps "A Walk In the Clouds." It could have been anything. That was part of the fun of watching movies at Sven's house when we begain dating.

Sven: What would you like to watch? "Bridges of the Fall" or "Dangerous Learning?"

Deb: Let's be romantic.

Sven: {sitting down} I wonder if it will be "Bridges of Madison County" or "Legends of the Fall?"

Deb: Either one is fine.

It was "Grumpier Old Men." Huh.

Idiosyncrasies

My little family is wonderfully quirky.

Take my little Princess, for instance:

Princess is a very picky eater. Some things are typical "little-kid" picky things: she doesn't like "binchtables," she hates watermelon...all of these I can accept. But Princess takes picky to a new level.

She only eats the "good parts" of the food.

When she eats a peanut butter sandwich, she will return to me two absolutely clean pieces of bread carried in hands festooned with peanut butter.

When she eats a corn dog, the "shuckings" will be piled neatly on the plate with no trace of the hot dog that was in the center. (This is actually okay with me, as I continue to believe that the corn dog is actually a prank gone too far.)

She only eats the buttered side of her toast.

She sucks every noodle clean of alfredo sauce.

All of this I can accept and live with. But I can no longer be silent on the matter of kolaches.

A kolache, for those of you so unfortunate as to reside outside the land of Texas ("Land of the Free and Home of the Armed") or any other Bavarian-influenced cultural center, is a filled pastry. Here in Southeast Texas, the kolache is a savory pastry primarily consumed for breakfast and sold in most doughnut shops.

Imagine the kolache thusly: a warm, buttery yeast roll baked around savory cheese (which may or may not contain jalapenos) and sausage. (I know some people think kolaches can have ham or bacon, but I ignore them in public. I also know some people prefer their kolaches cheese-less, or "dry," and for them I believe jail time is warranted. Furthermore, real kolaches are only available at Snowflake Donut in Baytown, because they label their "hot" ones with a piece of jalapeno baked into the top of the roll, so you know what you're getting instead of the "surprise" hot ones that slip into your purchase elsewhere. But I digest.)

Princess only eats the "hot dog" out of her kolache, leaving the amazingly good and crusty bread and the savory warm cheese discarded on her plate like so much corn dog shuckings. This, of course, makes it necessary for Mommy to consume said leavings, lest they "go to waste."

The kicker: last night at dinner, Princess consumed her weight in calamari. Apparently there's no "yucky part" to deep-fried squid.

As for Dexy:

He will eat anything in the world, as long as it's not on his own plate. You can picture him easily, huge smile on his face, flitting from plate to plate, taking the choicest morsels, stuffing them in his face, and running like the wind. He is very protective of his own plate, though. The other day, Dexy took a Cheeto from Princess' plate (ignoring the pile on his own) and, chortling, ran off to eat it. Princess very calmly got up, went to Dexy's plate, and took two. Dexy cried for 30 minutes at the affront to his authority.

Dexy didn't care for the calamari. He did consume all of the bread.

As for Sven and me, our quirk is a simple one, but one that has been with us throughout the decade-plus of our relationship. I call it the Law of Groceries:

If both of us go to the grocery store and make a purchase designed to allow us to eat at home for a time period greater than one day, we cannot eat at home that day. It's just that simple.

Last night, we went to Sam's Club and stocked up on our "bulk" food needs. 50 bags of Cheetos, 48 bags of M&M's, and Q-tips. On the way out, we were ambushed by the Sample Lady who had prepared a chicken-and-four-cheese ravioli with fresh pesto. It was not only delicious, Dexy loved it, so we told ourselves, "Let's get it and we can have it for dinner when we get home." It would be quick, just heat-and-eat, really. I even bought some French bread to do some garlic toast (or Crustini, or whatever they're calling them now).

We spent between $3-400 at Sam's. On the way home, we were congratulating ourselves on how much money we'd save in the long run, that we had enough to make lunches at home for weeks and dinner at home for days, we'd even gotten breakfast foods the kids liked! Yes, no more eating out for us, no sir. Not for a long time.

Then we hit traffic.

By the time we got home, we literally left the car running while Sven and I hurriedly put the groceries away, then headed to Antonio's Italian Restaurant. The children were hungry enough to be well-behaved, and other than the guilt oozing from our pores at spending $50 on a meal out when we had just spent over $300 on groceries, a wonderful time was had by all.

We did skip dessert. I can sacrifice.

Sometimes.

Minister of New Media

I recently was appointed to a very high position in an exclusive club. The Kettle Social Club is an invitation-only Facebook group made up of a group of us who used to hang out at a 24-hour diner and philosophize, play chess, and swap lies. For whatever reason, I have been appointed Minister of New Media. (Before you get too impressed, my friend Danny is Minster of Midget Porn, a title that makes a lot of sense if you know Danny.)

The Kettle Social club started with Sven and his friend Zeb (short for Zebalebadingalingadingdongshoobop). Sven and Zeb have been friends since middle school. In college, they discovered that late nights combined with gallons of coffee and cartons of cigarettes rendered them intelligent and interesting, so they began hanging around at the Kettle every night. I began dating Sven in January of 1994 and was absorbed seamlessly into the group, bringing along my friends, who brought along their friends. Before we knew it, we had a "core group" of about 8 people, with additional pals that brought the group to as many as 20 people. We had some real characters.

Cowboy Dave, for example, was a pipe fitter, chess player, and AA sponsor who had the most colorful way of putting things. His standard greeting to me was, "Come sit on Paw-Paw's knee." To this day, Sven talks like Cowboy Dave when he's trying to be cute.

Drew was a bit older than most of us, and was a semi-professional magician who worked at the Texas Renaissance Festival. He would bring his latest card tricks to wow mostly me, who was the only one at the table who didn't get how they worked.

Danny, the aforementioned Minister of MP, was (at the time) an aspiring stand-up comedian whose humor was based on surprising you with something completely unexpected, then repeating it again and again until it was funny. One night he had me in stitches for hours by chanting "It's a human thumb!" and showing me his thumb. Really. You kind of had to be there.

Richard was the chess player in his 70's who left the group when he reconnected with his high school sweetheart, who he married.

Cowhig had a pet 'possum. I held it on my shoulder once.

Kim and Tom were our on-again, off-again couple.

Robert was an usher at my wedding.

Owen missed the wedding (he overslept) but he was there when my dad died.

I think my love for all of these folks can be summed up by the following quote from Danny, left on my Facebook wall:

"I've got a heart full of love and a hand full of smackin'."

And I know he means it.

I Like Mondays

Good morning! It's the start of another week, and here are my five things to like this Monday, April 27, 2009:

1. Although acess to my blog is cut off at work, I can still access my dashboard and make new posts! So I won't be able to read your comments, or read and comment on yours, until I get home this afternoon, but I can still post during my break!

2. Neither of my children ran any fever all weekend. I am hopeful this means they are getting over this; they certainly were full of pep and vigor this morning. This also means they can go back to day care today, which means I won't have any more money docked from my paycheck this week, hopefully! (They both have ear infections, and I've exceeded my allotted sick days, so every day I'm out costs a day's pay.)

3. The premier of "Daisy Of Love" totally lived down to my expectations last night, except for one thing: I actually kind of liked Daisy. I wonder if we'll see that much of her tummy in every episode? I hope she finds love this season. Or, at least, someone who keeps her out of general society for a few weeks. And Tough Love? Best episode ever. VH-1, keep them coming. Either your shows are getting better, or I'm getting dumber. Or both.

4. My Amish Friendship Bread was the best. bread. EVER! My little bubbling bag of goo made some very tasty treats, and in 9 days I'll have more to share. I had a very busy weekend, and the fact that I managed to bake bread in the middle of everything makes me feel like Supermom. Or, it would, if I didn't have a week's worth of clean laundry to fold sitting on my couch and a carpet that would make my mom go blind if she saw it...

5. Summer is only a few weeks away. Sven and I did our taxes and we can travel a bit, so we're deciding now where to go! It's so much fun to think about different places we can go. Of course, I always want to go back to Branson, but Sven wants to go somewhere "new" this year. We shall see...I'm betting I still get at least a weekend in my home-away-from-home.

I hope everyone has a wonderful week!

The Horror, Oh, The Horror!

I have a pitch for a horror movie targeted at a very specific audience.

This audience would be parents, approaching or just past 40, with their youngest child almost out of diapers/ready to start school.

Title: "The Stick"

Secondary Title: Based on a true story...

{We open on a well-furnished, spacious bedroom. The room is cluttered with books, magazines, and children's toys. The camera pans across the room, and we notice a brown-haired lump under one side of the bed covers, breathing peacefully. The other half of the bed is empty. Dissolve to exterior shot, day, with husband, wife, and two small children outside playing in the grass.}

Woman: I've got the last of little Janey's baby clothes all bagged up. I'll take them by the charity bin tonight.

Man: That's good. I've got all of the swings and things ready for the church garage sale.

Woman: It will be great to finally clear out all of this clutter.

Man: Imagine, by this time next year, we won't have any more diapers in the house.

Woman: And in two years, we'll only have one in day care. Imagine what we can do with that money!

Man: We can pay off the house faster, that's for sure.

Woman: Maybe we can take that cruise you wanted to go on.

Man: Or that trip to England you're always talking about.

Woman: Why not? When the kids are old enough to appreciate it, that would be great.

Man: One boy, one girl. Things are just perfect, aren't they?

Woman: I can finally get my Master's degree! {She sighs and settles back into the grass.}


{Dissolve back to the previous interior, where we now recognize the man from the previous scene as the contented lump under the covers. The camera moves into the bathroom, where a fuzzy-haired woman we also recognize from the previous scene peers owlishly at a slender white object in her right hand.}

Woman: Come on, come on!

{Close-up on the woman's face, the shot focuses finally on her eyes. They grow wide, and she screams wildly. The camera pans to the object in her hand, which has two pronounced pink lines in the middle.}

Title card: THE STICK!

Terrifying, isn't it?

(Disclaimer: this is based on a true story, but mine had a very different ending this morning. I didn't think one line and "Yippee!" made for a great ending, horror-wise.)

(I'm not pregnant.)

My Musical Legacy

I often reflect on how different my two children are from each other.  I have a three-year-old daughter, Princess, pictured below:

I also have a 16-month-old son, whom I have been referring to as Sven, Jr., pictured here:

I have been reflecting on Sven Jr.'s blog name, looking for a defining characteristic that can be summed up in one descriptive term.  This weekend, I believe I found it: Dexy.  As in, Dexy's Midnight Runners?  As in, the band that recorded one of the greatest '80's songs ever, "Come On Eileen?"  Let me explain.

I believe I have referenced before on this blog my love for countdown-type shows, often featured on VH-1.  I Love the '70's, I Love the '80's, I Love the '90's, I Love Toys...these all fill me with varying degrees of delight.  However, I really love the ones with titles like "100 Greatest Songs of the '80's."  Those occupy me for days, as I track down song after song on iTunes.  I especially love the '80's countdowns because they show video clips, which bring back memories of me sneaking out to the living room to watch a brand-new station called MTV, which only showed music videos, and which my mother was convinced would send the entire nation into a seething mass of immorality, hence the sneaking.  Fortunately, my dad really liked MTV, too, so I got to watch a fair amount of it after Mom went to bed.  (Sorry, Mom.  In his defense, Dad only let me watch if I was quiet enough that he could legitimately say he hadn't noticed me there.)

The newest compilation countdown to appear on VH-1 could only have been designed for me, so rapturous was my reception of it: 100 Greatest One-Hit Wonders of the '80's.  So this weekend, Sven, Jr. and I sat together and watched commentary on some of the best music ever produced.

Sven Jr. loved it.  Remember his instant reaction to Beyonce's "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)"?  That paled in comparison to his instant affinity to the song "Mickey".  His thumb popped out of his mouth as a wide grin stretched across his face, and his little foot began to stomp as those timeless lyrics wafted out over us:

"Oh, Mickey, you're so fine,

You're so fine, you blow my mind,

Hey Mickey!  Hey Mickey!" 

         -(William Shakespeare, As If You Liked It Or Something, Act IV, Scene 25)

Okay, so it's not Shakespeare.  It's Toni Basil, a choreographer who still works with such red-hot celebrities as Bette Midler and Reese Witherspoon.  The point is, as each of these songs from my youth spun out, Sven Jr./Dexy got more and more excited.  The high point, though, was that song that VH-1 determined was the greatest One-Hit Wonder of the 80's: "Come On Eileen."  That song has always just made me happy.  I remember when I was in my early 20's, I would listen to that song (which was already an oldie) just to feel good.  I actually made a mix tape that featured that song four or five times per side.

It would seem, then, that little Dexy's affinity for '80's music is come by honestly.  I plan to encourage this, as I have encouraged Princess' love for Andy Williams and the score from Hairspray.  I think I'll have a lot more fun encouraging Dexy, this time, though...

45 Days

I happened to notice last night, when looking at the school calendar purely for recreation, that we have 45 instructional days left in our school year, counting today.

Okay, technically, it's 46 days, but two of them are early release days, so I combined them. But I want to stress that I'm not counting. I especially did not count twice to make sure.

I can almost taste summer. The freedom, the knowledge that the only children driving me crazy will be my own, the lazy nights in bed after the kids are asleep...it's coming.

Is it crazy that now, as an adult, a teacher, "one of them," I look forward to summer more than I ever did as a child?

Princess and Sven Jr. have new swimsuits. Phase 1 of my post-winter leg-shaving has commenced. The movies have even started...I look at the trailer for "17 Again" and am instantly in the state of total mind numbness that only summer brings.

My vision will blur, so that I can't focus on a book, but somehow I will have no trouble with the print in Entertainment Weekly. I will develop a taste for seafood again. My clothing will become soft, shapeless, and completely dedicated to comfort. I will cut my hair short and never style it.

I will play with my children for hours at a time. I will read books to them, pretending I'm doing it for them, but really doing it because the plot of "Timmy the Tadpole" has taken on new significance to me. I will tell myself I will clean my house.

Bring it on. I am so ready for summer.

Spring Break Adventures III: Galveston

I had totally planned to stay home on Friday, the last real day of Spring Break, and clean house.  I had laundry to do, dishes to wash, and cheese cracker residue to scrape off of every non-permeable surface in the house.

This did not get done.  Princess announced after breakfast that she wanted to go to the beach, so Sven prepared to take Princess to Galveston for the afternoon.  Sven Jr., seeing them leave, began to cry.  Sven sighed dramatically and put shoes and socks on his son.  In other words, Sven was preparing to take both children out of the house for several hours, leaving me there alone.

Like a complete and utter fool, this prospect filled me with dread.  I wanted to be there if Sven Jr. got to walk on the beach for the first time.  I wanted to know if Princess said or did something adorably precocious.  So, instead of taking advantage of the solitude and cleaning the house or napping, I said, "Wait for me!" and joined them in the car.

It was totally worth it.  Galveston still shows a lot of damage from Hurricane Ike, but it's coming back.  Here's a picture of Princess and Sven on The Strand, the historic district next to the pier on the bay side of the island:

The mark above Sven's head is the water mark from Ike's storm surge.  Sven is about 6' tall, so you can imagine how much damage there is to repair.

The good news for me: Galveston Bookshop, my favorite used book store, located on 23rd Street right off The Strand, is fully re-stocked and looking great.  GB had 7' of water in the store, completely wiping out the first floor, but they now have brand new shelves, a beautiful new tile floor, and replenished stock.  Anyone who reads my blog who goes to Galveston needs to check out this excellent book store.  (If you click on the link I provided, you can see pictures of the new look as well as right after the storm.  Very impressive.)

The better news for me: I got to see Sven Jr.'s first time on the beach, as he played in the sand with his sister:

I guess it's okay that the house is a mess.  I think I made the right call.

Spring Break Adventures II: Sea World San Antonio

Or: Deb Discovers She Cannot Heckle Shamu

It began weeks ago: Princess approached me and laid her adorable head on my knee, and, bottom lip quivering, said:

"Mama?  I want to go and see Shampoo."

"You want a bath?" I asked, thoroughly confused.

"No," she answered, rolling her eyes at my stupidity.  "I want to see Shampoo the WHALE."  (You must imagine this last word spoken in 3-year-old Texan dialect, so it comes out WAY-yull.)

"Ah," I said, throwing a helpless glance at Sven, who, helpful as always, shrugged.  "Well, sweetheart, we have some vacation coming up, so we'll see if maybe we can go and see Shamu."

"Not 'Shamu,' Mommy," she patiently corrected me, "Shampoo.  Shampoo is the whale.  Shamu is the baby brother."  My misinformation sufficiently corrected, Princess went on her merry way, satisfied that her mommy would take care of it, so there would be no need to bring it up again.

Ha, ha!  Clearly, I jest.  Princess has mentioned Shampoo and her need to see him at least thrice daily for the last three weeks.  Last year it was caves.  I'm thinking this year may be the Year of the Whale.

So, like any parents with a firm and reasonable grip on their children, Sven and I planned a trip to Sea World: San Antonio because we wanted to go.  Not because Princess made us.

I must confess: I truly, truly wanted to heckle the Shamu show.  It's called "Believe!" and it is the cheesiest, most cliche "story" imaginable.  It starts with a movie.  There's a little boy who loves killer whales, so he looks at them in a book, then whittles a whale tail out of wood and wears it as a necklace, then goes to the beach and sees a killer whale, and canoes out to meet it, and the whale says, "What's up?" and the music swells.  Then, the real-life trainer walks out, and he's wearing a wooden whale tail pendant!  Which is also available in the gift shop for $15!  How inspiring.

The problem is, I am literally awed to tears by the magnificence of those animals.  Before the show, the whales are all swimming around the pool, warming up or something, and the moment I see them I just start bawling.  When the necklace-wearing trainer points across the water and Shamu leaps up, I am genuinely moved, despite the cheesiness.  They are amazing to watch, and Princess and I were very happy, though I think Princess was a bit embarrassed by my enthusiasm.

"Mommy, stop it," she said to me as I sobbed into my souvenir Shamu bath towel, a bargain at $10.

"Did you see that?" I asked her, tears streaming down my face.  "Did you see the whale give him a kiss?"

"I want to sit with Daddy," she replied, edging away from me.  

After I had sufficiently recovered from Believe! we went to Viva!, billed as an amazing interaction between acrobats, dolphins, and beluga whales.  This, I could have heckled.  Unfortunately, Sven Jr. was so emotionally drained from Believe! that he was asleep in the stroller, making it necessary for me to stand at the back of the theater and only glimpse the show between the heads of children who were standing on the seats to better see the show.  However, I think I caught the gist...several vaguely fish-costumed acrobats fall in the water, and they bring out the dolphins/whales every ten minutes or so.  I won't mention that the fish costumes were skintight and very unforgiving, particularly on some of the auxiliary fishes.

Princess was soon bored with Viva!.  I wanted to go and see the Penguin Encounter!, so we did.  We stepped on an automatic walkway, the kind you see in major airports, and very slowly went by a room full of penguins.  It made you say, "Wow.  Look at the penguins."  I bet they think we're idiots.  In fact, I bet the penguins think that walkway is there for their amusement, and if we could understand their language, we would here snarky comments from them about fashion choices and hairstyles.  

After the Penguin Encounter! we went to Dolphin Cove! where we can feed and pet real live dolphins.  Except it was so crowded they had cut off the food, and the dolphins were not interested in being petted by Sven Jr., much to his dismay.

"Hoo dey?" he demanded, pointing imperiously at the dolphins.  "Eee ta."  Translation: Bring me a dolphin to pet, and I shall reward you with a moist kiss and pull your hair for an hour.

"Honey, they just want to swim," I answered.

"Oooo," he answered disapprovingly.  Translation: Those rude dolphins.  Don't they know they exist, as does everything else, for my amusement.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I said, wincing as he grabbed my hair.

"Pa bo," he replied.  Translation: You're all right.  I may kiss you later.

After Dolphin Cove! and the Coral Reef! Princess demanded to go back and see the Sea Lion Exhibit! and fell asleep before the sentence was out of her mouth.  Sven and I raced to the car as quickly as we could while Sven Jr. poked princess with impunity, and we headed home, exhausted.

I can't wait to go back.

Spring Break Adventures: We Go To The Zoo

Since Sven and I are both teachers, we have a lovely "bonus" week of vacation every year: Spring Break.  We pull the kids out of day care for the week and spend every waking moment together, reminding me why I work outside the home.

Kidding!  Really, I am.  I love my husband and my children and the time I spend with them is very precious.  The kids are growing so fast, sometimes I'm afraid I'm missing so much by having to leave them in day care, so any chance I have to spend time with them I take.

Today, Sven and I packed up bright and early (10:00-ish) and took the kids to the zoo.  This is an outing we rarely tire of, and since we purchased a zoo membership this year, we can visit as many times as we like for "free."  (The zoo's definition of "free" is, of course, free admission, which is wonderful, but food, drink, souvenirs, parking, and miscellanea usually put us in the $500-$600 dollar range for a three-hour visit.  Yes, I am exaggerating, but only slightly.)

Among other highlights: we saw a 46-day-old baby giraffe, and Sven Jr. snacked nonstop for almost 5 hours.  I'd like to think it's due to teething...

Mindful that I am the keeper of my family's memories, I took the camera.  Here is our visit, as it will live in the annals of my increasingly demented mind:

Princess, at the duckpond shortly after arrival.

"Mama, there was a duck!  I saw it!"

"I don't trust that bear."

"That bear is definitely up to something."

Sven and Princess look for the baby elephant.

Princess shows her love...

...and Sven Jr. goes in for a kiss.

Maybe it's time to go...

We out.

Family Scandal

Since I bear so many similarities to some of the world's best-known royalty...

...it was only a matter of time before I experienced my own family scandal.  I plan on handling it with clearly offended dignity, allowing myself only half-smiles and gracious nods until I get through it all.

Our scandal is this: Princess has a boyfriend.

I suppose I should have seen this coming.  We were due for a scandal; things have been so quiet on the Brangelina front that Jen and John went ahead and broke up again, the Stewart-Cramer showdown was decisive...I guess it was just my turn.  As a celebrity in my own mind, I take my responsibilities very seriously.

The scandal has caused shockwaves throughout the day care, my workplace, and most of the house, which explains the mess.  Everywhere I go, people are asking me about it, sometimes without being prompted.

Here's the real story, not the exaggerated "tabloid" version you'll get from some disreputable rag like The Kid Place Weekly Newsletter.  The other day, I picked Princess, age 3, up from day care.  One of the older classes had been combined with hers, and several 4-year-old girls began hugging her goodbye.

"How sweet," I said to myself, not knowing that the real show hadn't started yet.

I didn't notice the 4-year-old Lothario, twirling his inexplicable mustache, slinking ever closer to my frail, tiny child.  Before I knew it, he was facing her, alone, except for me and the teachers and the other children.

"Princess," he growled in his breathy 4-year-old manly voice, "I need a kiss."

And she kissed him.  Right on the cheek.  He kissed her, and they hugged.  When she came and took my hand, her smile was rather pleased.

Mommy was stunned.

We drove home in silence.  When I questioned her at home, she was nonchalant.  "Yes, that's Tyler," she said when I asked if that had been her boyfriend who accosted her at the door.

But when Daddy got home and asked her...

...she BLUSHED.  My three-year old blushed when asked about the day care Rhett Butler.

We still haven't recovered; the scandal is still the subject of gossip and open speculation.  I can only hope Angelina adopts another baby, or anything to allow me to return to my quiet, private life.

But Tyler will still be around...

Third Person

I have a three-year-old daughter, who I have always called "Deb Jr." in my blog. However, for the purpose of today's entry, she will now be known as "Princess."

Princess is the opposite of her mommy. While I have not voluntarily worn pantyhose since 1997, reluctantly wear skirts to church, and never, ever wear dresses, Princess insists on wearing cute little cotton dresses to school every day. She usually also demands tights, since socks aren't "pretty enough." She has more shoes than I had at 18: her sparkle shoes, her red shoes, her black shoes, her pink shoes, her pink sparkle shoes, her blue shoes, her two pair of tennis shoes, and her brown shoes. She is very concerned that everything match; we had to purchase the blue shoes because she had a blue dress and nothing "matched" it.

"But Deb," you may be saying, shaking your head in pity, "she didn't go out and buy these things for herself. You created this monster."

You're right. I did. I have no defense, only an explanation: Princess came to us after a short but difficult battle with infertility, and we had some scares during the pregnancy. When we were presented with a beautiful, healthy daughter, Sven and I were so enchanted with her that we could deny her nothing. To be fair, we're trying, and she's only 3. We ought to be okay, right?

Still, she's awfully cute. And very clever. She imitates her father and me, to our delight. Tonight, for example, she handed me a paper and pencil and asked me to color. I began to color, and she put a hand on mine and said, "No, Mommy, we don't scribble. You need to trace." I obediently "traced" what she told me to, and she took my paper away. Moments later she handed it back to me. She had put a small sticker on it.

"You get a sticker, Mommy," she said. "You did a very good job. But next time, no scribbles, okay?"

I mean, say no to that. Really.

But by far, the most endearing thing she does, even cuter than the way she'll only eat the buttered side of her toast, is the way she talks about herself in the third person.

"Princess is hungry," she'll say. "Princess wants a snack."

"What does Princess want?" I'll ask.

"Princess wants a yes cheese," she answers. (We have yes cheese, no cheese, square cheese, and round cheese. Princess likes cheese. I don't know how she named it. Don't get me started on the cracker classification system.)

Or, at the end of the day:

"Princess is tired. Princess is ready to go to bed and watch her DVD player." When she goes into third person, she doesn't slip, like Suede did on Project Runway. She keeps it up.

I know she'll have to stop doing this someday, but I can enjoy it while it lasts.

Adventures In Building

As my muse, Francesca, shrewdly spotted in my last entry, yes, I did recently go to Build-A-Bear Workshop and build a bear for myself.

I should say before continuing that I had a perfectly legitimate reason for going to Build-A-Bear by myself, without my children.  When I take my children to Build-A-Bear, they selfishly insist on getting animals for themselves.  Furthermore, they claim they need "help."  So, I have never done a bear for me.

Not that this was a bear for me, per se.  I mean, technically, I own it, but it isn't for me.  It's for my students.  I teach music at an elementary school.  Our mascot is the Wildcats.  Build-A-Bear has a special High School Musical bear.  The school in High School Musical also has the Wildcats as a mascot.  So, you see, there was no way around it: I had to purchase a Build-A-Bear High School Musical Special Edition Bear for my young Wildcats.  And I had to do it in person, not online, because that would have been cheating.

I've taken the kids to Build-A-Bear dozens of times.  We usually don't deal with the staff, because Sven and I want to Share The Experience with our kids.  We have generally gone on a weekend or holiday, when the store is completely stuffed and we're lucky to escape with our lives, let alone our custom blow-up bear furniture.  However, as an adult woman, alone, on a workday during a non-holiday week, I had a totally different Build-A-Bear experience.

Firstly, the staff was not "on."  The perkiness I normally associate only with Build-A-Bear employees and meth addicts was conspicuously absent.  I chose my bear, got my sound module, and approached the giant stuffing apparatus with no acknowledgement.  That was fine; I was a little embarrassed to be there, with only a tourist family for company.   My discomfort was only slightly increased by the tourist family's apparent lack of interest in buying a bear; however, they photographed every step of my journey, which will, I'm sure, make an interesting slide show when they get back home.

When I finally approached the Stuffing Machine of the Gods, the young woman working there managed to put a smile on her face and motioned me forward.

"Hi," she said uncertainly.

"This is for my students," I said, wanting us all to be at ease.  The tourist family nodded.

"Whew!" she said.  "Do you want to do the whole spiel?"

"No, that's okay," I laughed.  I handed her the bear to stuff.  The tourist family got their cameras ready.

"Did you kiss your heart?" the Stuffer asked.

"I thought we were skipping-"

"KISS THE HEART!" she commanded, choosing one from the bin of bear organs they keep next to the stuffing turbine.  The tourist family grinned, pleased to capture the moment.  I kissed the heart.  She stuffed the bear until it was acceptable to me (which I had to prove by hugging) and then moved immediately to the cash register.

You heard right.  She didn't try to get me to "bathe" the bear under the air showers, register the bear's birth certificate, or dress the bear.  Furthermore, she didn't attempt to upsell the bear condominium, furniture, or time share on Fire Island.  She allowed me to pick out some miniature animals for my children, then sent me on my way.

As I staggered out of the store, I saw the tourist family headed for the animal bins.  I left them there, intent on saving myself.  I hope they made it out.

On Top Of Everything Else

I was reading an interesting article today about the Octo-Mom, Nadya Suleman. This article was marvelling over the fall from miracle to punchline in such a short time.

It seems like ages ago when it was announced that *someone* had given birth to octuplets, and all looked to survive. Remember the initial coverage? The doctors talking about the "surprise" eighth baby, because they were sure there were only seven? It was quite a heart-warming story.

Of course we all assumed that fertility treatments were involved. But as the story unfolded, a sense of unease about the whole situation seemed to pervade, quickly turning to hostility.

I remember first finding out that she had six children already. Then I heard that she was single and lived with her parents. Then I heard that the doctor had implanted way more embryos than he was supposed to have. Then I heard that the first six children were also through IVF. All of this made me uneasy.

Then I heard that all of her fertility treatments, medical care, and personal expenses were being paid for with public money. (For the record, I have no idea if this is true or not, since I live in a different state, but this is the commonly-held perception.) This is when my perception of her turned hostile; my health insurance doesn't cover fertility treatments, so the thought of someone being allowed to use public funds for this purpose really, really irritated me.

I'm obviously not the only one. However, how many of our reactions are fueled not by what she has done, necessarily, but by all of the other things that are going on?

The economy has everyone scared. People are losing their jobs; people who are keeping their jobs are facing some pay cuts or decrease in benefits. When we hear about a single mother with fourteen children being supported by taxpayer money, it allows everything else we're scared about to come to a head, and we express all of our anger and fear at that one, final stimulus.

This happens to me all the time. For me, one of my very silly stimuli is the internet. I'll read a blog post, or a discussion forum post, and it will make me so angry that I literally shake. Am I really angry that a college student hates Twilight that much? No, of course not. I'm scared that my son is always sick, I'm scared that we don't have enough money, I'm frustrated about not losing weight, I'm scared about growing older, but I'm angry at Twilight-hating-girl because that's not about me at all. I can be angry at her without hurting myself, examining my life, or facing my fears.

For me, my new goal with my Octo-Mom obsession is to try and focus on something else, something that I feel I can really help with and relate to.

Zac, Justin, Rob: I can help you. Call me.

Lost and Found

In every relationship, tasks inevitably become divided into "his" and "hers." He takes care of the cars and the lawn, she does the dishes and the laundry. He cooks, she cleans up after. He takes care of the money, she changes the diapers. You get the idea.

In my relationship, Sven and I have developed what I feel to be a truly remarkable division of labor: Sven is responsible for losing things, and I am responsible for finding them. I know this sounds mundane, but trust me: what I am describing here is something special.

Sven's ability to lose things amazes me. At first, I thought it was a logical outgrowth of his difficulty seeing: when we met and began dating, Sven was legally blind, with severe astigmatism and myopia. When we became very poor married college students, we couldn't afford his contact lenses, so he went about in a pair of the thickest glasses invented by man. These glasses were so thick they were almost opaque, so of course I understood that he couldn't see things that were right in front of him. If he called plaintively to me that he had lost his shoe, I would of course jump into action, knowing that he would find it himself if he could only see, the poor dear.

Then, he got the lasik eye surgery. A miracle! He could see! Now I no longer felt so sorry for him when he plaintively called to me to find something six inches from his right hand. I couldn't understand how he could lose things so easily, when they were right in front of him!

Now I know, it's my fault. You see, when Sven asks me to find something, I always assumed he had looked first, so I jumped into action, finding the object in question. My illusions were shattered the day he stood in the middle of the living room, holding Deb Jr. in his arms, stating that he had looked all over the house and couldn't find her shoes.

Where did you look? I asked. I was very calm.

Everywhere, he answered, nostrils akimbo.

Did you look down? I asked. For there they were, each shoe mere inches from his own.

In psychology, they call this "learned helplessness." I have taught Sven, by always finding everything, that he doesn't need to look. He knows I will be there, using my amazing finding skills, somehow knowing that the air pump for Deb Jr.'s travel bed is on the floor next to the piano, or that Sven Jr.'s diaper ointment is in the video games cabinet, or that Sven's phone is in the trunk of dress-up clothes in Deb Jr.'s room.

With great power comes great responsibility, and this is mine.