tiny babel

I couldn't leave without saying ...

2011-08-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

I've met and worked with some really amazing people in the past 14 years.

I wish I had photographed each and every one of you.

... But I'm not saying "goodbye."

Please join me ...

2011-08-20T20:06:00.000-07:00

I'm still here

Breakfast with Martin

2011-08-04T08:28:00.000-07:00

And a song:

"If you want to be a grump that's okay, but could you be a grumpy a little further away? It's not that I don't love you, 'cause you know I do. Sometimes I'm grumpy too.

If you want to be a nudge that's okay, but could you be a nudge a little further away, it's not that i don't love you 'cause you know I do, sometimes I'm a nudge too.

I think I understand exactly what you're going through. Oh your oatmeal's lumpy and your socks are all bumpy, what's a poor kid to do?"

- Music for Aardvarks

Obituary for the Old Barkley Times

2011-08-02T12:06:00.001-07:00

Madeline J. Dog, 113.75 in dog years, was suddenly called home to snarfel the big beach in the sky on Wednesday, July 27, 2011.

Born on a Columbia County farm in mid-April of 1995, Maddy Jerk Monkey Hose Dog, as she was affectionately called by family and friends, was the smallest and quite possibly the homeliest of a large, multi-generational family.

Her mother, whom she knew only briefly, was a black Labrador-mix and was whispered to be the canine predecessor of the OctoMom. Her father, whom she never met, was known as That Bastard Who Got Over the Fence. Both have reportedly returned to the breeding ground in the sky.

Madeline is survived by her adoptive family: Siobhan, her adoptive mother; Jed, some guy who never formally signed the paperwork and always referred to her as "YOUR DOG IS BEING A JERK"; Annabel, a foster sister, who misses her but kinda wants a puppy; and Silas, a foster brother, who would feed her from his plate accidentally on purpose.

She is also survived by a cat, Ariel, who was a late-in-life friend and not entitled to bragging rights.

Madeline was predeceased by at least one sibling, a direcl litter-mate named Chester, who, became affluent in adoption and who, in the early years, was reunited occasionally with his sister by way of dog-sitting. He was tragically struck and killed by a car in his prime. The motorist was never located, however there was some question as to whether Chester bore some culpability in his own untimely death, as he was rumored to have been a car chaser.

She was also predeceased by an adopted sibling, Maggie Dog, who was her dearest and closest canine pal for more than a decade.

She often referred to herself as "one member of a two-dog wolf pack."

Madeline was estranged from her remaining siblings.

She bore no children, a credit to her natural abilities of entertainment.

Also ... the result of spaying.

Madeline was educated in the style of 4-H Obedience (Method trained) and won praise for her recitals of limited runs. She never flaunted her abilities outside the spotlight, however, refusing most performance requests.

Her favorite pastimes were playing with her Squeaky Nun toy, drinking out of the toilet, begging for food, stealing food not quickly provided to her, knocking over small children and licking pants.

She was a lover of balls, sticks and playing fetch. She refused to "drop it."

She enjoyed yearly trips to Maine, where she loved to romp on the beach and chase after dogs owned by former presidents of the United States. She also liked to reinforce the point that she would not perform (nor would she "drop it") for the Secret Service. Luckily, she was never harmed as a result of these hystrionics.

She especially enjoyed trips in the car to just about anywhere ... the grocery store ... around the block ... the end of the driveway. Anywhere except the vet. In her youth, she would curl up in the back window of her adoptive mom's old, Civic hatchback. People from all over the country would wave and laugh as they drove by. Her mom couldn't see them, however, as Madeline was a large dog and often would block the rear views.

She also enjoyed watching the opening sequence of "The Slaves of New York," a movie based on a Tama Janowitz novel and featuring a Dalmatian named "Andrew."

She was also known for barking intermittently, jumping up and running out of rooms for no apparent reason, and other occasional irregularities.

She was not known for her humanitarianism, however she was modest. She didn't like to make a big deal out of staying by the side of people who were in the throes of painful back spasms. She often reveled in looking at them nervously and with undue concern, though she did not like to be known as a "Nervous Nellie."

She would prefer people just forgot she ever cavorted with a cat. That was AFTER she got the cataracts. She truly thought it was a meowing, battery-operated toy one of the foster kids had dragged home.

Near the end of her days, she enjoyed sleeping, eating and pooing, sometimes all at the same time. She also enjoyed barking at her family when they sat out on the porch. They would let her out. She'd want to go back in. Then out. Back in. She wasn't indecisive, she just assumed the family being OUTSIDE was completely unnatural. She wanted them inside, staring at the TV where they belonged.

The end came quickly for Madeline. However, she always liked to keep them guessing. For the past three years she had gained considerable skill at clutching her chest and shouting: "This is the Big One, Elizabeth. I'm comin' to join ya, honey," and then recovering completely.

She will be missed by all who knew and loved her, but she is looking forward to being reunited with her friend and beloved sister, Maggie, so they can relive their kibble days.

A private burial was held after bedtime.

Contributions in lieu of flowers, preferably pigs' ears or some other delicacy based on a dare or bi-product, may be sent to the humane society of your choice.

Imaginary parenting

2011-08-01T08:58:00.000-07:00

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

Hey, Guys?

How about you NOT bicker for the rest of the trip ... or at least until we get to our first destination? OK? Whatdoyasay?

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

OK. ... How about this:

How about you take your imaginary pencils and - silently - write your complaints on these here imaginary sheets of paper, which you will then insert into my imaginary suggestion box, which I store in the front of the car for just these occasions ...

BICKER-BICKER And then what? BICKER

And then I will pretend to read them tomorrow.

A good life ...

2011-07-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

A great dog.

Madeline J. Dog
April 15, 1995 - July 27, 2011

Disorderly conduct

2011-07-27T13:20:00.001-07:00

I wish I was a stickler instead of just pretending to be one.

It's easy to seem fussy within the margins of a viewfinder. You shove the mess to one side and focus on the part that seems calm and serene. It's an illusion.

You can't fool yourself into thinking you are organized and disciplined, however, or that you aren't failing at the basics.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter, but you aren't convinced.

You tell yourself tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow they will brush their teeth after breakfast.

They will eat more protein and fewer sweets.

He will change his socks and she will go to bed on time ...

Even if you have to force them.

Tomorrow you will be more of the mother they need you to be, and less of the one that you are.

Because underneath the Pick-Your-Battles parenting style you've adopted, you know you are picking all the wrong ones.

When someone says 'I'm not a feminist'

2011-07-26T14:46:00.000-07:00

but ...

I want to stop them and tell them whatever they planned on saying next is unimportant.

It is of no value to me.

Because that's what women were ostensibly told before our grandmothers and great grandmothers fought for the right to vote; and before our mothers secured the ability to decide the size of their families.

But it's their choice to define feminism so narrowly.

Feminism, for some, is just a scourge of a word. But it has serious meaning for men and women who have struggled, and continue to struggle, to instill its tenants as a basic component of a free society.

Because, dear lady, like it or not, if you believe women and men are and should be treated equally under the laws of the society in which we live, you are a feminist.

Feminism has nothing to do with who opens doors for whom, or who stays home with the kids. It's not about forcing women into military service or forcing men to wear aprons. Although I'm sure our comfort with specific gender roles does blind us to the real issues of equality.

Personally speaking, people who boil feminism down to the assigning of household chores border on insulting.

Feminism isn't about obliterating feminine traits or emasculating males. It's not about the choices we make individually or for our own families. But it has everything to do with acknowledging the need for people to be able to make those choices - regardless of gender - for the betterment of society.

Feminism is about equality. Period.

It means we believe men are capable of nurturing. We believe women are capable of leadership. And everyone is uniquely important and deserving of basic rights.

It's about teaching boys they are not masters of the universe and teaching girls they are not victims of it. It's about respect for each other, and respect for our differences.

Feminists are everywhere women are respected. It doesn't matter what they wear, or what they do, or even which pair of chromosomes they posses.

ETA:

*The top link is broken because BlogHer took down the post to which I was referring.

He was just born ...

2011-07-25T11:56:00.001-07:00

Now he's practically a grown up.

Time. She flies.

What I learned yesterday ...

2011-07-22T08:43:00.000-07:00

* Lawn chairs can eat finger tips.

* We have some incredible friends (who will hunt through the weeds to find aforementioned dismemberment).

* "I was" over a cell phone sounds a lot like "Silas."

AND ...

* Emergency room visits aren't that bad when you realize the person in the back of the ambulance was your husband and not your son.

Things I learned today ...

2011-07-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

* Although domestic cats (many of which are feral) are estimated to kill millions of wild birds each year, more birds meet their untimely demise as a result of building collisions.

* I like to lessen my own culpability in ecosystem damage.

* Bells on collars do not prevent cats from killing wildlife; some studies suggest that the bells may even condition the animals be more efficient at silently stalking their prey.

* Again with the minimizing of pet-owner responsibility.

* Cats are the Zebra muscle of the domesticated animal world -- an invasive species..

* And that catbird I managed to wrestle from her terrible claws will probably die anyway.

Crap.

Oh, wait. There is an upside:

* A "University tested" and humane way to protect songbirds AND humiliate their would-be killers: The Cat Bib.

Fear of heights

2011-07-19T11:30:00.001-07:00

By the standards of my childhood haunts, the playground at the end of our block is as safe as they come. Age-appropriate structures, parents prowling every perimeter, many helping their children down the tall slide by offering their laps as sleds.

The lone, tall monkey bars, have gone. Replaced by lower, multi-tiered play areas.

Safety factors first.

I remember taking this picture and holding my breath as Ittybit climbed the chain ladder of the play station, for that's what a was -- a collection of slides and hanging bars that defied labels or definition. A tiny jungle gym for a marshmallow landscape.

Eighteen months old, still so baby-like, and there she was climbing to the grated platform, five feet off the ground, on her way to the circular slide.

I'd overheard so many parents telling their kids to get down, that they were too young, that it wasn't safe. So many eyes in my direction wondering where I'd gotten my parenting skills, no doubt from a Five & Dime that had gone bust?

But I had to fight my inner (paranoid) parent to let her.

So it was with interest that I read this about some emerging research on the benefits of risk on development.

Some of the points I found most interesting was that "safer playgrounds" weren't actually safer for play. The logic being the perception of safety actually made risk-taking seem less risky, and, therefore, injury just as likely.

Another point was that while many parents and some researchers expected childhood falls from high places to produce later psychological effects, such as phobias, the reverse was more true: Children who had engaged in the exploration of heights and endured childhood falls had fewer instances of phobias.

I suppose the obvious question for me is this: How do we, as parents, get over our own fears of emergency room visits?

And then my heart exploded

2011-07-18T10:15:00.000-07:00

If a photograph can be defining, I'd say this one does that about her.

For argument's sake

2011-07-15T15:17:00.000-07:00

Scene: Morning Commute.

Cast of Characters: Ittybit, The Champ, A.M. Rider (Ittybit's BFF from way back to Kindergarten) and Yours Truly.

Destination: Various day camps.

ITTYBIT: MOM! Is that creepy crawly inside or outside.

YT: What? Where?

ITTYBIT: There, on the window.

YT: Oh, that's on the outside. Don't worry about it.

ITTYBIT: Don't worry! That green guy is hanging on like a crazy person. What if it gets in here?

YT: It won't get in here. I promise that is on the outside. See how the wind blows it around. ... Wow. That thing really is hanging on. ...

A.M. RIDER: What is that thing?

YT: It's the color of an aphid but it looks like a grasshopper. Maybe it's an adult aphid?

A.M. RIDER: Aren't aphids those tiny things that are really tasty snacks for Ladybugs?

YT: Yes. Yes. I don't know maybe it's just a mighty green grasshopper.

THE CHAMP: I frink its a squid. That's what it is, a squid.

A.M. RIDER: It's not a squid. They live in the water.

THE CHAMP: Not always.

ITTYBIT: Yes always!

THE CHAMP: Nuh, uh.

A.M. RIDER: Yes uh!

YT: What makes you think squid live out of water, bud?

THE CHAMP: Vector's squid launcher. Those squids weren't in water.

ITTYBIT: That's not real! That's a movie!

THE CHAMP: It is, too, real.

A.M. RIDER: Nuh uh!

ITTYBIT: Hey, where did the aphid/grasshopper/squid go?

YT: I let him inside. He wanted to hear this.

SpaghettiOs Western

2011-07-13T14:35:00.001-07:00

Starring The Pajama Kid and his trusty sidekick, Mousealini.

He's an excellent driver

2011-07-12T11:59:00.001-07:00

"Dad lets me drive slow on the driveway every Saturday."

First you must float ...

2011-07-11T13:31:00.001-07:00

Pools scare me.

There. I said it.

Despite the fact that my husband worked doggedly in the wind and rain and sun to renovate the pool that he ... well ... broke.

From the moment he got it gurgling to a clear, if not dark-bottomed oasis again - the first time since we moved into the house - I've been counting the days until winter.

When we can close it on up again.

I can't stop thinking about the statistics. About the people we actually know, as well as those we've read about in the news, who have lost children in pools.

I can't stop thinking about how I could have been one of those statics myself, when I was a toddler and slipped into a pool at a party and sunk to the bottom.

But we can't live in fear. We have to be practical. And proactive.

Even if I am mostly NEGATIVE:

* No kids in the pool yard without an adult. Ever.

* No beginning swimmers in the deep end without an adult who is free to swim with them one-on-one.

* Not following the directions of adults is grounds for ouster from pool area for the remainder of the day.

And one positive ... The most important positive of all pool rules:

All children must learn to float on their backs first and foremost.

After they master that, we'll work on the crawl.

Trial by jury

2011-07-09T16:25:00.001-07:00

I'm one of those moms people keep talking about. Kind of. ...

I'm the kind who can picture themselves dealing with a missing child. Or not dealing with it. Picturing themselves, instead, not coping at all.

But I couldn't bear to watch the media coverage of the Casey Anthony trial. I couldn't stand to see all the law-abiding citizens lining up for a chance to gawk, rationalizing their behavior as anything other than morbid fascination and mob mentality.

I couldn't stand the presumption of guilt.

And then she was acquitted, stunning pretty much everyone except, it seems, folks who believe evidence should weigh more heavily than the circumstances surrounding that evidence. More heavily than emotion. Especially when first degree murder is charged.

I can understand the shock. I can understand the anger being raw and natural. But I had to admit I was proud of that jury. Proud that they came to such an impartial judgment based on law for an otherwise unlikeable woman.

Most people it would seem, at least in the immediate aftermath, see the decision as proof of a fatally flawed American justice system. And already states are trying to remedy it with more reactionary laws.

I hope they come to their senses, though. Because what happened in Florida is how the system is supposed to work.

Doodle-do

2011-07-08T09:22:00.001-07:00

Need to say thank you?

We love to say thank you with drawings on plain paper.

Parents can draw the square borders, ears, neck and chin so the figures are roughly the same size, and kids can add the hairline and faces to make them unique.

Give kids a class picture as a visual aid and you have an easy, inexpensive and personalized way to make thank-you cards, valentines, notes or invitations.

Car chase

2011-07-06T18:27:00.000-07:00

The Champ was bequeathed a battery-powered car by a friend who outgrew it.

Jed is still trying to wrap his head around how it is possible to outgrow such a toy.

He is also confident that one day he will fit in the cockpit.

We did manage to use the colors Red, White and Blue

2011-07-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

We may have been the only people in North America who celebrated Independence Day by marching in The Peoples' Parade with a Chinese Dragon.

In our defense, however, our dragon was made in America.

Nothing good will come of this relationship

2011-07-01T11:10:00.001-07:00

Anatomically corrected

2011-06-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

The Associated Press had an interesting story this week about a preschool in Sweden that is trying to establish a gender neutral environment for its students by not using gender specific pronouns and designing the classroom to minimize stereotypical gender-related preferences. (Think Legos stored near the Play Kitchen.)

Teachers at the school refer to students as "Friends" instead of "Boys and Girls" and encourage literature that questions generalizations of gender specificity, while conversely baning books that offer classic examples of traditional gender roles, such as "Cinderella." The school puts forth great effort to foster an environment tolerant of homosexual and transgendered individuals.

Which, honestly, all sounds perfectly lovely to me.

Referring to boys and girls grouped together as "friends" -- to me anyway -- reinforces the idea of fostering respectful relationships more than individual identities.

My problem in this comes not from what the school is promoting but from what it's manufacturing.

By disallowing the use of personal pronouns to the point where they had to make up a word to keep from having to label a person by gender, they are more than likely reinforcing another kind of judgement: That somehow it's not acceptable to actually be male OR female, nor to identify strongly one way or another.

I can't help but think it's natural to try and understand the world and ourselves by compartmentalizing. We all have a gender. Some of us have preferences that others view as gender specific. This should not be viewed as fundamentally wrong or destructive in and of itself.

A teacher's job (be they professional or parent) should be exploring with children where their ideas (about any subject) expand, contract and disappear from preconceived notions. It shouldn't be throwing the preconceived notions away and pretending there are none.

Ultimately I think it's kind of unnatural to try and reduce gender to a neutral in the hopes of furthering egalitarianism. Equality through neutrality just seems like EVERYONE will be shortchanged. We are different. We should explore those differences fairly and without judgement.

Missives and meanderings

2011-06-29T11:57:00.001-07:00

Instead of the usual craft time, our babysitter reported today, the story-hour librarian rolled up the reading rug and handed out big pieces of sidewalk chalk.

Her instructions were simple: Pick out an area of concrete (story time is in the basement of the village library) and draw a picture - Anything you want.

Guess who needed a space that would ensure his lines blurred into those of his each and every one of his neighbors?

"I need to make a stream. A gurgling, splashing, crashing stream ... with a waterfall ... that goes WHOOOOSH!"

I'm not sure why I worry

2011-06-28T08:11:00.001-07:00

Yeah ... that whole summer camp first-day jitters thing? She's sooooo over it.

"You know what was the best part of camp today?"

"No, what was the best part?"

"The best part was when the camp counselors told us things they probably shouldn't be telling us."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"Like where they're getting tattoos."

Looking back

2011-06-27T10:49:00.001-07:00

Today was the first day of summer camp. Her first day at a new camp at that.

And she was alone. Alone with more than a hundred kids.

It was so noisy and confusing. Her friend would be there ... only not until later.

Until then she'd just have to be a lone, lonely loner ... in a sea of noise, and strangers with stoic faces.

Introductions rarely go well inside chaos. They weren't going well.

She gripped my hand.

I stayed through the morning announcements, but then I had to go.

She gripped my hand tighter. Her nails in need of trimming.

"Stay," her eyes told me.

"I have to go. You will be OK. You will see. You will make lots of friends."

She walked up the hill toward the other campers and disappeared.

I stood there for a long time, waiting to catch sight of her; hoping it would be alright. That she'd find a friend. That she'd wave and smile back at me. But I couldn't find her among the crowd.

"She will be OK. She will make new friends," I tell myself again, hoping it's true.

What's your favorite Grouchoism?

2011-06-24T08:58:00.000-07:00

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it."

Like father, like son

2011-06-23T08:56:00.001-07:00

His dad got him his first REAL toolkit for his birthday.

Today he decided he needed to use his tools ... "Just like daddy dos ..." to hang an artwork he'd drawn of the family. (I'm the tall one).

Then he celebrated his achievement of being "Just Like Daddy" by taking a potty break.

Cocktails and dreams

2011-06-22T10:38:00.001-07:00

ME: "I had the WORST dream last night."

HIM: "What happened? Did they run out of stamps at the Post Office?"

ME: "No."

HIM: "Was it anything like the dream you had about The Champ becoming a bartender and opening a joint called 'MilkaMilk and Juice'?"

ME: "No!"

HIM: "OK ... What happened?"

ME: "Well, I was touring a nuclear reactor site and it became apparent that there was a plot underway to assassinate ....

HIM: "Wait, wait. You were touring a nuclear reactor site?

ME: "Yeah. It was a nuclear reactor site. "It happens!" "

HIM: "Ok ... back to the assassination thing ...

ME: "Yes. There was a plot underway to assassinate the president, who, I might add, looked a great deal like Goeffrey Rush playing Peter Sellers. ... Anyway, the thing appeared to be that while the president was touring the facility there was to be a nuclear ACCIDENT and everyone at the facility - including me - would get radiation poisoning.

HIM: "Wait ... and what was your involvement in this whole thing?"

ME: "Oh, I had no involvement. I was just there trying to buy stamps."

Feats of strength

2011-06-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

Ittybit's school held its annual Field Day today ... which is an event usually held at the end of the year ... wherein students run around for an hour or so in the hot sun, playing games of skill and coordination and making all the adults tired just watching them.

It also affords parents the opportunity to cheer on their little athletes as they try to avoid gigantic pink balls (Indiana Jones style), dress up in enormously large pants and run a fifty meter dash, or pass a rubber chicken on a track-length, four-person team relay race.

Only ... There are unwritten rules, you, as a spectator, might want to follow.

If you're smart(er than me) you'll keep your cheers to a whisper. Lest you be the cause of even the slightest embarrassment.

And ... perhaps most importantly ...

Those tiny bits of colorful "plastic" under the bleachers? The only place on the whole campus that is shaded? Not all of them are Legos.

We all look like our pets

2011-06-20T11:05:00.001-07:00

Bully pulpit

2011-06-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

A Cohoes teenager is the first to be charged under a new law enacted in Albany County to fight so-called cyber-bullying.

The teen, who allegedly admitted to police he created a Facebook page in December where he posted photos and derogatory comments about fellow students, is being charged with 10 counts of harassment, a violation, and 10 counts of cyber-bullying, a misdemeanor under the new law, which was enacted in November of 2010.

After complaints about the site, the page was removed by Facebook and police tracked down the 16-year-old suspect from his IP address.

I've often taken the stance that we should not criminalize speech that is unpopular or hurtful, especially when it's hard to separate emotion from what should be blind justice. I just can't help but think laws like these are so much more counterproductive than they appear.

I can't help but think of this kid as just a kid -- like your kid ... and my kid ... and the kids of all the politicians in the universe who have ever tried to garner favor with voters by enacting impossible laws designed to protect them -- who, for whatever misguided reason, was a troll to a few dozen people, some of whom thought of him as a friend.

In my way of thinking, this is a kid who did something immature and mean, and being found as the author should be the biggest price he pays. Police investigations, court costs and being branded a criminal (that might one day soon include having his DNA collected and archived for when he presumably graduates from gossip columnist to murderer) seems excessive.

Even the police chief, according to that report, thinks the effort to investigate the incident was too burdensome for a small department and that federal help is needed.

Federal help. To arrest a kid who is being mean?

We can't arrest everyone who says mean things.

Can we?

Empire State building

2011-06-16T10:41:00.000-07:00

When I'm in my darkest moods, I can convince myself we're all destined to be living in cardboard cities someday soon.

Now that's I've seen how they could look (these were made by middle schoolers at Ittybit's school), I'm not as worried.

Materials: Boxes, masking tape, pencil and Sharpie. (I imagine a yardstick was also among the tools.)

Don't let the dog door hit you on the way out

2011-06-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

She skulked into our room just as the blue-speckled morning light was breathing in pink from the sun, and started to howl.

"Your turn," I say to the mountain of covers to my left. "I already handled a squirrel, two chipmunks and what I can only presume was a bird this week. I'm taking the morning off."

Wordlessly, he pulls on a shirt and stalks downstairs passing Ittybit in the hallway.

"Where's he going?" she asks, scooping up the squalling mass of feline flesh as awkwardly as humanly possible. In Ittybit's arms, our black cat is more of a rag doll. She just limply hangs, catatonic.

I don't get a chance to answer before a stream of expletives and a few Lords'-Names-in-Vain come charging up the stairs.

"OH GOD! JESUS CHRIST! OHHHHH, FOR-FUGS-SAKE!"

"What did she kill?" I yell down in response.

"Nothing. It's still alive and its running around in the kitchen!"

When I reach the place where the coffee and toast are born, I find him standing by the coffeemaker. Perhaps he's willing it to become a Haveaheart trap, but I suspect he's more interested in getting a cup of caffeine to clear his mind.

"Coffee first. Then I'll think about what to do. It could be anywhere at this point."

He saw it scoot behind the dog food container and a case of bottled ice tea. All sorts of critters go back there, never to be seen again.

I moved the containers and saw the chipmunk all curled up in a ball. No head, no tail visible in the shadows. On the counter above it is a small movie popcorn box, saved for reuse because of its red-pin-stripe quaintness and lack of visible butter stains.

I grab it and bend to scoop up the cat's escaped snack.

In it goes to the bottom, scrabbling around for a second and then settling back into its protective orb.

I head for the great out of doors.

Ittybit wants to help release the varmint, but minds my urgent request and feeds the cat as a distraction. I tell I'll wait for her, and to meet me at the tree in front yard.

When she arrives, I pour out the popcorn box, kernels, critter and all.

For a long moment, it stands there all stretched out and close to the ground. I fan the box in its direction and it skitters up the tree trunk. Ittybit follows it, circling the tree, telling it all manner of helpful advice.

"Have a nice life."

"Be more careful."

"Stay away from cats."

As she skips around the tree, a first-grade Ann Landers, it chitters at her, loudly.

Its charm delights her.

"You're welcome!"

Family values

2011-06-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

Seems to me, passing legislation that provides equality in marriage would show how much we still value the institution.

Not to mention how much we value ALL families.

Tell your senators now is the time to do the right thing.

Star quality

2011-06-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

Zombified, Ittybit sat staring at the T.V. watching an opera singer perform.

The little girl was tiny but her voice was bigger than life.

"I want to be like that girl," she said emphatically. "I want to be famous."

It wasn't for art's sake that Ittybit wanted to make her voice lift above the songs she hears on popular radios stations. Although the beauty of the music drew her in, it was the pretty little girl in a floor-length dress that held her transfixed. "She's only a kid ... and she's on TeeeeVeeee!"

"You don't want to be that girl," I say quickly, and just as quickly want to kick myself for saying it that way. Of course she wants to be just like that little girl. She wants the mental picture we all have about fame. How special it would be.

It's easy to fault with the logic, but more difficult to dismiss the feeling behind it. Don't we all have some degree of desire for acknowledgement and adoration? Only we want the well-deserved kind of fame that wipes its feet when we invite it in, doesn't snoop in our drawers when it uses our facilities, and never wears out its welcome.

"No. I do want to be like her. I want to sing on a stage in front of lots of people. Or I want to publish a book. Or I want to act in the movies."

I try a different approach.

"Well, I wouldn't want to be that girl. I was listening to an interview with her and she seemed extremely anxious for a little girl. She was worried about what would happen as an adult. Would she be able to keep the momentum? Would her voice change? Would it be as pretty when it did? I just think that's a lot of worry for a little girl to handle."

She shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't share my concern. The gun has fired and the stopwatch has started. The time to make your mark, she thinks, is now.

"She's already 11. Maybe that would be a problem if she were not yet 10," she says as if she's already decided it's all over once you reach the double digits.

I just smile and let her dream alone.

What does her old mother know about fame and what it's like, anyway?

We all have our dreams and anxieties no matter where we go or what we do. We all swim against tides. We walk down roads others travel and they're always new to us. The only thing I can really advise her to do is to follow what makes her happy until it makes her miserable. Then maybe she'll be ready to forge her own path.

We can only predict, we can't know for sure. Don't help. Don't hinder.

How to train your velocipede

2011-06-10T07:51:00.001-07:00

"When dad gets home I'm going ast him ta take off da little wheels what's on my bike."

"My bike is trained now."

The usual suspects

2011-06-09T04:23:00.000-07:00

The message popped up in a facebook post. Perhaps you saw it:

"Florida is the first state that will require drug testing when applying for welfare (effective July 1st)! Some people are crying this is unconstitutional. How is this unconstitutional yet it's okay that every working person had to pass a drug test in order to support those on welfare? Re-post if you… agree!!! Let's get Welfare back to the ones who NEED it, not those that just WANT it."

One could practically hear the Tea-cups clinking at the Party as the revelers lined up to agree.

"Hell, yah!"

"Why should taxpayers enable a drug addict?"

"I'd apply for welfare, but I'm too busy WORKING!"

It's so easy to get on a band wagon when the place its taking everyone seems like a logical destination.

Why should public money go to support drug addicts?

The short answer is that the whole argument is a red herring.

The poor are easily scapegoated and held up as an example of all that's wrong in society. In the 80s the offending individual was painted as a "Welfare Queen," milking the system for handouts as she flaunted her government cheese from the windows of a shiny black Cadillac. Now the face of contempt is a degenerate junkie who could easily get a job if she'd accept personal responsibility for herself and the children she never should have had in the first place.

But the longer answer is so much more complicated. It has to do with the fact that welfare is the least we can do when there are children involved. The long answer doesn't really solve our problems, either.

The long answer includes the understanding that society is like a flawed chain with weak links that need reinforcement. We think of these as individual rights unless we're of the mind to excise them entirely, then we call them entitlements.

Sure, some will fight for a fetus' entitlement to life, but that's as far as that train goes. Don't come crawling to them for affordable healthcare or education. Those teachers are just one measly, money-grubbing step up from those worthless slugs on the dole. If you know what's good for you, you'll defy all odds and become a Wall Street banker. Then you can screw the taxpayer the acceptable way. Through capitalism.

The furor over Florida's welfare plan is nothing more than the most expedient way for politicians to get votes. They know hard-working voters love to place blame and will rise to the bait. But what the Florida law won't do is save any money.

If the goal of the Florida law were to get treatment assistance for the poor, it might be a provision worth fighting for. But it's not. It's more worthless legislation in the name of moral certitude. it's also costly: It may seem like a ten-dollar test but what happens with the test leads to untold amounts needed in social work, law enforcement, courts, incarceration and foster care?

And none of it will make a dent in problem we face with substance abuse.

Substance abuse (alcohol and not merely illicit drugs) is rampant in all sectors of society, and no more prevalent among the poor than the rich or the middle class.

That logic isn't the point, though, Is it? When we'd rather put children in foster homes and parents in prison than foot the bill for food stamps, I think we're paying too much for our principals and not enough on our problems.

All little piggies go to market

2011-06-08T07:46:00.001-07:00

She was busy, she and her friend, making mincemeat out of my fabric stash.

I wasn't going to complain. The decimation of sale-bought cotton fleece is the price one willingly pays to be able to clean the house in peace.

As I was emptying the dishwasher and sweeping floors, they were painstakingly cutting and matching fabrics, inventorying their characters (yes, there were two of every animal on the pattern) and selecting the thread that would tie the whole thing together.

They named their little creations "Boo Boo Babies," and begged me to help stuff and sew the round forms into pillows for them. The sewing machine, though sea-foam green and emblazoned with Hello Kitty logos, is still too powerful a force for tiny fingers.

I oblige. I'd rather sew than try to scrape the crusted-over waffle batter from the kitchen counter anyway. No matter how many times I mention it, somehow the waffle maker (the man not the machine) doesn't appreciate the economy of a damp sponge when the drips are fresh.

But these children know they need to strike when the iron is hot.

That's why they leave their one-woman sewing factory and move on the most important aspect of production -- marketing.

I was especially fond of this pitch:

However, the disclaimer was also quite nice, given the fact I was the one sewing and my results do vary:

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

2011-06-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

He's the one whose head looks like a heart.

Take me to the kittens

2011-06-06T09:40:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you really just want hang out with kittens. And do little else.

Cut. It. Out.

2011-06-03T10:43:00.001-07:00

What you need:
* Construction paper
* Scissors
* Glue
* Imagination

A reminder for elected officials and other political hopefuls this election season ....

2011-06-02T08:18:00.001-07:00

Robo-calls make children sad.

Tough love

2011-06-01T03:50:00.001-07:00

He doesn't like walking on even slightly wet ground.

It makes his shoes squeak. He H-A-T-E-S for his shoes to squeak.

She thinks he's being ridiculous. And that he needs to grow up.

So she nudged him off his dry patch of curb, where they'd been balancing, onto the wet grass.

When he started to cry she felt sorry for him.

Until he punched her.

Now they're square.

Visiting day

2011-05-31T07:30:00.001-07:00

I was shy and standoff-ish. Nothing like my children. Visits from family seemed to present only the best opportunity for failure. To be annoying and underfoot. Not these kids. They are confident and assured in ways I'm still struggling.

I learn a lot from my children.

They have no trouble sitting -- dripping wet and sunscreen slicked -- on the laps of distant relatives they'd only just met to pose for a picture.

They ask a thousand questions and get a thousand answers.

They had no trouble offering hugs and sad good-byes when it was time for the party to move onward.

They can't wait to visit them, where they live ... especially if it's near "Disney Channel World."

Published in 1945 ...

2011-05-26T18:49:00.001-07:00

Borrowed from the school library on Tuesday.

Location, location, location

2011-05-25T08:26:00.001-07:00

The Champ made his first Lego vehicle ...

Daddy helped with the wheels but the boy installed the passenger cabin ...

and the GPS system.

At least you won't be bored this summer

2011-05-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Ah ... 'Tis the season: Teachers are doing their super secret happy-dance on the grave of another school year; parents will soon be pulling out their hair for want of activities that will keep their kids independently entertained; and publishers are promising a carefree summer vacation if you buy their activity books.

Here's one thing I can honestly tell you about that last part: If the book involves crafts or cooking (and your kid is under 10) there is no way in hell you won't hear your name called at least 15,000 times in that familiar sing-song whine that makes you wish you could legally sell them to gypsies. ... So choose wisely.

IF YOU CAN'T STAND PAPER DOLLS do not buy "Paper Fashions Fantasy," Klutz, $22. Although this book is clever -- offering a bunch of different templates for tops, bottoms and accessories your budding designer can trace onto prettily printed papers, you will go out of your mind trying to figure out how to hang the fashions on the tiny wire hangers, which are provided.
Mom Rated: *Mommy Dearest Comes to MInd*
Kid Rated: *This is Totally Styling*

IF YOU HAVE A THREE-YEAR-OLD don't get "Eye Q Picture Puzzler," Downtown Bookworks, $12. It may actually keep the older one enthralled as you travel, but if you forget it's in your luggage and your graffiti-artist toddler finds it, you may be needing a visit from room cleaning service.
Kid Rated: *I Found the Rabbits!*
Mom Rated: *Where's the Pen?*

IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BUY SOCKS take a pass on "The Lonely Sock Club" by Laurie Goldrich Wolf, Simon and Schuster, $17. Because for all its "Green & Groovy" cache, your kid will not be satisfied until you part with some actual cash. The way she sees it, the cats made using old "dryer-ate-the-other-one" and "used-to-be-a-nice-color" socks will pale in comparison to the creatures featured in the book. Another tip? Ignore the no-sew directions if you want to save your sanity.
Mom Rated: *Thank GOD Target Sells Socks*
Kid Rated: *I Will Populate the World with Sock Kittens*

One final warning ...
Though your kid may not be able to MAKE the projects in the sock book without help, she WILL be able to dress them. You can estimate the resulting fashion show will keep you busy for at least an hour.

No boundaries

2011-05-23T09:33:00.001-07:00

I know we all have a love/hate relationship with the internet and the speed at which we careen down some of its pathways. We lose boundaries we wanted to be free of only to realize without limits there really is no liberation.

Trying to predict all the possible outcomes can make your head hurt.

The good always comes with the bad.

But then there are times when you have to stand in mouth-gaping amazement. Such as when your kid writes a letter like this:

Dear Miss Emily Arnold McCully,

I met you today at the Book Fair at Ichabod Crane Primary School. I wanted to ask you what is your next book? I really liked meeting you today, but I forgot to ask this question.

I really like the books that you write because they are amazing.

Your friend and fan,

- Annabel

And a few hours later receives this:

Dear Annabel - Wasn't that a great event? I enjoyed meeting you very much. At this moment, I am working on pictures for a book written by a ballerina who was very famous long ago: Allegra Kent. Her story is about a swan who joins a girls' ballet class! It is charming. But books take a long time to be born and it won't come out until 2012 or 2013. Later this summer I will do the pictures for a story of my own: STRONGHEART, The First Movie Star Dog.

I hope you have a great summer, filled with books and drawing and writing -- an playing!

Thanks so much for writing.

- Emily A McC

More than stuff

2011-05-20T12:39:00.000-07:00

While his hoarding tendency means that he, literally, brought more to this relationship than I did, when it comes to the important stuff, we somehow manage to balance.

He brought Maggie.

I brought Maddy.

And we both brought our childhood teddy bears.

His, "Paddington," is on the right.

Mine, uber-creatively named "The Bear With The Bell In His Ear," is on the left.

Each bear somehow made it through the trenches of our messy childhoods, despite matted fur, patched-up holes and glassy-eyed stares, mostly intact. As their reward they now perch just beyond the reach of the next generation of sticky-handed, would-be eye-pokers and ear tuggers.

Paddington and Jed used to do a lot of skydiving together. Well, Paddington -- stripped of his raincoat and hat and instead wearing the latest styles designed by mom and grandma -- would skydive with a parachute and Jed would push him out of the plane. They were inseparable friends until one dangerous adventure when Paddington skydived into a lamp, got stuck and burned his little bear backside.

You can't replace friends like that.

Which is what I was thinking as I recalled my most vivid nursery school memory: Bringing my prized Bear With The Bell In His Ear to show-and-tell. I was so excited to show and tell all about its amazing, stupendous, unique secret -- that he did, indeed, have a bell in his ear. (What can I say? I've always had a flair for the obvious). But instead, found myself listening to the hiss of a tow-headed little girl, wearing a smart, navy sailor suit, as she threatened to remove his jingle with her safety scissors.

Poor bear. He never left my room again.

That is until recently when he and Paddington went to stay with a neighbor of ours, who has a gentle way with well-loved toys.

Nursery magic, as The Velvetine Rabbit can tell you, makes toys real. But Margot Curran makes them immortal.

I do believe our bears' best days are yet to come.

National Public Relations

2011-05-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

Strapped in his car seat, we were ready to roll ...

The radio was tuned to NPR, which was airing a story by Neda Ulaby about a publicity stunt by the Frito-Lay company. The company was hawking its products in a test kitchen on a Times Square billboard, arguing that as many as half of its snacks were by legal definition "All Natural."

I was kind-sorta-not-really listening, but The Champ was listening intently as Morning Edition's host Steve Inskeep said:

"The company was trying to send the message that Fritos, Cheetos and Doritos are healthy."

I could practically hear the grin cracking open the lower half of his little face.

"See, I tol' you."

Drawing on inspiration

2011-05-18T11:55:00.001-07:00

Whenever you see something that inspires you.

Put it down on paper.

Angry bird

2011-05-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

We say our peace. And it starts a war.

There is no right answer. Not really. There is only a seemingly endless list of opinions, and everyone has a version of one or the other that can't be altered. No one can hear the tone of a voice and there's nothing to read between the lines.

Moments of weakness stretch out for seasons at a time.

It may start with an idea gone awry. A slapped wrist. A hurt feeling. A joke that falls flat. Ultimately the teller is the responsible party.

Introspection. Resolve. Back tracking.

Retreat.

What rainy days are made for ...

2011-05-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

I know it's the most cliched thing going.

I've said it before. Many, many times.

But it's so true:

Even when you think they've outgrown it, there's just no telling what fun a box can be.

Here's a few more things you can do with boxes this week while you wait for the rain to go away.

So when the attendance office called on Friday ...

2011-05-14T07:25:00.001-07:00

Wondering why Ittybit wasn't in school ...

What was I supposed to say?

A lesser known (but invaluable) lesson of preschool

2011-05-13T13:44:00.000-07:00

Snake handling.

Don't sugarcoat it

2011-05-12T11:09:00.000-07:00

It seems harder and harder for parents to swallow stories without their sugar coatings.

I had a good laugh when I went online and found a few reviewers had given "The Great Hamster Massacre" one measly little star for being too graphic for sensitive children.

They either judged the book by its cartoon cover illustration or were so enthralled by Kate Davies' artfully written and detailed warnings contained in the first few chapters that they didn't quite believe she would describe a "massacre" in similar detail.

... or they've never done research on hamsters as pets.

Still, I could understand those parents feeling a little disappointed that they would have to close the book and return to reading from their library of cloyingly brutal unicorn and fairy tales. Overuse of words like "sparkle" and "glitter" can make a parent testy.

Thankfully, I have one of those fabled Viking seven-year-olds who savored Davies' story in all its macabre glory. "The Great Hamster Massacre" proved to be page-turner filled with witty dialog, interesting characters and a perfectly plausible adventure.

Also ... it helped change her mind about wanting a hamster.

Win-win.

Mixed-Emotions Midweek

2011-05-11T02:42:00.001-07:00

Because sometimes things have a tendency of making me feel happy and sad at once.

Haiku for the laundress

2011-05-10T05:21:00.001-07:00

Persnickety son

Must have socks flecked in batter

Pity, I washed them

iPear

2011-05-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day. Breakfast made a seven-year-old and delivered at the crack of dawn with the help of her father. French toast and hot coffee in bed.

Breakfast-skippers be damned. You will eat the delicate little heart-shaped toasts and they will be delicious.

It's a little daunting, though, when the whole family is perched on the end of the bed staring at you as you lift the fork. Extending the plate, I offer one of the toasts to those who are salivating.

"Maybe we can go to the place where mom's present is today," says the husband, who is slightly behind on his Mother's Day shopping but still has a few days left on the birthday shopping. "This is a Mother's Day-Birthday-Fourth-of-July-Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas and New Year's present, too."

I had dropped a hint that I would like an iPad.

"You know ... I think I might actually like an iPad," I said when he asked what I might want for my birthday. "I don't know. ... I'm just thinking that I'd like one for reading books. I read so rarely since the kids were born. And there are so many books being distributed electronically ... I'm just thinking ... maybe it's not as bad as I thought. Maybe I'd actually read more if I didn't worry about collecting books or library fines ... "

It was more of an inner-monologue gone astray than a hint, but he got the message.

He was smiling at me.

"You got me an iPad?" I said with the tiniest bit of apprehension. His answer was all important: If he HAD ordered it I would have be thrilled and going online immediately to check out available titles. If he hadn't, I would be relieved.

"I didn't order it yet. I was trying to figure out whether we should get one that's 3G or not."

"Please, let's just forget it. Don't get an iPad. As it is, with the phones and the computer, I'm already distracted enough. I don't want another screen for the kids to have to compete against. You say all the time how much we're missing ..."

Although I knew he agreed with me, I could see him deflate. He still had the problem of being the only father in the known universe who hadn't even gotten his wife a card.

"I'd be happy with a tomato plant," I said. "Really. We could go to the plant center."

He's a stickler, though. A $4 plant I would likely kill within 48 hours wasn't going to cut it for him.

"Let's go get a tree. What do you think? Wouldn't it be nice to have a fruit tree?"

I was a little skeptical. Trees are expensive ... and you probably need two if you want fruit ... and then there's the thing of planting them ... and caring for them. ... Maybe we should just research this a little before we jump in.

"You Google, I'll get the keys."

Before I knew what was happening, there we were at the plant center peering at rows of fruit-bearing trees and shrubs as the kids careened down the stone-covered walkways dragging the garden center's big-wheeled wagon behind them.

"What I don't get is what's the difference between the apple trees and the pear trees," he said in all seriousness.

I blinked. "Really! Really?"

He just smiled and said he was going to find someone to help us.

"OK, but please don't ask that question at The Genius Bar."

Help keep mom in the picture

2011-05-06T03:49:00.001-07:00

"Don't worry, mom" is a slogan that makes most of us chuckle.

Worry is what we do. It starts before the pregnancy and last through our dying breath. ... Which most of us have taken for granted will happen long after these babies we've made make babies we can spoil.

But the truth is every day 1,000 women (some of them only girls) die in childbirth. And for each of those women who die, another 20 are injured, suffer infection or disability from maternal causes. The numbers are shocking. One in 14 women will die in childbirth in Somalia as compared to 1 in 15,200 in Italy.

Many children born to women who die in childbirth will not survive more than two years following her death. This includes children she bore previously who were as old as 10 at the time of her death. Without mothers the world's children suffer economically, educationally and poor health. Without mothers the world suffers.

The worst (and perhaps best) part of this tragedy is that these deaths are preventable. It only takes increases in skilled health care and better access to family planning ... and the political will to make those changes.

That's where The White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood and CARE International come in. They've embarked on a campaign to raise awareness about why governments should care about the health of mothers, and how, by doing so, they can strengthen their nations' future and prosperity.

We also need to remain vigilant that the political will to protect the health of American women and their families isn't diminished by the loudest squeaking wheels in the system. According to Amnesty International, maternal deaths in the U.S. have increased significantly during the last two decades. Constricting access to effective family planning we will surely see more maternal death and more poverty.

We can't end the worry for all mothers but we can make it less worrisome for those who are most in jeopardy.

I can't think of a better gift for Mother's Day.

Chapter One

2011-05-05T11:32:00.001-07:00

Scene: Chance encounter with much beloved teacher of the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

Excited to see his teacher walking a dog, he waves frantically at her and yells: "Hi!"

She returns the wave and replies: "Hey, Bud!"

Struggling against the leash and the excitement of the confection-colored canine in her care, she steers the charge away from her tiny student.

The boy deflates. His chin touches his chest as his shoulders slump.

"What's the matter? Why are you upset?"

"She called me 'BUTT'!"

Small things

2011-05-04T09:03:00.001-07:00

"Mommy! Mommy! Guess what I found!"

I was afraid. She was gently cupping something in her dirt-ground hands.

I hope whatever it is it hasn't been dead long, I say to myself with complete disregard for the child who stood before me beaming.

"I can't guess."

"Try. It's not fun unless you guess."

"OK, let me think. ... It's not the neighbor's cat ..."

"MOM! The neighbor doesn't HAVE a cat!"

"Yeah ... that's why I've ruled that out. Smart, right?"

She squints in playful exasperation. "Really? OK ... I'll give you a hint: It starts with an E. What's your guess?"

"I dunno .. an earthworm."

Her mouth twists into the unmistakable expression of surprise deflated: "Oh-how-soon-yo-adult-types-cop-out-of-this-very-fun-game."

"So you give up then?"

"I give up."

Her hands open like a flower and inside is a tiny porcelain elephant.

"I found it buried in the garden."

"Wow. That's amazing," I said as I plucked the tiny treasure from her hands for inspection. "And my guess was so close, too."

"You said earthworm. That's not close at all."

"Yes ... but it begins with an E."

Picture imperfect

2011-05-03T14:25:00.001-07:00

I feel this way a lot lately.

Eyebrows trying to meet eyelids.

Hiding the frown as best as I can.

It never fools anyone.

People tell you to "smile,"

Which only makes it worse.

I haven't been interested in taking photos lately.

Which ... I'm not sure is usual.

Which is to say I'm not sure it's unusual either.

I can't tell if this feeling is the backlash of a year of daily snapping ...

Or the aging of my subjects and their apparent desire to be left alone ...

Or something else. Something within me that's had enough.

The thing I'm starting to notice, though, is an inkling of wanting to get it back.

Not time for celebration

2011-05-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Where were you when you heard planes had crashed into the World Trade Center -- or the Pentagon ... or that that one had crashed in a Pennsylvania field on its way to a Washington landmark, possibly the White House -- on Sept. 11, 2001?

We know where we were and remember every detail of that day and the days that followed because it was more than somber, it was sobering. It changed everything.

Today, nearly 10 years later, we mark a new memory in our minds' indelible ink - the killing of the man largely blamed responsible for the terrorist events that killed nearly 3,000 people on US soil.

When I heard the news last night I was watching the end of an episode of "Treme," an HBO series depicting New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. As I watch TV these days I find myself a slave to my smartphone: obsessively turning it on and off to allow the programs for email and text messages to update. (It is a demon I'd like to cast out.)

My children, just barely ideas before the the first anniversary was over, were now asleep upstairs.

At 10:43 p.m. the New York Times email alert said "Osama bin Laden is Dead."

For a moment I wondered if his previously reported health problems had caught up with him. But opening the email I saw the word "killed" and realized it was not incidental.

I didn't feel anything. Definitely not the celebratory vibe that took hold overnight and lasted well into the morning. I don't even feel a sense of relief.

It's not over. We haven't closed the book on terror, or even finished the chapter. We've just torn out one sheet of paper as the wind fans its other pages.

But it's not fear I'm feeling, either. It's just tired of moving in circles, refusing to even see our own mistakes.

There seems something inherently wrong about celebrating a murder, regardless of how reviled the character.

Today is not a day for jubilation. The day we all stand together without this hatred for each other, that will be the day to celebrate.

Great expectations

2011-04-29T08:28:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I was thinking: Setting an alarm to wake up at 3:30 a.m. with the intention of making scones? Dragging the kids out of bed to watch two people get married an ocean away? We'd sit in front of the telly with tea and biscuits?

What a royal pain in my ...

"Silliness," I said to the dog, who was roused and curious at the sight of a human lumbering around the house, breaking the silence of the dark by turning on the TV. It would be at least another hour until the prime event would take place anyway.

"The kids would rather eat sawdust than scones," I said as I stroked the dog's head and retired the idea before I'd even collected ingredients.

It was all so last minute. It wasn't about the pomp or the circumstance, it was just about the moment.

Thirty years ago when a similar scene was playing out on network news I sat in the living room of my mother's house, watching a horse-drawn carriage carry another soon-to-be-princess through the London streets.

We didn't analyze the spectacle. We didn't ooh and ahh. We just witnessed it together - my mother, my sister and I. And the memory of that vision has stayed with me as if all happened yesterday.

Today isn't anything like that day.

Fairytale things have little place in Ittybit's real life. She rarely dresses up like a princess anymore. All that stuff has been packed away in the trunk of a younger girl's imagination and fancy.

This was just a wedding of two people she didn't know -- a pretty woman in a pretty dress and a groom she'd mistaken to be the bride's father -- and nothing more.

"Can I play Math Bingo now?"

Cartography corrected

2011-04-28T08:41:00.001-07:00

"Not to be picky, but this isn't really accurate, is it? I mean ... Where's the mess? ... and where's your brother's bed? It's missing, and yet he sleeps there, too."

"What? You want for everyone to laugh at me?"

Career counseling

2011-04-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

"Mom ... If you quit your job you could write a book."

"That's a surprising suggestion coming from you. You never like my stories."

"What do you mean? I LOVE your stories."

"As I recall you said, and I quote: 'they have a beginning and end, but no plot'."

"That's true ... but if you didn't have a job you could work on the middle."

"I'm thinking maybe YOU should write the book."

Unnecessary translations

2011-04-26T07:28:00.001-07:00

Mostly I don't like thinking about the lowest point you can reach as a parent. It's a dark place that doesn't often take kindly to humor. It can also be like poking an injured creature with a stick.

It is neither nice nor necessary.

Although this parent's more respectable cousin (also known as Mother Of The Year) has witnessed her lowest points at dental practices all across America. It is here that we find out how much damage we've done with our permissive ways.

"Oh. What? ... How many cavities? Does she even have that many teeth?"

The dentists always tell you not to take it personally. It's not an indictment of your parenting abilities. It could be genetics. But we know by their wide-eyed smiles that THEIR kids have perfect choppers.

But that initial defeated feeling isn't the lowest point you can reach.

You shrug, accept and then you resolve to do better. You've tried to get them to brush properly. You've employed timers and flossers and toothpastes of all flavors, but it's not enough. You've tried to be diligent, but you fall just short of trying your best. You know there's always room for improvement. At least that's what you've been telling the kids.

Disappointment fades to forgotten.

No, you hit the low when your kid ... happily sitting in the examining chair watching a movie ... asks the dentist the most important question of all:

"Will you adopt me?"

And as you fail to translate what he really meant by the word "adopt" you succeed in feeling the sharpest truth of what was said: If she did adopt him, at least he'd have better teeth.

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T15:42:00.001-07:00

Bunny left a Garden Gnome on a field of brownie.

The boy plowed through it pretty darn quick.

Some may say he's not that far off ...

2011-04-18T20:28:00.001-07:00

"Hey look! It's a JOURNAL!"

Sweet 16

2011-04-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

I know you are probably wishing for more of the cat's food and the freedom to take whatever you want off the plates of the kids.

Oh wait ... You've already got that finagled now, haven't you?

I'll tell you what I wish.

I wish we could have you around for another 16 years.

Happy Birthday, Miss M.

The best toy you never had to buy

2011-04-14T11:29:00.000-07:00

Mud.

Second best toy?

An old, fitted sheet.

Food for thought

2011-04-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

This week the Chicago Tribune reported a story about a ban on homemade lunches at Little Village Academy, a public school.

Seems the principal at the school decided to enact the moratorium six years ago after seeing some of the junk food kids brought with them on field trips. She contends school lunches are healthier and should be required of students who don't have health concerns or allergies that would prevent partaking in the meals.

When I first read the story I immediately thought "of all the incredibly bone-headed things ..."

I started listing the outrages in my mind:

So parents wouldn't be able to pack ... say ... This:

School-made lunches aren't any healthier ... We all know the stories about how healthy school lunches really are: Chicken nuggets, hot dogs, hamburgers, mozzarella sticks, pizza (that's a typical weekly menu at our school, anyway). Here's a sampling of school lunches from flickr.

The lunches certainly aren't any cheaper ... if you don't qualify for a subsidy it's, on average, $2.25 a day on top of your now inflated grocery bills.

And most kids toss them out if they don't like the offerings. So as officials are demanding food revolutions, some kids aren't eating anything during the day, and families are paying for the privilege of their kids going hungry.

There are just so many Head-Meet-Wall Stories my wee brain can take.

I'd like to think we come up with cockamamie ideas and turn them into rules because we truly mean well. But mostly what I think happens is that people see a problem they have no idea how to fix and so they start making new and often useless rules.

Which makes me wonder what exactly do educators know if not education? It seems to me they are in a perfect position to inform parents on healthier choices and they can do it through our children.

I know my fifth-grade teacher showed me the joys of yoga and eating whole wheat bread ... and my mother happily indulged those changes.

Of course, some parents will still pack their kids' lunches with sodas and candy and high-fat snacks. ... So how do schools control what students eat? The answer seems simple enough to me: They can't. Not entirely. The best they can hope to do is influence it ... and offer more exercise.

Which leads me to wonder what happens when schools try control food? After six years there should be some positive change in obesity rates at Little Village Academy, don't you think? The story never mentioned if there was.

The yoga of parenting

2011-04-12T13:02:00.001-07:00

Children can make everything you do in life seem that much harder.

But everything you do in life can seem that much better because you have children.

When 'Farm Market' takes on a whole new meaning for mom

2011-04-11T09:47:00.000-07:00

Let me set the scene:
It's the morning commute on a gray, rain-threatening day. The landscape, still crisp with fall colors though it is spring, rolls past our windows at 45 miles-per-hour. The boy is in his car seat talking non-stop about the things he sees - asking and often answering his own questions.

"Ders a guy with wandry. Where's he going? Maybe to da wandrymat."

"Can we go the wong way? I yike the wong way. It's faster than the short way."

The long way it is. Past school buildings and playgrounds. Past apple orchards and cattle ranches. Past miles and miles of fields.

"Is that a farm?" He asks as we drive past acres of wide open fields.

"Yes. That's a farm," I answer absently, momentarily wondering to myself if there will be a train at the crossing up ahead.

"What do they grow there?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, trying to focus on his conversation. "It's a pretty big field. It could be hay or corn, or something like that."

"Don't they grow zombies there? I bet they grow zombies there."

I start to laugh. Of course he'd wonder about whether an iPhone app offered a window into the agricultural practices of the undead.

"That's just a computer game. There's no such thing as zombies."

"Well ... I think it would be fun if they did grow zombies. Because if they grew zombies I could keep one for a pet."

"If zombies were real," I tell him (as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a three-year-old) you most definitely would NOT want one for a pet."

"I would. I would keep him in a cage and feed him every day. I would!"

"What would you feed him?"

"I don't know. Zombie food. It costs five dollars and you can buy it at the store."

"I don't know how to break it to you bud, but zombies - which are not real anyway so don't go chasing nightmares - eat humans. And that makes it completely unsafe to own a zombie."

"Well ... If I had a zombie I would train him not to eat humans. That's what I would do."

The bully pulpit

2011-04-08T03:56:00.001-07:00

The Times Union's "Parent to Parent" blog this week posted a video that showed a portion of a fight between two girls on the Shenendehowa High School campus. The fight allegedly happened last year but, as the author explained, the video had “just surfaced” on YouTube.

The posting describes the contents of the clip in a paragraph, highlighting the potentially controversial fact that an administrator knocked one girl, presumably the aggressor, to the ground. It continues on to commend the “superhero” for doing what “he had to do to stop a bad situation.”

The post also pokes a little fun at the girl who is seen throwing punches, noting the irony that her t-shirt bears a peace sign. (On its official Facebook page posting of the piece, the "TU" commented that the newsroom was “giggling” over that, too.)

Predicably, a number of comments on the blog, as well as where it appeared on the TU's Facebook page, took the bait and started swimming to the murky depths.

Some brought up the girl’s weight. One called her a “low life.” Many blamed “the parents.” They wondered how long it would be until the administrator was sued. One called for a return of a “good spanking.” Another wanted the teacher to “lower a shoulder.”

Standard stuff I suppose, and stuff that included opposing and thoughtful view points. But does one really balance the other? What does viewing a video clip add to the discussion?

We (journalists included) routinely swipe video from Youtube or photographs from Facebook with the conviction that what we are exposing is for the greater good. Critics might say that the business of news and analysis is leading us all down this desolate road ... if we don't we threaten our own survival. But as we troll more and more for the stories we promote, I can't help but think we run the real risk of adding to the greater harm instead of the greater good.

Let’s not think about copyright or ethics for the moment. Let’s not think about the supposed victim in the video, and how she might feel about seeing the clip dredged up by a professional arbiter of information. She's just a performer in the theater of ideas. That this fight, and countless others, will last in perpetuity isn't really our concern. After all, it is owed to a perfect storm of immaturity, the ease of technology, and the desire to keep click counts hopping on slow news days.

I just wonder: Does promoting videos like these really add to our understanding of, or reporting on, the problems of youth? Or are we just facilitating bullies and becoming ones ourselves?

Bedtime

2011-04-07T12:32:00.001-07:00

Bedtime. It's bedtime. Get ready for bed. Please. Please. Please get ready for bed. It's time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Get on your pajamas. Brush your teeth. Pick out your books. Get ready for bed.

Brush your teeth, boyo. Now. Brush them. That wasn't brushing. That was holding a toothbrush near your face. Brush. Your. Teeth. For two minutes. I'll set the timer. Brush. Your. Teeth. Either YOU brush your teeth or I will brush your teeth. Which do you choose?

And you, girly-girl, you can stop laughing at me and get on your pajamas. And stop jumping on the bed. Stop. Jumping. And take your pajamas off the cat. Really. Calming down. That's the goal. We're callllllming down. Now. Calming. Down.

I'm only reading one book. Just one. And not the one that is 200 pages long. So don't even try to sneak that one under my nose. I will not be tricked into reading the Tolstoy of children's fables. So don't even try.

OK ... I'm reading now.

I'm reading. Now.

Stop playing with whatever that thing is in your hand and listen. To the story. Listen. With your ears. ... not with your hands.

OK ... where was I?

... and they all lived happilyeverafterTheEnd.

(Switches off light).

What?

No, I did not skip any pages. I love you. Go to sleep.

Knock, knock

2011-04-06T13:35:00.001-07:00

Who's there?

A fifteen-pound cat who wants to play.

A fifteen-pound cat who wants to play who?

You! Go ahead, keep on dangling that purple shoelace thing-y ... I'll just watch.

The sweet, the sour and a multi-tasking failure

2011-04-05T12:45:00.000-07:00

"Oh ... I meant to throw that one out before you saw it. ... Sorry."

Are your kids on the dole?

2011-04-04T14:11:00.001-07:00

My husband and I have a long-standing disagreement over what should constitute an "allowance."

I always assumed an "allowance" was a small amount of money parents gave children each week in order to teach them how to budget (and ridicule their consumer choices).

He believes allowance should only be paid for work the children do that is above and beyond the scope of chores they would ordinarily be doing if they were three-foot-tall tenants and their rooms were private apartments.

For instance ... they shouldn't get paid to clean their rooms, clear the table, pick up their toys or do anything that is in the purview of family obligation.

"Which leaves what?" I wonder ... "Paving the driveway? Re-shingling the roof?"

Technically speaking, in his estimation, we shouldn't be giving them any money for vacuuming under the couch cushions simply because the majority of what is found there is a pulverized version of the snacks they eat while watching TV.

So ... aside allowing them to keep the pocket change they find when vacuuming the crumbs under the cushions, we've yet to settle on a firm way to put our kids on the payroll.

Do you pay your kids a true allowance or do they work for their money? What chores to you have them do?

Coffee talk

2011-04-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

A QUESTION OF DIGESTION

Scott Adams, the creator of Dilbert, set off a little firestorm in the ethosphere this week after he published, then temporarily retracted, a tongue-in-cheek essay on positions pushed by Men's Rights organizations. The post had feminists calling him misogynist and men's rights advocates crying misanthropy.

I'm not sure I really have an opinion of the original essay to be quite honest, but I thought Adams' explanation of the whole debacle was an interesting little journey through the bowels of social media.

See, a few weeks back, I wrote a column in which I complained about family game night. It was supposed to be an off-beat, light-hearted glimpse of some mundane thing we all do, and that from time to time drives us crazy. It was supposed to be akin to looking at a snapshot, not painting a portrait.

In the print edition it appeared on a page opposite the obituaries ... which that day happened to contain an obituary for an 8-year-old child. I was mortified by the context I now found my story. Some mother was mourning her son, and if they looked to the right they would read my complaints about a family ritual they will never be able to have again with their child.

I thought: This wouldn't happen on the internet. My frivolousness wouldn't share a page with someone else's sorrow.

Now I see how it can. And how anything, no matter what audience it was meant to entertain, can take on meaning it never was meant to convey.

REPLACING TEACHERS WITH TOOLS

The NYTimes ran a story this week that city schools were planning pricey technology purchases despite cuts in other areas of education spending, namely teachers.

Questions about the effectiveness of these new technologies as they pertain to learning and evaluation persist, but we are like moths to the technological flame. ... We seem to prefer the automated bells and whistles despite any proof that they work better than the lest costly tool they replaced.

As in the case of Interactive White Boards it seems pretty clear: Everyone likes them, but there's no real way to tell if they are more effective than their low-cost cousins.

I know I'm kind-a old school, here. But I'd rather have more teachers.

TAKING A BITE OUT OF THE BIG APPLE

You've no doubt heard about the female King Cobra that supposedly slithered out of the Bronx Zoo last weekend. Well, zoo officials didn't think the venomous viper got far, but by Monday a mystery asp started a twitter account under that moniker "BronxZoosCobra" and began live-tweeting its supposed tour of Gotham.

Among its tweets:

"Dear NYC, Apples and snakes have gone together since the beginning."

and "Holding very still in the snake exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. This is gonna be hilarious!"

and my personal favorite: "At the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Temple of Dendur really kicks some asp. #snakeonthetown"

In few days the little viper was on slitherabout, she'd had garnered more than 190,000 followers. The Bronx Zoo was sponging up some of the curiosity, too. Its follower count jumped more than 100 percent (to 8,000 including @bronxzooscobra) after the snake started tweeting. She even got @Jon_Favreau 's attention by posting a link to a photo on display at Ellis Island of his 1900s doppleganger.

Snake = winning.

Of course zookeepers said they believed the snake was holed up somewhere inside the confines of the zoo and would mosey on out when she's got good and hungry. Which many had hoped would mean a few weeks of reptile raillery.

On Thursday afternoon, however, the zoo reported the snake had been located, leading many twitter fans to wonder (and hope) that would be keeping its smartphone.

and ... @bronxzooscobra's first tweet back in captivity?

"Just regurgitated my iPhone. Oh, it's ssso on now. You'll never guess what's coming. #freethebronxzooscobra"

Keep the party going:
@BronxZooCobra
@TheBronxZoo

Score = tied.

Hard telling not knowing

2011-03-31T11:00:00.000-07:00

"Is he a good guy or a bad guy?"

Truly, I don't know. I don't even know who HE is other than a plastic man who shoots plastic ice in the general direction of down.

But if he's anything like a person in the mortal world, he's probably a little of both.

"Maybe he's a good guy who has bad days."

Mom? Wha'd you wanna be when you grew up?

2011-03-30T14:18:00.001-07:00

singing , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

A singing fireman.

Really?

Not really.

No really? What DID you want to be?

I don't know. I guess I never really had a clear plan. I suppose I just never wanted to grow up.

It's probably a good thing. Because you didn't really grow ... I'm probably going to be taller than you.

4.15 = 112

2011-03-29T13:15:00.001-07:00

How should we celebrate her Sweet Sixteen?

Nature or nurture?

2011-03-28T14:17:00.001-07:00

This is what the "fitting room" looks like to a three-year-old who has been told to "stop peeping under doors."

I no longer wonder why men hate to shop with women.

This Kid's Night Out ...

2011-03-26T08:02:00.000-07:00

In Troy.

The Climate Change in Human Nature

2011-03-25T06:03:00.000-07:00

The words just spill out. Thought after thought after thought; going everywhere and nowhere. Solving nothing.

War. Disease. Unemployment. Crime. Climate Change. Disaster. Unrest. Political Upheaval. Hatred. Intolerance. All of it in our faces everywhere we turn.

People say they want less government intrusion, but I think what they really want is to stop footing the bill for some of the Rights we once called inalienable. Rename them entitlements, paint the face of recipients in dark eyeliner and give them a teenage sneer. Add a baby on an outthrust hip, and you, too, might be able to convince the world that access to health care and education and equal protections under the law were quaint, olden-day notions now made burdensome in a modern-day world.

Kindness costs. Keep saying how we can't afford it anymore, conveniently forgetting how caring in the beginning can save in the end. Keep spending millions in advertising to tell us "we're broke."

That's progress: Times change. Everything stays the same.

We may not be bound by wires anymore, but we're entangled in wireless. Vote. Don't vote. There's only two choices, and all they do is point fingers at each other. Online polls don't mean a thing, but we're happy to click the toggle button of our choice. It makes us feel vindicated. The results are immediate.

The more I try to make sense of it the more it seems to twist into something completely grotesque.

I'm not depressed, I tell myself. I'm just ... sad.

I know I shouldn't but I can't help but say it: "It all seems so pointless, really. The world isn't ever going to get any better."

Tears threaten to come as I think of my children, and the day they look around them and decide the world has lost its mooring. Will they be set off adrift?

Nothing is new. Not even this. Their childhood will be as carefree as mine was. Filled with happy memories of Christmases at home and summers by the sea. They will have disappointments. And they will pick themselves up and move on. There is no other choice. You pick a direction and go.

"Maybe you are depressed," she tells me with soft compassion.

"Or maybe I need to unplug. We all need to unplug."

But unplugging isn't the answer completely. Shutting out the outside world can't be done indefinitely. It would be like turning off the sun: sure, nothing would burn under its rays but in time there'd would be nothing left to burn.

That was yesterday when I was typing all of this out with a hammering intensity. I wasn't sure these words would ever see the back-lit glow of a computer monitor again as I committed it to the garbage dump of my drafts folder.

That's when I noticed a story from the San Francisco Chronicle about a neighborhood-spat over patio seating turned into a legal matter between a coffee shop owner and a resident who lived nearby.

The twist was that the resident, who'd sent icy, demanding messages to the shopkeeper, decided to go in person and apologize for being cold and overly harsh. Because of that small contrition, the two are working out their differences over coffee cups instead of in a court room. They are neighbors, after all.

It made me smile. It made me think there is hope. It made let go of some of the sadness I'd been holding.

And the feeling might have lasted for more than a moment ... had I not scrolled down to read the comments.

Just smile and nod

2011-03-24T09:47:00.000-07:00

Oh, School Photographer ...

How despised you've become.

You backgrounds are hokey, your lighting formulaic. Your three-quarter poses are always just a teeny bit off.

The smiles you elicit, time after time, make our children nearly unrecognizable.

You give us a menu of choices and then offer no substitutions. Of course then you make your own substitution and offer us the choice to fix it ... with reprints.

Oh, and your prices ... They make us cringe, and rail against you. Yet, they are cleverly concocted to ensure most of us return a check rather than the photographs.

It's just a business you're in. I know.

The ever-cheapening surprise in a Cracker Jack box.

It's not your fault.

Would these mothers and fathers of children complain if you were supplying any other product?

A second beer that tasted nothing like its predecessor would surely be rejected with more venom, no?

Amateurs. So what they take better pictures?

You have something they don't.

You are selling the school experience in all its Look-this-way-and-Smile awkwardness.

You are selling photographs that will come back to haunt people.

You are selling the stuff of blackmail.

Don't ever change.

From dentist to disco

2011-03-23T09:42:00.001-07:00

Alternatively known as "How I got him to brush his teeth."

Seems like an eternity ago ...

2011-03-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

but it has been not more than a week.

No really ... it IS spring.

2011-03-21T07:43:00.001-07:00

The birds are back ...

And it's snowing.

Welcome back, spring.

Just in case you were wondering ...

2011-03-18T15:35:00.000-07:00

This is essentially the reason why photos swimming around in the flickrverse are heavy on her brother lately:

I am the official photographer of Overshot Your Welcome.

There's other stuff I haven't been talking about much.

For instance ...

THE PARENT TRAP Who's big idea was it to design a gift holiday around St. Patrick's Day? Isn't it enough to believe a boy kidnapped from England and sold into slavery grew up to drive the snakes out of Ireland? Now you hook the kids into making intricate traps to capture little green imaginary creatures, who once cornered will leave a gift?

Guess how I found out?

She made a trap. And checked it hourly.

Also ...

EGYPT * LIBYA * NEW ZEALAND * JAPAN I am sending my best agnostic prayers your way.

WISCONSIN? THAT'S THE CAPITAL OF MINNEAPOLIS, RIGHT? Oh, education in this country is the target of much scorn. I know we need to work harder to energize students and prepare them a world we can't even comprehend. But I can't help but wonder why millionaires are picking on school teachers. To me one group eviscerating the collective power of another isn't the answer for society. In fact, it seems a little like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

SMALLER IS BIGGER, THOUGH. Consolidating districts, sharing superintendents, administrative staff? That's OK in my book.

LAST IN, FIRST OUT I have to say this is tougher for me. Experience should count, and it should be weighed heavily. That's not to say that I think "bad" teachers should be protected. But I just don't think during a layoff is the time to be punitive. Performance-based reductions should be continuously handled through evaluation. If that was happening, last in first out would be fair. Eventually all these young teachers grow older, too.

NEW YORK TIMES' ONLINE SUBSCRIPTION ANNOUNCEMENT: Wow. Not exactly the "paywall" people had predicted. But to my limited mind it seems pretty brilliant. Although there are several ways to trick the system, the system is really set up to make sure those who have been benefiting the most from having free news to aggregate (socially speaking, anyway) will be asked to pony up. If you are really "benefiting" from the downward trend of the news business I'm guessing $15 a month isn't too much of an uphill climb.

BUT WHAT DO I KNOW? I don't have a crystal ball, either. I'm just interested to see how all this turns out in the end. And really? I'm hoping for a time in the near future when we can laugh about some of this stuff.

Including this:

We're serious about St. Patrick's Day

2011-03-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

Today I had planned to iPhone in a snap of our local snow sculptor's latest creation but ...

Well ... I'm a sucker for alien invasions, too.

It's officially Spring!

2011-03-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

Batboy has returned to the chagrin of the still-needed winter coat.

Saving wildlife by minimizing encounters with Angry Birds

2011-03-15T15:00:00.001-07:00

While we were visiting family near Boston this weekend, we happened upon the most interesting sight: sixteen wild turkeys foraging for food in the backyard.

We were just returning from breakfast when a line of these birds started slowly walking through the snow to a place near the patio furniture under a makeshift bird feeder.

We walked a little nearer, making sure to keep enough distance between us and the potentially territorial flock. They watched us with the same caution but kept on rooting around for something to eat.

It made me think of all the close encounters with birds I've had over the years.

Once, when I was a teenager, I'd heard what sounded like a truck's horn coming from our vegetable garden. When it drowned out the Pink Floyd playing loudly on my bedroom stereo, curiosity got the better of me and I went to investigate.

At first I didn't know what it was wading through the tomato plants. A turkey? No. A peacock? Maybe ... but it was huge ... a brown and it didn't really sound anything like the peacocks the lady across the road was raising. I'd never seen one up close, but they always sounded like they were crowing for "help" when their voices carried over the road. This one sounded like it could use an oil change.

When I turned to walk back to the house this great beast of a bird followed me.

I walked faster.

It started to fly. It flew past me, crashed into the house and clawed all the way down the siding until it landed on the ground with a thud. Immediately it righted itself and turned in my direction.

I started to walk to the front yard. Again it followed me until it saw one of two young maple trees planted there. Another brief flight past me, this landing more successful. Of course the tree, though it fared better than the siding, looked lopsided now as the bird weighed the limb it had claimed to just a few inches from the ground.

I was so stunned by this odd fauna in our suburban landscape I didn't really think about its sharp claws that had dug ruts into the house, or about haw dangerous such a bird could be to a stupid human like me.

I just stood there and gawked.

My dad called the lady who lived across the thoroughfare and told her he thought one of her birds had wandered over.

He laughed for years at her initial response: "What makes you think it's my peacock?"

And how he had to describe the beaked behemoth weighing down our maple tree before she'd take him for anything but a crank.

"Oh, that's Charlie," she said, recognizing I-don't-know-what.

She sent one of her sons over, a big man, who arrived with thick gloves and a cage. He reminded me of Jim Fowler from Mutual Omaha's Wild Kingdom as he grappled with the bird while we all watched. A few squawks and feathers later, Charlie was on his way home.

WILD KINGDOM

Now one domesticated bird off on walkabout isn't really the same as finding nature in your backyard. But it's something that could leave a lasting impression, and spur a fascination for ornithology.

And since this week is National Wildlife Week, I'd thought I'd celebrate by joining The Cornell Lab of Ornithology's Citizen Science NestWatch program.

It's fascinating stuff.

For instance:

Nest peepers should only check nests once or twice a week to minimize disturbance, and avoid checking on nests during the early morning hours and at or after dusk. They should also avoid the nest during inclement weather or when the birds are nearly fledgling.

Nest watchers need to be careful of tipping off predators making sure they are not followed by neighborhood cats or blue jays and crows. They should also vary their routes to and from the nest, making a continual loop. (Animals aren't stupid).

Of course that's just the tip of what there is to learn.

I can't wait to uncover the most confounding of close encounters with nesting ...

Why do the phoebes (and last year the chickadees) build their nests right above the loudest and most used door in the house?

Then they declare war in the form of swooping dives and well-positioned poop drops.

Perhaps they are the true inspiration for Angry Birds.

Like static electricity and balloons ...

2011-03-14T10:51:00.001-07:00

I do believe there's a special kind of attraction between grandfathers and grandsons.

Talking to one's self

2011-03-11T14:13:00.001-08:00

"Let's have a race.

"Ready. Set. Gooooooooooooooooo!"

"Whoa, hold y'er horses there Lightening McQueen. What race?"

"Who can eat the fastest ... ooooh yeah! Race! Race! Race!"

"Not a good idea, bud. You could choke if you eat too fast. You have to take your time, enjoy your food. You have to chew carefully and then maybe take a drink of water and then ... "

"I win!"

Always on the clock

2011-03-10T14:15:00.001-08:00

He'd been thinking about it for years ... weighing the pros and cons ... but he finally decided it was a necessary evil.

He bought a punch clock to track the hours he and his employees work.

With its adroit accounting of time, this mechanical menace is intended to streamline payroll ... not shave hours from paychecks.

That's how he explained it as I squinted my eyes toward the news.

It isn't a popular device.

His employees are smiling tightly and shrugging their shoulders, but it's not something that the psyche easily dismisses.

"Em had a dream about you," he told me recently.

"Really? About me?"

"Yes. ... She dreamed you started working with us and you designed this amazingly beautiful time card."

"Time card?"

"Yeah ... she hates the whole time clock thing but said they way you designed the cards made it somewhat easier to accept."

I stood there for a while ...

In awe of this news.

"You mean to tell me YOU instituted a punch clock and I'M get the blame in her dreams?"

"Awesome, huh?"

Radius Vector, personified

2011-03-09T14:12:00.000-08:00

It was late. We were on our way out the door. Papa had remembered he didn't bring the boy's backpack in from his car after they'd arrived from the baby sitter's house. This is usually the case when the grandparents are the intermediary link between day care and the end of the work day.

He went to retrieve it as I wrestled my talkative tot into his car seat.

He wasn't gone for more than a minute when the boy had decided he'd left without saying 'Goodbye.'

"I'm. Never. Going. To. See. Him. Again," he stammered as I tried to reassure him that that he would be back and he would be bearing a familiar red nylon bag filled with toys ...

Before I could finished, Papa was there saying proper farewells.

As I eased the car out of the driveway I saw my dad lope back toward his car. The boy was looking ahead, where he'd expected to see his grandfather waving in the glare of headlights.

"Did you hit papa?" his little voice chirped from the back, a little more assured than distressed.

"What?" I responded, not quite understanding what he was saying.

"YOU. HIT. PAPA!" He repeated.

"I didn't hit papa. He didn't go into the house, he went back to his car," I replied, pointing out of the window toward a white puff of hair bouncing along the road.

"Oh," He said, relieved. "'Cause I love that ol' Pop."