Dear Sage,

When people find out that you are 2, they immediately say "Ah, the Terrible Twos!" Yeah, right, as if THAT particular phase didn't start from birth.

The drama! As soon as you learned the word "me," you quickly added "mine" to your repetoire. So whenever your brother dares touch one of your toys, we get to hear "MEEEEEEEEEE! MINE!" at eardrum-piercing decibels.

You are finally starting to speak - using real words, that is, instead of your Sage-isms. You had a speech therapy session with a new teacher on your birthday, and you emerged saying "baby" for the very first time. This might not sound impressive, but I did get teary-eyed. For almost a year, you have called babies "mamas" despite my consistently telling you the correct word. For you to finally say something correctly..you were so proud!

And you keep adding words! "Cookie" is a favorite. You are finally really trying to repeat what we say (so I guess you'll be saying "shit" pretty soon..) and we feel for the first time that you might, actually, speak. You've even started to sing "itsy bitsy spider" although it is all presently gibberish. You're awesome at the hand movements, tho!

We do have conversations. A typical one goes something like this:

"Sage, can I give you a kissy?"
"No."
"A hug?"
"No."
"Tickle-tickle?"
"NOOOOO Mommy. NOOOO!"

We predict you're going to be our little jock - who'll wear pink ribbons in your hair. One of your favorite toys you got for your birthday is a talking princess mirror. You love to gaze into it, then press the buttons and hear things like "your hair looks lovely today." (Now, this is something I think all of us could use. Can you imagine, when you're feeling bloated, you have a huge pimple emerging like Vesuvius from your chin AND your hair is not only frizzy but in dire need of a dye job to hide the advancing army of grey, just picking up your mirror and having it say "You are an incredibly hot babe (push button) You can't be a day over 20 (push button) "Your breasts are amazingly perky today" and so on.)



You also slept in your sparkly pair of dress-up shoes. Diva!



Everyone is now trying to convince me to cut your hair. But I can't. You're a girl! So what if you have some sort of wispy mullet thing going on. When I blow dry it, I can stretch the two longest strands down to your shoulders!



We are still working on getting you to say the word "two." But there is no doubt you knew your birthday party was for you. How did we know? It was the "MEEE! PARTY!!!" that tipped us off. And the day after your party, the first thing you did after getting out of your crib was to run to our bedroom window and look out into the back yard to see if the Curious George bounce house was still there (it wasn't).

You knew your day was all about you. Kind of like every day. Except, on your birthday, there was cake.




Happy birthday, baby girl. We love you more than any words..

Mommy

Happy 2nd Birthday, Sage!

The sweetest thing..

Sawyer started going to Music Together classes when he was about six months old and he lasted until he was about 2 1/2, when he ended up in a shoving match with this obnoxious kid over who got to turn off and on the lights (and the kid's mother did NOTHING, even though I made Sawyer apologize. What is wrong with people??). I figured it was time to move on.

There was one song from the CDs that I started singing to him, making up my own words. Here's the gist:

Sleep, sleep, sleep sleepyhead.
Sleep, sleep, snuggle in racecar bed.
Mommy will keep you safe and warm.
So sleep, sleep, sleep sleepyhead.

Not exactly poetry, but Sawyer really liked it. He recently started asking me to sing it to him again before bed. Then he decided he wanted to start singing to Sage.

So before her nap and at night, Sawyer goes in her room. I put her in her crib, lay her blanket (known as coat) over her, turn on her fan and turn off the light. I then leave, because Sawyer wants "Privacy, Mommy!"

Then he sings her this:

Sleep, sleep, sleep sleepyhead.
Sleep, sleep, snuggle in your crib.
Sawyer will keep you safe and warm
So sleep, sleep, sleep sleepyhead.

He then follows the song by saying "Goodnight Sage, I love you" and making a kiss noise before running out of the room.

We are trying to get it on video, but it's tough because of his PRIVACY, MOMMY! request. We are working on it. A little stealth would be totally worth it.

The purity of him singing to his sister - without any prompting whatsoever on our part - is one of our greatest joys of parenting so far.

GPS update

David found it! Woohoo! It had somehow fallen down between the driver's door and seat. Now I can breathe easy again knowing I can turn on my GPS and safely navigate to the end of my very short street (yes, I was born without an internal compass).

And yes, for those baseball purists, I DO realize that pic of Vlade is from a road game, and that he's not standing in right field as he was when Sawyer was shrieking hello to him but is up at bat in some other stadium. But hey, I only wanted to spend a small amount of time on google. And of course I forgot my camera last night (DOH!). So get over yourselves!

Can you hear me now?

I took Sawyer to the Angels game last night (thanks to some free tickets). It was the first game he's gone to that he remembers. When we first arrived, I told him that when an Angels player hits a home run, they shoot off fireworks. WRONG thing to say. He wanted me to assure him that NO Angels player would hit a home run. Fireworks are apparently on the list of Things That Are Scary.

We get to our seats, and of course Sawyer has to ask if everything the vendors are selling are peanuts (I'd explained to him before we went that he'd have to be extremely careful and not to touch anything, so I had him pretty worked up, which is okay, since if he has a peanut he could die). The only positive about it is he didn't ask to buy any food, except for cotton candy. Denied!

Then he saw his favorite player, Vladimir Guerrero, standing in right field.




"HI VLADE!!!!" Sawyer screeched at the top of his lungs. "Mommy, do you think he heard me?"
"Yes, Sawyer, I'm sure he heard you."

"HI GARRET!!! Mommy, do you think he heard me?"
"Yes, Sawyer, I think everyone heard you."

The people sitting in front of us were totally cracking up.

"HI GARY!!! Mommy, do you think he heard me? Then why isn't he saying hi to me?"

We made it all the way through the fifth inning - in time to see Garret Anderson hit a home-run. And guess what? Sawyer didn't even mind the fireworks.

After a quick visit to the team store to purchase a red wood bat (after I talked him out of the pink one), a small red baseball and a new Angels cap, we headed back to our car (which, incidentally, someone got in and stole our GPS machine).

On the drive home, Sawyer talked about what a great time he had.

"So who are your favorite players?"
"Vlade and Garret. Because they're my friends."

Two halves do not make a whole, unfortunately...

I have now completed two half marathons this year. Now if I could just combine those two times and call it a marathon, that'd be great. Instead, I actually have to run the whole 26.2 in one shot. Oy.

Today was only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun. When I left my house at 3:45 a.m., it was already 81 degrees. Good times!

The race itself wasn't too bad, despite the heat. David absolutely hates Disneyland (the crowds, the waiting in line, the cost) so we haven't been there yet with the kids. It was fun for me to see it as I ran through it. A bunch of the characters were out along the course, and runners were stopping to get pictures taken with them. People in large costumes freak me out a bit, so I looked away and kept running.

One not-so-bright guy was running dressed as Buzz Lightyear, complete with a white vinyl-ish suit and hood. We expressed our concerned that he would basically drop dead by mile 2. He apparently was wearing nothing (eew?) under the suit so had no choice but to wear it. No report on whether his brains boiled over from the heat.

We also got to run through Angel Stadium. For my friends, this was one of the highlights of the race. I, on the other hand, was trying to calculate just how many hours I've stood in the Angels dugout, baking in the sun while the team took batting practice. Clearly a sign I've spent waaaay too much time there.

I was pretty beat by the 11th mile, but finished okay, a little slower than my last half but still under 2:30. The best part is, because I actually hydrated correctly, I had no cramping and felt fine afterward.

I'm guessing San Francisco in late October will be just a tad cooler. But at least I'll have my nice Tiffany's bling that each finisher gets to keep me warm..

It's getting closer..

So my marathon is in, like, seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS, PEOPLE! I am running a half marathon - through Disneyland, yippee! - on Monday. Today a couple of us from TNT ran five miles while the rest of the poor fools ran 18 miles. Yep, that's right, I said EIGHTEEN. We actually ran that last weekend instead of the scheduled 16 because we knew we weren't doing a long run this weekend. It is quite amusing to me that running 13.1 miles is no longer considered long.

When I ran my first (and only other) half marathon back in February, my longest run til that day was 10 miles. Thirteen was a challenge. Especially considering I basically died at the 10-mile mark and crawled to the finish line.

Now, 13 sounds not so bad. I've done runs of 14 miles twice, and one run of 18. When I finished the 18, I thought to myself, for the first time, that I believe I can actually finish the marathon.

That might sound like a ridiculous thought for someone who has been training to do just that for over three months. But there are days when three miles is a struggle. I've figured out that it's all in the mindset. You mentally gear yourself for the longer mileage. And then you chug chug chug along.

I sure wish I were a faster runner. I seem to have slowed down a lot over the past few months. I don't think I'll better my time from my first half. But I guess the most important thing is I'm out there doing it. Especially after listening to a woman speak before training today.

She is on the walk team, I think. She got up in front of us this morning to share her story. She is a survivor. She was diagnosed with ALL (the most common form of Leukemia) when she was a sophomore in college. Her treatment included chemotherapy, drugs that made her gain 30 pounds, a bone marrow transplant, and, her doctors got around to telling her, would likely make her sterile.

Having babies was not exactly something she was thinking of at that time in her life. Until suddenly she had to. So, even though her insurance didn't cover it, she harvested and froze her eggs.

Luckily, her brother was a perfect match for a bone marrow transplant. This November, she will have been in remission a year. Someday, she can even have babies.

We applauded. Some of us, especially us moms, wiped away a few tears. And remembered why we're running.

Drama King

Sawyer's new trick is, when he doesn't get his own way, to burst into tears and race into David's office, slamming the door behind him. We basically ignore the whole thing (while inwardly admiring his dramatic flair). The other day, though, David went in to talk to him and he said that Mommy didn't like him anymore because I yelled at him. And then I had to explain that Mommy will always love him, but it seems that when I ask him to stop something, nicely and politely, he won't until I get frustrated and yell at him. So now, when I ask him to stop and he doesn't, I say, does Mommy have to yell? And that is working. For now.

But I digress. Yesterday, Sawyer had preschool. It was the last day of the summer session. He had his face painted like a monster, which he was pretty excited about. He was a little bit wound up but, I could tell by the whining, tired.

After Sage went down for her nap at 1 p.m., I told Sawyer he'd have to do quiet time. This meant he could stay downstairs, but we weren't watching TV. I wasn't going to talk with him or take care of him. I needed Mommy break time.

He begged me to read him a book, so I told him no, I would read to him after quiet time. He did the whole running-into-Daddy's-office thing. I of course felt bad, so after about two minutes, I went in. And this is what I found..

This apple did fall far from the tree..

After dinner the other night, when it had cooled down to an inhabitable temperature for mortals here on earth, we walked across the street to our neighborhood park. It has a pool, playground, basketball and tennis courts, a paved jogging loop, and a couple baseball fields.

The kids had a blast climbing and going down slides and digging in the sand. Then Sawyer decided he wanted to run the bases. I "pitched" to him, and then he'd take a "swing" before heading off around the diamond.

Then he wanted me to run too. And so I did. We raced around the bases, with Sage in hot pursuit. Sawyer could not stop laughing, clearly the best sound on the planet.

I wish I could say that this was something that I remember doing with my own parents. But it's not. I can't recall doing physical activities with them - not riding bikes together, not going for walks, and DEFINITELY not running.

My father was 36 and my mother 32 when they had me (I'm the youngest of three). I remember thinking they were "old" parents as most of my friends' parents were significantly younger. It wasn't just the calendar that set them apart.

Both my parents were overweight. Sedentary. My father's horrible eating habits and lifestyle led him to border on obese. It also gave him high blood pressure and diabetes. Thus he emabarked on the slippery slope from which he could never regain his footing. On came the strokes, kidney failure, congestive heart failuer and other issues which eventually killed him. My mother, although still overweight, is fortunately in excellent health aside from arthritis.

I am pushing 39 and am trying to set a good example for my own kids. Sawyer knows that Daddy and Mommy exercise. He joins in when he can, his personal favorite being the stretching portion as he contorts his little body into all kinds of hilarious poses. He also loves running around outside, and, as the little sister, Sage is Monkey See, Monkey Do.

I am very aware that we had our children a little later in life - certainly later than my own parents had us. If Sage is our last child, we will be hovering around 60 when she graduates from college.

My children did not ask for older parents, but that's what they got. I feel like I owe it them to stay active and healthy and fit. To be around as long as possible.

To be able to run the bases some day with my grandchildren..

Edvard Munch, eat your heart out!

A rolling poop gathers pine needles, and other tales from the run

Three hours is a long time to run. I know this because that is how long it took me to run 16 miles Saturday (yes, you math whizzes, 16 miles in 3 hours = S-L-O-W but I'd like to see YOU smart asses get out there and do it!). I regularly run with two women who are my age during our Saturday runs with Team in Training, which, as you know, I'm raising money with for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. We were also joined by another woman who we'd not met before who is the tender age of 25. No matter. She enjoyed our geriatic pace and was quite entertained.

I run with my iPod, but I have it low enough so I can carry on a conversation and most importantly, so I can hear the demonic bicyclists who race up behind us and shout at us for not being far enough over on the side.

In case I haven't mentioned, three hours is a long time. But I have to say it goes by a lot quicker when you have some interesting conversations. And since most of you were either still sleeping or at home relaxing by the pool, I thought I would bring you some of the gems that were discussed,most of which have to do with the workings of the digestive system.

1) When said demonic biker zipper by and yelled something nasty at us, one of our party shouted back "We hope you don't get leukemia!"

2)Body Glide, Body Glide, Body Glide. Slather yourself with it or else you'll end up like K, who not only had to endure inner thigh chafe (yeeeeOWCH!) but also found, upon taking off her shoe and sock at the finish, that the back of her heel bled right through her sock and onto her shoe.

3) Gu gives you gas. I don't do Gu, I do shot blocks, so I don't have this problem. Apparently when two of the women were out for a run during the week one of them, er, "released" her discomfort. The other one jumped - she thought it was a dog barking.

4) If one has to poop during a run and it's an emergency, said runner usually makes like Carl Lewis and sprints to the nearest bathroom. It's known as a desperation dash. If one has to poop but it's not an emergency, just kinda bothersome, it's advisable not to clench one's butt too tightly to keep the poop in. This, in one woman's experience, can lead to the incredibly undesireable condition called Butt Chafing.

5) And my personal favorite story: T runs with a woman who regulary poops during runs, usually behind a bush (I didn't ask about TP). One recent day, she went up a small incline to the bushes to do her bidness. One poop landed in pine needles and started rolling. It gained momentum, rolled right down the hill and landed - plop! - right on the sidewalk at the feet of her running partner like a perfectly wrapped gift.

That No. 5 kept me giggling for a few miles. It's not the hill I handled or my bruised toe or the calf cramps I finished with that I'll take with me from Saturday's run. It's the sharing of conversations you might only have (or not!) with your best friends, the feeling of being in this together, that will keep me going for many, many more miles.

OMG!!

So David and I go to the wedding of one of his best friends from high school. It was our second wedding this summer. I'm not clear that we'd been to a wedding since WE got married back in 2001.

As the first wedding, in late June, approached, I realized I had nothing to wear. All of my dresses were too big (yes, I know, a nice problem to have, until you start panicking because you REALLY have nothing to wear)And even if the stuff did fit, most of it was horribly out-of-date, a veritable freak show of sparkles and straps and even taffeta!

A trip to the mall was completely unsuccessful as the only things I liked were well over $200 which was out of my price range. In desperation, I headed to TJ Maxx, where I found an Anne Klein dress for $50. The price was right. I purchased. I hated it. To make matters worse, I look pregnant in the pictures from the wedding. Delightful!

I was determined to find something better for yesterday's wedding because there was no way in hell I was putting on that stupid dress again. My sister and I went to Seattle to see my Dad a few days before he passed. The hospital did not allow visitors in the morning, so what better way to release stress than by shopping?

Five hours later, my sister and I had both purchased a dress (she had a wedding to go to last week). I thought my dress was a unique color. The style was flattering. And it was under $100.

I felt great wearing it (tho I didn't love my shoes). So imagine my surprise when David and I walked into the church and the first thing I see is ANOTHER WOMAN WEARING MY DRESS!! Hilarious!!

What are the odds? Not only that, but she came and sat at our table. Luckily, she was incredibly nice and thought it was as funny as I did that we were wearing the same frickin' dress.

The only bad part was when she told me how much she paid for the dress: $8.50. That's right. Eight dollars and 50 cents. I wanted to kill myself!!

But of course we had to pose with the bride as her unofficial bridesmaids (excuse my gazillion chins, I am the least photogenic person on the planet). Oh - and I don't know why it's cutting off the picture.

HIDE and seek..

The "hide" part is, I've discovered, torture for a 3 1/2 year old. We played hide and seek tonight, and Sawyer got to hide. When I got done counting to 10, and had shouted "Ready or not, here I come" Sawyer responded by shrieking "I'M IN THE GARAGE! I'M HIDING IN THE GARAGE!" I explained to him that he's not supposed to TELL me where he's hiding. He said okay, and proceeded to inform me he'd be hiding in the kitchen next. Then I got to hide, and squatted behind the couch he was sitting on while counting: "1, 2, 3, 4, TEN!" He raced by me, but Sage ratted me out, yelling "EEE MOMMY!" It might not have been perfectly by the rules (perhaps we should rename it Hide and Shriek?), but it was a perfect way to spend 20 minutes of a Friday night!

Back to our regularly scheduled blogging...

Sage has been going to speech therapy for a month. And I'm happy to say it's actually working!Her new favorite word is "up." She's not afraid to use it.

Just the other night she was in her crib and was having a tough time going to sleep - mainly because she sensed her brother was watching Charlie & Lola somewhere without her. So she stood at the rail of her crib, clutching her bear, blanket and little doggie-head-blanket thing (which she refers to as mah, coat and nnnnnn, respectively) and shrieked for awhile. Then I heard her say "up! up! up!"

We have felt obligated to pick her up when she asks, to reward her for actually speaking in our native tongue instead of Sagese. This night, I went up there, and I had to tell her that everyone - Mommy, Daddy, Sawyer, the doggies, and yes, even Curious George - were all sleeping. Satisfied, she flopped to her belly and fell asleep.

Sawyer, meanwhile, has discovered that his body can do tricks: "Look, Daddy!" he said with glee, as he moved his penis up and down without his hands.

For you, Dad

My sister, brother and I all spoke at my father's funeral. Here is what I read, more or less. I added a couple things that day that I can't remember exactly.

Memories

I am five or six, and Dad is home from work. I crawl up, trying to fit myself into the inches of his lap that are not already occupied by his stomach.
I lean in, careful not to disturb the newspaper he is reading through his thick glasses as if the words contain the meaning of life.
I inhale. The scent of Kent cigarettes and Old Spice fills me, comforting me.
This was Dad. He always seemed larger than life. And at 6-4 with blazing red hair – strands of which still colored his hair to the end - and a distinctive raucous cackle, he practically was.
He's the float we used to hang onto in the ocean, the pale, freckled knee we used as a diving board. He was the backyard coach, throwing tennis balls higher than the rooftops to us. And when we’d catch it and then throw it back, errant tosses were met with “Who was that throw to, Licorice?” Or Truffles, depending on which dog was currently with us.
Dad was also a food critic. When Mom handed him a plate of her new recipe for tuna casserole, he immediately renamed it – and quite accurately, my siblings would agree – Tuna Plop. Naming a meal was preferable, however, to his occasionally flinging a salad or plate of pasta at a misbehaving Ellen, who was lucky enough to sit next to him.
He certainly could be intimidating. A great day for me was when I got faster than him and could race up the stairs to my room and slam the door before he could swat me for whatever bad thing I’d done.
Some of the biggest fights Dad and I had involved the afternoon newspaper. My favorite thing was to hustle to the top of the driveway and retrieve it before he did, thereby giving me dibs on the sports pages. Dad wasn’t always in agreement with that strategy, and he had the gift of being able to outshout pretty much everyone he knew to get those sacred pages back.
But from Dad I got my passion for sports. Before the days of remote controls, I was his. I’d sit on the floor in front of the TV on football Sundays and turn to different games at his command. We watched the Miracle on Ice together. Doug Flutie’s Hail Mary.
He especially loved the game of baseball. He knew everything about it. He grew up in New York and Philadelphia so he’d seen his share of history.
I too fell in love with baseball, and it became my career. He was also a great storyteller. And he loved to ask my friends all about their lives and had a way of putting them at ease. I'd like to think I inherited some of that gift, and I have Dad to thank for that.
When I moved to California in 1999 to cover the Angels, it meant I was going to get some free trips to Seattle when they played the Mariners.
It was at a game that I nervously introduced him to David. Dad knew that David is half-Korean. And anyone who knows Dad knows how much he likes to talk about his time over in Korea during the war.
It didn’t take long for him to completely embarrass me by telling David that he had a Korean houseboy during the war. His name? Tae Bo.
Luckily, David laughed. Which is why I had to marry him. Because if you don’t think my Dad is funny, you won’t last in our family.
This came into play again later when Mom and Dad visited us. We met friends at a Chinese restaurant. Dad opened his fortune cookie and read “Help. I’m a prisoner in a Chinese fortune cookie factory.”
I groaned. The joke was so old, the pilgrims told it coming over on the Mayflower (another Dad-ism). I’d heard it a gazillion times. But David and my friend Jean laughed until tears came.
Just the other day, David dragged me in to watch a Magnum P.I. episode in which Magnum gives Rick and TC a fortune cookie. They read the fortune aloud, and guess what is says? David is STILL laughing about it!
Dad kept his sense of humor, even when events over the past few years were incredibly difficult. When he finally got his electric wheelchair, Dad enjoyed cruising the halls and, of course, socializing. He became quite popular.
When, for the third time in his two-year stay, a roommate died, several residents requested they get moved in with him. Apparently Dad’s conversational skills and off-color humor outweighed the possibility of any curse.
One of my favorite memories is of my son, Sawyer, then 18 months, climbing right into his lap and trying to “help” Dad drive his wheelchair. The visit was something Dad talked about often.
In Dad’s final days, he clearly was in a lot of discomfort. But it wasn’t enough to still his sense of humor. Or his stubbornness. He recovered twice in the past year from life-threatening illness.
This time, when he knew his weakened body couldn’t recover, he still was present in the moment.
When Mom asked him what she could bring him, he smiled in what we call his “hideous grin.”
That was Sunday. Tuesday, he passed peacefully, listening to his favorite Frank Sinatra songs. Andrew said later that maybe Dad thought he was in heaven.
So Dad, wherever you are, I hope there’s good music, great baseball, a comfy recliner and a cold beer. You deserve it.
Thank you for being our father. You were truly one-of-a-kind.

May 5, 1932-July 24, 2007

My father died today. While he took his final breaths, this Frank Sinatra song was playing in the room. My brother likes to think Dad thought he was in heaven.

Rest in peace, Dad. There's no more pain now.



Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you're young at heart.
For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
If you're young at heart.

You can go to extremes with impossible schemes.
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams.
And life gets more exciting with each passing day.
And love is either in your heart, or on it's way.

Don't you know that it's worth every treasure on earth
To be young at heart.
For as rich as you are, it's much better by far
To be young at heart.

And if you should survive to 105,
Look at all you'll derive out of being alive!
And here is the best part, you have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart.

And if you should survive to 105,
Look at all you'll derive out of being alive!
And here is the best part, you have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart.

Goodbye, Dad

BAD BLOGGER! GET IN THE CORNER!

I'm awful. It's been almost a month. So much has happened it's overwhelming. I've been busy busy blah blah blah. You don't care. You wanted dispatches from my fascinating life!

In quick summation: Sage started speech therapy, Sawyer started his new preschool, my father almost died, I threw a ginormous garage sale that I'd spent hours working on and nobody showed up, I bought into a business and I'm trying to go to Seattle tomorrow.

Phew.

So it's been a bit crazy. The great news is my Dad is doing much better. But it's been tough for me to muster the energy to get on here and blog. I promise to be much more diligent about it!

Then he does something like this..

Last night we were watching the DVD that we'd made for Sage's first birthday. Sawyer came in to watch and was excited to see pictures of himself. Even the ones where he's holding Sage.

So both kids get down and run into the hallway. Then Sawyer goes up to Sage and says "I love you Baby Sage" and gives her a big hug! Through my tears, I tell David to grab the video camera, and this is what we got.

Although, I have to say I gave myself a silent high-five earlier in the day when Sawyer smacked Sage - and she smacked him back! You go, girl!

It must be noon somewhere...

...because Sawyer is full of whine by 9 a.m.! I mean, I can see whining by, say, right around lunch, when he's hungry. But 9? He's recently eaten breakfast, he got to watch some TV - can't he just hold off for another couple hours? And the pitch! Seriously! I know that mothers are genetically or evolutionarily wired to respond to a newborn's cry because we cannot take that sound for ONE MORE SECOND. But I really think the same goes for whine. Children must be blessed with the ability to find our last nerve and then trounce on it with that awful sound. Makes me want to run my nails over a chalkboard because the noise would be a welcome relief! You know what I'm saying??

Nice try

Mommy? I need to show you something in the kitchen.

Sawyer, you are NOT having a cookie. You may have some cheese.

Mommy? I would like my cheese in a cookie.

To save or to sell

The fuschia pants with the sparklies. The pink Gap velour sweatsuit. The teeny tiny white onesie we got at the hospital.

I am going through bins of Sage's old clothes, from newborn til now. I am having a ginormous garage sale to raise money for my marathon. So I'm sorting by size and by stain, and surprisingly, by sentimentality.

It is a slow process. Not just because of the sheer enormity of the job - YEGADS the child has a lot of clothes! - but in the emotions that accompany my task.

I hold each item in my hands like a butterfly, gently admiring as I think back to moments when my little girl wore them. The tears come. How can I sell these? How can I not keep this tangible evidence that yes, Sage was once this small, once demanded to be carried ALL day, once finally, finally smiled at me for the first time?

I don't remember being this attached over Sawyer's stuff. I sent all his clothes from 0-12 months to my friend E. She was having a boy, and already had a girl, so she sent me her daughter's stuff. Sure, I kept a few things, but most of it went to M. Who happened to be born the day after Sage.

The difference is that I was already pregnant with Sage. I knew I'd have another baby to dress, one who would wear pink and lavender and girly stuff instead of shirts with monster trucks and race cars.

A baby.

Sage is likely my last. And so I mourn.

She is the age Sawyer was when she was born. They are 21 months apart, almost to the day. I can't even imagine having a newborn now. We joke that if she was the first, she'd be an only. It is a marker of time passed, though. She seems younger than he was at the same age: he was already in his "big boy" bed. He was speaking in sentences. He was happy most of the time, and, I now realize, relatively easy.

Sage was not. She wailed for her first 7 1/2 months. I told David during some of the worst of it, like when she cried for seven hours straight, that what made me most sad was that I had brought such an unhappy child into the world.

Selfishly, I feel I missed out. There weren't a lot of quiet moments, times when she would coo and belly laugh and was just happy to simply be. It was tough to savor my "last" moments of being a mommy to an infant.

Maybe I want one more chance.

David goes from being completely convinced that we're done to throwing me a little kernel of hope every now and again. Then I have to ask myself if I want another one because our family doesn't feel complete, or so that I can have one last baby to cuddle.

Shopping, anyone?

A small update...

I have now surpassed the $1,000 mark for my fundraising! One-third of the way there! Thanks to those who have donated, and thanks in advance to those who are planning to!

Click here!

Good question!

"Mommy, is the car show open yet?"

"No, but it'll be open soon."

"Mommy, can you show me how to make soon?"

Overheard

"Sawyer? Are you putting rice up your nose? Yes, you are!"

"Sage, are you Mommy's girl?"
"No. Daddy."

The Bumpy Road Song

One day, when we were driving the 5 down to the beach, we suddenly heard from the back seat a peculiar sound from Sage. Since it got such a positive reaction (David and I laughing hard enough to almost need to pull over) it has become a regular thing.

So now, for your listening pleasure, Sawyer and Sage perform "The Bumpy Road Song Remix" - the remix for a couple added "CHEESE!" for the camera..

Mommy Knows Best

You never want anything to be wrong with your kid. There is something to be said for validation, however.

I've thought for the past few months that Sage is having speech issues (pause here for snarky comments about how she probably hasn't been able to get a word in edgewise at this house). I asked her pediatrician at her 18-month checkup, and he said that we'd investigate further at age 2 if she still was having issues.

Not good enough for the inner (?) neurotic in me. I had a nice conversation with my OB/GYN at my yearly about Sage. Turns out her two sons are both speech-delayed, and she encouraged me to have her evaluated.

So I did. She had an hour-and-a-half evaluation today. She is at age or advanced in motor skills and comprehension, but is definitely delayed in expressive speech. Just like I thought.

The big areas of concern were Sage's lack of parroting what we ask her to say, and also that she uses no verbs. She also incessantly says "Mommy" before pretty much any other word. The therapist guessed that it's because I'm the only one who has any clue what she's saying. One positive is that Sage is making all the sounds necessary for her to make words. She just hasn't put it all together yet.

The therapist said she'd recommend for Sage to go to private therapy twice a week. Then, when she turns 2, she would be eligible to go to their small group classes. Hopefully that won't be necessary.

We never realized how verbally advanced Sawyer was until we see how little Sage says. Then again, she is way ahead physically compared to him at the same age.

Not that I compare my children, of course. At least, not to their faces.

It's starting to sink in..

So...there are donations coming in. Talk about a great feeling! But also scary. Because I guess this really does mean that I'm going to do this race. And I really am going to have to figure out how to raise that $3,000. My good friends from high school were the first to donate. I was really touched!

I have been talking to Sawyer about the little sick boy, Demetrius, who is our Honored Teammate. I showed him the picture of Demetrius that we received in our informational folders. He saw the picture of a happy boy with floppy brown hair. Then he saw another picture, of a boy with a shaved head and a big bandage peaking out from under his shirt.

We talked about how this boy is almost Sawyer's age, and how he's really, really sick with someone bad called cancer. And how Mommy is trying to raise money to help cure him, which means that Sawyer will not be getting a new toy at Target every time we go. Maybe Sawyer can even pick out a toy of his own that the sick little boy might like. Sawyer wasn't too hot on any of these ideas, but I'm trying..

My new adventure

I finally did it. I signed up for my first marathon (CUCKOO, CUCKOO!). I'd wanted to run one before I turned 40, and I found an opportunity I couldn't refuse. I mean, I COULD have, but it just felt right.

I signed up for Team In Training (whose acronym is TNT, not TIT, just FYI)and will train with them to run the Nike Women's Marathon on Oct. 21st in San Francisco. The big draw for me was TNT is part of The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Last year, TNT raised over $100 million for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

My best friend was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma when I was pregnant with Sage. She went through chemo and radiation and is now cancer-free. My cousin, though, has been battling leukemia for a few years.

What really got me was each team (I'm on the marathon running team for my county) has an honored teammate. Ours is a little boy not much youger than Sawyer. He'd had chemo the day before the kickoff event this Saturday. I couldn't help but think about my own thankfully healthy kids. Talk about a motivator!

I have to raise $3,000 to compete in the race. If you'd like to contribute to support me and TNT, please follow the link: Racing to Save Lives. Seventy-five cents for every dollar donated goes directly toward the cause. And it's all tax-deductible.

Thanks!

It's official

My tiny baby, er, I mean, sturdy 20-month old climbs up the "big kid" equipment at the park. Up, up she goes, to the very top of the twisty yellow slide. She is so high off the ground her nose should be bleeding. I wait at the bottom of the slide, my head tilted so far back to see her I have a dent in my spine.

It is all I can do not to race up the steps and grab her. She's a good 15 feet off the ground. What if she decides to lean over, loses her balance and... The imagination knows no bounds.

I stand my ground, but my heart is attempting to burst from my chest and rescue her before she ... she ... she slides down all by herself, smiling and shouting "wheeeee."

Give me the badge. I'm now officially a second-time mom.

Sawyer is cautious by nature - and nurture. His personality is not to charge head-first into something, but I probably didn't help by worrying over him and teaching him that some things are scary. Some things are, in fact, scary, like dashing into the street or grabbing a hot pot on the stove.

Or, to me, those big openings on top of the playground equipment where he could possibly fall and be permanently disfigured, paralyzed, or worse.

I am guilty of over-parenting him and not letting him figure out that if you stand up under the table you'll bump your head, or that bouncing on the couch can land your butt hard on the floor.

Parenting Sage has been completely different. Her personality is, when it comes to physical activities, much more daring. Plus, she's more coordinated than Sawyer was at the same age. When she falls, I avoid eye contact. She might cry for a second, and then she moves on. I want her to be tough. She has to be, with an older brother and a neighborhood filled with boys.

She has already had a fat lip, courtesy of a tumble off Sawyer's KinderZeat during which she smacked her head on the table and landed flat on her face. It is the first of what I'm guessing will be many bumps and bruises.

But today, Sage was so proud of herself as she went down that slide. Self-confident and strong. My girl.

Not-so-fast Freddy

Today we went to a regional park with my friend L and her son, J, who is three days younger than Sawyer, and her 6 month-old baby. The park has a train ride, a small zoo, a playground and, if that all wasn't enough, pony rides!

Sawyer was very diligent about eating all his lunch (after he'd gone on the train ride and played at the playground) so his reward was a pony ride.

The catch is the parent has to lead the horse around the teeny corral, which wouldn't be bad if my other arm wasn't supporting a 25-plus pound girl. Sawyer was very excited about the whole adventure and ran over to his pony.

Turns out, his name was Freddy. Sawyer had to wait his turn while J got strapped into his saddle and L led him out. This is what Sawyer had to say while waiting:

"Mommy? Freddy is sad."

"Why is Freddy sad?"

"Because he wants me to ride him."

And once Sawyer was strapped in, he announced that Freddy was, now, quite happy. Unlike Mommy, who hoped that Freddy was a burner on the horse path but found out that he is slower than the dirt on which he walked. By the end, my shoulder was two inches lower from toting Sage - who likes to Baaa like a horse (don't ask).

"Mommy, Freddy is really sweet. I'm having a great time."

That made it all worth it.

Why can't it be a baby bird?

Garbo is our big, fat pit mix with a brain that would make a T Rex seem like a genius. Her (only)saving grce is that she is VERY tolerant of the children. They can sit on her, dress her up and smack her upside the head and she just sits there, looking dumb.

She does have the incredibly annoying habit of following the kids when they are eating something, as if that one crumb they might drop will save her from certain starvation. She likes to sit under Sawyer while he eats at the table, and if she's especially daring, she will stick her head in his crotch to be that much closer if a noodle or bite of carrot should fall in that direction.

Today Sawyer was playing outside while Sage napped (oh yes, he no longer does quiet time OR nap, which is why yesterday he fell asleep folded in half on the couch at about 3:30 p.m., precisely two seconds after finishing a yogurt and asking for a cheese stick).

The dogs were outside. I looked over at Garbo and she was walking across the lawn delicately carrying something in her mouth like it was her own newborn pup (she was spade so has never known the joy of motherhood).

I hoped it was a mouse. Or a baby bird. Anything but what I knew it really was.

You know you're beaten down when you wish ill on a defenseless little creature because the reality it just too icky to contemplate. Maybe I should have prefaced this whole post by mentioning that Sawyer continues to poop in his pants. Did it twice today, ruining his Lightning McQueen underwear because NO AMOUNT OF BLEACH ON THE PLANET could ever remove the memory of that particular load.

So I yelled at Garbo to drop it, and she actually did it. I slowly walked over, my throat already gagging like I had just come face-to-face with mayonnaise on a stick. And there, in the grass, resting quietly on a patch of dead grass, was Garbo's prize: no feathers, no fur. Just a lovely solid dog turd.

At least I didn't step on it.

Happy Mother's Day

Everymom

I kissed Sage's soft, chubby baby girl leg today. Because I could. She was there, warm and squirmy, giggling. Alive. So very alive.

She might not be tomorrow.

The most profound lesson I've learned about motherhood came courtesy of what must have been a deafening sound of crunching steel. I wasn't there. I can only visualize what it felt like, to be in the driver's seat, with Grandma strapped in the passenger seat, the tired but happy children secure in their car seats in the back.

Maybe the conversation was about the carousel ride, or the water fountain the kids splashed in. Maybe one child dozed. Or there was a squabble over a toy. Maybe everyone was singing.

It wasn't even rush hour. But the traffic was backed up, as usual, to the exit for home. Waiting, the minivan all but parked behind a Tahoe. An ordinary day.

In an instant, it was over. A bigrig plowed through the back end until it became the back seat. Mom and Grandma turning around in horror.

The children. The children.

Emma, age 4, and Katie, age 2, died soon after being airlifted to local hospitals. Kyle, who turned 5 the day before, died later that evening in his mother's arms.

Unimaginable. Unfathomable. Unexplainable.

I have cried often about this since I saw the accident pictures in the paper Saturday morning. More so the next day, when I saw for the first time pictures of the smiling, warm-eyed beautiful children.

I studied the photos on their website. They looked so familiar. Could I have met them? They live in the next town. Or is it just that they are a version of the Everyman - in this case, the Everymom. I feel like I know her because I could be her: a mom returning in the early afternoon from an outing with her kids. I've gone to the same places they have. Driven the same highway. It could have easily been my car that was hit, my children's lives ended before they'd begun.

The pictures show a life full of birthday parties and sunny days at the park. Smears of 1st birthday cake surounding a toothy smile. Christmas. A grinning Dad. The two older kids gazing at their newborn sister. Emma kissing Kyle on the cheek.

And now...

Lori is a stay-at-home mom with no children to take care of. No pretty hair to untangle, no warm top of the head to kiss, no soccer uniforms to wash, no urgent cries of "Mommy!" to hurry and come see the lizard on the patio.

Only silence.

I'm sure she did what we all do to try to keep our children safe. We put them to sleep on their tummies from the moment we meet them. When they start to explore, we cover outlets, pad the sharp edges, gate our stairs. Carseats are safety-inspected and always buckled tight. We slather on the sunscreen. Tighten their helmets when running just isn't fast enough and they master scooters and bikes.

We do all these things and more, but the truth is, there is no way to completely protect them. There are terrible illnesses, maniacs with guns who think college students make good target practice, trucks that don't stop.

That is the risk of becoming a mother. The only emotion that can possibly match the overwhelming love you feel for your child is the equally intense sorrow of losing them.

The family has a website with a guestbook. Coble Memorial Website

Many of those who have signed are like myself, women who feel a connection because we are mothers. Many also talk about faith, often writing about the children being in a better place.

I hope the family does find comfort in the religious sentiments. They don't do much for me, though. I wonder if those who say the family should not ask "why?" because "only G-d knows" believe it simply because it's less terrfiying then the knowledge they live in a world where three precious, beautiful children are killed for absolutely no reason.

I can't imagine being Lori and Chris Coble today. Or in the days, months, years to come. What can silence the scream that must continuously eminate from the very core of their beings? How are they not reminded with every breath of those that no longer breathe? The house is full of not just toys and clothes but memories. Of the musky smell of Child. Of children.

Can they look at the kitchen and not see the first gummy mouthful of rice cereal? Be in the living room and not see the first of many steps? Finding a small hidden sock in the couch, seeing a girl who walks just like Emma or Katie - our children become our lives, how can they no longer be?

So I must become a better, more gentle, more tolerant mother. I must laugh more, scold less. Delight in the small things. To do less would be to dishonor the lives of Kyle, Emma and Katie.

To my own Sawyer and Sage, sleeping as I type, I love you more than any words can say. All the way to the moon - and back.

The body is an amazing thing..

The conversation while Sawyer was sitting on the potty..

Mommy? Can I eat my penis?

Mommy's thought bubble: If you could, you'd be the luckiest - and most flexible - man on the planet.

Mommy's response: No, honey, you may not.

Mommy? Can I pretend to eat my penis?


The conversation while Sawyer was playing outside...

Mommy, my nose is very important because it has two holes in it and that's where the boogers come out. They come out of the two little holes. That's why my nose is very important.

The conversation when Sawyer pooped in his pants - for the sixth time in one day...

Sawyer, if you can't poop in the potty, we're going to have to put you back n pullups like a baby.

Mommy, that sounds like a GREAT idea!

Huh?

It's all about the marketing

I am afraid the 1 p.m. naptime for Sawyer is a thing of the past. Truth is, he's just not ready to sleep at that time. Unfortunately, he's also not ready to lose his nap, as he can fill an entire vat with his whine. So right around 2 p.m., I tell him it's time to go to his room for "quiet time." He can bring any toy or books he wants to, much to his surprise. And the only rules are he has to be quiet and he can't get out of bed. We've done it all this week, and each time, he has eventually fallen asleep. The best part? Hearing him say "Mommy, I love quiet time!" several times a day. Am I a genius or what?

The good child

Never thought I'd type those words about Sage, but there you are. She has been such a joy lately. She still isn't really talking much (although she has her own sounds for things, including an "aaah" when she wants a drink or is talking about water) but she is crying a lot less and is becoming quite the clown.

These pictures were taken at The Flower Fields in Carlsbad. It was a gorgeous day, and ranunculas are my new favorite flower!

The Proof is in the Poopy

Maybe. This is my latest theory on my darling little spawn of Satan. He is still having a tough time pooping. Specifically, and sorry if this is TMI but really this is my blog so you already know what you're in for, he prefers to poop standing up. And while wearing his underwear and shorts. He usually will not inform us verbally that he has to poop until it is actually sticking out like a curious turtle.

We are on to him way before that, as he does a very distinctive poop dance (come to think of it, I might have waxed poetically about this in some previous post) that involves him clenching his butt as if he's trying to hold a $100 bill in there and dancing around on his toes. This process can sometimes stretch out for hours until the poop finally makes its appearance. And in the interim, his behavior can escalate. Probably because he's uncomfortable. Nothing that taking a good healthy shit won't cure!

So yesterday, when he was supposed to be napping, he instead killed one of his fish by throwing a heavy sock into his tank right on top of the poor little guy. He eventually got up and pooped - then slept for a few hours.

Today, after viewing the poop dance, I let him stay up and play. Eventually, he went outside to "play" and pooped (in his underwear). I soon after sent him to his room for "quiet time." I told him he could read his books or play nicely in his bed, and that he did not have to sleep. He complained a bit, but eventually, he was in there with a couple trains, and within 30 minutes, he was sound asleep. Still is sleeping.

And his aquarium is blissfully free of little boy debris.

Poop = happy kid. An equation to live by.

Is he a psychopath..or is he just being 3?

That has been the burning question around these parts the past couple days. Just when I was congratulating myself on surviving Sawyer's second year, even going so far as telling people that 3 has been so much more delightful, my darling boy has had a series of transgressions that leave me wondering if he's too young for electroshock therapy.

A few highlights:

1) Clocking his sister in the head. She proceeded to bawl, and when I pointed out to Sawyer that he hurt her, he stared at her like she was a science project. No remorse.

2) After a morning at the aquarium during which he was a perfect child, he decided he didn't want to take his nap. Instead, he arrived at the top of the stairs and announced he did poopy and peepee - in his pants. After cleaning him up in the downstairs bathroom, I ran upstairs to grab him a clean pair of underwear - only to find he had used the 10-gallon aquarium in his room as a repository for paper, toy cars and glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs. The three fish that we've managed to keep alive for the past few weeks were not amused. Nor was I.

3) I interrogated him with compelling questions such as "why did you put stuff in your aquarium?" just so I could hear equally compelling testimony such as "Because I did. He dared to smile. There was not a single tear shed. By him, anyway.

4) I decided he was not going to nap (and I really didn't want him in his room)so I put him in timeout at the bottom of the stairs. He then stood up and ran into the bathroom and closed the door. David arrived home, and I sent him into the bathroom, where he found Sawyer dipping a full roll of toilet paper into the radiation-blue, chemical-filled toilet water.

5) He somehow survived the rest of the day. He fell asleep in our bed for an hour or so, had dinner and finally, at 9, he was in bed. He was not allowed to have any of his "friends", which include two stuffed sharks, a dolphin and Shamu. I checked on him at 9:30, and he was still awake. In fact, he'd been busy - PUTTING CRAYONS AND MORE CARS INTO THE AQUARIUM!!!

No amount of yelling, taking things away or prolonged time-outs make a dent in this kid. He simply does not care. Couple that with no impluse control, and you either have a psychopath in the making, or an adorable 3 year-old boy..

Shake that thing

Sage's first milkshake!

Another badge of motherhood

So I'm bending over, trying to tuck my muffin top back into my pants, and I can't help but see the OLD LADY WRINKLED SKIN bagging below my belly button.

I just read a story in the paper yesterday about this morbidly obese man who went to have the gastric bypass surgery but had to have his pannus (no, this is not a typo) removed. The pannus is "an apron of abnominal fat that hangs below" the knees.

Now, I'm not saying I'm anywhere near to requiring a panniculectomy, and I obviously don't want to make light of a serious medical condition (altho it is kind of interesting that it has a name and a procedure). However, gravity just might pull my OLWS in an all-out sprint with my saggie baggies to see which reaches my knees first

Easter Egg hunt

Future proctologist?

Let's hope not!

Forever young

Mommy, I'm growing up so fast.

Oh no! I will miss little boy Sawyer so much!

That's okay, Mommy. I'm still right here. I'm not going into the forest. I'm right here!

Fashion Loves Company

Sage's newest fashion accessory is her Little Einstein's hooded towel. The child wakes up in the morning, comes downstairs, and starts yelling for Rocket. She wears it constantly around the house, but what's trendsetting if you're not showing it off to the world?

She will not leave home without it. She's worn it to Target, to the grocery store, to preschool to pick up Sawyer.

And she thinks Garbo looks really cool wearing it too..

This is where it starts

Sawyer has talked about a little girl in his preschool class, J, since he started going last September. We finally arranged a playdate. It took the two about an hour to really start playing together. Then there was no stopping them. They sat in the red wagon in our garage and made an "apartment" - though neither could say what an apartment was. Apparently, it consisted of collecting every piece of play food and any other toy they could grab and stowing it in the wagon. Then they both sat and pulled a blanket over their laps.

Today they both went to a birthday party of another girl from preschool. But it might as well have been another playdate a deux. Because they didn't really interact with anyone else. They spent most of the party walking around holding hands like a sweet little couple. Of course, being that they are 3, there was a lot of tugging each other in opposite directions. Most of the time, J won - something Sawyer should get used to!

J is a cutie, with long strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She's also very similar to Sawyer in temperment - not too crazy.

So now my boy has his very first girlfriend. The first of many, we're sure. At least, so far, he's chosen wisely.

Shoes, glorious shoes!

My daughter has a problem. A BIG problem. I can only conclude that it is hereditary, passed along with her long legs, tilted eyes and pouty lips.

This all came to light when I took her to Nordstrom to buy her a pair of sandals. Not only did she bat away and declare "NO!" to several pairs I tried to put on her, she also became fixated on a certain pair she just HAD TO HAVE!

Then I dared look at shoes for Sawyer (who was at preschool at the time). Sage started pulling shoes off the displays. These were for big girls, but Sage did not care. Because she saw the Bling. The Sparkle. This was the absolute greatest shoe ever put on this planet, and Sage knew exactly what to do with it. She put it right on. And started parading around before making a break for the door.

Luckily, I caught her before my daughter got her first criminal offense. But I couldn't blame her. Because as you all know, I cannot resist anything that reflects light. I am like a goat, attracted to the shiny stuff.

And on shoes. SHOES! My little girl, my heart, also has the gene. I'm so proud!

Life Lesson

We went to the park this morning, where Sawyer found a little boy to play with. He is now at the age where he will try to make a friend on his own, which is infinitely more fun than hanging with Mommy and his baby sister.

This little boy, whose name was John, turns 3 in April, so he's a few months younger than Sawyer. His mother, an older mom, told me John is not very verbal but is very physical. Anyway, he and Sawyer had a great time going down slides together (on the little kids equipment), climbing up ladders, and chasing each other.

But then John went up on the big kids' equipment. Sawyer gamely followed - until John found an older boy and the two started zipping down the big scary slides that Sawyer won't dare go on. So my poor little guy sat down on the bridge near those slides while the other two boys raced around like crazy. Soon, Sawyer walked back down the stairs. Alone. Because John has no fear of big bumpy slides that can bounce your spleen into your throat.

I could tell by the slump of his shoulders and his slow steps that Sawyer was disappointed to lose his new friend.

My heart broke.

When I pointed out John to Sawyer a few moments later and told Sawyer, "there's John, he's going down the twisty slide, would you like to play too?" Sawyer looked interested for a moment. But then he told me that he was "too busy digging in the sand" and didn't want to play with John anymore.

What do I say? Friends will move on. They will like someone else better because he can climb higher or run faster or he's not cool enough or he wears the wrong jeans - or any other reason that has nothing to do with Sawyer at all. He shouldn't change who he is because of what someone else wants. He is still so, so special, with a smile that melts glaciers and a twinkle in his eye unsurpassed by all the stars in the heavens.

But Sawyer is 3. All he knows is that on this sunny, perfect day, he was left behind. Luckily, it's nothing that a handful of goldfish crackers and making a really cool sand castle can't fix.

If only it could always be that easy to heal my boy's hurt.

The Joy of Two

Ugh

So I'd been working on a post, actually putting some time and effort into it, and I signed off AOL before saving it. It's like the sunken souffle conundrum: once it falls flat, is it worth eating anyway because it's chocolate, or do I start over from scratch? Let me ponder...

These eyes..

No idea where her eye color comes from...

In this picture I would call them Couch Khaki. But sometimes they are really blue. And sometimes light green. Grey, maybe?

Look out, A-Rod!

Sawyer had one of the biggest days of his life Monday. He didn't realize it, of course. He had no way of knowing that, from the moment I saw on the blurry screen that little blob with a teeny pulse, beating away, I would dream of this moment.

Yep, it was Sawyer's first day of T ball. And he LOVED it. I think most parents want their kids to love what they love (unless, possibly, if Mom's true passion is crack and Dad prefers prostitutes). So it filled my heart to see Sawyer enjoying my favorite sport so much. At 3, it's not so much baseball as it is setting 12 cats free in room with catnip air freshner. They ran. And ran. Chased balls. Two kids knocked heads. When Sawyer took his turn at bat, he raced after his ball like it was the last cookie on earth rather than running around the bases.

And all along, Sawyer kept shouting "I'm having so much fun at t ball!"

He didn't care that he was the slowest (and also, I think, the youngest) kid. He wasn't worried about how far he hit the ball, or about his follow through, or whether he touched every (or any!) base.

Watching him I am reminded of what we've lost along the way. The pure joy of it. We get older and competitive and self-doubting. Cynical. We don't remember the love of feeling our body run and leap and bounce. And fly.

We forget the laughter.

Bald is..sad

So one of my favorite daily reads is dooce. This woman is a brilliant writer. To the point that when I read her stuff, I want to pop my eyeballs out with a barbecue fork (you know what I'm talking about, the kind with a long handle that you use to flip over your slab of beef on the grill or whatever) because I've been a professional writer for 18 years and I'm nowhere close. I am overcome with envy/admiration.

Anyway.

She had a column today about Britney Spears that definitely reflected some of the opinions I had on the subject. Go to her website to read hers - or you can hang out here and see what I think (which is why you're here in the first place, right?).

I feel sorry for Britney. It does seem like she's acting out on a grand scale (kind of like Lindsay Lohan) and you can't help but wonder what is up. Is this just another spoiled wealthy star being, well, a spoiled wealthy star? Or is it something more, like possibly post-partum?

I did not suffer from post-partum depression. Still, I have had some awful thoughts about my babies. I have envisioned throwing my daughter, who literally cried for the first 7 months of her life, against a wall, right down to the thud of her body hitting the plaster and then the ensuing, blessed silence.

I have purple-faced screamed at my children. I have lied in bed at night, my stomach knotted as I have promised, promised I'd be more patient, a better mother, the next day.

But I'm not 23 or whatever Britney is. I don't have millions of dollars. I don't have fame. I can't imagine the kind of cocktail Britney might have going on, and I'm not talking about the dozen or so she must've had to think flashing her crotch was a good idea. Maybe it's motherhood, Being Britney, and then, possibly, PPD on a very public scale.

It is impossible for me to watch a mother, any mother, do what she is doing and not feel sad. Because isn't motherhood the common thread that binds Britney and me and every mom out there, regardless of race, religion, social status, fame, money? Don't we think about her children, and wonder what the hell she is doing? Do we dismiss it as an immature girl who doesn't care, or do we pause and wonder, could that have been me?

Smile!

Sawyer, Sage and I went to the lake here in town. Sawyer loves to ride his scooter around it, so I put Sage in the jogger and off we went. We stopped for a snack and to watch the ducks. There was a man taking some pictures.

Mommy, I don't think the ducks want the man to take pictures of them.

Why not?

Because the ducks are not saying Cheese!

Signs you are a bad mommy...

You shoo your children into the garage to play so you can scarf down rice krispie treats without having to share...

You turn your back on your children while they are watching TV so you can suck down your 3 year-old's Frostee Jr. You get a case of brain freeze so bad you're sure your left eyeball is going to pop out of your head and hit the ceiling. Your 17 month-old spots the cup that you've put back on the table as if it contains a hairy poop and holds out her hand for the spoon. Your 17 month-old has her first taste of Frostee. Her teeth - and eyeballs - remain where they are supposed to be...

To reward yourself, you purchase the tee shirt pictured above, which comes complete with a pink rhinestone in a tooth.. You can order it here .

We don't really KNOW Lincoln..

Me: "David, I think it's Lincoln's birthday today."
Sawyer, clapping his hands: "Do I get to have cake?"

Sawyer: "Daddy? Why do you have a fat belly?"
David: "Because I eat too many snacks."
Sawyer: "Daddy, you should only eat a little bit of snacks, okay?"

The problem with TV..

is that my son has now developed a British accent from watching too much Charlie and Lola. He has become Madonna.

13.1, baby!

Well, I did it (I'm the one on the right, with my friend K). My first half-marathon. It was...painful. At least the final three miles were! I had horrible calf cramps by then, but I managed to finish at 2:22 (and I actually got teary-eyed when I crossed the finish line), which was within our goal time range of somewhere between 2:15 and 2:30.

By the time I walked through the chute, got my chip snipped off and grabbed water, my calves were cramping so badly I was walking like a sailor after shore leave. All I wanted was a banana - and they were ALL OUT! I grabbed a blueberry bagel and started crawling, er, walking to find David. It took him awhile to find me, but when he did, I was SO happy to see him. We found my training partner, K, who finished five minutes ahead of me, and took some pics (I'll post later).

People, running that far hurts. I wasn't even winded, just felt like I wanted to lie down and nap - right there on the pavement of PCH. It wasn't until I got home that I realized I actually did have an injury. I noticed on my running shirt there was a long streak of brown, kind of like I'd hugged a short person who had a lot of foundation on her face. So then I took off my sports bra, and that's when I saw the blood: I'd chafed the skin off under both breasts - and Lord knows I can't afford to lose any volume off the girls!

The Final Countdown..

My first half-marathon starts in less than 12 hours. Or is it fewer than 12 hours? I can never remember the rule. Didn't they have to change the signs at the grocery store from 10 items or less to 10 items or fewer? Maybe 10 is the cutoff. It'd be nice if 10 miles were the cutoff for the half, but unfortunately, it's 13.1 miles. I have everything ready: my bib, my chip, my shot blocks, my outfit, my breakfast..Now all I need is for my body to cooperate. We drove part of the course today. It's funny how long even six miles looks when it's stretched out in a straight line in front of you. Anyway, wish me luck!

Duh..

I have come to the brilliant conclusion that when I'm not sick, I run a whole lot better. When I am sick, I just feel like the Worst Runner Ever. Then I have days like today, when I'm keeping up with the lead pack and feel strong (despite the pain on the side of my butt that I bruised after my spectacular fall Monday). It's like having PMS: you can't figure out why you're crying at the Country Crock commercials until a day later when you get your period.

Four more days until the half-marathon...

Pussycat Dolls

Should I be concerned that my 3 year-old boy is singing "Don't you wish your girlfriend was HOT like ME?"

She's got hair!

The old heave-ho

So perhaps I was a bit hard on myself, as my friend M pointed out. Looking back, the 10 miles was a HUGE accomplishment - especially in light of of what happened later that night. David and I were, simultaneously, hit with a heinous stomach/intestinal bug. I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that at 7 a.m. I started calling the neighbors to see who could take David to the hospital. Yes. It was that bad.

I had not barfed in 10 years, and that episode was a result of a night of ill-advised drinking of four two many kamikaze shots and probably three too many beers. Ugh. It still makes the stomach quiver. Or maybe that's just from today's lunch. My body just does not throw up easily, and boy, it made me suffer along for four hours before mercifully, it booted everything up and out and made me a new woman.

We're all still feeling icky (Sawyer and Sage had it Friday; Sawyer barfed again on Sunday and is still not eating and is acting lethargic) but hopefully it's all behind us (and BOY was there a lot of stuff behind us).

Run, Forrest, Run

I think even Forrest Gump, braces on his legs and all, ran faster than me. Slow does not begin to cover it. Glacial? Today, K, S and I did our long run in preparation for the 1/2 marathon. S ran one a couple weeks ago, and is not running the Pacific Shoreline, but joined us anyway. She didn't make it to running camp this week - just couldn't get herself up in the pitch black to go run in the cold. Anyway. Our goal was to go 10 miles. We ran the first four miles pretty much together. Then we turned around and came back, mostly uphill, and I could not keep up. I was barely moving, and I can't figure out why. Breathing? Form? Both? It was very sad. And frustrating to say the least. I caught back up right about 6 1/2. S was running faster than both of us by the end.

The good news is we finished the 10 miles. We averaged a 10:36 pace, finishing in 1:46. So conceivably, we'd finished the 1/2 in about 2:15. Or at least, I would. I'm sure K will be somewhere way ahead of me.

It could be worse, I guess - I could be home sitting on my ass!

Global Warming?

I think not.

Sluggo

Sawyer does a very distinctive poop dance. When the boy has to go, the poor kid looks like he's having some type of fit. He goes up on his toes. He straightens his arms and hunches his shoulders as he walks around the room. This performance goes on for some time. It often includes the emission of some loud (and sometimes silent) noises, which result in a small pungent cloud wafting through the room.

Now that he's potty trained, we try to grab him in the middle of his dance and throw him on the toilet. Most of the time he protests, saying he needs "more practice," and often it's a false alarm. Once in awhile it will be on its way out, poking into his underwear, so when he sits down on the pot, out it plops.

So when he started his ritual today, we went through the usual routine. Nothing. Then he had lunch and told David he had to go pee. But we knew better. So David sat him on the toilet.

About 10 minutes later, Sawyer is yelling at me to come in! Quick!

And there, sticking out of the water, is the Louisville Slugger of poops. This turd looked as if it should have come out of the butt of a 250-pound man, not from a 33-pound little boy! It was the kind of thing you wanted to take a picture of to show everybody. Anybody. Hey! Look what my kid did today!

Never mind who walked first, talked first, who knows their ABCs, 123s (in English and Spanish)- MY KID TAKES THE BIGGEST SHITS!!!!

We're so proud.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Because I must be nuts. Insane. Perhaps even a glutton for punishment. This might be as fun as sticking raw spaghetti into my gums. And then gargling with extra chunky Prego.

My friend and I just signed up for the Pacific Shoreline Half-Marathon. That's right. 13.1 miles of hell (albeit, mostly flat and a good portion along the ocean).

I have never run that far in my life. Not even close, unless you count six miles. Which I don't. This race is in less than four weeks.

I am in panic mode.

The good news is I get a cool tee shirt. And that is something!

The Zoo

"See, Mommy? I TOLD you we'd see an ocelot at the zoo!"
"Yeah, buddy, you did.." Whaaa?

"Mommy, I want to swim with the fishes!"
"An admirable ambition, Buns."

Green Cheese

Sawyer was riding in his car seat one night a couple weeks ago, and was looking at the full moon.

"Mommy, the moon doesn't feel well!"

"Really? Why not?"

"Because he has a rash on his face. Poor moon."

Potty Training, Day 3

NO ACCIDENTS!!! No poop, either, but he woke up dry this morning and dry from his nap, and went pee in the potty every couple hours with no problems. We're so proud!

In other news, Sage has her first ear infection. I noticed her left ear was full of crusty yellow stuff (tasty, I know), so she went to the doctor. Poor little one!

Potty Training, Day 2

Two big accidents today, both this morning, and both after I asked him if he had to go, he said no, and then he ran away - and peed on the floor. But we did have more successes, the biggest one this evening when David took him to Circuit City and Sawyer stayed dry the whole time, including when he came home for a snack and an episode or two of Charlie and Lola.

The whole thing has been freakin' exhausting. But hopefully he'll catch on soon. Either that, or his wife can train him...

Some pics

I haven't posted in awhile. I know this. I have no excuse, really. We went away, then my Dad was very ill (thankfully he's rallying), and then the holidays...yada yada yada. Anyway, since I'm back, I'm going to post a couple pics. Woohoo!! We have a shot of Xmas eve (the first decent family shot we've taken awhile), then a few of the kids and one of me with my baby girl.

Potty Training, Day 1

Sawyer woke up this morning and decided he wanted to wear his big boy underwear. The following are emails I sent this morning to my friend L, who potty trained her son this summer.

9:14 a.m. Pee on the floor. Didn't even mention it to me - luckily I saw the puddle!

9:44 a.m. Pee So I asked, Sawyer, do you need to go potty? and he says no, and pees in his underwear 2 seconds later...

10:05 a.m. I had him sit on the potty (20 min. after the accident) and he pulled down his underwear himself, sat down and peed! Woohoo!

10:08 a.m. okay. like 3 minutes after he peed in the potty, he peed on his wiggly car. WTF?

10:25 a.m. He peed AGAIN, and it was enough to get his shirt all wet too (he was sitting on his tricycle). Does this seem like an inordinate amount of pee?

10:53 a.m. More pee! He didn't want to sit on the potty, but we bribed him with kissables and he did more pee. Yegads. This does not seem normal!

11:10 a.m. He peed in his underwear AGAIN! This child has had ONE cup of OJ today and nothing else to drink!

Thankfully, he wore a diaper for his nap. He had only one big pee accident after his nap - he was playing on my computer, and I asked him every 5 seconds if he had to pee. He kept saying no. Then when he was done, I sent him to the potty with Daddy who said his underwear was wet. That's when I noticed the puddle beneath the chair he was sitting on... He was then was dry through dinner and beyond, going to the potty at our urging at least three times. He did at one point cry that he wanted his diaper. I think the poor little guy wants to poop, but he didn't.

I was never more happy to see this kid go to bed!