The twain meets, we just won't admit it

Why is it that Packrats and Would Chucks often dwell in the same habitat?

Is it because during the first blush of romance the female Would Chuck looks at the newspapers and magazines piling up on the chairs of a Packrat's bachelor pad and thinks, 'Finally! a man who reads?'

I know that there are many, many, many people out there who think they live with the king (or queen) of all packrats, but let me tell you, as politely as I can, that you are wrong.

That distinction, I'm afraid, belongs to me and the 5,600 square feet of space underneath my house that allows my husband to collect thousands upon thousands of very important things.

And for those of you who think a Packrat can be reformed, let me explain why they call us Would Chucks: We would chuck if we could chuck, but the Packrat just finds it, fishes it out of the trash and restores it to its unnatural habitat. Otherwise we’d be heralded worldwide as Do Chucks.

Yet the thing I didn't realize until recently was how Would Chucks who are also consumers -- folks who would normally throw out two items for every one they bring home -- enable their Packrat counterparts by adding to the inventory of things that will never go away.

In the end, most Would Chucks wind up being Packrats by proxy.
So it is with this in mind that I tell you, dear reader, although I love my husband, I also love when he's away on business for a few days.

For those 24 to 72 hours I am a free woman. Free to let my inner Would Chuck out. I am free to toss with wild abandon (the things that I buy) and straighten up without the eyes of consternation (and futility) upon me.

In 72 hours I can empty the cupboards in the kitchen of three-year-old spices; cracked cups, which followed us from apartments to house but have not seen a drop of coffee in their tenure in our employ; and nearly empty containers sitting on the shelves alongside their most recent replacements. I can rid the refrigerator of things we will never eat but seem a shame to waste.

During those precious 72 hours I can find appropriate boxes and put things inside of them. And where I put these things they stay. For three days the scissors are in the drawer with the utensils (where I always look for them) and the mail is sorted in the bins with our names. For three days nothing piles up on the counters, nothing is draped on chairs and everything that has a place is in it.

In that long weekend of casting out I reclaim my inner soul.

"What is that? Who cares, it's gone," I sing to myself as I pitch another little bit of something that mysteriously appeared and that we never use. Only the recycling piles up: Seventeen half canisters of ground cinnamon await reclamation, their long-stale contents down the drain and rinsed away. I vow to shop more wisely and resist impulse. I feel lighter and the weight of the chores seem lighter, too.

Of course when he finally comes home, kicks off his shoes and flings his coat toward the chair, missing it by mere inches, I'll be glad to see him, but I'll also be ready.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"To Target; apparently we need another coat rack."

Muppets get their marching orders

Another piece of sage advice that I disregarded: Never, under any circumstances buy toys in a child's presence.

The idea is that if you NEVER buy toys or candy or colorful trinkets while your kids are with you, even if they're NOT begging for them, they will eventually understand that you are the brick wall between consumerism and their overflowing toy chests, and that asking is futile.

My resolve to this parenting style lasted all the way up until Ittybit learned to talk, and asked oh-so-syrupy sweetly for a stuffed cat. She named him Fudgy and my fate was sealed.

I am a pushover.

So when we recently visited an apple orchard — that for some strange reason (possibly a result of the fact that farmers don't live by apples alone. ... You know since China surpassed our apple production in the '90s) harbors an entire gift shop of overpriced toys and novelties that have nothing whatsoever to do with apples — and Ittybit started begging and pleading for a stuffed cow that chimes moo (three times) when you press its middle, we struck a bargain.

If we bought the $10 bovine she would choose two toys in her collection that we would ship to an underprivileged kid somewhere in the world. She quickly agreed.

Back at home, and before her afternoon nap, we make room for Moo on her bed. Buffy Bunny and two more of Bunny's friends (Ittybit was insistent they travel in threes) are selected for a second chance at love, and we box them up.

"Where are they doing to do, Mama?"

"Well, babe, there's this nice woman in Iraq who is collected toys for kids who don't have anything. We're going to ship them to her in the mail,"

"That will make somebody very happy, right?"

"That's right."

As she drifts off to sleep, clutching Moo, I am relieved that the transaction went so smoothly. However, what I didn't count on was just how big this notion would grow inside her preschooler mind, taking over all of her bedtime thoughts.

That evening at bedtime: (This is the part in the story when most parents will realize that preschoolers don't read fine print.)

"Mama? Where's Kermit?"

"Don't you remember, we're sending him, Zoe and Buffy Bunny to Iraq so they can make some children happy."

"Why?"

"Because you have so much and there are some boys and girls there who have nothing."

"Why?"

"Because there's something called a war there, and it's very bad. Some of the children who live in Iraq are alone and scared. Your toys might help cheer and comfort them."

"Oh. ...

Are they standing up or sitting down?"

"Um ... standing up? What do you mean?"

"We dotta put that in a cage!"

"Uh. ... What I don't understand?"

"We have to get that raccoon out of there so the kids can play with Kermit. We need a cage to put him in."

"Honey? ... What raccoon?"

"You said we're sending Kermit to a raccoon for a childrens because they're lost and lonely. Isn't that what you said?"

"I said e-rack, not 'a raccoon.' We're sending toys to Iraq. It's a country in the middle ... oh, never mind. We'll talk about this when you're three, OK?"

The next morning while looking at the box, which is now addressed and ready for shipping, the excerise starts again.

"Ma-ma. Is Kermit in there? Where is they going?"

"They ARE going to Iraq. Remember. We discussed this yesterday."

"Oh, right, right. But I don't shink the raccoon needs any something. We need to send them to the big giant moose."

NOTE TO SELF: Invest in a world map.

Do a good deed today: United States Army Corp of Engineers Officer Edmay Mayers is taking it upon herself to distribute playthings to impoverished children in Iraq. Until recently she's been buying stuffed animals and candy with her own means, but the need has overwhelmed her resources. If you have gently used toys that need children to love, send them to her here: Edmay Mayers, USACE-GRS, APO AE 09331.

Variety is the spice of life

Recently the husband and I, with grand-parental intervention, stepped out for a night on the town. Alone.

A friend of ours was having a comedy show at a local venue and we were prepared to go and laugh until our sides fell off, have a few pricy beers and partake in conversations that didn't hinge on inquisitive primates, purple dinosaurs or colossal red dogs.

We made our way to the address we'd been given and found the Basilica Industria, a former knitting mill-turned-performance space along the Hudson waterfront. Since we don't get out much, it should go without saying that we were beyond early. On this evening, however, we expected to be right on time.

"I thought his e-mail said 8 o'clock," I say as we arrived to a hive of behind-the-scenes activity. Tattooed women and ponytailed men were busily performing sound and lighting checks. Some were still setting up chairs. A tall, lanky man wearing a full-length blue leotard, spangled rabbit ears and eight-inch stiletto heels was roaming amid the chaos.

"At least we have the right place," I say.

We go and find someone to take our money and realize our second surprise of the evening.

"Fifty bucks! I thought this show was supposed to be $15 apiece." No matter, I'd gotten the time wrong I'd probably misread the ticket price, too.

We hand over the cash and staked claim to two seats on a dais facing the stages. While he goes to get two brews from the concessions, I peruse the flyers on the cabaret table in front of me.

"No wonder everything's wrong," I say when he returns. "He's not performing until next week."

I can see a game of rock, paper, scissors forming in his head -- the winner of which will sit and finish their beer while the loser goes off to try and get back our picture of Ulysses S. Grant -- when more of a crowd trickles in.

"Pssst. Excuse me, sir?" I ask of a man who plunks himself down next to us. "It seems as if my husband and I are accidental hipsters tonight. What are we about to see?"

"Oh, dear friends, you have bought yourself a ticket to the other greatest show on Earth. You, my dears, are in for an evening of revelation and rejuvenation. Amazements the likes of which you've never seen before await you. (Cue echo chamber:) This is the Bindlestiff Family Cirkus.

(Actually the man said, "Oh, it's a really a cool circus act or something," but since we had decided the better part of valor would be to stick around, I amended the description when it turned out he had, in fact, undersold it.)

When the lights finally went down, a hobo clown trudged into the audience to bum a smoke. I knew right away from the expression on his face -- a fluid, indescribable look that marks a good actor even when he doesn't speak -- that this wasn't going to be amateur night.

Co-founder Keith Nelson's Kinko the clown moved imperceptibly from what at first appeared to be stiff and awkward attempts at slinging cigar boxes to a masterful display of diabolo juggling during his lengthy performance. Later, as Mr. Pennygaff, Nelson swallows swords in a display so terrifying I could barely watch.

About a dozen equally skilled performers added more astonishing feats to the bawdy act.

Ringleader Philomena, the troupe’s other founder Stephanie Monseu, in addition to her role as MC, swallows fire and gives school marm a new definition -- two things that I think should make her a shoe-in for public education should she grow weary of this particular circus of the bizarre.

More glitter follows as aerialist Una Mimnagh hurls herself from a trapeze dangling only a few yards from the stage, and is caught midway by a rope she'd curled around her torso; a burlesque troupe out of Albany, The Lipstick Lovelies, gyrate lasciviously as the laughs continue; Una returned to share the limelight with cowboy Angelo Iodice, and their dueling bolos routine ricochets in unison against the hollow stage to the delight of the crowd; and the aforementioned rabbit -- Scotty the Blue Bunny -- who as it turns out plays violin, did whatever it is that homosexual turquoise bunnies do best under the glare of a spotlight. All of which was accompanied (or orchestrated, not sure) by The Amazing Sxip, (pronounced "Skip") billed as a one-man Mutant Harmonica band.

When the lights came back up and we made our way to our car, suffice it to say I actually felt good about being parted from my money.

I know we all want to get something for nothing, and this particular raucous cup of tea isn't for everyone, but it reminded me how distanced we are from the real magic of entertainment.

We shell out comparable amounts of money for Hollywood special effects and larger-than life celebrities smoothed by gel filters, and in doing so, without even knowing it, we lose an understanding of what real talent looks like on a human scale. To be reminded seemed a bargain at twice the price.

Variety, after all, is the spice of life.

Good cop, bad cop ... or accomplice?

I've seen the future, and her mother is wearing thigh-high go-go boots and short shorts, too.

Standing on the street corner with a boy I can identify by name as well as age are two girls I don’t know. Both are wearing form-fitting striped sweaters, hip-hugging belts, short shorts and high-heeled boots.

Had I not just come from the local library and been on my way to the farmers' market, I might have thought I was visiting Hunts Point in the Bronx. I've never been, mind you, but I've seen the HBO special on its prostitutes.

My husband, trying to balance borrowed books while choosing vegetables, pretended not to notice. He was, no doubt, unable to determine which was worse: the looking or the seeing.

"That's the style in Manhattan, you know," he says off-handedly when I mention the girls' attire later as we select apples from a vendor. "I bet their mothers are wearing the same thing at home."

Oh, the horror.

One way or another, like it or not, this perennial battle of parenthood will be ours one day.

The day will come when we will have to decide whether or not Ittybit leaves the house wearing ... well ... something I'd rather not describe. But until seeing the local street-corner gals, we had thought we'd be in the good-cop side of the fashion patrol.

As two people raised by parents who respected our decisions (to a certain degree) and whose collective teenage fashion faux pas amount to the Miami Vice look (him) and pink-streaked hair and combat boots (me) I can safely speak for him when I say we are feeling ill-prepared to deal with a potential Lolita.

I may be jumping the gun a little since Ittybit has only recently started preschool, but our clothing wars have long-since begun. And horror of all horrors: The seeds of destruction may have already been planted by yours truly.

It turns out her favorite dress -- a backless halter number acquired for $3 over the summer in a Target sale -- has already raised the eyebrow of at least one grandparent.

During a family party I watched in ignominy as the grandma tried her best to cover up Ittybit's naked shoulders. And I had to wonder. Was I one of those moms who thought sexy on a baby was cute? Of course I have trouble putting sexy and baby together in a sentence, but I understand there are people out there who will and do.

My thinking in buying the dress -- aside from its color and rock-bottom price -- was along the lines of: she spends half the summer wearing only a diaper and sunscreen, any piece of cloth would be an improvement. That she clutched the t-shirt soft material to her chest and didn't want to part with it long enough for the cashier to scan the price tag made it all the more attractive. When every outfit is a battlefield, it's nice to have one that’s a coup.

But with one sideways glance -- and the mention of indistinguishable posterior views of mothers and daughters at the shopping mall these days -- part of my world turns sideways.

I'm not sure which team I'm supposed to root for. The navel showing above low-rise pants, the distinctive sound of flip-flops clapping their way through Juniors' departments everywhere might very well belong to someone's mother. The part of you that hates getting old cheers her on, while the part of you that wants your daughter to respect herself jeers in her general direction. Where is the line?

Let's start by some admissions, shall we?

I am hardly ever an appropriately attired grownup. I have worn the same uniform -- Levis jeans, long-sleeve jersey top, bulky sweaters and some form of low-heel boot -- since I was in high school. Now, my clothes are not fashionable but all of my parts (save an ankle here and there) are covered.

I cringe a little every time my husband returns from the grocery store commenting on the latest middle aged woman he thought was a teenager. "PA-thetic," is his assessment.

"Am I any different?" I want to ask. I know I don't look like any of those moms in the commercials: the ones in khaki trousers and pastel blouses with their tasteful three-quarter sleeves. Those women are all happily cleaning the floors with the latest Swiffer product, so I know I'll never look like them. But I don't think I look like the ones vying for the position of prom queen, either.

I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, and hope that parkas will be back in fashion when our day of reckoning comes.

"You won't believe what I just heard," said the husband, munching on a cider doughnut. "A woman at the farm stand was talking about buying her daughter a $300 pair of jeans. She saw my jaw drop at the price, and she said 'yeah, but you should have seen her in them'."

"Thanks, I think I'll pass."

Yard Sale - The totally authorized biography

At 7 a.m. I was out on the curb, shuffling bags of baby clothes and other stockpiled detritus from the couch in my abandoned office to tables set up in the driveway. I notice a light rain starting to fall. It was more of a mist, actually.

"The weather guy always lies," I grumble as I sort tiny shirts, pants and dresses and arrange them into lumpy piles. I leave some articles in the bag; they were destined for the trash bin anyway.

I hate yard-sale day. I hate feeling an obligation to purge my life of mistakes and recoup some of the misspent cash. I hate how the idea of it pulls me in with a do-it-yourself entrepreneurial air, but how quickly its atmosphere dissipates into something less desirable.

You can tell a lot about a person by their yard sales. Like that other roadside attraction -- bumper stickers -- yard sales are authorized biographies. While bumper stickers offer onlookers detailed tables of content, yard sales offer the annotated autobiography.

Both can tell you a lifetime worth of information in short order: Religious affiliations, favorite bands, who they supported in the last two elections, even what their kids are doing in school -- either they're honor students or they're beating up your honor student.

In my neighborhood the lives are fairly similar. We all have clothes we've held onto for sentimental reasons that wind up hanging from ropes when we forget what they were. You can find beat up toys and playthings that never got much attention; impulse buys that became instantly obsolete; exercise equipment picked up no doubt at last year's events, which will circle the block for at least a decade more; cassette tapes, sitting unused since you bought that new car with the six-CD changer six years ago, and mix tapes that might as well be torn pages from a diary. There is usually something that defies logic. In our case that something would be a half-dozen paper napkin dispensers.

I would wager there is also the something that its owners don't really want to sell but will offer up because they know someone will buy it. It's the loss leader: the item that makes certain that our sale -- when snubbed by the throngs of strangers who paw through our things with left eyebrow raised and upper lip curled in symmetry -- doesn't become a negative review of how we live. Of course, if someone does buy this once-treasured possession, we tend to mourn its departure from our lives.

On my hour off, I make my way to the farmers' market to buy Asian greens and soy beans checking out the sales in front of historic homes and manicured lawns along the way. I notice these sidewalk shops show the difference between us: Not as much impulsivity to the buying in these-here parts. I find antique baskets, with antique prices; etchings, prints and pieces of furniture that require houses with "libraries' (pronounced with an English flourish).

Even the Jones families on the side streets are keeping up. They offer designer clothes and tasteful handbags in their yard-front shops. There’s not a sign of kitsch anywhere; nothing that says "what one Earth possessed you to waste the kids' college education on that?"

Everything offered in these curbside boutiques is neat and tidy. You can almost see generations of children, sitting around a card table, sipping lemonade as they play the parlor games that are now gently worn and carefully stacked, awaiting new homes.

In a few hours I'll be bundling the remnants of our lot for Goodwill and wondering why I bother with this mid-step at all.

But by the time I get back with my bags of unpronounceable produce, my partner in slime has a full smile and is waving six dollar bills in my direction.

"Imagine that, hon -- I just sold all those napkin holders."

New shoes are bound to cause blisters

Some people like to tell me that I've changed now that I've become a mother.

They say this gleefully, as if they always knew my softer, nurturing side would win out over my acerbic, cynical side. I don't have the same zest for off-color humor I once had, or so they say. I wax nostalgic about just about everything, even wax.

But as I stare into this empty white page, I wonder: What happened to me?

Did I just become a mother and all the other aspects of life faded into unimportance?

Did I buy into the notion that raising a child was the most important thing I would ever do in my lifetime, all the rest be damned?

Had I gone over to the dark side? The one I had eschewed from every precipice of my adult life. It was possible; my new wardrobe was starting to show pinks and other airy hues from beneath its comfortable layers of black.

One thing is true, where once all roads lead to my hatred for (but undeniable urge to watch and take in) morning talk/news shows or national politics or pretty much anything that comes from a spigot at Starbucks, my love for this little creature growing (too fast) before my eyes overshadowed it all.

But that does not mean I ceased to exist, does it? The world as I knew it wasn't an illusion.

I propose what might have happened is that I ceased to be an expert.
All of a sudden, I didn't KNOW anything. I had to feel my way through one problem to another with little by way of guidance. I had to stop and ask for directions. I learned what worked for someone else didn’t necessarily work for me.

I had to admit when I was wrong, because clearly my mistakes were increasingly visible.

Neighbors, you know, they talk:

• The kid leaves house looking like blind person dressed her.
• She hasn’t combed her own hair now, 8 days.
• She washes floor with sink hose? (ok, I’ve done this forever, but I’m blaming motherhood now).
• When was the last time Ittybit had her hair washed? I think a forest is growing in there.
• When she drags the recycling to the curb its mountainous terrain threatens to blot out the sun.

Other things are only visible to me:

• I can remember the last book I read because it was only one of three in the last three years, although I can’t remember how it ended.
• I haven’t been out with friends for more than a year.
• I miss my old self sometimes.

I once had a globe trotting friend who told me that life, when you are unsettled, is always the most challenging to your sense of self. It almost always takes you away from the person you thought you were and hands you to someone you hardly recognize. And for a time you don't even realize what’s really changed.

When you are trying to figure out the ins and outs of a new city, trying to get the business of living all squared away — get a job, meet new people, learn a new language and customs — you forget that you once wrote poetry or enjoyed nature walks.

When you finally remember, and mourn the loss, the new challenge will be to fit bits of your old life into the new one.

Until you make the business-end of life fit like comfortable shoes, it seems, blisters are an unavoidable part of the process.

Tantrum yoga

She wanted to draw.

After breakfast, before work, she wanted to "draw a pisher." But there wasn't time.

Her body is board straight: legs pressing agilely against the back of the driver's seat, arms stock still and clamped to the rim of her car carrier. Her bottom will never make contact with seat.

Her ability to wedge her tiny weight against me, leveraging it against my will, is a sight to behold. No matter how I beg, plead or push there’s no physical way to for me to buckle her in.

Regardless of our divergent goals, we sound alike.

"I. Have. To. Go. To. Work."

"NOooooooooooooooooooo!"

"But. I. Have. TOooo."

"But. I. DON’T WAAAAAAAAAAANT you TOOOOOOOOOOO! I wanna DRAWWER!"

As crazy as it sounds, this is nowhere near as dangerous as the Lunch Strike of '05, when Ittybit refused to eat anything put on a plate in her presence, unless the sustenance in question belonged in the ice cream family.

Nor is it as frightening as the early Sleep Strikes of '04, when her tiny infant body, worn in a Snugli frontpack by a sleep deprived mommy, writhed uncontrollably amid cat-like sobs until suddenly falling slack-limbed into a scream-induced sleep. The immediacy of which caused a hand mirror to be placed under her nasal passages to assure life signs.

In some ways, I suppose, the latest incarnation of histrionics – this real, honest-to-badness frustration fest — is just more entertaining. I'm beginning to think of it as TANTRUM yoga.

For those of you unaware of the persistence that is necessary to perform such feats, let me go over some of the poses:

Sitting poses are especially appealing for capture avoidance. In them, toddlers can easily avoid interception by one of two variations. First, they may ball up into a tight little package. If the sheer force of will were enough, giant spikes would protrude up from their overalls and onesies to repel meddling parents. Another option at their disposal from this position is to turn into a noodle. This is when the toddler relaxes every muscle in her body at the very same rate as each and every one of yours tenses.

While neither variation will aid the child in staving off the inevitable, it will throw a parent off long enough for them to bring out the big guns, known to all grown people as the "wriggling fish."

This is the pose, in which you finally are able to get the child into your arms, they struggle with the vim of a brown trout trying to get away from a black bear.

Tantrum yoga is an art every toddler tries to perfect and every parent tries to counteract. It’s the yin and yang that brings us together.

Sometimes when I witness these escalations — usually before work, going out to dinner or even just to go to the bathroom by myself — the positions I find her in, and often have to extract her from, are truly astounding. Each episode, I think, would make a good exercise program. Before I can plan my cable access debut, however, I realize the routines are really too taxing and should be less routine.

Every parent finds themselves in the position of defusing these minor catastrophes. We decide which battles to wage, which to relinquish and which to handle diplomatically. Sometimes we win. Sometimes we lose. Sometimes we draw.

A fair to remember

There was a time (exactly a week ago last year in fact) that Ittybit's love for barnyard animals was trapped inside the pages of her story books.

At an early age she could tell chicks from cygnets, and cygnets from ducklings. Her voice boomed bass (or as low as a toddler can sound) for the MOO a "daddy" bull says, while she screeched up high for the moo the "baby" makes.

Since we'd traipsed through the farmyard, page by page, for months, we naively thought she'd enjoy a trip to the fair to see the real things up close and in person.

But picture books, we learned, don't really prepare tots for the realities of livestock. Toulouse Geese don't make their truck-horn sounds apparent under the stylish bonnet of Mother Goose stories, and the size comparison isn't even close. I don’t even wish to recount the meeting of toddler and ewe.

The nearest I think a picture book can really come to life on the farm would be if publishers employed scratch and sniff technology, and let's face it, there are a few among us who'd pay money to give the smell silage and manure space on our bookshelves.

Understandably, as the year wore on following what turned out to be a traumatic experience -- screaming and crying from one barn to the next until we found ice cream -- her interest in the farm books waned.

So with a little apprehension, we headed off to this year's fair and aimed ourselves in the direction of the livestock exhibits first thing.

I figured we could get them out of the way quickly if she decided the animals were too scary, go right to the food and proceed eating our way through the attractions. (After all, who wants to eat fried dough at the goat barn? Not I.)

It was as if she'd remembered the torture of a year ago, and decided to settle an old score.

"Cows!" She instructed. "Cows, mama." And off we went, past turkeys, sheep, goats and pigs into the cattle barns. No sooner had we gotten there then she'd reached out her itty bitty hand to give Bessie's head a little pat. "Enough!"

"Chickens! Chickens, mama." So off we went to see fowl. "They're funny ... and loud," she laughs.

"Rabbits. Let's go see rabbits next," she instructs, pulling at my pant leg and grunting with exertion. "Ooooh, they're sooooo cute," she coos into the wire cages, wriggling her nose in imitation.

"What are we gonna see next? How about the chicks?" And off we go to find something that looks like a popcorn popper, containing twelve eggs. Many of the orbs are still intact, but others have large cracks and holes made in perfect circles by the tiny egg teeth on the tops of the chicks' beaks. Some of the babies, still covered in the gook of life, lay spent on the warm grate, resting from their hours-long struggle to get free.

"See that right there," points out a woman overseeing the exhibit. ... And I look into the incubator to see a foot protruding from an otherwise perfect shell. "I've never seen anything like that in my life. They never come out feet first."

Turns out, the eggs came from Cornell, where their genetic codes have been collected and studied. She tells me the University expects one of 12 to die. "That could be one that doesn't make it," she says sadly.

So we leave with a little bit more knowledge of the miracles and mysteries of life, but wondering if that little breech chick will survive the night. Ittybit wants to stay and make sure the chicks, which have made it into to the world unscathed and are running around their shaving-strewn pens, "go to sleep."

We coax her out of the building with the promise of a corn dog I'll have to "peel" and a ride in a tea cup I'll undoubtedly regret. And by the end of the evening we have an entirely new experience of the fair.

"It's fun here, mama. Let's go again."

Something change doesn't change

Growing up in the northeast, and now raising a child here, it shouldn't shock me to learn I have a special fondness for places that remind me of my childhood.

I shouldn't be surprised at the delight I take in enrolling my child in the same nursery school I attended as a tot, or even the calm of knowing that she won’t attend the high school I wished I'd never seen from the inside.

It's the kind of comfort that comes from a smidgen of experience and a smackerel of pride. But such comfort is deceiving. What I never count on is change.

As she napped her way to the North Country, unaware of our advance to the Great Escape -- a late-in-the-season theme park visit, only the second of her lifetime -- my mind processed the road signs and mile markers as I drove, and yet my thoughts were clearly steering toward Storytown USA.

Of course I knew about all the transformations that have taken place since a theme park chain attached itself to Charles Wood's creation a decade ago. Mr. Wood himself made enough big-time changes during my own adolescence to keep the park viable as tastes and generations changed. But somehow, traveling up the Northway on a fall-coming afternoon, the movie in my mind was running the Mother Goose stories, swan boats and pumpkin carriages of my own tiny tot-hood on a Technicolor loop.

It's a good thing I was trailing a friend or I'd never have found the entrance to the new parking lots. Gone were the gravel-strewn acres with attendants in orange vests and folding chairs, waiting to show us where to dock our car. In their place was a landscaped, black-topped expanse that meanders past a new swanky resort-style hotel and little guard shack, where a woman collects my $10 parking fee.

None of this was here two years ago when the park turned 50 and Ittybit turned 9 months old.

As I mourn the loss of the simple things, yet again, I realize I'm probably lamenting something that never really existed in the first place.

As we constantly weigh it, change tends to comes up wanting. But you can't deny change, and sometimes change is good. The pedestrian highway overpass, looming large over Route 9, is a case in point.

After looking down at my squirmy wormy stroller screamer, I gaze up at the bridge thankfully. For that bridge alone I’d have happily forked over half a day'’s pay to park and gain admission had it not been for the special coupon my friend had procured.

It's a slow day inside the park. The threat of rain and cold temperatures had taken their toll on attendance. At a number of kiddy ride stations one operator is operating two. The lines aren't long but our timing is rarely perfect. Often we wait in a line and watch the operator move to the neighboring ride. Minutes don’t seem to matter. We chat and watch, and try to keep our kids from howling too loudly. It doesn’t seem to matter if the rides are new or the park is bigger.

As we pass Cinderella's castle my adult mind begins to doubt its childhood memories. It wonders about a photograph in my parents' collection: the one of me peeking out of a great orange carriage, waving with the shadow of celebrity beside me -- the graceful curve of a neck against a chignon twist, and the shadow of her gloved hand waving in the background has always seemed unreal and ghostlike, as if it were all illusion caused by stray lights.

As is usual, at least from recent experience, Cinderella's castle stands oddly vacant behind wrought iron fencing; locked up tight and no carriage in sight. As I look around at the throng of ittybits holding on tightly to the hands of their own mommies, I realize how near hopeless it would be to wait in line for a fairytale dream come true, even on a slow day.

I momentarily regret pointing out the castle to Ittybit knowing her love of the storybook princess may render me deaf. And in that moment Cinderella comes from around a corner, or out of nowhere, wearing a blue sparkling dress. She bends to give Ittybit a hug, telling her sweetly to have a magical day before she floats away.

"Was that Cinderella?" she asks me in a whisper.

"Yes, baby, it was."

Then it dawns on me: Perhaps the simple things will always be simple like this; something that change doesn't change.

When push comes to shove

"Mama, don't push me," Ittybit says sternly as I interrupt her latest game of "King of the Mountain" (my shoulders being the mountain) by putting her back on solid ground. "I didn't push you," I tell her, "I helped you repel down to the foothills."

She clamors up my chest and over my shoulders again, this time all slit-eyed and daring me to thwart her ascent. I drag her halfway down the mommy mountain, roll her over my knees and prop her back up into a sitting position at my feet. All the while she clings to two fistfuls of my uncombed hair.

She begins to protest again, but this time her tone has changed: 'NOOOOO, I wanna stay wit you, mama. I wanna stay wit yooooooou!'

Lately, I've noticed, she's been playing this game more and more. "But I wan YOU, mama" has become her mantra, especially when all mama wants is to be left in peace.

The look on her face when she changes from gleeful to glum is positively heartbreaking. It snaps me out of my annoyance and into another test of self. It makes me ashamed to think about all the times I haven't been fully present with her because I am lost in my own inner world. Whether she's manipulating the situation doesn’t seem to matter. I know that it won't be long until she doesn't want me within sight distance, let alone acting as the chair (or the mountain) beneath her.

However much I want to eat my toast or drink my coffee in peace right now is how much I'll want her to be her raucous little-girl self later, times two.

This particular morning, as we have in the past four mornings, we trundled out of the house forgetting rain gear. We were late this morning, which meant no sit-down breakfast again. A cup of "hot milk," an apple and a bag full of cereal were packed to go. I strap her into the car, hand her the breakfast and go back for her "um-bella," which she insists on propping above her head as we drive so she can munch on her "seer-we-wool" and stay dry, because it's "rainy out, mama."

I wonder, as we are driving along, if anyone will notice the car seat adorned with a blue and yellow-polka-dotted umbrella bobbing along with the unheard rhythm of The Wiggles. I wonder, if I were me in my previous life -- the childless one that seems as if it were 100 years ago -- and I saw this traveling circus drive by, would I laugh or shrug?

I contemplate the phenomenon of such annoyances in other people's children, but I can't sustain the notion. Because the fact is I really don't care what other people think anymore, and I'm sure glad I'm laughing now.

Eyes wide open

"My daddy was a baby, too," Ittybit tells the nice woman, who takes our paperwork and searches for any spaces left blank. "That's right. He was a baby, too," she says adroitly, rustling through the sheets, not finding the small For Emergencies, Contact card.

"Oh that one always gets caught on the bottom of the envelope," she chuckles, as I absently fish it out from underneath the manila flap and hand it over.

I am thinking about all the things Ittybit's six-word announcement doesn't explain. It didn't explain how wide her eyes got when we told her the story that her father had once slept in the very same cradle she had slept in when we brought her home from the hospital.

It doesn't explain how miraculous such a notion must be -- that her big, strong dad was once small -- that she is compelled to let the world in on the secret. My. Daddy. Was. A. Baby. Too.

It also doesn't explain the mind-boggling reality that Ittybit is now, officially, a pre-schooler. And, come September, she'll be attending the same nursery school I attended as a tot.

As we stood in the scrubbed-clean room, filled with summer-stored toys, I can tell she's excited. Her eyes are as wide as mine, as I looked around at the tiny chairs and tables feeling a little like a giant who, in a former life, was a Lilliputian, too.

She delightedly runs off to play with the toys, while I wait to speak with the intake coordinator and other chairpeople about our future roles as new pre-school parents. My head is spinning. My baby isn’t a baby anymore.

The school is a cooperative, which means the tuition is reduced for parents who pitch in to assist in the classroom, fundraise or maintain the property as needed.

With a list several sheets long of chores that need doing, the facilitator’s eyes open wide when she sees what I've checked off on the "expertise" portion of the form.

"You and your husband have a power washer?" Oh that's so great. That's wonderful. We were worried about that this year. We have to clean all the playground equipment in the backyard, and no one thus far seems to have the abilities in that department. We were sure we'd have to hire a professional."

The man's chest puffs up a little, as he realizes his services will be appreciated, and his daughter will benefit from his labor for a change.

Off we go into the play yard filled with all manner of ride-on toys, climbing towers, slides and playhouses ... even a real fiberglass boat sunk into the grass as if it were sailing an imaginary sea.

Ittybit stands stock-still. Presumably paralyzed by indecision, she waits for an impulse that will hurl her tiny body toward the best plaything.

That's when I noticed the man's eyes have lost their usual almond shape. "Something tells me I'm going to be very popular around here."

Secret handshakes and all

"We have to stop meeting like this," I laughed.

But his cherubic face and Panama hat were a magnetic combination.

He giggled. The one-armed man he was attached to thought it was funny, too.

It occurred to me then, as I passed another similarly disabled shopper -- his charge in a ball cap, eating shell peas from the bag -- there was another club to which I cannot belong.

Fathers at the grocery store -- a kid in one arm and a grocery basket in the other -- is apparently the new black.

It's something I might never have noticed, though, had it not been for the fact that it was 8 a.m. Saturday morning and we were out of Milk. After all, my husband usually does the grocery shopping.

Where the supermarket was once the ballywick of the harried housewife, juggling bottles and sippy cups and corralling children aisle by aisle, I am noticing more and more men taking their place in line at the checkout.

As I push on the skins of melons and paw through bags of grapes for one with just the right amount, I notice the one-armed man going through pretty much the same motions with the lettuces.

We trailed each other through the store, missing each other in some aisles and meeting up in others. I wonder to myself: 'Is mom at home, enjoying a much needed break?'

I smile in line at the checkout when his items bump up against mine on the conveyor belt. I think of my own husband at home with our kidlet, and how he's probably done the very same thing with some other mommy who'd managed to sneak out of the house for some quiet, alone-time grocery gathering.

By the time I reach my car in the parking lot another one-armed man makes his way toward the market. He stops to greet the man with whom I’d been doing the grocery store shuffle just moments ago.

I started to pack my trunk with my purchases, taking extra time and trying to handle the bags gently so the rustling wouldn’t impugn my ability to eavesdrop on their conversation.

What were they talking about? I imagined they were discussing the best baby foods, sleepless nights and the-cutest-baby-in-the-world-has-changed-my-life small talk. But I couldn't make out all the words. It was as if their club had a secret vocal tone only dually sworn and initiated members could hear.

I stopped trying to hone in on the discussion, snapped the trunk closed and returned my cart before slipping into the driver's seat. I told myself I'd just be disappointed if they were talking about beer, or porn or who's head-butting who in major league sports.

They were still locked in conversation as I eased out of my parking space and drove in their direction. I couldn't contain my curiosity, though, and I lowered the window as I passed, just in case. As I passed, they just shifted the weight of their kids from one hip to the other and with a wave of their hands, they parted ways. Perhaps they have secret handshakes, too.

Next time I think I'll just spell

"We'll that’s not appropriate for toddlers," I say as I switch off the television blaring "The Sopranos," a video that somehow made it into the VCR instead of "Winnie the Pooh."

It was so much easier when Ittybit didn't appear to be so sponge-like in her absorption of knowledge. Oh sure, she was learning at a crazy pace but we were still a long way from having to spell out words, such as I-C-E C-R-E-A-M, to avoid unpleasantness. Back then she was too busy smashing sweet potatoes into every crevice of her face to notice.

Those were the days.

When my husband's right eyebrow arches upward now I know it's because I've dropped the ball and it's rolling away from me faster than you can say: "That prolly wasn't a good I-D-er."

• Yes, she has eaten cake for breakfast on more than a few (10) occasions.
• Yes, she knows all the people at our local pub, and sometimes they yell her name when we walk through the door on Friday evenings.
• Yes, she watches "Shrek" (even though the characters are rude to each other). And yes, she sometimes doesn’t go to bed until after 10 p.m. once she’s eaten chocolate and NOT brushed her teeth.

Somehow you brush these failings aside. After all, do we not search high and low for child-friendly activities at museums and other cultural centers? That has to count for something.

Recently that meant attending Art Omi's open day, a culmination of three weeks of uninterrupted work by approximately 30 international artists. Open Day is an annual event in our house … or at lease it has been for a number of years (prior to Ittybit).

There's always something at which to marvel and scratch one’s head, such as an ordinary folding chair abandoned in a field that has dozens of people standing around, conversing in 'art speak.'

And every year there's at least one artist whose work makes my head spin: A memorable one a few years ago came from a woman from Tokyo who stained Kotex sanitary pads with a red substance and affixed them to the wall of her studio. That was fun.

Of course I wasn’t thinking about THAT this year, despite 'WHAT' and 'WHY' being the staple words of Ittybit’s conversations.

Like most modern parents, we've adopted the parenting style of explaining truisms in an age-appropriate manner. Say that three times, fast.

It's not easy. Especially at times when the imaginative part of my brain is more ready than the part of my brain that remembers 8th grade science. When she asks me why the sun goes away and it gets dark at night, I watch the hairs on The Dad's neck stand up as I tell her the sun has to take a nap, otherwise it couldn't shine as brightly.

Let’s just say I was not prepared when she pulled me into a studio space filled with paper-mache figures.

"Mama? You wanna see a stulpture, mama? Tum on."

The sculptures were life-sized, paper mache body casts of figures writhing in pain. One showed its head exploding from the back. Another had two men in a pose that appeared ... to be ... well. ...

"Mommy what is that man doing to that other man?"

"Damn the Dad for foisting this studio visit off on me," I grumble to myself as I wonder what the appropriate response should be.

"Um. Well. They’re-making-love. Oh look, lemonade! ... Let's go get some, OK?"

Later, of course, she tells The Dad that the "mens in the stulpture were makting love."

"Ok … let me get this straight. You explained sex, but not what happens to the sun when it gets dark? Nice."

It's all fun and games until someone loses a pie

The following are step-by-step instructions on how to make a strawberry tart with a toddler. (It is alternately known as a drinking game for parents).

Step one: Mom, quickly drink something alcoholic. A shot of tequilla works nicely.

Step two: Gather supplies. You will need: eight large strawberries; one box ready-made pie crusts (who needs to do all that work when Betty Crocker can do it for you?); one tablespoon of sugar; a sharp knife; a tartlet dish; a kitchen stool; a drop-cloth and a power washer, (a dog will suffice).

Step three: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.

Step four: Slice the 6 strawberries while diverting toddler's attention with the 2 remaining "decoy" berries.

Step five: Put tartlet pan down on center of crust and cut a large circle with knife. Line pan with center part of crust material. Set aside crust remnants.

Step six: Instruct toddler to dump berries into pan. ... She may do so ONE AT A TIME … S-L-O-W-L-Y, so try and be patient. This may be a good time for a second drink.

Step seven: Put drop-cloth on floor then hand toddler a tablespoon and the sugar bowl. (Word to the wise: the perfect time for this project is where there is only a small smackerel of sugar clinging to the bottom of the bowl. Even a small amount of the sweet stuff strewn on the floor will make you feel like your walking on a beach, only without the nice surroundings and the calm push of rhythmic waves).

Step eight: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER.

Step nine: Slice narrow strips of crust from remaining dough and weave them as best as you can across the top of pie. Toddlers can be great with this part, making curly-cue designs while throwing pieces at the dog. Some might call the result a giant wad of sweaty goo, though we like to call it "ART."

Step 10: Time for another shot? What do you think?

Step 11: Hand kid the leftover leftovers to play with since you forgot to preheat the oven to 350 degrees (hotter if your oven sucks) and you must kill time.

Step 12: Remove dough pieces from the dog's back.

Step 13: TAKE THE KNIFE AWAY FROM THE TODDLER and put it in the dishwasher already. Sheesh.

Step 14: When is that oven going to heat up, damnit? Tap foot incessantly and pace in front of the stove. It might be time for another drink.

Step 15: Make a second pie since you have the time and a left-over pie crust. Use your hands to mash strawberries and rip pie crust into the approximate shapes of circles and strips. (Don’t tempt fate by pulling the knife out of the dishwasher).

Step 16: One more nip won’t hurt. You’re still standing.

Step 17: Put pies in oven and bake about 30 minutes or until the crusts are a golden brown, (use the timer as your senses may be slightly impaired).

Step 18: Save one of the pies for daddy because toddler will feed hers to the dog and then demand "ICE PEEM."

Note to self: Pick up new bottle of hooch at the liquor store tomorrow.

Men are from Mars, women are from Venus and parades are from hell

Some days the idea of beating my head against a brick wall until my brain oozes out my ears doesn’t seem so bad. It certainly would feel better, I imagine, than the sharp pain I get behind my eyes when I try to decipher a Rosetta stone of marital miscommunication.

As it is my wont to try to distill all human interaction into its most efficient essence, I shall call this phenomenon 'D.U.H.' - Don't Understand Him/Her.

And I'm compiling entries for a pocket reference:

Case #1: "Let’s meet for lunch"

Recently, Ittybit and I were in town (where the man in our life was working for a half-day) not getting lunch because when we met the man he'd already eaten someplace else – D.U.H. Clearly the fault was my own:

I should have made it perfectly clear that “Hey, I'll meet you for lunch” is virtually the same as “Let's meet at the same restaurant somewhere round about noon and eat a mid-day meal together.”

Case #2: Entertain the child

Lunch aside, however, all is not lost. I had another purpose for going to town. There was shopping to do. There were gifts to gather for weddings and birthdays and special occasions. Things I usually don’t do with a toddler in tow, because, let’s face it, shopping with a toddler is in the same ballpark as bringing a pet billy goat to a China shop, smearing it with epoxy glue and setting it loose in the glassware aisle.

I had hoped the man could entertain her at the ice cream shop while I spent massive amounts of money on stuff my friends would stuff in a drawer. I did not intend for him to let her down in the same store I was perusing, where all she wanted to do is hang from my shirt and cry or stack Le Creuset crockery in reverse order, smallest to largest. D.U.H. Again, I am forced to see the error of my wording.

I should have made it perfectly clear that "Entertain her while I go shopping" actually means "Take her someplace else and don't bring her back. I will find you when I'm finished. If you see me by accident cross the street and pretend I’m someone else."

Case #3: Alone time

No matter how well you plan, of course, there will be some surprises. Unbeknownst to us, turns out it was fire department day in town, which means a long parade of trucks and marching bands meander down Main Street toward the fairgrounds.

We discuss whether we should move our cars, which will surely get blocked in and erase our option to leave midway through should a meltdown arise. We finally arrived at a conclusion: I would stay for the parade and he would go home to nap. D.U.H.

Perhaps you might have explained that a 'Family Day,' is technically the same as sitting on the couch watching a "Sopranos" re-run marathon. Double D.U.H. I will need to remember that the next time I volunteer to melt in the heat with a toddler who covers my eyes, pulls my hair and won't hold my hand.

I suppose it makes sense, though. After all, he did mention that we needed more “alone time.” Unfortunately I interpreted that to mean sans baby, avec each other.

I also forgot that date-night is a term that means the mommy must arrange babysitting and come up with a plan for stepping out on the town, otherwise the word means the husband is going to poker night.

And for the strangers in the parade:

D.U.H.!?! After waving our fool heads off, clapping and cheering for you folks in the hot summer sun, I've come to the conclusion that it might have ACTUALLY killed you to smile or wave back.

I had no idea a PARADE in your language meant Perturbed And Rancorous Autocade Dourly Exercising.

Live and learn. Live and learn.

Just smile and nod

It was a cause célèbre in the newsroom. Everybody wanted a piece of the Joe.

Bruno, that is.

Senate Majority Leader.

Third man in the room at budget time.

And now, best of all, a bobblehead doll handed out at the ball field that bears his name.

Of course, there were few among us willing to wait in line after quitting time for one of the big-headed, coiffed haired, presidential-looking likenesses of the man we all know and love, not to mention the optional prostate screening thrown in as a bonus.

"They'll turn up on e-bay within the week, mark my words," chimed in one soothing voice of consolation. "'Cause you know the line for the dolls will be longer than the one for the tests."

What's with this fascination for bobbleheads?

They didn't just arrive in the land of excess yesterday, packaged in plastic eggs from the planet kitsch. They've been around for quite a while; long before the 1960s when the marketers of all things baseball adopted the big-headed curios and turned them into the icons we all know and love (so long as they are winning).

One of the earliest literary references to bobbleheads dates from 1842 when Russian author Nikolai Gogol wrote "The Overcoat," and described the main character's neck thusly: "like the necks of plaster cats which wag their heads."

I remember those bobbing headed animals from my childhood. Each and every one -- cat or bulldog -- bearing gold collars, sun bleached spots and velveteen hides rubbed raw from nodding against the rear windshields of every Chevy Impala ever to roll off an assembly line.

Somehow, inexplicably, while I was paying attention to the Pogues and the Pixies and Jane’s Addiction, the number of bobblehead creatures ballooned. Before I knew it, there were bobbleheads of presidents and first ladies, religious and literary figures and even, frighteningly enough, some that freakishly resembled yours truly.

Seriously, one of the first presents I ever remember getting from my soon-to-be father-in-law was a bobblehead me.



Her name was "Raven" and she was a "Goth" girl. With jet black hair, purple eyeshadow and the look of death warmed over, she came all wrapped in Christmas paper from a bearer who couldn’t stop giggling at his cleverness.

I suppose it might have been wise of me to cut and run right there, but I stuck it out. The following Christmas I was given an oversized wool sweater and all was forgiven.

It just stands to reason that sooner or later EVERYONE is going to have the chance to be a bobblehead. Some, undoubtedly, will be more flattering than others.

The surly woman who grunts every morning she takes my coffee order and then proceeds to splash a gallon of milk into my cup despite my ordering it BLACK, will probably have a some nodding plastic twin made in her likeness sooner or later. If I'm lucky enough to procure one I'll probably let the dogs chew on it just to administer a little passive revenge.

On the other hand, I'll have to plunk down some serious cash for the bobblehead of Ittybit’s babysitter. But it will be worth it. In addition to its bobbing head, hers will also have a wagging finger. Perhaps even a speaker to reminds us that "We-Don't-Poke-People-in-the-Eyes, That's-Not-Nice." Yeah, I'll be tucking that one safely away in a keepsake box to show Ittybit's teenage self who really deserves all the credit for her remarkable manners.

I wonder what Joe thought when he first laid eyes on his likeness. I imagine he might have wished the guys at the factory had given him a wider stance.

Or maybe he just smiled and nodded.

The hard work of being neighborly

I peered into the mailbox all squinty-eyed and disbelieving.

It was empty.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, 12 pounds of flyers, bills and catalogues were not waiting to be schlepped inside and immediately recycled. The mystery of the missing mail was solved, however, when I trudged into the house and noticed the insistent, blinking light of the answering machine.

Turns out, oddly enough, our mail had been inadvertently deposited clear across town at the home of the only other resident we know. A sure sign, I think, that there must be a higher power because everything about her is serendipitous, especially since I knew this woman long before either of us called our town "home."

We met just after college. She was my age but was already a single mom, dating the friend of a friend. I was struggling to find out who I was and where I belonged. I had no time to chat, regrettably, since maturity had not yet been forced upon me.

When we met again last summer at a farmers' market and learned we shared a ZIP code and toddlers one year apart, I couldn’t have been more pleased.

Since I regularly walked past her house each day on my two-mile morning constitutional, I was thrilled at the invitation to stop by. It wasn’t the kind of offer one extends lightly out of politeness. It was with genuine hope of being neighborly.

I reciprocated with equal enthusiasm, hoping since we live on the street with the playground our visits would be mutual.

In my head, though, I knew I'm not the type who just "pops by." In my head, you see, I am the eternal imposition; the person who feels awkward in their own skin and assumes they are destined to break your best China if you ask me in for tea.

A year has gone by. I’ve stopped taking my walks, in part because I can’t seem to muster out of bed at a reasonable hour to do so, and the anxiety of never taking her up on her offer haunts me.

"I'm not sure how it happened," laughs the voice on the machine, "But it appears the mail carrier has left a sizable portion of your mail at our house today. I was wondering when would be a good time for me to bring it over?"

My jaw drops open. Of course, I haven't cleaned the house since I don't know when and the dogs are shedding whole litters of puppies. As my husband putters around in the kitchen, he wonders aloud if we all wouldn't be better off if I just went to her house and collected it. He laughs, suggesting my friend might have collected the mail from our box just to have an excuse to have a get-together.

"That's not funny," I fret, as I frantically try to replace the belt on the vacuum cleaner while simultaneously tending to Ittybit's demand for help with her potty -- she needs to practice her 'Poo' song, she explains.

Twenty minutes, four disasters (including the unintentional deletion of her phone number while trying to replay the message) and one successful elimination later, and I am finally able to ring her up.

Turns out she'd already dropped it off in our mailbox.

'Aw! Shoot,' I think as I hang up the phone, 'perhaps tomorrow I'll get up early and go for a walk.'

Simple substitution: Dad, it's your turn

"Don't be fooled," I tell myself as I look at Ittybit's face over the mountain of bath toys, gearing up for our daily struggle -- bath time.

Behind those angelic puffy cheeks, pursed lips and sparkling eyes is a confection of unnatural sweetness -- A look that says: 'I win' in no uncertain terms.

It is the thin-lipped countenance of determined celebration; the knowing gaze of understanding. The expression of delight in a job well done: she's successfully trained her parents (*cough-sputter mother) to acquiesce to her desire to keep her hair from EVER touching water.

Oh sure she will get into the tub. Constant work and ample bribery, not to mention the complicity of an ever-growing army of bath toys, has guaranteed her willingness to drench the bathroom with bathwater. But each and every dousing is not without a liberal dose of inveigling.

By the time I've coaxed her into the bath by assuring her that I'm not going to wash her hair "right now," her mental time clock starts counting down. She washes between her toes and scrubs behind her knees in between tea parties with toy sharks and high dives with her Little Pony, but when it comes time to wash the back of her neck she starts to squirm for the towel and an end to "baf-time."

As the days stretch into weeks her hair starts showing signs of life. Sticking up in all directions or plastered to her forehead, the changing sculpture that has become her hairdo is the emblem of my failure as a mom. Since I am routinely in charge of cleaning up the kid -- and since I am unable or unwilling to deal with a struggling, soapy, squealing, squidlet yelling "I'm ALL DONE here!" as she scrambles out of my grasp -- the "hairdon’t" will forever be my badge of shame.

This type of thing hardly ever happens with the dad part of the equation.
I'm not sure when the shift happened, exactly. There WAS a time when his efforts would have a limit and he'd hand over a writhing mass of baby flesh for me to calm. The he'd walk away shaking his head.

But now the man in our life has it all down. He wouldn't stand for the shenanigans I put up with. He is even able to take her to the grocery store and get through the aisles without much hassle. On a recent trip, the first in which the "I want this," phrase made it's inevitable appearance, he was miraculously able to talk her out of absconding with a pillow-shaped bag of Fruit Loops stuffed under her shirt.

In my shopping cart, there would have been a lot of "wannas" and "hafta haves," followed by a long and drawn out "PEAS!!!!!" The eventual tantrum would be icing on the cake (not to mention the icy stares it would lend from the stockers, who would have to return my selected items to the freezer before a literal meltdown occurred) as I leave my cart mid-shop.

Somehow, he was able to avert the most disastrous of all outbursts — the crying, limpbodied explosion of tears -- by simple substitution.

When he handed me a happy toddler, carting a box of plain-jane Rice Chex instead of the sugar-packed rings of color, I had to ask: "How did you manage that?"
"I said 'NO.'"

The trouble with some women (like me)

Driving over the bridge, with nowhere to go but onto the highway, the crazy antics of the guy in the pickup truck next to me made my heart race.

There was no flirting going on, there was only flattening.

I thought something wasn't right with the car's handling, but there wasn't the tell-tale thumpity-thump of an off-kilter chassis. It was just a feeling. Of course I did what anyone in denial would do: I turned up the radio and drove a little slower (just in case).

But I couldn't ignore the man making funny faces as his lips mouthed the words "FLAT TIRE" silently through the glass. I had to pull over.

Yup. Flat.

Not all-the-way flat just considerably more flat than a tire should be, which means with a little luck I can get the car off the highway, into a service station and fill it with air before I’m scraping sparks along the asphalt.

The idea of having to change the tire goes through my mind, but I know such a thing means wrestling lug nuts with the large probability of failure, and I haven't yet given up hope that that it’s just a slow leak.

And, don't you know, the last thing I wanted to do was call my husband.

Reason #1: I've left my cell phone in the diaper bag, which is with my parents and the baby.

Reason #2: I don't want to admit (in reverse order) that I’m having car trouble, need help and that I don’t have the phone.

Reason #3: He would ENJOY being needed, which means, by the unjust rules of the universe, I need to assert my independence.

So I cross my fingers and ease back on the highway, caution lights flashing and all.

The first station I reach is closed. I check the trunk to inspect the spare, just in case, but I don't find the tire iron. I agonize a little about asking the women sitting on a nearby porch if I can use their phone, but decide I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet. I made it this far, maybe I can make it as far as the I-can-see another gas station.

I cross my fingers, chant "please-make-it-there-please-make-it-there" and pull back onto the roadway again.

Miraculously, I pull into the next station with the tire intact. I drop two quarters into the air pump and it comes to life.

I fill up the tire, but, having trouble with the pressure gauge, I check it over and over drawing the attention of a kindly biker who ventures my way to try and help.

"Thanks. I'm fine," I tell him. "It's just a low tire and I’m hoping it's only a slow leak. … My jack is missing a part and I don’t want to get stranded."

With no audible hissing I decide to venture onward. The biker draws my attention to the little black cap that I distinctly remember taking off at the previous gas station but somehow lost between there and here, and suggests it needs to be replaced pronto.

I don't mention I lost it mere seconds ago, the same way I lost the cap to the canola oil bottle in my kitchen and still haven't found it. I blame mommy brain and let it go.

Driving off I resume my chant — please-make-it-there -please-make-it-there -please-make-it-there -please-make-it-there -please-make-it-there -please-make-it-there — but I know there’s no way on Earth I’m going to make it there.

So I turn on my flashers, turn up the radio and drive to the furthest exit I can remember that has a service station and a payphone. When I get there the tire is flat again, and it's clear I can pump all the psi in the tank I want, it will be to no avail.

I call my father and let him know I'’m going to be late picking up Ittybit, who he and my mother have been entertaining for more than an hour now. ... And casually slip in the "could-you-possibly-come get-me?" question.

He tactfully tries to get me to ask someone to help me, and I misunderstand. I tell him it's not a SERVICE station, it's a CONVENIENCE store. There's no one here who can help. After all, this isn't convenient.

I explained I would have tried to change it myself but I can'’t find the tire iron. And he tells me it's wrapped in a little brown bag floating around somewhere in the trunk.

A light goes on.

Maybe I can fix it. Maybe I can do this myself.

I hang up the phone and rush back to the car. I search the trunk and find the missing tools.

Level ground, check; brake on, check; jack in place, check; lug nuts loosened … ERRRRRRRRRRR!!!! Ugh. They won't budge.

I sit down on the curb and stare at the wheel. Oddly, I feel calm.

I'm going to have to do it. I’m going to HAVE to call my husband.

Ring. … ring … ring …

“Hi, hon,” he says with a song in his voice. “Your dad called. I'm on my way.”

How did I wind up on their SH*! list?

How did I wind up on their S#*! list?

SPAM that is.

All week long I've been getting e-mails from a former college buddy I haven't seen in years. Out of the relative blue came a string of forwarded messages with off-color jokes, editorial cartoons and inspirational messages. Nothing terribly offensive, just out of the ordinary.

I shot back a quick note, ignoring the punch-lines and explaining I was pleased as punch to hear from her. I inquired about her family and if she’d seen any of the "old gang" rattling around in her travels.

Nothing.

A few days later her husband's name popped into my inbox sandwiched between a BBC news update and a brief note from my mother-in-law checking in with a grandmotherly message for Ittybit. His communiqué, like his wife's, was a little bit of humor (video form) making the rounds on the World Wide Web.

Another note is sent off into the ethosphere ... more nothing … until … the mother of all pet peeves arrives in my inbox bearing their return address -- an e-mail warning me of the dangerous BLUSH SPIDER.

There are the people who wouldn't stand for pictures of Branjolina's leftover grilled cheese sandwich bits coming anywhere near their Internet, and I think I may be one of those people. It's not that I don’t like jokes. I laughed hysterically when the Trunk Monkey popped out of my inbox and dragged me to the Suburban Auto Group's Web site, where I spent the better part of an hour viewing SAG's library of simian "public service" ads. It's just that I have little tolerance for alarmist entertainment.

For the record: NPR is not getting shut down so don't sign and forward the petition; KFC uses real chickens; hypodermic needles are not showing up in McDonald's play areas and on the undersides of gas pumps; and there aren't people trolling around mall parking lots trying to knock you out with ether in perfume bottles.

I have noticed, however, that since I've begun tracking down urban legends and torturing folks bent on perpetuating these myths with a few facts, my inbox has turned into a virtual desert.

I can't tell you how many people send back a rebuke, telling me that they were just trying to be helpful when they passed along that "urgent" message reminding each of us to turn off our cell phones at the gas stations, lest they go off and cause an explosion.

I suppose if it were a political thing, I'd be saying I was trying to fight spam over in their e-mailbox so I won’t have to fight it in my own. But it's an uphill battle, and it doesn't help matters much that even gas stations have fallen for the hoax, many of them posting signs warning of the potential for disaster of using your cellphone at the pump.

I hang my head a little in shame every time my letters are returned with a line of hurt feelings and a streak of consternation: "Well, I thought it was sage advice even if it never happened. It can't hurt to be careful."

I'm beginning to think hitting the delete button is really the best way to connect with my imaginary friends.