Ode to Breakfast

Kostyn has begun composing his own songs, which is delightful. I’ve been waiting for this day since being told of his three older cousins’ lyrical creations these last few years. Tonight after bedtime stories and lights out and prayers, after he’d flipped over onto his belly and requested my hand to hold and the blankets to be tucked up around him, he turned his head toward the wall like he does every night right before he falls asleep...and then he started to sing a sweet little ditty I can only assume would be called “Ode to Breakfast.” It went something like this:

“Yogurt and berries, yogurt and berries, hey!
And toast. Toast. Toast. Hey! And toast and a wa-ffle.
And yogurt and Mama and Kostyn and baby. Coffee! Coffee!
And toast and a waaaaa-ffle.
Cheese, cheese. Hey! And toast.....
....and fireflies, fireflies, fireflies*
I see ‘em! I see ‘em! I see ‘em, fireflies.
And toast.”

I sat there in the dark, holding his hand and stifling both my laughter and my urge to scoop him into my arms and squeeze him for all he’s worth.

Extra toast for you tomorrow, my sweet boy. With cinnamon and sugar on top.

*Rest assured, we don’t eat these for breakfast.

Listen up, bargain hunters

I need your help, you coupon-clipping, price-memorizing, Sunday circular wizards (you know who you are, and so do I).

Basically I'm trying to save some money. And time. And frustration. And my achin' back. So I'm considering using a new Web-based personal shopper for household goods called Alice.com. The deals seem good, the shipping is free, the site is easy to navigate, and all "my" products are saved into the system so I'm reminded when I'm *probably* getting low on diapers or dog food or toilet paper or laundry detergent.

I've read good things about Alice.com from the likes of Cool Mom Picks, whose opinion I trust, but I trust YOUR opinions even more, so I'm asking you to check it out. Because frankly, as much as I try to buy generic brands when possible, and use coupons to sweeten a deal, and buy in bulk when I can, there is always one fatal flaw to my frugal shopping plans: I have the memory of a gnat. Seriously, I cannot remember from week to week what the "usual" cost of a box of diapers is, or how much I typically pay for the same damn brand of dog food I buy every other week. I don't know why I can't retain such information, but I can't. Cannot. Even when I get to the store and I say to myself "I am going to concentrate really really hard on this number so that when I go to Target in two days I can check the price there and find out whether I should be buying it there instead of here"....by the time I get to Target the number has vanished from my brain. (If only I could put prices in Billy Joel-song-lyric form, I'd never forget a-one...)

So I need those of you who do have a knack for remembering more than "Chubby Checker, Psycho, Belgians in the Congo..." to check out Alice.com and tell me if it really does offer decent prices for stuff we all have to buy from time to time anyway. Because wouldn't it be awesome if we didn't have to leave our houses to buy such necessities? The mere thought of avoiding a toddler meltdown, or at least giving me fewer bulky bags to balance precariously on top of my ridiculous car cart each week, makes me giddy. (Did I mention the shipping is FREE?!)

That's it. You have your assignment. What are you still doing here??

Takin' the ol' kiddie kar for a spin

I almost forgot we went on vacation a month ago and I never even mentioned it here. So as not to bore or overwhelm, I'll post pics in chunks. Tonight: Kostyn's first amusement park ride.

We spent a day at Sylvan Beach in central New York, which was Chris' boyhood summertime hangout spot complete with an old-school midway that was lots of fun. We chose the Kiddie Klassic Kars (man I hate it when people spell stuff wrong on purpose) for him to ride, and he picked his color. Here he is before the ride began, very proud of his car.

Hey, Mama, check me out! Sweet ride, huh?

We were sure he'd love it, since he loves anything that spins him around 'til he's dizzy. But none of us expected this particular "kiddie ride" to move quite so fast. This was snapped the first time he came around.

"Wait, where's my car seat?? Screw the steering wheel, I gotta hang on here..."

Each time he came whipping by, he looked a little less sure that this whole thing was supposed to be fun.

Is this thing speeding up?? S-T-O-P this spells STOP!

This was snapped the fourth time he passed us, right before we had them stop the ride. Admittedly, I was barely controlling my laughter.

For the love of God get me off this death trap!

"He's a 2-year-old, and he 'reads'!" by Braggy McBraggypants

For awhile now we’ve marveled at how Kostyn delights in “reading” his books to us. For example, the last time we were at the library I picked up a book about animals called “What We Do.” I read it to him once a day for about a week. Then one night he requested it: “What We Do?” he said, and it took me a minute to understand it was a book he was talking about.

That night when I started reading it he interrupted me, wanting to say the words himself. “We are worms and we wiggle,” he said. “I’m a caterpillar. I creep.” I was surprised, but turned the page.

“I’m a fish and I swim. We are lambs...we leap.” He read every page! (To clarify, his pronunciation was pretty questionable on some of it, but he said the main words of every sentence.)

Goes to show how attentive and observant a toddler is, because if someone had hid the words on each page I wouldn’t have gotten them all right, the way he did.

The next night he started acting out the motions, something Chris and I later realized neither one of us had taught him. “I’m a mouse and I scurry,” he’d say, wiggling off my lap to shuffle his feet in tiny little steps all around the room. Then he’d climb back up onto my lap to read the next line. “We are ants and we march...” he’d say, wiggle down to the floor, march around the room. The back up to the lap.

A-do-ra-ble.

So that’s been his way of “reading,” and it really is precious. Anyway, we’ve had a set of Thomas the Train books sitting on his bookshelf since, well, his birth. Each book is a different color with a different train featured on front (Gordon the Something Engine, Percy the Whatchamacallit, Toby Blah Blah, I clearly don’t know them....). My sister-in-law Annette gave them to him when he was a baby, saying, “Someday you’ll love these.” And that day has come.

Just this past week, out of the blue, he’s wanted to read those books, a different one each night. I still haven’t read any of them to him (I tried once about a year ago and it was clear he wasn’t old enough yet to be captured by the illustrations or the story) but Chris has been reading one to him each night for the last few nights. Kostyn has never seen the cartoon or any other Thomas books, so this is a whole new train world for him.

Two nights ago Chris noticed Kostyn knew what each book was. “No read TOBY!” he said when Chris picked up the “Thomas” book. Last night Kostyn emphatically requested “Percy,” thrusting the correct book at his Daddy, who’d never actually read the “Percy” book to him.

“How do you know this one’s Percy?” Chris asked him, curious.

Kostyn stared at the cover for a moment before pointing. “P-E-R-C-Y. This spells Percy.”

When I came into the room a few minutes later to kiss him goodnight, Chris relayed this to me and we stared at each other blankly for a full minute.

Is it possible for a kid to teach himself to read?

Power Hungry Postscript: Super You

I received many comments regarding yesterday’s “Power Hungry” post. Several on Facebook, some directly e-mailed and even a couple of text messages. Today I got a request from a weight loss group to distribute it at their next meeting.

Nearly all these messages had two things in common: The theme (“OMG, me too!”) and the sender (female).

I knew there were lots of other people who struggle with control issues regarding their bodies, their personal lives and their careers. I knew most of them were women. What surprised me was how many women seem consciously tuned out to such struggles until something (like reading my post) splashes cold water on their faces and brings it into sudden focus.

I find it both comforting and disheartening that so many of us have this “food ticker” streaming through our brains, even though we know size doesn’t matter, nor does one’s status in life. As one friend said in an e-mail, “What’s silly is, I don’t remember being happy at a size 6. I never remember thinking, ‘Whew, I finally made it to the size I wanna be.’ And, I know I wasn’t content at size 3, either. I mean, I’ve watched enough episodes of ‘Oprah’ to know that feeling good about yourself comes from within.”

Yet we don’t, do we? Feel good about ourselves, I mean. Or we do on some levels but not all levels. There’s always something nagging, some “You’re not good enough” taunt we try to ignore with diets and self loathing. (Hell, Oprah can’t even listen to Oprah.) There’s a glut of rhetoric out there about this topic, and I don’t have much insight to add beyond what I wrote yesterday.

My 4-year-old nephew wears a cape and cowboy boots nearly every day. It matters not whether they’re headed to the playground or pool or out to dinner. The kid lives in that cape and boots, and it’s obvious how strong and capable — invincible even — they make him feel.

He also has had a string of illnesses and allergy problems since he was born, and struggles with a speech delay that has made it extremely difficult for him to effectively communicate.

Does he wear the cape to overcompensate for the loss of control he feels when he’s sitting in yet another doctor’s office, or hearing yet another adult or child say to him, “What? Say it again? I don’t understand you.” Who knows. Probably not. They might just be the whimsical uniform of a 4-year-old boy.

But there’s no denying how confident he is with that cape secured around his neck, as he flashes his biceps at me before smiling and dashing off.

So my advice to anyone struggling with control issues is this: Find your cape. Find whatever non-toxic thing makes you feel powerful. For me, it seems to be the conscious recognition and use of choices (the power to choose), mixed with a healthy dose of giving more instead of worrying that I might be getting less. For you it might be training for a triathlon; or reliving the birth of your child; or finding an enticing recipe from one of your “healthy” cookbooks the moment the craving for Oreos hits.

Whatever it is, when you find your cape wear it — every day, everywhere. Trust me, it matches every outfit (cowboy boots optional).

What's the perfect complement to S'mores? A cute kid in a cape, of course!

Power Hungry

Two boys, always tugging on my arm, my heartstrings, my sanity...

When I was 20 I had a brief fling with anorexia. (Believe me, I roll my eyes just thinking about how cliche that is, the stressed-out college coed who suddenly starts to starve herself.)

When I came home for the summer between my sophomore and junior years at Penn State, my parents became aware that I was damaging my body by not feeding it properly. Sometime mid-summer I finally agreed to endure a lame counseling session or two with a local psychiatrist, and though I don’t believe he had any impact on me or my psyche, I eventually began to eat again without feeling guilty and shameful for every bite.

At the time, and for years afterward, I thought the root of the problem was the way I looked — or, more specifically, the way I thought I should look, or wanted to look, or thought other people wanted me to look. I’d read that eating disorders were often about control, not about food or body image, but I didn’t think that was the case with me. Body image is something I’ve always struggled with (I’m 36 years old, a healthy eater, a size 4/6, and I still don’t wear shorts in public. It drives my loved ones bonkers.), so I believed I was the exception to the “starving for control” rule.

But a few years ago I was having a conversation with my mom and she reminded me of some peripheral things I’d forgotten (blocked out?) about that summer, things that were happening at the same time I was dwindling to 106 pounds on my 5’8” frame. Without airing anyone else’s dirty laundry here, let me just say that there was a good bit of chaos and uncertainty in the lives of those around me and, consequently, in my life.

Suddenly I recalled with absolute clarity the surge of supreme power I’d feel every time I successfully skipped a meal. I remembered running through a busy 10-hour shift waiting tables with nothing but an apple — and a sick sense of pride for being able to eat only the apple — to fuel me.

Well, what do ya know. It was about control.

Fast-forward 16 years (OMG!) and here I am, a married mother of two little boys who is trying to cobble together a freelance writing career, a few friendships and a future for my family in a town that is still largely unfamiliar to me. In some ways I feel more grounded, more confident and happier than ever before. In other ways I feel adrift, unstable, out of my league, as if the sand under my feet gets pulled back to sea every time I think I’ve mastered the ebb and flow of my life.

And, like clockwork, I’ve started thinking about food again. I’m not starving myself, or even dieting; I eat a balanced diet and splurge on treats after lunch and dinner every single day. But there are days when my mind is consumed by food. I change diapers and fold laundry and do puzzles and read “Fix-It Duck” and do phone interviews and talk to my toddler and sing to my baby and laugh with my husband and all the while there is a steady stream of dialogue happening deep inside my head about food. “What’s in the pantry?, I really want this chocolate chip muffin, what can I snack on?, how many calories have I consumed today?, what’s my next meal?, what’s my next snack?, are we out of those cookies yet?, can I splurge on this?, what kind of treat will I have tonight?, how much do I weigh?, when can I work out?, how fattening is this?, what should I make for dinner?, how many calories have I consumed now?, what will we have for dinner tomorrow?, why isn’t there wine in the wine fridge?, how much do I weigh now?, I wish I hadn’t had that chocolate chip muffin...”

It’s exhausting, I tell ya. And I continually have to remind myself that none of that garbage is about me being hungry or fat or anorexic or a meticulous meal planner.

It’s about control.

Like most moms, some days I feel pretty darn good about things. Kostyn (mostly) behaves, the sun shines, the baby naps, the source is there during my small window to talk to him. Other days I feel like I have no control over my own life (also, I suspect, like most moms). On those days, my life swirls around me like a hurricane of looming deadlines and neglected errands and unwritten thank-you notes and toddler-chasing-dog-AGAIN and baby-refusing-to-nap-and-give-mom-a-break.

As a stay-at-home mother I am, in some ways, the walls that hold up this family, at least from 9 to 5 (or, 7:30 a.m. to 6). But whoever notices walls? They’re just there, permanent background, and we take for granted that they’re doing the very important job of keeping the ceiling from crashing down on our heads.

I’m not saying I’m underappreciated, because I’m not (truly, truly not; my husband rocks). I’m also not saying my job is incredibly difficult, because it’s not. I’m just saying that the business of homemaking is at times a lonely, invisible existence of second-guessing and endless catch-up, and I have struggled lately with finding solid ground to stand on, both as a parent and as a professional writer.

Because I’m no longer 20 with enough time on my hands to obsess about myself to the nth degree, I am able to recognize this mental food obsession for what it is: A way for me to be in complete control of something when I feel so out of control about everything else. Of course knowing that doesn’t stop the streaming food ticker in my head. I have to do that myself, consciously, every day. And in order to do that, I have to convince myself of how much control I do have over things. A million things. Everything.

And that little exercise — the one of finding one’s power, recognizing it, embracing it and harnessing it — is why I’m writing all of this down. Because maybe someone else out there is struggling too.

I think the feeling of being in control comes through having and making choices, whether they be big (quitting my job to stay home with my baby) or small (checking my email on the way upstairs). We make a million choices a day that we don’t consider choices at all (the choice to hold a job, to answer to a boss, to stay married, to meet an obligation, to do the laundry, to wipe our own butts or the tiny butts of those we love). But we should consider them choices. Because having a choice -- and making a choice -- creates power. And power is a sign of control. And having control makes you feel good. Confident. Happy.

And not all that hungry.

Even the feeling of being out of control is a choice. When that food ticker starts up in my head I know that I am choosing to feel powerless about something at that moment, and my subconscious is counterbalancing that by kickstarting its own Diet Patrol. Recognizing that choice being made is important, because then I get to make another choice — to stop it, or to listen to it, or to figure out the original source of insecurity that brought it on.

There are a couple of Web sites I’ve been reading lately that have helped pull this perspective into focus for me in ways I can relate to. The first is Zen Habits, which is a simple slice of common sense about how to streamline, prioritize and energize your life. Contributer Jonathan Mead’s recent post "How Giving Changes Everything" made me think about the way I view my everyday life. I often lament the fact that I no longer have the freedom to do the volunteer work I used to do before I had kids. I really miss it, those hours spent sitting with a dying hospice patient or drumming up more funds for the upcoming ACS Relay for Life.

But reading Mead’s post made me realize I don’t need to be involved with structured volunteer work to find such fulfillment right now. I can choose to view my everyday life as a gift to my sons. Instead of wondering when I’ll ever get a break, I can choose to give even more of myself away, and reap the rewards as they come back to me. What I give can be as small as a smile to my spouse at the end of the day instead of a long, dramatic sigh. It doesn’t matter what I give; the point is I am making a choice to give. Power!

The other site I’ve been reading is Meagan Francis’s The Happiest Mom blog. Read her post “Tap Shoes and Making Time” and you’ll be hard-pressed to utter the words “I just don’t have time to....” ever again. This post struck a chord because one of the things I have been feeling most out-of-control over is my lack of exercise. Workouts are important for my physical, mental and emotional well-being. They make me feel in control of my life. But I just haven’t been able to figure out when exactly I can do it, and watching Chris take the time to run has made me resentful about not having the same chance.

But now I see things differently. While it’s true that having a 4-month-old and a 2-year-old makes it harder to find free time to do anything, it’s not impossible. It’s not that I don’t have time, it’s that I have chosen to spend my time in other ways. I could exercise if I gave it more priority than, say, updating my Facebook status or writing this blog post.

So just knowing that I have made the choice to not make exercise a “Do or die” in my life makes me feel more in control over the situation. The resentment is erased and I’m left with the power to choose what to do about it -- either to shelve some of the things that are taking up my free time and channel those minutes into a workout, or to realize that until the boys are just a bit older with just a bit more predictable nap schedules, my workouts will more often take a backseat to ways I can recharge my batteries in shorter spurts, like reading bits of that Time magazine on the table, or updating my blog.

When I think back to that Anorexic Summer of ‘93, I remember the night I came home late from working a long shift at the restaurant and was so hungry I couldn’t take it anymore, so I ate an apple. This wouldn’t have been bad had I not already “caved” and eaten half a chicken sandwich during my shift. Somehow eating that apple at the end of the day filled me with fear. It was too much food, too many calories. Before I knew it I found myself in the bathroom, staring down into the toilet, contemplating doing something I’d vowed to never do.

And I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. Instead I tiptoed across the house and gently knocked on my parents’ bedroom door, woke my mother and said, “Mom, I think I need help.”

I’ve always felt good about that memory, in a sheepish sort of way, and now I understand why. I made a choice that night, definitive and unapologetic, and owning that choice brought the power and control into my life that a hundred skipped meals had failed to do.

What choices are you making without claiming the control behind them? And how much more power could you harness with more purposeful choices?

The one he gave away

I “met” Tara online in the fall of 2006 when both of us joined an online community group for first-time moms with babies due in June 2007. At the time we lived hours away from each other (me in Beaufort, S.C., and she in Harrisburg, PA), but we bonded over pregnancy particulars, the fact that we both were Penn State alums and, eventually, the coincidence that our babies were born on the same day - June 2, 2007.

As fate would have it, two years later I moved to Harrisburg, and though it took about nine months to get together in person, we finally did. Last week the boys and I met Tara and her daughter, Grace, at City Island here in Harrisburg to explore a little bit and catch up.

We said our hellos and set off with Evan and Grace in strollers and Kostyn walking alongside (and darting ahead, and lingering behind, and stopping to pick up rocks and smoosh bugs with his fingers...). We’d gone about 50 yards when Kostyn raced from the road onto the grass because he’d spotted a dandelion. Whenever we go for walks around the neighborhood he picks a dandelion, or some other weed nobody but a toddler notices, and proudly gives me the bloom. It warms my heart.

So I stood there waiting for my half-smooshed yellow dandelion head, prepared to add it to the other dried dandelion heads cluttering the stroller’s cup holder. (I had a passing thought not too long ago to make this growing collection into potpourri but realized that besides the sentimental value, it probably wouldn’t be all that attractive - or fragrant - to have a bowl of rotting dandelions on a table in my living room.)

But he ran right past me and, with a huge smile on his face, presented the yellow flower to Tara.

It always amazes me that this kid, a product of two very shy parents, isn’t all that shy himself. He doesn’t have the socialization outlets that a regular day-care or a busier, more social mom would give him. So I love it when he extends himself like this toward a friendly stranger like Tara.

I didn’t get the dandelion this time. But I still got something to warm my heart.

The best and the worst

The best thing about Chris being gone for the night:

The freedom to put a steaming bowl of fresh veggies on the table for dinner, with no meat in sight, and not hear any grumbling.

The worst thing about Chris being gone for the night:

Everything else.

Hope he catches that elusive trophy trout....

An apologetic little boy

"Mea Culpa Mama!"

I’m learning that 2-year-olds translate what you’re saying into its most literal interpretation. An example:

We never really had cause to teach Kostyn how and why we say “I’m sorry” until Evan’s arrival. Because with Evan’s arrival came the very occasional acts of pushing Evan, and ramming cars into Evan’s limbs, and scaring the bejeezus out of both Evan and Mommy with sudden, failed attempts at body-slamming Evan. So I would talk to Kostyn about how such things might hurt his baby brother, and we certainly don’t want to hurt him, and we learned about apologizing for doing things we shouldn’t have done or didn’t mean to do.

That’s the part that stuck, and now he seems to understand “I’m sorry” as a phrase used whenever something happens that wasn’t intentional. So I’ve got a kid who calls out “Sowwy!” to no one in particular when he trips as he’s running around the table. And he calls out “Sowwy!” when he drops one of the half-dozen cars he’s trying to carry upstairs. He even apologizes to his toys. “Sowwy giraffe!” he says when the tiny plastic toy falls over on the carpet, even if he is nowhere near the animal when it happens. And when his brow is furrowed as he’s trying to build some complex bridge/tower with his blocks and part of it topples, he apologizes. To the blocks. Because the blocks toppling over wasn’t supposed to happen, people. It wasn’t what he intended. “Uhh, sowwy,” he says in frustration before trying again.

On one hand it’s endearing, hearing his sweet little “Sowwy!” On the other hand it’s embarrassing, especially in public. How Joan Crawford must I seem to the neighbors, to have this little toddler who falls and scrapes his knee crying, “Sowwy Mama! Ohhh, sowwy!!” or to the parents at the playground who overhear my son apologize every time his own elbow bumps into a piece of playground equipment? “Oops, sowwy!” Half the time I just want to apologize to him for screwing up the meaning in his little brain.

So sowwy Kostyn!

The world's next Thriller?

I’m sitting here watching the live Michael Jackson memorial service on TV (I didn’t plan to ... I just got sucked in), and I’m wondering who’s next. Who will be the next unfortunate, blessed, gifted, tragic, flawed human being we catapult to a level of superstardom we don’t yet know exists? Who will we spend 20 or 30 years exalting and denouncing, heckling and applauding? Who will garner this type of massive, star-studded, televised memorial service filled with famous faces talking about a man many probably hadn’t had direct contact with in years?

I wonder who will mesmerize my boys the way MJ’s Moonwalk mesmerized my friends and I. I wonder who Kostyn and Evan will dance to in the living room when they’re 10 and still be dancing to in their 20s, and even 30s. For my mother, it was Elvis. For me, Michael. I can’t imagine another artist following in those footsteps.

Who will the world chew up and spit out and grab again and again, until the artist has become less character and more caricature, until his demons are uncovered and his world crumbles from within? Whose oh-so-very-unconventional home will be viewed as a spectacle, and then a shrine?

In today’s world, where you can be a celebrity for doing absolutely nothing noteworthy, where you can be famous for having no talent, how bright must a star shine to stand out? How innovative must an artist be to come up with something that really does thrill us like Thriller? Are there Moonwalk-type moves left to show the world? Is it possible to once again reinvent the very definition of entertainment the way Michael Jackson did, again and again?

I wonder.

Epiblogues

1. Naomi Williams died in her sleep in the early morning hours of July 1. Her family was with her, and so many of our prayers will continue to follow her....prayers for her family, and for her peace.

2. One or two people have asked me in passing whether I scored a “date” with Potential Playdate during that last storytime session. I did not. (Story of my life...) She totally hit on Kostyn and I again (“Oh my God, I was watching your son during the songs and stuff and he’s So Darn Cute! And by the way I cannot get OVER the fact that you had a baby three months ago. You look like you were never pregnant!!....”) but alas, no date. The best either of us could muster was a “Well, looking forward to seeing you at the next Storytime session in the fall.” The search continues....

3. The quest for the perfect pop-up camper (and by “perfect” I mean “super-cheap, but not so cheap that the damn thing breaks before we leave the driveway”) continued after our last disappointment. In a surprise turn of events, our landlord offered us $100 for the clunker. We took that money and a few hundred more bills that we really don’t have to spend on such childhood dreams and bought yet another pop-up off Craigslist. After two successful outings I’m ready to report that the third time’s the charm! This one’s a tiny speck of a thing, sleeps six, with a little attached awning and a two-burner stove and sink and icebox and the best part is it actually, you know, pops up. We love it! Towed the little bugger to NY last week, where the darn rain nearly waterlogged all our camping plans but we still managed to squeeze in one good campfire. Photos to come.

4. A couple weeks ago Evan rolled over from back to front. He also laughed out loud for the first time (at his brother, with whom he is completely in love). I wrote both in his baby book. :)