Benediction

My baby brother is a law school graduate! I'm so darn proud of him I could burst.

Speaking of, I almost did burst... laughing, that is. The benediction at graduation (the day before Pentecost, I get it) began like this:

"Dear God, you are the arsonist of our hearts..."

Seriously? Did he just say arsonist of our hearts? Yes, yes, he did indeed. And yes, we, a religious family, all four generations of us there present, totally died laughing.

Amen.

PS: We love Heather, baby brother's girlfriend. We love her for many many reasons, but the icing on the cake is that on mother's day, when Nana, Mom, and I all ordered oatmeal for brunch, Heather swooped in and ordered oatmeal, too, without knowing that we all had! She's totally a fit. And she loves Sondheim.

Spooning

Dear Universe,

Where have all my spoons gone? I have plenty of soup spoons, salad and dinner forks, and butter knives. But where are my spoons? Two summers ago I noticed I was running low on these spoons, so I ran out to The Bon, paid an exorbitant amount for the spoons in my pattern, waited 3 weeks, and obtained 6 replacement spoons to fill that far-right spot in the drawer. Here it is, fewer than 24 months later, and all that's left is one spoon and two shark spoons (aka grapefruit spoons). What the heck is going on here, universe? Are the cereal gremlins raiding my silverware drawer? Is my husband packing good silverware in the kids' lunchboxes? I remember once at Hoover Elementary school I accidentally dumped a home-spoon in the garbage. I realized my mistake right away, but was too grossed out by the thought of rummaging through ick to do anything about it. I still feel guilty about it, of course. Even with that misdeed, when I am at my mom's house, her spoon-slot runneth over!

Universe, as soon as you have an answer for me, please contact me right away. I'll be the one with bloodly lips from eating my cereal with shark spoons.

Yours cordially,
Amy

Observant Mommy

It was after bathtime, and my sweet little guy was running around in the nude. What does any self-respecting scrapbooker do? She takes photos!

Photo #1:

Oh, the sweet baby! Photo #2 is equally sweet, but I didn't notice the details until I had printed out the photo just now:
HE PEED ON MY WALL!!! And darn if he doesn't look proud of himself for it!

Freaky Food

I don't know why, but today I've been thinking about what a wierdo I am. There are so many food quirks I have, and I'm so pleased that Steve knows most of them, so I don't really have to explain myself anymore. Here are a few:

* I adore Lucky Charms.

* I really like hot tea (particularly Irish Breakfast), but only if I can have 2 ice cubes in it.

* I really like iced tea, too, but without any ice. Unless it's a super-hot day, then ice is acceptable.

* The best breakfast, in my opinion, is room temperature iced tea and an old fashioned donut.

* I prefer red wine to white.

* My favorite food ever is my mom's veggie spaghetti. I'll give you the recipe sometime.

* When I eat spaghetti, I use my fork and knife to cut "slices" about 1" apart, all in one direction (left to right). Then I turn the plate 1/4 turn and do the same, so it's all criss-cross and in perfectly manageable bite-sized pieces. This does not apply to veggie spaghetti.

* I'm not a fan of drinking milk. It kind of grosses me out, UNLESS I'm eating veggie spaghetti or sometimes with pizza.

* Scrambled eggs are icky, unless prepared by me or my mom. Otherwise, they turn my stomach something awful.

* Rice Chex is not yummy plain or with bananas. It is only yummy with fresh strawberries.

* McCann's Steel Cut oatmeal is the bomb. Yummers, yum, yum. I will take just about any kind of oatmeal, and the more kinds of fruit I can put on it, the better. The best oatmeal I ever had included raisins, fresh blueberries, fresh strawberries, fresh bananas, and it was delicious. NO MILK IN MY OATMEAL!!! That's just disgusting.

* I never drink the last few sips of my latte. You can't see the bottom of the cup, and you just never know what's lurking down there.

* I always love malt vinegar on my fries.

* Given the choice, I really prefer to drink with a straw. A little more sanitary that way, methinks.

That's all I can think of in these 5 minutes, just off the top of my head. Am I the only one with these oddities, or do you, too, have Food Freakiness? Please share! (Especially you, Lesley.)

I'm Getting Old!

I bought a new computer today. While it is exciting and fun, and I think my new MacBook is the prettiest piece of technology since the iPod I bought 3 years ago, it ages me. I have so much to learn with this new contraption! Strangely, it's not my increasing numbers of gray hairs, nor my dwindling patience, and not even my sagging body that makes me feel old. It's my steep learning curve with this new computer. It's not nearly as intuitive as learning used to be. I pride myself on being tech-savvy. Three weeks ago I built a website from scratch, something I had never done before! My bosses ask me to fix their email problems, thinking I'm the greatest thing since drag-and-drop, but here I have what is supposed to be a very simple thing and I'm a crazy mess! How do I get my email folders? How do I get my Palm calendar to synch with iCal, and my Palm contacts to synch with this Address Book? And perhaps most importantly, why isn't my iTunes synching all my music? [If you know the answers to these questions, please email me pronto!] In a few months, I will have mastered this, I'm sure, and believe me, I'll be all puffed up with pride from this accomplishment as much as any other achievement. It's really all about the little things in life.

The Definition of Delight

At this very moment, as I write this, Steve is serenading our daughter while she takes a shower. He is strumming his baritone ukelele and together they are belting out "When the Saints Go Marching In." It sounds like this:
"Oh when the saints... (K: Oh when the saints!)... go marching in... (K: Marching in!)... Oh when the saints go marching...[pause for chord change]...in (K: Yes they march!)!"

There is much gesticulating that goes along with this performance. It is the most wonderful concert I have ever heard.

Slacker Mom No More

Have you heard of slacker moms before? Ever since I saw something on TV about them, it's really rubbed me the wrong way. I remember watching the program--whatever it was--with my mother, and she asked me which camp I fell into. The depiction of alpha moms was definitely NOT me. I feel no pressure whatsoever to shuttle my kids to this activity and that, day in and day out. I do lose field-trip permission slips. My home is rarely tidy (clean from dirt, yes, tidy, no). My 17-month-old has never taken a swimming lesson, enjoyed a mommy-and-me gym class, or learned a foreign language. However, if I follow the definition laid out by USA Today, I do have some alpha mom characteristics: I am well-educated, I surf the web for solutions to household problems, I use technology to better organize our life together, and yes, my daughter gives out hand-made valentines every year. I think, however, my issue lies with the intent of these so-called alpha moms. I'm all for giving my child every opportunity, but I refuse to run myself ragged in pursuing this goal.

The term "slacker mom" is so very derogatory. If I were to identify myself as such, I would be admitting that I do not put very much care into parenting, the most important role I have ever had. Sometimes slacker moms are referred to as "good enough moms," and even that casts a shadow of under-par parenting. I picture a mother changing her baby's diaper. She tosses the soiled diaper aside, doesn't really bother with the wipes, loosely attaches the velcro tabs, and declares, "eh, good enough." She rinses off the dishes in the sink and stacks the plates that still have egg stuck on them and thinks to herself, "eh, good enough." To me THAT is a slacker mom, and that is certainly not me or my like-minded friends.

When my daughter was 4, she was invited to several birthday parties of friends. We've all heard those stories of going overboard with birthday parties, and it's true that some of these parties were wa-a-a-y over the top. However, the one I remember most was at my friend's house, although at the time we were not yet close friends, as we are now. She provided some backyard activities for the children and had made her own birthday cake. It was a simple double-layered round cake with yellow frosting, and birthday candles. The children had a wonderful time, and I was always impressed that this mother felt no need to impress the other mommies with a facade of perfection. In the 4 years since that party, I have learned about other ways that this family has opted for simpler pleasures and disdain for doing something just for appearances. It strikes me as even more impressive, since their family hob-nobs with some of the most high-powered families in the state... names you would probably know. Just the same, their family focus is on God, charity, and family, not country clubs and the latest fashions.

Lest you think that I am choosing for my family an unsocial, isolated existence, let me clarify. We seek balance in work and play. Daughter does well in school, but we do not send her to tutors hoping she will be the best. She participates in martial arts, but we do not send her to a trainer to lift weights or run laps to hone her skills. She takes piano lessons, but practice time is never a war, and we do not require perfection. Next month, students across the state will be taking the WASL, and the school has done a good job of completely stressing out the kids over it. Steve advised our panicky child, "You're eight years old. You're a kid. Despite what school people say, this test is not a big deal this year. Just do your best, and that is fine with us, we are proud of you no matter what." (Three years ago I was an official scorer of the test, so I do have some insight about its inner workings. She will do well on it.) At home, we are all about unstructured play time, family togetherness, books, and imagination. If any one of us is getting too stressed out by life, we all slow down, eat, and engage in pajama time. Sometimes this means we skip a lesson or a class. I believe in my heart of hearts that it is not early achievement that will make my children successful in life (whatever definition of "successful" you wish to use), it is a more internal structure guided by a loving family that enjoys spending lots of time together. Recent research confirms my gut instincts. As it turns out, she really does guide herself to do her very best. When she has extra energy to burn, she does as many sit-ups and push-ups (on her knuckles!) as she can do--completely unprompted by us, because Lord knows, she doesn't see daddy and mommy performing calesthenics at 8pm. We can't get her away from the piano, as she is always trying out new pieces and practicing the old ones, which leads her to more satisfying lessons.

If I am a "slacker mom" because I do not run my children hither and yon every day of the week, or because I am satisfied to play the American Girl 300 Wishes game with Daughter rather than organize my own paperwork, then so be it. I am now hoping to rename "slacker mom" with something more descriptive of why we are the way we are. The leading contender is:

COWABLE (Concerning Ourselves With A Balanced Life Evermore)

Please tell me you have a better idea!

S'mores

Based on my 8 year old daughter's oh, so pithy comments, it looks like we have all the ingredients we need for s'mores:

"Mom, your buns look like marshmellows. [insert my disgusted look here] Not the big ones, just a bunch of little ones."

"My buns are like crackers because they are so hard and boney."

Her prayer the other night: "Dear God, please help me sleep like dark chocolate tonight."

Epiphany

I caught a glimpse of how I want to die earlier this month.

At church on Epiphany, I was a lay reader for the "ugly service." That is to say, the service I usually try to avoid because the music is so campfire that I cringe. Still, I love the people of our parish. The preaching is good and the congregation is about a loving a family as you will ever find. I want to be a lay reader more than I dislike the ugly service, and I understand a little more, now, why I was placed there on that January morning.

Frank and Nikki also attend that service. They have been married nearly 60 years, and are so darn cute. They are short (everyone seems short to my 5'9 1/2"), always impeccably dressed, and have attended our parish for a very long time. I was fortunate to have served on altar guild with Nikki for a period of time, where we had long conversations about children and marriage as we executed our holy housekeeping. Sadly, with age comes changes. Nikki is now starting to lose her memory, and Frank is starting to feel the effects of some as-of-yet undiagnosed illness.

On January 6, they were sitting two rows behind us. I heard Frank breathing heavily, and when I glanced behind me, he looked unusually pale. Still, Nikki was not outwardly concerned, so I really had no reason to be. During communion, Nikki served as a LEM (lay eucharistic minister) up at the altar. My family approached to receive, and on the way back, I noticed that Frank had stayed seated, and his eyes were closed. My gut grew tighter. I watched another friend, also serving, approach Frank in the pew to serve him in his place. The piano was playing "O, Little Town of Bethlehem" gently and quietly. Frank could not be woken. Several men (including one of our EMTs) lowered Frank to the floor, and the rest of us stayed on the kneelers praying hard. I remember Nikki rushing past me, gasping a desparate, "Oh, no." She sat near him for a time, then allowed herself to be comforted by friends in the back.

Frank did wake up, and even smiled. The ambulance finally arrived, and he was hospitalized for a few days, and released with no explanation for this episode. While it was happening, I did pray for him, for his soul, for Nikki, and I put myself in his place. If it were my time to die, I would rather it not be so public, but then again, what a lovely and peaceful way: among your extended church family (and our congregation really does feel like a family), hearing piano music (after 31 years playing the piano I am still desparately in love with the sound of piano music), with prayers guiding your path to heaven.

Me and Wierdness

OK, Mel, I'm taking the challenge. This is because I seem to have NO time to maintain a thought long enough to write about it, and this is a challenge I can accomplish in small bursts of time.

“THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you.” People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog.”

1. When I have to go to the bathroom really, really badly, my teeth hurt.

2. I cannot fall asleep in an unmade bed. I must climb between sheets that have been neatly tidied, preferably with hospital corners.

3. I never have cake on my birthday, which is in December. Only lemon meringue pie.

4. When I was pregnant with our second child, I didn't know I was pregnant until I was 4 months along and happened to go my doctor to find out why I was gaining so much weight.

5. When I was baptized as an infant, I cried so loudly that the minister forgot the rest of the service.

6. I like my (unsweetened, no lemon) iced tea to be not very cold. Room temperature is fine with me. And iced tea with an old-fashioned donut is the perfect breakfast.

What We've Been Up To

This is our daughter at the Tae Kwon Do party. She was part of the demo team, and her job was to take down a little boy. Heh. Tough girl.

Mom recently sent me my own baby pictures. Wasn't I freakin' adorable? I mean really.

Our boy-child had this "school" picture taken at day care earlier this month. Beautiful baby boy! Then he was summarily kicked out of day care for being a non-compliant napper. I should hang my head in shame for not towing the party line, but I'm sort of proud of him for being a non-conformist. Let's hope he colors outside of the lines, too.

Wishing We Were Renters

"We are landed gentry," we stated with pride. "Behold, our livestock!" my husband gushed with a sweet of his arm toward our 3 fat cats. At that time, owning our own home seemed so right, so exciting, so grown-up and responsible. Now, eight years later, I'm wishing we were renters instead.

Yesterday morning, after all had showered and I was beginning my weekly wash, I heard a strange gurgling sound from our master bathroom. Thinking our daughter had forgotten to close the door in what should have been a private moment, I marched indignantly to the bathroom. There, instead of a seated and half-naked little girl, I saw a fountain bursting forth from the shower drain and water seeping from the toilet onto the tiled floor. It was anything but pretty. Turning off the washing machine helped matters a bit, but here it is 36 hours later and my dirty clothes are still sitting in standing water, unable to drain. We dumped all kinds of magic gook down the drain, and even thread the "snake" through to about 20', but still no improvement. We ran the dishwasher to check the progress. There wasn't any. This time-saving device, too, had to be turned off mid-cycle. Tonight we were forced to--gasp--wash our dishes by hand! It's like pioneer days out here. Tomorrow, if things don't seem any better, we'll be calling the plumber. Ch-ching.

Dear readers, this is December! It's already an expensive month: Christmas, husband's birthday, my birthday, plane tickets, Hannukah, higher heating bills. I will be unemployed on January 1st. I will have to buy a computer and a car, as my current ones are company-owned. I'm overwhelmed. I'm stressed. I'm disappointed. I want to call a kindly landlord, who will refer me to the building super, who will immediately know what to do and fix the problem while the family and I see a Broadway show followed by a fashionably late supper. I will bring him homemade cookies on Christmas Eve as a thank you. Then, come tax-time, I will wish I were a homeowner who could claim the interest on the mortgage.

Her Opinion of Herself

I am constantly in a state of wonder over how highly my daughter thinks of herself. I waffle between being thoroughly pleased with her inner strength and somewhat concerned that the Big Bad World will someday knock it out of her. I don't remember having her fortitude at age 8. I was full of self-doubt and concern with larger issues. Not her. The other day we were walking through the forest and she wanted to talk about who she will marry. This is rare, as she finds romantic love "dis-GUS-ting." I was trying to impart upon her the importance of choosing a life-long partner, not just falling for the first fool who winks at her. So I told her that she is so smart, strong, and beautiful, that there will be a lot of boys who want to date her. "I know," she states. Duh, Mom. Then today I sneaked a peek at her spelling sentences. My two favorites:

"I am a wild girl."
"I bring delight to the world."

Please, God, may this attitude last!

In a completely unrelated topic: I just saw James Lipton in a Geico commercial! I love it!

The Interview Part III

I was stumped for a good long time with this question. It's darn difficult to come up with deep thoughts at a moment's notice. In my case, it has proven difficult to come up with deep thoughts over a period of weeks! Draw whatever conclusions you must. Finally, last night, it occured to me. Here is the question:

If you could give the twenty-year old you a piece of advice, what would it be?

Dear 20-year-old Amy,

Relax. Be yourself, which is a fun, smart, somewhat quiet person, and that's ok. It's enough. You don't need to prove anything.

Also, don't become a teacher. Avoid it like the plague. It will only bring you heartache.

Finally, you have so much to look forward to! You are going to have the cutest, sweetest, most wonderful children even born on this great, green-and-blue earth. You will have a loving husband who will hold your hand through the ups and downs. You are so lucky! Enjoy the ride.

With love,
35-year-old Amy

Writing for the sake of Writing

Writers block, thy name is Amy. I blame Nutmeg: The next question in the interview has me TOTALLY stumped.

Last night was ugly. Steve and I went to bed pretty early, but the baby woke up teething at midnight, and I went to him to re-Tylenol him. Then I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed. I turned. I watched The Real Housewives of Orange County (and may my children never grow up to act like their children). I finally fell asleep on the couch at 4 am. I am tired.

Obsessing about Daycare

Happy Monday. This is the day I like to think of as my ramp-up to high anxiety. On the weekends, I wouldn't be working anyway, so I get to immerse myself in joyful family life (another post, another day) and ignore my impending status as "unemployed." Now it's the start of the "work week," and I am in my jammies still (brand new from Costco! so warm and fuzzy!), serving as someone virtual assistant until the company kicks me off its payroll. This self-imposed dress code serves as a reminder that I am not at an office, Regis and Kelly on TV remind me that I am not working very hard, and the pit in my stomach reminds me that that soon I will not be making any money or have health insurance. All this leaves me with lots of time to obsess. The object of my obsession right now is my son's day care situation.

Baby Boy has some bad-ass reflux, poor kid. We really have to stay on top of it all, what with his meds, when he eats, how he is positioned, and now what he eats. He has an allergy to dairy (including cheese and yogurt) and soy. He started day care on his first birthday, September 24th, and of course, we told them all about these issues. We provide his rice milk, and normally they are very careful with him. We are grateful. However, something seems to happen around 3 pm. That is when the children are consolidated into a different room, the new shift comes to the day care and the regular and well-trained classroom teachers go home.

Friday I arrived a few minutes after 3 to pick him up. He was seated at the little table, having a grand old time pouring his dixie cup of milk on his screaming friend, then taking his friend's cup and pouring his all over himself. I was amused, and a little concerned that someone thought it was a good idea to give toddlers dixie cups instead of the easier-to-contain sippie cups.

Then I went home, slept and woke up still thinking about the incident. It occurred to me that the milk in his dixie cup was regular cow's milk, not his watery-looking rice milk. That's when it hits me: Baby's been waking up at night in pain for the past month because his afternoon snack includes cow's milk! Sure enough, Friday when he dumped his milk instead of drinking it, he slept great all night through. Same thing Saturday. Same thing Sunday. Not a coincidence, methinks. I hope this problem is solved.

So this is me with too much time on my hands. Is my laundry done? No. Is my house clean? No. Have I decided what we're having for dinner? No. I spend my time worrying instead.

The Interview Part II

Clearly, when I said I would answer question #2 tomorrow, I was speaking metaphorically. I think when I posted the answer to question #1, it was the week of baby's pneumonia. That's my excuse.

You picked a card from the pile of life that says, “Do not pass go. Move directly to another country.” Where would you move?

This is a TOTAL no-brainer. France. Anyone who knows me could have written this for me, actually, and the answer would be the same. France in a heartbeat. I don't even need a card to tell me to go! I just need a willing husband to go with me.

For those who don't know me, I will now explain why I would move to France. I started studying French in 7th grade. In 11th grade, I was a Rotary exchange student to Nogent-le-Rotrou, France, for 10 months. It was a very difficult year for me. I was young, both emotionally and chronologically, and was terribly homesick. I gained a lot of weight. However, I made some very good friends, became fluent in the language (to the point where people actually thought I was French), and loved the culture. Later, I became a French teacher, led student trips to France, and took my honeymoon in France. I am currently reading a book on the origins of the French language. In a nutshell, then, I am folle for France and all things French.

For those who do know me, I will now explain where in France I would go. Paris is fun, but fun for visiting, not living. It's a lot like New York City for me in that way. The South of France is where I would go, preferably to a village in the suburbs of Nice. I much prefer small-town life with easy access to big city restaurants and theatre. The people in the South are pretty laid-back and friendly. I love lavender, which is grown primarily in Provence. The history all over France is fascinating, but I really like the evidence of Roman influence along the Midi. Finally, as I now live in a coastal town, I am quite accustomed to living by the ocean. It suits me. My daughter declared last year, "We're beach people," and she's right. Finally, it would be lovely to live someplace warm for a change.

Believe me, if there were any way to a) convince my deeply here-rooted husband, and b) find a good job there, I would move to France in an instant. No passing go.

The Interview Part I

Fellow blogger Nutmeg offered to interview me, and I accepted. She has asked me five questions, to which I will respond in segments because my brain can't sustain the concentration required for five whole questions at once. Here is today's question:

Why do you blog? What have you learned from the blogging experience?

I started blogging as a way to hold myself accountable in my writing. I have written in a journal since the earth cooled (aka the 1980's), but it ended up being a very boring and tedious recounting of activities in my life. Then Al Gore kindly invented the internet, and soon blogging took hold. I found that if I blog, I need to focus on actually having a point and practicing the discipline of saying it well. At the same time, it is not so formal that I need to stress about how I write. That is to say, I can "publish" without being perfect. Blogging is forgiving. It has taken a few years to be comfortable with the practice, and now I'm more ok with sharing my writing, so it has turned into a way of staying in touch with family and friends, although they never post comments and I don't even know if they are still reading this (ahem... DAD). I'm still nervous about letting my husband read it, strangely enough. He knows I blog, but I haven't given him the url yet. That's probably because he writes for a living.

The question of why I blog is different than why I write, but I will answer that one, too. I write because my head will explode if I don't. And a headless me would not be a pretty sight. My good skin is probably my best feature, and with no head for it to show, there aren't many redeeming qualities left. Seriously, now... The aforementioned Dad, a lifelong editor, wonderful advice-giver and all-around good guy is fond of saying "Writers write." I've read of many a famous author saying that it is a feeling of being compelled, and this is certainly true in my case. It's like trying to describe the feeling of wanting to have children. You just do. Then you go through the labor of actually writing, and the delivery of the work. Me, I choose an early epidural that is blogging. Not so painful as having to go through too much editing or agonizing.

What have I learned through blogging? Three things, mainly.

1. The blogging community is so interesting! You read other people's words, you post, they post on yours, and it is a new dimension of friendship and support. It is so cool!
2. I am learning, as per said father's coaching, that I need to write with a beginning, middle, and end. I'm still working on this one.
3. I've always said that I long to write, but I have nothing to say. I still don't have much to say, but that's ok. I've been reading authors like Annie LaMott and Elizabeth Gilbert, and am finding that their paths and their thoughts are interesting. Fascinating, even. My experience my not be that different than others, but my journey is my own, and my way of reflecting on it is good enough.

Thanks, Nutmeg, for this question. Stay tuned for Part Deux tomorrow.

It's Friday, and I'm Rambling

Today I shall bore you with loose ends. Read on...

1. The end is near! No, not the end of the world, the end of the diarrhea! Baby Boy's little body is now free of soy, and the grossness has ceased. Monday we will reintroduce soy to see if the symptoms come back. If they do, we add soy to the list of allergens.

2. As I am job hunting and getting more discouraged by the day, I'm realizing how much I've loved my 2-year stint in the publishing industry. As I told a colleague recently, doing this work was like meeting family for the first time. I'm looking at all sorts of other jobs, but nothing perks me up like publishing: sales, marketing, and especially editorial. Unfortunately, I live about as far away from the publishing center of the US (New York) as possible, and there are too few publishing jobs out here, especially in educational publishing. Here's my conclusion: THERE IS NOTHING ELSE I WANT TO DO. Nope. Nada. Nothing. I want to make books. That's it.

3. We've been thinking a lot about our daughter's education. We live in what most call a stellar school district, but she consistently brings home work WAAAAAY below her ability level. We are now almost 2 months into school and she is still reviewing work from 1st grade. Then I read Nutmeg's post today about her experience in the public schools, and am even more fired up about this issue. Daughter K says she finishes her schoolwork early and spends the rest of the time helping her peers. I endured that very fate when I was in school, and it's really a waste. I'm working on coming up with a plan to keep K engaged in learning at school, and will suggest it at Thursday's parent-teacher conference. Now, at t-minus-six days, I have no earthly idea what that plan would be. Might it be:

• Move to the family farm in North Dakota so I can afford to stay home with my children and homeschool them?
• Send "homeschool" worksheets with her to school to be completed after she does her regular work?
• Sell a kidney so I can afford to send the girl to a private school?

Warning: Grossness in this entry

Baby Boy is now on day 17 of diarrhea. Oy. There have been two "clean" days wedged in there, but otherwise, 17 delightful days of brown goo. Nay, smelly brown goo. Nay, lingering, smelly, slimey brown goo. It's so uncomfortable for him! He's been on the B.R.A.T. diet since Thursday.

An aside: I hate the name "BRAT" diet, even though it is an anachronism for Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast. I just don't like that term, and I hate hearing it come out of my mouth although I am referencing the child's menu. It's the same reason I do not like those wide-eyed dolls, and won't have them in my house. OK, back to poop.

So here's the pattern: Preceding clean day #1, he had had birthday cake, then two ick days and a bread-y diet. Then a clean day. This time around, he had a clean day on Saturday, and had had no soy milk for 2 days before that. Then we reintroduced soy milk on Sunday, and whammo, a major ick day today, but worse: diarrhea plus slime. It's very possible he has an allergy to both cow's milk and soy milk. Double oy. Is there light at the end of the tunnel? Will there be a time when I do not end my day with a shower to hose off the poo and throw-up? Might we sleep through the night without being woken by a shriek or wail from our precious son, only to not be able to console him because we lack the ability to reach inside his tummy and straighten things out?