Neighborhood-Kids All Local. All for Kids. All the Time.

Child, I love you.

Child, my stern face

Hides the gushy mushy oozing grilled cheese

That is my heart.

Child, you laugh and I fly into the clouds.

Child, you hit my nose with a tiny wild fist

And it drains me -

Blood sucking down to my belly and shooting back into enraged cheeks.

Child, I'm mad.

Child, You're mad.

Mad mad mad.

And sad.

I set my jaw.

Your mouth opens into a wide, bawling scream.

Sorry, Child.

Sorry, Mama.

...that I love vegetables?  Especially raw vegetables in the form of a big hurking salad.  Not on a salad plate; I'm talking about plunging a fork right into the deep dish serving bowl.  Drizzled with dark olive oil and splashed with lemon juice.  And three (or seven) shakes of salt.  And an obscene amount of cracked pepper.  I have to remind myself to eat slowly.  Because I shovel that mess down my throat.  Shredded carrots.  Tiny florets of broccoli and cauliflower.  Peppers and purple cabbage and arugula and pickled beets and tiny beet greens and sure what the hell throw on some sprouts and cukes and tomatoes if they're fresh.  Toss it up.  It must be tossed.  No room for negotiation on this.

Right.  This is the kind of food obsession that influences my behavior in general and my parenting in particular.  I cannot help but pin all of my hopes and dreams for a life of veggie-induced ecstasy on my one and only progeny.  Or, said another way, I really want Archie to eat his vegetables.

So you can imagine the shriek of joy I barely managed to supress when he, on an otherwise uneventful Sunday, began digging on a pile of steamed broccoli as if it were the slow and thrilling discovery of a rare treasure.  As I sat there eating my own broccoli heap and staring with a dumb grin on my face, I imagined his internal dialogue going a little something like this:

"What in the world..."

"Hmmm...Mom has a stupidly eager look right now, so this must be something strange tasting..."

"Well, I guess I'll put it in my mouth and see how she reacts..."

"Not bad, but I'm still keeping my eye on her.  Something seems fishy..."

My god.  Does this kid have any chance of being well-adjusted?

It seems like centuries ago that we began our quest with Archer for this elusive state of being: potty trained. 

It is with great ambivalence that I report (quite humbly) that the quest continues, ever and anon.

God help us.

Oh Geez.  I am a shamelessly inconsistent blogger.  Actually, there is shame.  I feel ashamed.  Beholden to by blog, I think of my last posting date and wince.  How do people do this?  Like this awesome blogger mom-chick-lady.  And this one.  Bless their unwavering ability to get something on the page on an even somewhat regular basis.  Bless them for having opinions.  Bless their wit.  I come home from work, feed and water the kid, do a few meager crunches or a downward dog, and I am ready for nothing else but to drop onto my pillow and start all over again at the pre-light shock of my alarm.

Blog?  Who needs it.

I do.  Because I feel better now.

Signing off...

New Year's Resolution way too ambitious and thus guaranteed to demoralize me,

Two early mornings at the gym and then I'm hitting snooze for the rest of the month.

Archie transitions to new childcare. 

Day one:  doesn't look back.

Day two:  won't get out of the back of the car.

Day three:  doesn't think I'm ever coming back.  

Day four:  Back to himself again.

Obama swears on Abe's bible.  Hallelujah.  Now save this freaking planet (please) and help me to keep my job, man!

Flight of the Conchords returns to television.

In-laws in-house weekly.

Nodes swollen

Superbowl Sunday big screen 40 people ungodly piles of meat.

Wait.  Wasn't Superbowl in February this year?  What is happening?

Still sick

More nodes popping out of my neck with infection

Mmmmm...massage.

Throat raw, nasal drainage.

Archie hasn't been sick for at least a week - that's nice.

Potty training backslide.

I've begun paying him for sitting on the toilet. 

Pennies and nickels mostly. 

A few quarters.

Is that bad?

Still sick.

It is February.

I'm still sick.

Return to the doctor tomorrow.

I am still sick, doc.

So you think you can intimidate us by coating the streets with slick snow and rendering our Ford Focus worthless?  You think you can chap our faces until nothing but raw red streaks remain where our cheeks used to be?  You want to break our wills by hitting us with single digit temperatures when we still don't have the insulation in upstairs?

You think you're tough, Bellingham weather?

HA!

We will sled, my good sir.  We will sled.

After taking a weekend vacation with our good friends John and Colleen at Cultus Lake in BC, I realize - with utter clarity - the impact that Archer's little buddy Eliot is having in his life.

Let me set the scene:  a late night arrival at the cabin whereby Archie has fallen asleep in the car.  A seamless transition (he was already in pajamas - score one for mommy preparedness) into a pack'n'play in the upstairs spare room.  Quiet.  A jolting scream from thought-to-be-deep-in-REM-sleep child who awakens three hours hence in unfamiliar surroundings.  A blissfully drowsy Eliot perks up from deep sleep to respond in kind from the next room.  A groggy Archer hears said response and instantly flips attitude to one of playful intrigue.  The following midnight dialogue ensues:

"Eliot?"

"Archer?

"Eliot..."

"Archer."

"Eliot!  Eliot!"

"Archer!!!"

To and fro the conversation continued through the two thin walls that separated the boys.  By four o'clock in the morning, Colleen and I shuffled past each other in the hallway, rubbing our eyes and shaking our heads in disbelief.  The dirge-like call-and-response lasted nearly all night; neither child willing to give up the waking dream that they would be reunited for a midnight rendezvous to play and rejoice in each other's company.

It was actually Phil who finally broke down:

"My god.  I can't handle it.  We need to cut that kid's hair."

After Halloween, when Archie vehemently refused his costume all day long and I was forced to throw his long, thin swath of hair into a ponytail and tell everyone he was going trick-or-treating as a little girl, the family made an executive decision: 

Lose the mullet.

We anticipated lots of writhing and gnashing of teeth, but in the end it was a quiet Saturday morning after breakfast; we took the electric shaver to his head as he preened in the mirror with dispassionate curiosity.

And so the delicate wisps of spun gold that have tickled the neck of my child since he emerged from the womb now lay encased in a sandwich-sized Ziplock baggie, while the dapper little fellow who shed them bolts unencumbered into boyhood.

All of these many months of hand-wringing and despairing about the fruitless job search and suddenly:  I get a job.

Gulp.

WHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!

I don't WAAANT to work from 8 in the morning until it's dark outside.  I don't WAAANT to sit in meetings with colleagues and "collaborate" on upcoming events.  And I REEEEEALLY DON'T WANT to be away from my precious baby boy for, well, most of his waking hours.

This was my mindset when I set out to secure a childcare "situation" that would allow me to return to work after almost two years of being out of the game. 

Well.  I quickly discovered that finding an open spot for a 19 month old in ANY daycare in Bellingham - let alone a good one - was akin to my own desperate quest for employment; namely, frantic and demoralizing.

I didn't really even know how to start.  I asked around to friends.  I asked a few strangers.  I checked the boards at the Co-op. I surfed the web.  I did Craig's List. I dropped in at preschools.  Finally, someone told me about a service provided by the Opportunity Council, where you fill out a form with your name and child's information, as well as your childcare needs and preferences, and they generated this list of childcare providers that fit your criteria.  Nice, eh?

So I get this list of about 18 places and start calling:  "Sorry, I'm full for that age group."  "Nope, we can't take anymore under two."  "I can put you on our wait list."  Hang up and repeat.

When I had dailed all the numbers, I had two leads.  Two.  Way out in the county.

Over the next day and a half, I got a few more returned phone calls and was able to visit a few places.  Wow.  Between the smoke-saturated furniture and television-as-the-main-learning-activity environments, I began to question the wisdom of returning to work.

There is a happy ending.  We lucked out and found a solid program for Archie three days a week, and a nanny for one day, and a family member for one day.  It ain't cheap.  We're piecing it together for now.  And we're on wait lists.  Yes, I've joined the ranks of those modern bourgeois parents who get their kids on wait lists for programs, schools and activites so far in the future that they are inconceivable in our every day lives.  

But if it means I'll stop bawling every time I think about sending my kid away for the day without me, it's totally worth it.

There are few things I find more delightful than my toddler chattering and dawdling around the garden. 

Yesterday I was pulling weeds and he diligently gathered them into a bucket and dumped them on the compost pile.  He did this for almost an hour.

And although I find it a little heartbreaking when he yanks my struggling tomatoes off the vine when they are still green, the pleasure smeared across his face when he finds and sucks juice from a perfectly ripened fruit brings me joy that is just simply off the charts.