The Masked Bandit

When we lived in LA the only wildlife we dealt with were the occasional police visits to our neighbors due to burglary or domestic violence calls. Oh, yeah, and there were drive-by shootings just to keep you on your toes. The burglaries and domestic violence calls by neighbors never required action on our parts, so these weren’t much of a nuisance. Our family arguments and dysfunctions haven’t yet required a police visit of our own. And nobody ever broke into our house, which we didn’t much worry about because our windows were barred and back then our largest (not flat) television screen was a mere 27”; in other words, we owned nothing worth stealing. The periodic drive-by shootings mostly took place southeast of our Beverly Hills location. However, if a beat-up Chevy Impala or Olds Cutlass began motoring slowly up the street with turned-up-way-too-loud bass blaring out of the open car windows, one just went back inside the house or took cover behind a parked car, smoothly avoiding a visit to the ER or county coroner.

So when we moved to a somewhat rural (at least by our standards) section of San Diego (from which we have since moved to a slightly more urban area), we had visits from various animals which we were not prepared to deal with being city slickers. There was the ant invasion of 1998, the time a rat got into the house during remodeling in 1999, the ant uprising of 2000, the bee insurgency down the chimney in or about 2001, the various baby rabbits and lizards who would meet their demise and have their corpses removed from our pool, and the coyotes that lived all around the neighborhood, which could be heard in packs at night and were occasionally spotted alone during jogging, all of which stories could (and someday may well be) posts of their own. There was also the formation of the bee ball in or about 2003, which story has already been posted. But today this post is about the raccoon incursion of 2000.

It was just after Laura was born that I kept noticing the outdoor crawlspace cover under the master bedroom window was down. Each morning, for several days, I’d go out and put it back on, only to find that it had been knocked down again during the night. Did I have a clue? Nope. My urban training did little to prepare me for this. It wasn’t until one evening that I saw a raccoon walk across the patio from the general direction of the master bedroom crawlspace that I realized it was probably the culprit knocking down the cover. Since we really didn’t want a raccoon going under our house, Tom found a high-tech solution: he stacked up several full paint cans in front of the crawlspace entrance. I feared that this solution would become a permanent one since neither one of us is very handy, but it was expedient, so I went along with the plan figuring I’d get the crawlspace cover secured in a more aesthetically pleasing manner later.

That very night, I was awakened by a terrible noise. There was scratching, and clawing, and banging. I sat up in bed. Tom didn’t move. Little baby Laura (lucky inheritor of Tom’s genes) also slept through the horrible racket. I realized that the noise was coming from right outside our bedroom window. I rummaged in my nightstand drawer for a flashlight (Tom and Laura were still sleeping). I opened the blinds (Tom and Laura were still sleeping). I shined the flashlight out the window (Tom and Laura were still sleeping). The beam of light shone right on a rather large raccoon standing up on its hind legs. I yelped (Tom and Laura were still sleeping). I realized that the raccoon was just trying to get back under the house, and so I nervously went back to bed, but couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay there listening to that raccoon continue making that terrible racket for what felt like forever (Tom and Laura were still sleeping). Then that raccoon and I had a mind meld, the kind of oneness that only two mothers of newborns could have when one of them needs help. I realized that Mama Raccoon was not going to give up because she had babies under the house! A wave of hormonal emotion washed over me. My milk let down. I got all weepy. I woke up Tom. “Tom, that raccoon is trying to get under the house and she’s not going to give up because she has babies under there.” Tom sleepily replied, “You don’t know that. You don’t even know if it’s a she. The raccoon will get tired of trying and go find someplace else to go. The paint-can plan is working.” Then I got as desperate as Mama Raccoon because she and I were on the same wavelength as I imagined how I’d feel if my baby weren’t sleeping peacefully next to me (which she still was), but rather I was barricaded from her by giant paint cans. Thinking of that big, angry raccoon up on her two hind legs clawing madly at the paint cans standing between her and her hungry babies, I said, “Tom, please go out there and move the paint cans. Let that mother get to her babies.” Yeah, right. No way was he getting out of bed, much less getting out of bed to get between a frantic mother raccoon and her hungry offspring. Tom repeated that he was sure there weren’t babies under the house and that the raccoon would soon go away. I fired my last shot. “Tom, if there are babies under the house, she’s going to get in one way or another and possibly damage the house doing it.” Tom replied, “That won’t happen.” He went back to sleep.

I lay there for what seemed like hours listening to the scratching and clawing under the window. I thought about going out and moving the paint cans myself, but reasoned that if I was permanently disabled in a raccoon attack then that would endanger my baby (whereas Tom, who was not responsible for breastfeeding, was the more disposable parent). Then the racket suddenly stopped. Then it started up again. But this time the racket was coming from a crawlspace under a different window. Clever girl! I listened for a long while as Mama Raccoon scratched and clawed. And then I heard a soft thud. That crawlspace cover had hit the ground. All was quiet and I knew that mother and children were reunited. I went back to sleep. The next morning I asked Tom to follow me outside, and, sure enough, there was that crawlspace cover lying in the dirt where it had been ripped right out of the stucco. I found a creative way to say I told you so: “We wouldn’t have to have someone re-stucco the house if you’d moved the paint cans.” Later that day, Augustine, a lovely gentleman who did odd jobs around our house, crawled under the house to see if in fact there were raccoon babies. He counted several pair of little beady eyes. What to do? After I called several pest control companies and various city, county, state, and federal agencies to check on how to legally and safely remove wild animals, I determined that the bottom line was that they probably couldn’t be moved without separating and thus endangering them. I was also told that as soon as the young ones were old enough to have foraging lessons, they’d all leave together. I told Tom that the raccoons were staying until they were ready to go. His newly minted paternal instincts kicked in and he agreed. The paint cans were removed so that ingress and egress without further damage to the house was effectuated. And so it was that several weeks later, Mama Raccoon and her babies left one evening to hunt for their food. Augustine went back under the house the next day to make sure that no raccoons were left behind, and to clean out the area. The crawlspaces were permanently and tastefully sealed with new screws, stucco, and paint. I later learned that mother raccoons typically have a second home site ready to go so that when their babies are old enough to forage, they can move them from the birthing den. And to their second home I believe they went, where Mama Raccoon and her young lived happily ever after.

I Caught You a Delicious Bass

Back in May, we bought a bunch of “opportunity drawing” tickets (for some dang reason organizations don’t call them raffle tickets, but that’s what they are) at the Art & Literature Fair at Laura’s school, which drawing served the dual purpose of being a fundraiser for the school and tons-o’-fun for the kids who squirmed in their seats with great anticipation to find out if one of their tickets would be pulled from the drum and what prize they would win. Each time a child’s name was called there were squeals of delight from the winning child and his or her friends, and a few disappointed moans from some of the other children mixed in for good measure. Laura’s friend August sat next to her and they were both visibly excited. Laura’s name was called three times that evening! First she won a science-y kind of kit which contained various parts for building electrical gizmos. This prize was just up her alley, and I’m not being sarcastic in the least; she’s thrilled with anything of the math or science genres. Then Laura won a chess set with football-player figures for pieces. This is also just up her alley. Laura loved chess club at school last year, despite having been (or maybe because she was) the youngest and one of the only two girls in the club. Plus Laura and her dad play chess almost daily, and the football-player pieces make it a two-fer for him because it would be an understatement to say that Tom looooooooooooves football. (Note to Readers: Expect a blog in early September lamenting the onset of the Seasonal Football Widow Syndrome from which I have suffered for so many months, for so many years, without fail, and will undoubtedly continue to suffer in the years to come, forever and ever, Amen.) Finally, Laura won a $10 gift card from California Pizza Kitchen. August sat by and proved himself to be of the gracious sort who cheered for others and showed no signs of begrudging each of Laura’s wins, despite that the drawing ended without a single ticket with his name having been pulled from the drum. Laura apparently decided that her CPK certificate was the most readily divisible of her prizes and so she told August that she would share it with him since he didn’t win anything. It was determined by August’s and Laura’s female parental units that a play date would be scheduled during the summer which would include a meal at CPK so that Laura could share her gift card.

Summer soon arrived full of possibilities and prospects, many of which came to be and others which had to be put on hold for a time while Laura recovered from the various illnesses that took unusual hold of her typically healthy self. There were trips to museums, amusement parks, and zoos. There were hula classes, piano lessons, a week at space and rocketry day camp, and swim-team practices. (Perhaps there will be more details on summer fun in a later blog.) Meanwhile, between vacation schedules, day camp schedules, and time out for Laura to get well, the California Pizza Kitchen play date was temporarily put on hold much to Laura's dismay. Last Friday, however, after a brief visit to Laura’s amazing pediatrician, she got a clean bill of health. Ears: clear. Temperature: 98.6º. Contagious conditions: none. I called Augusts' mom on the off-chance that he might be available that afternoon for a spontaneous trip for pizza and he was! Laura was overjoyed, to say the least. We gathered her CPK gift card and picked up August at the appointed hour. First let me tell you that this classy little dude arrived with flowers! Laura was delighted and commented that the only time anyone had given her flowers until then was her dad, which he does bring her from time-to-time when he brings them for me. We operate an equal opportunity household when it comes to flower giving. Then it was off to CPK. August and Laura got on famously, chatting and cracking each other up all the way to the restaurant. We arrived in good order and it was pizza for August and pasta for Laura. August ate every bite of his pizza, including the crust, which he pronounced was his favorite part. Laura was thrilled when the check came. She turned over the gift card to our sweet server who listened graciously as Laura explained that she won the gift card and was sharing it with August. Then Laura got to sign her own little receipt and keep the value-depleted gift card.

Now it was on the way back to our house, where Laura and August were to continue their play date after approval was given from the parental units to carry on, that the fun stuff began. Although Laura has been betrothed to Matthew for years, loves Henry dearly and looks forward to him being her brother-in-law when he marries Jonathan, and has a serious crush on Brent (developed during the Kindergarten class play when they were cast as King & Queen Neptune), she just may have found her soul mate in August. Of course August is cute and sweet and smart and funny (she always picks boyfriends with these important traits, traits she appreciates because her beloved dad has all of them), but they connected on a deeper, more spiritual level. They discovered this connection when Laura told August that she named her Betta fish Napoleon and Deb. August giggled and said he liked that movie. Laura’s eyes lit up (as did her mom’s, I’m not gonna lie) and Laura said that she liked that movie too. Then something happened that I’ve never seen any of Laura’s little dude friends do when Laura starts rattling off quotes from Napoleon Dynamite: August matched her quote for quote.

Laura: “Tina, you fat lard.”

August: “Tina, come get some ham.”

[Pause for laughter.]

Laura: “I caught you a delicious bass.”

August: “Give me some of your tots.”

Laura: “Do the chickens have large talons?”

August: “But my lips hurt real bad.”

[More laughter, then I was able to contain myself long enough to get the car off of the sidewalk and back onto the road.]

Laura: “Do you have a VOTE FOR PEDRO shirt?”

August: “No.”

Laura: “Oh. I have one of those. And a green shirt that says, ‘Shocks, Pegs, Lucky.’”

August: “Cool.”

Laura: “I’m either going to be Napoleon Dynamite or Deb for Halloween.”

August: “I saw a remote-controlled Napoleon doll at the store. I think it was at Wal-Mart. I wish I had one. Napoleon had a wire and he walked, but the wire wasn’t connected to the remote, and the remote worked him like the remote-controlled race car that I have.”

Laura: “Most kids get a stuffed rabbit in their Easter baskets. Guess what I got in my Easter basket? I got a stuffed Napoleon doll and when you press his hand he says stuff like, ‘Can I use your guys’s phone for a sec?’ and ‘Plus you’re like the only guy at school with a moustache.’”

August: “Sweet.”

Saint Trish Tells All

Have you been wondering what's been going on with Napoleon and Deb? Click here for the dish from Trish.

The Patron Saint of Bettas

When I took Laura to get her first Betta fish way back in March ’05, the Petco dude told us that there was no way to identify the gender of a Betta fish. I was a Betta nOOb back then, so who was I to question? Petco Dude told us that male Bettas are aggressive, and suggested that since we were buying two, we should use the plastic divider that came with our tank in case both fish were male. Since I’m not a fan of Extreme Fighting between creatures of any species, I put in the plastic tank divider. Laura viewed the divider as a mere precaution because she was certain that Natalie or Savannah and Laura were female Bettas. Of course, that divider turned out to be a tank feature just as important as the submersible Timmy bubblehead or the SpongeBob pineapple house because Laura’s Betta fish were in fact males. How can you tell the gender of a Betta fish? They are distinguished pretty much the same way that it is with peacocks/peahens, lions/lionesses, drakes/ducks, roosters/hens, and middle-aged humans. The males get the more aesthetically pleasing features, whether it is pretty feathers, brighter colors, lovely manes, or simply how they look more handsome and distinguished with grey at their temples and laugh lines around their eyes than do their female counterparts. Maybe God makes the male of many species easier for the female to look at so as to make up for the fact that the male is entirely incapable of finding anything in a cupboard or refilling anything around the house that he has used the last of. :) For a long time Laura remained steadfast in the belief that Natalie or Savannah and Laura might be female, and so they kept their feminine names. When Natalie or Savannah died, Laura wanted to get a new, female Betta fish. While choosing among the fish in containers with labels that read, “Female Betta,” which contained fish that weren't nearly as pretty as the others, she showed the PetSmart dude a fish similar to Betta Laura. PetSmart Dude told her that Betta Laura would definitely have to be a male then, and Laura seemed to accept that, so much so that she said she was going to rename her, er, him. Laura picked out a rather lovely female Betta fish, and PetSmart Dude assured her that she was lucky because the one she’d picked was a rare beauty with its blue and red coloring. PetSmart Dude also told us that we could put the male and female Bettas together. Courtney seemed to be having no trouble with Pete and Cour-ta-ney coexisting. Nonetheless, I decided that we should leave the divider in the tank, just in case. Soon-to-be-renamed Laura had lived his Betta life in a peaceful and solitary existence. No need to tempt fate. But then temptation tempted fate. We put the female Betta on her side of the tank and within the hour that little hussy with fins had squeezed her amorous little self through the divider, which has openings that I would not have thought a guppy could get through, much less a Betta her size. Apparently, if there’s a will, and no Border Patrol, there’s a way. Now the two fish were coexisting in one half of the tank. It seemed silly to catch the female and put her back on her side when she’d probably just squeeze through the divider again. And PetSmart Dude said they’d be okay together. I watched the fish for a while, then went about my business but came back periodically to check on them, and it seemed like Betta Laura was leaving the female fish alone. So we decided to remove the divider so they would not be crowded together in just the one half of the tank. Meanwhile, Laura decided that since the two fish were obviously meant to be together, their names would be Napoleon and Deb. The next day Napoleon and Deb were swimming around the tank and seemed to be getting along just as well as their tetherball-playing namesakes. We were to leave town the following day and Trish and Henry graciously agreed to take care of Laura’s fish and butterflies while we were away. They even came by on Friday night to pick up the fish tank and butterfly habitat. Then Trish called me this morning to tell me that one butterfly died and that Napoleon was aggressively chasing Deb all over the tank. Apparently, Deb had been doing her best to hide behind the filter and in the pineapple house, but Napoleon stayed on her tail, so to speak. Trish was putting Deb in her own tank when last we spoke. What a friend we have in Trish. First she cleaned my kid's barf off of my husband’s pants with baby wipes. Then she made a house call to pick up our fish tank and butterfly habitat to pet sit. And now she’s had to be Quincy M.E. for a butterfly and break up a lover’s quarrel between Napoleon and Deb. If I were appointed the postulator in her cause, I would ask Pope Benedict XVI to waive the five-year post-death waiting requirement and Trish would be on the fast track to sainthood. But since I’m a Presbyterian, it is unlikely that I will be appointed by the Roman Catholic Church to be Trish’s advocate in this regard, so I’ll just have to declare Trish a saint all by myself. God bless you Saint Trish, as you have blessed us.

Last Comic Standing – The Final Three

Tom:

Last night as Laura lay feverish on the couch, we watched Jeopardy. We’ve been watching Jeopardy fairly regularly over the years, all of us shouting out answers in the form of a question, and occasionally impressing each other when one of us correctly belts out some obscure fact that none of the others or our television counterparts knew. We worked ourselves up into a gosh-darned frenzy during Ken Jennings’ heyday. For the record, I correctly guessed the answer to the question that ended the 74-game winning streak that won him over $2.5 million: "Most of this firm's 70,000 seasonal white-collar employees work only four months a year." The correct response was: "What is H&R Block?" Of course, a significant number of the questions he got right over the course of his record-breaking stint left me in the dust. In an impressive display of Tom’s ability to recall on demand every tidbit of information that has ever passed through his eyes or ears (it is because of this I had to enact a one-year statute of limitations on what he could bring up during arguments), Tom belted out one night, “Who are Shem and Ham?” in answer to “They were two of Noah’s sons.” I nearly fell off of the couch and landed smack on the floor next to my atheist husband’s feet. Last night, Tom again left an impression while we watched Teen Jeopardy. Sometimes we skip these special, less-challenging Jeopardy shows (like Celebrity Jeopardy, which SNL parodies because the questions are so lame), but last night Laura joined us in belting out answers, so we stayed tuned because we were getting a kick out of how she was imitating us and even getting an answer correct here and there. Finally, it was time for the final Jeopardy question, which was:

In 1994, 25 years after this event, one participant said, “For one crowning moment, we were creatures of the cosmic ocean.”

Without hesitating for an instant, as he typically does, Tom said he was ready with his answer. I thought for a moment and said that I had mine. Laura said she didn’t have a guess. We have a strict rule in our house, which is that you are not allowed to belt out the final Jeopardy answer until everyone has his or her guess or admits defeat. We were ready to announce. I said that my answer was the first walk on the moon. Tom said, “Oh. That’s good. That’s very good.” All three teens correctly guessed the same. Tom was unusually quiet. I asked him what his answer had been, and he sheepishly replied, “Woodstock.” I did little to try to contain my laughter and Tom laughed too. He rallied, saying that it was “cosmic ocean” that threw him. We agreed that Woodstock must have been some “cosmic ocean” indeed. Back in its time, it was probably even deemed out of this world, man, out of this world.

Laura:

Laura has been sick on and off for the last couple of weeks, and so we have had to lay low and cancel planned activities right and left. Laura and I are not stay-at-home-kind-of-girls. We like our outings and we really like them with friends. While my mental health has deteriorated, Laura's emotional state has fluctuated between not caring to leave the couch and sobbing aloud when we’ve had to cancel plans because of fever or similar. For a few days there she seemed to be on the mend, but then woke up at 4:30 AM the night before last with a nearly 102º fever. There was another doctor visit the following day, and another will take place at the end of the week. There was more Motrin. There were more liquids. And there were more cancelled plans. Laura is fed up and I’m right there beside her. So last night, with her fever at 102.5º, she lay on the couch watching, as you may have guessed, Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch. Between episodes, she picked up her feverish little head just long enough to avow, “Tomorrow I am GOING SOMEPLACE, ANYPLACE, BUT I’M NOT STAYING HOME!” And then her feverish little head immediately collapsed back onto her pillow.

Trish:

For the last month I have been dealing with a painful complication from my recent (benign) lumpectomy. At first because of the cord-like shape and position of a large, hard, and painful area in my right breast, the doctor thought that I had developed venous thrombophlebitis. However, a recent ultrasound revealed that it is actually a seroma, which may have to be drained, and may have to be drained more than once. Fun stuff. Meanwhile, the doctor said to treat my breasts as I would if I were nursing, i.e., wear a good bra to keep them stable so as not to further irritate the inflamed area. I know what you’re thinking, “There goes her pole dancing career,” but it will survive the temporary setback, I’m sure. ;) Anywho, after my appointment, I was talking to Trish on the phone and she asked me what the ultrasound showed. I told her that rather than a blood clot, it seemed that I had a fluid-filled sac in my breast. Trish replied, “Now you can’t take that boob on an airplane.”

Voting:

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The Circle of Life

It is with a heavy heart that I write this post. Just today Courtney posted in her blog the happy announcement that Pete had found his soul mate, Cour-ta-ney, and that there might even be little Petes in the future. And on the very same day, in true "Circle of Life" fashion, tragedy visited Laura’s fish tank. When it was feeding time tonight, we discovered that one of Laura’s two precious Betta fish, the one whose name was “Natalie or Savannh” had passed away. Natalie or Savannah was so named after two of Laura's friends, because she liked both names. In case you were wondering, the fish answered to either name. Laura's other fish is named Laura. The Lauras were very, very sad to lose Natalie or Savannah so suddenly and unexpectedly. After shedding a few tears, the human Laura decided that Natalie or Savannah should have a proper burial in the backyard rather than an Nemo-style, all-drains-lead-to-the-ocean, "burial at sea." Daddy used a plastic spoon to fish Natalie or Savannah out of the tank and placed her in a baggie. Laura made a headstone from a flat wooden stick which says “Natalie” on one side and “Savannah” on the other, because the fish’s name was, after all, Natalie or Savannah.

Laura said a few words at the graveside service, which were as follows:

“Natalie or Savannah was a good fish. She made me happy.”

Then Daddy placed the little cadaver into its grave and covered it with soil. Laura placed the little headstone at the top of the grave.



Laura made another marker for Natalie or Savannah’s empty side of the tank (which is separated by a plastic divider from the side of the tank which is occupied by the other Betta fish, Laura). The tank marker on the empty side says, “This Fish Died.”



We will fondly remember the good times with Natalie or Savannah. Here is a picture from March 2005 of Laura preparing the tank for the arrival of her two new little Betta friends, Natalie or Savannah and Laura.



Last year, the children in Laura’s Kindergarten class brought in pictures of themselves with their favorite animal or pet. This is the picture that Laura brought to class of her and her two little Betta fish.



Natalie or Savannah is survived by her friend Laura, the other Betta fish, and her friend Laura, the human.

Rest in peace little friend of Laura and Laura.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold?

It is a well-coordinated outfit if every piece has sparkles, don't ya think?

Hugs AND Fugs

I was wrong. She’s huggable and fuggable.


Laura: “Do you like my outfit?

Mommy: “Yes. Can I take a picture of you in it?”

Laura: “Yes.”

Mommy: “Can I put the picture on my blog?”

Laura: “Does my headband match my skirt?”

Mommy: “Yes.”

Laura: “Okay.”

Trouble in Polly City

Trying to make lemonade out of lemons, I took advantage of being home all week with a recovering child when I could. Unable to leave the house, and with Courtney’s recent departure, I was able to clean, launder and organize such that we can now find the floor of the play room that Courtney inhabited while she was here this summer. I’ve also been able to enjoy lots of uninterrupted time with Laura. Although it is very hard to see your child ill, there was lots of holding and cuddling during the downtime. As Laura began to feel better, and when she was finished watching and cataloging old episodes of Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch, she became engaged in other quiet activities, activities that threatened to damage the last few brain cells I still possessed after spending so much time with Ginger Grant and Marcia Brady. One activity she has been particularly enjoying is counting by 3 ½s. “Mommy, I can count by 3 ½s! Listen. 3 ½, 7, 10 ½, 14, 17 ½, 21 . . . .” I don’t know if I was having trouble keeping up because I was a Political Science major or if counting with fractions is a pursuit better left to, say, the Rainman. And then the simple act of cleaning out the refrigerator turned my kitchen into a laboratory. Those old, dried carrots in the refrigerator? They are currently part of a turgor pressure experiment. Laura’s science teacher would be so proud. Perhaps the most intriguing play time this week involved Polly dolls, of which Laura is very fond. Playing Polly dolls with Laura mostly means that the parent playing with her is relegated to the roll of watching Laura play and intermittently getting bossed around. “Daddy, that Polly’s name is Captain Coco. Captain Coco has to live in this house [points to a shoebox] over here. She can’t be near the other Polly dolls and she has to be quiet.” “Mommy, what do you want this doll’s name to be?” And when I select a name, Laura will tell me that the doll doesn’t like that name. I will ask how Laura knows that the doll I’ve been assigned to play with doesn’t like the name I’ve picked, and she will reply, “Because I know what they are thinking.” But typical Polly play took a new twist this week. Instead of the brain damage I’d been fighting all week, yesterday’s Polly doll session may have psychologically damaged me. Permanently. I was provided with two male Polly dolls and told that they were Tom and his boss, Lou. Although Tom has been a Polly doll for years, and so this isn’t hard to imagine for me, Lou is new to this game and I was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. I know Lou only from Tom’s descriptions of him and have observed him on but a handful of brief, social occasions. From what I’ve gathered, Lou is exceptionally intelligent, a man who is both personable and respected in his leadership roll as General Counsel of a Fortune 500 technology company. Because of this, it is hard to picture Lou as a four-inch high doll in rubber clothes. And yet, Laura had Tom and Lou working yesterday in dresser drawers, which represented their office building. Lou worked in the top drawer, Level One. Tom worked in the drawer immediately below it, Level Two. Then I was told that Tom and Lou had to go into another building (represented by a Polly carrying case) for a meeting. So that is where I put them. Then I was supposed to sit quietly by during said meeting. After a bit, I told Laura that I was getting bored. Laura graciously assigned me two more Polly dolls, two females, and told me that their names were Stephanie and Kayla. In real life, Stephanie and Kayla work with Tom and Lou. Tom and Lou got into the Polly car with Stephanie and Kayla to go out to lunch. It was after lunch that there was trouble in Polly City. Lou wanted to wear different clothes. Laura made me undress Tom’s boss. I don’t believe that I can ever face the real Lou again without thinking of the moment in which I had to pull off those little rubber pants.

Hugs Not Fugs

One thing's for sure, the kid is not afraid to accessorize. And she's too huggable to be fuggable.

Just Sit Right Back and You’ll Hear a Tale

As a result of Laura having recently learned to execute a nice little head-first dive, which she does over and over again every time she’s in the pool, with enough of a bend in her knees to make her look like a little froggy, she now has bilateral inner ear infections. Laura is not a complainer when it comes to physical pain, but on Saturday night – on and off all through the night – she did a lot of moaning and waking up of her parental units. Still, on Sunday morning she said her ears were better and that she was just tired, and could she please still go to church because she really wanted to sing during the service with her Vacation Bible School group. Henry and Trish had talked about visiting our church and since Laura was scheduled to sing, it seemed a perfect time for them to join us. When they arrived at our house so that we could drive to church together, Laura was looking drained, and my intuition said that pressing on was not a good idea, but I ignored it hoping that Laura would perk up. In case my intuition beat out my hopes, I made an appointment for later in the day with Laura’s pediatrician, whose office is blessedly open on Saturdays and Sundays for sick-child visits. Good thing too. We got about a block from the church when Laura blew chunks, all over her dad. Tom merits a father-of-the-year award pretty much daily around here, and on Sunday it was for both going to church and sporting spew without complaint. And to Trish and Henry go the good-sports-of-the-year awards. Henry gets highest honors for not batting so much as an eyelash when (1) Laura hurled smack dab next to his seat, (2) he had to ride in the rank-smelling car next to Laura’s rank-smelling dad all the way home, and, (3) he was cheated out of the much-anticipated doughnut that was to follow the church service. Trish’s award is for using baby wipes to help to clean someone else’s kid’s barf off of that kid's dad's pants without gagging, and for having the presence of mind to take a photo of the ordeal in case of a blog. However, since Laura was reduced to wearing just her underwear on the way home, I can’t post a photo because she’d be embarrassed. When I owned my previous car, Laura never once threw up in it, of course. For those keeping score, it’s now Jeep = 0, Lexus = 9. But I digress, as I'm wont to do if it means I get to complain.

As a result of the ear infections, for the first time in Laura’s life, not because I’m opposed to them, but because she’s never needed them, Laura is taking antibiotics. She spent most of Sunday sleeping, and by this morning she was feeling much better. Laura and I spent the better part of today watching old episodes of Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch on DVD. I love that she loves watching the shows that I loved as a child. And I’m just plain giddy that she’s become an I Love Lucy fan thanks to Tom getting me all five seasons on DVD for Christmas last year, which I really wanted and which made me happier than any old piece of jewelry any old day. DVDs of these classic shows are really the way to go. I would typically have to wait for the reruns to come on TVLand/Nick@Night in order to indoctrinate Kristen and Courtney into being true believers in the divinity of Lucy Ricardo. So I knew that Laura was feeling better when she was watching The Brady Bunch and recognized the actor who played a guest role in the Ghost Town USA episode. She said, “Mommy, look, that old prospector is Jim Backus! Jim Backus is also the millionaire on Gilligan’s Island!” (Apparently she’s been attentive to the credits at the end of these shows.) Then Laura began writing out lists of the actors’ names and their characters in each show (pausing the DVD when necessary to get the spelling of the names correct) so that she could cross-reference the credits from both shows to see if there was anyone playing more than one role besides Jim Backus. This undertaking of hers took hours, with lots of sitcom watching in between. I only briefly considered telling her about IMDB, but I didn’t want to put the kibosh on this intriguing venture, particularly since it was keeping her so busy and happy during her rest and recovery time. In fact, I was feeling quite proud of her, thinking that the level of detail that she was putting into this project was exceptionally creative, even brilliant. And then this conversation took place:

Laura: “Mommy, who is your favorite character on Gilligan’s Island?”

Mommy: “Hmmmm. I don’t know.”

Laura: “Well, in the silly part of your mind do you like Gilligan, or in the smart part of your mind do you like Ginger?”

Mommy [pausing, too baffled to immediately respond]: “What makes you say that?”

Laura: “Well, you probably think the Professor is the smart one, right?”

Mommy: “Yes, I think people typically do. What do you think?”

Laura: “I think that if the Professor wasn’t there and something scientific needed to be done, then Ginger would be the best one to do it.”

Mommy: “You do?”

Laura: “I’m sure of it.”

Well, perhaps Laura is right after all. They say that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Or this line of thinking could be a side effect of the antibiotics, couldn’t it?

To Everything There is a Season

Courtney just left to return to college and I feel like my heart is going to break in half. I know that she won’t be back to live here next summer, or ever probably. There will just be visits, which is a momentous change in both of our lives. I know that it is time, but I feel like someone just took a chunk out of my chest – where my heart is, not my breast, because someone did just take a chunk out of that.

I’m going to go cry. And then I'm going to air out her pigsty of a room.



I love you Baby.

A Reality Show You Won’t Find on TV’s Fall Line Up

Tom and I are currently neck and neck in the “Who’s The Biggest Goonball?” competition. Parents who are over the age of forty and are raising their last or only child know how to play “Who’s The Biggest Goonball?” So for those of you who don’t know how or why the game is played, I will explain.

The why we play part is simple. We play “Who’s The Biggest Goonball?” because we love Laura like she’s the last child we’ll ever have, in large part because she’s the last child we’ll ever have. I’m sure of it. When Laura was about two, I asked Tom to really consider whether he wanted to have another child before my biological clock ticked its last tock. I mean fair is fair. I have three biological children, but he has only one as he is the adoptive father of Kristen and Courtney. I really wanted to know if he felt that his life would be lacking in any way absent another child of his loins. Tom said in his typically succinct and persuasive manner, “Don’t get me wrong about this. I really love our kids, but I don’t want another one.” And then he convinced me utterly and my uterus let out an audible sigh of relief when he added, “I’m tired all of the time, and you do most of the work.” Wow. By those words, Tom’s wonderful and well-chosen words, my propensity to blur the line between motherhood and martyrdom was cast in a new and esteemed light and I was forever relieved of the duty to further procreate. See why I love him?

For the record, just because Laura is our last child does not mean we love the first and second any less. We have all the documentation to prove that we were Goonballs with Kristen and Courtney too. I kept records of the cute things that they said and did back when Kristen and Courtney were little, and cute, and lived with us. Of course, Kristen and Courtney’s doings and sayings were not documented in a blog, but rather in something from those happy golden days of yore called a baby book. And when they got too old for baby books, I kept all of the keepsakes and memorabilia from their days of school and sports teams and extracurricular activities in Rubbermaid® storage boxes. Now Tom and I have little garage space of our own because we are storing all of that stuff for them until they get their own garages. I used to take tons o’ photos of them too, but rather than digitally store them on my computer and share the photos on blogs, CDs, and emails, I put them in albums, like good mothers did in ancient times. And we used to dress Kristen and Courtney up in festive holiday outfits and have their photographs professionally taken, which photographs can still be found gracing the furniture and shelves in our house. But now Kristen and Courtney take umbrage when I ask them to don frilly dresses and pose with a giant bunny rabbit or a perv in a Santa suit. To see just how Goonballish we were when Kristen and Courtney were little, you’d have to come to our house and look through boxes of stuff and albums of photos. With Laura, our Goonball methodology is blogged for the world to see.

So how do we play “Who’s The Biggest Goonball?” now? I can think of a couple of examples. One that comes immediately to mind, because we do it everyday, is pillow and pajama sniffing. I wonder what our next door neighbors would think if they were ever to look through the window and see us taking turns holding Laura’s pillows and pajamas up to our noses. They smell absolutely heavenly. Maybe this is just me competing for Biggest Goonball, but I’m convinced that Laura’s drooly pillows and pajamas, which have the faintest scent of her lavender lotion lingering on them at all times, would be objectively and empirically determined by scientists in a laboratory to be heavenly. Then there was the recent occasion when Laura dropped the tooth she’d lost the night before in her carpet, somewhere, she told us, between her bed and her bathroom. We searched all through the carpet with our bare hands. Then Tom used a wide-toothed comb and I used a pasta server. We raked through her carpet for the better part of an hour to find that precious little bit of enamel. We were devastated when it did not turn up, but we decided not to vacuum her carpet until it was found. Every now and then one of us would see the other down on his or her knees, separating strands of carpet fiber until the day that quite by accident I felt something hard with my little toe when I was making Laura’s bed. Voila! It was the tooth. Tom and I squealed with delight. Then we held hands and jumped up and down and all around in little ring-around-the-rosie-type circles like the Goonballs that we are.

That, my friends, is how we play “Who’s The Biggest Goonball?” around here. And now you also know why it is that these days we mostly play it with Laura. Kristen and Courtney prefer a monthly check.

The Girl's Got Gills!

Today's life lesson is brought to you by Laura. And Dory.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.
Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.
What do we do?
We swim, swim, swim.

And if you just keep swimming, you might even win the swim team trophy for Most Improved Swimmer 2006.



Coach Patty & Laura