kiwords

Let me give you a little background first. A few weeks ago, I was taking a shower. Mid-shampoo, the shower door flew open, and Raphael peeked in.
“Hi, Mama!”
“Hi, honey. Can you close the door please?” But he was busy peering in at me.
“Mama? Wheh yoo pen*s?”
Sigh.
“I don’t have a pen*s, honey, I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”
“Yoo don’ hava pen*s? What yoo got?”
“I have a vag*na. Close the door.” His face fairly glowed with joy.
“BABY DINO???”
“No, honey, vag*na. CLOSE THE DOOR.”
Ok, so fast forward to today. I was in a department store, picking out some jeans. Tre and Max were in school, so it was just me ‘n Raphi. He was adorable, chattering and singing little songs, pulling a few items off the racks, but mostly just being cute. Eventually I made my way into a dressing room, maneuvering his stroller in carefully. Raphael thought we were going into a bathroom stall, and sang out, “Yoo gotta go pee?”
“No, I’m trying on clothes.”
“Yoo gotta go bafroom?”
“No, honey, this isn’t a bathroom. See? No toilet. I’m trying on clothes.”
“Oh. Yoo gotta vag*na?” Clear as a bell. Still can’t say YOU like the rest of us, but that word was unmistakable. I said something helpful like “mm-hmm”, hoping he would just shut up. But no.
“Yoo don’ gotta pen*s?”
“No. I’m a girl.” I whispered, thinking, what happened to that two-second attention span that makes mealtimes such a joy? Where’d he get this focus all of a sudden?
“Yoo gotta vag*na?”
“Hey, darlin’, you want to draw? I’ve got some paper and crayons here…”
That worked. He settled in happily to drawing on the stroller and eating crayons. Eventually I finished trying on the clothes and started untangling the stroller from the changing room. On my way out I passed a woman, who nodded to me and said,
“Quite a vocabulary he’s got, hmm?” I shrugged and laughed a little. “You know,” she went on, “I knew someone who’s little girl used words like that. Other parents weren’t wild about her teaching their kids that stuff. You may want to have him keep that stuff at home. Not everyone wants their kids to talk…like that.” She gave one of those smiles that is in no way an actual smile, “Just something to think about.”
I was floored. I turned to go, but then turned back.
“Let me tell you a story,” I said sweetly. “I have a friend who’s a social worker. She told me once about a little girl who was being sexually abused by her stepfather. But they couldn’t prosecute him because she had been taught all these goofy names for her body parts. The only statements they could get out of her were about him touching her ‘smile down there.’ I’m sure the appropriate terminology is uncomfortable for some people, but I’d say there are worse things in the world.” I smiled, and you know exactly what kind of smile, “Just something to think about.” And I turned on my heel and left.

Now, here’s the thing. I stewed about the uptight woman for a while. I thought about it for some time. And here’s my conclusion. She was wrong. But I wasn’t all that right. See, if she doesn’t want her kids to talk like that, that’s her deal. She’s an uptight weirdo, if you ask me, but her kids are HER kids. Just as my loudmouthed little sweetheart is MY kid. I can teach him whatever words I want to. Even really nasty words, like “presidential primaries.” And if the uptight weirdo in the dressing room is bothered by that, that’s her deal. I hope if something like that happens again I can laugh it off.
Maybe I should have asked her if something was wrong with her baby dino.

Hello, All! Miss me? I’m beginning to suspect that I may be a Monday through Friday blogger. I mean, I try to blog on the weekends, but it rarely happens. I’m considering throwing in the towel as far a Saturday or Sunday blogging goes. As it is, I spend much of the weekend casting guilty thoughts at my computer, but I never seem to find the time to follow up. I’m thinking I’ll just let the guilt go. Admit my inability to stick to a weekend schedule and set myself free.
Then again, maybe that’s a cop-out. Hey, if you have an opinion feel free to let me know!

We don’t have a dog. We have a goldfish. We have a beautiful stupid cat. We had a pet rat, but she died. But we have no dog. Truth is, I’ve resisted. You know, dogs eat things they shouldn’t. This wouldn’t be a problem, except when they then reject the things they shouldn’t have eaten. They shed, on a far larger scale than cats. They poop in the yard, and guess who here would be cleaning that up? I deal with enough poop in my life, thankyouverymuch. So I know we should have a dog, to round out our happy family picture, but I drag my feet.
We have two dogs staying with us for a week or so. Casey is a sweet old golden retriever, and Pepe` is a sweet tiny…oh, what’s the breed…fluffy white dog. They’re great dogs; we’ve taken care of them before. I don’t mind having them here, because they’re so well behaved, but any addition to the family causes ripples through everyone. And by everyone I mean the boys. Mom and Dad and I are pretty much able to adjust to dodging dogs without missing a beat. Ah, but the boys.
Raphael hovers between feeling a touch frightened of the dogs and thinking maybe he could be their boss. Sometimes, if they move too fast (particularly Casey, who out weighs Raphi by a good 70 pounds), he turns and runs away from them, screeching, “S’ a BIG DOG!” But then again, he often notices that Pepe` is actually smaller than him, and that Casey has all the malice of, say, a pair of fuzzy dice. Then he tries hitting them or riding on them. He’s spent much of the last day in time out. I’m not sure he’s actually learned not to hit the dogs, but at least he can’t abuse them when he’s stuck there in solitude.
Tre is hoping the dogs, with their attendant chores, will be a money making opportunity. He frequently asks me if I might consider paying him for helping out with the dogs, and if so how much? I really need to make up my mind on that. Tre is also a touch anxious about Casey getting stuff out of his room. Casey likes to carry small stuffed things around in her mouth (slobbery…oh so gross), and Tre is sure she has her doggy eye on his room and all his many precious things. What Tre doesn’t realize is that Casey no more wants to climb the stairs to his room than she wants to spend time with Raphael. But hey, if it convinces him to clean up the floor of his room, who am I to argue?
Max is the happiest to have the dogs here. He adores them. He follows them around, and feeds them and lies down next to them to pet them. He carries around their leashes and wishes aloud that he could pretend to walk them around the house. He loves the dogs. Today we took them for a walk, Me, Tre, Max, and Raphael, with two dogs. Yeesh. Casey was a little excited, and tugged on Tre too much, so Tre ended up pushing the stroller and I held Casey’s leash. Max took Pepe`. We were walking along, a visual representation of chaos. Tre kept accidentally pushing the stroller into bushes, causing Raphael to holler protests. This would make Casey stop walking and sniff Tre, who would respond with a heartfelt soliloquy on why he couldn’t push this stupid stroller with that dog in the way, and couldn’t someone help him…
Max walked serenely along with Pepe` until about halfway home, when he stopped suddenly and called out to me, “Mama?” I glanced over my shoulder from ahead on the sidewalk, where I was helping Tre untangle the stroller from a fire hydrant. “What, honey?”
“Do you know what it feels like to have a dog?”
“What?”
He smiled.
“It feels good.”
Well, he’s right. We gotta get our own dog.

Someone asked me recently if I actually call my kids “honey” as often as I quote myself saying it in my blog. Oh, yes. And the truth is far worse than just the generous sprinkling of honeys. I have nickname issues.
It started with Tre. When he was just a few months old he had this cold. One day while his dad and I were sitting and admiring him (we did that a lot in typical new parent fashion), Tre sneezed. And he sneezed out these two enormous snot worms. (Well, what would you call them?) Right into his mouth. And then he enjoyed them. Relished them, really. His dad and I were aghast. I mean…gross. But I recovered enough to say, “Well, do you want to give Booger Breath here his bath or should I?”
Well, it stuck. He was known for a while as Booger Breath, which morphed into Booger Boy and then Booger. I’ve called all my boys Booger at times, because it’s lost its original mucosal connotations for me. It’s an endearing word meaning “son of mine.” I often start to address my boys as “gentlemen” and it comes out as “gentleboogers.” I know I’m in for some sort of psychological reckoning some day.
I don’t know why I spent so much time agonizing about what I was going to name my kids, because I hardly ever call them by their given names. All day long it’s “honey” or “darlin” or “sweetie” or some such treacly nonsense. Max is frequently called “Sweet Pea”, although that really should be spelled “Sweet Pee” because he earned that nickname as an infant. He had a talent for catching me or his dad unaware mid diaper change.
For some inexplicable reason I’ve decided that Raphael is my little “Punkin’ Bug.” I know, I’m embarrassed just to type it. Yet it flies out of my mouth several times a day. Just yesterday I was telling my wee Punkin’ Bug to…I don’t know, get his finger out of his nose or something. Dad overheard me and asked, “Punkin’ Bug? Really? Why?” I just shrugged. What can I say? I have issues.
Well, it’s late. I’m going to bed. As soon as I peek in on Booger Boy, Sweet Pee, and Punkin’ Bug.

Let me first of all say a word about the day. September 11, and we’re all mourning again. Which is difficult to do while you’re holding your breath.
The events of 9/11 will always be tied up in my mind with the end of my marriage. Things were falling apart then. During the long nights I spent on the couch, waiting for my husband to come home, I watched the footage of the attacks again and again. And though it was real, actual buildings crumpling into dust, actual people dying by the thousands, it was also for me a metaphor. Life as I knew it was over. The security I had taken for granted was gone. The pain was unbelievable.
But when those memories come back, I also remember something my mom said on 9/11. She came over to my house when she heard the news and we sat at my kitchen table, trying to imagine what it could mean, what we should do.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said, “but I know this. The people in the concentration camps in World War II who survived were the ones who weren’t waiting for life to get back to normal. They were the people who focused on what was happening and reacted to that, rather than remembering and longing for the past. Whatever happens now, keep your eyes on the future.”
So I hope no one thinks me callous today, writing about the silly things I write about. I will say a prayer for those left behind. I will cry in unguarded moments. But I have to keep my eyes on three little bits of the future.

This morning I was doing a project with the boys that included cutting pictures of animals out of magazines. Raphael had joined us at the table, in order to swipe scissors, eat glue sticks, and throw magazines to the floor. Oh, and color his arm with a red marker. Raphael is very interested in education.
(As an aside here, the boys were making signa, like the ancient Romans carried into battle – Tre because he’s studying the fall of Rome, Max because Tre was doing it and it’s therefore cool. They were looking for pictures of fierce animals to adorn their signa. Each chose a picture of Claire as one of their terrifying emblems of doom. They continue to be impressed with her as huntress.)
Max was cutting a picture of an octopus out of a National Geographic Kids magazine when Raphael spotted a dolphin on the opposing page. He dove for the magazine, nearly knocking Max off his chair.
“Iss a WHALE!” he shrieked.
“No, honey, it’s a dolphin.” I responded reasonably.
“NOOOO, ISSS A WHAAAAALE!”
“No, really. It’s a dolphin.”
This went on for some time in this vein. Finally I noticed the caption below the picture that read something like “dolphin leaping out of water” and I got an idea. I swiped a couple of letter tiles from the fridge.
“See, Raphael, this letter is D. D says d. Now this letter is W. W says w. See? D – d. W – w. Got it?” He nodded cheerfully. “What does this W say?”
“w!”
”That’s right! And this D says d! Now, look at this word under the picture. See how it starts with D? That’s because it says DOLPHIN. D – d – DOLPHIN. Not W - w - whale, D - d - DOLPHIN.”
Yes, you are reading this right. I actually tried to teach my two year old to read just so I could convince him I was right. He peered closely at the caption. “Now, honey,” I said, “what’s in that picture?” He smiled oh so sweetly.
“WHALE!!”
Geez, he’s stubborn.

This morning I was awakened by two very excited boys. Tre and Max came screaming into my room. Something about a bird. I stomped down the stairs, snarling. Morning is not my best time. What I found was Mom, standing over Claire (our beautiful stupid cat), who had between her paws a tiny and terrified baby bird. Poor wee fuzzy thing was sitting there, occasionally squeaking. I sent Mom to throw Claire out in the back yard and went to fetch a shoebox.
Well, once I got the little scrap of a bird in the shoebox I set to finding someone who would take care of it. The boys were fascinated with the thing, and kept peeking in the box. Since it was 7 a.m. or some such ungodly hour of the morning, there were no vet clinics or animal control offices open. So I sat down with the boys to give them the truth, straight out. “Guys, this is a pretty tiny bird, and it’s been through a lot. It might not live. But I want you to know that Claire hasn’t done anything bad here. Even though it’s sad that the bird is hurt, that’s what cats do. They hunt.” I studied them for a reaction to the complicated reality of the circle of life. Tre looked back at me with shining eyes. “Mom, Claire’s such a brave hunter. I bet she could catch a bear.” I looked around at our beautiful stupid cat, which was prowling around the shoebox. Her? The cat who didn’t figure out for ten minutes after Mom threw her out in the back yard that she could come in the cat door? “Um…I guess so, honey. It would have to be an awfully small bear.” Tre and Max discussed it for a minute and decided that it was certain that Claire could at least catch a baby bear.
Well, I thought, they seem to be handling the complicated reality fairly well. Humph.
See, if it had been me as a kid, with a wounded baby bird in a shoebox, I would have been distraught. I would have been bringing the bird scraps of material to line the box, trying to give it water with an eyedropper, and generally tormenting the poor thing to an early demise. Um…earlier demise.
But they’re not me. They’re a couple of boys who are mainly impressed with the hunter prowess of their cat. We took the bird in to a vet clinic that takes wild, injured birds. After we dropped it off, Tre remarked, “Well, we did what we could. Let’s get lunch!”
“Yeah,” chimed in Max, “some place with dumplings.” So I took their little hard hearts out for lunch.
Well, the bird didn’t make it. It died shortly after we dropped it off, and I’m glad it waited until then. I’m not sure the boys would have been upset about the bird, but they hate it when I cry.
Them I can forgive. After all, as I keep reminding myself, boys are…different. Not wrong, just different. However, I have a couple of times hissed at Claire under my breath, “Bird killer.” She is unfazed. She is after all, Claire, our beautiful stupid cat and bear hunter.

I did it, I DID it! I networked my computers, transferred the files, and I’m in business again. However, this triumph has come with a price. Namely, my brain. I’ve spent the entire freakin’ day sitting here in front of this computer, punctuated by brief trips out to stores to be condescended to by twelve year old computer sales people. There was one guy I really appreciated. I went to Circuit City (you would not believe how many attempts it took me to type that name just now), and this grey haired gentleman who worked there briskly approached to ask if he could help me. Having learned my lesson yesterday, I pulled out my 3x5 card and recited, “I need a serial PC to PC file transfer cable.” He went a touch pale and then begged me to wait right there while he found a “CP person who can help you.” I stood there, puzzling about what a CP person could be for a few minutes until it finally dawned on me that he meant a PC person. HE needed a 3x5 card. May God bless his silver head.
Everyone else I talked to regarding my never-ending file transfer saga seemed to agree that I am a moron. “A SERIAL cable? No, you don’t want that! Here, this is what you want.” I’d be standing there, helplessly insisting that the file transfer wizard was asking for a serial PC to PC file transfer cable, so even if that was foolish and wrongheaded could I have it? Please? Eventually I gave up and called my brother, the computer genius. He sent me information that was suitable for what he called my “intellectual strata.” I may not know cables, but I do know English, Josh. And I would have some very cutting remarks for you had you not pulled my…strata out of the fire today. Smootch.
Well, I’ll spare you the many details (like there is any way I could remember/decipher all the details), and sum up by saying I did it. My beautiful new desktop and my sleek new laptop are now networked and communicating fabulously.
I think they’re talking about me behind my back.

Well, I did it. I pulled the beast out of the box. And I wanted to transfer my files, right? So away I went to Radio Shack. I was repeating in my head the kind of cable I was told to buy to accomplish the file transfer. I also had it written on a 3x5 card in my pocket, but I didn’t want to read it in front of the Radio Shack guy. See, I went in there with the wrong attitude entirely. There I was, foolish girl, thinking I would preserve some dignity. Oh, how the computer gods laughed.
The guy was helping someone else, so I wandered around for a while. I found myself right in front of a whole wall of computer cables. Well, yippee! Surely I could pick the cable out. There they were, cables! I mused. I browsed. I settled on a cable that seemed to be in the category I required. I picked the second-most expensive cable, thinking the more it cost the better it would be. Right? Right?
Well, I tossed my choice on the counter, and the Radio Shack guy looked at it with raised eyebrows.
“This is what you need?” Understand, he wasn’t offering to help; he was questioning my ability to choose my own cable. At least, that’s how I read it. I leveled what I hoped was a confident gaze at him and nodded. Must have been convincing, because he picked up the box and started to ring it up. “Wow, a gig. Must be some network.” Damn, I’m thinking, damndamndamn. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m pretty sure I got the wrong cable. But do I confess and ask assistance? Nooooo. I’m in too deep for that. I shrug noncommittally. “Streaming video and stuff, right?” he asks, like that makes sense. I said something clever like mm-hmm. “Huh. What, are you going to be doing web design?” He’s handing me my change by now, so I pocket the money and grab my bag. Over my shoulder I say breezily, “Well, maybe. We’ll see.” And I was out. Safe.
Except now I’m going to have to find someplace else to go tomorrow when I try again to get the right cable.

I gotta tell you, a black eye suits Raphael. It’s just the right accessory for his tough-guy little soul. We were in McDonald’s today, and Raphi was tearing through crowds of toddlers, scattering them like so many screeching bowling pins. A grandfather was sitting to the side, watching the scene. As I went to haul my wee angel off to yet another time out, he nodded at us in grim approval. “Now, that’s a boy. A bruiser. You can tell just by looking at ‘em.”

On other fronts (and yes, there are other fronts in my life. It’s not all about the kids), I have a new computer. I’m not using a new computer, you understand. I haven’t unpacked the new computer. But it’s here, sitting prettily in its two Dell boxes, awaiting my attention.
So why is it still sitting there, even though it arrived (cough, cough) Tuesday? Why haven’t I yanked that puppy out and set it up, especially considering the tiny little McComputer I’m using presently? Um…I’m…a little intimidated. There’s all the setting up, the fitting in of the wires. I know I can handle that. But can I handle that and keep all three boys alive simultaneously? And then there’s all the file transferring to be done. I hate that. Somewhere, in the transferring and the setting up of the new system, something will go wrong.
Although it’s shameful to admit, I’m pretty ignorant about computers. (Josh, at this moment, is saying something mocking. Shut up, Josh.) So when something goes wrong, I tend to react like someone in the Dark Ages, witnessing an eclipse of the sun. “Aaaahhh!! I have angered an evil spirit! Quick, break out the holy water; make the error message go away! Call the priest! Turn off the box-that-hums and pray that it will be healed!”
In case you’re wondering, that approach to computer repair doesn’t work.
Fortunately, I have purchased the extended service contract. Unfortunately, tech support people that I've talked to tend to fall into one of two categories. Either they are idiots who actually know less about computers than me (“Ok, did you turn it on? Try that. Turn it on? Huh. I don’t know what else to tell you. Good luck.”), or they smell my ignorance, like that whole dog/fear thing, and hate me before I finish saying my name. I’m realizing now that I paid extra money to talk to someone who hates me in the event that I should be suffering computer bad humors. Shoot.
Well, if I should disappear for a few days, you’ll know why. I will have screwed my courage to the sticking point and opened the boxes. But first, anyone know any good chants to ward off evil spirits?

Ok, no blog yesterday. Last night Raphael took a tumble down the basement stairs. Sounds fairly benign that way, doesn’t it? Let me take another stab. Last night Raphael was making his way down the basement stairs, spoonful of peanut butter clutched in one fist. About halfway down gravity reached up and snatched his feet out from underneath him, smacking his face into a stair below him and leaving swirls of peanut butter on the wall to describe his head-over-heels descent to the bottom. Today he has an amazing shiner on his right eye. Occasionally he touches it gingerly and says soberly, “Ah fall down da stairs. Ah get owie.” Indeed.
I don’t know how I’m going to get this one to adulthood alive. He’s a maniac, pure and simple. The other day we were at The Tattered Cover, which is a fabulous local bookstore. It was just Tre, Raphael, and I. Max was with Mom, riding a train. I needed a few things for school, so there we were. While I browsed the children’s section for just the right educational supplies, Raphael waged a full-scale attack. On what, you say? Well, everything. Kids who tried to look at the book he was looking at. His brother, no matter what he was doing. A small stepstool, which couldn’t have directly offended him, yet somehow needed to be tipped over often and with relish. Then he found The Book. The Book is a Tonka book, called “If I Could Drive A Loader.” It is written with just about as much sparkle and wit as you would expect from a book written not by a person (as far as I can tell), but by a company that produces toy construction equipment. Raphael loves The Book. He spotted it, climbed over a table to get it, and clutched it to his bosom. “Ah WANT DIS!” he shrieked in that endearing ear-shattering way he has. I promised him he could have it, and he was so relieved that he only had to ask me if he could have it about twelve thousand more times. Ceiling tiles were falling.
We headed downstairs to purchase our books and when the lady behind the counter had to take the book to scan it, Raphael’s world threatened to end. He wailed, huge tears welling up in those dark eyes, “Ah want da BOOOOOOK! Gimmeeee DAT BOOK!” And then, most piteously, “PWEEEEEZ?” Now, the crowd down at the Tattered Cover is a book loving and child centered type of crowd. Oh, the concern. The adoring looks and indulgent smiles! I think they were ready to crown him their toddler king. I’m glad he waited until he was safely in his car seat to tear a strip out of the cover of “Dat Book.” I hate to shatter illusions unnecessarily. Fortunately, there was only Tre and I to witness his destruction, and to listen to him beg most of the way home, “Mama? Can oo fits it? Ah bwoke dat book! Can oo fits it?”
“Yes, honey, I can fix it. Just as soon as we get home I’ll tape it. Just hang on.”
“Mama? Can oo fits it?”
Repeat. Many, many times.
So last night, instead of blogging, I had to do my motherly duty. As I saw it, that meant I had to stay in my room, next to Raphael’s room. I had to read quietly, listening for his breathing. And every so often I had to go in there, lean over and look at his sweet, battered face. Feel the warmth rising off his skin and whisper thanks that he’s ok. Pray that his angels won’t get too tired to keep up with him, and that we’ll all survive Raphael to the power of two.

Earlier this evening I was waxing delightedly to my mother about what a wonderful holiday Labor Day is. It’s the perfect holiday, because there’s nothing to it. No cookies to bake, no songs to sing, no presents to buy, no cards to send. I didn’t have to prepare a special meal and I don’t have to fret about whether or not my kids understand the “real” meaning of the day. It’s an actual holiday, free of guilt and complications. You can do whatever you want. Well, unless you want to go to the post office or the bank or Costco. But who wants to do that?
Ah, but then I tucked my children in bed (and they weren’t exhausted from the festivities, because you don’t have to do that), and it hit me.
Labor Day. That means summer’s over.
That means school starts tomorrow.
Gulp.
Now, I’m a homeschooler. And this isn’t my first year either. I knew this was coming. I’ve been preparing for it for weeks. I’ve got all kinds of books and plans and sharpened pencils and 3x5 cards. But as I sat down to prepare my first week’s lessons, the thought that echoed in my head was this:

What was I thinking?

Good Lord, what is wrong with me? This isn’t something people do on their own, at home. What am I doing? I never even finished my degree (although I do have something like 136 credit hours – another story entirely). I’m going to entirely screw up my boys, who already have tough lives ahead of them, what with the whole absentee father thing. And besides which, they’re short, and that’s really hard on boys and that’s my fault too because I’m short AND I picked the short guy to have kids with which, come to think of it, makes it my fault about the whole absentee father thing too and I didn’t even remember to give them their vitamins today, how can I expect to teach them all the everythings they need to know, I mean, I barely passed algebra in high school, what was I thinking whatwasIthinkingwhatwasIthinking
(Putting my head between my knees and taking deep breaths)
Mom says I did this last year. I don’t remember that. But I will tell you this; it gives the term “Labor Day” a whole new meaning. Because tonight, as I sit here with my books and papers, planning the days to come, I keep remembering a certain point when I was in labor with my boys. Right before it was time to push, I panicked. NO. Can’t do this. Three babies, three times I suddenly decided I simply could not do it.
Of course I did. Not much choice at that point. And I guess I’ll manage this too. But if anyone hears me doing Lamaze breathing during a phonics lesson, you’ll know why.