I've got three boys, ages 8, 5, and 3. Some days I feel a little overwhelmed. And this weekend they have a four day weekend, during which my husband is working until 6pm Friday and Monday, and I'll admit to feeling a little apprehension.

But so far, I really can't complain. Yes, two kids were destined for time-outs before they got out of the car coming home from school yesterday (for fighting), which didn't make me look forward to the weekend alone with them, but after that things settled down (and I reminded myself of our family's One Fussy Fellow At A Time rule - which, instead of its original intention of only allowing one kid to fuss at a time, now really just means I deal with only one kid at a time, since they've learned what the word fussy means and argue that they're not being fussy (just naughty, which is entirely different and thus doesn't apply). Great. I'm raising the crazy semantic police!).

This morning, we offered to watch one of my 8-year-old's classmates while his mom was in a meeting. To her, it's a favor. To me, it means my kids actually get along because they have someone else to play with. And then the kid across the street came over to play for a couple of hours. And while I did have to yell down for them to play quietly so I could get the 3-year-old down for his nap, I recognized that it was loud voices of enthusiasm as opposed to any fighting. In fact, I came downstairs to find the kids quietly playing restaurant.

Yes, this morning involved allowing them to play the Wii for longer than intended so I could finish an article I had to write (nothing like waiting for the last minute - it was due today), but since they haven't played the Wii for as long as I can remember - probably since the school year started - I don't feel too bad about it.

And this morning, as I ate my breakfast, I sat reading (skimming) Paula Polk Lillard's book, "Montessori, A Modern Approach". I specifically read the chapter "Montessori and Parents" (I was hoping to find some interesting quote to unify my article, but instead found only personal inspiration). The key idea I took away from this is that we as parents aren't here to control every action of our children and mold them into mini versions of ourselves, but rather to help them grow into their full potential. "The parent's role is that of a guardian, not a creator." I realize that I sometimes lose sight of that, and so it was nice to read that concise reminder.

In any case, being able to read this (and another article I'll have to blog about later about getting kids to eat healthier), and to be able to sit back and reflect on how I want to grow as a parent, really makes me realize that I don't have it so bad as a parent.

Take, for example,
this mother in India . I know my second labor was quick (baby born 17 minutes after I got to the hospital), but this lady definitely has me beat! Apparently, she was heading to her parents' home to be there to deliver the baby. Normally, I thought that happens in the 7th or 8th month. So I just have to ask. How late was that train? Talk about I.S.T. (India Standard Time). Apparently the baby hadn't learned about it yet.

And Bristol Palin is doing everything she can for her kid, and you really have to applaud her for that. Fine, her mother's insistence on Abstinence-only education proved less than effective in preventing teenage pregnancy in her own home, and by no means am I deferring blame to Sarah Palin for her daughter's choices, but you have to respect that she's serving herself up as a public example to showcase the struggles of teen moms. Hopefully her child doesn't grow up feeling unloved or unappreciated, and hopefully prevents others from going down the sa

Okay, so I haven't written much in a while. As it turns out, Friday is doing fine. About 10 days after his surgery, we went on vacation. I felt horribly guilty doing it, but as our accommodations were booked a year ago, and mentally we all really needed it, we went forward with our plans.

And so, we booked Friday at the Mutt Hutt, a cage-free doggie daycare where he could spend everyday playing with other dogs. When I called to find out if they could keep an eye on his wound and address our other concerns, they remembered him, asked how his surgery went, and mentioned that they were going to set up a bed in a separate room for him if he got tired. And so that's where he stayed for the ten days that we were gone.

And when we came back, he was happy. He jumped right into the back of the station wagon before I could set up the ramp. He jumped right out when we got home. Stairs are no problem. He's eating well. He's lost some weight, but as the doctor pointed out, he's getting more of a workout from all the hopping.

The one downside is his walks. He, obviously, tires more easily, and so he walks at most around the block. So of course, I feel guilty walking further.

Taking the kids for bike rides, I find I have to first take Friday out for his walk before leaving him at home and taking the boys out on their bikes. It makes me sad. We have a more active lifestyle thanks to Friday, and here we are leaving him behind.

But, we're happy that he's healthy, and he is such an amazing dog, being able to recover like this.

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On Friday, my dad came over in the afternoon. Rakesh had just woken up and I was still a little freaked about the Friday situation (how I could help him adapt, how hard life is for him, how guilty I feel for doing this to him), and honestly, it was a great relief to have my dad around. I told him about how Friday refused to use the ramp, and he suggested that we try to train him. I was dubious, but figured I may as well try. So we got out a couple of treats, and held Friday's harness, and got him to walk up the ramp - following the treat in a carrot-and-stick sort of way. He went up, rested for a while, then also came back down. We let him rest for a while, and then did it a second time. My dad pointed out that Friday was just scared, trying something new, and once he got familiar with it, he was fine.

He's happy being outside, so as soon as the sun comes out and the grass dries up (maybe in an hour or so) we're going to spend as much time outside as possible (perhaps it would be better to run errands now rather than later...hmmm...).

Yesterday, as a neighbor was walking by with their dog, Friday got up from the one remaining shady spot on our lawn (so much less since the oak is gone), and walked across the lawn for a friendly sniff. His tail wagged and he stayed there until they walked away (after we stood and talked for a few minutes). It was the first time we saw him more like his old self and not just mopey. Perhaps it's just that the narcotic patch is wearing off, but it was nice to see.

I actually left him alone for a couple of hours yesterday, and it was so hard to do. I had a couple of social obligations (funny how that phrase makes it sound like I was forced to hang out with friends and that I didn't in fact thoroughly enjoy myself, which I did, as I do wherever I go). I have to confess it was liberating. He was fine. He really was. It really reminded me of when my boys were babies and I would leave them and go out to the bookstore or some long-denied "me time". Of course, I will argue that it's not the same; the boys were always left with someone, whereas I left the dog alone. But I have always been such a sucker for Friday, to a level that I never have been with the boys. I spoil him, whereas I'm so worried about having to counteract the spoiling of the grandparents that I don't let them get away with anything (to be clear, I have mellowed a bit over the years and accept the spoiling; it is the right of the grandparents to spoil and of the boys to be spoiled. It is the reason we live in Cleveland. But it just makes it my job and primary responsibility to make sure that I keep them grounded and unspoiled. You may have your own opinion about whether that is actually happening or not, and you are welcome to it.

Anyhow, back to Friday. I left him alone yesterday evening, and it was hard for me to do. He still hasn't eaten his breakfast, and so of course I blame my departure. Never mind that he did this all the time when he had four legs. Never mind that he didn't always follow me around into whatever room I was in. When he does it now, he's suffering, it's my fault, I'm a bad owner. Yes, the rational side of me knows better, and I know we did right by him, and in a short while, he's going to be able to climb any stairs. Already he can climb the front stairs and back stairs without any help from me (my hand is on the harness just in case, but I do no lifting). He's still working on going downstairs (or again, maybe I'm just pulling too much and not letting him learn, but I really don't want him to slip and clock his head or otherwise seriously injure himself).

His main struggle now is the hardwood floor and, of course, the stairs leading to the second floor, which are also hardwood. My thought is we need to put on a carpet runner or something. Rakesh thought we could instead find some of those socks with rubber soles and put them on Friday (instead of completely redecorating, which would of course take longer). I don't know.

A few years back, I wrote the Bedrest Chronicles in my blog (that would have been during the summer of 2006, when I was pregnant with my littlest, if you're interested in looking it up). I wrote about my trials and tribulations and how I "survived" bedrest. The nice thing about bedrest was knowing that it had a definite endpoint, and I just had to bide my time until then. Some days I actually look back to those days of leisure where my only responsibility was to remain seated (those days aren't ever coming back!), but rest assured, I'm not about to go get pregnant again just for the guaranteed bedrest.

In any case, I brought Friday home yesterday, and figured I would chronicle his trials and tribulations as he recovers from his amputation.

The guy is a trooper. His surgery was Tuesday, and two days later, he's already starting to get around. I won't say he's used to having three legs, but he's hopping along. I put a harness on him so I can support his front half, but when he's just walking, he doesn't need me. It's only on the steps that he has trouble (and that I worry).

I went out and bought a ramp yesterday. I had bought one after one of his tumor-removal surgeries (he's had 3), since the vet told me he shouldn't put weight on it. Well, he wouldn't use it. Jumped right into the minivan. Jumped right out. Never used it. We tried setting it up so he wouldn't have to use the couple of stairs going into a side door, but he just went around it. This time, I figured he wouldn't have a choice. A tech came with me to the car as I left the clinic, and I opened up the trunk, and was going to set up the ramp, and just jumped right in. He fell down (and as he must have landed on the large surgical area, it must have hurt him bigtime!). But we managed to get him turned around and lying down comfortably.

Then we got home. I set up the ramp, and he wouldn't use it. He backed up and lay down, refusing to approach the ramp. He's about 75 pounds, so I knew I couldn't just pick him up, but I tried to get him to come. No luck. We sat in the trunk for a while and I just petted him. Rakesh was asleep (pre-night shift), so I couldn't just call him to help. Besides, I needed to do this for Friday. No way was I going to let him down. So I stopped my little pity-party, folded up the ramp, and helped him down by supporting his trunk. We did it. I helped him go to the bathroom (all the pebbles in his dog run can't be easy to balance on right now). And he made it up the steps into the back of the house (I think I held him back, frankly). I sat on the living room petting Friday and reading through my giant stack of magazines, and then slept downstairs on the couch, since I didn't think I could help Friday up and down the stairs without Rakesh around.

This morning, he slipped as he went to drink water, and his head splashed in the water bowl (without his taking a drink). So he hasn't eaten anything other than the treat I gave him this morning. And right now, while I hang out in the living room working, he's over in the dining room. I know I shouldn't read too much into that, because he would do that before his amputation, but I worry that he's depressed.

He's adapting, and actually stays put (most of the time). He can stand up by himself, and has walked from the backdoor to the dining room, and another time, across the playroom, unassisted. For more than that, though, he will stand and wait for me to come hold the harness to help him walk.

I still remember him as a puppy, seeing him for the first time at the pound in St. Louis, on April 24, 1998. I sat in a chair, and he stood up and put his front paws on me, and they barely reached my knees. I wasn't sure about getting a dog, but Rakesh and I went outside to talk it over, and I thought about what our lives would be like if I left without that puppy, and my decision was made. On our way home, I sat in the backseat of the car, with him next to me in one of those blue recycling bins (w

My latest theory: third kids are the funniest.
(this is to follow up my previous theory that Indian women that don't like spicy food will eventually marry white guys who do. In other words, based on little fact, but as the theory hasn't been put out there yet, I may as well do it).

My brother-in-law, a third-born, will be performing at a comedy club in NYC on Monday. His brothers - nope. Never.

The logic behind it is: the first-born is always trying to be serious, to be grown up. Their comedic influences are their parents and the adults with whom the parents spend time. The downside of extra attention is the subsequent seriousness. Sense of humor is somewhat questionable, because parents still believe they should laugh at the kid's jokes, funny or not, much to the detriment of comedic development.

Second-borns want to be like their elder sibling. Their comedic influences are their parents (to some degree), and their elder sibling, who, as stated earlier, is too busy trying to be serious and getting false positive feedback.

Third-borns, however, are influenced not directly by their elder siblings' actions, but by the interactions between the two siblings. They benefit from the peer interactions the first-born is finally exposed to (hopefully having friends who are themselves third-borns), which is then brought home. And as the first and second born siblings spend time together, there is an absolute dispelling of seriousness because their interactions are free from parental hovering. This is what the third-born learns. That, and by then, parents are way over laughing at jokes that aren't funny. Only genuine laughter exists (or is held back).

When my youngest was one, Adam Sandler's movie, 'Don't Mess With Zohan,' was in the theaters. Nobody in my family has ever seen it, but apparently the elder two saw a preview for it on television, and started re-enacting some scene where Zohan puts his foot in another guy's face and says 'Smell it...smell it.' Well, one day, as I was changing my son's diaper, his feet are up in the air, and while I'm focused on the task at hand, he stretches out his foot and says 'mell it, mell it.' Seriously. A freaking one-year-old getting his diaper changed!

Flash forward to now, and my son, who is a month away from turning three, is hilarious. It's a bit of a problem, of course, because it's so hard to discipline him when I'm biting my lip to keep from smiling. But while he still can't properly pronounce his brothers' names, he's got comedic timing down pat.

And of course, as I write this, I cannot think of a single example of what he has said. Next time, I start with that!

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In my last post, I mentioned that I had scheduled an amputation for my dog. For this morning. Well, it's not happening. Not yet, anyhow. We just couldn't go through with it!

Everyone I talk to reassures me that dogs are incredibly resilient and adaptable, and that he'd adjust without all the psychological trauma that humans would have over losing a limb. He'd move his other paw more to the center, take a little while to figure it out, and move on. Just like he doesn't even notice the giant growth on his leg. It's just there (or in the case of the amputation, just isn't). There's nothing to cry about or mourn over.

So on the one hand, we could really learn a lot from dogs. They adapt, heck, they thrive. Hell, they eat vomit and feces voluntarily. They go beyond "If life gives you lemons, make lemonade." They apparently go so far as to believe "If life gives you lemons, make lemon-ice, expel it, and enjoy it again!" Dogs: Life's ultimate optimists!

But I digress (and disgust). The reason we decided not to go forward with the amputation was precisely because he doesn't notice it. He's not in pain, the leg is not bothering him, so removing the leg doesn't relieve him from anything except an unsightly lump that he doesn't even notice! That hardly seems fair. Sure, it's expensive to keep removing the lump again and again, but removing the leg seems a bit extreme right now. Kind of like a pre-emptive strike. Right now, at eleven-and-a-half, he can recover more easily than he would as he gets older. But it still seems too extreme.

Heck, we tried moving out to the suburbs a couple of years ago, figuring it would be easier to transition our kids to a new school before first grade and before pre-school (the start of 2 3-year cycles at their Montessori school). It was convenient and well-planned. But our hearts weren't in it, and in the end, we just couldn't do it. Things are good now. Let them be good. Enjoy them.

I don't know our long-term plans for either housing or our dog's leg. But why should I have to?

Shortly after I posted my last post, my sister was telling my dad about the scheduled amputation. Right away, he called me up to suggest various radiation treatment options for Friday, either with or without surgery to remove the lump. We owe it to Friday to at least try that first before going with an irreversible course of action. And while it will doubtlessly be pricey, that is why we earn money, right? To take care of the ones we love. For our kids we chose Ruffing. For our dog, we choose Radiation.

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It's been quite a summer so far. Work-wise, I haven't had much to do, which sucks only because we're still paying a sitter.

I don't believe that life is a movie, but sometimes, seemingly disparate things seem to fit together in such a way that you can't help but find the common theme.

Let me preface this by saying that I am happy. Mostly. I'm tired and cranky, and am certainly sick of the rain, but I've got a great family, great friends and neighbors, a great job where the management actually cares, and I am in great health. We're financially secure, have a roof over our heads, and live in a city where, despite the negative perception, remains a nice town with things to do with or without kids. Yes, I'm talking about Cleveland.

So why did I have to start off with that cheesy happy proclamation?

Earlier this summer, my mother-in-law had a double mastectomy after being diagnosed late this spring with breast cancer. She's obviously having a hard time with it, and we're all trying to be there for her.

Yesterday, the giant oak tree in front of our house was taken down. The crew arrived right before 8:30 and didn't leave until after 5.

And on Tuesday morning, my husband or I will be driving out to Avon Lake to drop off our eleven-and-a-half year old dog, Friday, to get his leg amputated. His recurrent tumor was removed for the third time late in March, and already it's come back in full force. It's been coming, but we kept putting off making the call. Finally, yesterday, I made the appointment. I'm sure we're going to have a harder time dealing with it than he will, or at least that's what we keep telling ourselves.

But I'm pretty sure that's what's causing the blahs that I've been feeling today. But I bet I could handle this mood a little better if I hadn't gotten the song "There's a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you" (I guess the song is actually called Hole Hearted) by Extreme stuck in my head. And not all the lyrics, which I don't know, but just that line.

That song, I suppose, would be the soundtrack of my Life as a Movie, which I suppose I would have to call "Hole-hearted". But I suppose the summer of 95 would make more sense with that title. Right, Manish?

I guess another song on the soundtrack would be "Friday, I'm in Love" by the Cure.
And apparently "If I Could Turn Back Time" by Cher (since that just popped in my head too).
Hell, while we're at it, let's throw in Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings".

Before long, I'm sure a Michael Jackson number would be added, given the airtime he's been getting over the past week.

Why does my head jump directly to cheesy eighties and nineties music?

I would have to include something like:
Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy"
Will Smith's "Summertime"
I suppose, Bananarama's "Cruel Summer" would fit
and must include Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours" only because that's my happy song.

But while we're adding happy songs, I'll have to list:
"Break my Stride" by Matthew Wilder
"No One Is To Blame" by Howard Jones (maybe not happy, but I like it)
"I Melt With You" by Modern English.

So, what would make up the soundtrack for your life?

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How old it is, I do not know
when from an acorn grew this tree
Already of respectable size were you
when the house came to be.

Ninety-two years of shade you gave,
of comfortable cool inside.
Extreme heat, frigid cold, fierce rain,
you weathered them all with pride.

Acorns you dropped aplenty
In a vain attempt to propagate
Around you a garden grew
And feet trotted

There is no justification
But for you, my majestic oak, none is needed
You know
You have seen
You understand
And you accept
Your time has come
as come it must.
You have seen much of man's folly
watched the futile struggles
of man versus man
man versus self
man versus society
and man versus nature
Humbly, silently, you stood by
watching, shading, accepting

But how does it feel to know
when your end will come?
Would you rather, like your brother one street over,
end suddenly
during a strong
taking down a car?
Man 0 Nature 1
Do you feel like exacting some revenge
in your last days?
A storm passed a few days past
You had the chance
And yet
Though you could take down
both co-conspirators
You do not.
For that is how I feel.
What right do I have?
I must protect my family
And love my neighbors
But why is my parcel of natural
and unnatural materials,
already having taken life from others
The spoils of nature
Long ago committed
(treeicide, if you will),
worth more than your life?

Our home will no longer be complete
Adrift without our anchor
Thank you
and good bye

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Over the past few days, I've learned I'm a hypocrite. Some would call it a realist, some would say I'm growing up. Whatever.

Long, long ago, when I was but a foolish lass, I held strong to my ideals. I remember learning about Earth Day in high school, and oh how it spoke to me. I relished the idea of a wonderful world in which people respected the earth, nay, that I would grow up to be one with the earth and show it respect. I became a vegetarian at age 14 after reading an article about Howard Jones. Moral reasons, all about respecting all of God's creatures.

In college and shortly after, I cared. I participated with some of my theater classmates in creating several public service announcements, shown during Saturday morning cartoons, educating kids about the dangers of lead poisoning. My first car had a gas mileage of something like 45 highway/36 city. I gave blood regularly. At one point, I even owned a pair of Birkenstocks!

Fast forward to three years ago. Ten days before giving birth to my third child, I break down and get the minivan. Two years ago, despite railing against the evil empire that is Microsoft, I bought a new computer - loaded with Vista. I then proceed to pay retail for Windows XP Professional to downgrade my computer. I reasoned that my clients will require me to be programming applications that will run on a PC, so I must program on a PC.

I recycle, but I don't compost. For my next car, I will choose four-wheel drive at the expense of gas mileage. I wear leather. Well, for that matter, I eat meat too. I did start eating meat again on my 19th birthday, so perhaps that should have been a sign. I buy packaged foods. I sometimes leave lights on in rooms that I leave.

This weekend, I went to buy a new lawn mower. My shoulder has been hurting me all spring and summer, and I finally realized it was that my mower has been tough for me to start, and that all the extra yanks were doing a number on my shoulder. Sadly, the fact that I've been lifting and carrying at least one kid for the past eight years hasn't helped strengthen the particular muscles needed for this task. Guess our gym equipment will start getting used after all. Anyhow, the mower really just needs a tune-up, and could probably run a lot longer, but I wanted to get a new one. I considered getting one of those Reel Mowers, and had we gone about attempting to replace the mower last summer, I probably would have gotten one. In fact, I came quite close to buying a battery-powered mower before I convinced myself (and my dad helped convince me) that the price of ownership was too high (sure, right now the battery lasts for 45 minutes, but after a few years - after the warranty runs out - if it goes down to only lasting 30 minutes, all of a sudden it takes me 2 days to mow my lawn, since I'll have to charge the battery overnight). I went with the mainstream option that will be cheaper to fix (although I didn't actually pay to get my old one fixed - what gives?). I went with the reliance on fossil fuels (gas powered mower).

And isn't that the whole benefit of Microsoft? No, wait, it's not reliable. It's not cheaper to fix. But it is mainstream and I went with it. Shame on me for being a hypocrite. I read this article about going open source, and the truth is, I won't do it. Much as I'd like to think that I would and should, it will never happen.

So now, instead of standing on my soapbox, spewing strong opinions about right versus wrong, being so self assured and eager to engage others in meaningful discussions about the merits of my point of view, I sit precariously on the edge of a crumbling ledge, trying to keep my head high and keep from falling off the slippery slope of compromised ideals.

But that, in truth, is why I've enrolled my children at Ruffing. While being good to the earth is an inner struggle for me, I want my kids to be somewhere where being res

It's so hard to apologize. It's so easy to get angry, to blow the slightest wrongdoing way out of proportion, and to hold onto that anger. I do it, my kids do it, and I really think that the most valuable lesson I can teach them (okay, my most valuable lesson du jour) is how to let go of anger.

One child trips over his brother's foot and gets angry.

"You made me fall!"
"But I didn't do it on purpose"
"Yes you did"
"No I didn't"
"You always try to hurt me. I hate you!"
"But it was an accident"

and on and on until both brothers are angry with each other, perhaps both have managed to hit each other, both are crying, and one is running to Mommy to punish the other for hitting. It really doesn't take long to descend to this level, and then I have to put them in their separate corners (chairs in the living room) and talk to them calmly.

Other times, the conversation goes like this:
Me: "Why the hell can't you put your bowl in the dishwasher! It's right next to the sink."
Husband: "The dishwasher was full of clean dishes"
Me: "And of course it's my job to empty it"
Husband: "I was running late"
Me: "You had time to sit and read the whole sports section before you were suddenly running late. You always do this!"

Okay, so this conversation usually just goes on in my head in the morning, when I see the bowl in the sink that my husband left in there before he headed off for his 7am shift. Sometimes it's after I've returned home after dropping off the kids at school, while I am actively avoiding getting any work done. But that doesn't mean I want to spend my break doing dishes. I mean, I've been teaching my kids that I'm not their maid, that they should help out around the house, and my husband is totally undermining my lessons by leaving his bowl - with dried, crusty, cereal bits in it (couldn't he at least fill the damn bowl with water!) - sitting out for me to clean up. By the time he gets home, I'm stewing. He's gone this long without apologizing, and he doesn't even come in repentant. It's outrageous! Unforgivable. And so I explode. This anger has been building up inside of me all day, and I lose it. Sure, to you it's just a bowl, but to me, it's become a symbol of oppression, of all the hardships I've had to bear - nay, that all women have had to bear - at the hands of men, in this Man's World. Oh, the injustice. And sure, we could dismiss this minor misgiving as just that, or we could take a stand.

So I wait until he says something, anything, and let him have it.

In other words, I go a little overboard. Just a tad.

Now, this isn't to say that there aren't times when he is at fault. But either way, I'd like to think that one of the reasons our marriage works is that we're willing to apologize. Yes, we can both get hot-headed. And usually, the word "Always" is my clue that we're going a bit too far, and that it's time to shut up.

Generalizations don't help. I can always find examples to back up my generalizations, but that involves actively ignoring the examples that clearly contradict my statements. And the other person really cannot defend him/herself by pointing out the incidents when my statement is not true. Because once I'm in generalization mode, I'm not listening. Pointing out why my statement is fault means the other person is just trying to contradict me and never listens.

And this is why I make my kids sit down and calm down a little bit before we talk it out. Growing up, I would be sent to my room to calm down before my parents would even discuss my problems. When I first got married, my husband hated when I gave him "the silent treatment," which is when I would calm myself down before discussing rationally what was bothering me. So now I'm at a cross-roads. I want to get back to that point, to get my kids to that point, so that we don't say things we will later regret. This doesn't mean we just push down our anger and bury o

First of all, my apologies to Shel Silverstein. I really do love "The Giving Tree"; it is among my favorites. Yet, as I walked my dog recently, this "parody" came to me, and I have found that I cannot let it go. And so, here is my first draft. Perhaps this will be just the first of a series of drafts of this poem. Perhaps this will be enough to get it out my system. Perhaps it is simply a writing exercise that would best be forgotten.

For those of you not familiar with the original story, please go read it. Click here to view the Amazon page of the book, which also has some good reviews. That this story is so controversial is wonderful, because to me, that means that people are reading (hopefully; I know the 'Harry Potter' bans at many schools were spearheaded by individuals who had never read the stories). I disagree with the first reviewer that the story should not be read to children younger than 10; my kids are perfectly capable of learning my values, and discussions about such from a young age seem to me to be logical.

So after adding the above discussion, I almost feel bad about writing this poem...
but not really.

The Living Tree

Once there was a tree
And she loved a little dog
And every day the dog would come
and he would pee on her trunk
and chew on her branches

and the tree was happy

And on this tree there lived a squirrel
And the tree loved the squirrel
For every day the squirrel would come
and it would climb up her trunk
and pick her acorns
and look for food in her shade
and store them in her trunk
and it would run on her branches and play

and the tree was happy

But then there were those times
when the squirrel would be out
and the dog would come to visit
and the dog would chase the squirrel
and the squirrel would run up the trunk, and onto a branch
and chirp angrily at the dog
while the dog barked angrily back

And the tree would drop a branch and say
"Come, dog, pee on my trunk,
Chew on my branches,
And be happy."
But the dog could not hear the tree
for trees cannot really talk
and the dog was barking far too loudly anyhow
and when he wasn't barking he was growling
just so he wouldn't have to hear the squirrel's taunting chirps.

So the tree would shake its branches and say
"Come, squirrel, gather some acorns,
Run on my branches,
And be happy."
But the squirrel would not listen
and would dig its claws into the trunk
to keep from falling off
the crazy shaking tree

And this hurt the tree,
so she shook instinctively
and the squirrel fell to the ground.
The tree could only watch
As the dog saw the squirrel,
forgot the tree,
and chased the squirrel.
Around and around
Side to side
The dog's large frame
attached to a leash
was no match
for the quick maneuvering
and strong survival instinct
of the stunned squirrel.
The tree watched
as the dog wandered away
and the squirrel ran up
another tree
...for now.

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When my first-born was a year-and-a-half old, I attended a parenting class following the book 'How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk' by Adele Faber and Elaine Maislich. It was a good discussion, the videos were suitably dated and cheesy, yet the messages were still valuable and insightful. And I'd like to think they've helped me to be a better parent (although perhaps not so much lately, but I'm getting back). But what I remember most about that time - what I remind myself of - is the reason why I took the class. Yes, it was being taught by a friend who has always inspired me as a parent, and if she was teaching a class about parenting, then I was going to attend. But in addition to that, I actually went in thinking I would master the skills before I needed them, so that when these situations actually arose (because I did at least acknowledge that handling a child who is barely talking is much different than parenting an elder kid), I would already be an expert. HA!!! Let me repeat. HA!!!

In high school, I came across an excerpt from Ralph Waldo Emerson's 'Self Reliance', which I photocopied and taped to my bedroom wall:

"In every man's education, there comes a time when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better or worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed upon that plot of ground which is given to him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents.
...
Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not he hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it he goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world.
...
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. — 'Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.' — Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood."

There's so much to this essay that I like, that I just couldn't narrow down the selection, but I want to bring out a single quote (which I recently misquoted):

"Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day."

And why not?! If all that you regret later in life is your strong conviction of a previous age, then great. I like to think back at myself from those days, and laugh at my ignorance and innocence, but it also reminds me of my hope, my ideals. That I could be a parent that could talk to my kids rationally instead of just yelling like crazy.

Just this morning, when one kid was so exhausted he wouldn't get ready, yes, I had to drag him out of bed and give him a bath, all while he was crying, but I didn't lose it (completely). I felt for him, and I did what I could for him to make him feel better (and get ready on time).

But anyhow, back to "the talk." A

So I just watched Mo Williams shoot an 80 foot shot (give or take) for 3 right before the end of the half. Sweet shot. Nice game, so far.

But my only problem with Mo Williams is that as a mom, I keep thinking of Mo Willems when I hear his name. For those of you not in the know, Mo Willems wrote such books as 'Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus', 'The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog', and 'Knuffle Bunny.' Kids love them. Check them out.

But he is not a basketball player, he does not make awesome shots as the clock runs out for the half, and I very much doubt they look alike. Besides, my husband is tired of correcting my pronunciation when I talk about the Cavs player.

Anyone else have the same problem?

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I had a rough afternoon today. An evening shift for the hubby meant I was playing zone defense against my 3 boys. And since it started off with Thing One throwing a tantrum when I asked him to put away some dishes - to which I responded with putting my foot down, which totally didn't work. In the end (with my husband's interaction), Thing One put away the dishes, but the cloud hanging over my head stuck around. I was being a little bull-headed, a little childish, but I couldn't let go of my grudge.

So at dinnertime, when the kids wouldn't stop talking, and weren't eating, and right after Thing Two's dirty sock landed in my food bowl (which was a few minutes after his other sock hit me in the head), I resigned. I explained that they were in charge I grabbed a magazine, put Thing One in charge, and sat down in the living room to read.

A little while later (after Thing One had finished eating), the diners dispersed. Thing Three wandered into the living room to sit with me. I ignored him (dark cloud still hovering) and kept reading. At some point, they all wandered into the room, and I explained that they were in responsible for cleaning up after dinner and getting ready for bed. They ran upstairs and returned in their pajamas, teeth brushed.

I eventually got up and saw that Thing One and Thing Two were taking care of the dishes. Only, when I showed up, they stopped. I cleared up their misconception and kept them at it. Thing Two was directed to finish his food and then clean the table. The others had wandered down to the basement for game night, after enjoying cookies that I had managed to bake before I went postal.

We made it upstairs, dashing Thing One's hopes for a game night ("But it's only 6:50 and bedtime isn't until 8," he argued, to which I replied that it takes that long to get to sleep by 8).

Upstairs, Thing Three played with water at the bathroom sink instead of brushing his teeth; Thing Two whined about not being able to make his bed by himself; and Thing One lay on the floor making up a complex point chart (to be sure to get his due share of points for being in charge for the evening; in lieu of an allowance, we're offering points, which can be redeemed for video game time, television time, or other "prizes"; One of these days, I'll have to actually start keeping track of these. They also can lose points for misbehavior, but I prefer to overlook those - or at least just tell them they're losing points. And really, since I'm not actually keeping track of them, it's not particularly negative, right?)

Tangent: For a while, I kept a "good deeds" chart on a dry-erase board on the side of the refrigerator. On this board, I would write down the good deeds that each child had done for the day. I would ignore the bad stuff, and just keep reinforcing the good. It actually works really well for my boys, and I bet it would have helped me out today. It forces me to focus on the positive and not linger on the storm cloud.

In the end, I only had to return upstairs once to discipline them. And I really can't keep thinking about how rough they made my evening, because really, they did well. Maybe this was more useful for me because I needed to let go. My kids will not do chores if I don't leave them a chance to do them. I've been in hyper-control mode, keeping to my strict schedule (which hasn't left time for the mudroom project, or for fixing the window I broke, or anything else because I have to protect my evening relaxation time). And it really doesn't suit me. I'm stressed, and I take it out on my kids. And I hate to admit it, but I can tell that I'm going to have a bad day when I start my thoughts by thinking about me. "Look what he did to me", "It's not fair to me", "I deserve..", "I wanted..." Yeah, some days suck. But the way that my boys pulled through and got to bed sooner than if they were with anyone other than me (ok, so maybe I wasn't quite as hands off as I thought) make me realize that I am lucky to hav

Today's Prompt: For today's prompt, I want you write a poem about a memory. The memory can be good or bad. The memory can be a blend of several memories. I suppose it could even be a memory that you're not sure you remember correctly. Take your time finding a good one (or good ones).

Welcome to High School

Tenth grade
Right after lunch
we enter the room
for an hour of intense learning

What I remember most
is that feeling
on the first day of class
when our teacher said
our tests would be
open notes

I can't recall
but I must have smiled
if only to myself

The notes I took
all year long
were thorough, quite complete

and yet

as I sat
in that same chair
looking down
at each exam
the memory
of my inner smile
of my naive joy
rushed back to me
and the fear plunged deeper
as I realized
again and again
that it's only open notes
because it didn't really help

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Wow, I actually managed to do it! It almost didn't happen, considering I've been struggling to get my computer working like it should for this new project I'm on. I'm commuting 30 minutes for the first time since the summer of 2000, and while I'm on the job, I'm struggling with a system that doesn't want to work for me! What a pain! And so in the evenings, after putting the boys to bed, I'm trying to get the computer fixed, and it hasn't happened yet. So yes, I am surprised that I managed to get this written.

Today's Prompt: For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general. Maybe something related to taking out the trash each week or washing the dishes every night--or something more bizarre (yet still a routine).

Here's what I managed to spit out... I know, not particularly creative. At best, I managed to rhyme. Sorry. I'll try harder next time...I hope!

Weeknights

I put the kids
to bed each night
a little after eight

I head downstairs
to watch tv
relax and vegetate

A happy time
A restful time
Two hours just for me

Forgetting work
Forgetting kids
De-stressing, being free

The clock ticks on,
approaching ten,
When I should head upstairs

Sleep awaits
But much to do
Before I can get there

Let out the dog,
make lunches three,
And clean what has been messed

And once upstairs
there's more to do
before I get to rest

wear my pj's
brush my teeth
make sure the kids are fine

so once again
I dread the ten
And the end of resting time

For once I sleep
It starts again
Restart the daily grind

Until, of course,
The weekend
When we all get to unwind

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Today is our first "Two for Tuesday" prompt of the month. On these days, I offer two prompts. Don't worry: You don't need to write a poem for each prompt (but you're more than welcome to if you feel up to the challenge).

Prompt #1: I want you to write a clean poem. Take this however you wish. Clean language, clean subject matter, or cleaning the dishes. Of course, some twisted few will automatically link "cleaning" with hired hitmen. That's okay, as long as your poem is somehow linked to clean.

Prompt #2: I want you to write a dirty poem. Take all that stuff I wrote in the first prompt and twist it upside down. The opposite of clean is dirty; so, do what ya gotta do to produce a dirty poem. (Gosh, I hope this challenge doesn't get too messy as a result.)

My Poem: Untitled

A baby's voice, so clear and clean
The gentle babble so sweet
How fun to interpret those first words
To figure out what they meant

And just a few years later
The only thing that I hear
Their favorite words all seem to be
related to excrement

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