Oh 'Mamma Mia' are you a 'Dancing Queen'?

It's not very often that a woman wishes she were 8-years-older, but when I ran across this my first thought was - that would be a lot of fun.

Sadly my age (and likely the inability to find two other friends willing to humiliate themselves along side me) prevent me from entering. But I hope some of you join in the fun.

For those who didn't click on the link - Pond's is sponsoring a contest timed with the release of the film Mamma Mia. They are searching for "The trio of women who best embody the sassiness, sexiness and confidence of Donna & the Dynamos from the movie, MAMMA MIA!"

You and two friends have to be over 40 and either go to New York City to audition live, or submit a video through the Pond's Web site , singing either "Mamma Mia" or "Dancing Queen" - two great songs by ABBA.

Come on you know you want to enter! And if anyone does, send me the video as well and I'll try to get it to publish on the blog so that even if you don't make the top five you can still get your 15 minutes of fame.

For all the information you need about the contest go here: http://www.ponds.com/dynamos.aspx

Sheep Shape

Knitters rejoice!
The Connecticut Sheep Breeders Association Sheep, Wool and Fiber Festival is Saturday April 26, rain or shine, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. at the Tolland Agricultural Center, Route 30 in Vernon/Rockville.
This is the 99th annual festival.
For information, see www.ctsheep.org/event.htm

Time for the big K

The elementary school where my 4-year-old will start kindergarten in September has a delightful series of transition programs.
Children are invited to one of the two kindergarten classrooms for a themed activity. Last month, the principal read a book as children sat on the color-blocked rug with their mothers. My little one was shy, and as the principal read the book for the second time, telling the children it was time act out the animal noises, he pressed his face alternatively into the rug and my lap.
The other boys and girls were doing much the same. One boy latched onto his mother's leg and refused to budge.
A number of the parents and children recognized each other, since they were enrolled in the preschool that is housed at the school.
The animal theme was shifted to a craft, as each child was given a tiny container of Play-Doh and encouraged to mold their favorite animal out of it. T started making a lime-green dinosaur, that is until he saw me rolling a piece into the form of a snake and picking up tiny pieces of pink Play-Doh off the table and rolling them into two little eyes.
Suddenly, he wanted to make a snake.
And he wasn't so timid anymore.
Forty-five minutes later, we made our way home with a bag of cinnamon graham crackers.
Today is the second, a music and movement mini class.
I'm looking forward to it as much as T is.
It's a terrific idea for him to become more familiar with the school and the idea of kindergarten.
Though I beginning to think the "transition" part is more for the parents to ease anxiety, judging from how quickly T is at adapting to new environments.

BOOK REVIEW: Road Map to Holland

Each and every family raising a child with Down syndrome has a unique story to tell –of how they learned the diagnosis, how they handled the news, the reaction of family and friends, the sorrows and the joys involved in raising their child.

“Road Map to Holland: How I found my way through my son's first two years with Down Syndrome,” by Jennifer Graf Groneberg, is one such tale. This book is unflinchingly honest. At times it made me feel as if I was reading someone’s private diary and that I should put it down, that I should look away. I couldn’t. The book’s title comes from a piece written by Emily Perl Kingsley – “Welcome to Holland,” something that many families who are raising a child with Down Syndrome are introduced at one point or another.

Groneberg is a great writer – there’s no mistaking that. The emotional rollercoaster of her experience -- giving birth to premature twins and then learning 5-days later that the oldest, Avery, has Down Syndrome-- pulls you in and keeps you turning the pages.

I’ve often told people that when we learned through prenatal testing that Nikki would have Down syndrome that coming to terms with it and accepting it was very similar to going through the stages of grief. And that you can’t compare how my family handled the news to how another family handled it.

But I found myself drawing comparisons – and my reaction was no Disney moment of running through a meadow with birds chirping as they fluttered around my head. Nope, I sobbed uncontrollably at that doctor’s appointment and several others that followed.

I found myself at times wanting to shout at Groneberg and tell her that the diagnosis isn’t about her, it is about her son. I wanted to shout that she needed to end the pity party and start taking positive, pro-active steps. I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around fact that Groneberg didn’t call her state’s early intervention program shortly after her babies were released from the NICU, but waited until they were 10-months old. To me, that delay meant precious months were lost.

Groneberg does use the book to shine a light on some of the harder topics associated with raising a child with Down syndrome, including the varied reactions of family and friends to the news that your child has Down syndrome; and even the loss of a friend because of your child’s diagnosis. And like many other books on the subject, she doesn’t avoid talking about prenatal testing and the fact that 90 percent of women who learn that their child will have Down syndrome choose to end their pregnancy. She rails against those numbers, and even finds herself unsure of her opinions on abortion – which prior to having Avery was solidly prochoice.

Groneberg deserves accolades for her resources at the back of the book. The list covers everything from books for children to great resources for families, teachers or just those who want to learn more.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I was writing a review for the Mother-talk blog tour, I’m not sure I would have finished reading the book. I had trouble relating to Groneberg’s constant sense of melancholy and her long struggle to accept her son for who he is and not what she wants him to be.

Other readers, who are raising a child with Down syndrome, or a child with any special needs, might have a very different reaction to the book. Every family’s story is different, but it’s not always easy to relate to each other’s tales.

giving mom some grey hair

So Nikki has allergies and asthma and this time of year it's not uncommon for them to both be in full gear. But last night was a strange cosmic event.

She went to bed fever-free and just a bit sniffly. An hour and a half later she woke up with a 104.4 degree fever and coughing so hard she was spitting up. (Do other mothers try to catch bodily fluids as they exit their kids? What is it about becoming a mom that makes catching throw up suddenly seems like a normal and good thing?).

Because there was a bit of blood involved I called the pediatrician and soon we were off to Middlesex Hospital. But before leaving our house there were two hastily placed calls. The first to my husband at work asking if there was anyway he could leave early and the second to my parents letting them know I was dropping off a sleeping baby. (And a big thank you to Angelina, Matt and Ryan for covering last night so I didn't have to do the ER drill by myself - I owe you all chocolate this weekend).

So Nikki was poked and prodded. Pneumonia - nope, her chest x-ray was clear; ear infection - negative; strep - negative; flu - negative. End result it appears she has a respiratory virus, which severely aggravated her asthma.

When she woke this morning I expected a feverish child who would want hugs and cuddles all day. Negative to that as well. No fever, and when I last checked in at home, she was happily playing away, albeit still a bit sniffly. But really can someone explain how a child can go from no fever to 104.4 back to no fever in less than 12 hours?

As for me, I'm blaming the new grey hair I found in the bathroom mirror on Nikki.

As an aside - the new emergency room at Middlesex Hospital is quite nice. Way bigger than what I remember the old space being. I hope most of you don't ever have to go visit it, but if you do it's definately looks to be first class.

Grabbing some air

My older son was playing outside with his friends on Sunday, and one suggested they all ride bikes. B carried his bicycle down the front steps, forgetting his longtime protests that it was too big for him. He got it last summer, when he was much smaller. He never really tried to ride it, so since then he’s been hesitant to do so.
But peer pressure is a curious thing. It gets kids to do things a parent would swear their child would never do.
I was at work in New Britain at the time, otherwise I would have sat on the front steps just in case he lost control. B couldn’t reach the ground last year with his toes, and he didn’t trust the stopping power of the hand brakes. Last year, he would get on the bike from the curb and dismount it much the same way.
B called me on the phone, in a small voice, saying he hurt his leg.
“Outside,” he said, “I fell off my bike.”
He wasn’t crying, so I asked if he scratched himself or if he was bleeding.
He assured me no, but his leg hurt a lot.
“Can you come home?” he asked, again in that small voice.
I told him to take some ice and put it on his leg and to lie down on the couch and watch a TV show for a little bit.
“My friends are helping me out,” he said.
Good, I thought. They’ll be joking and laughing in no time and B will forget all about his leg.
Another phone call. “Mom, do I need an ambulance?” B asked, plaintively.
“No,” I comforted him. “Nothing is broken. Just relax.”
“Can I stay home from school tomorrow?”
Always the opportunist, this kid.
Again, the phone rang. “Mom, I can’t breathe.”
Great, I thought. The kid has asthma.
Then, in the background, “I think you’re going into shock.” His 13-year-old friend, Dr. Doolittle.
I wrapped up my desk, told my boss I was finishing in Middletown, and headed toward home.
My husband, who had run out for a short time, which turned into a long time, was unreachable by phone.
As I peeled down Route 9 toward home, I knew B was OK, as I’d talked to him. His panic was entirely self-induced, I thought.
Halfway home, I get yet another call. “Mom, E’s home.”
Then E calls me. “He fell off his bike. I think he’s more scared than hurt.”
Great. I drove to work in Middletown instead of home.
A couple hours later, when I arrived home from work, B was on the computer, taking full advantage of his “injury.”
“Mom, can you get me a drink/something to eat/a blanket/a pencil and paper?”
The next morning, B went to school without incident.
T and I drove toward preschool, saw the Press building had been reduced to a pile of concrete rubble over the weekend, and stopped to watch the construction workers.
Giant Caterpillars kicked up clouds of gray dust.
As a light mist began to fell, T and I watched.
I saw a man in a blue sweatshirt, hood over his head like the Reaper, head toward us.
I know that guy. It’s our neighbor!
“Wow, B really took a header yesterday!” D said.
“What do you mean? Did you see it?” My mouth went dry.
D went on to describe the scene.
B was riding along, talking to his friend, not even paying attention to where he was going. He smashed head-on into a parked car and flew over the handlebars.
“There was clear liquid all over the street. I think he peed himself,” my kind neighbor went on. “I asked him if he was OK, and he kind of hobbled off.”
I said a quick and silent prayer thanking the Lord for my son’s safety.
“Actually, he didn’t,” I said, icily. “When I got home, he was wearing his same pants. It must have just been water.”
I marveled at my son’s ability to walk away from a magnificent accident relatively unscathed.
Then I started to beat myself up for ever doubting him.
The light rain turned to steady as I said goodbye.
My neighbor walked away, headed to breakfast. At least a mile’s walk in the rain.
As I grabbed T’s hand, I thought I should have offered him a ride there.
Then I thought better of it.
After all, he could have left out the last part.
Guess that bicycle will be gathering cobwebs in the basement until next year.
It’s just as well.
B will have probably grown 6 inches by then.

A stitch (back) in time

Recently, I completed a two-Saturday workshop at Wethersfield’s Webb-Deane-Stevens Museum. We were taught to make an 1830s shawl based on a pattern from the 19th-century sewing manual, “The Workwoman’s Guide.”
The pattern takes a little getting used to, as even the most experience of our group had to make adjustments as she went along.
It uses the Victorian Crow’s-foot-Stitch, a dense pattern that provides substantial warmth.
The instructions are: Set up any number of stitches divisible by three, with one over. After having knitted one plain row, begin the pattern as follows: Knit the first stitch, * make a stitch, slip a stitch, knit two plain stitches, pass the slipped stitch over the two plain ones, repeat from *. Purl the whole of the next row, increasing once at the beginning and the end.
Increasing on the purl side is awkward at first, however we discovered that if you do the increases in one or two stitches, it makes a nice border.
Historian and museum staff member Linda Pagliuco led the workshop and tours of the museum’s textile collection, including spinning wheels and looms in the attic. She says the museum offers the workshop every March in honor of Women’s History Month, with additional events. See www.webb-deane-stevens.org for information.
The photo above is my first attempt — with a size 6 needle in Farmhouse Yarns sock yarn. Once I worked it to about 6 inches, I realized it was a little too scratchy to be a comfortable shawl.
My current attempt is done in a milk chocolate-brown cotton-poly Italian yarn with a size 9 needle. However, I’ve put my shawl aside for a time to work on the Classic Elite Silk Top Down Sweater in Butter.
As any knitter knows, working on two or even three projects at the same time is all-too-common.

One man's trash is another's treasure

The longtime Middletown Press building is coming down.
Friday morning, T and I took a drive to buy colorful plastic eggs at CVS. He and I had decided to fill them with jellybeans (T's favorite sweet) and hide them around the yard.
He delights in egg hunts. Last year, his hunts lasted well past Easter. He'd urge me to hide them around the house (empty) over and over again, and he'd spend hours trying to find them. Then it was his turn. To give you an idea of how a 3-year-old's mind works, unfailingly, T would hide them in the same dang places every single time, and I would have to "hunt" for them, feigning surprise that an egg would be hidden in the baby wipes box, under the pillow, on the windowsill, ect.
So this day, I was sure he was eager to get home to get the project started.
But then we drove past the Press.
Excavators, Bobcats, dump trucks, workers in hard hats, piles of red bricks all populated the site, milling about. T was fascinated.
Although it was cold with a terrible wind, he stood on the wooden bench just past the sidewalk and ... watched.
For half an hour.
Fascinated.
Dad walked around the corner, then went up to one of the workers and spoke for a few minutes.
We couldn't hear because of the machines' noise.
He trudged back against the wind, carrying two large bricks in each hand.
T was in heaven.
We brought the bricks home and T went about re-constructing the site with his own trucks. He used the digger to scoop the dark earth in our flower bed area, next to the pachysandras. I winced, watching the dirt spill onto our slate walkway, and his tan pants, winter coat and fingers get really soiled.
But I let him play.
It kept him busy for hours that day, and again the next day and even Easter Sunday.
We drove past the Press this morning on the way to preschool.
The building, only a concrete frame, rose up from mountains of bricks.
It's a difficult sight for one who worked there for more than 11 years.
But T saw the scene not nostalgically as I, but as inspiring.
I'm sure a whole new construction site will be created this evening when we arrive home.

A sure sign of spring

Nope not the birds chirping or the crocus and other spring flowers beginning to push their way through the soil.

Driving down Washington Street today, I saw a something that means spring is really coming.

Resting in the parking lot at Palmer Field were trailers and carnival rides.

Coleman's is coming.

Any bets as to how much rain we'll get this year?

Toy story

“I’m yook-in’ for some new toys,” T said, with the attic door wide open, bleeding heat into the crawl space that serves as our storage area.
(My husband tells me this is physically impossible, since cold air forms a barrier that heat cannot penetrate.)
“Mom! Help me!” he called, while I made the bed in the next room.
We go through this periodically.
T thinks there’s a box — or two — of toys, dubbed “new,” that he has long ago “lost.”
It’s like a treasure hunt for him, a chore for me, as he directs me to open boxes and bins containing potential booty that he spies from the door’s threshold.
He won’t venture any further inside, leaving that task to me, because he thinks there a badger in there.
OK, it was me that told him that years ago, hoping he’d stay out and stop messing up my organized area.
I know terrorizing your kids is one of the top 5 no-nos as a parent, right up there next to remembering to feed and clothe them periodically.
But the only thing T responds to is his badger phobia. Dinosaurs are his friends, bugs are cute, werewolves are not real.
I think he thinks the attic is an infinite source of toys, like how Jesus’ basket yielded unlimited bread and fish.
How nice it would be if the principle applied to all our material wants.
When I’m in there, I’m under pressure to produce something fantastic and never-before-seen, or at the very least — forgotten.
Look what I found: A wooden mouse-shaped clapper, complete with brown felt ears; a chunky, red-wood, old-fashioned string-pull top, his seldom-used indoor tent with the missing pole.
“Gimme dem all,” T instructs me, holding out his little palm.
His response is always the same — and wonderful: “I’ve been yook-in’ for deese forever!” he’ll say gleefully.
“Ganks, Mom.”
I’ll clean up the mess tomorrow.

Mommy Math

This past week can be summed up in a simple equation:

stomach virus (1 husband + 1 preschooler) + double ear infection (1 infant) = one tired momma

Thankfully everyone is back at school and work as of today.

Anyone willing to be the odds maker as to whether or not I can avoid getting sick as well?

Mouseke-toodles!

A pair of fried eggs revealed the intruder.
My husband slid them from the tiny frying pan onto his plate, next to a slice of rustic 7-grain toast.
“Honey, look at this!” I heard him yell from the other room.
“What does this look like?” he asked, indicating what looked like a handful of ¼-inch-long, coal-black miniature seed pods.
“Caraway seeds?” I offered, perplexed.
“Mouse droppings,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“No way do we have a mouse,” I returned, never having encountered one in all my life.
But he was certain; dumped his plate in the garbage, then opened the metal drawer under the oven, where we store the pans.
“Yup!” he said, pulling out pot after pot onto the floor, inspecting the insides for droppings.
He was right. We had a mouse.
As visions of mousetraps snapped in my head, I cleaned the area, making sure to wash my hands afterward.
T scampered into the kitchen. “Here, mousey, mousey; chirp, chirp, CHIRP!” —like he was calling a cat.
The next morning as Dad and B slept, T and I hatched our plan.
“You know how Gramma has those mouse traps that snap shut and kill the mouse?” I asked him.
His eyes grew wide.
“I’m going to find out a way to capture the mouse without hurting him,” I said.
“Yippee!!” he yelled. “We’re gonna catch a m-owwwww-se.”
As I set about looking online for “humane mouse traps,” it occurred to me T was thinking we’d keep the little guy as a pet.
First we looked up “mouse droppings” to make sure we weren’t dealing with — gasp! — a rat.
Next, we watched two You-Tube videos demonstrating a homemade trap using white mice. It worked within minutes, the video assured us.
We had all the elements: a paper towel roll, peanut butter, cheese, newspaper, container, books and blocks.
I pulled out the under-oven drawer and T and I set up the trap in the now open area.
Stack up the books and blocks to the level of the trash can, place a gob of peanut butter at the end of the slightly flattened paper towel roll; balance it precariously, so the baited end is over the receptacle, crumple newspaper in the bottom; and place a slice of cheese on top. Move the contraption to the wall, where mice travel for safety.
The plan was the mouse, drawn to the dark hole of a tube to investigate, would run toward the peanut butter, his weight would force the tube into the garbage can and he’d land on soft newspaper, find the cheese, eat his heart out, then fall asleep with a full belly.
The first morning, T woke up before sunrise and thumped downstairs.
“We caught the mouse, Mom!” he yelled. I ran to the kitchen.
No mouse, just a tipped-over tube.
But, upon closer investigation, the cheese had tiny gnaw marks along all four sides.
We were on the right track.
The next night, we set out a toilet paper tube. And a deeper pail.
I asked T if he thought the mouse would remember the previous night’s trap.
“I don’t know,” T answered, after thinking a minute.
The next morning, T was up again early. “We caught the mouse, Mom!” he yelled. I ran to the kitchen.
No mouse. No tipped-over tube, either. This mouse was smart.
Inside the trash can, the now dried-up piece of American cheese bore the telltale mouse tooth marks.
From what I could tell, the only two ways this guy got out of that pail were another mouse held onto his tail as he walked around the toilet paper tube and dangled into the pail, nibbling to his heart’s content. Or, a friend pulled him out.
Stymied, frustrated and out of cheese, T and I took a break from setting up the trap last night.
But I’ve got plans. Tonight, I’m recruiting our 4-foot kitchen garbage can for duty.
T's got his flashlight ready.

I fought the hat

And I finally won.

Back in December I wrote about the hat that was supposed to be my grandfather's Christmas present and how I couldn't finish it in time. I put the project in "time out" for a bit. Really, I wanted the yarn to think about why it should work with me instead of against me in making this project.

After the baby knitting was done, I took it back out and tried again. I went up on needle size and added some stitches and then last week I looked down and realized it was finished. It was a little bit big on me -- which I took to be a good sign, as it should fit my grandfather.

The word I received at work tonight - my grandfather was happily wearing his new hat while watching UConn basketball.

For those who care the pattern is Kent's moss-stitch-beret, with some adjustments for my failure to make gauge - brim was done in size 7 needles and the body of the hat in size 8s. I also cast on 100 stitches instead of 90. For my version I used Malabrigo worsted in Azul Profundo.

Parents: honorary team players

It's the last game of the city basketball season and my son's team is matched up with one of the best in the intermediate league of 10- to 12-year-olds.
The teams go through their paces, warming up in two lines, one shooting and the other returning the ball.
B starts off the game in offense position.
All season, B's played with variable effort, 8 a.m. games see him slightly foggy in the first quarter — he's still waking up. In later games, he shows middling effort — with occasional bursts of glory.
And ... they're off!
Right away, our top ball handler, a stick-legged boy, smallest in the league, who as singlemindedly as any pro player uses his explosive speed to dance around, in between, over and in one magnificent instance — through the legs of a leaping forward twice his size, falls then skids across the floor like it's waxed to a high shine.
But it's not — this is skin to wood and he's smacked his knee for the umpteenth time this season.
We've got to watch this — the audience of aunts, uncles, grandparents, players waiting for their game in the next hour, older siblings goofing off, little brothers and sisters figeting as they devour their Skittles, and parents — who shout, "Shake it off!" and sit rigid, half a court away from their injured son, torn between dashing to his aid and remaining part of the amorphous crowd, bobbing heads of parental concern.
But — he's up! — squeezing the tears from his eyes and limping as the coach arcs his arm across #12's slight shoulders, and a ripple of applause runs through the spectators.
The game resumes. Our team shows a ferocity it's never before displayed, hungry for this last win. But the other guys are taller and faster and work together like one 10-armed, smooth-running machine.
We onlookers may see that dynamic, sizing up the match swiftly from the bleachers. But our kids are in the game, each a pawn with his moves known, but knee-jerk reflexes triumph — we're racking up fouls like brass rings.
But — hey, parents, we're not part of the action. We're not even on the floor.
"Stop him!" I yell, "Cover your guy!" and "Get the ball!"
(My husband smugly says, "It's called 'defense.'")
I don't know basketball, I want to scream at him, I never even paid attention to a game before B began playing three years ago. I'm Mom, B's number one fan and a vital component of his game!
But I'm not, really.
Last year, I asked B if he heard my direction from the stands, my uncontrollable commands and howls of praise.
"No, Mom. Just stop screaming. You're embarrassing me."
Thanks, kid.
A boy tumbles just inches from my seat in the front row. I see him slam down on his right side so hard his sneaker flies off.
It's my son!
It all happens so lightening-fast, the ref's got him up and hobbling back to his spot under the left side of the hoop before my maternal instinct even kicks in.
My kid's never been hurt, the crumpled heaps on court have always been other parents' boys that I've been sick with worry over for the long few minutes our collective injury resolves itself.
B's eyes are red, and wet; he's grimacing, trying to run but markedly last in the pack — if this was a herd of Plateosauruses, my 4-year-old's obsession with all things dinosaurs so ingrained in my head I'm of pack mentality, invisioning my older son's certain doom from a pouncing predator.
But it's only a game, Mom! And B's out of it now — the ref's realized he's too momentarily hurt to continue play.
He's safe! I want to yell, but this isn't the Mesozoic Era, it's a bunch of fifth- to seventh-graders' last hurrah.
Two minutes on the clock and we're matched 25 to 25, then up a point, down two, matched again, 28 to 28.
Two long blasts of the ref's whistle. "Two minutes overtime," he says, barely audible without a mic.
My son's on the sidelines, red-cheeked with his chin in his palm. That's me, I think, vainly inserting myself in the game. I can still cheer on my teammates ...
Shoot after shoot barely misses the hoop. The other team racks up the foul shots because our guys are playing full-court press — it's do or die.
Miraculously, all the other team's shots are uneven — one of two or no foul shots make the hoop, then we meet their score, surpass it by one or two, then they advance ...
I can't take this anymore, I think, like I'm the one out there leaping and desperately trying for half-court baskets.
Double overtime — this one-hour game turns into one and three-quarters.
"Sudden death," the ref explains gravely, like he's on camera. "No foul shots, it's gotta be a two-pointer. First team to makes a basket wins."
32 to 32. I'm ready to throw up. I don't need to be here, I realize. If I stay or walk outside for air, the action will still continue.
But I'm unable to stop watching, drawn like a magnet to the drama.
Our best scorer takes a wild shot as his teammates pound the empty metal folding chairs with their fists — thunder.
It's in! Our team goes nuts — B's jumping sky-high, his good leg leading across the court, plunging his fist in the air.
Wow: what a game. B takes a couple shots on basket with a few of the stragglers as the crowd disburses — "Good game," parents assure each other, alternately triumphant and — in fairness — consoling. "Great season," we tell the other kids and their parents. "See you next year."
I gather my son, his sweatclothes, coat — my faculties — and head for the car.

Never let them see you sweat

For years, I’ve walked the streets.
Rain, snow, cold weather or hot, I’m out there daily with my headphones on, listening to Pacifica Radio or NPR — talk radio keeps my mind occupied.
Last Saturday morning, I was home following the big snow storm. Flipping the TV channels, I turned to Discovery Health and found “Total Body Sculpt With Gilad.”
It was a reunion of sorts for me — I used to do Gilad Janklowicz’s shows “Bodies in Motion” and “Basic Training the Workout” since age 19, when I first began really getting into shape.
I managed to lose 30 pounds back then and get fit enough to run 5K races.
After two kids and cresting my 40th year, walking 30 minutes a day just doesn’t do it anymore.
I poured T a big bowl of Froot Loops Yogurt Smoothie and told him to stay in the kitchen. (“Sweetened multi-grain cereal with yogurty-covered cereal pieces! Good source of calcium! 7 vitamins and minerals!”)
Dinosaur city and the multi-car pileup were swept to a table at the edge of the room.
T giggled between mouthfuls as I pumped my arms and marched to warm up.
“I’m very glad you joined us today in sunny Hawaii,” Gilad said. “Pick up your light weights and get into the squatting position.”
I got about two sets in before T scrambled to my side, eyes glued to the screen, and started to reach — side to side.
A string-bean-skinny 4-year-old doing pilometrics put me to shame.
I doubled my efforts.
“Now, shotput arms! Keep your chest raised, your abdominals in, and pivot to the side, keeping your knees slightly bent!” Gilad screamed over the crashing surf.
A wind surfer floated by, his body a "C".
“Auughh!” I screamed, my waist burning.
That old love/hate feeling returned.
“Awww! When is this going to be over? I have to go poopy!” T complained.
“Just go,” I huffed. “Ask Daddy to wipe you.”
T ran to the bathroom, then ran back out after a minute.
“There’s a commercial. You can wipe me,” he said, happily.
Great. I’m supposed to be “working through the break.” I’m sure Gilad would blanch at what I was doing. I think he meant biceps, not buttocks.
Floorwork — time for the abdominals.
“On your back, press your lower back into the floor, and lift to the count of two ...”
T picks this moment to take a running leap onto my stomach.
Now I remember why I haven’t done this in 11 years. The dreaded little-boy abdominal tackle.
T can’t resist the temptation of jumping on my back when I’m on all fours cleaning under the couch. Why am I surprised?
The good news? I got through that workout in one piece.
Naturally, I was sore as heck the next day, and felt like I was in 100 pieces. Still, today — five straight early morning “Total Body Sculpt” workouts later, every muscle in my body aches.
I’ve read it takes 21 days to start a habit.
Check back with me in 16 more.
I might even start to resemble those ladies who stand behind Gilad, in black Spandex pants and scoop-neck red halter tops, grinning while exercising, in perfect form — never even breaking a sweat.

I'm a big girl now

Last week was February vacation and I bit the bullet.

I took the week off of work, hung out at home and forced Nikki into potty training. We've been working on this for almost two years now. Both preschool and daycare have been working on it as well. For some reason she does much better anywhere but home.

I'm tired, however, of having two in diapers.

The first day was a bit of a disaster (and a mountain of laundry) but as the week progressed it was amazing to see the difference. Although my husband and I aren't really sure who got trained, Nikki to use the potty or mommy and daddy to put her on it every hour or so. Either way she went to school yesterday without disposable training pants and did great.

Do you think the baby is too young to start training?

Garbage is Beautiful!

We have three garbage trucks in our house.
They’re not the city’s — or full-size, for that matter, but just as real as any one you see rumbling down the street.
Real to my 4-year-old, who wants to be a garbage man when he grows up.
And he is a garbage man every day at home, as he piles up his Legos, scoops them into the tiny trash cans, then loads them into the back.
He got his first truck two years ago for Christmas from his grandma. That came with a tiny man, whose trunk fit into the cab or in a hole at the back of the truck. That man, and the two garbage cans, have been lost so many times I've given up count. I’m always recruited to find them, since the guys in my house think I keep a running inventory of every object’s location — along with the olive oil, car keys, bottle opener, PSP games, sneakers, winter hats, and any of T’s three Spider-Man toys.
He got another, longer, green one with electronic buttons that make life-like sounds. This Christmas, Santa brought T a jumbo one, complete with a gray Dumpster that lifts into the back via a lever system. The little square garbage cans have lids, miniature replicas of the brown, wheeled ones the city gives to every household.
Between the recycling and trash pick-up, three early mornings a week are occasion for the thump-thump of half-asleep little feet running to the window to spy on the garbage man.
Later, when we wake up, we’re given a run-down of activity: The garbage man threw the can and cracked it, he didn’t empty it all out and some trash spilled into the street, he didn’t see a box by the can, he activated the crusher for the broken chair pieces.
One day, my husband took T with him to the Haddam town dump to drop off trash for his mother. What do you know, a trash hauler noticed my son’s unwavering interest and asked if he’d like to sit in the cab for a minute.
He talked about that moment for many a day.
Last night, the kids were leaving for a party.
"Wait a second," T said outside, after descending the front steps. He marched toward the side of the house. My husband heard a dragging sound, then some grunts.
From the darkness emerged T, both hands gripping the plastic garbage can, slowly pulling it toward the curb.
Next, the recyclables. T pushed the blue tub down the slight incline of our side yard, neatly lining it up with the garbage can.
"All ready?" Dad asked.
"Yup," T said, marching toward the car.
I must have read aloud the slogan on those light-blue Dainty garbage trucks that haul around the city, because one day T and I were walking the neighborhood, he in the stroller, and he piped up, “Garbage is beautiful!”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s stinky.”
He entreats, “It’s beautiful!”
My silence signifies resignation.
There must be some redeeming quality about refuse if it elicits such devotion from a 4-year-old.
I just haven’t yet figured out what it is.

Like a sore thumb

It’s a funny thing, peer pressure. In my experience, growing up a girl is fraught with moments of self-consciousness or outright embarrassment.
Comparatively, my sons show little shame, but when it does rear its head, it’s like the moment last week when the O’Rourke’s Diner sign and building were ringed in pink-and-green neon lights for the first time in years — glaring.
The 10-year-old suddenly doesn’t want to change in the bathroom at school prior to basketball practice, because he’ll look funny carrying out his clothes.
The 4-year-old made me remove Dora the Explorer fruit snacks, perfectly fine to eat at home, from his lunch box, because “the kids will laugh at me.”
I went into the house and replaced it with “Cars” fruit snacks. T ate Dora in the car on the way to preschool.
B says I should stop making jokes and laughing when I read books to his class, because “it’s embarrassing!” I counter with, “maybe I shouldn’t read at all and the whole class will have to do more schoolwork.”
B counters with, “I still want you to read, just don’t act like a jerk, Mom.”
Child psychologists say peer pressure can be negative or positive, as in the case of bathing. Not so much in my house, however. I cringe every time one or another son sports telltale bed head — announcing to the other mothers like a bullhorn: “She hasn’t washed them in days, maybe weeks!”
‘Course the kids could care less, swatting at my wet palms trying to smooth down offending clumps of hair.
Ever the thinker, I try to gauge the percentage of parents who think said cowlick represents: a) gone-to-bed-wet [and thereby clean] hair, or b) dirty hair.
I figure I can glean at least a couple votes from the slept-on-the-pillow-wet constituency, avoiding the above-mentioned embarrassment at the expense of one’s peers.
These being the married-and-near-40-mother-of-two-boys crowd.

A gift that keeps on ... knitting

I belong to the Russell Knitters, a genial group of ladies that meet every second Saturday of the month at the Russell Library in Middletown. Last Saturday was an ordinary meeting day, eight or so members attended. Halfway through, an older woman poked her head through the door, asking if we’d be interested in some craft supplies that belonged to her late sister. She passed away recently at 83, she said.
In she brought dozens of needles — straight, circular and double-pointed — crochet hooks, books and even a half-finished tatting project. She left, amid our profuse gratitude, and without a pause we rushed, elbow to elbow, to examine our fortune.
The stash said alot about its former owner in its magnitude alone — she had every size and type of knitting needle available neatly arranged in a clear plastic box. The booklets were in terrific shape and plentiful, the needles in their original sleeves.
I scored a dozen circular needles and half-dozen double-pointed, rounding out my collection substantially, and a slim book of socks for men, women and children.
It wasn’t until I took my findings home that I realized how well-preserved her supplies really were. Double-pointed needles by Susan Bates, Zephy, Boye and Marcia Lynn bore their original prices, astoundingly cheap now — 39 cents, $1.10, $1.25 and $1.65. But the most remarkable piece was "Hand Knits by Beehive," stamped with "Kay Burns Yarn Shop, Needlecraft and Accessories, 150 Main Street, Middletown, Conn."
Price, 25 cents. Copywrite 1944.
In a year when the presidential front-runner could well be Hillary Clinton, today’s woman will surely appreciate such nuggets: "Knit your way to his heart. Any man goes soft and romantic over the little woman who makes socks ‘just for him.’ So knit them in his favorite style, his favorite color ... "
At first, I thought raiding this woman’s stash of needles was crass, but upon reflection, I think I hope to have such a thoughtful sister to make certain my beloved craft supplies are passed onto others who share a similar passion for an age-old pastime. With two boys and an editor husband, my yarns will languish upstairs at home in their orange tote boxes until some one or another decides they need said orange tote boxes for more important uses — like old newspapers, or toys, or clothing that no longer fits.
I’ll be hovering above, like Reese Witherspoon in "Just Like Heaven," unable to "cross over" until I let go my earthly attachment to ... the Butter-colored Classic Silk Top-Down Pullover I never managed to finish or the Tricot "sporty jersey-style sweater for the stylish soccer mom" pattern I printed out but failed to attempt.
If the delicately tatted handkerchief, carefully organized collection and a sister’s generosity are any indication, my unnamed benefactor was a woman worth knowing.
And remembering — every time I finger her gifts to me.

Daycare blues

OK so I know I'm lucky in that I haven't had to send James to daycare until now -- he just turned 7-months-old.

And I know I'm lucky that, because of the flexibility of our schedules, James only needs to go to daycare two afternoons a week. I know I'm lucky because I have a wonderful daycare facility for him to go to -- the same one Nikki has attended since just before her first birthday.

But today is his first day. My husband will be dropping him off this afternoon when he heads to work.

I packed everything up for him last night. I know he will be in good hands and with teachers who have be anxiously awaiting his start.

But I just want to sit and cry.

And to all of my bosses -- thank you for making it possible for me to keep him out of daycare this long.

Monkey See, Monkey do

There are constant games of this going on in my house. One child immitating the other (or more likely trying to play with the same toy as the other).

But it's funny how it happens. It isn't always the little one trying to immitate the older one. Often Nikki will jump in right along side James to play with him (or take the toy away from him).

The other night I got this photo:



Originally taken with the thought of e-mailing it off to the grandparents so they can see one of James' current favorite activities. Little man like to be standing.

Once Nikki saw me taking pictures of her brother she walked right over and stood the same way he was.

Kids just crack me up sometimes.

Gone fishing

This past weekend, I met my sister and sister-in-law for a spa overnight in Groton — a day and night with no children.
Childless for me, since I am the only one with kids.
It’s something a mother never quite gets used to — not having to buckle in a little guy in the car seat, not packing juices, portable snacks and toys, not having to reach for a tiny hand to cross the street.
I sat in a jacuzzi for the first time — hot, frothy water gurgling neck-deep; reading the rules posted at eye-level: "no more than 15 people" (??), "don’t go in alone" (doing exactly that), "take a shower with soap beforehand" (oops!) — and promptly removed myself after succumbing to guilt after just five minutes.
Next to the pool. I was the only one of the three who packed a swimsuit (a mom thing), so I did a few lazy laps then treaded water, watching the clock tick slowly past 12:30 p.m. Saturday afternoon and the whole area was empty save for me, even though the sign indicated it was "family swim" time.
A pedicure, then manicure, listening to two women discover their son and daughter attended the same school in Boston ("What a small world!") and a trio of co-workers catching up on gossip ("Linda left her husband." Immediate chorus of gasps, then, "Poor Linda!" I countered with "Poor Linda’s husband!" They didn’t reply.)
Dinner at Olio’s in Groton, then drinks at Margarita’s.
Back at the hotel by 9:15 p.m.
"Law and Order: Criminal Intent."
Asleep by 10 p.m.
Awaken Sunday, shockingly late for me — at 7:56 a.m.
Best night’s sleep in more than 10 years.
Don’t tell the boys.

baby knits

This weekend is the shower for my sister in law. And I spent the last few weeks furiously knitting away to get some projects done. In the end I think I've managed to cobble together a cute little layette.

I just hope the momma to be agrees.

We have a little sweater, and given that the baby is supposed to arrive in mid-March it is little. I figured the newborn size would get some use and I wouldn't guess wrong at to how fast and how much baby might grow over the summer. A matching hat to keep her head warm.
And I have to admit I'm in love with the little knit MaryJanes. A really easy project with some serious awwww factor. I think the pair took me less than 4 hours to churn out.

Then given that I still had some yarn left I made a little toy -- just the right size for a small pint to hold and cuddle.

All of which took a little less than 2 skeins of Caron Simply Soft.

However, the gift I love the most isn't the one which I knit. My grandmother started making feather and fan stitch baby blankets years ago as her nieces and nephews began having children. And she continues making them now for a second generation of babies.

In some cases they are done in white for a Christening blanket, in others varigated yarn. Occassionally they go to people outside of our family -- I've asked for them for my nieces and for my best friend's children.

I also make my grandmother slightly insane with the colors I ask her to do. There was sage green for my best friend's daughter (and now a slate blue for her son). For my own son I requested a bright red. Gram thought I lost my mind. Red for a baby blanket.

(In my defense for everyone thinking "why would you choose red?" The quilt I made for him is primary colors and the fabric I used to re-cover the rocking chair (which has rocked 4 generations of babies to sleep) was a navy blue and red plaid. Trust me in his nursery it works.)

For my sister-in-law it was done in the same varrigated yarn as the rest of the layette. I hope it serves my niece well through childhood, and when she outgrows it I hope it gets put away for her own children to use and love.

Baby weight goes away

I subscribe to the nine months up, nine months down theory to losing baby weight. In other words it takes you nine months to put on the weight, so you should give yourself at least nine months to take it off.

I also happen to be lucky -- I lose the bulk of the baby weight rather quickly after giving birth. With both of my pregnancies I put on the suggested 25 to 35 pounds and with both I lost the first 15-20 pounds by the time I returned to work from my six-weeks of maternity leave.

Unfortunately after my daughter that was all the weight I lost. So during my pregnancy with my son the scale was pushing 200 pounds at the

Talk about an ego bruiser.

I made a resolution to myself at that point that not only was the weight from James coming off, but so was that 10 pounds from Nikki.

James is now 6.5 months and according to the scale at my parents house - I've officially lost the weight I put on while pregnant with him. So now it's onto that infamous last ten pounds.

Learning that I lost the weight set me to thinking about why it was easier this time than it was with Nikki. A couple of things occured to me.

First, I'm still breastfeeding. With Nikki because of medical complications I had to stop at 6 weeks.

Second, when the newspaper's offices moved from our corner on Main and Union to the Main Street Market building the vending machines didn't come with us. Now if I want something to drink (and don't want to leave the office), water is my only option. The only snacks easily available are those I pack. There's no chocolate calling my name from a few feet away.

That doesn't mean the building doesn't have temptations -- on the first floor is a fantastic bakery (I allow myself one indulgence a week), a restuarant and a grocery store. Granted the last two contain some pretty healthy options, but it's always possible to overeat.

Third, there's four flights of stairs to climb. I'm trying to walk it at least once a day (my New Year's resolution).

How are you doing on you New Year's resolutions?

The great unifier

For Christmas, my 4-year-old got a dry-erase marker book that includes pictures of animal babies one one side and their adult versions on the other. The task is to draw a line, matching the pairs.
In our home, basketball is the great unifier — between mother and son, brother and brother, father and son. There are a handful of things that interest us all together — besides pizza — and the great game of hoops is at the forefront.
This occurred to me Saturday night, as T was winding down before bed with a little game of soft hoop in his bedroom. B was away for the night and his over-the-door hoop suddenly appealed to the 4-year-old. I had discovered the soft plastic basketball on a reconnaissance mission to retrieve T’s two Matchbox cars high at the top of an 8-foot bookcase, flung there in fury.
So, this 4-foot-tall, 40-pounder was repeatedly lobbing the ball upward toward an impossibly high hoop. Mom was implored to "watch," but cautioned against cheering or making disrupting noises. Offers to lower the hoop to a respectible height were refused.
That sentiment is echoed at B’s games, when mom is glared at if she even thinks about hugging him in congratulations. After all, the guys are looking. High-fives are, however, permitted.
B’s games have been fast and furious, since his Parks and Recreation and elementary school leagues have converged with practices. My January-into-February calendar is a veritable Basketball Nation.
There hasn’t been much up until now that captures the attention of both boys, since their ages span more than six years. But in the driveway and in the bedroom, both can play basketball, though it isn’t long before a fight erupts, and mom or dad is drafted to umpire the dispute.
When B plays games, T is known to scream out in his Chipmunk voice, "Go, B! Go, B!" even when B is on the bench. His enthusiasm knows little bounds.
Ah, the mystery of the Y chromosome.

The dreaded phone call

Every mother who works outside the home knows that sinking feeling. The phone on your desk at work rings and the voice on the other end say "Hi Mrs. X, this is the nurse at xyz school. Your child is in my office sick."

And then the mad scramble ensues. Which parent can rearrange their schedule to miss the remainder of the day at work (and of course the following day as well) and get to the school the quickest to pick up the child.

I got that phone call yesterday. Nikki had thrown up at school and was running a little fever. This time it was easy. My husband is off on Thursdays, so he could pick her up. And we're extremely fortunate in that we have a wide variety of hours we can work in the newspaper business so often accomondating a sick child is as easy as coming in extra early and leaving extra early so that the other parent can go into their job.

We're also blessed to have my parents living near by and they are often willing to give us a helping hand when we need it.

So my husband picked her up from school and once they got home he took her temp again. There was no fever. And she never showed any other sign of illness last night or all day today.

The mysteries of being four.

Nikki and my husband enjoyed their "sick day" this morning, after all memories are sometimes best created while in pajamas.

Little Boy Blue

It's a wonder this little boy's sock every was finished. And alas, T has two feet, so to avoid the dreaded Second Sock Syndrome, I've begun ribbing a second.

Notice the handicraft, the freeform design, incorporating a never-before-attempted seed stitch!

One would imagine witnesses would fall upon the floor in disbelief that such perfection was achieved in a house with a pair of cunning rugrats.

But darned if those kids don't foil my every attempt to knit a few more rows.

T has taken to grabbing my tiny project and running around the house, trailing a rapidly unraveling ball behind him - when he wants my attention.

B has a more studied approach when he's piqued. He'll commandeer my craft bag, threatening to dispose of it in some barbaric fashion unless I say "yes" to whatever I've disallowed.

All of which makes me more determined than ever to soldier on.

pink beaded glory

For severals months I kept seeing the advertisement for a little bit of wonderment in various knitting magazines. Just before Christmas I walked into The Yarn Garden in Meriden seeking some buttons for cardigans I knit for Nikki and my best friend's daughter.

The store had several other people in it, so while the owner was busy I wandered about, and touched, and dreamed. At one point I wandered back up toward the cash register and in a basket there it was. Dusty rose sparkling up at me. I couldn't contain the gasp, but I did manage to stop myself from squeeing outloud.

My little bit of beaded heaven.

Thankfully my sister in law is expecting a baby girl in March, so I actually could knit this up with a purpose. And this is one of those projects that while it's being knit to give away -- it was done for selfish reasons. I just had to knit this.

I think even if I didn't have a baby girl to knit this for that the yarn and pattern would have come home with me -- to be stashed and saved for some future child.

Now for those of you who care about particulars the yarn is Tilli Tomas Flurries (100% Austrailian Merino wool with glass beads) and the pattern is the Tilli Tomas Baby Beanie. It's a really simple project - the hardest part is getting all the beads to the right side of the hat after it's finished.

It's a quick sparkly bit of knitting goodness.

Let sleeping boys lie

To envision it now is an anomaly. B waking up at 4 a.m., that is. Which is what happened six years ago, on Christmas morning.
B, 4 years old at the time and obviously powered by never-exhausted preschool fuel, arose at said ungodly hour and, depite the obvious darkness outside, proceeded to run insanely around the apartment, footsteps pounding the wood floors, whooping and ripping the wrapping paper off every single present under the tree.
Our landlady, who lived directly below, was furious.
We were furious.
It's cute in hindsight and in the retelling, it's even hilarious, now part of our curious family lore.
I recalled this mental video clip recently as, for the 1,000th school morning, I tried to get that same boy to wake up in time for fifth grade.
Since September, 10-year-old B has been unable to rise in time to get ready for class.
I've tried the preparation route. I set his breakfast cereal on the table in the evening, along with his clothes for the next day. His book bag is packed with snack, lunch and homework. Coat and hat hung by the door. Sneakers out.
School starts at 9:05 a.m., which means we leave the house at 8:55 a.m.
Mom's "time to wake up!" begins at 7:45 a.m. and again every 5 minutes after that, increasing in pitch from gentle-reminder to steam-exploding-from-the ears, head-popping-off.
8, 8;30, even 8:45 a.m. pass with B barely stirring.
Wednesday, he arrived at school at 9:15 a.m.
Last night, B suggested he dress in his school clothes the night before.
I suggested he eat breakfast before going to bed.
This morning, B left my car at 9:06 a.m., half-running (only at my urging) down the school driveway, coat flaps aflutter, sneaks untied, sweatshirt unzipped. In 1-degree weather.
I watched as he got smaller and smaller, approaching the door, then stopped to remove his hat before going inside.
Tomorrow morning, I'm aiming high: hoping to shave a minute off his arrival by having B sleep in his sneakers.
Plan B: match under the smoke alarm.

Socks 101

Today is the first day of the New Year. Coincidentally, I completed my sock project late last night.
My husband was sifting through his old newspapers and T was noisily playing with his Matchbox cars. "SNL in the '90s" was on the television and periodically my husband and I would turn our attention to Chris Farley's or Will Ferrell's antics and laugh uproariously.
I arrived at the final stretch -- the kitchener stitch. Naturally, T chose that moment to jump on me, miming knitting with two green Tinker Toys: "Hey, I'm an old gramma! I'm knitting!"
That was funnier than the TV show.
I managed to finish the sock without fanfare, although a pair that takes three months to knit really deserves at least fireworks.
11 1/2 inches from heel to toe: they were a Christmas gift for my husband; only a week late.
I told him to make sure his toenails were clipped.
He pulled off his thread-bare oatmeal-colored woolen socks and pulled the new ones on.
They fit perfectly.
I was elated.
He took them off without a word and pulled back on his wool socks, saying, "What are they made of? They aren't as warm as these socks."
So much for fanfare.
Still, I can revel in the fact today that I completed the world's longest sock project at the crest of the New Year.
Today it's corn fiber and nylon Maizy yarn in Sailor Blue. This next pair is for T, who will surely wear the heck out of them.
Happy New Year.