Four

To my dear, sweet, son:

I have been obsessing about this post, and dreading this post, for a few months now. I have tried to start it more than once--to at least start a bullet-point list of the things I want to say. To make a list of all the things I don't want to forget.

Tomorrow is your fourth birthday. The first birthday you can count to. The first birthday when you understand the age that came before and the age that will come after. (Please stop reminding me that you will be five-years-old after you are four-years-old. It's giving me panic attacks.)

I have been dreading this post because I know that words do not do justice to who you are.

Hello up there

Deep thoughts. Strange goo.

Or who we are.

Red River Zoo
(I love this zoo. The animals seem very happy and have a lot of space.)

Zoo in Wahpeton. (Bad zoo. Ugly cages. Sad animals)

Superheroes

Or who you are becoming.

Zoo in Wahpeton
(I hated that zoo. Even the monkeys were depressed.
But the colors were pretty.)

Fort Abercrombie

I am afraid that I can never truly capture the joy you have brought me. You have made my heart grow and swell, the same way my body grew and swelled while pregnant with you. My heart expands to the point that I am sure it will explode. But it doesn't. And then it stretches a little more.

First day of preschool

You had a hard time going back to preschool last September. For several months, over the summer, you often climbed into our bed in the middle of the night, and I never turned you away. You were home with me all day, every day, in July and most of August. When you went back to school, it wasn't easy for either of us. I mean, sure, it was nice some of the time, but not 30-hours-a-week of the time.

One night, you asked to go to sleep in the big bed. I thought it would be for a night. Maybe a few nights.

You haven't slept in your bed for even an hour since.

It's okay, because it turns out that it's easier this way. You go to bed more quickly. You sleep more soundly. You sleep MUCH later in the morning. We hadn't coslept regularly before because I thought that it robbed me of sleep. True, you sometimes kick me in the face. Or ribs. Or cough in my face. Or get drool on my pillow. But I don't have to get out of bed to soothe you if you wake up crying. In fact, you rarely wake up. You talk in your sleep, but you rarely seem to have nightmares. Sometimes, you wake up and can't get back to sleep, but it's rare.

I was not opposed to cosleeping. I just thought it wasn't "for us". I wanted you to go to sleep in your own bed, even if that meant that you crawled into bed with us later. Turns out that it's easier for me to just let you fall asleep in the big bed. And it turns out that for some reason--maybe due to some extra boost of night time oxytocin--I have more patience with you. I always felt I needed that "break" from you and that sleeping separately allowed for this. I find that I like you more. This may be, in part, due to the fact that we are away from each other for several hours a week. Whatever the reason, I have grown to love the "family bed". It makes me sad to think of a day when you will sleep in your own bed again.

To be perfectly honest, I often let you watch cartoons in bed for 30 minutes to an hour before turning on your rain sounds (white noise) and telling you to go to sleep (if you aren't asleep already). But you don't fight going to bed. You don't fight going to sleep. Occasionally you will say you need a snack. Most of the time you actually eat it :0)

Also, if I am perfectly honest, you watch a lot of TV. Not really TV--we don't have cable. You watch DVDs or Netflix videos. Thus, we are not subjected to advertisements. You also play video games. Some of it is not age-appropriate--it's geared for children who are a few years older than you. I had a lot of guilt about this, but you're not having nightmares or hitting other children, so I'm just going to let it go. There's a long list of things I said I'd never do as a parent that I turned out to be totally wrong about. This is just one more thing.

You rode your first carnival rides this summer by yourself:

You got your first fishing pole and went fishing. We didn't catch anything, but had fun anyway.

Turtle River

You are funny. In the last few months, you've started to sing and dance. Many of your dances are best categorized as dramatic interpretations. I say this, because they are a combination of goofy, muppet-like dance moves and play-fighting choreography.

You are sweet. You are kind. When I am sick or have hurt myself, you stroke my face and say, oh honey, are you okay? It will be okay.


You are inquisitive. You and your dad went to AZ for a few days last May. While there, your dad stopped to visit his brother's grave (the uncle for whom you are named). He tried to explain that F was dead. You said, Oh, F is dead? It's okay. We can go to the store and get a new F. You said this because when a battery is dead, we buy a new one. (Well, we try to recharge it, but some batteries don't have rechargeable versions.) If only human batteries were so easily replaced...

You had your first "very own" pet this year. It was a beta fish. You named him "Moinxie". He died about 10 days after we bought him. This was a few months after the visit to F's grave. I'd like to think that this taught you about death, but I know that you are still too young to really understand.

You want to be a "cooker" when you grow up.

You learned to ride the neighbor-boy's mini-quad.

You learned to ride a bike. You are learning to catch a ball. You are learning to ice skate.

You planted a flower garden. Your flowers were beautiful. And so are you.

You like to eat fresh peas out of a pod that have just been picked from the garden. You like to eat summer squash, zucchini, carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes straight from the garden. You won't get near any of these vegetables once they are cooked. One more reason to garden.

You like fish oil capsules; you chew them up and swallow them. You like sardines; you eat them straight from the can.

You build things. Fantastic things. Cities.

 

Robots.

Play-doh monsters. This one is from last summer. The most recent ones have several arms. Or tentacles. Or eyes. Or heads. The lighting in this photo is terrible, but your expression is adorable.

Bristle-block aliens.

You had your first "real" Halloween this year. As in, you picked your costume. You joined a trick-or-treating mob. You trick-or-treated until you could barely stand up. You are the Wall-E in the middle.

Beware: Child-mob ahead

This year, we had the first Christmas that was "our" Christmas. We stayed home. We didn't visit family. It was the first year that we bought and decorated a tree.

You had been asking for this robot since last May. Santa brought it to you for Christmas.

You starting drawing things in September. It has been the single best thing that has come from your preschool experience. At a few points during the school day, you have the option of doing "books, puzzles, or journals". Essentially, it is semi-structured free time. At first, you didn't want to draw, because you couldn't make things "perfect". Now, you draw all the time. I don't want you to be a perfectionist. It is a crippling trait. It makes you afraid to try new things. I hope you grow up thirsty to try new things.

You are also learning about yoga at preschool. I love your teacher so much for that.

First, your drawings were heads with legs and arms coming out of them. Then, robots (but not humans) had bodies. And very long fingers. You drew a robot for Santa. The stuff in the body is all of his doodle-oodle-oop, which I think translates to buttons.

You built your first ice-cave-slash-igloo this year.

You had your first dentist appointment this year. You liked it so much, you wanted to go with me when I had to go back in to get a filling.

You had your first round of antibiotics. It was for a sinus infection. Then you had another round of antibiotics for a nasty case of strep throat that involved puking up mucus and a full-on scarlet fever rash.

You can put away your own clothes in the right drawers. You can pick out your clothes for school. You can mostly dress yourself now.

You had your first school "performance" last spring. I was worried that you would cooperate when it was time for your class to be on (the little, only slightly elevated) stage. I was worried that you would just stand off in a corner and/or pout. Boy, WAS I WRONG. You stood right up there in the middle and sang and danced. You were a total ham. Pure awesomeness.

You gave up naps this year. At least, you gave them up at home. You still take them at school, sometimes. And every once in awhile, you'll let your guard down and fall asleep during the day.

You started using the potty this year. We used a token economy because I am, at the end of the day, a behaviorist at heart. To be a behaviorist is to believe that we are all unique individuals and that change is always possible.

You still wear a pull-up at night time. We tried just wearing underwear, but one night you had an accident and quietly changed your underwear and pajama pants and climbed into my bed. You didn't tell me you'd had an accident, and seemed embarrassed the next morning when I found the underwear. I decided pull-ups were better than feeling bad about wetting the bed. You just aren't ready yet.

You had your first boba tea in Fargo one day after we went to the (incredibly charming, non-stifling, animals-seem-geniunely-happy) Red River Zoo. You still remember the names of the men working in the tea shop. Now, every time I mention going to Fargo, you want to go to the tea shop. When winter is officially over, I will totally make that happen for you.

When I asked you what kind of cake you wanted for your birthday, you said raspberry. Not strawberry. Or cherry. Or chocolate. Or vanilla. Raspberry. With chocolate frosting. I asked if you wanted a train cake like last year, or a heart cake. I was hoping you would say heart, because the train cake takes a LONG time to decorate. Also, I don't think I have many years left before someone convinces you that hearts are "for girls". You said you wanted a love-you cake. You like to refer to hearts as love-you's.

(Psssst...The cake was actually vanilla butter cake, but there was raspberry jam in the middle, and those are real raspberries around the edges. Raspberries that have been rolled around in sugar. The cake and frosting were made from scratch. And oh yes, that pink frosting is chock full of red dye. You only live once.)

People say I'm crazy for making the whole cake from scratch. What they don't understand is that the whole time I was making it, I was meditating on the day we found out you were coming to join us. And the day you were born. And the days that fell between. And all the days that have come since.

Happy 4th birthday, my sweet little boy. Every day, you make me want to be a better person than I was the day before. I am so glad you are my son.

I love you,
Mama

Intimidating? I hope not.

This post was inspired, in part, by the delightful "midwives chatting" posts over here and the Facebook Q&A's that Barb has been posting over here. It was also inspired by this post by MB that has crossed my mind repeatedly since I read it last July. I was struck by her honesty and my realization that a lot of people grow up poor and many of us carry it around like a dirty secret.

When I was an undergraduate, I was terribly intimidated by my professors. These were people who had their shit together. They were smart. They were funny. They had P. H. D.'s!!!! They knew stuff. They were way more cool than I would ever be.

I grew up poor. I remember when my parents crossed the poverty line. I was 9 or 10 years old. I remember how excited we all were when my parents had saved enough money to buy a trailer that was large enough that my brother and I would each have our own room (which I now realize is TRULY a luxury that some children will never experience). I was the first in my family to get any kind of college degree. On either side. Not only were we poor, but we were completely dysfunctional and my home life was an emotional trainwreck. I still get nervous when I have people over because I feel like I have something to hide. They will find something out about me. They will see that I am not perfect. Please, if you are my friend and you have never been to my house, you should know that I love you, but that I am just scared to have you over.

For years, I was terrified when I ate in fancy restaurants--terrified that someone would know that I was an impostor. Terrified that people were secretly laughing at me.

This feeling of being an impostor followed me into graduate school. I was terrified that at any moment, someone would realize that she doesn't belong here. Over time, I realized that this is a very common feeling. Some of the people I respect very much have said that the hardest part of your first job is getting over the "impostor syndrome." I lucked out and found a job in a department where I'm comfortable with my colleagues and enjoy their company, so this feeling hasn't plagued me like it did in graduate school.

As a side note, I didn't feel comfortable in fancy restaurants until I got a Master's degree. I guess that having a fancy title somehow makes up for growing up poor. So what if I use the wrong fork? I have the money to pay for my meal, I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE good food, and I tip well.

Many of my students come from rural areas. Beyond rural areas. Towns of less than 200 people where the closest hospital is far, far away. Grand Forks is a HUGE city to them. I'm sure that some of them grew up poor. I'm sure that some of them grew up strangled by dysfunction and violence. I hope they are not afraid of me. I want them to respect me, but I want them to know that I'm just a person too (even though I do want them to use my title when addressing me--not because I'm "better" than they are, but because I earned it...AND I allow them, even encourage them, to call me "Dr. T." because it is less intimidating and sounds more fun).

I get frustrated by genuine laziness or a lack of initiative in some students, but I otherwise enjoy talking with them and I like to know who they are outside of my class. I realize in retrospect that many of my professors were totally approachable and they probably would have loved it if I had stopped in and said hi during their office hours.

This recent string of conversations from Facebook is a nice illustration of the fact that (most) academics are not scary. At least, not the ones I affiliate with. In fact, in my experience, the truly scary ones are just assholes. Most of us are kind of funny. We don't bite. And apparently, we have a deep appreciation for the therapeutic effects of alcohol:

Me (assistant professor, psychology): Still gets nervous on the first day of class.

(I know someone who has been lecturing in VERY large classes--400+ students--for almost a decade now. He is a born performer and a pleasure to watch and listen to. He is funny, charming, and ridiculously attractive. Last semester, he posted a FB update that HE still gets first-day jitters. I find this oddly comforting.)

JL (assistant professor, sociology): Me too.

AC (associate professor, psychology): I would too if I didn't drink so much before the first class. 

(I am 97% sure this person is kidding, but is also a very real possibility that he is serious. Also, I took courses from this person in graduate school and consider him to be one of my mentors.)

Me: @AC, I DID drink a lot. Unfortunately it was coffee.

RR (assistant professor, law school): yep.

KSA (retired journalist, married to assistant professor of journalism): That's because y'all are GOOD.

(Does being nervous mean that your are more likely to be awesome? Maybe so, because it means that you actually care.)

MB (currently dissertating and also an instructor in English dept.): Make sure your zipper is up (my personal super-fear)!

AC: Drink gin dumbass.

(This is an good example of his fine mentoring skills, right here.)

Me: @MB ~ that totally happened to me last year. I realized my fly was wide open midway through class, and I was wearing a rather short shirt. I check it obsessively now.

@AC ~ Vodka. It has no scent. Duh.

(The zipper thing totally happened, and I couldn't figure out why a couple of the students were stifling laughter. I'd been lecturing for 20+ minutes. I had white granny-panties on. Thank God there were no holes in them. Also, I have never drank vodka before lecturing in a class. However, I may have utilized it in other settings. Maybe.)

SC (doctoral candidate, quantitative psychology): It says a lot about you that I both think you are a professional and mature educator and researcher AND *totally* believe you about which booze to drink and conceal it.

(Strangely, this is one of my favorite compliments I have ever received. It means that I, too, am capable of some fine mentoring.)
 

Moment

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). 

We had a garden last summer. A big garden, and half of it did well...the summer squash and green beans went crazy. I had no idea how satisfying it would be do grow our own food and eat it immediately. Admittedly, my husband did most of the growing and tending, but I cooked what he harvested.

At one point during the summer, I was also house-sitting for two friends who had a garden. I harvested a few tomatoes while I was over there watering, and they had an amazing mess of herbs growing on the patio. I grabbed some thyme, basil, oregano, and marjoram from their herb garden to accompany the tomatoes. The only herbs we were growing were basil and cilantro. The cilantro grew with gusto. The basil not so much.

We had some summer squash, zucchini, and green peppers from our garden, as well as two tiny heirloom eggplants and a few more tomatoes. We also had onions and garlic on hand (not from our garden, but grown locally and purchased at the farmers market). Thus, I had a pile of vegetables, most of which had been harvested within the last 24 hours, and they were the perfect pile to make ratatouille.

Have you seen the movie Ratatouille? If you love food, you should see it. If you have already watched it, you should be familiar with the scene that my husband and I refer to as "The Ratatouille Moment," wherein the bitter food critic bites into the lovingly crafted dish and is immediately transported back to his mother's kitchen from his childhood. It makes me cry every time. Every time.

I decided to make ratatouille, which I had never made before. I sauteed the onions, added the garlic and peppers, then the squash and eggplant, and finally the tomatoes and herbs (except for half of the basil that went in right before serving). I let it stew for about 20-30 minutes and added a generous drizzle of olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar, and a sprinkling of salt and pepper when I plated it. I served it with crusty olive bread from a local bread shop. The mix of colors on the plate was beautiful. The smell was divine.

When I took that first bite, it was a flavor explosion. I was overcome with bliss. I was filled with such joy that this perfect dish in front of me--a little taste of heaven--came from our humble garden and the garden of friends.

All that energy, captured in this lovely, simple creation. It filled my soul to the brim. It made my pagan heart sing.

It was a plate full of summer. A plate full of childhood. A plate full of hope. A plate full of love.

It tasted just like the sun. It tasted like life.

Writing

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Author: Leo Babauta)

The thing that I do each day that doesn't contribute to my personal writing (i.e. this blog) is that I spend a lot of time aimlessly trolling Facebook and obsessively checking email. I have ideas that I'd like to write about, but they seem overwhelming and like it would take too much time to write them "perfectly". One thing that I am doing to overcome this is using prompts to focus my topics and my energy. I also worry that no one is reading and that I am wasting my time. I have to remind myself that the process is what matters and that I should be writing first and foremost for myself.

With regards to my professional writing, I fail to stick to a schedule. When it comes to writing journal articles and technical papers, "inspiration" is far less important than perspiration. The best way to get writing done is to make a schedule and stick to it, and not let other people steal this time. I get caught up in meetings and talking with colleagues and students when I should be writing. I had a schedule last semester, and was very productive for the three weeks I actually stuck to it. I have put a schedule into my calendar for this semester, and I AM GOING TO STICK TO IT. I will close my office door and write. I'm going to guard this time as if it was class time. I always find time to teach. I don't fail to show up to lecture because I got distracted by something else. I don't miss meetings. I need to be as committed to my writing time as I am to the time I have committed to others. I am sitting on piles of data from several studies that no one will ever know about it if I don't write the articles. Doing research is fun. I've learned to love analyzing data as well. The writing part is not fun for me, but the rule in academia is publish or perish. I'd rather not perish.

One Word

I started and then dropped the ball on Reverb 10. I also didn't realize that I was supposed to sign up to participate. Oops. However, I like the idea and the prompts so much that I'm going to start with the December 1st prompt and (eventually) work my way through them, even if it's a little late and takes far longer than a month.

Prompt (December 1st):

One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)

The first word that came to mind was change but then I reconsidered. There have been many years in the last decade that brought with them more change than 2010. There was the year I got divorced, started graduate school, and moved four times during my first four months as a graduate student (2002). There was the year I met my dear husband and my doggie soul mate died (2003). There was the year I got married and then cared for a friend who moved in with me after she was left disabled in car accident on her way to my wedding (2005). For the record, that was a disaster and it ruined our friendship. Sometimes, trying to do the right thing turns out to be the wrong thing for everyone involved.

There was the year that the disabled friend went home (and we were no longer friends), I got a Master's Degree, I got pregnant, we bought a house, my father got in a motorcycle accident and spent 6 weeks in the hospital (and we didn't think he was "coming back") and my brother-in-law committed suicide (2006). There was the year I had my first (and currently only) child (2007). There was the year I finished my dissertation, moved to North Dakota, and started my first real job (2009). Compared to these other years, 2010 doesn't seem to be very filled with change.

I thought about other words to describe the last year: Turmoil. Anguish. Relief. Acceptance. Awe. Community. Satisfaction. Contentment.

Turmoil and anguish when I thought my marriage might end. Relief than my marriage didn't end. Acceptance of my husband for who he is, my career for what it is, my family for who they/we are, my son for who he is, and myself for how I mother. Awe that I could fall in love again--with my husband, my child, my career. Awe that I could trust--other people and myself.

I found community where I least expected it, and for the first time in my life feel truly connected to the people who live within a 5 mile radius of me. I specify the distance because I feel connected to other women for sure--you crunchy mamas and besties know who you are--but all were/are so spread out from each other that it's hard to physically connect. Here, we've had spontaneous potlucks with neighbors. Last summer, there were several days where we just threw together whatever we all had to contribute to dinner and we ate at the picnic table that sits between our front yards. I have people to watch my son in a pinch that I trust and they live on my street. We spent Christmas dinner at a friend's house. She and her husband are (were?) journalists and their son is grown. Theirs is the same house where we celebrated Thanksgiving. She was delighted that I brought the boy to Christmas dinner in his pajamas, and that she had a little boy and a grown boy at the same table. I was delighted to feel like I have a soul family here. I go out with the people in my department because we genuinely like each other. We go to drag shows some nights and have research meetings (with wine!) other nights.  One of my good friends and mentors is a (gasp) Republican, but I respect him because he's neither crazy nor mean-spirited (i.e. fiscal conservative, social liberal) and we can have conversations about politics that actually make sense where I feel like I've learned something. Plus, we both LOVE to cook and talk about food and we bring in leftovers to work to share with each other now and then. The person who is probably my best friend is a single mother and colleague who I thought hated me until I realized she was just reserved...until you get to know her. We go to drag shows together and write papers together. Our sons have birthdays two weeks apart (her son is actually a leap-year baby born on February 29th and mine is a Valentine's baby), and we're having a joint birthday party this year. I am totally stoked!

My father and his girlfriend came to visit and I actually introduced them to some of my friends, instead of being ashamed of my roots. This community looks nothing like the community I envisioned when I was younger. That community involved lots of property and trees and free-spirits (and pot! lots of pot!) and people with ideas and opinions just like mine. I know that I am not the only one thinking about community and what it is and isn't what we thought it could and would and should be. This community is made of people who disagree with one another but still respect each other. It is neighbors clearing snow for each other. It's neighbors coming over, literally, to borrow a cup of milk or sugar. It's a neighbor who is watching my son texting me to tell me stay out with my husband as late as we want and the boy can just sleep at her house since he's watching Muppet Babies with her kids and half asleep on the couch already. I never lived in a real neighborhood growing up. My parents didn't have regular friends that came over. We were very closed off from other people. This life, my neighbors, this town, is what I saw on TV when I was younger and wondered why I didn't have it. I actually get choked up about it sometimes.

I gain satisfaction through the work I do and the students I teach. I am content because this family my husband and I have created is not without its quirks and challenges, but it is beautiful and fun and crazy and we laugh a lot and sometimes yell and I have learned so much more about myself than I ever thought possible. I have loved so much more than I ever thought possible.

Perhaps the word that best sums up this year, for me, is change after all. Not because there were big external changes like jobs and moves and marriages. Not because there were changes that would be noticed by an outside observer. This was a year of change for me because I changed on the inside. I worked, for real this time, to cast away old relationship patterns (though they sneak up sometimes), to cast away old grudges (for the most part) and to cast away the notion that I can "fix" other people. I stopped feeling guilty for being happy and I cast away the burdens of what an "ideal" mother does. It feels good.

I've got dogs, and I'm not afraid to use them...

The end of this post made me laugh, because I can so see myself doing the same thing. In fact, I did something similar last March. At least, I think it was March because there was still snow on the ground.

Hym got up early to go to work. His shift usually starts at 5 AM, and I heard him get up and then I fell back asleep. I woke up again a few minutes later because I heard him talking on the phone about, two guys...yes, they're across the street...one is yelling...I don't know...our address is..., etc. I realized he was on the phone with the cops, and then I heard him go back downstairs.

I laid there for a few minutes in a semi-alert fog, but figured if it was anything serious he would wake me up. I heard the garage door open and close, and I assumed he had left for work. But now I couldn't sleep. I got up and looked out of the bedroom window that faces our street, and saw that there were two guys across the street and one of them was yelling at the other, who was on the ground. In the snow. Knowing that the police had already been called, I laid back down and waited. Frankly, I was kind of shocked that he had left for work with some sort of situation going on this close to our home.

As I lay there in the dark, I heard a sound come from one of my dogs. We keep them downstairs behind a gate at night because one of them is the kind of dog who likes to get into shit just because she can. Now, I am accustomed to a whole host of sounds from my dogs, but this particular growl from a particular dog freaked me out. I got up and ran down the stairs, and all three of my dogs were standing at the glass door in the dining room. Growling. Not barking, which is their default noise,  but growling those kinds of growls that get under your skin.

A smarter person would have not moved towards the door. I, however, went to the glass door and looked outside. I could see a light to my right. I didn't even have time to process what was going on, but figured it was either a cop or not-a-cop, and if it was not-a-cop, I was turning the dogs loose. I did what any sane, responsible, person would do--I opened the door, with the dogs behind me, and said, WHAT THE FUCK?

I didn't say who's there? or get out of my yard or I have big dogs and I'm not afraid to use them. I said, WHAT THE FUCK? 

The answer was, Police officer ma'am. Please close the door and go back inside. I'm sure he was pleased that I was precariously holding back three large dogs with my foot.

They had a guy, in my back yard, cuffed. Before I had a chance to close the door, the other cop said, wait, do you have a gate?

Yes, but it's locked and I don't remember the combination. Let me call my husband. 

While I was looking for my phone, I heard the garage door open. I went outside, and Hym was there. I said we need to open the gate. 

He'd been there the whole time and had already talked to the cops in the front and was opening the garage door to the backyard to bring the guy through that way.

Here's what happened. Hym was getting ready to leave for work, and he sees these two guys across the street. One is on the ground, and the other is yelling at him to get up. He called the cops. Then he went ahead and pulled his car out of the driveway, and parked at the end of the street to watch what was going on. He hadn't left for work after all. That's what I get for doubting him.

When the cops showed up, the guy who was standing tried to flee. He hopped my back fence. When we told the neighbors this story, they all said, oh, it's too bad Shotu wasn't in your backyard. Shotu is the dog who was making that sound. He is a chow. He is a big fluffy sweetheart to those who know him, but I wouldn't try to flee into his territory.

Turns out that the guys had wallets and stuff from a few streets over. They'd robbed a few houses. There was a third guy, but he had already disappeared by the time Hym saw the other two outside. The guy who was on the ground apparently passed out drunk, but then had to be taken to the hospital because his friend had beaten on him trying to wake him up.

There were cops on our street for the next two hours combing the neighborhood for clues about the third guy and/or stuff that had been stolen from other houses. None of the neighbors even woke up! The police were incredibly thorough. Of course, they probably didn't have anything better to do on a Sunday morning in Grand Forks, ND.

After the fact, I wondered, what the hell was I thinking opening the door? What if that had been a really bad person on the other side?

The point is, I wasn't thinking. I wanted to know who the hell was in my yard. I was used to this kind of tomfoolery in Phoenix, but I would have never opened the door like that. Here, it was so out of the ordinary that I was just plain pissed off that someone would have the audacity to hop my fence. Plus, I have three big dogs. I feel safe with dogs, and am sure that at least one of them could be a badass if necessary. Dogs will fight for the ones they love. It's their most admirable quality. I can't imagine living without one.

So I completely understand where Mani was coming from, and I laughed out loud even though I'm not sure it was meant to be funny. I think we may have the same kind of temper...and apparently we don't like our sleep disturbed by assholes!

New Name

Prompt for December 23: New name. Let's meet again, for the first time. If you could introduce yourself to strangers by another name for just one day, what would it be and why?

I like my name and think it suits me. But there is another name that I adore.

When I was finishing up my dissertation, I was so overwhelmed and out of my mind that I couldn't write at home. I couldn't write in my office either. Both of these places had become triggers for waves of anxiety that I couldn't overcome. So I wrote in a coffee shop. Not just any coffee shop. Certainly not a coffee shop that was close to my house. I wrote at my favorite coffee shop: Lux. I used to live a short walk from Lux when I first met my dear husband, so it is a place of great memories for me. It was a 30+ minute drive from my house in Mesa, but it was conveniently located next door to what may be the best sandwich shop in Phoenix (Pane Bianco). My mother took a few weeks off from her job to come to Arizona and watch the boy so that I could successfully achieve the impossible. I would go to the coffee shop early in the morning, find a spot, and plant myself there for several hours. Thus, the final days of my dissertating were fueled by outstanding lattes, delicious sandwiches, and fresh baked delights.

Those final days were also fueled by music. I liked writing there because the music was typically LOUD, which would normally be a distraction. In this case, it was loud enough to suppress my crazy so that I could work. Notably, the album that seemed to be a big favorite with the baristas at the time was a Rolling Stones best hits album that included Mother's Little Helper. This was significant to me, because I was bombed out of my mind on the Little Helper's more modern cousin, clonazaSHAZAM!.

One of the baristas kept calling me by a particular name. At first I didn't correct her, but then I finally smiled and told her what my name actually is. She was shocked, because she so thought that this other name was a perfect fit. I asked her how she would spell it.

Aeryn.

What a delightful name! I couldn't see myself as an Erin, but by golly, Aeryn was a different story altogether. Very elfin. Very magical.

I would never take this name for myself, though, because if I ever have a daughter, this name belongs to her. This would be especially meaningful since my brother's middle name (that he chose for himself when he was 7 or 8) is Aaron.

I hope I get to bestow this name some day.

Travel

I just started the Reverb 10 writing prompt "online initiative." They send a writing prompt every day, and you write about it. I found out about it through Sweet and Salty's blog.

The prompt for December 22 is:

Travel. How did you travel in 2010? How and/or where would you like to travel next year? 

I'm not sure how to define "travel"? Is it only travel if I sleep somewhere else for a night? Or perhaps if it would have been advisable to sleep somewhere else for a night? Is there a certain distance from my house that counts as travel? I'm not sure. We drove to Fargo to go to the charming Red River Valley zoo several times during the summer and early fall. Does that count? Feels like a road trip--an hour on the highway. But I feel like the threshold for "travel" should be higher, though I have to tell you that I LOVE those trips to the zoo and they feel like an adventure because we get to go to the (very small but relatively large compared to Grand Forks) CITY of Fargo. We'd go down a little early in the day to hit the Mexican market that serves chorizo and egg, or potato and egg, or egg and cilantro and tomato tacos. We'd sit out front of the store and scarf them down, and then head to the zoo. I call the weekends "Family Days" with the boy to set them apart from school days as something special. And to remind myself that they are something special.

With regards to more travel-ish travels, I flew to Las Vegas in January for the Society of Personality and Social Psychology conference. It's the big conference for my field. It was nice because I got to see many of my friends from graduate school--both those who graduated before me and those who were still students. Vegas, however, was overwhelming. Next time (if ever) I visit there, I need a firm plan for what to do with my time, otherwise I just walk around confused. It doesn't help that I was trapped in bit of an existential funk while I was there. And five days may be a tish too long for me to spend in Vegas. A three-day max is probably advisable.

A few things really stand out about that trip. First of all, my husband and I were having some serious problems at that time (i.e. he was being a moody prick), and I was having a complete and total (self-absorbed, melodramatic) identity crisis. While in Vegas, over drinks and cigarettes with my friend Steph, I told her about everything that was going on and that I was thinking about seeing a therapist. She said, "do it," and then proceeded to tell me about how she almost lost her shit one year in grad school, saw a psychiatrist, took meds for awhile, stopped the meds when she was better, stopped seeing the shrink a little later, and now she's fine. She said it was really nice to talk to someone. End of story.

Y'all know I have a degree in psychology, right? I mean, not a clinical degree (I can't counsel people, nor would I really want to). I don't deal with disorders, and I'm not going to analyze you (any more than I would have analyzed you before I got a degree, anyway). I'm more interested in how people's thoughts, feelings, and behavior are influenced by other people, and how we navigate our social worlds. Rather than making me more likely to seek help, my psychology background actually makes me incredibly distrustful of the profession. I am not a therapy virgin--I saw a psychologist several years ago, and it was largely unproductive. That was largely due to the fact that I didn't want to change.

When I went bonkers during my dissertation, I saw another psychologist (who I LOVED LOVED LOVED) for a few visits. I wish I could have kept seeing her, but 1) we were moving and 2) she works for the university and her role is really to be a short-term crisis intervention specialist.

As I said, I was not a therapy virgin, but to go and talk about my marriage? And really talk about me? And be truthful? And really try to change the maladaptive behaviors that had become so familiar (and suffocating)? To talk about my father and alcohol (because alcohol was fueling many of our problems and my personal problems)? THAT was an entirely different story.

But because of Steph, when I got home, I called our Employee Assistance Program and went to see a counselor. She had a degree in social work. She briefly mentioned Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing as an option for my anxiety, and I forgave her for it. (There is no empirical evidence that it is any more effective than other, less pyramid-schemey types of therapy and it's essentially just a fancified version of exposure therapy; I may not be a therapist but I know what good science is.) I didn't even tell her that EMDR is bullshit because I liked her. She was a good listener and she asked good questions and I felt good, or at least better, when I left her office.

Here's a dirty little secret about therapy--most forms of therapy are about as effective as any other type of therapy. Within reason. Some of it's just total bullshit, of course. Sometimes the therapy is solid but the therapist sucks. Sometimes you're going to feel better after time passes, regardless of whether you get therapy. For serious disorders some treatments are ABSOLUTELY better than others. Schizophrenics don't respond well to talk-therapy, but many DO respond to drugs well enough to be functional. For most existential crises and relationship snafus, however, it's generally the showing up that matters. It's the telling your story and hearing it fall from your lips to a stranger who asks hard questions that matters. It's the FINDING your story and finding your PLACE in the story that matters.

After a few visits, I hauled my husband and I into a different counselor's office (because you can't see the same counselor as a couple that you see solo) and we went for two visits and that was really all it took to get us back on track. It wasn't a magic fix, but it was the little bit of elbow-grease we needed to get unstuck.

The Vegas trip was also noteworthy because as I was flying out of Vegas, I could see the desert landscape, dusted with snow in the high altitudes, and I started crying. I was so homesick for the desert. Even now, that memory takes my breath away. I kicked myself for not renting a car and getting OUT into the desert for a day while I had the chance.

The third reason that the trip was meaningful is because I was socializing with my grad school friends from the other side of the glass. That invisible barrier that separates grad students from faculty was made real for the first time. Their worries about the unknown land of JOBS were not my worries, and I felt relieved to be on the other side. I still have plenty to worry about, and I worry about jobby stuff all the time. But I've actually been through the interview process and I have actually worked as a professor and no one has figured out I'm an impostor yet. Or if they have figured it out, they don't say anything because they are all impostors too :)  I have one less unknown to obsess about.

The next further-away-than-Fargo trip I took was to drive to Minneapolis in April. I left home early in the morning, drove to Minneapolis, spent $400+ at Trader Joe's, packed it all into the car, and drove home. I count this as travel even though it was not an overnight trip. You may say THAT'S CRAZY and tell me that my shopping trip was "expensive". I am here to tell you that even with the gas money and car maintenance costs, it was still fiscally responsible because food is kind of pricey here, and good food is either non-existent or ridiculously expensive. Also, you cannot put a price on the joy that comes from a pantry full of TJ's goodies. The JoJo's cookies were almost worth the trip by themselves. God I love those things. I also bought $100 in soy milk that would have cost closer to $200 here. I don't drink soy milk anymore, but it was a big win at the time.

I logged 10 hours of driving that day. Totally worth it. And I actually love to drive, so it was really nice to just be by myself, in the car, with my music, for an entire day. Spring was springing and it was a nice adventure. Plus, TRADER JOE'S, folks...We don't have one here. Oh, you have no idea how much I miss it.

In June, I traveled to my friend Sean's wedding. Sean was one of my best friends through high school and into college. We met at band camp and both loved jazz. He played guitar, and he was good at it. Hell, we both loved music, period. At band camp, we would sneak off to smoke cigarettes together. Once we got to college, we smoked pot together. A lot of it. We *may* have tried other things too. Maybe. I won't admit to anything, but I might wink at you.

We used to get stoned and drive out on backroads in his jeep listening to Bob Marley. I used to stay at his parents house on Wednesday nights because he and I had an early morning class and I lived 45 minutes away.  He took Women's Studies courses in college before he dropped out. He loved that class. We would talk and laugh our asses off hours into the night. I think he was in love with me, but I didn't realize it until years later. I loved him too, but thought we weren't really compatible. I now realize we totally were, but I just didn't know what was really important at the time.

I hated his fiance--now his wife. I hate his life. I visited him a couple of summers ago and was appalled by his lifestyle. People coming in and out all hours of the night. Too much beer. Too much heavy metal music. Too much of her histrionic personality. Too little ambition. I felt a little guilty, because I wondered if he might have been something "more" if we'd become something more. I wanted to visit him again, especially since I was in Phoenix and he was in Prescott and that's a nice little day trip. But honestly, I didn't want to ever be in a room with his lady friend ever again if I could help it.

When he told me he was getting married, my heart sunk. But I bought a plane ticket and went because I love him.

The wedding was at her parents house (a trailer, but to be fair it was a nice trailer on a large plot of land) and featured guests with white power tattoos, someone in a top hat who I think may have been schizophrenic, a lot of canned beer, Led Zeppelin wedding vows, a bunch of religious stuff even though I have NEVER heard him say a word about Jesus Christ in our 17 years of friendship, a potluck, and no soap in the bathroom for washing hands. Seriously? How do you not make sure that there is soap in the bathroom for a wedding? I didn't stay for the potluck.

When I arrived, I felt out of place because I didn't know anyone. Soon, I felt out of place because I didn't WANT to know anyone. I couldn't wait to get out of there. I felt lucky that I escaped to something better. It sounds snobby, but it's how I felt. Lucky.

As I watched him, I realized he was happy and that he loved her. I realized he was happy with his life. I was happy that he was happy and also relieved that he wasn't really "trapped" in any way. She has a son by someone else, and I had worried that maybe he was doing this out of some sense of duty. Nope.

His happiness also made me feel terribly sad because I knew that the fact that he was happy with this and with her meant that we lived in totally different worlds now. I cried when I drove away (after lying about having to return the rental car that night so that I could leave immediately without feeling bad). I cried because I didn't know if I'd ever have a reason to see him again. And I cried because it's true--you can't go home again. I've known this for years, but it felt like the final link to my adolescence was severed.

We debated traveling for Christmas this year, but I really wanted to be in our home for Christmas. This will be the first year that we didn't spend Christmas morning with my in-laws. I love them. Truly, truly, love them. And Christmas at their house is AWESOME especially when all of Hym's siblings come home. I come from a small family that was always grouchy on Christmas, so experiencing Christmas at their house makes me feel like a kid again. But the boy is almost four and I really wanted to do our own thing this year. I looked into flights that would be before or after Christmas (we are blessed to have an Allegiant route from here to there), but they weren't nearly as cheap as the flights that would have kept us there over Christmas.

I am homesick and I miss my family and I miss the desert. But I am also joyous that we will have our own little family Christmas this year, to start our own traditions and celebrate our beautiful life here. It's the first year that we've gotten a tree, and every time I look at it I am filled with comfort and delight. It smells good. There is snow here. I don't think I've ever had a white Christmas... What a treat!

I didn't address the second part of the question about travel in the upcoming year. I'm okay with that.

Books for Preschoolers that don't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a...

We have a lot of children's books in our house. A LOT of books, period. I lug them around every time I move. I wish I could part with more of them, but this is my hoarding achilles heel.

Many children's books bore me. They make me want to read them quickly to get them over with, especially after the umpteenth reading. There are a few books, however, that stand out from the crowd. The boy loves them and I love reading them to him, over and over again.

Spoon. Written by Amy Krouse Rosenthal with illustrations by Scott Magoon.

My best friend and I discovered this book at Powell's when we spent a weekend in Portland during the summer of 2009. It made such an impression that she was sure to order it for the boy last Christmas. From the Powell's website:

"Young Spoon lives a fairly happy life with a large extended family (including a ladle and a very fancy Aunt Silver), but he can't help being a bit jealous of some of his friends. Knife, for example, 'is so lucky! He gets to cut, he gets to spread.' Not to mention Chopsticks: 'Everyone thinks they're really cool and exotic! No one thinks I'm cool or exotic.' Spoon's mother doesn't try to change his mind, but reacts neutrally. Outside conversations let readers know that Spoon is being envied right back: 'Spoon is so lucky!' sigh the Chopsticks. 'We could never function apart.' At bedtime, Spoon's mom offers encouragement ('Your friends will never know the joy of diving headfirst into a bowl of ice cream') then invites him into the big bed — to spoon, of course. The talented Magoon (Mystery Ride!) gives the utensils plenty of personality, with wide eyes and expressive antlike appendages, and Rosenthal's (Little Pea) skillful storytelling moves along briskly. The humorous but earnest message about valuing one's own talents comes through loud and clear. Ages 2 — 6."

I simply love that he is invited into the big bed to "spoon" at the end. It never fails to make me laugh. The humor is clever and the story is endearing.

Instructions is a book that grew from a poem by Neil Gaiman, with illustrations by Charles Vess.

I adore Neil Gaiman. I read American Gods several years ago, and it quickly became one of my all-time favorite books. The book is based on the premise that the old gods still walk among us, and that they are organizing to fight against the new, modern gods--like the Internet, television, credit cards, etc. That book was written for grown-ups, and if you haven't read it, you should. Especially if you like folklore and Norse gods in particular. But this isn't about American Gods.

Gaiman also writes books for young adults and preschoolers. Instructions, based on poem by Gaiman,  is my favorite book that he has written for young children. It's rapidly becoming one of my favorite books, period. Gaiman has described it as a how-to-survive-should-you-ever-find-yourself-trapped-inside-a-fairy-tale book. You can read the poem here. You can watch a fantastic video below that shares many of the illustrations and features the author reading the entire poem.

Even after watching this enchanted video, it's still worth it to buy the book. After all, it offers damn good advice to live by:

"Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have
helped to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story."

And these last few words make me weepy each time I hear them or read them aloud:

"When you reach the little house, the
place your journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden
gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
Or rest. "

Crazy Hair. Also by Gaiman, with illustrations by Dave McKean.

This book is just plain silly. And it rhymes! I love the cadence and the illustrations are funny, fantastical, and just a tad creepy. I have fun reading it every time.

Me I Am.

When I read this book, I am struck by the depth of its poem. Seriously. It's a deep poem, no?

I am the only Me I Am  
Who qualifies as me,
no Me I AM has been before,  
and none will ever be  
No other Me I Am 
can feel the feelings I' ve within,  
no other Me I Am
can fit precisely in my skin  
There is no other Me I Am  
who thinks the thoughts I do,  
the world contains one Me I Am
There is no room for two
I am the only Me I Am
this earth shall ever see,
that Me I Am I always am
is no one else but Me!

This book is based on the above poem by Jack Prelutsky, the first winner of the Children’s Poet Laureate award. The poem is beautiful, and the illustrations that accompany it are great fun to look at with your child because there's a lot of "stuff" going on in the picture that they can ask questions about. In searching for more information about him, I discovered this section on the scholastic website, and he offers great tips (I think) for writers--child and adult alike. I also like that this book will serve as an early reader book because most of the words are simple.

Chip Wants a Dog.
This book is weird, but fun. The photographs and story are by William Wegman, who apparently luuurrrves weimaraners. Chip (who is, very obviously, a dog) wants a dog, but there are barriers to this goal, such as the fact that his parents (who are also dogs) won't allow him to get a dog because dogs are a lot of work, and his mother is a cat person. In the end, Chip realizes he doesn't need a dog--HE IS A DOG. I'm not sure what the "moral" is, but I think it's something about not needing someone to make your life complete. The photographs of the beautiful weimaraners (dressed in clothes, reading magazines, etc.) are hilarious.

The Human Body: A Magic Skeleton Book. Written by Janet Sacks. Illustrated by Jan Smith and Peter Bull.
When the boy was potty training, he wanted to know where poop comes from. It wasn't enough to know that poop came from food--he wanted to know how food turned into poop. I tried showing him images online, but they are confusing for a little guy. I looked at several books before finding this one. Most of the children's anatomy books are either WAY too detailed for a 3-4 year-old, or they are (in my opinion) just plain stupid. I was really excited when I found this book. You can't tell from the Amazon images, but each page has a slide-out tab, so that you can first see the skeleton (or digestive system, or brain, etc.) and then when you pull the slider out, you see where that particular organ (or skeleton) resides in the body. The book includes pull tabs for the skeleton, the brain, the heart, the lungs, and the digestive system; simple information about cells, teeth, and nutrition is also included. The boy loves it, and when he took it to show-and-tell, his teacher wrote the information down to order one for the classroom because she had also had difficulty finding something that was both appropriate and informative for young children. You do have to be a little gentle with it because if you pull really hard the tabs will come all the way out or get torn, but overall the book is sturdier than I thought it would be. The book will grow with him because there are sort of layers of information in the book, so that we can move from just enjoying the pull tabs to reading more of the details in the book.

Frog and Toad stories, written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.

These are by no means new books. They were published in the 1970s, but I didn't read these books as a child. Now I feel like I was deprived :) If you were similarly deprived, buy them now so that you can enjoy them with your child. They are simple, sweet, and funny stories about two best friends--Frog and Toad. I would probably read these by myself even if I didn't have a child, now that I've discovered them.

On Prefixes, Priorites, and Breast Milk

I am an affiliate of the Women's Studies program here. There is no actual major in Women's Studies, just a program, and I am grateful that we have that. 

Apparently the state's higher board of education want our university and the other university to have the same prefix for their programs to make it easier to transfer credits. I get it. This is one of those little annoying things that isn't a big deal until you find yourself dealing with people's mistakes too much of the time. Go ahead--change the program name and/or the prefix. Let's move on.

Move on? But no. No, no, no, no, no. We can't just get it done and move on, because academics are a bunch of narcissistic crybabies. Not all of them, but too many of them.

Narcissistic crybabies. There, I said it.

I don't go to the Women's Studies meetings because it seems like a lot of drama. I feel bad about not attending, but there are a handful of people that really get under my skin who faithfully attend and I only have so much patience. I try to save it for my child :)

There is an awful lot of mental masturbation (i.e. big words that serve no more function than smaller words, theorizing for the sake of theorizing, using hard-to-understand, insider terminology) going on in this department. My friend C calls it academic masturbation. I think academic masturbators are just subsets of mental masturbators. My ex-husband was an MM, but not in the academic category. He was a music snob MM. Like High Fidelity, but way more "underground."


My friend, K, is a member of the Women's studies curriculum committee. Regarding the meetings about name changes: Oh my god. There was pointing and yelling and crying and all sorts of drama.

Narcissistic crybabies. I told you.

K then went on to say that she must be a bad feminist, because she just didn't care that much about the prefix--she wanted to get on with other challenges and problems in the curriculum.

The thing is, I totally understand why this kind of thing matters. They are currently debating two options to rename the program: Women and Gender Studies vs. Gender and Women's Studies. I find the second-wave feminists favor the first option and third-wave/queer theorists want the second. So while the some of them are duking it out, there are others (4th wave pragmatists?) who are like, um, hey, uh, we just need to get this done so we can move on to important shit.


Personally, I prefer the first option: Women and Gender Studies. I think it's important to include both Women and Gender in the title, but I think Women should come first, if for no reason other than to pay homage to those early programs that were hard to start and controversial. In this regard, I agree with the 2nd-wavers. If women will be subsumed under "Gender," then you might was well just take "Women" out of the name.

Yes, I have an opinion. But at the end of the day, I'll go with any of the options as long as we still have a program and funds to expand. I'm nauseated that this kind of thing is taking up so much time. Let's celebrate that we have a program that needs a name and that we have freedom to bicker about this bullshit. And then move on.

Because seriously, stuff like this is happening, and once again, women are being chastised for daring to assert that they know what is best for their children, even though they are in agreement with the recommendations from the World Health Organization. The overarching message is that women are too irresponsible to be able to care for their children appropriately. The overarching message is that women are really just children, after all. They can create life, but are obviously too feeble-minded to figure out how to boil milk. Obviously, we shouldn't trust them to cook meat to a proper temperature either. Those dirty, weak, imbeciles can't be trusted.

I'd rather put my time and effort into political action like this. This is where academic feminists should be putting their time and energy. The Eats on Feets "movement" didn't initially set out to be political; it has, of course, become political. Anytime women assert control over their bodies, it becomes political. There is always backlash. The medical-pharmaceutical-agricultural-industrial complex always knows best.

This woman started the first Facebook page. She is simply amazing, and I feel honored to know her:

"I'm not saying we need to discount possible concerns because they are real and legitimate," said Walker. "But women are smart enough to figure these things out."

Amen to that.

Santa

The boy visited Santa today. When we got there, there was no line (SERIOUSLY, NO LINE! I wasn't sure how to react), and I asked him what he was going to ask Santa for. He said he couldn't remember (even though he's been reciting the same two things for several weeks), so I reminded him of the first thing--an R2D2 robot. Once I reminded him of that item, he generated the following list:

1. R2D2 robot (already purchased on Ebay)--He saw a remote control R2D2 robot in the store last May, and has been mentioning it ever since. Please don't ask how my almost 4-year-old knows who R2D2 is. I still can't decide if that's parenting win or parenting fail. Instead, I refer you to this video:



3. Journal from mama**--A few weeks ago I asked what he would like from me for Christmas, and he said he would like a journal like the one he has at school, which is basically a tri-prong folder with blank pages.

4. Water bottle from daddy--When I asked what he would like form daddy, he said another water bottle. He already has a couple of stainless steel water bottles, and he keeps one next to the bed, takes one to school, etc. Since he hasn't used a sippy cup in several months (after I decided that I really wanted to minimize the degree to which our food touches plastic***), I think this is a prudent and endearing request.

Then, he turned to me and said, what else?

I suggested play-doh, because he is out of it and I already bought more.
 
5. Play-doh

When he got up to Santa, there was no way he was sitting on his lap, but he did bend in and whisper his list, in that exact order.

I try to not go overboard on material things for holidays and birthdays, but it's hard because I LOVE TOYS and holidays in my house growing up were riddled with tension and strife. I know that you can't buy your way to happiness, and have tried to stick to a fairly rigid list this year. The last few years I bought more than expected, and ended up doling things out for subsequent holidays or other random days of the year. Case in point--we just opened the majority of the play-doh that I bought last December. He created an army of creatures with it and refused to put them away so they dried up. He continued to play with them until I'd had enough of finding crumbs everywhere, so I slowly threw them away one at a time so he didn't notice. Hence the need for more play-doh.

---

*I don't mind giving a shout-out to Ebay because a few months ago, I ordered a Wall-E costume from a seller on Ebay (because boy was very definite about what he wanted to be for Halloween and I couldn't find the costume here). The costume that arrived was not the one in the picture, and I had taken a lot of time to find that specific costume. Had I wanted the costume they sent to me, I could have found it far cheaper and with less hassle on several other sites. When I tried to contact the seller, they had disappeared. I couldn't email them. I couldn't go to the seller's store. I contacted Ebay. After a week passed and I was still unable to contact the seller, Ebay refunded my money. All of it. In the past I have been hesitant to order anything online, but this earned my confidence. I like that I can order used things, and even though many items are not local, I feel like that reduces my carbon footprint. If I were to buy something new locally, my options are limited, so I'd end up giving my money to a chain store that shipped the stuff here anyway and sends the profits back to a corporate office.

**I could have explained that he didn't need to tell Santa what he wanted mommy and daddy to get him, but that would have been confusing.

***I know that the plastic stuff is BPA free now, but I still don't trust the plastics industry and feel it is only a matter of time until we learn that some other chemical in plastic is making us sick. I try to store everything in glass. Especially if it will be reheated in a microwave (we don't own a microwave, but I take leftovers to work).