Lucy: Hoarder

I've been cleaning out Lucy's room. A brief inventory tells it all. What I found: Detritus from the plastic tide constantly battering our shore. News: we are losing to the tide. I found myself picking up tiny pieces of plastic asking, "What IS this?" A bolt from the space shuttle? A prized gem? The one little thingie that fits into the other thingie? I have several Ikea containers of items for which I couldn't answer that question. If in the next three weeks, nothing collapses and no fits are thrown, they're gone.

Several caches of acorns and pecans. Is she a squirrel? Is it wartime? Are we not feeding her enough?

Approximately 1,327 stickers. About 1% of which were adhered to inappropriate surfaces.

Three containers of Scotch tape. This in house with a child who is always either asking 1) "Can I watch TV?" or 2) "Where is the tape?" Where IS the damn tape? Oh, it's in your room.

Those lost socks. Luckily, she's down with the non-matching-socks fashion statement.

Oh, the rocks. So many rocks. And shells. And even another dang bone (smallish — a deer foot, maybe?), despite my blanket ban on any new bones coming into this house. She's a freaking archaeologist.

Trash. Really, this is a whole category of stuff ranging from gum wrappers to popsicle sticks (used, people, not the kind intended for crafts) to cardboard of any kind. I hate to stifle a burgeoning artist whose primary medium is the found, but ew. One must draw a line. Mine is the UNWASHED CUP used as part of baseball stadium model.

Necklaces, bracelets, makeup brushes, tubes of lip balm. All of which are MINE. Finding my lost stuff in her nest is both annoying and sweet. I choose to think of these stashes as little altars to mom.

The starts of many stories. I have to confess to saving choice pieces of paper — any artifact or memory that could be filed away.

We're not done by a long shot, but at least no one from TLC (or CPS) is coming.

p.s. PLEASE, don't buy her anything. I will pay you not to.

Oh, Hello

The past few weeks have been a test of my relationship-maintenance skills. I have failed. Any of you who rely on this blog to know what in the world we're doing, what can I say but "I'm sorry." For those of you who actually picked up the phone to call (and got no response), I am extra sorry. All is good here is Lucyandmiloland. Nothing new but the usual May marathon of end-of-year events and school holidays. Plus I was on a massive work deadline counting down to seven days in New York: fun-filled professional development + many good meals. While I pretended to be very important, Jason held down the fort at home. Miraculously, laundry and homework and piano lessons got done.

Ed. note: Jason, upon reading this post, rolled his eyes at the word "miraculously."

Did You Know...

... that the closest living relative of the manatee is the elephant? ...that "Do" (as in "Doe a Deer") is the note C? And that Lucy can sing each note nearly perfectly before playing it on the piano? (And that maybe I only think she's playing them nearly perfectly because I am a little tone deaf?)

...that the treble clef is a G clef and the bass clef is an F clef? And that there are some others, but we don't need to know them for piano right now? And, look, this line that goes up and down? That's a measure.

...that pinnipeds are wing-footed mammals (seals, walruses, sea lions, you know)?

Confession: all the above was news to me. Mind is reeling from all I learned during piano lesson (Jason normally handles this) and all the discussion leading up to and after today's  Sea World visit.

Single Parenthood

Let's be clear: Jason will not be free of me until I am dead. That said, let's hear it for occasional single parenting. Logistically, it sucks (may I never know how much). But there are moments when being alone with your kids is so much easy than managing them together.

With Lucy, it's all about shooting the gap. Any difference of opinion or lack of paying attention between me and Jason = advantage Lucy. There's a whole list of classic Lu maneuvers that read like chess moves or football plays (the "Mom Promised!" Opening, the "But I'm Starving" Gambit, the "Dad Said It Was Okay" Defense). The two of us are no match for one of her.

With Milo, it's simpler. He likes Jason better than me and whines and cries for Dada if Dada is anywhere in the house, making it impossible for me to do anything for him. If Dada is not home, Milo might go to the door and ask "Dada?" once in a while, but is largely happy with me. (P.S. Milo, remember how I gave birth to you drug-free, and NOT on the side of Mopac? You're welcome.)

I enjoyed my evening alone with the kids. Here's hoping Jason enjoys the FIVE DAYS I am about to unleash on him next week.

Be Brave and Behave

Be brave and behave. That's what Jason says to Lucy when he sends her into the world. It's good advice, words I've tried to follow during some of the recent most comically hard days of my professional life. Confession: I'm not a public speaker. I'm great in a meeting. A cocktail party. Fourteenth row of an airplane. Any kind of conversation? I'm your girl. But a straight-up, canned presentation in front of a big audience? Not so much. To my continued surprise, I am a reluctant public speaker.

So recently, when I overcame that hesitation and agreed to be one of faces/voices of something I've been working on, I thought: Be brave.

And I was. I presented the first part of my section and I was okay — warming up, a little hesitant, not my best, but getting there. Right before it was my turn again, I took a quick bathroom break, and as I was returning, I threw a hello over my shoulder to one of the participants who was also headed back in and WHAM. I walked straight into the egde of a metal door frame. With my forehead.

I returned to the bathroom, seeing stars, and looked in the mirror to find a smallish, profusely bleeding gash and a rising goose egg IN THE MIDDLE OF MY FOREHEAD. I think to myself: "Is this really happening? Am I in a sitcom?"

Colleagues and helpers rushed into the bathroom. There was discussion of ice, stitches, a substitute presenter. But I decided, I am in New York. This is my Broadway moment. THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

Also, faced with possible concussion, facial scar and deep wound to pride, I was no longer nervous. Was this all a dramatic ruse to distract from my public speaking fear?

I took a deep breath, and assumed my place in front of the room — paper towels pressed to my forehead (you know how headwounds tend to bleed so dramatically?) — and said:

"Lest you think I'm so nervous that I am literally sweating blood, I have to confess to a Lucille Ball moment I had right as I was walking in..."

I was brave. And it was fine. Maybe people even liked me more upon seeing this clear display of my humanity. And as for the "behave" part of Jason's advice, I think we can safely translate that into being safe. Next time, I will behave and wear a helmet.

Career Opportunities

Tonight Lucy moved her desk away from the wall so she could sit on one side of it, and Milo could sit opposite her. For a job interview. Apparently Lucy Enterprises is seeking some dynamic small people for exciting opportunities in playing, building and being bossed around. She took notes on her clipboard. Lucy: "Buzzy, do you want to be a big-Lego builder?"

Milo: "Yeah."

Lucy: "Tell me why you think you would be good at it."

Milo: "Zub zib bah bah. Uh oh bye bye, guys guys guys!"

Lucy: "That's interesting."

The interview continued for a few more minutes, and though I moved to the kitchen where I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, it sounded like a nice conversation — which is what a good job interview should be, right? Even the part where Milo made monkey noises. When I listened back in more closely, the interview was wrapping up.

Lucy: "Will you let us know when you decide?

Milo: "Yeah."

Write Me a Love Song

Ed. note: Been a long time, people, but it's a sappy alert: apologies in advance. Love. It’s THE stuff of song. Religion (and I’d consider this a sub-category of love) and politics/protest hold second and third place to love. There’s also loss and despair, but again: sub-categories of love. There are train songs and fight songs and death songs. So many stories, so many themes.

But the greatest of these is love. The teenage kind, the unrequited kind, the illicit kind. The filial, the desperate, the forbidden, the broken.

But what about quotidian love? You know, the laundry and dishes and diapers and we’re-doing-okay kind of love? There are songs, I know.  It’s unfair to call this a totally neglected category. I just wish I could write one, or find one readily enough — a song about love's lesser worries.

Were we just mad about the trash?

Would you just hold my hand?

Thank you for folding the laundry.

Have I told you all my stories yet?

Can we be apart enough for me to write some new ones?

Will you be bored if we aren’t?

Did we fight about the fight about piano?

I think you won. Oh well.

Thank you for finding my keys for the 437th time.

Should I know you better?

Will you always hold my hand?

I forgive you 10 times before you know I’m mad. You’re welcome.

I know you forgive me 27. Thank you.

This is a little like war. Only it’s love. With us and little people.

You are the best person I know. And I know more than enough to know.

We deserve a song.

Study: The Role of Cuteness in the Evolutionary Biology of Toddlers of Prey

Fang. Jaws. Animal. All nicknames for that kid: the Biter. Milo.

He's been acting out his 18-to-24-month aggression by leaving angry, tooth-indented rings in the flesh of his classmates. It's a problem, obviously. But what's funny is that his teachers are having a bit of hard time correcting his behavior...because he's so damn cute. "That face," they tell me. This week he was kicked out of graduated from the younger toddler afternoon classroom into the older toddler room, because the girls with the little kids were entirely too charmed by him to do anything about the biting. When I picked him up last Thursday, I was met at the door by Micah, who had a giant bite-mark on his cheek (Milo) and Charlie, sporting a dental imprint on his arm (Milo). Fang, for his part, hugged and kissed both his friends/victims as I opened the door, then he ran down the hall, leaving me with my apologies to the parents of the bitees.  Milo: a lover and a biter. One has to wonder if this is what it will be like when I bail him out of jail.