Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Play dates make me nervous. They always feel so much like “real dating.” It starts with a look, a glance between two Moms. An initial thought, "Check out that girl over there. She looks nice. Her kid looks clean.” After a bit of time, maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks, someone takes a chance and makes the first move. “We should get together sometime. Here is my phone number.” After the digit exchange, I know that it is best if I do not call right away. It is never wise to appear desperate at the beginning of a relationship.

Although the play date scene can be a bit treacherous, I have persevered. There are days, especially during the winter months, when Giancarlo needs a buddy his own age to interact with. A good play date makes him smile endlessly, wears him out, and always results in a good day for both of us.

Given all of this, I never thought it was possible for play dates to have a downside…a dark side, if you will.

What do you do when things unexpectedly go wrong? When you are deep into the play date relationship and suddenly, without warning, the dating stops? No explanation, no phone call, no e-mail, no text. It is just over.

A fictitious case study:
Giancarlo and I have been dating “Fred and Sally” for many months now. Things have been going along great. Sally and I trade-off having our boys at one another’s homes each week. The routine is simple: play, eat lunch, and sometimes watch a DVD. I felt good about the relationship, confident that our dating would last forever.

Out of the blue a few weeks ago, Sally stopped calling. At first I thought she was simply too busy to return my calls. I tried to explain the unexplainable by making excuses: maybe she is sick, maybe Fred is sick. Ultimately, I came to the reality that maybe she is just not that into me.

Like any bad ending to a relationship, I have been racking my brain, attempting to figure out what went wrong. Naturally, I first assumed it had something to do with Giancarlo. Was it the time that he didn’t want to go home and I had to physically man-handle him to get him into his carseat? The screaming was uncomfortable. Or maybe it was the unsolved mystery of how Sally's brand-new, just out of the box plasma screen TV was rendered completely useless. Was it Giancarlo or Fred who threw the truck and destroyed it? We may never know.

As my mind has been working at warp speed this week, I also came to the shocking reality that perhaps I’m to blame. Did I profess my love for Sally and Fred too early on? I tried to be witty, comb my hair, and appear wordly and well-informed. Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged Sally to read our blog. Was that too forward for the second date? I just thought that she felt the same connection I did.

Whatever the reason, I am sad and find myself desperately checking out other Moms wherever we go, trying to fill the void that Sally and Fred have created. I am dragging Giancarlo and Lucia to the park, even in the rain, and forcing them to look cute on command. So far, it is not working.

If only there was a sign, a way for me to look at another Mom and instantly know that we could make that dating connection.

How about a bracelet? Would that work? There are so many silicone bracelets available now for an endless number of causes. What if I created one for my cause?

I came up with a few ideas. I want to create a bracelet that not only establishes solidarity, but also says, "Hey, I'm a Mom and I am willing to commit. Let's be playdate pals forever."

-Francesca

Like Father, Like Daughter

This week Tyler has been away on a business trip in Vegas (hmmm...) and, while I've missed him, I've also become keenly aware that he is with me, just in the form of Emi.

Tyler is very creative and quite resourceful. He is always looking for new ways to use household items. Here is Emi doing her favorite thing (this week anyway): playing with our recyclables. Just like her Pop, Emi has found a new home for our trash...or perhaps the lectures I've recently given her about the economy have paid off and she is creating a "new toy" for herself.



Recently, I've noticed that Emi is quite mischievous. As her personality reveals itself, I'm finding more and more that she takes after Dad. Even though I've known Emi's Dad almost all my life, there are times when I am not sure if he is being serious. (99.9% of the time Tyler is NOT serious.)


If mannerism and personality similiarities are not convincing enough, it is obvious to me that Emi is Tyler's mini-me. I think the following photos demonstrate this best. Hello, can we say spitting image?



We are very excited for Dad to be home today. Emi and I have really missed him, and so has the garbage and the laundry. Welcome home Ty!

-Kacey

He Said/She Said

Tyler and I just celebrated our third anniversary and, while I can say it's been lovely, we've definitely had our share of "discussions." These discussions coincidentally became more amplified after the arrival of our daughter, Emi. Some people describe us both as being passive-aggressive or sarcastic. We prefer to call it razor sharp wit. After work, once our nightly ritual (feeding, bathing, reading and tucking Emi in) is completed, our discussions usually go something like this:

Kacey:
I just want to begin by saying how much I appreciate our open brand of communication. There are many things you do that I value - some much more than others. One of the things I value less is the remarkable art you produce every night after I’ve cooked dinner, where you leave the dirty dishes out in a unique abstract formation. I don’t know what I find more intoxicating, your daily artistry or the aroma of decomposing food.

Tyler:
Thank you so much for your refreshing honesty. It buoys me up and gives me strength. I too value everything I like about you. One thing I find adorable is your irreplaceable ability to misconstrue having food delivered to our doorstep with actually preparing a meal. I think it’s cute the way you equate the two, somehow conjuring up the belief that dumping food from a box onto a plate relieves you from dish duty. That’s like saying because I put rubbish into a receptacle I’m absolved from having to take out the trash. I fall more and more in love with your quirky logic every day.

Kacey:
I’m delighted you thought to bring up the subject of garbage because I think it’s endearing how whenever you eat something contained in a plastic wrapper, you forget to place the wrapper into the receptacle just a few feet away. I consider each wrapper a memento of your leisured persona.

Tyler:
I do it all for you, kiddo.

Kacey:
Don’t I know it.

After this, Tyler does the dishes and then rubs my feet. VICTORY!! Life is good.

-Kacey (& Tyler)

Me + 40 Years or So

I have a pretty good idea of what type of woman I am going to be in about 40 years. I have had an image of her in my head for a long time.



In my purple velour, Candy Queen sweatshirt, I’ll drive around town much too fast, barely able to see over the dashboard. I’ll golf, hardly hear a thing, laugh too loud, eat and drink anything I want, and probably still be driving my husband a bit insane. In short, I’ll be a bit like my own grandmother.

I am lucky to have both of my grandmothers still in my life. They know and adore our children and are always wondering when our next visit will be. It was during one of these many visits over the holidays, as I sat on my grandmother’s couch, that I began to understand just how crazy she may be, and how I am sure to follow in her footsteps one day.

My grandmother is 89 years old. She’ll turn 90 in April. That little fact alone is humbling to me. She has lived through many of the major events of this century…WWII, the Depression, (my birth). These events had a profound effect on the person she is today. In fact, the lifestyle and habits that she and her family adopted during the Depression have never left her.

My grandmother's ability to find a use for household items that I would otherwise throw away is really quite amazing. A few examples:

1. Old pill bottles: Stack them up and, voila, you have just made a castle. Nevermind the expired prescriptions that may be inside. The bottles can simply double as a rattle and make things more interesting.
2. Napkins: Yes, the two-ply paper napkin. Throw it up in the air and watch in fall to the ground. Entertainment at its finest. Sadly, my kids are not as gullible as I was as a child and quickly tired of this “game.”
3. The Styrofoam plate used to package meat: One of my favorites. After having been washed thoroughly, you can make a multitude of boats and airplanes.
4. The potato chip bag: Turned inside out, given a quick rinse, and, bam, you have a “racetrack” for your cars.

My grandmother's ability to recycle and reuse doesn’t stop at toys either. For Giancarlo’s birthday this year, she decorated her present with the number three. When my husband, Geoff, saw the package, he said, “Wow, that looks like a number from her house address.” Well, that would be because it was. Yes, my grandmother had given my son one of the numbers formerly adorning her home. Apparently, my parents had given her new house numbers, since hers were falling down, so she thought it would be fun to pass the number 3 along.

-Francesca

It Would Have Been Nice to Know

Last Christmas, Emi slept through most of the holiday season. As a two month old, she seemed quite bored.

This Christmas, a year older, I was very excited, hoping Emi would relish the festivities and get in the spirit of the holidays.

We started with Emi's first Christmas tree outing. It was crowded and FREEZING, just the way you imagine it to be. And yet, she didn't seem to appreciate the experience as much as we had hoped. She can be so ungrateful at times.

This year, Tyler and I debated over what to get her. After much thought, we settled on a little Bumble Bee Scooter. Little did we know that Grandpa & Grandma had also purchased the same scooter.

She did seem to enjoy her mound of presents...just not as much as the two following items.

Yes, those are Mardi Gras beads. Yes, one of them says Cuervo. Yes, Emi is teething (nice drool, puddle!). And no, Emi did not "earn" the beads.

Her second favorite thing...Kleenex.

I found her "playing" with the Kleenex box. She takes one piece at a time and apparently has made up a game called, "let's see how many tiny pieces I can make before Mom catches me." Fun times. Had I known this is what would occupy my daughter's time I would have splurged and purchased her the ultra soft box (only the very best for her!).

-Kacey

The Ghost of Christmas Past

For more Mondays than I can remember, I have stalked MckMama’s My Charming Kids blog. My goal is always the same: to be among the first 10 blogs listed in the Not-Me Monday carnival. Anyone who has participated in the carnival can confirm that this is no easy feat. To further complicate matters, MckMama has started opening the carnival at different times, sometimes Sunday night, sometimes Monday morning.

When I logged onto My Charming Kids this morning, I saw that the carnival had been open for at least 8 hours, which means that there were probably already around 70 blogs listed. Ugh. Rather than adopting a defeatist attitude and abandoning the effort altogether, as I often do when I make this discovery, I thought, what if I wasn’t one of the top blogs? What if I was instead dead last?

So here we are, at around #300 in the blog roll, that I offer my post for the week:

Last week, I did not channel the Ghost of Christmas Past and kill my son’s pet fish.

In order to understand this statement, there are many stories that must be told…

My brother, Andy, has long been one of the best gift givers I know. When I was in college, he gave me a fish bowl and a pair of goldfish. I did not know that I had ever even wanted pet fish until he presented me with them on Christmas morning. I loved them. Once the holiday break was over, I returned to school and left the fish in my parents' loving care. What could go wrong? Needless to say, I was stunned when I received a phone call from my Mom weeks later. The fish were dead. It hadn’t even been a month since Christmas. When I asked her what she might have done out of the ordinary, she responded that she cleaned the fish tank…with bleach.

After my son, G, was born, my husband thought it would be great to have fish next to the crib. It would give G something to watch, almost like a live mobile. I was hesitant. I didn’t want to take on the responsibility of fish maintenance. Geoff, my husband, assured me that would never happen.

Geoff was true to his word and cleaned the tank regularly in the beginning. However, like most good things, that routine came to an end and cleaning the tank became my responsibility. My husband does his best to persuade me not to clean the tank most of the time; something about maintaining the delicate, ecological balance of the aquarium. My response to this is usually along the lines of “whatever.”

Last week, I couldn’t stand it any longer. The slimy algae, moldy fish food, and other nameless floating scum got the best of me. I gave the kids some toys and, later that morning, the tank was as clean as the day we bought it.

Sadly, the fish was not as pleased with the outcome as I was. After about an hour in his new, crystal clear environment, I noticed that the fish seemed to be swimming a bit side-ways. More time passed and suddenly he stopped swimming altogether. At that point, Giancarlo started yelling, “Mama, the fish is broken! Fix it, Mama, fix it.” Try as I might, the fish couldn’t be fixed. When he started swimming into the sides of the tank, kamikaze style, I knew we were in trouble.

I did the only thing I could think of: I gathered the kids around the tank and we took in the very dramatic and tragic show.

I like to think that my kids learned about the circle of life this week. Here is a bit of pictorial evidence to that effect, as well as proof of just how very clean the tank is:

As I gazed upon the empty tank today, I realized that I used the exact same phrase as my mother when I attempted to explain the sudden demise of the fish...“the tank really needed to be cleaned!”

-Francesca

It's Not Easy Being Green

Over the past few months, I have been trying to teach my son the importance of “being green.” At roughly three years old, he understands that the trash does not all go into the same can. He also is aware that he should not use an endless supply of Kleenex as “trash” when playing with his garbage trucks or let the water run continuously as he washes his play pots and pans. Teaching him about conservation is good not only for the environment, but also for our bank account.

I have been feeling pretty good about my role as a parent lately, thinking that G is WAY ahead of his peers when it comes to understanding and appreciating these issues. Yesterday, however, I finally realized how very true this is.

For the past few weeks, I have been convinced that there is something wrong with our dishwasher. The silverware simply does not comes out clean. At first, I naturally assumed that my husband was at fault. Although he has received numerous tutorials on the proper technique for loading and unloading the dishwasher, perhaps he was in need of a refresher course. After an intense question and answer session between the two of us, I deduced that this was not the case.

I later thought that my daughter’s tendency to lick the silverware before I have a chance to upload the bottom dish rack completely may be at fault. While this is definitely true, it still did not account for the utterly dirty, yogurt looking spoons that I find in our silverware drawer.

Yesterday, it all came together for me. As I stood at the kitchen counter cleaning up breakfast, G trotted into the kitchen and put his used silverware back into the drawer. “What are you doing?” I shrieked. He looked at me, confused. “Mama, I’m all done eatin’. I am re-cycle-cling.”

It’s not easy being green….



-Francesca

Brusha, Brusha Toothbrush

Between the hours of 5:00 and 6:30 p.m. each day, my house often melts into complete chaos. I am not exactly sure why, but it does. Maybe my kids are tired, maybe they are hungry, or maybe it is a combination of the two for all three of us. Whatever the cause, our nightly bath, meal prep, and getting into bed routine can render me completely useless when it is all over.

Last night was no exception. My husband has been away on a business trip this week and by the time Friday night rolled around, I was super tired. Just get through these next few hours and everything will be fine, I kept telling myself. The house will be quiet and you can sit down with a cup of tea and watch Ghost Whisperer. (That’s right. You read that last statement correctly. I said Ghost Whisperer. I love the show and although I may be the only one in America watching, I never miss it.)

G has recently decided that he is not a fan of taking a bath any longer. In fact, I believe that if I did not force cleanliness upon him, he would be perfectly happy, very dirty, little boy. My approach to bath time is to get L in first, wash her, then coax G in, threaten/cajole/bribe/plead with him to use the soap, and finally get the two of them out.

As I sat at the rim of the tub last night washing L’s hair, G walked into the bathroom and announced that he was going to wash Mater’s teeth. He grabbed a toothbrush and proceeded to happily sing and scrub away at Mater’s two buck front teeth for several minutes. After I got him undressed, he said that he wanted to take the toothbrush with him into the bath. Sure, why not, I thought. L was at a point where her crying was becoming deafening, so I was happy to agree to something simple to keep G occupied.

As I left the bathroom, G yelled, “Mama, I’m using the toothbrush to wash myself. “ “Great, baby,” I replied. “Just make sure to do a good job.” “OK, Mama,” he shouted.

After having gotten L settled and happily playing with a few toys in the bedroom, I returned to the bathroom to inspect G’s work.

G: Mama, I’ll all done!
Me: Wow, looks good, baby. Good job!
G: I’m ready to get out. Get me ooooooouuuuuutttttttt!!!

As I was lifting G out of the tub, I glanced down and saw MY toothbrush floating in the tub. What?!?! I thought G was using the toothbrush that we keep at the bathroom sink for him to play with, but no. Turns out that was not the case. When asked, G explained, “I couldn’t reach my toothbrush, Mama, so I used yours.”

-Francesca

Hotty in Hot Pink

I’ve known my husband a long time. 20 years to be exact. We met when I was a very young and naïve 13-year freshman in high school. It is somewhat comical now to look back on that girl. Boy, did I think I was the very epitome of cool. An endless amount of time was dedicated to my appearance, especially my clothes. I even remember what I was wearing when I first met my husband. I arrived at our geometry class decked out head to toe in clothing from the Wet Seal. To this day, he and I still joke about that outfit: a blue and white striped jean mini-skirt and a white knit sweater with a scalloped collar. I think it made my mother physically ill to buy those clothes, but given that I was starting high school, she acquiesced to my pleas and allowed me to pick out one outfit completely on my own.

Other memories from that time in my life are not quite so vivid. I remember some names, faces, and events, but most moments have simply faded away with time. Or so I thought.

Fast forward to today. My husband, Geoff, and I have been married for six years, have two children, and are leading an otherwise normal life. We don’t talk much about our history together simply because we are so caught up in the everyday chaos of kids, work, and school. Even though we may not reminisce about our time in high school, it is apparently closer to my husband's heart than I realized.

As it is Not-Me Monday, I thought I would share this tidbit with the blogging community: I did not discover that my husband is still carrying around my high school prom picture in his wallet…20 years later.


Here I am with my prom date, Marc, in all my hot pink glory: a hot pink dress, hot pink shoes, and even hot pink finger nails. Upon close inspection of the photo, I noticed that although it appears that I tried to reconcile the height difference between my date and I with the height of my hair, it did not work. It would have undoubtedly been easier if I had just worn high heels. I also realized that there must have been some sort of communication problem with Marc, as his is adorned in grey and soft pink tones, thereby violating the all-important male/female color coordination rule.

I flipped the photo over and read what I wrote on the back:

To Geoff (my best friend),
I’m really glad that I got to know you this year.
It has truly been an “experience” sitting by you in math.
We’ll have to go out soon.
Keep in touch,
Francesca

P.S. “93” rules

After 20 years, Geoff and I have an untold number of photos at various stages in our life together. Most pictures were taken on days when my hair was not frozen in place with Aqua Net and you couldn’t spot me from 30 paces because of the color of my clothes. Why would he still carry around this picture?

The answer: It reminds him of our beginning; the point when our two lives first intersected. Through all of our high’s and low’s together, he likes to be able to glimpse back on where we started and realize just how far we have come.

-Francesca

PS: Don’t forget to enter the Three Bay B Chicks' Giveaway for the Loom Go-Tote Bag. Contest ends this Wednesday, November 19.

Mr. Noodle is Not Naked

Television. I have long believed that it is the bond that unites us all. Find that you can’t figure out what to talk about with a friend or neighbor? No problem. Ask them about what they enjoy watching, have watched, or are planning to watch someday. It is like a miracle cure to an otherwise painful conversation.

Television watching among children is another matter entirely. I have met parents who do not allow their children to watch TV and I am admittedly amazed by this decision. I know that I can only aspire to such greatness. In my world, there are days, especially mornings, where Max & Ruby, Sesame Street, or Caillou miraculously restore peace and harmony in my household.

I must also admit that I use “TV time” to get things done around my house. While I do have an eye on what is flashing across the screen, I am not sitting beside G during the 30 or 60 minutes that I have created for myself.

It turns out that this may not be one of my better parenting decisions.

During G’s last haircut, the stylist asked G what he would like to watch on TV. G happily agreed to Elmo’s World and sat contentedly in the chair. When Elmo’s male sidekick appeared on the screen, I got excited and said, “Look, G. It’s Mr. Nudo!” The stylist looked at me, completely confused. “What did you say?” he asked me. “Mr. Nudo,” I repeated. The stylist laughed. “I don’t know what you are saying, but the guy’s name is Mr. Noodle.” “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yep. I watch this video 12 times a day. I am pretty sure.”

I am Italian and learned the word “nudo” when I was very young. Translated, it means “naked.” Apparently, I had unknowingly taught my son that Elmo’s best friend in the world is named “Mr. Naked.” When I relayed the story to my husband, he furthered my education by informing me that Elmo had not one, but two friends, Mr. Noodle and Mr. Noodle’s brother. My husband thought he was pretty funny when he asked if I would be teaching our son that Mr. Noodle’s brother is named Mr. Porno.

I did not laugh.

-Francesca

The Things I Say

For a few months now, I have been recording the funny and not-so-ordinary comments that G makes using Twitter. I have accepted that this is the closest I am going to get to updating his baby book for the time being.

Focusing my attention more closely on what G says has also made me painfully aware of the things that I say. Over the last week or so, I even went as far as to write down some of the highlights. Since becoming a Mom, the words that come flying out of my mouth sometimes downright amaze me. Is this who I have become? The answer: Most definitely.

While there were many "I love you's", "Let's play", and "Do you need a little love?" statements last week, there were also many "What the f*&$@?" moments. In the spirit of Not-Me Monday, here are the best of the things I did not say last week. I’ll let you decide whether these declarations were directed at my kids or my husband…

1. We do not eat the play dough.
2. You may have something other than _____ (insert any dessert you can think of here, including, cupcakes, a treat, candy, and pie) for breakfast.
3. Do not beat your sister with Heffy.*
4. Just because she accidentally pokes you in the eye, does not mean that you can do it back to her.
5. Do not stick your hand in your poo.
6. If you were too sick to get out of bed this morning and help with the kids, then maybe you should be resting, rather than cleaning the garage.
7. It is not OK to put sand in the DVD player.
8. Do not use the _____ (insert any number of household items here, including, but not limited to, DVDs, pumpkins, and shoes) to play ball.
9. Because of daylight savings time, it is only 5:02. Are you sure you can't go back to sleep?
10. And, finally, my husband's favorite: It is OK to sit on the toilet. It is not OK to put your face in it.

Check out MckMama's blog at My Charming Kids to see what others are not confessing to this week.

-Francesca

* Note to reader: Heffy is my son’s favorite stuffed animal. The name is short for “Heffalump” and refers to the fictional, elephant character mentioned in the Winnie the Pooh stories. (I added a visual for your viewing pleasure.) I might write about Heffy sometime. He is the blessedly silent fifth member of our family.

Packing for the Doctor's Office

I am a neat freak. My friends who are reading this post are probably thinking, "Yeah, that's a slight understatement." It would probably be more accurate to say that I am a bonafide type-A, more than just a little obsessive gal, who is known by name at the local Good Will and Salvation Army stores. Since becoming a SAHM (Stay-At-Home Mom), donating has become one of my hobbies. I love it. Nothing makes my pulse quicken quite like the look of an uncluttered house. Much to my husband's chagrin, it has become my personal mission in life to get rid of things that I deem as "unnecessary."


My son has not inherited my gift for giving away. In fact, it is probably safe to say that he is the polar opposite from me. G loves to add to his collection of "stuff", which he hides away in various boxes and bags. I have learned that if I want to pare down his piles of keepsakes, I need to do it when he is asleep or otherwise occupied. Upon our return from a trip to Disneyland earlier this spring, he caught me trying to toss the plastic bags from the Disneyland Store. Based on his reaction, you would think that I was trying to sacrifice his beloved Heffalump stuffed animal. G cannot bear to part with his treasures. They are "magic."


Yesterday, as the kids and I sat in the waiting room in our doctor's office, G began to unpack his magic items from the aforementioned Disneyland bag. (Yes, 8 months later, he is still toting around that damn bag.) Here is a photo of all the items G packed for our visit to the doctor's office:



A few of the highlights:

1) His harmonica, or as G refers to it, his "Monica." One never knows when you might need to break into song in the waiting room at a doctor's office.
2) A series of paintings that G created with his grandmother last summer.
3) A blank birthday card that he asked my Mom to buy him over the summer. It has diggers on the front. He loves it.
4) His work zone sign.
5) The birthday invitation to his party last December.
6) Several books for his sister to read.

When the nurse called us in for our appointment, he jumped up, grabbed his Monica, and began playing for all to hear. It took me more than just a few minutes to wrangle away the harmonica, return all of G's belongings to the Disneyland bag, and get us into the examination room.

Surprisingly, we are not always super popular everywhere we go.

-Francesca

Head Vermin

Prior to having children, I developed a very bad case of what I now refer to as “Other People Syndrome” (OPS). Actually, let’s be honest. On a scale of 1-10, my case was probably around an 11. In other words, it was serious. The symptoms for OPS may appear at any time, but most frequently occur in public places, such as the grocery store. For example, as a young, hip, single gal in the check out line, OPS would flare up whenever I politely smiled and did not openly stare at the mother desperately trying to quiet her screaming child. I would think to myself, while I picked up a copy of the latest celebrity trash magazine to peruse, “Why can’t she control her kid? Make it stop already.”

I thought that having kids had cured me of OPS because I have become THAT woman in the grocery store. The haggard, eternally without make-up, wearing yesterday’s clothes Mom who can’t always get her kids to stop crying. I accept this reality as part of my life.

You can only imagine my surprise last week when I realized that I am not completely cured.

While chatting with my neighbor I learned that some of the kids on our block have come down with a case of head lice. “Eh!” I replied. “How terrible for them.” Did it dawn on me that my neighbor’s children and these kids attend the same pre-school? Nope. Did I make the not-so-great leap that my son and my neighbor’s son have a weekly play-date together? Of course not…I still have OPS! In my mind, head lice is something that only happens to other people’s children. My house is clean, my children are clean.

We now resume Monday’s lice tale where we left off…

The scene: My neighbor telephoned to tell me that she feels terrible, but lice capsules were found in her kids' hair. I thought, “Ugh! How do you deal with this? Dip your child in lye?” Perhaps, but probably not as a first course of action. Instead, my neighbor recommended that I enlist the services of a local full-service delousing salon.

Have you ever heard of such a thing? I definitely had not and was compelled to look into it further. There is actually not one, but three businesses that fall into this category in the greater San Francisco Bay Area. Apparently, prevailing in the war against these evil creatures is very lucrative. For $100 an hour per head, a technician in a plastic cap combs through sections of hair, collecting small insects, living and dead. They then spray an organic solution onto the scalp to “stun” the bugs and, hopefully, cause them to let go of the hair.

Seriously? $100 an hour only buys me “hope” that the lice removal process was effective? Why isn’t my money buying me something in absolutes?

Thankfully, I was able to avoid this potential calamity for only $30.00. The appointment, which required a countless number of suckers so that G would sit still, confirmed that he did not have lice. My neighbor unfortunately was not so lucky. The cost for the service for her family of four…$350!

I think the other 3 Bay B Chicks and I should abandon blogging entirely and move onto greener pastures. Thuy and I even brainstormed on our catch phrase for when we answer the phone at our delousing salon, “Head Vermin Removal Service. Your itch is our niche. How can we help you today?”

-Francesca

Francesca and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

Have you read this book? If not, pick up a copy. It epitomizes the day I am having. Tell me the truth, all are toddlers completely irrational and dramatic when they get angry? Is it just my child? Here is a little insight into my morning.

I was in the middle of packing up the kids to take a drive to their great-grandmother's house when something completely set off G. Honestly, I can't even remember exactly what it was. Perhaps the fact that I wouldn't allow him to climb into the back of the car and jump down repeatedly. In any event, he got angry. Not just your run-of-the-mill-I'm-temporarily-upset anger, but the type of anger where your child runs in circles crying at the top of their lungs. At one point, I wondered what the neighbors thought of the side-show that was occurring in my front yard.

I honestly did not know what to do. The parenting books I have read suggest distracting him, removing him from the situation, etc, etc. How exactly would I do that? In order to control my own anger, I simply ignored him and, as calmly as I could, loaded the car and got us on the road.

Unfortunately, G's anger did not subside once he was in his carseat. In fact, I do believe that it increased, exponentially. Here is an abbreviated list of his complaints during the hour car ride that ensued.

1) The sun. Not because it was shining in his eyes, but because it was daylight.
2) Mama would not allow him to drive.
3) Mama would not allow him to make a phone call from her cell phone.
4) Mama would not pull over so that he could observe a digger more closely on the side on the freeway.
5) Mama would not remove his socks and sweatshirt while driving.

I know there were undoubtedly more items on G's list of complaints, but by the time he identified numbers 6-15, I was practicing deep breathing and trying to figure out if there was some sort of emergency parenting service that picks up your kids and takes them away for a short time.

Tomorrow will be better. I must believe this.

-Francesca

Goin' to School

Both G and I are in school. Although we attend very different programs, we both have somewhere to go each week that we don't really want to. In his case, it is pre-school. In my case, it is night classes at a local MBA program.

Last week, I had to entice G to take a drive to my campus so that I could take care of some paperwork. Here is the conversation that we had about "goin' to school".

F: "G, we are going to go to Mama's school today. You finally get to see where Mama goes to class. Wouldn't that be fun?"
G: "I don't want to go to school. I want to stay home."
F: "Baby, we are not going to your school. We are going to Mama's school. G goes to school tomorrow, not today."

He thinks about this for a minute and then resumes the conversation.

G: "Mama, do you ride bikes at your school?"
F: "No."
G: "Mama, do you paint with your fingers at your school?"
F: "No, we don't do much painting."
G: "Mama, do you sing and dance at your school?"
F: "Sorry, baby. We don't do that either."
G: "Mama, I don't think I want to go to your school. I want to stay home."

I had to laugh. In the end, all turned out OK. Although my school does not have any of the essential amenities of G's pre-school, it does have major construction happening. Nothing compares to seeing big construction machines in action.

-Francesca

Life is But a Dream

Soon after moving to the Bay Area, I decided that I wanted to use some of my free time to volunteer. After looking into several programs, I decided to fill out an application at the Children's Hospital in Oakland. The hospital was not too far from where we were living at the time and of all the various volunteer programs that I looked into, it seemed to be a good fit for me.

As part of the training, volunteers are "taught" how to wash their hands. While this may sound silly, doing so actually had a purpose. Turns out that many people do not wash their hands long enough to be effective. In order to address this problem, volunteers are advised to wash their hands, with soap, while singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat".

When G became old enough to wash his hands, I taught him to sing the song too. It was the only way I could come up with to ensure that his very dirty hands were not simply rinsed with water and then smeared against the towels. He now really enjoys washing his hands, even going as far as to tell me to "go away." He is a "big boy" now.

Here's G's version of Row, Row, Row Your Boat:

Row, row, row your boat
Gen-ly down the steam
Merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, merry, merry
Life is but a deam.

The song is usually repeated three or four times before he considers his hands washed.

-Francesca

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Um, no, we can't. I might be to blame for this. OK, to tell the truth, it is mostly my fault. When I am out in public with my two kids, I am not what you would refer to as "friendly". Honestly, I have a limited amount of time before I run out of snacks, either or both G and L start crying, or G decides to run in the opposite direction from me. I might smile at a stranger if the stars are aligned and I am having an exceptionally good day. However, chances aren't good.

Yesterday:
After venturing out with my kids for the 4th or 5th time in search of the perfect outfits for the holiday photo, I decided to grant G's request for a "smoo-fee", which translates to a "smoothie" in the English language. Standing in the corner of the store, I had successfully moved the stroller out of everyone's way, had L in the Bjorn, and was holding onto G's hand. All were well and, more importantly, quiet. A middle-aged woman approached me, staring at my kids. I smiled and gave her a cursory nod, asking God to grant me the favor of making her go away. No luck. She probably took my smile as an invitation for conversation.

Strange woman in the coffee shop: "How far apart are your kids?"
F: "Two years."

You would think that by my offering no further information, she might have wanted to end the conversation, but no.

She continued, "Mine are 15 months apart."
F: "Wow."

I tried to sound sufficiently impressed. The woman then launches into a monologue about the trials and tribulations of having two children so close in age. I nod, appear interested, and wonder what is taking the coffee shop so damn long to make a strawberry and banana smoothie.

Finally, she pauses, at which point I understand that I am supposed to provide feedback. I said the first thing that came to my mind. I couldn't help myself.

F: "But neither of your kids are with you?"
The woman looked at me for several moments and then said, "No, they are home with the nanny."

The conversation had finally come to an end.

Day Before Yesterday:
Although I am a die-hard planner, I have difficulty figuring out what my family is going to eat for dinner in advance. I am not sure what I am going to feel like cooking or what might inspire me on TV, on-line, or in my cookbooks. This inevitably means that my kids and I hit the grocery store several times a week. I don't mind it, L can't voice her resistance yet, but G has developed a strong aversion to the grocery store. This is complicated by the fact that he rarely wants to ride in the grocery cart anymore. Most of the time, he prefers to walk, which ultimately results in my finding items in the grocery cart that I didn't add. (I swear, if there is a "Cars" product within 50 paces, G can find it. This week, he found Cars pasta. Who knew?)

I digress.

Due to my frequent shopping trips, I have developed a strong aversion to people talking on their cell phones while shopping. This is a very specific pet peeve. I don't mind those who have their conversation after pulling their cart out of everyone's way. However, those who are on the phone and stop moving, placing themselves directly in the line of traffic, ugh. What are you thinking? Don't you see how disruptive this is to the act of grocery shopping?

This happened again the day before yesterday. As I approached the milk display, I noticed that a woman had positioned her grocery cart directly in front of it, blocking everyone's access. In addition, she was draped over her cart, further complicating matters. I waited a few seconds, caught her eye, and then motioned politely to the milk. She ignored me. I chose another tactic. I walked over to the yogurt section, picked up something, and returned to my cart. No change. I caught her eye again. She looked at me and then turned away.

I did not mince words, "C'mon, are you serious?"
I don't think she expected me to say anything. However, I startled her enough to stop talking and move out of the way.

As I walked away, I heard her resume her conversation, "I'm at the grocery store. I should probably call you back later."

I smiled. Am I mean? Somedays, but it can't be helped.

-Francesca

Shorts

We have purchased only a few DVDs for G. One of his favorites is Pixar Shorts. It is a compilation of the short films that Pixar has featured before its movies. I love it because it holds G's attention much better than an entire 2 hour movie. In watching Shorts for the 83rd time yesterday, I realized that my life is very similar to this DVD. A series of "shorts"...

Short #1:
I am desperate to get my hair cut and colored. Prior to having kids, this was something that happened very easily. Make the appointment, get my hair done. Now, I have to figure out what I am going to do with two kids while I indulge my vanity. This week, I got creative. I figured I could drop G off at pre-school and then bring L with me to the appointment. I came prepared...even going as far as bringing the playpen, a bottle, toys, you name it. The fatal flaw in my plan is that I did not factor in my hairstylists' inability to talk and cut my hair at the same time. A cut that seriously should have taken no more than a half hour was dangerously pushing an hour. For most of the appointment, L was in my lap, pulling at my hair, yanking on the drape, trying desperately to crawl away from me. The comical part is that the hairstylist just kept right on talking, like nothing was wrong. Finally, another customer walked into the salon. Taking advantage of the opportunity, I jumped out of the hair, with only half of my head blow dried. "This looks great. Thanks so much. I think we're done. You should take your next customer."


Putting a screaming L into the car for the drive home, I glanced at my hair in the car window. In addition to my Cousin It look, I now have an Alfalfa clump of hair in the front of my head, sticking straight up. Apparently the attempt to create bangs went all wrong. For those of you who know me, this is my new look...

-Francesca

I Fought the Squirrel and the Squirrel Won

The world of blogging is somewhat of a mystery to me. It is interesting that you can know so much about another person whom you have never met. Case in point, I often assume that the author of the blog I am reading is from California. Totally wrong. Many times they are from the mid-West or the east coast. This is funny to me because I often believe that life doesn't really exist outside of the San Francisco Bay Area bubble we live in.

Another interesting observation regarding women bloggers is how they characterize/refer to their husbands. I have seen adjectives such as "Prince Charming", "Mr. Wonderful", and "Mr. Perfect". Need I say more? I love my man, but c'mon.

Here's a story about my husband and my son:

If my husband were to have a mantra, it very well might be "go big or go home." Bigger is often better in our house. Why buy one when you may someday need two? Be prepared, that's us. My husband decided not too long ago that the kids might like to see birds eating from bird feeders in the backyard. Nice idea. Sure, why not? Should I have been surprised when six bird feeders appeared in our backyard? Probably not. The Bay Area bird population obviously needs somewhere to stop on its migration to warmer climates.

And so, the birds have come to our backyard. I must admit that some days it is quite nice. Nature, right outside our window. However, in recent weeks, a squirrel has also discovered the bird feeders. At first, it was charming. The squirrel would scamper up the redwood tree in our backyard whenever we approached and G and I could watch it together. Unfortunately, lately, the squirrel has become much more bold. He no longer runs away when we approach. Last week, I noticed that the bird feed was disappearing at an alarming rate. Later I discovered that the squirrel is having a daily feast. To add insult to injury, he no longer fears me. Moreso, he casually glances my way when I approach and returns to eating.

This behavior had to come to a stop. I used my tried and true approach of scaring the neighborhood cats...stomping loudly and hissing. This had no effect. The squirrel just looked at me. I tried again. Same result. Finally, G came wandering into the backyard and asked what I was doing. I explained that I was trying to scare the squirrel so that he wouldn't eat any more of the food for the birds.

G looked at me, confused. "Mama, that's not how you scare a squirrel."
F: "Really? Then how does one properly scare a squirrel? Can you show Mama?
G: "Yup. Watch this."

G proceeded to run around in circles, arms throw above his head, screaming at the top of his lungs, "Squirrel, go home. Squirrel, you go home."

I tell you, as God as my witness, that squirrel looked scared. I have never seen an animal move so quickly.

G: "See Mama, you see? That is how you scare a squirrel."
F: "Thanks, baby."

I have so much to learn.

-Francesca

Happy Birthday to Thuy!

Hooray for Thuy's birthday. Today we celebrate the day she joined the world. In honor of this event, I thought I would add another story to our blog to brighten her day...

Me and the Garbage Man
My son's fascination with the garbage man is undoubtedly my own doing. Rather than watch TV on Thursday mornings, I usually position G's chair in front of our screen door so that we can watch the garbage man. It is a fun event in our house and can be extended to 15 or 20 minutes, if I am lucky. We sit together, eat breakfast, and watch the garbage man work his way up and down our street.

Given our weekly routine, it probably should not have surprised me that recently, when Giancarlo started wondering about people's names, he asked me one Thursday morning, "What is the garbage man's name?" To tell the truth, I have no idea. It has never occurred to me to ask. We know our mailman's name, dry cleaner's name, and even the newspaper delivery kid's name, but we don't know the name of the all-important garbage man.

"I'm not sure what the garbage man's name is, love. Maybe George," I replied.
"It's not George, Mama. That's not right. Go ask him," G said.
"What? Mama is not going to ask him."
"Go ask him!"

Ugh. And there I went. Trotting down the driveway, essentially in my pajamas, trying to appear nonchalant about my just-out-of-bed appearance.

"Hey there, good morning. How are you doing today? I was just wondering what your name is."
The garbage man looked at me like I was crazy. I later realized that he probably thought I wanted his name to complain about something to the garbage company.

I tried again. "My son is in complete awe of you and was wondering what your name is. He thinks your truck is the best."
A smile from the garbage man. "Chris. My name is Chris, actually Christopher."
Chris turned towards our door, waved, and yelled, "My name is Chris."

G was all smiles. The garbage man was talking to him. It was probably better than if Lightning McQueen himself drove into our driveway. As I returned to the screen door where G was beaming, I had to smile too. Our garbage man's name is Christopher.

Happy birthday, Thuy. We love you.

-Francesca