Sunday Breakfast



Hmmm, must have been a good Saturday night. Or, it could have been a not so good Saturday night. I'll leave it to your imagination.

Hint: Upon seeing these, the lady of the house commented, "Humph. Those better not have cost much."

Life is Good

Zane, at four years of age, frequently asks me about his grandparents. Why aren't they here to celebrate birthdays and other assorted holidays? Where, exactly, did they go? And why? They should certainly be here when I have an Important Day.

It took me a long time to stop crying every time I thought of my parents. Really, though, the last year or so I have started to make peace with their deaths.

My mother died at age 46. My dad at age 59. It truly sucks. I miss them, in different ways, so much.

Our drive to preschool takes Zane and I past Popo's house. Zane never knew him, but he wants me to stop at his house and say hello.

The other day I did take the drive into and through the cul de sac. It didn't help me and Zane cried when I said we could not stop, as new people lived there now.

What do you tell a child when you don't have an answer?

Zane, however, is of a different opinion.

He told me:

Popo loves me, and he is in heaven.

Sweet Beau



Enjoy.

Sweet Boy



Ain't he sweet?

I've Been a Good Girl

I'm getting a digital camera! Yippee!

Which just proves that it does pay to bitch and moan.

Procreation Rumination

You all know by now what a fine example of a hip, one child only, marriage Z and I have. And we certainly enjoy it. We love responding to the endless queries regarding our procreation plans with the phrase, "One and we're done." We've heard it from both ends of the spectrum (and the speculum):

Mom with five kids hanging off of every piece of her clothing, including her hair: He is so loving, surely he would like a younger sibling to play with.

Z&S: Or to torture. Wouldn't that be fun?

Grandparents with nothing to lose: How about a nice little girl to really make you a family?

Z&S: You know, in vitro works very well for couples over 50, too.

Wild eyed couples starting on their second child: It really IS easier with two.

Z&S: Obviously, the hormones are making you BOTH insane.

Obstetrician (And I have this on tape, directly after Zane was delivered): Your second one will be a breeze.

S: Only if you birth it, epidural withholding witch!

Mental Masturbation

It seems to me that writing is a form of self pleasure. And why not? You get a little tickle, and try to ignore it. But it will not leave you alone. Soon you are entertaining involved scenarios, and before you know it, you are at the keyboard. Tentatively you touch the keys, faster and faster until, ultimately you are pounding! Pounding those thoughts into the concrete word! Your mind churns out the tantalizing words onto the page, you are sweating, breathing hard, until finally, finally........you are gloriously finished and done.

Sighing, you sink back into your chair; your entire body suffused with well being. You have climaxed! You have written. And IT IS GOOD.

The best part is that you get to cuddle with yourself, over and over as you reread your finished work. You, are indeed the best.

Darling, please don't slam the door on your way out. Thanks.

From the Mouth of a Babe

Says z: Jesus is about to get out of the Toon. We should go to bed now.

With that, I believe! I should say Happy Easter to everyone, we don't want to mess with the Toon.

Raising Cain

Me: Zane, you have been a good boy lately. What do you think the Easter Bunny is going to bring you?

Zane: A dog head. (Looking sideways at Beau the Yorkie.)

Me: WHAT???

Zane: Sheesh, a CHOCOLATE one. (Casts a derisive look at Mom as he runs off to play.)


The above reminds me of my inept attempt to explain the Christmas story this past yuletide. Feeling morally charged to let my son know that Christmas is not all greed and rampant commercialism, I sat down with him beside the creche and tried to tell him about the birth of Jesus; the why and wherefore. Apparently, my good intentions were well received, as he retold the story at a family get together.


Zane: Jesus was up in Heaven and decided to come down and be a baby.

Collective Body of Relatives: Awwwww.....

Zane: Then he farted.


I think my chances for Mother of the Year are very good; very good indeed.

Celebrate Good Times! C'mon!

I've decided we need another holiday. Before you roll your eyes and utter things like, "Blecchh, not another stupid commercialized day that forces me to spend my hard earned cash to stay out of trouble with my wife/ SO/relatives/friends," read on.

This would be fun, and free! I'm talking about National Act Like a Four Year Old Day. Think about it; you can whine for candy all day until someone gets so tired of hearing it that they give you a box of sugar . Skip and hop to work. When your boss wants that report on his desk by five, yell, "YOU CAN"T MAKE ME!" and display your finest raspberry, making sure to spit all over his suit. Play on the floor with toys all day, and don't worry about cleaning up. Take half an hour to negotiate a flight of stairs, being sure to stop every ten seconds to count your toes. Eat spaghettio's for lunch (c'mon, you secretly crave them) and Mac 'n Cheese for dinner. Have an hour bath with two hundred toys, and let someone else dry you off with a big fluffy ducky towel. Disperse your inner rage without costly therapy by screaming your indignation at tasks you perform every day of your life; i.e. brushing your teeth. Soothe your ego by scribbling on a piece of paper while everyone around you oohs and aahs at your artistic prowess. If a coworker touches or looks at you, scream to the office your outrage: "He touched me! She LOOKED at me!"

And best of all, go to bed at 8 pm in your favorite tutu or Superman costume, hugging your teddy bear.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

Beau the Yorkie: My parents love me. They give me food, they give me water, they take care of me when I am sick, they tell me I am wonderful.

They must be God.

Bonkers the Cat: My parents love me. They give me food, they give me water, they take care of me when I am sick, they tell me I am wonderful.

I must be God.



I stole the above from a really cool church.

Who's That Girl?

I am obsessed by this girl. Go to the "Real Compared to What" commercial.

Yes folks, I have a girly crush. I think you will see why. Generally these commercials can be seen during the breaks of Real World and American Idol, and each time they play, I find myself mesmerized.

I have no lesbian tendencies (that I know of) or history; other than the times little Krissy next door and I played "married" at five years of age. But who could fail to be attracted by this long drink of iced coffee with a voice that inspires gyration?

The Tax Man

Oh the joys of self employment in this great country of ours. Step right up, folks and take your chance to better yourself! This country was built, after all, on the backs of you upstarts who thought you could support yourself and even a family with your very own talents and efforts. So come on up to the front, pay your one dollar (or several thousand) and spin the wheel of chance! Work your own hours, pay for your own health and life insurance, discover the fun of being denied any and all types of loans and credit, have fun! And every quarter, enjoy paying 40 percent of your hard earned income to the government! You might get it back at the end of the year! Nah, just teasing.

CH CH CH CHANGES!

When I was thirteen, I demanded that everyone start calling me by my first name instead of my middle name, Janine. My mom's name was Sara as well and from birth I was called Janine to avoid confusion. I suppose in the 60's and 70's it must have been difficult to discern between a little kid and a full grown woman.

In any event, I was going to a new school at the not so gentle suggestion of my principal; something to do with a desk that caught on fire. I had the idea that, since I was changing schools, I could fool everyone with the new moniker and no one at the rival Catholic junior high would recognize me as the famous arsonist in plaid skirt and knee socks. It did not occur to me that having a last name widely known in Catholic circles as that of a popular saint would nail me in a minute. Well, I was only thirteen.

Of course it didn't work, and I was alternately given a wide berth as well as many invitations to smoke in the bathroom. Now I am stuck with the name Sara, with the exception of elderly Italian aunts who stubbornly fall back on the excuse of limited English to continue screaming, "JANINAAA!" when I enter a room.

I got to thinking about my successful name change after a conversation Z and I had recently. We were speaking of the trend that started a decade or more ago and that seems to have remarkable staying power; the punctuation, capitalization, and other beatings of traditional spelling when choosing a lifelong name for which a child will be known (and possibly booked).

You know what I mean: TraShelle, La'ron, DaWe'esha, and the like. Please don't accuse me of any type of prejudice simply because lots of black people wear these names. Not only will I ignore you but I will be secure in knowing that I appreciate and encourage individuality in all names, the more exotic and meaningful the better. But punctuation? Capitals in the middle of names like speedbumps? It's curious and amusing.

As a result, Z and I thought we should add a little something to spice up our names. So from now on, Z is:

Zhon?

and I am:

Sara!

Please inject the appropriate emotion when speaking our names in future.

We'll let Zane decide for himself when he is of age, but personally, I like:

"Zane"

So everyone can do that annoying little double finger pop thing when they address him, giving him a clear excuse to slap people for damn good reason.

Kids Say the Darndest Things!

A nod to Wendy. Who recently told me how she lives vicariously through me as a mom. I have tried to keep my experiences as a slave to a four year old to the background, knowing that you are all young and unencumbered. Now I am brave. I am sure you will chuckle indulgently and then, give way to outrageous bouts of envy when you read the following.


SHARE DAY AT PRESCHOOL:

Zane stands up and SHARES:

"My Daddy drinks beer all the time."

Teacher: "Oh, now I am sure that is not true. Heh heh."

(Of course, Zane neglects to mention his inability to discern the difference between a can of Mendota Spring Water and a Bud; apparently, though, that is beside the point.)


SARA RETRIEVES ZANE FROM PRESCHOOL:


Teacher: "Zane surprises us every day with the things he tells us! He has the vocabulary of a ten year old!" (Looks at Sara with narrowed, judgemental eyes.)

Sara: "Oh, hee hee hee, yes, we think he may be a pathological liar as well, mutter, mutter...."


Bill Cosby has nothing on us.

Soccer Moms Suck

Today I went to a new salon to get my blackened roots done. They were dark through no fault of my own, I assure you. It seems that I have been exposed to some particularly scorching rays caused by halogen lighting. My research shows that this is damage that occurs over a 30 day time period, causing me to shell out inordinate amounts of cash to return my follicles to their natural, bright and shining selves.

As Grandma used to say, anyhoo......I was tired of paying the inflated prices demanded by salons who, by sheer dint of location (across from Town Center Palahzza), feel justified in charging a well massaged, oiled and manicured arm and leg for this simple procedure. I ventured instead to a nice little joint that has actually been in business for more than five minutes. What I found there was delightful.

A smile, a glass of sweet tea, lemonade or iced coffee. A stylist trimming her brother's hair. Customers that actually live in the area, and were not just popping in for a quick manicure before their big meeting at Sprint.

Of course that sounds like Steel Magnolias. Indeed, the woman in the chair next to mine was getting her weekly shampoo-n-set; but she strutted in full of springtime pep and regaled everyone with the way she sleeps and fluffs so as not to ruin her Friday 'do. Which was more fun than perusing Vanity Fair like I care.

What was so incredible was that the stylists were all hip young women with great hair, great attitude, and best of all, great talent. The young woman who did my hair was a 23 year old who made me feel like a friend immediately. She put me at ease and I never felt the awkwardness that sometimes colors the first visit. Not to mention, she gave me highlights to die for and one of the best cuts I have had in years. Yes, she had an intriguing head of cranberry locks and was wearing the coolest pair of embroidered jeans. But not once did she mention her lawyer/dealership owner/doctor boyfriend and all the great trips to Europe/Key West/New York that they have recently taken.

In fact, I found myself saddened to hear of her experience as a young, single mother. She has an adorable three and a half year old girl, and is obviously devoted enough to work two jobs. No sobbing on her part, instead, a great sense of humor and a straightforward look on life. Here is what really pissed me off.

As you know, I am a stay at home mom, but I like to think I take that title seriously. I actually do stay AT HOME with my child. I do not have a day planner that I obsessively fill with activities to keep my child busy. We stay at home and learn from each other. My career now is to love and teach my child, not to think of myriad events to keep him in other's hands. We go to the zoo, park, library, and the like together, but I am with him. I think there is plenty of time for him to be taught by karate masters, computer teachers, horse riding instructors, swimming coaches, etc. He is just four and I am blessed with the opportunity to give him early years that are guided by his parents. He goes to preschool twice a week and that is more than enough. I never went to preschool! Perhaps that is why I am so independent, and to me that is a good thing.

Back to the pissed off part....I did not subject her to the above rant, but I did speak of my deep and core derision of soccer moms and all that they represent. She then told me that she feels very uncomfortable with the moms she encounters at her daughter's preschool, being that she lives in such a privileged community and that, she is, on average, ten years younger than most of the women. Of course she also doesn't sport a blond bob and a two carat rock. She admitted that they look at her oddly, and that she doesn't mind so much for herself. But I almost cried when she told me that one of the girls in the class was having a birthday party and had invited a good part of the class, but not her daughter. Who then asked her Mommy, "Why can't I go to Rachel's party?"

DISGUSTING.

Take Your Pick

Today I reflect upon a disturbing episode that took place a month ago. Z was waiting in line at the drive through of one of the many fast food establishments located near our home. The line was long, but being the indulgent father that he is, he was waiting patiently for the acquisition of a Happy Meal while enduring the strains of the latest child pleasing pop group, The Wiggles. This freakish group has infiltrated our son's heart and mind. Initially, it roused Z to fits of fury and indignation, reminiscent of the Barney years. As time goes on, however, Z is developing a deep appreciation for the only distraction that will keep our son's attention for more than two minutes.

Understandably looking about for something to engage his adult mind, he glanced into the rearview mirror. Directly behind in line was a monstrosity of a Ford truck driven by a mullet bearing man, who to Z's disgust, was picking his nose.

Z watched in disbelief and righteous horror as the man behind the wheel ate the result. With relish. Really.

But, kids, this is not the end of the tale. As Z looked on a la train wreck, this young gentleman proceeded to dig into the right orifice of his pockmarked nose; apparently well pleased with the delicacy wrought from the left and looking for more.

And yes, he found it, and once again savored his efforts.

Perhaps he was searching for the perfect appetizer to introduce his Big Mac and Super Size fries.

Now For Something Completely Depressing

I keep thinking about a letter I wrote to my then two and a half year old son the day after 9/11. It is stored on my lightning scored Mac, but I felt it would be worth the effort to retype, then reprise it here. This war feels so different to me, and I imagine that I am not the only one that feels that way. Please forgive the grammatical errors.

To My Darling Son,

By the time you read this, I hope and pray with all of my heart that you are a loving, generous, and giving man who cares for his fellow man and for God. I am writing this during the worst week I have ever seen on this earth. However, there are things I want you to know , and you are very young now, so I cannot tell you what has happened to our country, and I am glad.

I am happy that your world of joy and safety...teddy bears, robots, legos, Mommy and Daddy, has not changed. You have been our shining hope since before you were born; a child that showed heaven's promise for the future. You mean the happiness of our lives, our expectation for the future, our legacy, our love and unfailing optimism for our world; and most of all, our blessing from God. As I write this, I am comforted to know that you are too young to realize what has happened to our country.

Someday, though, the truth will be known to you and I want you to understand how I feel and how, today, I grieve for you. Your world will never be like mine. You will not move with easy assurance through the world as I have done. You may not board a plane, you may not go to a public gathering, you may not live life without fear the way that I have. I am sorry. Infinitely worse, you may not trust, you may not welcome those who are different, and you may entertain thoughts of paranoia and prejudice before you freely give yourself to others.

I want to stop that. I want to tell you now that even though this atrocity of all atrocities has occurred...I still trust, I still love, and I still give. This will not defeat us and it will not defeat you. You do need to know what happened, and how we as a nation were affected so that you will never forget. Let this make you strong.

Before I write anything else, you need to know that your daddy loves you. You and I are blessed with a husband and daddy who will go to every length to protect us. And in these days when so many children are losing their mothers and fathers, grandma's and grandpa's, we are holding you so tight. I am selfish in asking you for kisses 100 times more often than before. I don't want you out of my sight. I am praying constantly for God's mercy and safety.

I would love to protect you from every evil in the world. But I cannot, and it breaks my heart. I know that every mother in the world feels the way I do...you are so precious and I would do anything, including sacrificing my own life to keep you safe.

On Tuesday morning, September 11th, you and I were sleeping at 8:45 AM. Your daddy woke me up and said, "Oh my God, a plane has just hit the World Trade Center...they are saying it may be a terrorist attack!" In an urgent whisper because he did not want to wake you. I jumped from bed and we both watched as the second plane hit 2 World Trade Center. Soon we learned of the third plane that hit the Pentagon, and then the fourth that slammed into the earth in Pennslylvania. We were later to hear that the plane was headed for a target such as the White House or the Capitol, and was thwarted by heroic passengers who were willing to stop carnage at the cost of their own lives. Within the hour, the towers of the World Trade Center imploded and went to the ground in billows of gray smoke and devastation.

We thought the world was ending.

Suddenly I no longer cared about the things that had been occupying my mind in our everyday lives. The argument your daddy and I had (over what? I still don't remember) seemed incredibly unimportant. I was thrilled to have you and your father safely at home. As the news coverage continued, I began to see unbelievable efforts made by firefighters, policemen, and other rescue workers to save and salvage those people hurt and irretrievably lost from the attacks.

My sweet son, I cannot save you from the truth of this. There are those who hate us for our freedom. You and I did not choose to live in this country, rather we are blessed because our ancestors toiled, suffered, and strived to bring us here. How can people hate us for our freedom and our blessing? I wish I had the answer for you, but I do not. I do know that we must, with all we have, hearts, souls, and minds, carry out the goals of our forefathers. Let Freedom Ring.

My son, my hope, the gift of my life, I pray that you will always be proud of, and have faith in, your forefathers, and in yourself and your fellow countrymen; the men and women that have fought for your freedom from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War, to the First and the Second World Wars, to Korea, to Vietnam, to the Persian Gulf...to now.

Do not ever be afraid, rather go with determination and trust in your Lord to fight the good fight. God bless you, my beautiful boy.

Be kind, be good, be faithful, love your family, love those that you do not know, be a good boy always, even when you are a man.

Do not forget.

Your loving, and ever faithful, Mother

Nor Am I Stalking You At All, Well Perhaps

I just adore Liam. He makes me laugh, cry, and, against my will, write sick poems with no point whatsoever. For example:

You made me love you, now I hate you with a hate that
cannot be borne

When we first met I could have sworn

You would save me from the world so mean

Now I see you are a bitch.


Adorable Liam replied:

Ouch. Have we dated?


He is so cute. I think Wendy has found her prince.

I Ain't Missing You At All

I have a surprise for you! I have been working very hard on it, and it's almost ready. But not yet. So busy yourself elsewhere, legally or illegally, and come back soon for your present!