Where There's Fuego, There's Fire

We're having a little bit of a discipline problem lately. Don't believe me? Here's a few choice moments from recent weeks.

"Ian no haciendo me caso," our Puerto Rican nanny says in her best Spanglish.

I dial my husband at work. "What is 'haciendo me caso'?"

"Ian isn't paying attention to her."

"Oh." I hang up and turn to the offender. "Ian, please pay attention to Irma, OK?"

Ian's look could best be described as that look George Clooney continuously gives to Al Pacino during the "Ocean's Eleven-Twelve-Thirteen" franchise. Smug. You suck at gambling. I got your girl. That kind of look. I might as well have said something like "Ian, could you please locate Osama Bin Laden and Julian Assange and give them both a time out for the next 120 years, OK?" It would have had the same effect.

Then the next week, my husband comes home to find two "frown faces" drawn on a piece of paper above each of our sons' names. The paper is hung to the back of our front door like a "Wanted Dead or Alive" poster. It lists such offenses as: spit out food, rolled under dining table laughing, said 'the party is on' as they ignored her, called her names so bad I won't even put them in this blog. It was a wonder that when I arrived later that night I hadn't found a note from my husband right next to it that said: "I'll see ya. Been real. Going back to the madre patria."

The next morning, I lay into them. Of course "them" means "Ian." Partly because Ian is older but mainly because Julian screams louder and is a general pain in the neck to discipline. Looking ahead to his teenage years, I can only plead one thing to the universe: we're going to need a bigger boat.

"Ian, what's this about?" I ask, showing him the frown face Wanted poster. He gives me the George Clooney.

My inner PsychoMama was starting to go ballistic. My inner PsychoMama had plenty to say that would not only disqualify her for Mother of the Year, but might prompt a neighbor to call Child Services. Are you kidding me with this crap! Do you know how close you are to being grounded until your first pimple? Don't give me that look. I'll glue your eyes open that way. I control your calories. I don't care where you come out on the percentiles. Try me. Fortunately, PsychoMama has a mute button, which is in permanent lockdown. But who knows for how long.

My conversation with Ian gets me nowhere, so I round up all his most precious possessions and hide them for the next week, take away TV, and vow to glare at him as long as my eyes will hold out. He looks only mildly impressed. He asks me for a Fig Newton after breakfast and I say no to that, too. He asks to wear his blue hat instead of black one and I say no. No, I say!! My discipline was starting to strafe like machine gun fire, missing every target but killing some friendlies and creating plenty of collateral damage. I didn't care. This was war.

Then, there was today.

"The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair," our nanny says.

I'm making mac 'n' cheese in the kitchen when she says this to me. Only I have boycotted Kraft's radioactive version of it and am struggling with my "roux," with which I must blend my "grated cheese" only the problem is that I don't like to "measure" and so my cheese sauce is coming out more like orange play-doh. Dammit. What did she just say?

She sees my dumb look and repeats herself. "The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair."

I corral Ian into the kitchen. "What is this about?" Ian starts to give me the George Clooney, but I'm holding a heavy stainless steel frying pan and my kid is smarter than he lets on.

"But he asked me to do it. He didn't like long hair. He asked me to cut it off."

"So you did?"

"Uh huh."

"How much did you cut?" (Yes, I'm already preparing the alibi.)

"Just a little."

"Where was it? Would anybody notice?" (This was turning into a Lifetime movie.)

"I don't think so. It was on the side. A little."

I shrug at the nanny. Supposedly I was to receive an email about this, she informs me. I grab my phone off the counter and check. Nothing. I shrug at the nanny again. "Nobody sent me anything."

I turn to Ian, who is finally looking dejected and morose, just the look I had been striving for. Attaboy.

"Here, Ian," I say. "Have a noodle."

Five Is Where It's At. Almost.

Ian speaks to me from under the collar of a long-sleeved t-shirt (without buttons, of course).

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Mom? Mom?" I grab a stringy arm and stick it in its designated arm hole. "Mom? You know what?"

"I have absolutely no idea what."

His voice comes back muffled, but defiant. "Five-year-olds can do whatever they want."

Really? I pull the shirt down and it pops over his head. His wispy blonde hair fluffs up into a Kramer-esque stand at attention. "Who told you that?"

"Caroline. She's seven." Caroline is Rebecca's older sister. Rebecca of last year's preschool love affair. I've learned that Caroline has more authority over Ian's tiny brain than I do. Lucky her.

I pull his Levis up over his tighty-whities. He wiggles his legs into them. I stop myself. "Hey, if five-year-olds can do whatever they want, I guess you can dress yourself." I have a cup of coffee getting cold in the kitchen. I stand to go get it. Ian gapes at me with his knees locked together by the fly of his jeans and grips my wrist as I start to leave.

"No!" he yelps. "I can't dress myself."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to. I only want to do what I want."

I sit back down. I knew this was too good to be true. "Ian, I have news for you. Even I don't get to do what I want." Ian looks crushed by this revelation. How can this be? I'm the grown-up. Don't I get to skip through the mall all day long with a lollipop in my mouth, buying myself things. Of course I do. In a parallel universe where there is no such thing as debt, the county jail, or calories.

"How come?"

"Just because. I have to do what a lot of other people want me to do, and sometimes what I want, but usually that almost never happens." Now he looks sorry for me. "But you have it easy now, Ian."

"Easy?"

"Yeah. You only have to do one thing."

"What's that?"

"Anything I say."

Macho, Macho Man

I should have known that raising two boys in Hoboken was going to have some weird consequences.

This town is full of machismo. I'm talking about Old World machismo. Seventyish-year-old Italian men smoking cigars outside the Juventus Soccer Club a few blocks from our apartment. ALL freaking DAY. Soccer club? More like an I-need-somewhere-to-hide-from-my-nagging-wife club.

It should have been enough of a warning for me that Frank Sinatra was arrested on these very streets for renegging on a marriage proposal. The swine.

So it shouldn't have surprised me when I got a talking to from Julian about my, ahem, femininity.

"Mom, why don't you wear dresses?"

"I don't know, Julian. I don't like dresses."

"But you're a girl. All girls should wear dresses. All the time." His little hands flip up in the air like they do when he feels that what he's saying is more than obvious. Duh.

Really. We're packing up our lunch bag and getting ready to head out the door for pre-school. I'm thinking of switching out the pretzels for liver and onions.

Juli bounds away to his room. Oh good, he forgot something. Maybe my tiara.

"Here! Mom!" he says, running back to the kitchen and swinging several red strands of mardi gras beads. "Put these on." I oblige. "And Mom?" I can't wait. What else? Oh right, my garter and stockings. Jesus, why didn't I think of that? "Mom?"

"Yes, Julian. I'm standing right here."

"Can you put that stuff on your nails, too. Mabye like a red, or a pink, or something like that."

"You mean nailpolish?"

"Yeahyeahyeah. That. Nailpolish. Can you put on that? Can you put that now?"

I don't look at him. I shove a napkin into his lunchbag. "No. We have to go to school. We're late already."

He's disappointed about this. Not about going to school, but about having to go to school with me not having nailpolish on. It reminds me of a recent episode of What Not To Wear. They were trashing this mom on the show because she took her kids to school in yoga pants. I had to turn it off. Do Stacy and Clinton take kids to school? Not even close. They probably don't even walk their own dogs. When Stacy and Clinton stay up all night with monsters under the bed and spend all morning in a power struggle over a 3T outfit, then they can tell me what to wear to take my kid to school. Julian, on the other hand, is another problem.

We head out the door and he looks reluctantly toward my hand that his held out to take his, but he takes it anyway.

"Mom, that's OK. When we go to the store again, when we go," he rubs his sleeve across his nose. Now who's gross? "When we go, I'll find a dress that you can wear. OK? I'll find it for you and then you can wear it and then you'll be sooooooo beautiful."

He looks up at me, absolutely enamored with his plan. Smiling like a carved pumpkin. I shake down the leg of my yoga pants and follow him into the elevator.

General Hospital

Woman walks into the ER with two dying men. They are greeted by a doctor who looks like Jon Hamm. (Hey, this is my fantasy, isn't it?)

Dying Man #1 (gasping): She made me eat cereal. And it had milk on it. I think I'm going to die.

Dying Man #2 (also gasping): I can't even eat. My foot hurts so much that I can't lift my arm. I just can't do it. I need somebody to help me.

Jon: I see. When did these symptoms start?

Dying Man #2: Symptoms? Noooooo. Aren't you listening to me?! Every morning. I can't eat. It's my foot and my leg and I'm too tired. And she makes me sit there. Waaaaaaah!! My misery has no end! It has no beginning!

Jon: Ma'am, is it true what he's saying? Do you make him sit and eat even though his foot hurts and his leg hurts and he's too tired?

Woman: Depends. Do you have a tongue depressor on you?

Dying Man #1: Stoppp! All of you! What about my shirt? What about this shirt she made me wear? [Dying Man #1 covers eyes] This can't be happening to me! This shirt has... it has... it has... BUTTONS!!

Dying Man #2: Owwww! Stop leaning on my leg, Jon! I can't take it.

Jon: Ma'am. May I ask what you need to do with a tongue depressor?

Woman: It's not obvious?

Dying Man #2: Please, Jon, please. Please pick me uuuuuppppp!!! I can't walk any more. I just can't! I'm tooooo tireeeddd!

Dying Man #1: Don't make me wear this shirt! Whyyyy mee?!! Jon, do you have any band-aids, the kind with Lightning McQueen or Mater on them?

Jon: I'm afraid not. But if your shirt's the problem, I don't think you need any band --

Dying Man #1: What!?!? Yesss! I need a band-aid! I'll feel better if I have a BAND-AID!!

Dying Man #2: Can I have some of that pink stuff, Jon, in the little plastic cup? I can do it myself. I'll feel better if you give me that pink stuff. I think my stomach hurts now.

Jon: I thought your leg hurts so you can't lift your arm and you're tired?

Dying Man #2: Oh, yes, owwwww! My leg. I need you to pick me up, Jon! Now!

Jon: Ma'am, I have some paperwork I need you to fill out. Can you come with me?

Woman: Certainly.

Jon leads the woman into a soundproof office away from the two dying men and asks her to write down her phone number and email and times she is available for dinner. Then, as they say goodbye, Jon leans his face close to her cheek and whispers into her ear, words sweeter than any she has ever heard: "Why don't you let me keep them here overnight for observation?"

2,600 More School Days 'Til College

What? Me count? Of course not. OK, just a little. Well, and I did also use a calculator. We've only spent three days doing homework and I'm not sure I can do another 2,600 days of this.

Ian has homework every night. We sat down yesterday with a piece of paper requiring him to trace the upper and lower case letters "A" and "a". There was also a sheet with apples that he had to count and then write in a blank space how many apples were on the paper. This is not rocket science, am I right?

We sat at the desk in my office, a space usually off limits to the kiddies. I figured that would motivate him. He had two pencils - one with hearts, one with ladybugs - with matching erasers that were given to him at a little friend's birthday party recently. They were not sharpened yet. I had no idea that the electric sharpener on my desk would take us on a twenty-minute detour.

"I can do it, Mom, let me," says Ian, almost elbowing me off my chair. He taps one pencil in. It spins. I show him how to hold it and apply light pressure. He follows my example, except that his pressure could have tenderized meat. The sharpener smokes.

Once the first pencil is sharpened, of course, we have to sharpen the other one. He forgets about the pressure, so I repeat the instructions while he swats away my hand and insists again that he knows how to do it by himself.

Pencils sharpened, I push the first paper, with the apples, in front of him.

"I don't want to do this homework," Ian whines.

I nudge him. He decides that before he does the homework, he'll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo to choose either the ladybug or heart pencil with which to execute the required assignment. He starts, but has to restart because he messes up the rhyme. I take a humongous deep breath and say nothing. I decided, going into this all-important Kindergarten year, that I will not be one of those parents who push their kid. He will develop his own work ethic, even if that means going to school with unfinished homework and suffering the consequences. He finally picks a pencil.

"You know, Mom, this pencil is really sharp. I think if I have to erase, I need to cover the pointy end with this eraser so it doesn't poke me in the eye," and he picks up the matching ladybug eraser and shows me how he can cover the pointy end. I take another deep breath. He needs to develop his own work ethic I remind myself.

"OK, let's focus on what you have to do here, please," I say calmly, but it's the kind of calm that actually sounds like I'm being held up at a bank and don't want to upset the guy with the gun. What I really want to say is "Let's do the freaking homework already!!" Except that "freaking" probably would have been the less-printable version of the expression.

Ian rolls the pencil in the little space between his top lip and nose. He is totally bored. Admittedly, this homework is stuff he was doing with his babysitter when he was 3. He's been in daycares and pre-schools since he was 3 months old so we might even be ready for Calculus now.

"This is boring," he whines again, the pencil dropping from his face to the paper.

"I know. This is pretty easy. Should I ask Senorita Alfaro to give you harder assignments?" (*Ed Note: Ian is attending a dual-language immersion school in Hoboken called HoLa, in which his class is taught 90% in Spanish through Grade 2, then 50/50 with English. We expect him to be able to run for President of any one of 35 Spanish-speaking countries by the time they're done with him. Either that, or help me at the airport in Madrid if his father isn't around.)

"NOO!" gasps Ian. Are you crazy, wench! his look says to me.

"OK, so let's do it."

Ian counts the apples. There are nine of them. It takes him about nine minutes to count them. I feel ants crawling up my pants and have this urge to run around the block or hit a tennis ball against a concrete wall like it's match point at Wimbledon.

"So how many are there?"

He looks at me and the pencil is back on his lip. His eyes have narrowed to slits and are crossed, like he's trying to see the end of his nose. "I don't know."

What the freak!! I'm thinking. (Again this is not the version of the word I would have used if we lived in a different zip code.)

Then, faster than you can say 'college application essay', I fall prey to being one of "those parents" that "do" their kids "homework" for them. "There are nine apples, Ian. Nine. You just counted them. I saw you."

"Ohhhhh, OK. Nine."

"So write it."

"I don't know how to write '9'," he says, which we both know is a balls-out lie.

So I write it. I put his apple homework in his green folder, but first I mess up the '9' a little so it looks like he wrote it.

Then I write "Screw it" on a post-it and think about sticking it to the folder, but don't. Not this time anyway.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I swear I just had them. They were right here. I sent a shiny faced three-year-old and neatly combed almost-five-year-old to school last week. Now, I have no idea who I'm living with.

You see, I'm all for school. But school also has these things called friends.

Friends are much more influential than I am. Whatever I say now skips right by them. To be honest, if that's how it's going to be, I wish friends would pick up the groceries, make dinner and change the beds, thank you.

After Day 1 of pre-school, Julian came home jiving at me in the bathtub like Will Smith.

"I got, I got, I got soap in my eyes. Woah, Mama! Shake it, shake it!" Julian said, jiggling his frontal parts wildly and shaking his head like a wet dog. When he noticed the confused expression on my face, he started cackling and baring his pointy canines.

Wha?

Ian, now in Kindergarten, has also learned some new ways to express himself. (Some of what he says could serve as useful dialogue for soap opera script writers if they are running low.) When I vetoed TV on a school night, he promptly informed me that I am "the worst mother in the entire world!"

"Good," I said. "Then I'm doing my job. Didn't you know that was my job, Ian? To be the absolute worst mother ever?"

"I don't want to talk to you EVER!" he shouted, stomped to his room and slammed the door. I've said I-don't-know-how-many-times that there is no door slamming in our house, so this time, I marched into his room with a pair of Fiskars and clipped about 30 silly bands right off his wrist. So there. How's that for worst mother ever!? Cue evil cackle...

Every day they come home with more complaints about how our life does not measure up to their friends lives. We need a bigger house so we can buy a dog like one of their friends has. I need to put cupcakes in their lunch because the lunches their friends have are more cooler. I have to let them wear ripped NFL jerseys to school because that's what all their friends are wearing. My answer to all of these complaints is: What? Sorry I wasn't listening.

I'm going to have to bust out some Aretha Franklin on them and those friends if this keeps up.

Princessa's Dance Party: A One-Act Play

Sometimes (often, actually) the best Morning Talks are the ones I'm not part of. While I was dressing yesterday, this is what I heard going on in the hallway from the voices of Ian and Julian.

The Players (Made in China)
Princessa - played by a plastic figurine of Bo Peep from Toy Story
TRex - played by blue plastic dinosaur whose legs goosestep when you push a button under his tail
Pterodactyl - played by green rubber bird


Scene One
Princessa is being jammed into the non-existent passenger compartment of a model Formula 1 race car by TRex. Pterodactyl looks on, wings in permanent state of being about to take off.

Princessa (in falsetto voice): I can't fit in this car. What are you doing to me TRex?

TRex: But Princessa! You are going to be late to your dance party. Wait! Stay here! I'm going to set it up.

Pterodactyl: Where are you going?

TRex (from boys' bedroom): Over here! Princessa can dance on the Peter Rabbit box! TRex, c'mon, drive her over here. Fast! Get moving! Formula Uno! Wooo hooo!

Car screeches out of the hallway and into the boys' room.

Princessa: Heeeelllp! I told you I don't fit in this car!

Pterodactyl: Shut up princessa! If there's any more screaming, you're going to have a time out. And NO dance party!


Scene Two
Princessa is being bobbed around violently on the Peter Rabbit box while TRex makes percussion noises. All of the sudden, Pterodactyl wails.

Pterodactyl: Ahhhhh! Help me! Help me! She put her hook in my mouth! I'm going to have to bite her!

TRex: C'mon princessa, kill him! Shoot him with your hook. DO IT!

Princessa: Harrahaharrahah! Bang bang bang! You're a mean Pterodactyl! I've had enough out of you!

TRex: Good job princessa! You're awesome!

Pterodactyl: I TOLD you there is no hitting or screaming or any of those things or you're going to get a time out. That's it! TIME OUT!


Scene 3
Princessa has been put inside the bowels of Mr. Potato Head -- cleared of its ear, nose, eyeglasses and eyeball parts -- for time out. She's crying for her mommy.

TRex: Why did you have to put her in time out? Now she's going to miss her dance party.

Pterodactyl: Too bad. I warned her. Too late now. I'm sick of all this crying!

Princessa (falsetto voice echoing from inside Mr. PH): Is my time out finished yet?

TRex: Almost princessa. I'm going to play some music for you so you can have a dance party while you're there, while you're there inside, inside, inside the Mr. Potato Head. OK?

TRex elevates over the carpet and picks up a harmonica in his teeth. Miraculously, breath comes from out of his plastic body and the harmonica blares.

Princessa: Yeah! I'm dancing. Woo hoo! Thanks TRex. But I'm going to bump my head in here though. Can I come out now?

Pterodactyl: No way! Not until I say you can. Stop asking me that.

TRex: Princessa! I'm going to rescue you now! Hang on!

TRex kicks Pterodactyl to the ground with rapid goosesteps and then he eats him. Then TRex smashes the plastic door on Mr. Potato Head's rear end to free Princessa.

Princessa: Oh TRex! I love you! I think we should have a wedding! Will you be in my wedding?

TRex: Cool, a wedding. Sure, Princessa!

Princessa mauls TRex's face in a sloppy wet kiss. Pterodactyl comes crying into my room to complain that TRex kicked and ate him and that he doesn't want to play with TRex anymore. I comfort Pterodactyl by telling him that we can stop payment on the humongous check we sent for their wedding gift. Pterodactyl's happy and Princessa and TRex have no idea that their checking account is about to blow up.

THE END

Hot My Marshmallow

Top 10 things your city kids will definitely say about camping:


10) I'm going to go back to my hotel-tent now and lie down. I'm tired.

9) Please can we turn on the air conditioning?

8) Are there bugs in camping?

7) Can we watch videos now?

6) I can't sleep because all those people in those other hotel-tents keep talking!

5) It's too dark! What happened to the lights?

4) The trees are being too noisy!

3) There's too much dirt to play here.

2) Look at the fire! It's burning!!

1) Here's my stick, Mom. Can you hot my marshmallow?

Oh, It's "The Brothers"

Julian and Ian are in week 2 of "Art Camp." I must say, these two boys are having a summer that the Jolie-Pitt kids would have to envy (OK, maybe that's stretching it a little, but almost). Two weeks in the Mediterranean, two weeks being squired about the D.C. area by their Grandmommy to every attraction known to kid-dom, then Science Camp (with a million dollar view of Manhattan from the classroom), and then three weeks of romping around a re-habbed factory space in Hoboken for Art Camp. In between there's been swimming, tennis, camping, you name it. The adults involved are close to passing out.

I even made them a calendar to keep it all straight. I'm a little concerned about the time I spent on this calendar because it can only mean that I'm starting to actively cultivate completely unmarketable skills like, um, being a mother. Ha ha. I can imagine that interview: "But Mr. Top-Rated Marketing Firm Employer, my sons loved that calendar. It took a lot of time to find the little colored icons and perfectly fit them into each box. Isn't that the type of attention-to-detail employee you're looking for? I think you've found her!"

Well, so, Art Camp. When I showed up with them on Day 2, this is how the head teacher greeted us (visual: a high-school girls' basketball coach with a Jamie Lee Curtis haircut but not a Jamie Lee Curtis body).

"Oh, it's the brothers!"

"Yes, it is the brothers," I say, forcing one of those fake-friendly mother smiles and actually wanting to say to her What the hell does that mean?

"So yesterday," the Coach continues, "the brothers stood up in front of ALL the other kids and took a pledge not to hit each other. Didn't you, brothers?"

Now Ian and Julian are looking at her with one of those fake-friendly mother smiles, too.

"Did you tell Mommy about that, brothers? It was great. Wasn't it great, brothers? Everybody clapped!"

I can only imagine my sons' humiliation. It probably ranks only slightly behind having to be spritzed in the hair with an anti-lice spray (but it's all natural, don't worry Mommy) when they first check in every morning.

So ever since that Day 2 dropoff, we get greeted the same way by the Coach.

"Oh, it's the brothers!"

And I get to hear again from the Coach about how they're going to love each other forever and be gentle and not hit ever again for the rest of their lives. Is she delusional? Does she even have brothers?

I'm starting to feel like what she actually wants to say is, "Oh, it's the youngest members of the Taliban who are making a guest appearance at a children's summer camp in America and have miraculously adopted perfect Jersey accents."

It's no wonder Ian and Juli both scream bloody murder every morning when I drop them off. I think tonight I'll teach them how to say "Oh, it's the teacher!" in that same rimmed-with-loathing, Taliban-esque fashion.

What Would Kissinger Do?

I suck at diplomacy. I really do. I applied to attend The American University for a masters in International Service way back in 1994, and at the same time took the State Department's Foreign Service Exam. I was accepted to AU and failed the exam, so I called it a draw. A reasonable alternative to an esteemed diplomatic career seemed to be making soap commercials in Eastern Europe. So that's what I went with.

My *diplomacy* with my kids goes something like this: DO IT, or I will count to three and then something really bad will happen. Could you imagine how the Chinese or the Soviets would have reacted to that? My friend Susan even gave me a book about disciplining children called "1,2,3 Magic" and let me tell you, after I count 1,2,3 there's definitely some damn good Magic going on.

Our current diplomatic challenge is that we are raising two boys who want to kill each other. It's like nuclear weapons, or nucular, if you're a Republican (sorry, sorry... it's just so hard to resist).

While giving Ian a bath, I play my last card. Asking his advice.

"Ian, what do you think Papa and Mommy can do to help you and Julian stop fighting?"

Ian is squeezing black sludge out of a water toy I should have thrown out in 2006.

"Ian?"

"I don't know mom. Let me think about it."

I let him think about it for about a minute and then I can't keep my mouth shut any longer.

"Ian, why do you and Julian hit each other so much?"

"Because he hits me first. So I have to hit him back." Duh.

"Ian, do you know what an arms race is?" (I know. You're thinking where the hell is she going with this?)

"What is it?"

"What does it sound like?"

"I dunno." More squeezing and squishing.

"It's when two boys are hitting each other and they keep hitting and neither one of them stops until they just hit each other forever."

Ian is impressed by this. "That sounds bad."

"It is. So somebody has to be the one to stop hitting first, right? Or it will just go on forever, right?" (And Mommy and Papa will go out of their freaking minds, right?)

"So one of you needs to stop hitting first. Who do you think should stop hitting first?" (I SO impress myself with what an idiot I am, sometimes. I even have a master's degree.)

"Julian should."

Thank God for all of you that I'm not in the Foreign Service.

Non Sequitur

I served a salad last night with dinner. Ian and Julian actually love salad. I know, you're thinking, what bribe worked for eating salad? No bribe. They just love the green stuff.

Julian was especially excited. He calls the hard white parts of the lettuce "crunchies" and wanted all of them. Ian wanted all the olives, which both boys call ceitunas, a near-miss pronunciation of the Spanish word for them.

"Mom? Mom? You know, you know, you know..." says Julian.

I'm looking at him and my eyes widen further with each "you know?" until they are bulging.

"Mooooom! Don't look at me like that!"

Oh, sorry. "What is it, Julian?"

"OK. Mom? You know? You know..."

Not this again.

"Yes?"

"You know who has lechuga? You know who?" Another Spanish word, this one for lettuce.

"Who?"

Julian puts both palms down on the table, as if to steady himself when he shares his next piece of information.

"Witches!"

Excuse me?

"Yeah. Witches! They have lechuga. And you know what else? You know? You know?"

I'm still on Witches!

"You know? Also. The dinosaur? The one we saw. Him, his name, his name was Poopy Mopsydo."

I wondered if my reading of Beatrix Potter the night before got a little confused. But I was still on Witches!

I start to shake my head that we don't use that word, Poopy not Witches!, especially at the table. Julian is one step ahead of me, waving me off.

"Mom, Mo-Mo-Mo-Mom, I know. I know. But really. That really is his name," he shrugs a sorry, but what can a fellow do if that really is his name. It has to be said. "It really is Poopy Mopsydo, his name. It really is."

"Who is this?" I ask, still on Witches!

"Mom. You know. He's the brother of the other guy!"

"Does this have anything to do with the Witch who has the lechuga?"

Ian and Julian drop their forks and look across the table at each other. Ian is shaking his head and I can tell Juli is totally shocked by my question.

"Mom?" Ian puts a hand on my elbow, gently, as if to soothe me during my bout of delirium. He gets close to my face and speaks in a whisper: "What are you talking about?"

Fudging the Sex Talk

Sooooooo, yeah. I shoulda seen this one coming. The boys and I started flipping through photo albums of when they were babies and there happened to be a few pics of yours truly with what looked to be three watermelons under my shirt.

"Mom, what's wrong with your stomach?" Julian asks.

Haha. You were wrong with it, I want to say. But I'm not that mean (usually). "You were in there, Julian."

"WHAT?!"

"You were. I swear. No joking."

"NO WAY!!"

"Seriously."

"And where was Ian?"

I point to a picture of Ian with sweet potatoes mashed all over his face, including up his nose and dabbled across every single eyelash. "Here he is. Eating." Ian is alarmed by this photo of himself. He is even more alarmed by another picture of himself with a green bean in his ear, as if his hearing might have been at risk.

"Why do I have food all over my face?" Ian looks at me accusingly, as if I should have done something to prevent this.

"Because you didn't like to eat. We had trouble getting the spoon in your mouth because you kept moving your head. And you spit a lot of stuff out that we had to scrape up and put back in your mouth."

Ian's face is contorting while he's listening to me, a giant facial 'ewwwwwwww'. All the while, Julian has been quiet, staring out the window at the two tomato plants on our little patch of a balcony. We are desperately trying to cultivate them so we can eat at least one tomato before it's time to go back to school.

"Mom?" Julian says dreamily, still looking out the window.

"Yes?"

"But Mom? If I was in your belly, then how did I get out?" He flips both palms up in the air like he does whenever an idea totally confounds him and seems to be something that would have to also confound the whole world. A mystery. A totally impossible thing to explain. Like why he has to go to bed at night.

So what can I say? This is indeed a totally confounding question. I remember when I looked on the EPT stick at dinnertime on January 10, 2005 and saw those lines when I was pregnant with Ian, the first pregnancy, and the immediate thought I had was "How is he going to get out?" I felt like I had just been put on a massive log flume and had no choice but to get DAMN soaked before I was let off of it. No choice.

Ian did get out, and so did Julian, but it wasn't pretty. I look down at Julian now and consider giving him the real answer, but then I remember that he is only three years old. I think about my husband, much older than three, and how he looked when Ian and Julian got out. Like he had just smelled very, very bad milk and he would never drink milk again. He has made me swear that this subject, or anything related to it, like menstrual cramps, will never be discussed in our house.

So I really have no choice but to fudge my answer to Julian. So I just say "It was magic." Which if you think about, isn't entirely a fudge. It was.

Peanuts

Ian has an infected penis, and this morning I found myself in the cramped bathroom of the "minute clinic" (inspires confidence, doesn't it?) trying to get him to pee into a plastic cup. As of this morning, peeing really really hurts. So now, it's no freaking dice, Mom. He says he won't pee for the rest of his life. Still, I try, but the scene isn't a good one. Tears from him. Cajoling from me. Sobs. More cajoling. Backing into the corner, tears spurting. Promises of new DVDs and ice cream. More tears. Meanwhile, Julian was observing the tense exchange with rapt attention.

"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

"Yes, Julian."

"What's wrong with Ian?"

"His penis hurts him."

"His peanuts? Ian, do your peanuts hurt you?"

Ian is too busy crying to respond.

"Mom? What happened to Ian's peanuts?"

"I don't know, Julian."

"Mom? What are peanuts?"

"Penis, Juli. Penis."

"Peanuts?"

I'm back to cajoling Ian and turn away from Julian. This always annoys him.

"Mommmmm?! Mooommm! I'm talking to you. Mom?!"

"Yes, Julian."

"Mom? Do you have peanuts?"

"No, mommies don't have peanuts."

Julian is turning in circles near the side of the toilet thinking about this.

"Ian? Mommies don't have peanuts. Only boys have peanuts. Only boys and papas have peanuts," he reports. He comes face to face with Ian and strokes his arm to try and calm him down. My sons tend to show enormous compassion for one another. It usually lasts a total of 1.5 seconds before the upset one of them kicks the other away.

"Ian? Do your peanuts hurt you? Ian, don't worry. Your peanuts won't hurt much longer. It's OK."

I'm just watching them, thinking about the various ways of extracting urine from my son. I envision myself tickling him until he pees and then catching the urine as it trickles down his leg. I guess that wouldn't be what you'd call a 'clean catch.' Julian taps me on the cheek and I come out of my daze.

"Mom? Mom? It's OK. I told Ian his peanuts won't hurt much longer."

"OK, thanks Julian. Is he going to pee in the cup?"

Julian purses his lips. He is all business. "No, Mom. No. I really don't think so."

Extremely Random Acts of Kindness

I went to bed last night believing my older son Ian is possibly the most generous and warm-hearted 4-year-old to ever live. Then I made the mistake of praising him for it.

Last night we got back to our hotel room late and Julian was sleeping in my arms as we came in. Ian was carrying two souvenir treasures that Julian had been coveting all day: a miniature wooden sailboat with real cloth sails and a shell from a snail (snail not included, thankfully). As Ian passed by Julian's bed, he laid them on his brother's pillow and went to put on his pajamas. Julian woke up to find them this morning, elated.

At breakfast, I couldn't contain my pride.

"Ian, that was really, really a nice thing that you did last night."

Ian looks at me. Plum jam is making a Gorbachev-like mark on the side of his face and he doesn't seem concerned with wiping it off.

"Huh?"

"Last night? When you gave Julian your boat and your snail shell."

"Huh?"

"Do you remember doing that? Putting them on his bed when we came in?"

"Huh?"

"Last night, Ian. Last night. Do you remember coming into the hotel room?"

"Yeah."

"And then you put your boat and snail shell on Juli's bed. You remember that?"

"No."

"Did you just put them there because you were tired of carrying them?"

Now Ian's tongue is flapping around the corner of his mouth trying to wipe the jam clean. He looks like a frog trying to nab a fly. "Probably," he says, tongue flapping.

I take a sip of coffee and regroup. "Anyway, Ian, that was really nice."

And just as the words are coming out of my mouth, Ian whips around to his little brother and licks his cheek with a tongue full of jam. Julian howls and grips his face, screaming as if Ian were a comic strip villain and had just splashed him with a vat of sulfuric acid. Then Ian turns back to me. "Huh?"

"Nevermind."

A Cave Story

My husband's sister lives with her new husband on a hillside farm in Mallorca called a finca. A rocky cliff rises steeply behind their property and is covered with a thin canopy of pines and acorn trees along its top edge. There are dark nooks at the base of the rock face that look distinctly like caves, called cuevas in Spanish. Julian has been inspecting them from afar since we arrived last week. I didn't even know he knew the Spanish word for cave until he was pointing them out to me today.

"Mom? Mom? Mom?"

I was listening the whole time. Yes?

"Up there are cuevas. Do you see them? Do you see them, Mom? Yes or no?"

"Oh? Cuevas?" I turn to my sister-in-law and ask her what the heck a cueva is. Once informed, I turn back to Julian. "Who lives in the cuevas?"

Julian looks at me pensively and considers my question. As I watch him, I can tell it hadn't occurred to him that somebody could actually be living in the cuevas.

"Mom? I think the wolf and the sheep are living in the cuevas. I have that story in my school. The wolf and the sheep." Julian is shivering with delight at the connection his little classroom has with this towering formation of earth on an island thousands of miles from home. His story continues. "No, actually, no. That's not how the story goes. This is the story: the wolf lives in the cueva but he doesn't want the sheep to come into his cueva. He pushed the sheep out and shut the door and now only he lives there."

"But what about the sheep? Aren't they lonely?" I ask.

Julian looks from the cuevas to me, completely taken aback by the new predicament of the sheep. Loneliness. As if suddenly a word existed to explain an experience he had struggled with since his first hour of life. His large eyes roll towards me like orbs and he speaks slowly. "Yes, Mom. Yes, the sheep are lonely now."

"But Juli, maybe somebody could go get them and bring them down from the cueva so they won't be lonely. Could you go get them?"

His mood lifts as he giggles and shakes his head. Of course he can't. What a question.

"But Juli, why can't you get them?"

"Oh, Mom. Because I'm not in the story!"

Green Acres

Ian has taken to Mallorcan farm life like he was meant for it. After four days visiting his aunt and uncle's self-sustaining family farm, he can tell you what their dog can and can't eat, where the plums are ripest, which lettuce can be picked and how to water each row of vegetables.

This morning over breakfast on the terrace, I get an earful about the hens.

"Mom, you have to be careful with gallinas because they can scratch you with their nails."

"Oh, OK, that's good to know. Thanks."

Ian hoists his foot up to the level of the table to demonstrate to me. "See, the gallinas don't have this thumb," he says, pointing to his big toe. "But they have these other fingers and at the ends they have really sharp nails."

"You mean claws? They have four toes with claws at the ends?"

"Yeah, except they don't have four toes, they only have three actually." He attempts to bend back his thumb and second toe to demonstrate a foot with only three toes. Exasperated after a moment, he puts his foot down. "You see, Mom? You have to be careful."

I nod.

"Oh, and you have to get their eggs every day or they might break if they stay there. You have to pick them up and be careful with them." I nod again. "Oh, and you have to make sure the gate is shut and locked or Bruxia will eat the gallinas." (Bruxia is their playful, blonde Labrador. Her name roughly translates to mean "witch".)

I nod again, sipping my coffee. Ian is scanning the mountainous horizon around the country inn where we are staying, estimating what needs to be attended to at his aunt and uncle's farm today.

"Oh, and Mom?" I nod again. "We have to bring something for Bruxia to eat so she won't eat the gallinas. Does she like Colacao?" (This is an excellent chocolate drink you mix in milk, like Nestle Quik, that the kids love here.)

"She might, Ian, you can try it."

Ian leans back, drinking, satisfied. He feels in charge. And as I watch him, I realize there is nothing more enjoyable for a four-year-old than that.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

When you're three years old, there are just some things that can't be explained to you. For Julian, the country of Spain is comprised entirely of a five-bedroom apartment where his grandparents live in the city of Zaragoza. Spain is nothing else but that.

So you can imagine his anguish when we finish an eight hour flight and then announce to him that we are in Spain and he looks around and does not see the apartment he is expecting to see. Just palm trees. Just a beach. Some picturesque mountain ranges in the distance. Just a charming country hotel with lovely gardens and farm animals. The stunning, rugged island of Mallorca. He wasn't going to have any of it.

As we're unloading our things onto the hotel's gravel driveway, he twists into a ball and throws himself down.

"NOOOOOOO! I want to go to ESSSSSSPPPAAAAÑÑA!"

I'm jet-lagged and hungry so I can only manage to come up with the obvious answer. I should know by now that the obvious answer is bound to be the wrong one.

"But Julian, you are in España. You are."

"NOOOOOO! This isn't ESSSSSSPPPPAÑÑAAA! NOOOOOOO!" Julian is going full blast, screaming, tears bursting forth, writhing on the ground. We're starting to attract attention from other guests who are relaxing on the terrace with an afternoon beer. I wave. Don't worry. It's not child abuse, I want to say, if I knew how to say it in Spanish.

OK, next tactic. I get down to his level. "Juli. Calm down. Calm down." (He's not hearing me so I say this so many times I feel like it's time to fly home by the time I'm done.) "Listen, you are in España, you are -"

There she goes again! Lying to me! My continued, but unchanging, explanation has only launched him into an even more energetic hysteria. My husband puts down our overweight suitcases and kneels next to Julian with me, starting to make a map with his fingers. Julian is mildly intrigued by this.

"Juli, look. This is España, the peninsula (Iberia - also known as Agustin's left hand), and this is Mallorca over here (his right hand) which is also part of España. It's an island. It's in the Mediterranean. It's also España too, see?" Agustin holds his left and right hands up in front of Julian's face and wags Iberia and Mallorca in front of him to emphasize how they go together.

Julian thinks he is even more crazy than I am.

"NO NO NO NO NO!" he wails. He is totally distraught and I'm about there myself.

The next 24 hours were a continuous rant from him about how he was not, no way, not possibly in and couldn't be anywhere near España. We stopped trying to convince him, and anyway Agustin had run to the end of his pre-school geography curriculum.

Not until the owners of "España" (known to the rest of us idiots as the apartment in Zaragoza) arrived, and Julian asked them where he was and they looked incredulously at him and said "you're with us!" was he ever happy.

And that's why God invented grandparents.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL !!

From the "don't you wish you were me file":

Tomorrow comes one of my very favorite things to do: sit in between my children for eight hours.

My husband and I are taking them to Spain for a family wedding. We're all very excited to be there, of course, but we always wish we could just "teletransport" (because that's what marshmallow-cleavaged superwomen can do in his comics, I guess... see Tuesday's post if I've lost you.)

This morning, I needed to do something to calm myself down. I needed confirmation that my sons were older (not infants) and could behave (not scream) and might even be at an age where they could have fun (not puke and poop).

I had to talk to the boys about how we behave on a plane. I knew it wouldn't sink in, but I also knew such a talk would at least make me feel a fraction more secure. Secure, like when the flight attendants review the procedures for a water landing. Procedures which would involve me floating on my seat cushion in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Ha ha. They can't fool me on that one; unless Sully is my pilot, a water landing is not going to work out so great. But security, even the false kind, I'll take it.

So as we are velcro-ing our sandals to head out, I drill them.

Me: Guys, where are we going tomorrow?

Them: (in unison) ESPANA!

Me: That's right, and how do we get to Espana?

Julian: (With command) In a C-130 Transport! (Too much military aircraft knowledge? Check.)

Me: Well, not exactly, but close. What do we do on a plane?

Julian wrinkles his face at me and I realize my question may be a little too broad.

Me: You know, when you sit down?

Julian: Ohhhh, yeah yeah yeah OK. I know! We watch movies! YEAH!!

Oops. I told my husband last night I didn't want to bring the DVD players. Not this year. Let's leave TV behind. Not even watch the World Cup. Let's enjoy each other. But once I mentioned the part about not watching the World Cup, my husband was ignoring me and had his nose in the comics again. Did I seriously think I would visit a country who is seriously a contender for the World Cup and not be watching it? Silly American...

With the boys, though, I redouble my efforts.

Me: Guys, how about coloring books? And dot-to-dot? And mazes? And we could bring some of your little travel games and puzzles? And Ian, we can read some of your "I Can Read" books?

They both look at me quizically. Is she OK?

Me: Guys?

But I had lost them. They were high-fiving and oh-yeahing and were already at the drawer by our TV picking out what movies they were going to jam into my purse for the trip over. Still, I'm the boss, right? I may just pull a totally gutsy move and leave the DVD players at home. 30,000 feet up, there's not much they can do. (With the minor problem that the same rule applies to me.)

I'll have to sleep on it and decided just how gutsy I am. I hope there's still hope for my dream of a TV-less vacation. Because readers, let me remind you: as of this writing, the U.S. has 1 point and Spain has 0. I might just come out ahead on this one.

Annie, Get Your Freakin' Gun Already

Ian is not usually a chatterbox. Except for today. He was rolling like a hippodrome broadcaster calling the lead horse from the minute we left our front door until we got to school. And like any self-respecting, spaced-out Mom... I was spaced out. OK, I'm trying to remember what he said. It was something like this:

"Blah blah blah blah shooter blah blah guns can shoot at the man blah blah and they have shooters blah blah blah shooters are huge but blah blah bigger than guns blah blah. Oh! And blah shooters are like THIS HUGE blah blah blah."

Now, at the risk of revealing my politics, I will tell you that I am not pro-gun in any way (because I actually don't care about revealing my politics). I don't see the point of being pro-gun with a four-year-old, do you? But he is gaga over them. Pow pow! Blam! Bang! Shoot-em-up!

I went to buy him pajamas at Sears recently and couldn't find any that weren't plastered with weaponry, the weaponry carried by scary looking robotic beings that can transform into lawnmowers or circular saws or whatever.

And my husband knows I could throw him under the bus by talking about the Iron Man and Hellboy comics he has lying around within reach of the little ones, but I wouldn't do that. The only thing cooler for me than the guns blazing from every page is the marshmallow cleavage popping out of every superwoman's shirt. Are they serious with that?

Am I just out of touch? Is this a normal stage of development for any little boy, this fascination with wrecking stuff and shooting things? Will it pass or do I need to take up arms myself and bar the door? Will my husband ever talk to me again after that comment in the last paragraph?

Please, if you're a man reading this, help me understand this penchant for violence. Please reassure me that my kid will be as likely as the next one to turn out normal. Because if you don't, I just might have to resort to drastic censorship from their clothes right down to their toothpaste. And I don't think my politics could take things that far.

Here's The Story...

Lately, the "boys will be boys" line is not sustaining me. If I have to separate another foot from a midsection, a fist from a face, an elbow from a back, a head from a gut (you get the picture) one more time I'm going to do them both in. But no, that might land me in jail.

Raising little boys has made me realize that when they were handing out patience, I must have been in line to get another supply of chocolate chip cookies. So I have none. Absolutely none. So you see, I'm somewhat lacking in resources in the little boy department. But I decided that I could get on top of this deficiency. I could. I just need a new approach. Yeah, that's all. Just a new approach. Like being somebody completely not me.

So today, I decided to try it out. To be someone with total control. With a zen approach to mothering. Someone who confronts temper-tantrums with aplomb (what the hell is aplomb, anyway?) An ability to cook and not mess up her clothes. Who, who, who I wondered? Who? I know! How about Florence Henderson?

I pictured her in her most famous incarnation, Mrs. Mike Brady: yes, those bright, perky dry-clean-only minidresses, that blonde coif, those twinkling eyes. And Mike, how awesome is he? And they live in that totally rad architect's house. Cool. And they have that awesome station wagon just beginning to hint at aerodynamism. Cool. And that carport with the fake-grass backyard. All cool. I could be her. Sure.

So here's how it went:

Me: (Entering the boys' room, singing like Snow White in the forest) Good morning, my little lambs!

Them: .... radio silence ...

Me: What would my little darlings like for breakfast?

Them: .... more radio silence, but slight movements of the eyelids ...

Me: (Hands to heart, like Florence might do in yoga) How about some nice waffles with butter and syrup!?

Them: ... grunting ...

Me: OK, coming up!

I trot off to the kitchen, already showered and dressed (Flo would never make breakfast in pajamas). I put some frozen waffles in the toaster and hum "Here Comes The Sun". I take out the condiments and set the table. I'm still humming. I'm realizing I kind of like this song. What the hell.

The waffles pop.

Me: Oh, boys! Let's eat so we can go to school and have a great day!

Them: (Sounds of a struggle come from their room) Noooo!! Stooooooppppp!! Stoppp it! I had that! That's miiiiinnneee! I'm going to tell MOM on YOU!!

Julian approaches me in the kitchen. I'm still humming. He's sobbing hysterically.

Julian: Maama der far wahhs miiirne aaaan Ian took it!! Wahhhhhhh!

I kneel down, like Flo would. You have to talk to kids at their level, you know.

Me: Julian, slow down. Don't worry. Tell Mama what's wrong. (I'm petting him on the arms and I bring him to hug me. His tears are jettisoning off his cheeks and splashing on my shoulder.)

Julian: Der far wahhs miiirne aaaan Ian took it!! Wahhhhhhh!

Me: Der far?

Julian: NOOO, der faaaarrrr!!!!

Me: (In my Flo voice) Oh, OK, der far?

Now Julian is jumping up and down with his fists clenched. Ian arrives.

Me: (Still in Flo mode) Ian, dear, can you explain to Mama what Julian wants so badly?

Ian: He wants the red race car, Mom.

Me: Julian, when we want things we have to ask for them nicely right?

Julian: Ian, can I please have the red race car?

Ian: No.

Ian retreats back to their room with the car under his arm like a football. Julian goes ballistic, and I mean full blast ballistic. I turn back to the waffles and begin spreading butter on them, followed by a neat swirl of syrup. I start humming "I Am Sixteen, Going On Seventeen" from The Sound of Music.

The boys eat through a storm of fighting and crying and Mama humming. Then we leave.

As we motor away in our very aerodynamic Honda Accord, I realize that I could only keep up this Florence Henderson thing if I could also be allowed to trip on some LSD on a regular basis. And anyone who knows me will tell you I'm too much of a goody-goody to trip on anything except a crack in the sidewalk. So Flo may have to go back in the closet.

And P.S. - I looked up aplomb. Yes, that's exactly what I need. More aplomb.

Girl Toy

Today, I did probably one of the most generous things a young (OK, give it to me) working mother can do: I shared my nanny.

No, really. It's big. When you live in a nanny town, and you have a very good nanny like ours, you guard her like a vintage car. If she's stolen, she's irreplaceable. I think if we could figure out how to put a LoJack on her, and it didn't border on being a possible felony, we would do it in a heartbeat.

But because I know what it's like to be a mom in a childcare jam, and because I'm also a non-confrontational sucker, I said "Sure, bring your daughter over for the day!"

This may just be for today, but I fear the chance that it will go on and on like when Hitler took the Sudetenland and the next thing we knew the Yankees were handing out American chewing gum to French kids in Normandy. But for now, it's just one day.

And Ian and Julian, well, they love her. When she showed up this morning, little pony-tailed Emma, toddling all 19 months of herself around our apartment, you would have thought we just brought home a cocker spaniel with a bow on her neck.

"Mama! I think she wants something to drink?!" Ian yelped. Emma was standing in front of the fridge. I fetched some milk.

Ian and Julian took her by the elbow like a little old lady and squired her to the table so she could sit down to drink the milk. But Emma apparently doesn't sit in regular chairs yet. As soon as Julian hoisted her diapered bottom up to the seat she took a flying leap off the other side. Ian was on the scene immediately.

"Mama! [Ed. note: Ian switches from Mom to Mama when he's feeling especially docile and obedient. I don't hear it very often.] Emma fell off the chair!"

As a mom of two boys, it's hard to impress me with an injury, even if it happens to somebody else's kid. "Is she OK?" I call from the kitchen. I look over the breakfast bar into the living room and watch Ian inspecting every inch of her, lifting up everything from her left heel to her right ponytail for a look.

"Yeah. I think so, yeah, Mama, she's OK." I saw the fall and knew she was, but I figured I would let the boys play Ponch and Jon at the side of the Glendale Freeway for a few moments to exercise their damsel in distress muscles. They did a fine job.

The nanny rolled in at just that moment with a double stroller to take Julian and Emma to the Hoboken waterfront, to sit by the Hudson River and watch the sun come up over Manhattan, the cruise ships churn out to the Atlantic and daysailers playing hooky from work flit by. I took a swig of joe and thought about how fortunate that child was to be visiting the side of a deep and swiftly moving body of water with the nanny and not me.

Once Emma was strapped in next to Julian, I started to feel really sorry for her. Julian isn't one to shut up, especially when he's excited.

"Emma do you like the water do you like the boats do you want to go see manhattan emma do you do you what do you like Emma?" No, he didn't take a breath.

Emma looked up at me with her round blue eyes and her light brown ponytails sprouting from her head.

"I know, Emma, I'm really sorry about him. Try to make the best of it."

And they were off.

A Butterfly Moment

Sometimes I overestimate the urban savvy of my small sons. Like, for instance, this morning:

Julian and I were leaving the apartment and I was busy trying to find the right keys to lock our apartment door. Julian was waiting for me in the hall.

"Julian, can you call the elevator, please?"

"OK, sure Mom," he says, moving like a little soldier toward the elevator, a few precious Bakugans in one hand and his other hand balled up like an infant's fist. I'm smiling to myself, back turned on him, because I love it when he says "sure Mom"! It's one of those rare moments when I truly enjoy my son's company, when my tornado of a pre-schooler suddenly exudes something more like a gentle, tropical breeze on which a butterfly might float. A butterfly with nothing to do all day but be beautiful and feel the sun on his wings.

Still with my back turned, this is what I hear next:

"Yoooohoooo! Oh, elevator! Where are you, elevator? We're waiting for you, elevator! Please come up to us, elevator! Yooooohooo!"

I turn to see him with his head pointed toward the innards of the elevator shaft, behind the closed door, trying to delicately coax the elevator upstairs with his child voice. I howl.

He sees me and knows he did something funny, but isn't sure what. He smiles back, my small butterfly. As we leave, laughing together, I'm feeling so sorry to take him off to school.

Rise and Shine !!

I think I've written before in this space how I am not a morning person. I assumed my reluctance to get out of bed was a high school/college problem, and that when I grew up to be an adult, I would bound out of bed to go conquer the world every day. That has not happened, unfortunately. At 7 o'clock in the morning, there isn't much difference between me and a 17-year-old about to miss her first period class.

Except for this one, tiny thing:

Julian came in early this morning, pantless (more on that later), carrying a small, plastic mechanical rooster. I didn't see this, I just heard it. He put it up next to my ear, which was attached to my deeply sleeping head, and he pulled a little trigger under the rooster's belly that makes him do what roosters do: COCK A DOODLE DOO!!!!!!

Oh, and the rooster also has this Berlin-wall era spotlight that blasts light out of his mouth whenever he crows. So there was that, too.

Once I pealed myself off of the ceiling, Julian was there next to the bed, smiling, wearing only a skimpy Spiderman tank top.

"Hi, Mommy!!"

And then a question from me that seemed like the only logical thing I could ask: "Julian, where are your pants?"

"I don't know," he says, then: "Mommy, my rooster wants you to wake up. He wants breakfast."

My eyes are closed again and I can hear Julian jogging from one foot to the other, unsettled by my lack of verve. "What does the rooster like to eat?" I ask, my eyes still closed.

Julian calms down. Good, I gave him something to keep his head busy for ten seconds so that's ten more seconds of sleep for me. "I know! He likes doughnuts, and he likes corn and he likes bugs." Of course he does.

"Mommy? Can you get him his corn and his doughnuts and his bugs? You have to get up. They are with the kitchen toys." Julian is jogging left-right-left again and I know my seconds are numbered.

"Mommy?"

My eyes are closed again.

"Mooooommmmmy!! Youuuuu'rrrre noooot geeetttting uuuuuup!!"

No kidding. Then I think of another stall tactic: "Julian, why don't you find your pants and then we can make rooster's breakfast together?"

Julian stops jogging. I can tell he's thinking. Then I hear: COCK A DOODLE DOO!! and the rooster-mouth strobe hits my closed eyelids again. "But Mooooommmmy. I don't knooooooow wheeeere are my paaaaaaants," he whines.

"When did you take them off?"

"At night. I think at night, in my bed. I don't like sleeping with pants."

OK, this is new. I think I'm starting to realize that Julian has more libido than a three-year-old can handle.

I roll off the side of our queen-size sleigh bed (oh, queen-size sleigh bed, how I love thee!). As I follow Julian to find the rooster's doughnuts, corn and bugs, I wonder who bought us this rooster and hope that we aren't friends with them anymore. And then, when I'm more awake, I'm going to accidentally "lose" the rooster somewhere like, say, in the trash can.

Not Too Early for Three to be a Crowd

Ian's love interest, Rebecca, also has a little friend named Leslie. Leslie and Rebecca are always joined at the hip. Ian is frequently annoyed by this inconvenience. He ruminates on the subject as we walk through the park this morning.

"Mom? Leslie and Rebecca always want to play with dolls. Playing with dolls is boring."

"Well, Ian, they're girls. Girls like dolls."

"Yeah, but why don't they like cars, too?"

"I don't know. Some girls just don't like cars."

Ian is ham-fisting a collection of matchbox cars that he's toting to school.

"Mom, I brought a car for myself and a car for Rebecca. I'm not giving any cars to Leslie because she's mean to me."

"Why is she mean to you?"

"I don't know. She just doesn't play with me so I don't like her."

"Did you think maybe she's jealous because you play sometimes with Rebecca?"

As Ian's hands are occupied, he wipes his nose with the side of his windbreakered sleeve and thinks about this. "No. Why is she jealous?"

"Because Rebecca is her friend, too, and maybe she doesn't like when Rebecca plays with you."

Ian's walk slows. The concept of female jealousy is clearly jolting to him.

"Ian, why don't you play with Leslie today? Maybe it will make her feel better."

"Yeah, but then that will make Rebecca jealous."

The man has a point. I'm encouraged that my son is such a quick learner, but all I can do when I leave him at the door of his classroom is pat him on the head and wish him luck. As I head for the exit, he approaches Rebecca with his stash of cars. She looks unimpressed. I can see Leslie, however, on the other side of the classroom sharpening her daggers...

Hard to Play Hard to Get

Today, Ian was going to see Rebecca again in school after a long, long absence. She went with her family for a week to California. In the middle of the week last week, late in the evening, when the apartment was quiet, I heard Ian's little voice call from his bed:

"Mom?"

I went in, not happy about it, but tried to have an open ear. Ian was curled in the fetal position sucking his thumb, no different than when he was three months old. "What is it, Ian? Why aren't you asleep?"

"Mom?" he said with a slight whimper. "It's taking Rebecca and Rachel [ed note: that would be Rebecca's 7-yr-old sister] a long time to come back from vacation."

Oh, her again. I guess it isn't too early for love to stink. I reassured him that the week would go fast and then he'd see her again.

Last night, in anticipation of the event, he wanted to text her a message on my phone (as if she had a phone number, which she doesn't, but I wouldn't have sent it anyway). The message said: "I love you, Rebecca." Oy vey. Thank God Ian has me to protect his image.

Ian took an inordinate amount of care dressing this morning, choosing a kelly green shirt that made him look especially handsome (according to his mother). When we arrived in the classroom this morning, Rebecca was at a table with a gaggle of other pre-school girls. They were making jewelry out of play dough.

Ian nearly pirouettes past her table, light in his shoes, beaming from every inch of his four-year-old body. "Rebecca!!" he blurts. "You're here!"

The look on Rebecca's face unfortunately foretells a long path ahead of Ian in which he will overplay his hand again and again. I could see it coming. In the midst of rolling out one of her links of plasticine, she looks up at him and literally glares. As if to say, Oh, it's him again. If there weren't witnesses, I might have said something.

But after a moment contemplating her predicament, I couldn't really blame her. Ian flutters around her, asking her what she's doing and how was her vacation, to which she answers with a few grunts. Then Ian dispatches himself to the computer table to play a video game with the boys.

Ian kept a stiff upper lip and pretended not to notice the brush-off (well, more than likely he didn't realize he was getting the brush-off). As I left, I gave him an extra long hug and told him how handsome he was.

But love stinks in that direction, too. I'm already taken.

The Case of the Missing Brown Sandals

Today, it's raining. Ian makes a note of his footwear as we're walking through the park. I also have footwear on my mind because I just bought Ian and Julian each a pair of nice brown, leather sandals when they need to be taken somewhere where "park rat" attire won't cut it. We went to a birthday party last night and I turned the house upside down looking for Ian's, but to no avail. I even emptied corners of their closet that I swore I would only empty in the event of war or an act of God.

"Mom? Ya know what?"

I nod.

"I'm not wearing my boots today so I can't jump in the puddles."

"No, you can't."

"And you know what else, Mom?" I nod again. "You couldn't find my brown sandals yesterday."

Genius. Thanks for the reminder. Ian continues. "You couldn't find them because I hid them in a suitcase so you couldn't put them on me and I could wear my cool sandals."

What?! I'm shaking my head. This, I'm sure, is not the first or last time one of my sons will put something over on me. I'm thunderstruck, however, by his sly creativity, his ability to do it without me ever noticing, and his ability to keep completely mum about it until he is halfway to school the next day and safely out of range of another wardrobe change. His execution of the scheme was flawless and cool-headed. I had to hand it to him.

I look down at him while he spins his yellow umbrella over his shoulder and walks along next to me. He looks gleefully self-satisfied. "Ian, I had no idea you were so sneaky."

He nods in acknowledgement and his tone is slightly sympathetic. "Yeah, Mom. You have to watch out for me."

No doubt. Jean-Paul strikes again.

Fashion Victims

How'd you like to start your morning having tighty whities thrown in your face?

I was helping Julian get dressed and was pulling a rather stretched out pair of cotton undies over his little beanstalk legs. Yes, the undies are a bit droopy. Yes, they had seen better days when they belonged to Julian's older brother. (Unfortunately for Julian, we hand everything down.)

Julian had ignored the indignity for a long time, but today he was getting wise. He flaps the waist of them against his pooch of a belly and then decides it's time to assert himself. He pulls them down and lets me have it.

"I don't want these calzoncillos!" he shouts with total Spanglish fluency, flinging the undies at me.

OK, OK, don't get your panties in a twist I'm thinking, literally. "Julian, why don't you pick out the underwear you want then."

He stomps over to the dresser in a huff. "I WILL pick my own calzoncillos. I WILL pick them." Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. He rips a pair of Spiderman bikinis out of the drawer. Fine with me. The kids in his daycare have all spent the year potty training together and they enjoy showing each other their underwear. Julian especially likes showing off Spidey. This is one of the many things I pretend I haven't noticed is going on.

I finish with Julian and then turn to help Ian, who's lying on the floor with a heap of clothes next to him that I picked out. Ian is more of a problem. My husband and I call him "Jean Paul", as in "Gaultier", because he tends to be a little on the fussy side about clothes.

"I don't want that shirt," he whines. That shirt has buttons. I should have known better. Ian does not wear any shirt with buttons.

"I don't like those jeans," he says, picking them up by two fingers as if they were radioactive waste. "I want to wear my soccer pants." The soccer pants are elastic-waisted sweats, the kind of thing housebound people wear when they've given up on being even close to presentable. I let him play sports in them but won't go any further. It's almost a daily battle.

What feels like a week later, we're walking out the door. Julian is excited about his Spidey underwear. He's also wearing a t-shirt from the "Blue Angels" that the daycare teachers must think is the only shirt he owns. He doesn't wear anything else. Ian is in tears because I vetoed the soccer pants, but through his tears he's not too distraught to cast a critical eye at me.

"Mom? I don't like that shirt."

I inspect myself. "Why?"

"Because it has buttons."

"Well, I tell you what. They're my buttons and I'll wear them if I want to."

Take that, Jean Paul.

Two Tongues Are Better Than One

I'm trying to get a spoonful of Post cereal into Julian. I aim and keep missing. He's decided he wants to be spoon fed like an infant and on most mornings, although I know I'm just perpetuating the problem, I play along so he doesn't go hungry. Ian's keeping a close watch on the whole operation.

"Mom, it's so funny when you have two tongues," Ian says.

I look closer at my target. No, one tongue. I ask what feels like an obvious question.

"Ian, that's silly. When do you have two tongues?" I ask this to him without looking, concentrating on my objective of getting food into Julian.

When Ian doesn't answer, I look up. His eyes have bugged out, he's screwed up his mouth and he still has bedhead hair. His look says: DUH. "When you're an alien."

Duh. When else?

Forever Young? Not So Much.

"Mom? Ya know what?" Julian says, chomping on a piece of waffle, his head swivelling as he shoots spacey looks all over the room. Then he forgets for a second that he already got my attention.

"Mom? Ya know what?" I'm nodding. "Mom?" I'm still nodding.

"Tell me, Julian."

"When I get big and finish being three years old I'm going to be the baby again."

I think about that for a second. Ah, yes. Reset. Don't we wish.

"Julian, it doesn't really work like that." I am about to drop a bomb on him, so I give him a little squeeze across the table. "You're all done being a baby."

He's shocked. I can see what he's thinking. How can that be possible? How can I be done? There were so many things I would do differently. I wouldn't have morphed into the exorcist baby all those times in the grocery store, especially when I was told I couldn't buy Goldfish. I wouldn't have been such a jerk when I got tired and then refused for hours to fall asleep. I wouldn't have hit my brother so much (well, maybe I would have). If I had a chance to go back, I would have done it all... perfectly.

"So what I'm going be after I'm three years old?" he asks me.

"You're going to be four."

His face brightens. "Then five?" I nod. "Then six, like Lucas?" I nod again. "Then seven eight nine TEN!" He's on a roll. He thinks about this progression and then gives me a pained look.

"Mom? Why it takes so long?"

He he. "Don't worry," I say to him, clearing his plate. "It will all be here and gone before you know it."

He doesn't believe me. But none of us ever believed it, did we?

Cranky

"I think I'm going to be cranky all day," Ian says as we walk through the park to school.

I laugh to myself. How often have I gotten out of bad with that determined sentiment?

"Ian, why are you going to be cranky all day?"

"Because Julian hit me and it made me cranky and now I'm going to be cranky all day." He folds his arms in front of his puffed out little pre-schooler chest.

I recently explained to them about what it meant to "be cranky" and I may be sorry about it. Now, they love to be cranky, to say "cranky", to pretend to be cranky, to make each other cranky. It's starting to make me cranky.

"That doesn't sound like a very good day, Ian. Does it? Nobody likes to be around a cranky person."

Ian shrugs his shoulders. So what. "I like to be cranky."

"So it makes you happy to be cranky?"

"Yes."

"Then you can't be cranky, right? How can you be cranky and happy at the same time?"

He walks and doesn't look at me. I can tell he's annoyed by how right I am.

When I got done with work and saw Ian again at home, he was bounding like Tigger in our living room.

"Ian, what happened to being cranky?"

He giggles, kisses me and bounds away. "Being not cranky is much better, Mom!"

Amen. I wish I had that kind of rebound.

Goodfella

I drove Julian to daycare this morning. Very much on my mind was all the fighting that has been going on between Ian and Julian (alas, Easter vaca means lots of together time and they have the bruises and scratches to show for it).

So I say to Julian: "Hey, you know you and Ian have been fighting a lot."

I look in the backseat and he has this face like DeNiro's in Taxi Driver when he says "You talkin' to me?"

"You know, it makes Mama and Papa really sad when you guys fight."

Still the DeNiro face.

"Yeah, it makes us sad. How do you guys feel?"

Now the face has shifted to DeNiro, but in The Untouchables, as Capone. I'm not encouraged.

"Do you guys feel sad?"

Still the Capone face. Julian puts his head back a little, does something that almost looks like winking, and purses his lips. I'm tempted to duck in anticipation of the swinging bat.

"So Julian, do you guys feel sad?"

He looks me straight in the rear view mirror and says: "NOPE."

I drive on, contemplating my 3-year-old's steely lack of compassion. I wondered if Julian and Ian had a deal to keep quiet. Like DeNiro says in Goodfellas: "never rat on your friends, and keep your mouth shut."

If they do, it's gonna be a long time 'til we get to 18.

Justice is Deaf, Dumb and Blind

Everybody wanted his hat and gloves this morning, which made no sense as the weather is finally warming up, but whatever. I went digging in our "Hat and Gloves" drawer (yes, and I even have it labeled). None of the gloves I found for Ian were the right ones, nor any of the ones I found for Julian, which left me digging and muttering to myself about why we have so many blipping gloves for these two kids.

Anyway, found something that passed muster, we flew out the door, the boys batting each other about the face fighting over who would have command of the elevator buttons.

"Just push the '1' button, Ian!" I said (or rather, shouted) as they were shoving each other away from the console inside the elevator.

"No, I get to push it!" shrieked Julian.

"Who cares who pushes it, Julian!?" I say. Am I crazy to ask this question? Of course, Julian is the one who cares, and a hell of a lot.

"No, I get to push it! I always get to push it!!" He is right about that. We've established certain rituals every morning and it's true that Julian does two very important things: push the '1' button in the elevator and push the button that opens the garage door.

Julian is coming unglued. Ian raises his gloved hands at both Julian and I. "OK, OK, OK. Julian, calm down. You can push the key and open the car door, OK?" Ian smiles at him, the peacemaker, like Reagan nuzzling Gorbachev. Whatever, I just want to make it out of the house and not be late to preschool.

Once everybody's strapped in and I start the car, there's a new problem.

"Mom! Ian won't give me the helicopter!!" screams Julian, tears spurting. Ian is cowering in the other corner of the backseat, jealously guarding a marine attack helicopter wristwatch, a gift from my brother.

"Julian, I'll get you another one."

"No! Mom! THAT is my one!" he yells, clenching his teeth.

"Well, Julian, Ian has it now. It's for both of you."

"No, Mom. No. Uncle Warren gave Ian the Blue Angel plane and he gave to me the helicopter watch. Uncle Warren gave that watch only to ME!"

Jesus, he actually remembers. That is exactly how things happened, but Ian quickly commandeered the helicopter watch and has had custody of it all week. And then there's my brother. Didn't he read the "Snow Day Fake Out?!" Doesn't he know you should never give the boys two different gifts. Same, good. Variety, bad.

What can I say to Julian? He is completely right and his brother has possession of his rightful property. I couldn't think of anything I could say or do that would restore his sense of justice. And for some reason, taking the copter away from Ian didn't seem right either. I had let him have it all week, so I was just as guilty as Ian was.

But you'll never believe who came to my rescue: Calle Ocho. As soon as Julian heard a few uno-dos-tres he forgot all about the copter. I was spared another withdrawal from the mother reservoir of wisdom. Good thing, too, as it feels pretty empty in there these days.

Return of the Jedi

I am the big sister to two boys who grew up in the 70s and 80s. For years, I was menaced by the flotsam and jetsam of Star Wars paraphernalia - AT-ATs as large as small dogs, white and black plastic Stormtroopers whose legs kept popping off and showing up all over the house, C3-PO and Han Solo and Lando Calrissian dolls and even Princess Leia with her cinnamon roll hairdo. We had a Chewbacca plush and an R2-D2 piggy bank. I figured, once we sidled into the 21st century and I grew up and out of the house, I would be well past the saga of the Clone Wars and the New Republic.

But I didn't count on two things: 1) that I would become the mother to two boys and that 2) no business person in their right mind would let the Star Wars franchise fade like those crawling titles into the blackness of deep space.

Yes, Star Wars is back. Like it never left.

The latest toy giveaway at McDonald's is none other than a Darth Vader key chain. Ian got one a few days ago and carries it everywhere, even though he has no keys and doesn't really know much about Star Wars.

"Mom, what's this guy called?"

"He's called Darth Vader."

Silence from Ian's end. His lips are moving slowly and I can tell he's trying out the awkward syntax of Vader's name. I guess it's too early to try Wicket Wystri Warrick out on him (Ewok hero - I admit I got a little help from Wikipedia).

A few more minutes pass and I assume we've left Star Wars behind and changed the subject. "Mom? What's the name of the green koala?"

"What green koala? Where did you see a green koala?"

"You know. The one with this guy in the movie." He holds up his Darth Vader key chain.

Green koala. Green koala. I have no idea what the heck - then it hits me.

"You mean YODA?"

"Yoda?"

"The short guy with the big ears?" I raise my hands and make a flappy ear motion on both sides of my head.

"Yeah! That one! Yoda!"

OMG. I wonder if George Lucas would be bummed out by today's kids thinking Yoda looks like a green koala. With all the money he's making off McDonald's and everyone else, it probably wouldn't keep him up nights.

Bad Luck O' The Knight In Shining Armor

I gave myself a lot of credit this morning for remembering that it's St. Patrick's Day. Then I gave myself even more credit for remembering to dress the boys in green, as requested by their teachers, because it's true that parents need more things to remember in the morning.

But while I was hiking down Ian's green shirt and looking for green socks, he looks at me, suddenly stricken. His normally pouty lips are puffed out even more, his round cheeks are getting hot and red and his eyes are starting to water. Even the faint, Gorbachev-like birthmark between his eyes is starting to turn red, lighting up like the tip of ET's finger. I knew I was in trouble.

"What is it, Ian?"

"Mom," he chokes out, standing in front of me in jeans and a green t-shirt. "Rebecca is going to wear her princess costume and I promised to wear my Batman costume."

Batman? On St. Patty's Day?

"Ian, are you sure you don't want to wear green? All the other kids will have green on."

"No, Mom. I have to wear the Batman costume. With the cape."

"Ian, really? Why?"

He looks up at me, his gray eyes round as silver dollars. He's earnest and soulful all of the sudden.

"Because, Mom. I have to save Princess Rebecca. I promised her."

I mean, what can a Mom say to that? Batman it was.

But I hate to tell you that when we got to school, Princess Rebecca was wearing a bright green t-shirt with sequiny shamrocks on it and blue jeans. Nary a princess getup in sight. She threw her hands over her face when she saw Ian in his Batman costume.

"Oh, Ian. I forgot!!"

Ian turned to me and buried his hooded head into my legs. His little cape was jerking up and down as he started to cry. The black fins darting off his wrist were flicking side to side as he wiped his wet cheeks.

By the time I left him, he had made peace with the disappointment and Shamrock Rebecca was being extra nice to him.

As for me, I'm still trying to recover. I've never been so disappointed to see a shamrock.

Monsters On His Mind

If someone made a pie chart of Ian's brain, this is basically what it would look like: 88% - favorite movies and TV shows, 5% - how to get more chocolate, pudding and ice cream, 5% - Transformers, Bakugan and Pokemon toys, and how to get more of them, 2% - how to piss off my brother.

So you get the picture. Ian is very taken with, let's call it, the 'visual arts.'

Four months ago, his Papa took him to a movie. It's still on his mind.

"Mom? When I saw Monsters, Inc. that was really cool."

"Sure, that is a cool movie."

"Mom? Did you know that Rebecca was there."

Of course she was. "Who else was there?"

"And Lucas and Josh and Kristin," he squeezed my hand, clearly relishing the memory of seeing a movie with his friends. "And Rebecca, too." In case I had missed that.

"Mom? You know what? Julian didn't get to see it."

"I think that movie is too scary for Julian."

You could do the aforementioned pie chart exactly the same way for Julian, except the 88% would be evenly split between "monsters" and "how to piss off my brother." Julian could practically care less about movies and TV shows.

"Mom? You know what? It doesn't scare me because I'm tough!"

"I know you are," I say, hoisting him up to press the call button on the door of his school building. They ask him who's there and he screams "Optimus Prime!!" into the intercom. I let him down. They buzz us in.

"Mom? You know what? If I see a monster, I can just turn into a robot and kill it."

I'm sort of not paying attention at this point. I'm looking for a form that we had to fill out from his dentist that says he has good dental hygiene. I'm glad the public schools have time to be concerned about this.

"Good," I say, "can you teach Julian how to turn into a robot and kill all his monsters, please? Mommy and Papa need to get some sleep."

Ian unzips his coat and we start walking upstairs. "Sure, Mom. I can do that."

Thank God. We finally have a good night of sleep ahead. Until Julian realizes he's scared of being a robot.

Never Met A Puddle He Didn't Like

I should have dressed Ian in a pair of thigh-high waders. By the time we got to school, Ian was soaked up to the knees. OK, before you think I'm totally ineffective at controlling my kid (you'd be right a lot of the time), I tell you I did try to keep him out of those puddles. I nearly pulled his arm out of the socket. Twice.

"Hey Mom! Check this out!" Ian darts away from me (I hadn't caught on to him yet) and dives feet first into a puddle in front of our building, easily ten inches deep, lurking and waiting for little boys on their way to school.

SPLASH!!

OK, wake up Mom.

We walk across the street. Ian is full of studied observations of the soggy landscape, sort of like a National Geographic photographer on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon.

"Mom! Look at that one! It goes alllllll the way around the bushes and then - oh wow - Mom, look how deep it gets over there!" He pulls at my arm and I squeeze his hand to the point where he starts complaining.

"Mom, oww, you're squeezing my hand too hard."

I let go.

"Mom!!! Hold my hand!!!"

We walk by the aforementioned lake phenomenon and Ian is jerking at me all the way. I can feel the pull of the puddle as if it had all the gravitational force of the moon drawing in a high tide. Ian is almost levitating in its direction.

When we get to the park, I realize my biggest mistake was that I should have avoided the park altogether. It is a wonderland of ponds, lakes, streams - all brown and murky with mud. There's even one puddle that's red - not the silty red of Georgia clay but the toxic, neon orange of a county once full of light bulb factories and still trying to expel the mercury from its soil. Yuck.

"Holy cow, Mom! Check this out!"

I'm checking it. We weave through one puddle after another and I hold tight onto Ian's hand as he contorts his body, trying to stick at least a toe in while I'm speeding him past the water. Then, as she always does, mother nature wins. Ian wriggles loose and he's off.

"Woooohoooo!" he yells, diving flat-footed into a puddle so large it could have played Lake Ontario in a movie.

SPLASH! SPLASH!

I duck to avoid the spraying water. Then I run around to the other side of the puddle to grab him as he comes out the other side, ready to scold, like one of those frazzled mothers in the supermarket trying to keep Hyperactive Harry from ripping open a bag of Goldfish.

Just as my hands get to him, however, I see how elated he is. He's grinning from ear to ear, his blond hair flying and his eyes lit up by the intoxicating blend of mischief and mess. There wasn't anything I could say except: "That was fun, wasn't it?"

He totally agreed. I let him do it one more time and then patted him down with cheap paper towels in the school bathroom. He had a blast, and I'll just have to think of a good excuse when I have to haul him into the pediatrician for the flu later this week. Hopefully the doc doesn't read my blog.

Those Meddling Mamas

Our babysitter tore a muscle in her shoulder last week. Ian wanted to know all about it.

"Mom? What's wrong with Alma?"

"She hurt her shoulder. So today, I'll pick you up from school so she can rest."

"Where will she rest?"

"She'll go to her apartment. She needs to rest, to do quiet things."

"Oh, like when Papa hurt his ear?"

My husband recently had surgery on his ear and so the boys now reference all "boo-boos" back to the one their father had.

"Yes, Papa had to do quiet things."

"Mom, when you hurt yourself, you have to do quiet things. Like watch Scooby-Doo."

"Sure, that's one thing you can do."

"Mom?"

I knew where this was going. "Yes?"

"I think I hurt myself this morning. I think I need to do quiet things after you pick me up."

"Sure. We can play your Memory game."

"No, Mom. Something quiet."

"OK, how about read one of your books?"

"No, Mom. Something quieter."

"OK, then you can take a very, very long nap and let Mommy have some peace and quiet."

Ian walked a few steps, silent, considering his position.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I think I'm feeling better."

Snakes and Snails and Tattletales

"Ian," taunts Julian, "you can't put your foot in the street when you're crossing or the cars will smash you like Tom and Jerry."

"No, they won't. I'm super fast!" Ian jets away from us down the sidewalk like Dash from The Incredibles.

Julian looks at me, gaping. "Mom? Did you see that?"

"I did. Don't worry, Julian. He can't escape us."

"Oh," says Julian, not the least bit reassured.

"Ian!" I call. "Wait for us!" He does. Shocker.

When I get close to him, I launch my I'm-your-mother-and-this-is-a-teachable-moment speech while I imagine my Parenting Scorecard, hovering in the heavens somewhere, is dinging like a pinball machine on full tilt.

"Ian, you can't run across the street."

"Huh? Why not?" I love when he asks a clarifying question to a statement he hasn't remotely heard or understood.

"Because you might trip and fall and then you'd be on the ground in the street. And that's really dangerous."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because cars won't be able to see you."

"OK. So I look for cars? And then I run across? Right?"

Mom, meet your son, Brick Wall.

"No. I said NO running. Do NOT run. That means walk, not run. Walk."

"OK, OK, OK."

Julian, the Reinforcer, chimes in: "Mom said not to run, Ian. Mom said not to do that." Juli shivers with the rush of being allied to the woman in command. I pat him on the head; I need all the suck-ups I can get in my position.

We get to the next corner. I utter my power word: "Manos!" [Hands] Both the boys lock in at my sides like a pair of F-14s in formation. We all hold hands, waiting for the traffic to pass. Ian is watching Julian, who is watching Ian's foot on the curb. Julian knows I told Ian he can't set foot in the street until I give the OK. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Ian slide his right shoe over the edge of the curb. Julian is shivering, anxious, starting to hop from one foot to the other. I'm pretending to ignore the whole show. Ian keeps his eyes trained on Julian, like a sharpshooter looking for his moment. He leans forward, extends his foot and drops the front of his shoe onto the asphalt. Julian is apoplectic. He sounds the alarm.

"MOM! Ian is touching the street and you didn't say he could touch the street!! Mom! Look at what Ian is doing! Mom! Mom?!"

I give the all clear and we start across the street. I smile at the crossing guard, remark to the boys what a wonderful day it is shaping up to be - sunny, warm. Ian is skipping along at my right side. Julian is yanking my arm. I know all I have to do is outlast Julian's moment of triumph and I'll be in the clear.

"MOM!! I'm trying to tell you something! Mom! Listen to me!!"

We walk a few more paces beyond the opposite curb and then I stop. I slowly bend to look Julian in the eye. His eyes are red and his face is flushed.

"What is it Julian?"

He looks at me, catching his breath. He starts to look vaguely lost. He looks up at a squirrel. Then all he comes back with is: "I don't know." But he has my attention, and doesn't want to waste the opportunity, so he says: "Mom? Did you see that squirrel there?"

God Bless short-term memory.