Bumblebee Sweet Potato

Every once in a while, I am amazed by the searches that bring people to this blog. Most of my hits from searches come from phrases like ‘finish my basement’ (or the ever-popular ‘bat-cave basement’–gee, I don’t remember calling it that!) or ‘hives after showering’ (there are a lot of people with itchy redness out there, if my search page is any indication). Then there are the folks who are looking for bumblebee- or sweet potato-related goodness. Can anyone tell me what a ‘bumblebee job’ might be? How about ‘bumblebee entertainment’? Bumblebee sex toy? wait, don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know.

And just how does ’sweet potato smell’? (First thing in the morning? Not so fresh.)
I always like it when I get hits for ‘world’s cutest kids,’ of course.

But once in a while, I just get one that mystifies me. Today’s? ‘Leaked bumble bee picture’

Any guesses?

This post may be dangerous to those who are considering having a second child. You have my permission to skip it.

Okay, now that we got the disclaimer out of the way…why is it that two siblings can’t both be the ‘good kid’ on the same day? If one kid is acting out, demanding, whining, shouting, whatever, you can bet that his/her sibling is cuddling up to you in a sort of ‘oh, look at that, I would never do anything to hurt you Mommy’ kind of way.

Now, the glass-is-half-full part of me thinks that, well, at least there generally aren’t days when both the kids are driving me nuts.

The other part of me, though is reeeeeaaaalllly tired of having arguments. Every. Single. Day.

Arguments about whether it’s really time to go catch the bus to camp, or if I’m making that up. Arguments about whether, if you are a three-year-old, you need to hold my hand while crossing a city street, and not just run out in front of a moving car. Arguments about whether we will eat ice cream for dinner. And of course, arguments about how the other sibling is or is not the anti-christ, and therefore should not be cuddling Mommy, when the arguing sibling is yelling/whining/shouting/ whatever.

Whew. Glad I got that out of my system. Now if only the kids could.

On a completely unrelated note, as I was driving to the bank tonight, I saw someone wearing an O.E.D. t-shirt. Am I a total geek because I wanted it?

I'm up in the early am after a night of kid stomach virus. Alala tagged me earlier this week–don't you love the memes, when you haven't slept?

1. Choose a band/artist: Bruce Springsteen

2. Answer each question using the title of a song by that band/artist

3. Are you male or female: She's the One

4. Describe yourself: Born to Run

5. How do some people feel about you? Meeting Across the River

6. How do you feel about yourself? Jungleland

7. Describe your kids: Secret Garden

8. Describe your spouse: Better Days

9. Describe where you want to be: The Promised Land

10. Describe how you live: My Hometown

11. Describe how you love: Racing in the Street

12. What would you ask for if you had just one wish? Something in the Night

13. Share a few words of Wisdom: Human Touch

14. Now say goodbye: (meet me tonight in) Atlantic City

and it's already Lord of the Flies time. The Bee came home today sporting her green wristband ('beginning swimmer' and told me that since she can't take off her band, she doesn't want to take a shower for the next four weeks. Yeah. Well. Not so much.

Also? Check this out:

Who's got the cutest kids ever? Well, it was me, until the great frog incident of 2006.

Thanks for your condolences, everyone.

I'm saddened today to learn of the death of a long-time activist friend, MB. MB was a life-long union organizer, a long-term member of the board of Planned Parenthood, and worked harder in his 'retirement' than most people do in their regular jobs as an organizer of senior citizens. He led groups of seniors on trips to Canada to buy medications, and tirelessly fought for the right of all people to have access to health care. 

A few years ago, when he was in his 70s, he and I spoke at a rally about Medicare funding. We were both going to a meeting afterwards, and as we walked there together, he spotted an elderly woman trying to cross the street. Cars were not stopping to let her cross, and she clearly did not feel comfortable walking into the street until it was empty. He asked her if she needed help, and we escorted her across the street and deposited her on the opposite corner. We went on our way to the meeting, but I was struck by his overwhelming attention to those in need–even if the need was just an arm to hold crossing the street.

I don't know many people who can keep that sharp focus on individuals while maintaining a larger vision of fighting for justice. The fact that he was able to do it for over 60 years astonishes and inspires me. I don't know if he's gone to a better place. I do know that the one he left us was made a little worse by his loss.

I had this great idea to write a post about feminist fathers for Father's Day, but I got hung up on the definition of what a feminist father really is. To me, a feminist dad is not just a guy who teaches his daughter how to play baseball, or encourages her to work hard in school. He's not just the guy who changes diapers and bathes his kids. It's not just about what he does at home.

To me, being a feminist dad is also about the way he behaves in the workplace. A feminist dad is one who goes home at the end of the day and leaves his job behind, at least until after the kids are in bed. He's a dad who knows that it's important for him to say no to the boss about working late, and not just let the working moms in his office set the standard of how parents should behave.

I blogged recently about my own father, and how he took care of us during the summers when I was a kid. I don't know if my dad would really describe himself as a feminist–I would. Not only because he went out of his way to make sure that I believed that I could do whatever I wanted to, but also because he made sure that when my mom was ready to go back into the workforce, that she could do it.

What's your definition of a feminist dad? Are you married to one? Are you one? 

I know I am! Happy Father's Day to all my favorite dads out there in the blogosphere. I hope that you had a great day, with plenty of handprint arts, and gifts made out of popsicle sticks. And Happy Father's Day to landisdad, who is the most wonderful dad I know, and a feminist dad at that.

It's the last week of school, and the craziness is high. Here's the Bee's schedule for the week:

Sunday–return home from sleepover. Attend party for neighbor, where mom & dad let her stay up way too late for a school night.

Monday–Field Day (translation–run around in a local park playing games & eating hot dogs)

Tuesday–1/2 day. Show and tell, then a field trip to a local ice cream store during after care.

Wednesday–1/2 day. Some boring stuff will happen, but no actual learning.

Thursday–1/2 day. Picnic in the park during school. Picnic in the park during after care. I kid you not.

Friday–1/2 day. The last assembly of the school year. Potentially, there will be an award or two. Complete melting down craziness.

I went out tonight to buy teacher gifts, and landisdad suggested that Valium might be a nice gift. As far as I'm concerned, it's the school that owes us Valium, not the other way around.

We did have a lovely time last night at a party with some of our neighbors for a family down the street that is moving in a few weeks. It was one of those perfect early summer evenings that aren't too hot, when the mosquitos aren't yet out in full force. The kids (and their were a gaggle of them–I counted 9, ranging from 11 days old to the Bee) ran around demanding ice cream (oh that wretched Mr. Softee) & keeping each other busy, and the adults drank wine and ate homemade sushi. I didn't really want to leave, and we ended up staying later than we should've. We paid for it this morning, as both of the kids were dragging (although the Potato slept later than 6:00 a.m. for once), but it was worth it anyway.

The Potato is a puzzle addict. He's not quite three, of course, so we're not talking about 1000 piece three-dimensional models of Notre Dame or anything, but he's very adept at doing puzzles, even some that I think are advanced for his age. And he has an amazing ability to finish a puzzle, and then turn right around and do it over again. Sometimes six or seven times. While you or I might consider this boring, to the Potato, it's a miraculous example of his own ability to do something all by himself, and what's more important to a toddler?

But oh, the puzzle pieces! They're everywhere. I step on them in the dark, when I go to his room to tell him to go back to sleep. We find them littered around the living room, the family room. I'd like to exile them to the basement, but we haven't finished painting it yet.  

Of course, the disarray of our puzzle storage program stems from the fact that the owner of said puzzles is not exactly a responsible adult. He doesn't always put them away when he does finally get bored. He does, however, get extremely frustrated when he can't find missing pieces. We have quite a few puzzles that may never be completed again. I'm not really sure where the pieces have all gone–I was talking to Suzanne the other day about the fact that I know that they're still somewhere in my house, but I can't imagine how we will ever find them. In the duct work, perhaps?

When the Bee was born, my MIL handed down some toys that had belonged to landisdad, back in the day. Among these toys was a puzzle from Holland that she had somehow kept intact for 30-odd years. Naturally, this is among the puzzles that may never be completed again, as the Potato seems to have lost at least two pieces. Did they get smuggled out to an underground used-puzzle-trading ring in New Amsterdam?

First, let me say thank you to all those other tooth-collectors out there. I'm glad I'm not alone. Also, welcome to those folks surfing in from today's Carnival of Feminists.

Next week is the last week of school, and the Bee is filled with excitement. She was telling us at dinner tonight that next week will be her Best! Week! Ever!, because they are just going to have fun every day, and not have to learn anything. Then after dinner, she told me that she loves school, that fall is her favorite season, and her favorite subject is math. The mind of an almost-second-grader races on, unabated.

We also got the paperwork today for the first of the two day camps that she will be attending this summer. As usual, I am slapping myself over the head with regret that I did not photocopy her immunization record the last twenty or thirty times I got one, and will have to call the doctor's office tomorrow to see if they can produce one for us overnight. I might as well get two while I'm at it, because I'm sure that the second camp is also going to need one, and that in my haste to get the paperwork done for the first camp, I will once again forget to photocopy it.

And let me just say, whoa Nelly is summer camp expensive! I thought day care was bad! Can you write this off on your taxes as a child care expense? Please say yes, because otherwise we're going to have to hock the Potato to pay for it. The first camp that the Bee is going to is a YMCA camp out in the woods. Fortunately, there is bussing. Unfortunately, the bus drops her off at 5:05 p.m. I can see I'll be changing my work schedule slightly there. The daily activities consist of things like archery (what every six-year-old needs!), swimming, and making pleather lanyards.

The second camp is near where I work, in a local science museum. The hours are better, and the curriculum is slightly more academic (there are weekly projects on dinosaurs, space exploration, etc.), but the cost of that one for five weeks is more than I paid for my first car. (Oh '76 Camaro, where are you now?)

My dad was a high school teacher, so even after my mom went back to work, I never really went to camp. I was jealous of my friends who did get to go, while I was stuck in what my dad called Summer School. At the time, I never realized that it was strange for a man to stay home all day with his kids, but now I wonder what it was like for my dad, to be the only guy in our neighborhood who was taking his kids on nature walks, and teaching them how to draw cartoons, and introducing them to the likes of Don Knotts and the Greek pantheon. In his prime, my dad was a legendary teacher, and I think he saved some of his best teaching for his own children during those summers.

Some of my best memories of my dad are from the summers that he stayed home with us. Last weekend, I took my kids to a park, and remembered how he would teach us to find snapping turtles, and how he and his best friend spent a whole summer one year searching for antique bottles in the sands of a local creek. My dad was a third generation native of South Jersey, and he grew up hunting and fishing in the Jersey Pine Barrens with my grandfather and his friends. He knew every plant that grew, how to find tadpoles, what back roads to take to avoid the Phillly traffic to the Shore on a summer weekend. We spent days just wandering around on sandy roads that went nowhere, or to towns that stopped existing around the time the telegraph was invented.

When landisdad started his new job, I was a little worried about the fact that he would be working every Sunday, and I would be doing the solo parenting thing. One of the things that I've figured out in the last three months is that the Sundays that work best are the ones where I have a plan to do something fun–even if it's only to have a picnic in the park. My dad filled our days with activity (though I'm sure I'm forgetting the boring times), and I want my kids to remember our days together the way I remember days with my dad–full of fun and learning about stuff they don't teach in school.

A few weeks ago, the Bee lost a tooth at school. It came home in a little envelope marked "Tooth Taxi." The usual Tooth Fairy transaction occurred, and for some reason, I still have this envelope, complete with tooth, in my night table. Along with all the other teeth the Bee has lost (lost naturally, that is, the abscessed one was too gross to hang onto).

Why, blogging friends, can't I get rid of the teeth?

It's one thing to hang on to a lock of hair from the first hair cut. Or the first booties. The first little hats and baby outfits are too adorable to let go.

But what's up with the teeth?

Will I, years from now, look at these teeth and try to remember the little girl's mouth they once fit? Will I end up in a nursing home with a drawer full of teeth, not just from the Bee, but the Potato too?

What are you hanging on to, out of sheer sentimental value? Can you top my tooth fetish? (can't wait to see the search hits I'll get from that phrase)

*bonus points of absolutely no value to the person to first identify the book quoted in the title of this post