For Today

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

by Langston Hughes

To Finn, on his first day of kindergarten

About two hours ago, I abandoned you in your kindergarten classroom.

I walked you to your room and eased you into the classroom filled to fire hazard with five-year-olds, their parents, and more cameras--video, digital, cell phone--than an AARP tour group on a whale watching cruise.

Then I blew you a kiss, swallowed yours, and booked it out the door so you wouldn't see my inevitable and long-postponed (and planned) breakdown.



Sure, I say "abandoned." Based on your response, hoppy exuberance, and all caps glee--MY OWN LOCKER! and MY KIDS! and PLAY DOH!--I think you might choose a verb like "set free" or "liberated" or "finally unshackled from the oppressive, stifling bonds of a mother hell bent on dissing my vibe."

I've asked you--multiple times a day, unfortunately--if you were excited about kindergarten. And each time I did, you'd open your arms wide, so wide they bent around your back, and say, "Mama, I'm so excited." This surpasses any overextended voguing you've done for a Nana visit (sorry Nana), a playdate with one of your kids, or the promise of a Transformer. This, to date, is the most excited you've been about anything.

I'm so glad you don't take after me.

I always loved school--so much that I signed up for three extra years that I didn't have to--but each first day would put me into such a nauseous tizzy in my anxiety over unopenable lockers, labyrinth hallways, teeming kids and later adults, and germy play doh. Even when I taught school, I'd have to take shots of Pepto just to calm my nerves. First days were never my forte.

But kindergarten looks like it's your element. You have such high hopes for this year--that you'll find like-minded Lego lovers, that you'll do scientific experiments that test the bounds of electromagnetism, and that you'll finally, finally, finally learn to fly.



I can guarantee you'll find your Lego crew--and you'll make new friends who share your interests and open your eyes to new wonders. You'll also learn of the dangers of cooties--and, if you're lucky--one of those new friends my inoculate against further infection by that insidious disease. (Or you can self-mediate: Step one: circle. Step two: another circle. Then three dots. That is the cootie shot.) You'll learn how to follow the crowd and stand up for yourself. You'll witness snark, smarm, and generosity of spirit. You may even find your best forever friend, or your first love, among the kids who share this first day with you. And you've just met the first teacher whose influence and passion you'll remember for the rest of your life.

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure you won't be doing any Faraday experiments. And sometimes, I'll also guarantee, you'll find kindergarten a bit slow. You already know how to do so much--you can read a little, you make friends easily, you can build elaborate aerodynamic objects d'art with the aforementioned Legos, K'Nex, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, you crack jokes at a whim. But don't let your talents keep you from accepting what others have to offer. You came into this classroom with confidence, imagination, and wit. Share it. And embrace the talents of others who are different from you--who can tie their shoelaces, who can make savory mud pies, who carry their magic in their hearts instead of in their hands. Discover them, too.

And as for that last bit about going airborne? I think I may have set you up, kid. There's been a lot of Harry Potter, Peter Pan, and Willa Wonka talk in the Anderson household. I hate to disappoint, but you won't be getting a Firebolt this year. Or next. Your teacher won't be distributing pixie dust or popping bottles of fizzy lifting drink. But there's a world out there, Finn, that's just waiting for you, a world of magic and wonder whose doors and windows and chimneys will open to you if you just believe in it.

And I will tell you this--although you may not literally soar through the air on a magic carpet anytime soon, this year, you will learn how to fly.

If I Knew You Were Comin', I'duv Baked a Cake, Pet a Snake, Built a Lake

We moved. Ergo, the silent treatment and mysterious blogposts.

We've spent the past two week or so frantically packing, frantically panicking, and relocating all our crap (oh my, we have so much STUFF) to Kansas.

Yes, we crossed the stateline, abandoned Missouri to all those who are much more enthusiastic about than we could ever be, and booked it to Dorothyland.

And we love it. Love it. Love, love, love it. (So far. I don't want to get to ahead of myself.)

I have a whole elaborate and karmic moving story to share with you in a later post, but right now, light me just share this moment of Kansas-flavored zen.

Right now, this very moment (or a few moments or days or perhaps even weeks or months ago depending on when you finally revisit my long dormant blog--sorry) I'm baking a cake.

Yes. Baking. Me.

Sum total this past year, I've baked a few dozen cookies. And this cake. "Baker" is not my middle name. Or one that even travels in the same sentence, much less discussion.

And yet . . . I bake. A beautiful and "elaborate" (remember, low tolerance) strawberry shortcake recipe that I stole from Nigella Lawson. (I'm also wearing a skirt. And heels. No pearls.) And as I'm slowly folding in my dry ingredients into my frothy buttery-eggy-yumfest, Yaz's "Only You" comes on.

Sing along . . .

All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed was another day
And all I ever knew
Only you

How beautiful shines 30something domesticity.

Slurp.

It's Not Really Mother's Day without a Hydra Death Match

I woke up yesterday thinking this year's mother's day would generally follow the direction set out over the previous four installments: I wake up (even though I don't want to), breakfast near bed, receive a homemade something something, and then lay out my trail of incessant and uncompromising desires that have finally broken ground after a full of year of tantrums and whining have beaten them to inevitable yet reluctant surrender.

(I so do love getting my way. At least one day of the year.)

And, for the first three hours, I was right. Mother's day followed a predictable and yet still joyous path. There was an omelette and a bowl of tea. Finn made me a card that he snipped and glued himself. Barry gave me a book of essays (even though I am decidedly not his mother--go ahead and put all those rumors away).

And Finn "gave" me a Golden Compass, from the movie of the same name, that he quickly co-opted, under the guise of "showing me how it works."

But that's not where things went awry. Even I could see that one coming.

After food, card, and treats, we decided to go for a one-mile hike through a nature trail near our house. I decided. (Whoop. Wish equals command.) But with Golden Compass secured safely in its purse and slung around his shoulders, Finn quickly announced the mission: find Narnia.

So we set out. Our water turned into elixir, our path turned to adventure. We were looking for anything out of the ordinary that might lead us to a gateway to another world. We jumped rivers of lava, we hid from ogres, we climbed a mountain. We deftly yet narrowly escaped enchanted nettles that reached out from the ground with their poisonous tentacles. We deciphered clues disguised as a self-guided walking tour. We successful traversed the dangers of the Waterfall of Nefarious Intent.

And then, just when we thought we had survived all the challenges of the nature trail turned evil forest, we met the five-headed hydra, camouflaged under a big pile of glass clippings.


But we weren't fooled. We had our eyes open. Using Finn's magic and my knowledge of mythic creatures (reading is power!), we defeated that hydra and left the forest much better than we had found it. And relatively monster free.

I think mother's day got an upgrade, too.

So That's It? A Switch Just Goes Off?

For the third year running, we're inflicting soccer on Finn. Or inflicting Finn on soccer. And for the third year running, Finn, as new player on new team, has earned himself yet another new soccer ball and yet another new soccer jersey.

The world of sports and overindulgent wardrobing. The excess of it!

We do, however, have higher hopes this year. This year, unlike last year or the year before for that matter, will be different.

Last year, we went into the soccer season fully resigning ourselves to the fact that Finn would probably hate it. Again. And yet, there we were. On the field, ball in hand, pushing Finn into the vicious toddler fray with demonstrative amounts of force. Finn would lag behind the pack of toddlers, cry because he tripped over the ball, and end up picking daffodils or cheering on the team--either his or the opponents, it didn't seem to matter--from the sidelines. Lots of bouquets, lots of cheering, not a lot of playing

But somewhere, deep down, we believed in this. In soccer, in team sports, in pain and torture and forcing Finn to do something he obviously doesn't want to do.

(Did I ever tell you about piano lessons? Yeah, that wasn't always pretty. But do notice the past tense. We are capable of evolving.)

And yet here we are again. At 1 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. We could be at the park or flying a kite or dueling with lightsabers or hunting eggs--any of the number of things that Finn actually likes spending his Saturday doing. But instead we are playing soccer.

Because Finn asked for it.

What?

Yes, Finn asked to play soccer. Not out of some misguided memory, but because many of his friends from school are playing on this team. So we signed him up, got a new ball, new jersey, and headed for the fields.

And Finn actually played. He dribbled the ball, he got trompled and got back up--without tears, he reveled in grass stains and shin kicks and even asked the coach if he could go back in for more. Yes--instead of cheering.

And the piece de resistance, coup d'etat? Take a listen?

Me: "What was the favorite part of your today?"

Finn: "Well, it's the same things as lasterday."

Me: "Ice cream? Playing Transformers?"

Finn: "Nope."

Me: "Well?"

Finn: "Soccer."

Oh, YEEEAAAAAAHHHH, Baby

I name this week in honor of Battlestar Galactica. Crisp Apple Streudel. All. Week. Long.

The Hunt Continues (Parenthetically Speaking)

Bear, Finn, Sarah, and I (two Sarahs, and yes that is just as confusing as you would imagine) spent Easter afternoon in the bitter cold Missouri crosswinds, hunting for eggs (easy pickins) and milking cows (not so easy pickins) at Shatto Dairy Farm.

(Finn literally milked a cow. It may have been the one that gives rootbeer milk. I'd advise you ask if he has washed his hands before you shake. He's four. The only place you know for sure where his hands have been are on a cow's utters. I can testify that that is not the extent of his daring dexterous feats. I'm just saying . . .)

As Sarah (she looked supercool amid the dairy attendees--and she's single! You heard it here) and I waited for the Egg Hunt to commence, Bear filmed the experience for . . . something.

(I'm never sure where that video ends up. But he does record it in high-def. Because he is a geek. He has a card that corroborates that membership. Ask him to show it to you. Next graf.)

Bear weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to capture the ambiance that is northern Missouri on a cold spring day. (Insert irony.) And as Sarah and I talked about Finn's strategy (which ended up being "Yank the egg from the hands of the young and hesitant), I caught a glimpse of Bear across the crowded egg field.

Black Fink jacket. Green stripped hoodie. Aquaman t-shirt elegantly caressing nearly-40-year-old beer belly. Webby Vans. Half-structured bedhead. (Yes, an overaged, overbellied catalogboy for Urban Outfitters.) All cast against Kansas City Chiefs red, baseball caps, bulbous parkas, and Sunday plaids.

And I realized, right then and there, why I married that man nearly 15 years ago.

Still sizzling after all these years.

I Really Don't Know What I've Been Doing with My Time

Bear and I spent a good portion of Finn's nonwaking hours playing Super Mario Galaxy.

Well, of course, you say. A perfectly acceptable and, dare I say, obvious choice. I mean, what else is there that one would want to spend his/her time doing except trolling through Super Mario Galaxy?

We could have been, uh, you know, like, cleaning. Because it's spring and I've heard tell that people do cleaning in the spring. They even have a special name for it. Something like, Spring Cleaning.

We could have been working on the lawn. Not so much planting, because it Frakkin' Snowed. (Shut up!) But we could have raked last year's leaves. Or pruned something. Because I think you're supposed to do things like that as a home owner and tender of landscape. But really, I am talking out of the ass here because I don't have the slightest idea what or when those things are supposed to be done. AND THAT IS WHAT COMMENTS ARE FOR. Yo.

We could have been working. Yes, we could have. On a Sunday. On Easter. Really. That was a choice. We are that pathetic.

We could have been napping. Or reading. (I have still to finish my Shakespeare bio.) Or rewatching the first 10 minutes of Darjeeling Limited (for the fourth time). Or watching Finn sleep. (Yes, we do that, too.)

Or blogging. (Well, I suppose I actually am wasting valuable game time doing exactly that when I could be conquering the Rolling Green for the Lumas and Peach. But I figure since I'm writing about it . . .)

But instead, I choose Mario over all of the above. And not just because it's so super cool that I tremble and literally drool with the thought of it. (Anyone have a Puffs Plus with Aloe handy? Nevermind. I have one here.) But because it fulfills a lifelong dream of traveling to fantastic planets, much in the vein (here comes my attempt at the rescue--watch me work it) of Petit Prince or Calvino's Cosmicomics.

When Finn was "younger" (the irony is not lost on me, hence the quotage), we used to talk about how we'd meet in our dreams, how we'd slip and slide through the Milky Way and catch a shooting star to meet on some distant planet and play in the sand craters.

Maybe Mario Super Galaxy is a poor substitute to that imaginative play. Or to reading Calvino. Or maybe, just maybe it is just another catalyst to opening up the realm of possibilities.

Or maybe I overreach. (It has been known to happen.)

An Alternative to eBay

Childhood toys and their drama revisited--with the help of Spike Lee.

Of Course, I May Live to Regret This

Yesterday, Finn decided he wanted to cook. So we pulled out some bowls, spoons, measuring cups, candied sprinkles, glitter, and food coloring and cleared a chunk of real estate on the kitchen floor. And then he stirred sprinkled, and poured for, really, hours. (Or maybe it was just a long series of minutes. But they were consecutively occupied by the brewing.)

He was so involved that I went into the other room and . . . did stuff.

Actual stuff.

Like, on my own.

And then I got worried. Where were the incessant pleas for mama or television? He must have sampled his own concoction and was now quietly flailing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, awash in red-and-blue-makes-purple.

I abandoned my free time--it was a little overwhelming anyway--and peeked into the kitchen to see if I had indirectly poisoned my child with lack of parental supervision.

But there he was, stirring, adding more glitter.

"Whatcha doin'?" That would be me asking.

"Making a transformer." That would be him.

He picked up another bottle, uncapped it, and add it to the brew. What was it? Garlic salt? And what was that beside the garlic salt? Onion powder? Dried basil leaves? Chili powder? Lemon pepper?

Finn had raided the spice rack and was seasoning his little Golem (and our floor) with every salt, pepper, and herby product we had.

It was a complete mess. And I was happy.

Wha?

That can't be.

I am notoriously uptight. And even if that weren't the case (stop laughing, I can hear you), I am genetically disposed to not being happy about situations precisely like this. The Mom would have thrown a righteous and glorious fit. If her spice rack had been within my reach.

So what's with the joy? I don't know. I love to see imagination run wild. I love the independence of my kid. I like glitter and I know how to work a vacuum. But I also love knowing that Finn had an idea and jumped into the spice rack to realize it. I like that my child is not a guest in his own home.

(Of course, that probably means I should lock up the liquor and the porn.)

We Are So Fond of Our Young Prince

"He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,
Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy,
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:
He makes a July's day short as December,
And with his varying childness cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood."

--William Shakespeare, A Winter's Tale

How Do You Celebrate the End of a Five-Hour Fast?

Cupcakes!

Bear brought home a four-pack of cupcakes from Baby Cakes. My ration: one lemon cupcake with lemon buttercream icing. (Keyword: buttercream. We don't go in for fluffy icing.)

It feels good to be among the food again. Yes, those five hours did me irreparable harm that I will have to make up with a parade of good eats for the next several days, proving yet again the unhealthy relationship I have with food.

In that, I like to eat it.

Move over Marcel Marceau: There's a New Mime in Town

It started with an abandoned cardboard frame. (Imagine an unhinged triangle.) I grabbed it and made it into some clamping crab claws. Then Finn grabbed it and made into . . . say it with me now . . . a gun. And we were off.

It's a heart.

It's a steering wheel.

It's a . . . frame?

Real creative, mama.

(My favorite: Finn bumped the two ends of the frame against each other and gave me this hint.

Finn: "It's what you do after you get married."

Me: . . .

Finn: "Dancing!")

When we exhausted the prop chest, we moved into unassisted charades. Bear would whisper "an action" to Finn. He would act it out. I would guess. I can't say I got all his interpretive clues--it is his first go at the fine and respected art of miming.

I mean, who wouldn't confuse skateboarding with synchronized swimming?

Daily Streudel

Hot pork roast stew, crusty bread, a glass of Madagascar Vanilla iced tea, and the promise of a snow-filled morning. Nothing better than hanging with my homies and enjoying the end of a long, gruelling, and stressful day.

Daily Streudel

"What was the favorite part of your day?"

"Eating chocolate . . . . going to school."

" Yeah . . ."

"Wait--I have one more. That makes three favorites."

"It does. What is it?"

"Cuddling with you."

"Like, right now."

"Yeah, now is my favorite."

"Me, too."

Some Days You're Pulling Streudel Out Your A**. And Then There Are Days Like These.

In chronological order, because there really is no other way:

1. Got a comment! On a post! From a new reader! And I only had to pull out the caps lock once.
2. Finn drew his first house, with a door and windows. (Eyes on the escape route, my friends. The door is small.)
3. Bear had an opening at Byron Cohen Gallery. May have sold some shit. Saaaweeeett! (Translation: Excellent work, chap.)
4. Finn read me a book. A Book, I tell you. Sure, it was What Is a Princess? (forgive my gender-socializing apology. That was uncalled for, I know.) A book!

I Just Want Him to Know Love Is Beautiful . . .

Finn may not be so easy with the dropping off at school, but he's not much into the picking up either. There is no Run for Mama Rescue Hug. Nope. My child does not own that consistency of character. Instead, he takes one look at me, and runs away. He is passionate about not going to school and equally passionate about not leaving it.

We've learned to live with that. We've adjusted our expectations and we don't set ourselves up for failure. We don't show up five minutes before the chilluns head outside and we give ample warnings. Slow waves, knowing nods, finger countdowns, verbal cues, buggy eyes, stronger gestures, smouthed commands.

And then, we give up diplomacy and just strong arm him and run.

Today, though, he was playing with his Girlfriend. Yes, Finn has a Girlfriend. A steady. (We even had to create a Mii for her.) She's in another class and he doesn't get to see her often, even though the chatter about her at home is rather incessant. We just couldn't motivate ourselves to break that up. So we waited, chatted up the teachers, and commiserated with some other parents that couldn't get their kids to exit the playground.

Finally, I saw an opening. Finn was on the jungle gym. Girlfriend was triking. I went in for the grab. As we walked toward the door, I asked Finn if he wanted to say goodbye to Girlfriend, maybe give her a hug. He thought that was a good idea, but . . .

"Mama, you ask her."

So Finn and I, hand in hand, walked over to Girlfriend. She almost ran me over with the trike. (A sign of future mama-girlfriend conflict, I'm sure.) After I swallowed some juicy expletives with a smile, I asked if Finn could give her a hug. Sure, she said.

Yes, a little creepy on the mothering there. I know. I was playing wingman. To my son.

Later, sensing my "liberal nature," Finn asks if he can sleep with Girlfriend. Bear chokes down a laugh and tosses me a mock see-what-you've-done-now look.

"Maybe you should date first," I say.

Secret Perk of Blog365 #1: Highly Annoying to the Hubbin!

"You gonna read my blog. Like, ever again?"

"I read. I read. I just don't remember where I left off since you write like every damn day."

You Go, Grrl!

I don't know that I'll vote for Hillary Clinton in the primary, but I'll say this. When I was a little girl and the boys would say they were going to be president when they grew up, I would say I was going to be a teacher or an archaeologist or a soap opera star.

Tomorrow, there's some little girl that when her turn comes around, she'll say, Me too, be-atch!

Put Your Hands in the Center and Say, "Everyday!"

Finn started it.

He put his hand in the center of the table, Bear and I quickly piled ours on top of his, and we took a family vow to have cracked-pepper ribeyes, pommes frites, and bacon-topped spinach salad every day for the rest of our lives.

Okay, maybe every other day.

Have I mentioned that my hubbin is the supreme ruler of the cast-iron skillet and, ergo, my tummy? And, uh, well, you know. (Insert blushing emoticon.)