tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-332831162024-03-07T00:22:37.997-08:00MilesTonesNowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-11252808467142267642012-02-18T15:31:00.001-08:002012-02-18T15:32:02.487-08:00"For my birthday can you not make a cake or cupcakes? Can you make something good, like bacon?"Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-23300159476969007312011-11-30T02:30:00.000-08:002012-05-21T09:18:08.287-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IPLN_0nTeWYkgEvpmfQLPjlzmxtiBb6zQ-ULmF_C9eJeR9F_LTPeD9ZOgBwKcu0tgMgZuObLm7FYN_7qc5kw-UOW0WeJSM5rTjZNWMl_cAmOnPf7PbpJo7Zslba9RMHvDxUu/s1600/modern+family+tv+guide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IPLN_0nTeWYkgEvpmfQLPjlzmxtiBb6zQ-ULmF_C9eJeR9F_LTPeD9ZOgBwKcu0tgMgZuObLm7FYN_7qc5kw-UOW0WeJSM5rTjZNWMl_cAmOnPf7PbpJo7Zslba9RMHvDxUu/s320/modern+family+tv+guide.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
I Know What Gay Means<br />
<br />
We were buckling into our seat-belts in my husband's truck. The kids were revealing their alternative identities. Charlie, 3, said he was Dolphin Tale. Miles, 6, claimed Lightning McQueen, the star of the Disney movie franchise Cars. I asked the boys to tell me my secret identity. "Sally!" said Miles, referring to McQueen's significant other.<br />
"Wait, you can't be Sally," Miles reconsidered. "She's gay. I know what that means."<br />
I remained silent. He repeated himself. I waited.<br />
"Do you know what gay means?" Miles asked me.<br />
Refresh me, I requested.<br />
"It means ... you're <i>married</i>."<br />
I let out a deep breath and regrouped my thoughts.<br />
Miles added, "And married people don't kiss."<br />
Well well well, I wanted to say, but instead said, Wait, wait wait. Let's back up.<br />
"Mommy and Daddy are married so we're gay, and you and Charlie are single, so you are not gay. I got that right?" I posed.<br />
"Yeah," Miles said.<br />
"And gay people don't kiss?" I confirmed.<br />
"Yeah. Not if they're married to someone else. Sally is married to someone else."<br />
My ah-ha moment was upon me. I hadn't recalled Sally ever mentioning she was in a committed relationship of any kind.<br />
"So that's why Sally and McQueen never kiss?" I offered.<br />
"Yeah," Miles said.<br />
"Is McQueen married?" I asked.<br />
"No," Miles began then paused. "Race cars can't get married, I don't think so."<br />
"So, on the TV show Modern Family," I tested, "Jay and Gloria are gay since they are married and have kids, and Claire and Phil Dunphy are gay because they are married and have kids--"<br />
Miles nodded both times.<br />
"--And Mitch and Cam are gay because they are married and have a kid named Lilly?" Miles and Charlie nodded.<br />
Breathing almost naturally, I smiled and paused. I don't need to correct anything right now. If Miles sees no difference between hetero-led families and same-sex-led families, then I've done a good job showing my boys what I believe is true: That love is love, and we should celebrate love as much as we can.<br />
Or, more accurately, Modern Family has done my job for me.<br />
One question remained. It was the white elephant squishing into the cab of our pick-up truck.<br />
I addressed my boys.<br />
"If Charlie is Dolphin Tale," I reasoned, "and Miles is Lightning McQueen, and I'm Sally, then who is Daddy?"<br />
Charlie was speechless. Miles searched for the perfect hero.<br />
A second passed and Miles shouted:<br />
"<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_I_Met_Your_Mother">Ted Mosby</a>!"Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-86177572373547333662011-10-10T02:49:00.000-07:002011-10-10T03:48:39.943-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXedhNmkv0LIdF52h2IPV73F3VZZBbIBrYyv2rxnp9d3czA8HzBu2cqlWsNFCImEQHo8GLaH0fx_sRbxOivSavPz38nUVGWrjXCoJmf9SaJXpc6cZG23ZvUffr9U_7duYY-sp/s1600/35202_110499912335598_110499732335616_75995_1820582_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXedhNmkv0LIdF52h2IPV73F3VZZBbIBrYyv2rxnp9d3czA8HzBu2cqlWsNFCImEQHo8GLaH0fx_sRbxOivSavPz38nUVGWrjXCoJmf9SaJXpc6cZG23ZvUffr9U_7duYY-sp/s320/35202_110499912335598_110499732335616_75995_1820582_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"Can anyone really walk 500 Miles?"<br />
-Miles<br />
<br />
I had just crow-barred my boys off the couch and into the car. I was late for work, angry and anxious. As I zoomed out of the driveway, our radio station played The Proclaimers' "Gonna Be (500 Miles)."<br />
I have sung this song to Miles for six years, and ever since <i>How I Met Your Mother</i> featured <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=yhcFpbnQghk">Marshall and Ted loving this song,</a> Miles has jumped on board the adoration bandwagon.<br />
To see Miles in my rear view mirror draw his fisted arm to his side while whispering YES!, made me almost forget all the bad words and frowns that spewed from me seconds before.<br />
As the song ended Miles asked, "Can anyone really walk 500 miles?"<br />
Basing my answer strictly on the fictitious character of Forrest, Forrest <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Forrest-Gump-Winston-Groom/dp/0743453255/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">Gump</a>, I said Sure!Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-4158739343459866442011-09-25T20:29:00.000-07:002011-10-10T02:54:40.473-07:00We were making pie from the apples he picked on the field trip this week.<br />
Miles caught himself licking his fingers. He trotted to the sink.<br />
"I'm washing my hands to get off the germs in case a friend has some of that pie. I am a lot more precious about germs."<br />
I twisted my smile back to a neutral line.<br />
Yes you are precious, Miles. I tell him so, and then I define conscious and precious.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-18400462166416612072011-09-08T19:21:00.000-07:002011-09-08T21:08:53.604-07:00Three of my favorite Miles Quotes of Summer 2011:<br />
<br />
"FBI! Initials!" Miles shouts this after springing through a doorway and stopping abruptly. I can almost see <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xlj9wg9q6f8">Alonzo Mosely</a>'s ID wallet in his hands.<br />
***<br />
"Oh look, a perry chicker! " Miles alerts us from his car seat. Charlie, next to him repeats perry chickah faintly as he scans the horizon. Through my windshield I see a hard-hatted electrician repairing a power line high in the trees. I ask my six-year-old son to try again. After a beat, he shouts "Cherry Picker!"<br />
***<br />
"Charlie, rub your penis on the bed, it feels awesome!"<br />
<br />Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-74582998154118281352011-08-18T17:17:00.000-07:002011-08-18T17:19:47.704-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPdJUEyKO7OaYPFc8q2M8EpRYJnlDh3fQ9Mk2pyjaUDzAEETznNi2dYyfEKTD6y74Xabet84yP-g5FfWhrMx9pPWtYM2kvMHwMhFQfS6uYR1EzS83XYWQ4g8KQMzC1V2IgpNX/s1600/photo-141.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFPdJUEyKO7OaYPFc8q2M8EpRYJnlDh3fQ9Mk2pyjaUDzAEETznNi2dYyfEKTD6y74Xabet84yP-g5FfWhrMx9pPWtYM2kvMHwMhFQfS6uYR1EzS83XYWQ4g8KQMzC1V2IgpNX/s200/photo-141.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642354972097863922" /></a>
<br />
<br />
<br />"Doesn't smell like roses or like Mary."Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-42022394851923620562011-06-06T19:35:00.000-07:002011-06-06T19:52:10.355-07:00I have some sad news, Miles. Poppa died this morning.<br />"MY Poppa?"<br />Yes.<br />"That means I have no more Poppas left."<br /><br />Trying to capture the "Oh Man!" tone in his voice. Kind of like when you fill a bowl with cereal and then learn there's no milk, or you get all excited to slice into your buttered pancakes and there's not a drop of maple syrup in the house. There is no substitute. Cheated.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-58910259602417721572011-03-27T01:47:00.000-07:002011-03-27T01:56:45.634-07:00Driving Through Queens on a Friday Evening<br /><br />"I'm sorry I pissed you out."<br />-Miles, mistaking my swearing at my malfunctioning GPS, as anger directed at him.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-12682396586934742992011-03-15T20:19:00.000-07:002011-03-31T01:17:25.597-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LetmMSBr309-TVXFhXR72mc58JzUTnc2io3MitJMopqHtpkl9XBq4BoU_OJ2GbtBJtbqeAmGG0nNuG6LYKGz30gvJccNkS37zT5m4RPqtMBLadE7zOhZMg9DMZrxSPy5GmhQ/s1600/chrismorningoutfit.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6LetmMSBr309-TVXFhXR72mc58JzUTnc2io3MitJMopqHtpkl9XBq4BoU_OJ2GbtBJtbqeAmGG0nNuG6LYKGz30gvJccNkS37zT5m4RPqtMBLadE7zOhZMg9DMZrxSPy5GmhQ/s200/chrismorningoutfit.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584513227834380018" /></a><br /><br />Most nights, I lay Miles's outfit for tomorrow next to his bed. Tonight, Miles did the same for Chris. Best socks ever.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-65257355420260301242011-02-19T15:12:00.000-08:002011-03-28T17:10:03.314-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhJt694SxubTxogCeZqTFtBWe72vSx7BfjXOIxwODFvRnri7UTXaIxBwFh9Obw2RhLf1S1eeoARPbu3N-_oUkc77Zq_7Yjej4ejNz1ExM0SitBOaNtE-HJfnv0NX3uaxOsE_M/s1600/Dirty-Dancing-movie-13.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhJt694SxubTxogCeZqTFtBWe72vSx7BfjXOIxwODFvRnri7UTXaIxBwFh9Obw2RhLf1S1eeoARPbu3N-_oUkc77Zq_7Yjej4ejNz1ExM0SitBOaNtE-HJfnv0NX3uaxOsE_M/s200/Dirty-Dancing-movie-13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584519662157591218" /></a><br />We had been enjoying most of <span style="font-style:italic;">Dirty Dancing</span>, when the big, Baby-Loves-Johnny-in-his-bedroom scene approached.<br />"I'm scared!" Miles said more than once.<br />"Why? Because Johnny isn't kissing Baby back?" I hadn't noticed before, but Patrick Swayze averts his eyes and keeps his hands in his pockets when Jennifer Grey starts making her move. <br />"No," Miles whispered, "My penis is going up."<br />"Really?" I asked, trying to keep my voice quiet. "That's interesting."<br /> A few seconds later Miles started to chant quietly, "Weewax your body, it will all be OK."<br />The next day, in the car on the way to a sleigh ride event, I got lost and turned around in a stranger's driveway.<br />"I'm scared!" Miles said. <br />"Scared because we don't know this house, or scared like your penis is going up?"<br />"Oh ma!" Miles said, slapping his knee, "My penis goes up only when I see people with no clothes on or kissing!" <br />5 years, ten months.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-15140101936262835202011-02-16T17:09:00.001-08:002011-03-27T01:39:41.520-07:00"What does 'spoil your appetite' mean?" Miles asked this morning on the way to school.<br />I explained it was when you filled up on snacks right before dinner. <br />"Moms get mad when that happens," my nearly six-year-old said.<br />Yes, I agreed. <br />"Hey Miles, do YOU know what it means to spoil a baby?"<br />"Um,' he said wistfully, "kill the baby?"<br />I've read both of our copies of <span style="font-weight:bold;">Siblings Without Rivalry.</span><br />Starting to think I might need something more potent.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-42527596931676288602011-02-11T18:05:00.000-08:002011-02-11T18:07:05.571-08:00<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/21dsMG1uJh8?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe><br /><br />See what happens when you never take your kids to church? <br />Another Friday night, saved by my five-year-old.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-34416149569718455062011-02-09T19:31:00.000-08:002011-02-12T18:11:27.598-08:00You Say Bikini<br /><br />Miles and Charlie were battling with each other for legroom in the supermarket shopping cart. <br />Charlie was whining, Miles was ruthless. We were collecting stares, and causing traffic congestion near the deli meat display. It was Friday afternoon.<br />"Mommy, Charlie's gonna squish your bikini!" Miles shouted.<br />"WILL YOU TWO STOP THIS FLIPPING FIGHT----" I shouted back, then stopped as I absorbed what my five-year-old had said. <br />I spied two cucumbers that were about to get pounded by my littler son's size 8 winter boots. <br />I rescued one cuke, and in a much nicer voice, I asked, "You just call this a bikini?"<br />Miles nodded nervously. He knew he was off the hook, but he didn't know why.<br />Like me, Miles has a hard time discerning between cucumbers and dark green summer squash. <br />He was trying to say zucchini.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-51140689504288625132011-01-11T11:51:00.001-08:002011-01-11T12:07:31.592-08:00Miles of Advice <br /><br />Just found a note scribbled in a work notebook. It dates back to summer.<br />I had been driving Miles someplace and I was angry at my husband. Chris and I had been arguing, and I was emotionally raw. I am sure I said to Miles, "I am not mad at you, I am very mad at dad."<br />I jotted my son's advice to me when we arrived at our destination. In all capital letters, I wrote at the top of the notebook page, Miles on Spouse Communication<br /><br />Just calm your body<br />Everything will be O-tay<br />Weewax your body<br />And think what you're doing<br /><br />Then tell Dad<br />I'm sorry, I love you, 'cept but we just please get over this?<br />When you ask him<br />He will say<br />O-tay we will get over this<br /><br />Use your words not your anger<br />Right, mom?<br />That's what you taught me.<br />Nobody likes a screamy body.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-76609391342302217952010-12-27T14:00:00.001-08:002010-12-27T14:20:21.776-08:00He came in from snowmobiling and spilled it.<br />While out in the snow, he thought once he might die. <br />He is scared, he says, of how his nails and hair will grow after he is dead. <br />I tried to explain how it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't feel it. <br />For now, my words are worthless. "Please don't talk about heaven because my belly will hurt again."<br /><br />Suddenly I remember him asking me last week on the way to school what happens if someone is buried alive. <br />I spent five miles explaining all the techniques one could use to make sure a person is dead. And now I recall the botched burial of our recently departed chicken Sleepy Cloud. Just as I was about to drop her in the hole, I thought I felt her move. I made quite a production of double-checking her vital signs. This set off a world of questions, including references to Michael Jackson's Thriller video. <br /><br />So maybe Miles is suffering with graveyard fears more so than mortality issues.<br />I think I'll let Chris tackle cremation, his family's choice of post death body maintenance.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-32084472633750750082010-12-27T07:14:00.000-08:002011-02-12T18:09:22.037-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z8BcEhojTpRmDWQjLlCeoNqJNWH9ijzgxIEaDp4LgDmg5jmBr25Bsq5ZFBemZzohv5HTcJYuqsLeZ1Vt4Y-Iul5PcfjI4tcGRcnGBrFVYJhuNMN84iSbeDTAoAZ54PSsjPiC/s1600/photo+of+death+talk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_z8BcEhojTpRmDWQjLlCeoNqJNWH9ijzgxIEaDp4LgDmg5jmBr25Bsq5ZFBemZzohv5HTcJYuqsLeZ1Vt4Y-Iul5PcfjI4tcGRcnGBrFVYJhuNMN84iSbeDTAoAZ54PSsjPiC/s320/photo+of+death+talk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555497159740720194" /></a><br />At bedtime last night Miles welled up. We were studying a book my friend published on the history of her family business. In it is a black and white photo of her grandmother, an infant at the time, taken nearly 100 years ago. Miles and I had been laughing just seconds before, trying to figure out how this tiny baby somehow grew up, had children, and became a grammie. <br />But when Miles asked if the grammie were still alive and I said no, the laughter died.<br />Will I die? he asked. <br />He knows the answer to this question. He seems pretty comfortable with the cycle of life concept. He sees a lot of birth-growth-decay of animals and plants at his nature-focused school. Talk of me and/or dad dying will make him cry, but that's about all that brings him down.<br />Usually.<br />"I don't want to die," he began to cry between phlegmy coughs. <br />I told him that we don't know what will happen after we die. I told him I heard heaven is the next stop and it will be filled with whatever we love. For you, Miles, that could be puppies and pizza and Grammie, and maybe pets who've passed like Silky and Sleepy Cloud and Chipper. <br />Miles pleaded the fetal position and said his belly hurt. We changed the subject to pilgrims, colonists, Dances With Wolves, Elf, fixing Santa's sleigh, and New Year's Eve parties. <br />This morning while watching Toy Story, Miles rubbed his belly and mentioned something about death. I stopped scrambling eggs and wondered what to say. In my silence, Woody's character spoke for me: "Save your batteries." <br />And I thought <span style="font-style:italic;">Thank you Woody.</span> <br />I prepared my response. I will suggest we put our energy toward doing fun stuff while we are alive and not waste our precious batteries on worry. <br />We'll see how that goes. Miles is debate team material.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-64978195654434073682010-12-16T18:50:00.001-08:002010-12-21T20:47:48.426-08:00A Recurring Train<br /><br />Miles said good night to the chickens. They were perched inside the coop, above his head. As he raised his arm to pet Big Red, his favorite hen, another chicken pecked Miles's wrist.<br />Big Red sat still, allowing my son to touch her ample chest feathers. If she could have purred, she would have.<br />"She never pecks you, does she?" I asked Miles.<br />"She never pecks anyone, right Ma?" Miles asked. I told him I couldn't recall her ever pecking a human.<br />"That's cause she's teached."<br />"Trained?" I suggested.<br />Trained, he repeated, smiling, closing the coop door.<br /><a href="http://milestoday.blogspot.com/2007/03/last-night-i-was-explaining-to-miles.html">Train.</a>Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-31689795780386007222010-11-13T09:34:00.000-08:002010-12-16T19:12:37.456-08:00Peace, God and Watery Poops<br />Sleepy Cloud, 4/22/10-11/13/10<br /><br /><br />We buried the first of our beloved egg-laying chickens today. Sleepy Cloud, as we called her, passed away in my arms this morning. I loved Sleepy Cloud, who loved to nap in the sun or on our laps when we first brought her and five other baby hens home six months ago. <br />Cause of death: unknown.<br />I bawled. Miles asked if we could "stick a sword in its neck."<br />I declined his request.<br />Think of something to say when we bury her, I suggested. He agreed. <br />An hour later, when the last of the dirt was patted down, I said something like I hope you go where you want to go, either with human spirits or animal spirits like Chipper and Misty, or maybe just with the moon or the wind or the sky.<br />Miles stood up straighter and said,<br />"I hope you have a good time in God, Sleepy Cloud. Thanks for being in our life. Thanks for the eggs, the small and the double-yolk ones. And it was funny when you made watery poop yesterday in the basement!"<br />It <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> funny yesterday, when we brought her in the house to give her more individualized, tender care. It was smilingly-tearfully funny remembering it today.<br />We trooped back to the coop. Miles took me aside and whispered, "I went back to the dirt pile and said, 'Peace, God.' "<br />My son, the devout, Santa-loving <a href="http://milestoday.blogspot.com/2009/06/multiple-one-liners-i-am-soaking-hot.html">Atheist</a>, referred to God twice in ten minutes.<br /><br />Video of the clouds when they were days old:<br /><object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/SvjqZhSwmkw/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SvjqZhSwmkw?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SvjqZhSwmkw?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-87572808582138956692010-10-12T00:55:00.000-07:002010-10-23T15:53:45.677-07:00Miles lied to me last weekend. He was informing me about how mussels have teeth called ballerina that are razor sharp and can tear through Hefty garbage bags.<br />"Where did you learn this?" I asked.<br />"At stool...at my other stool." My kindergartner attends only one school currently.<br />"I have a lot to learn about mussels," I began. "I'm getting a book from the library--"<br />"No, it's not in any books right now," my son said.<br />"Oh, then we get home I'm going online--"<br />"It's not on any pewter!" Miles barked, frustrated. "It's secret, it's ... tompitated."<br />Complicated. Either Miles is enrolled in a highly covert marine-life educational program, or his creativity is in high gear.<br /><br />Miles leapt over a greater milestone this weekend when he mastered the Hard C sound. Last night, after some concentration and practice, Miles said, "Carl can care for the baby." We were looking at my favorite picture book, Good Dog, Carl. <br />This was the week I was to schedule another evaluation with a speech pathologist. Good speech, Miles.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-8414289903954663382010-09-28T18:08:00.001-07:002010-09-30T18:46:04.667-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Ma, what's freeze brain?</span><br />Brain freeze? That's when you eat ice cream too fast and your head feels frozen.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Like your whole brains gets really really cold and you get turkey pimples all over your skin?</span><br />Goose bumps?<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yes!</span>Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-75718808090685834352010-09-11T18:53:00.000-07:002010-09-12T07:19:11.178-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrzHofU-GmXsBxM4X010Ha2EJZl72fv76ftjadYT4R3K0Y5A5knjllWKGK0P4Ww8I5XZC4uO273Zoe8lAKmicWuvIcS79AbZNRjoYQavlgYIb4-L3Pest7HxqymH09gvImnsO/s1600/IMG_20100911_200405-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrzHofU-GmXsBxM4X010Ha2EJZl72fv76ftjadYT4R3K0Y5A5knjllWKGK0P4Ww8I5XZC4uO273Zoe8lAKmicWuvIcS79AbZNRjoYQavlgYIb4-L3Pest7HxqymH09gvImnsO/s200/IMG_20100911_200405-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515839499035526050" /></a><br /><br />Child number <a href="http://chuckielove.blogspot.com/">two</a> of two just signed up for the Dental Floss Bathroom Buffet. I had almost finished Miles's "Back in the Uterus Days" post when I was distracted by Charlie's lip-smacking sounds emanating from the potty. Same <a href="http://milestoday.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-kept-hearing-rrr-rrr-rrr-while-i.html">floss</a>, different son.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-69421540678501757012010-09-11T16:50:00.000-07:002010-09-11T18:52:02.229-07:00I am startled at how long Miles's five-year-old body stretches in our bath tub.<br />"I remember when you were jack-knifed in my uterus," I said to Miles as I scrubbed his feet. "Thanks for choosing my uterus," I added. I have my son believing I have no idea how he got in there; I am just lucky that he decided to grow inside my body. <br />"No problems. I really liked being in your uterus," Miles said. "I was like the boss of your uterus."<br /> I raised my eyebrows.<br />"I could watch TV anytime I wanted, and could stay up early or not go to bed, and I could drive the car with you." <br />I tried to memorize his words until I got to the computer.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-66448244183974246752010-04-26T05:32:00.000-07:002010-09-12T07:13:20.389-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc_5bhpxtqNc1MXZ_Lr8Q_MpbheKmYqsOTjfC_5OQdZ1N4HXmhTw2Sh7fG7mPGGAZxCyyVYoBS5NCwvb2b2MUIuI9FqWBHaKutOeyBhwztIHThzgzb5BBlckY9JIQF7WaDyfoe/s1600/1453392.bin.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc_5bhpxtqNc1MXZ_Lr8Q_MpbheKmYqsOTjfC_5OQdZ1N4HXmhTw2Sh7fG7mPGGAZxCyyVYoBS5NCwvb2b2MUIuI9FqWBHaKutOeyBhwztIHThzgzb5BBlckY9JIQF7WaDyfoe/s200/1453392.bin.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516029854170800226" /></a><br />Mom. You look not so beautiful.<br />I couldn't argue. Today I looked a lot like the character Angela Martin from The Office.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.globalnews.ca/story.html?id=1336948">Angela Kinsey</a>Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-23943763408952120932010-03-14T23:50:00.000-07:002010-09-11T19:10:43.547-07:00Miles, My New Therapist<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What did it feel like to you when you was growing up?</span><br />We had just finished reading one of his favorite bedtime short stories, "Curious George Takes the Train."<br />I thought Miles was buying more stay-awake time by asking his mom to talk about herself.<br />With every intention of outsmarting him, I quickly chronicled the types of beds I slept in, and at what age. I told Miles I was in a crib in my parents room until 5, at which point my sister Jeannie married and freed up a bed. I got promoted across the hall to bunk beds with Bud, my only brother. A couple of years later, sister Diane got hitched and I upgraded to a single twin. Soon my sister Eileen scooted to Vermont, but my sister Laura and I stayed roommates in our matching twins. <br />When I was 12, my dad died and soon after, Laura married. I landed a full-size bed. I blurted to Miles that it was a lonely time.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why?</span> <br />I told him that Sue, my remaining sister living at home, and I were mean to each other.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why? Her hit you?</span> Miles got a time-out yesterday for hurting his brother Charlie.<br />No. Well, she tripped me once. But I was mean to her too. I took her things without asking first.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Was she mean to you when your dad was alive?</span><br />No, not really. Maybe, Miles, Sue was sad about my dad and she took it out on me. <br />[Miles and I talk about anger displacement a lot, but only tonight did I consider its role in my childhood relationship with my sister Sue.]<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Was your mom alive?</span><br />Yes. But I didn't really like her too much at the time. I was kind of mean back then, remember.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why you not like Betty?</span> He pronounces my mom's name Bed-Tee.<br />I guess I wasn't sure if she loved me. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">She still loves you.</span> Miles said it immediately and with certainty. <span style="font-style:italic;">She's talking about you right now with....</span>Miles paused, trying to grab the name of our dead-for-two-years-now cockatiel. <br />Chipper?<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Yes, Chipper and Grammie. Betty is talking about you with both of them right now. </span><br />I welled up, hugged him, kissed him, and changed the subject.Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33283116.post-64687509000813060102010-03-10T09:15:00.000-08:002010-03-13T09:50:48.443-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeRQBB7e9rsFQeqA8Whtnvr03xbsvygH9aHl3JYK_kF-r0GlhVQxj4xIDXEt4LfEYsaInil4S6HI6SPjadg8Hj_eyJeV6hcNM7BP6gsZUf5XbtZ_6v0MvbMTHTL_Y_ZTCyqkwR/s1600-h/asparagus.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeRQBB7e9rsFQeqA8Whtnvr03xbsvygH9aHl3JYK_kF-r0GlhVQxj4xIDXEt4LfEYsaInil4S6HI6SPjadg8Hj_eyJeV6hcNM7BP6gsZUf5XbtZ_6v0MvbMTHTL_Y_ZTCyqkwR/s200/asparagus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448177309416414050" /></a><br />"Wow! Is this plants or celery?"Nowaymomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14160695832661258752noreply@blogger.com0