Archive for the ‘World’ Category

Sea World Highlights

Tuesday, August 30th, 2011

The welcome seals. They were very serious about receiving fish from onlookers.

Where’s my fish?

The Sea World workout in the Sesame Street area. A wonderful place for families—and dads who didn’t think they were going to get a workout at a fish park.

Sea World workout!

The dolphin show was full of surprises.

Bird Lady of Sea World

When you sit in the front row…

My best shot of the day!

You see many amazing things and get soaking wet and move to the back rows.


Back at Sesame St., he was intrigued, but not enough to let them touch him.

Don’t touch me, B and E!

Atlantis was very well done.

Atlantis! There you are! We wondered…

And there is grass by the convention center area. Perfect for a respite. And for children to practice their karate moves.

Play area!

No “trainers” got into the water with the whales. Such beautiful animals. Regal, powerful and in tanks.

Thank you for entertaining us, Shamu.


Sea World Looms

Thursday, August 11th, 2011

Tomorrow, 5:30a.m.: This family hits the road for Sea World. We will pick up cousins along the way. We have bathing suits and changes of clothes. Sunblock. Snacks that will be smuggled into the park. I am hoping I will walk through the maneating sharks tunnel without thinking about EQ’s. I am hoping I will watch the Shamu spectacle without constantly worrying if he is going to murder his handlers. I am hoping I won’t cry at the injustice of all the pretty caged sea life and my stint as hypocrite by purchasing tickets and supporting zoos. I am pretty sure I will be totally obsessed with watching my son’s reactions to seeing dolphins up close, sea turtles, orcas, etc. and that my joy at seeing him joyful will override any guilt I am currently experiencing about caged sea life. I’m relieved the Dadda is: Going with us. Cash! Keys! Kids! Cash! Cash! Aaaannnnnd—Sea World!

Nice dolphins! So sorry you are caged.



The Magic Of Cousins

Friday, August 5th, 2011

And now: It’s August, in case you hadn’t noticed, or, like me, are mentally still in early Spring—although the heat makes it hard not to notice something summerish is going on in a big, uncomfortable way (here in the valley).

Summer means cousins. Two! Arriving to the perpetual delight of my son. He laughs at 8 year old H’s jokes and antics, the best audience an 8 year old boy could have. He does whatever his 4 year old cousin A tells him to, with joy. He follows them everywhere. Up trees.

Tree kids!


Strike a pose!

Plays quietly in the sand for an hour, then—

Quiet sandplay…

screams for an hour when H becomes the scary sea monster—again and again and again.


All very good exercise promoting healthy appetites.

Making faces while eating!

Leading to much cozy downtime and a good night’s sleep for all.

Cousin downtime is magical.

A mama breathes easy. Then goes out and parties with her sisters until 1:30a.m., drinking Sex On The Beach and dancing like a madwoman. Yep. Good times. I heart summer, people. I. Many hearts. Summah. Woo hoo! zzzzzzzzzzz….

A mama parties. And pays for it the next morning…



The Baby Blessing

Tuesday, July 12th, 2011


So the baby blessing took place in my mother’s faintly overgrown backyard, guests’ heads thunked by falling trumpet vine blossoms (they are as large and as heavy as some sandwiches), the mingling of shadows and vines and succulents forcing the sun to do that magical dappling-of-life number that can be so very relaxing. The blessed babe wore white frills and was draped in thin blue ribbons and other appropriate blessing bits administered by the handsome monk in a three piece suit. As the ceremony progressed, I found myself utterly moved and in each moment, as Zen as the Zen blessing itself and despite (or because of?) the 12 page prayer we all recited. A breeze sent from the ocean toyed with our hair, the blessed babe’s ribbons and our prayer pages: Lovely, I thought, glancing at my husband, worried he might not be into it—but he was chanting, too, and going-with-the-flow and this made me happy—not that he wouldn’t go-with-the-flow, he’s very open to new experiences (he is a writer, after all)—but it was nice to see him enjoying himself and not at all bothered by 12 pages of recitation. He was sitting next to our little boy—who was watching the blessed babe intently—sitting next to my niece, sitting next to the sliding glass door, through which I could easily spy the generous buffet for when it was all over. I studied the blessed babe’s parents whenever I looked up from the 12 page prayer, mommy obviously in a happy place, chanting, daddy bouncing his little cherished on his knee, my mother’s yard transformed into a pretty bit of temple in the world, a sweetspot, a Zen-O-Rama patch working its Om on us. I can’t believe I just wrote that. But I’m being true to memory, for once, and at the time I thought, again (with a growling stomach): Lovely.

Om, little guy! Om!

The post-blessing-feast also took place in the backyard, at a long table with an ample collection of trumpet vine blossoms. Attending were parents, a piano teacher, the handsome, super-stylish monk, grandparents, a famous mystery writer, a runway model, an adorable three and a half year old boy, my niece, a copywriter and his wife (she an obviously struggling writer), a screenwriter, a former equestrienne, a radio airtime ad salesman and a housewife—some titles and descriptions mentioned above belonging to all and the same person (Om!).

The famous mystery writer asked me to describe my middle grade novel. So I threw her my logline. The monk perked up right away, brows raised. “She’s only 11 years old and she has to rip the mutant’s heart out?” he asked, either astounded or impressed by the climax of my novel, I’m not sure. “Sounds interesting!” said the famous mystery writer. And we all discussed middle grade books we remembered reading as children—and we all, each one of us, remarked upon the importance of books stretching imagination and requiring thinking-readings from young audiences. I asked the famous mystery writer if the revising process ever ends. She shrugged and stabbed her tender poached salmon with her fork—more than once. “There are some books I would like to go back and revise even now,” she told me—then shrugged. “But nevermore.” Or something like that. She said something like nevermore. And the monk (was he wearing a Rolex watch—if so, it suited him—a naturally elegant man—you would like him) launched into his telling of meeting the boy destined to be the next Dalai Lama. Or he met the reincarnation of the last Dalai Lama—I mean the one before the current Dalai Lama. Or maybe all Lamas are one and the same. I’m not sure. But it was a beautiful blessing and a fascinating lunch and the first-time parents and their baby are even more special in my eyes after that day in an ordinary, faintly overgrown backyard transformed. People did that. People just came right on in and made magic together in suburbia. Fascinating.



Happy 4th Of July!

Tuesday, July 5th, 2011

Kapow Preschool Art!

On Toys…

Monday, June 6th, 2011

It took a while getting here—praise all that is holy—but we reached this phase: When I tell my son we are going to a store he immediately tells me there will be toys there and that he will be taking one home.

Roar! Mmmph…

I hear some parents in the toys sections of stores adamantly telling their kids, I CAN’T AFFORD THAT, WE DON’T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY, THAT’S TOO EXPENSIVE, NO, NO, NO. I have decided that this particular way of communicating with a child is not my style. I don’t want my son to grow up with money issues. I want him to believe there is enough money in the world for him. I want him to know that abundance, that money, that buying things is great—but not possible, practical or something to expect with each visit to a store that carries toys, cars, sailboats, RV’s, diamond studded watches, Go Karts, giant stuffed animals, remote controlled helicopters, Wolf ranges, golf clubs, silver barbecue units and anything else fantastic that catches his eye at any given time, etc.

Go, car, go!

So now, before we hit the store I say something like, “Today, we are going to the store to get such and such and we can also look at the toys, but we’re not buying toys this time.” Bam. Simple. End of story. I watch him nod and process this information. And—praise all that is holy and right in this world—I watch him accept it. Once we’re in the toy aisle, he may ask, “Can we take this home?”, but I stick to my guns and say, “Not today, remember? We’re just looking.” Bam. Simple. I watch him accept this. If we’re having an I-am-tired-because-I-get-up-so-darn-early-and-my-nap-wasn’t-enough sort of day, in which case he will press the toy issue to the point of, “What? Oh, no!” and tears, I calmly stick to my “Not today, Love,” story until the weepiness passes. If he continues crying, I say, calmly, “I’m sorry you’re upset. Maybe we should go to the car so you can finish crying.” At which point he snaps out of his distress, continues looking at toys and eventually comes willingly to the cash register.

I do remind him of all the toys he has to play with at home. This seems to help him accept not buying a new toy. I do assure him he has birthdays and that Christmas exists and other special occasions. Assurances help. They really do.


I have no idea if I’m creating serious money issues for him at 3 and a half years old, making his life better or worse, but hopefully better and hopefully I’m not screwing him up, like I feel I would be if I kept telling him, “No, we don’t have the money.”

And so: I carry on in the world of parenting, gripping my sense of positivity (sometimes hanging onto it by a thread) so that I can feel good about myself as a parent at the end of the day when he’s snoozing and I can finally run for the cookies and milk with a sigh like an earthquake and so much love in my heart for that little boy I’m amazed I haven’t burst. No time to burst! Onward, parent!

All boy…




The Website Of PB Rippey

When I’m Sick…

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

This has been a rocky late Winter, early Spring when it comes to health. My Facebook wall is filled with many mommy tales of recurring colds, coughs that last a month and (arrrgh!) pneumonia. In my house, pink eye was the tip of the illness-berg eventually ploughing right into Good Ship Mommy. See? I only write sentences like that when I’m delirious. I think.

My little love cup!

Out here in the burbs, I don’t have family close by or the types of neighbors I would allow to watch my child while I writhe in flu-agony. I do have “Curious George”. He dropped in as I took over the couch in my bathrobe, weakly fending off the kitten’s attacks and the dog’s wet nose in my face. My son sang and danced and commented on George’s discoveries and suddenly it was almost noon. That was when I called my husband and told him he had to come home.

Many things to do while Mama writhes on couch!

I know from the past few weeks of battling pink eye and colds that there are deeply hidden energy reserves in me—but I couldn’t locate them today. On the one hand, this was devastating—not having energy. On the other, it made me let go, just let go, let him watch George, let him snack on pretzels and Goldfish multi-grain crackers, let him dance around in his pj’s at almost noon, just let him. It doesn’t happen every day. Let the dishes pile up and the dust balls laze through the house. Let both Facebook and my writing be.

I told myself: Do microwave lunch and dinner. Do phone it in from the couch. DON’T have a mommy-meltdown with husband. Do know he is doing his best to get home. Do utilize cold/flu medicine to knock self out once child is under Dadda’s supervision. Let go, let go, let go…

I have a feeling letting go will be this Mama’s monumental challenge through the next decades. Best to start practicing now. (O little Moofy Boofy Luffy Wuffy Love Cup! Wherever you move to after college, I want to move there, too!)

O woe is me…




Blog Break…

Friday, March 25th, 2011

Young Scientist!

He views all!



Torturing My Mother…

Monday, March 14th, 2011

At the Los Angeles Zoo, well into our visit, just after a lunch of cheese pizza and a drink in a container shaped like a smiling crocodile, I gripped my son’s hand and hauled him quickly past the chimpanzee exhibit, which we had to pass by in order to get to the kiddie train, which was suddenly all T could talk about. I glanced behind me and noticed my mother was not keeping up and I experienced a wave of panic. Chimps were pounding—POUNDING—on the viewing window, aggravating other chimps so that in seconds chimp-mania could be heard from the LA Zoo down the coast to the Queen Mary in Long Beach, a crescendo of nightmarish OOOk OOOk AHHHk AHHHks. I was looking around for zoo guards or safehouses or trees I might be able to climb with my son and my mom and hide from escaped chimps or if the chimps discovered us in the tree, I could kick them down with my Nikes and my mom could bash them with her purse or no, over there was the brand new elephant exhibit, we could rush over there and hide behind a friendly Asian elephant, except that the fence surrounding the exhibit hummed and was probably highly electric, so our best bet was the desert tortoise exhibit—I was thinking as the chimps went insane—and hiding in the tortoise dens, perhaps using a pretzel to coax one to block the entrance with its massive shell so that———

Because the zoo, for me, is a little Jurassic Park waiting to explode with escapees, starting with the chimp exhibit and spreading from there. The first time I took T to the zoo, when he was three months old, I spent the visit furious with myself for not stashing a crowbar in the bottom of the stroller just in case escapees threatened us and I felt so, so irresponsible for bringing a little innocent babe to a park filled with dangerous beasts and if my father-in-law hadn’t been with us, I would have insisted to my husband that we leave the ghastly zoo immediately because it was bad enough that the enclosures/pens/exhibits were so small (I mean, no wonder the chimps go nuts and the lions are always asleep and the otter swims in circle after hopeless circle) and worse that one earthquake could unleash residents of the African veldt and then where would we be, but running for the exit with the panicked masses. A crowbar, a crowbar, my breast pump for a crowbar, I thought to myself (incessantly) that first visit with T.

“Like those chimps that ripped that guy’s face off,” I told my mom and she looked horrified and responded, weakly, “Whaaaaaat???” “You know,” I said, as we paused on a bench so my son could gulp crocodile-sippy and catch his breath. We were next to the tortoise exhibit. We couldn’t hear the chimps anymore. Perhaps they’d killed each other. “It was all over the news,” I told my mom as I cased the tortoise exhibit for hiding places. “This couple visited a chimp that used to be theirs and that they donated to a wildlife sanctuary type place and during the visit they were attacked by escaped ‘rogue’ chimps and the husband had his face ripped off. You didn’t hear about that?” “Oh my gosh!” my mom said, paling. “Yeah,” I continued. “I think they pretty much wrenched off his nose. Or bit it off, or whatever. And Jane Goodall,” I said as my mom looked like she might throw up, “Jane Goodall would never let her son, when he was a little boy, near the chimps without her because she knew they’d kill him if they could.” My mom was ashen. We followed T past the tortoises and the empty tapir exhibit (TAPIR—HARMLESS, I was thinking) and watched him run gleefully for the kiddie train. I felt guilty. I had not been absolutely truthful with my mom about the Jane Goodall information. I can’t remember if JG said the chimps would actually kill her son, but that bit was crucial to my point—which was: YOU CAN’T TRUST THE WILD, EVEN IF IT’S PENNED. “What really amazes me,” I told my mom as we watched my son listen to the train-ride-lady tell him the train was broken. “Is how people grab their kids and run FOR the chimp exhibit when theh chimps bang on things and bare their teeth and scream. It’s like running FOR the spewing volcano or sailing FOR the whirlpool or sticking out your arm so the rabid dog can gnaw it to the bone.” “Hm,” my mom said with great sadness as I scooped my devastated son up in my arms and promised him an ice cream cone to compensate for no train ride. He lost his balance when I released him and skinned his left knee on concrete. As I carried my weeping, exhausted child a quarter of a mile to the exit and the ice cream stand, I thought about my zoo fear and how I keep coming back for more and I wondered, Who am I? A mother, or a—what’s that word—do I mean sadist—no—it’s coming—wow, the flamingo exhibit really stinks today—I wonder if I’ll get a nap later—oooh, that ice cream looks so good—masochist, that’s it. Am I a mother, or a masochist? No, that’s not right. Am I a mother or a—I would so love some ice cream—a repressed zoologist. No, that’s not right, I thought as my son generously offered me a bite of his vanilla ice cream. Am I a mother or a—what time were we up this morning? 4:30? I’m tired. I’m just tired. Again. Mmm…

I didn’t ask my mom her opinion on whether I was a sadist, masochist, repressed zoologist, paranoid freak or simply brain-fried from lack of sleep. I figured I had put her through enough for one day.




Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011

I’d forgotten how alarming fevers can be. It’s been awhile since my son’s head felt so hot. After changing him from the stifling footed-pj’s into cooler wear, taking his temperature and placing a cold compress on his forehead, I worked hard on tuning out the alarmist-speak in my mind, replacing it with: Fevers are common. Fevers come out of nowhere, at least with my son. Fevers mean his body is fighting the whatever-it-is and this is a good thing. I have friends who traveled with their children in countries where they didn’t speak the language and their kids bloomed fevers and yet—all worked out—meaning, I know the language here, I know where the nearest ER is if necessary, I know how to use the newfangeld beeping thermometer thingies, I am good at reading my son, I have learned something in 3 years about fevers and colds and flu and boo boos and tantrums and head knocks and coughs and all that goes with raising baby to toddler to preschooler.

Healthy little beach bunny!

So I didn’t call the 24/7 nurse or ask my husband his thoughts on taking our son to the ER. I believed the thermometer (instead of upping it 5 to 10 degrees, blindly responding to unhelpful hysteria), called upon my fever-educators (Dr. Spock, Dr. Sears, my sisters, my mommy friends), got him comfortable and waited. And the fever passed. And just as importantly as the passing of this fever? My not freaking out—like that first time he had a fever and of course we were out of town and we freaked out and took him to the ER where he screamed, where the doc on call had no experience with sick babies and had to phone her superior, who of course advised her to give our baby the parent-pacifier-antibiotic: amoxicillin, about which our pediatrician shook his head sadly when we told him because the fever should have been left to just run its course—it wasn’t even 103—but what the hell did we know? Feverish crying baby, nervous new parents up 5 times in the night to call the 24/7 nurse—okay, those days are over. I will never rule out a visit to the ER, but I will also never rule out listening to intuition, staying calm, learning from past sicknesses, continually educating myself as a parent, and above all: Vigilance. “Listen, PB,” someone told me. “If it isn’t serious, LET it not be serious. Okay?” Yep. Okay.

I’ve written all this from my sickbed. No fever. No coffee. No nanny (not that I’ve ever had one). The good news: It’s a preschool day and I think I’ve turned the corner. Hysteria? Ha ha ha! Or, rather: Ha. Ha. Haaaaaaa…OM.



Saturday, January 8th, 2011

He runs! I follow!

1. Pay closer attention to patience and being in the moment with all things concerning my son.

2. Lift my eyes up from the dishwater and enjoy myself. Lifting my eyes up from the DISHWASHER would be nice, but perhaps the happiness I feel lifting my eyes up from the dishwater and its endless supply of dishes needing attention, glancing out the windows, perhaps catching sight of the once-tame-now-feral big white bunnies digging holes in the front yard or frolicking along the sidewalk, catching sight of the many, many neighbors’ Christmas lights and air-Santas still in place, catching sight of a piece of red sky or red-tailed hawk swooping or that amazing palomino clopping along our road, its rider decked out in sombrero and spangly chaps—-perhaps these sorts of visuals will thrust me into such a happy place—happy, content, appreciating the background sounds of my son playing tug-of-war with the dog and his toy—that I will totally bliss-out and attract a silver dishwasher into my life. Dishwasher or dishwater, I resolve to focus more on these three words: All is well.

3. Not be all crabby about my February birthday (for once).

4. Continue to give to a charity each month, even if only $10, even if only $100.

5. Continue to write every day so that I can end the day knowing that I have written and stepped: Forward.

6. Remind my husband to remind me that we must remind ourselves to have our movie-night w/popcorn popped in olive oil, even if such a movie-night seems impossible that particular week.

7. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

8. Plant more beauty in the backyard because it’s important for writers and tired parents and young minds to look out the living room windows and see blooms that weren’t there the night before. Heck, turn the backyard into a forest with a non-brackish stream for splashing maniacally in and redwoods and blowzy ferns and foliage you can crawl under for a nap or pizza party—now there’s a resolution.

9. Keep thinking positively.

10. Keep optimism always close.

And it goes without saying, but here it is in writing: Read, read, read (to my book-loving 3 year old, for myself, forever).



Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

It’s a new year. What a concept! How marvelous to start afresh with resolutions carefully typed into Word, resolutions sought with open mind and heart in (extremely) rare moments of domicile privacy, or—fished for from the sweetly-art-deco-bottom of an emptied Mikasa champagne flute on NYE. Hurrah, PB! Hurrah for resolutions!

Sheer inspiration…

Please stay tuned. PB cannot write more this evening, as it is now 10:18p.m., ALREADY and one of PB’s huge resolutions, already broken, is to be settling down for sleep by 10p.m., every night, to abate the—difficulty—of her son’s 5.a.m. wakings and the dog’s I WILL BE WALKED IF ANYONE MOVES IN THAT BED AFTER THE HOUR OF 4:00 IN THE MORNING, and the cats’ SCRATCHING THE LAMPSHADE, WE’RE SCRATCHING THE LAMPSHADE AND MOVING ON TO THE HALL CARPET, WE’RE RUNNING ACROSS YOUR SLEEPING BODIES, WE’RE KNOCKING DOWN PICTURES ON THE DRESSER, WE WANT FOOD, WE WANT, WE WANT—listen, it’s just time to go to bed. Happy New Year. I heart resolutions. Mine have already come in handy this 4th day into year-bliss. Seriously! Peace. Um—resolution-on, man.

Manor owners.


Happy New Year!

Sunday, January 2nd, 2011

Looking forward to 2011! May all of our best dreams come true.

Good doggy!


Pardon My Absence…

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

Who knew the end of the year could be jam-packed with so many changes? New dog, preschool (!!!), Thanksgiving at our house—well, that happened last year, too. I guess I mean: HOLIDAY SEASON (MADNESS)!!! In addition to us all waking up at 4a.m. (at which point little boy comes and gets in bed with us and plays tag with my kidneys with his heels), 5a.m. (at which point Dadda takes the dog for a rollerblade/walk), 6a.m. (at which point the youngster among us is up until naptime). I am also editing/revising my novel. And mopping floors and finishing Christmas shopping THIS WEEK and organizing a booked calendar and hoping I’m not forgetting anything, anyone—like this blog. And—well, see picture below. ‘Tis the season! Let us Hallelujah. Until the next post.

Fa la la la la! (etc.)

Preschool: An Introduction…

Sunday, November 14th, 2010

My son just turned 3.


A year ago he and I visited a preschool. It was very: science station, art station, monthly themes (pirates, the holiday stuff), and parents could hang out and peek around corners to see if their children were happy——

Ah, science!

Leave my son in that sweet, teacher-caring, we-provide-potty-training environment? A Mama’s worst nightmare!!!


A year ago, my son would not sit still for any storytime we attended. He parallel-played consistently. He did not engage in science stations (his sand and water table at home, dirt pile in our yard) for longer than a few minutes. At the preschool visit, he obsessed on the indoor pirate ship thingy and screamed when I tried to get him to look at what the other kids were doing, upsetting parents peeking around corners. I was scared of disrupting the entire school. So we left, with me telling myself that there is plenty of time for pre-school, that he is going to be in school for such a good portion of his life, why not stick to playdates and beach outings and park fun.

Water drums!

Tomorrow we’re returning to that preschool from a year ago. My son’s sleeping habits have reverted to his first year of life, when wakings were constant and urgent and why this is happening again is beyond me. I don’t feed him sugar. He doesn’t eat fast food. He drinks milk. Tonight he even accepted steamed green beans. I am. A. Vigilant mother. Especially when it comes to my finnicky eater. So why the wakings in his cozy, super-dark room (but for a little nightlight)? Why? Mama is so tired…

Interesting jeep!

So tired, that I AM READY for preschool. 3 mornings a week. As long as he likes it.


He does love being around kids on playdates and at the park, even if older kids don’t realize he is actually following them around and playing some game they are inadvertently involved with. He does crafts now (for about 10 minutes). He likes bugs and binoculars and anything pirates and rockets and marine. He won’t sit still for a storytime, but if the other kids are, maybe he’ll consider settling in, especially since he loves books. Tomorrow is a big day.

Says so much.

Because it’s not about me. Of course it is about me! But not really. You know?

A Mama learns to let go a little. And catch up on some sleep.

Little guy. Little pre-schooler (maybe). I will bring my box of tissues with me tomorrow. Happy Birthday!
Little guy!


Blog Break Ad Nauseum…

Monday, November 8th, 2010

There are reasons for all the blog breaks I have posted of late, instead of writing meaningful material. Ha ha! Place your mouse over each photo to receive an explanation. Or—not…

Uncle Bob’s Birthday!

“Papa” visits and brings miniature golf platforms.

My dad’s 70th birthday!
(One sister is not featured in photo as she lives in Iowa—however, we missed her greatly, although the Pater HAD TO ACT as if overwhelmed by female offspring invading his household. Could not cooperate and just smile normally for camera…

Dinner guest!

We love him and his toddler ways!
Newest addition to our family!

Frikkin’ Time Change!!!
Yes, that’s right: Frikkin’ time change!

Yeah, and this!
Which means I’m writing/editing.

And my son—

Candy Boy Buzz!

turns 3 in 5 days. November is a busy month! And it’s Christmas at Target. Ouch.

PB Writes

Boo Break 2010

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

Buzz on sugar!


Boo Break 2010

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

Buzz eats a cupcake!


There Goes My Baby…

Sunday, October 3rd, 2010

We are back in the realm of tantrums. It is a dark land for my son. No toys, kisses or comfort reside there. The din is full-speed-engines over cymbals. Vocals and emotion escalate like the “Star Wars” speed-of-light effect: Vrooooosh—white flashes—there goes T, to confounded private orbits Mama cannot reach.

Uh oh.

So I wait for him to fall back to Earth. Sometimes this waiting takes place in the middle of a store aisle, after I’ve told him it’s time to leave the premises without the item he has requested we “buy go home”. (Don’t get me wrong—I WANT to buy him the Dora/Diego 12 pack DVD set, the $40 Buzz Lightyear robot doll, I WANT to give him every suitcase with wheels and popout handles he rolls around the store and throw in the triple-D-cup bras yanked from hangers and which he really wants me to have, even though of course I can’t wear them—I WANT to buy him Venice, Italy, with swaying gondolas. But, come on…)

Speed of light, speed of light!

I wait: In a park after the pack of kids he inserted himself into leaves the premises before we do. I wait: In Costco after I’ve just told him we’ll pay for our things and THEN get a hot dog. I wait: In our living room after I’ve explained we are out of Triple A batteries and so can’t restart the Mini Monster Truck With Bitchin’ Lightshow. I wait, my head lingering in the freezer, after he’s just hit lightspeed because I’ve told him we’re out of popsicles.


I am reminded that I must never think we are totally over a phase, like tantrums—must never wipe my brow and whistle “phew” because early-morning-wakings are a thing of the past (ha ha), must never under or overestimate my son. He understands and absorbs every second and overload kicks in and either sends him into lightspeed, or, alternatively, produces a fresh, astonishing sentence, such as: “Mama, guess what? Moon is (gibberish) and the (gibberish) and (name of toddler friend) and doggies birthdays with nightlights. Tell Dadda when home for deeener. Right on, mama!” (And here, after he’s singled it out from his little fingers, I’m given an ecstatic thumbs-up.)

“Why, absolutely tell Dadda,” I reply, matching his thumbs-up with one of my own, then wiping my eyes with an old, dried-up baby-wipe that happens to be within reach. “My wuvvy baby. Er, I mean, The Force is with you, T.”

A few tantrums daily—a few leaps for mankind.

Force? You rock. zzzzz



Saturday, August 28th, 2010

Da Movie

Am so looking forward to an impromptu (i.e., S showed up tonight with movies) datenight with my husband. But it’s been an hour since he and T did their now nightly night-night routine. My husband has fallen asleep in T’s room. I am so SO loving my new freedom of not having to do rocking every night, of T letting his dad put him down instead of me—it’s a whole new world! I made it to book club on time last night, meaning I actually socialized beforehand instead of staggering in all bleary-eyed from rocking darkness and utterly late to find most of the good goodies and non-book conversation gone. I had dibs on conversation and goodies. Lovely! I so like this change! I—I mean, it’s sad, too. But going to book club on time was nice…Gah, the conflicting emotions! They’re like knives (cue “Psycho” music) and—Pygmy People blow darts!

I am very happy to be in such a situation, this will-we-or-won’t-we-watch-a-movie-because-I-don’t-have-to-rock-and-nurse-my-son-every-night situation. You know? Of course you do. While S put T down, I showered, dressed in freshly washed (and dried) pajamas, I have a glass of wine. But I’d really like S to wake up and come and watch the movie. Ha ha! Parenthood. Blrrrrrrgh. Yes. That’s right. Blrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

PB WRITES (yeah, yeah, yeah)